Dr. Momus Of The Museum Of Art

Dr. Momus of the Museum of Art likes to vary his habits. One habit involves going out for breakfast, which he usually does unless there's something else afoot to prevent him, such as an important meeting or another responsibility. Like schmoozing a rich museum patron who's already eaten.

His habit, as I said, is going out for breakfast, but I also said he likes to vary it, which is just a roundabout way of saying he doesn't go to the same place every time. He spreads the wealth. He supports most of the restaurants in town, not in any regular way, but going wherever strikes his fancy on a given day. You can be sure, though, that his fancy is not to go to the same place over and over without varying it. OK?

There's some good to this scheme of doing things. "Variety is the spice of life" is what the old saw says. Who wants to have the same old bagel and coffee at one place if you can have it somewhere else? At least occasionally. I definitely know what he's thinking: It's a drag going to the same old places all the time. But I've been going out for breakfast so much that I've also worn out the new places.

Then, and this is where Dr. Momus' role at the Museum of Art comes into play, who knows what he might find of an artistic nature if he varies his eating habits? Because restaurants sometimes have artwork on their walls for sale. Seriously! If you go to McDonald's all the time, of course you're not going to see it. (Dr. Momus actually does go to McDonald's once in a while, but not that much.)

Anyway, here's what we're getting to. One day I went to a particular cafe for breakfast, a place I'd never been before. I saw some rudimentary artwork on the walls that tickled my funny bone (I'm trying to be merciful here.) I was like, "Look at that one!," while making disparaging remarks about it.

PERSONAL INTERLUDE: Over a year ago I bought a canvas and some paint. I haven't used them at all. Because I don't have any idea how to paint, but I know what I like. My excuse for not painting on this canvas is that it's too small; I need a bigger canvas. My small canvas isn't even out of the plastic yet. The only reason I don't buy a bigger canvas is that I haven't used the small one yet! But not everyone is as reluctant as I to get going on the thing...

The painting I'm pointing to, in my opinion, is no good. It sucks. It's a house and a tree, both very elementary, both very primitive. So imagine my surprise when I'm sitting there right when Dr. Momus (Dr. EFFEN Momus of the EFFEN Museum of EFFEN Art!) comes in, immediately espies this crappy painting, and declares it a work of genius, even going so far as to describe it as a lost Van Gogh! (He says Gogh like he's clearing his throat, so it has to be right. The only other name I know like this is Bach. If you had an expert talking about Van Gogh and Bach in the same breath, you'd need a spittoon!)

I'm like, "You can't be serious, you crazy ninny!"

"Serious? I'm as serious as a heart attack. This is a lost Van Gogh, priced at only 20 bucks, I'll take it!"

The Imaginary Stud

The imaginary stud is a guy whose eyes perk up when he sees a woman walking by with a baby. "Hide me," he says, because he doesn't want the mother of the child to see him.

Except you keep going down the road and eventually see a woman pushing a stroller built for two. "Hide me," he says, quickly averting his face, because two kids, that's so much worse. If she sees him, knowing he hasn't paid whatever child support he would be obligated to pay, he's going to be in big trouble.

You keep going. The imaginary stud is wiping the sweat away from his brow, so much so that the tissue (or cloth) is wringing wet. And he's checking out some of the sweet femininas swinging their hips down the sidewalk. These are some of this thoughts: "Ooo, mama! Look at the butt on that one!" and "Yesss! Come to papa!" And, "I'll take a piece of that ... right now!"

Since we, along with everything else, were meant for reproduction, with the result of our reproduction being meant for reproduction, all the way out to the most distant generation being the same, naturally the guy's eye is going to rove, only finally coming to a rest when he sees something worth feasting his eyes on that would, given the right circumstances, fulfill nature's purpose.

He's in a state of agitation even if you can't see it, because, let's face it, he's socialized (civilized) to a certain extent, and able to keep his pants on and pass by undetected in ordinary circumstances. In other words, we're not talking about Herman Cain, although the guy of our story is still potentially an actual stud.

He is definitely an "imaginary" stud, because, look, he can't physically be the father of every baby in every stroller! There's others out there being the bull in most of these cases. But who knows, maybe he's gotten lucky a time or two -- after some especially wild drunks -- and you never can tell whose kid may be whose! Even if twins, triplets, or quadruplets don't run in his family, there's no way of absolutely excluding the possibility; they could be his!

Speaking of triplets, that's the next group we pass. The mom looks like she might be overwhelmed, because a stroller built for three is rare, and yet there she is, the proud (maybe not) pusher of three. A boy, a girl, and another boy, just to give an example of what we might see were we to stop and look inside. But the proud papa, the imaginary stud, won't be looking that closely, averting his eyes and face: "Hide me," he says, himself overwhelmed, thinking maybe he actually does know her. What a life of drudgery and expense! Diapers for three!

The only thing worse than that .... for our possible papa .... is an even more unusual sight, a woman pushing a stroller with four babies. Four? That's an entire litter! Now we're talking some severe fertility drugs! Something's made nature go haywire! The imaginary stud isn't ready for that kind of commitment! He's barely able to support himself! Still, he did the crime, why shouldn't he be doing the time?

If indeed he did it.

I'm With Stupid

I like to think I'm a reasonably smart guy. All depends on what you mean by reasonably. It's definitely a qualifier, in my opinion meaning, "By ordinary standards, nothing fancy, such as putting me up against Einstein or Hawking, I'm smart enough to get by in typical human settings without sticking out like a sore thumb for being stupid."

It's all relative. Although I suppose you could make the case that since everything's relative that nothing's relative. But if we have have even one guy who's smarter than another guy, which is easily demonstrable, then obviously there is relativity in this important matter. So the other guy has to be stupider. He's stupid, just maybe not the stupidest guy there is.

What's the chances of the first stupid guy you meet being the stupidest guy ever? The chances of meeting the stupidest guy ever are slim. Of course if you eat a lot of fast food, you have a better chance. If he messes up your order, even a simple order, maybe you've found him. I tend to be more lenient, more merciful in these cases, especially if I'm thinking. Because maybe he had a fight with his girlfriend before coming to work, or his car's getting fixed and he knows he can't afford to pay for it, or his child support is due, or his kid is sick or something. That would explain why doesn't realize a Number 7 comes with coffee without being told. Still, if he's able to function at a job at all, he can't be the stupidest guy in the world.

Anyway, let's say you find a really stupid guy -- and he's not only apparently stupid because of troubles with his girlfriend, his car, his kid. Chances are you could find someone stupider, given enough time and the freedom to travel. So this guy is stupid, but he can tell you someone stupider. And that guy can tell you someone stupider yet. And that guy knows someone even stupider. We keep tracing the line of stupid people from this one particular branch till we find their stupidest guy. Then even he knows of another branch where the smartest guy is stupider than him.

I'm reasonably sure that you're never going to find the absolute stupidest guy, because at some level it's going to just be a pool of brain dead people who are identically stupid. If you got there there would be nothing really to cling to to quantify their intelligence or lack thereof.

I'm On A Reading Jag

It might be slim pickins' here for a while, because suddenly, it turns out I'm on a reading jag.

I'm actually reading, isn't that something? Actual full length books, from start to finish, cover to cover.

Huh? Huh? What do you think of that? I'm on a reading jag, so I can't be sitting here making up stuff of my own.

I happened to be walking through the library, saw an interesting looking book on the shelf, on display, picked it up along with another one and checked them out. I didn't know I'd actually read it, since I've checked out lots of books before that then just came home with me and set there until I finally took them back.

When I'm at the library and happen to see something interesting, I always have the best of intentions to read it. It just so happens, though, that I don't. I get busy, let's say, or I'm tired, or I'm worried about something, or whatever. I hear something from a family member about some problem with a third cousin, whatever, and I can't concentrate on reading.

Another thing about me and reading, is I'd love to read a lot of things, but it's a terrific investment of time to sit and read a book through. Because the others on the stack also look interesting. Then I pick up one of them and get going a chapter or so, the other one gets forgotten, and in the end I haven't read any of them. As it turns out, I've read the first six or seven pages of lots of books!

But this time -- the last few days -- it's been different. It's an out and out reading jag. With me finishing one of the books I brought home from the library. Then, somehow, in the course of looking up various things about it on the internet (it was non fiction), I saw an ad or blurb for some other book I thought I'd be interested in (fiction but with a historical basis), downloaded it to my Kindle, and I'm busy consuming it.

I haven't been all that interested in reading on the Kindle lately. Various reasons. Mostly because I have lots of print books already on hand, not having to put out money, and it seems like I should be reading them. But in this case, I downloaded it, and the jag continues!

I've had these reading jags before. They never last. A week or so, maybe two weeks, my biorhythms will change, I'll get busy again, and it'll be over. But I'll always have the pleasant memory of these days when I was seriously into something I should be doing all the time.

One thing that might make me stop real soon is I have a crick in my neck already from looking down. So I might be back sooner than normal. 

11-11-11 In 1911

From The Syracuse Herald, Syracuse, NY, Nov. 11, 1911, page 6.

From Hutchinson News, Hutchinson, KS, Nov. 6, 1911, p. 10.

Pastor Wadd: The Sexual Root Of Everything

One of the more influential people in my life has to be my preacher, Pastor Wadd. He's right up there in the top 50 overall, for sure, and the top 5 of those having to do with understanding the underlying nature of life.

You probably remember, Pastor Wadd's special area of expertise is sexual addictions. He counsels guys on that topic day after day, plus a few ladies. I've never actually been to one of these sessions, not having that problem. My willpower is impeccable. Plus, several years ago I had the zipper permanently welded shut on all my pants.

Anyway, in addition to his counseling, Pastor conducts regular Sunday services, and that's where I hear his teaching. I just wanted to clear that up so no one gets the wrong idea. I've never even been to Penn State!

Whether you have a problem in that area or not, it's still interesting to hear the man hold forth with his various theories. Whatever he says, he's always definitely convinced, and with a spirit of power like he has, it's hard not to be impressed. This past Sunday his message was on the pervasiveness of sex in our culture and psyches, with religion serving to replace that, if God's grace is allowed entrance, and we're lucky.

Of course, the man's doctrine is that there's a sexual root to everything. If you turn when a woman passes by, there it is. If there's any undue perspiration, prolonged eye contact, or even the slightest variance in your breathing patterns, you're guilty. And I hate when he gets started on what it means when you move your legs -- you want to stay perfectly still around him -- because what he defines as rubbing is very subtle.

Sometimes, though, as much an expert as he is, I can't help but think he's making things up. Or seeing connections -- like with the rubbing -- that simply aren't there. He's like Freud. If you drink milk, you're lusting for your mother. That kind of thing. He sees strange linguistic stuff, unlikely connections, that seems like an obvious stretch.

Like "proclivities." He parses it for us, the root of the word, that "pro" means "for" and "clivity" is what every woman has. It may be normal size or it may hang down like the end of a scarf. It may be dainty and ladylike, like your pinky, or it may be heavy, with the girth of a Marine's duffle bag. So women are the ones with proclivities, making them so darned tempting to men.

The corollary in men is a word I hadn't heard before, "prodermis." "Pro" again meaning "for" and "dermis" meaning "skin." Put it together, he says, and you have "foreskin." Which the children of Israel were supposed to lose that they might be true. OK, I'll give him that one. It sounds convincing.

Be that as it may, Pastor Wadd is definitely serious about being true, even to the point of making his counselees suffer to attain it. A guy from the church, whom I also know from the exercise club, he counseled on being chaste, meaning preserving his "vitality," his "vital essence" in the most extreme way, going months. But he bloated up so much, some of the guys started calling him Lugnuts, and he finally had to go in and have it lanced.

My own take on it: There's a time and place for everything, and let's face it, that includes using the equipment God gave you and not letting it go to waste.

Grandma Slump Takes Ukraine By Storm

Look at the global reach of my blog this week. (For the graphic, I dropped off all the countries after Germany who aren't keeping up. But they were United Kingdom (7), Malaysia (5), Romania (4), Sweden (3), United Arab Emirates (2), and Canada (2).

What's precisely wrong with Canada, I don't know. Don't they have the internet up there? 2, that's barely one per province. They have provinces up there. They're very provincial. I could go up and teach them a few proverbs, see if they could prove themselves, and dump a little provender on the ground, anything to provoke them. Wake up!

The United Arab Emirates, I'm not sure what that even is. Is that the name of a country? It sounds like a subdivision of a country or a sports team. I suppose they're very into oil. I remember my dad teaching me how to change oil in the car. Over there, it's probably a dime a gallon, so it doesn't cost much for the kids to have someone else do it.

Sweden. I like the Swedes. I knew some Swedes, they made a big deal of the fact that they still knew Swedish after all these years. There was this one old guy, 90-something, and his wife would tell me, "Pete's talking the Swede!" I couldn't understand a thing. And one day I found a bunch of Swedish books. Tried to sell them on eBay but no one wanted them. If only I'd had these three visitors back then!

Romania and Malaysia, I think they're doing very good at 4 and 5. Because the last time I consciously visited a Romanian or Malaysian site, I can't remember when it might've been.

The United Kingdom, they're tied with Germany at 7. I'm a little more disappointed with the UK, which is why I clipped them from the graphic. After all, we share the same language, and I've listened to music from England (the Beatles, Stones, probably others). They need to step it up and read my stuff, or, who knows, I might turn on them, too.

That brings us to the big boys. Russia and Ukraine. Look at that, 13 and 77 from the Ukraine all by itself! Obviously something happened, because I don't remember any spike like that from there before. The thing is, I'm just guessing, one of my posts must have been linked on one of their sites. I can't figure it out, but I've had a number of traffic sources that appear to be Russian gambling sites. And the traffic is all centered on one post of mine from 2009, "Sternness Meets Creampuffness."

I had to look the post over, because I forgot what it was about. It had to do with self-esteem and personal pride, bringing forth strength in your personality. I used wrestling/rasslin' imagery, with Sternness facing Creampuffness (psychological states) and beating the crap, or cream, out of Creampuffness. So my guess is, these Ukrainians are visiting gambling sites that have something to do with wrestling matches, and in there somewhere, this post got linked.

It's still a good message, so I hope they're lingering long enough to be encouraged. Bring forth the stronger sides of your personality, and, seriously, don't let Creampuffness get the upper hand.

The Blog Post Adoption Program

Unto us a son is born, a child is given. The child given, the son born, is your opportunity to adopt my blog posts. Where you can pick up the little tykes, so to speak, that I have written, and care for them and really make them your own. Are you up for that?

This is part of a personal goal I have to make my readers feel more involved and invested. It would be more fulfilling for them, and as far as I'm concerned, I'd get a kick out of it. Just so there's no fighting over any of my "kids." I don't want to have to cut one in half, let's say, to find out the true parent!

At the heart of this idea is the fact that people like to have responsibilities. People want little tasks. It makes them feel useful and a part of the larger whole. Like when we were in school and different ones wanted to clean the chalkboard, or monitor the hall, or taste the teachers' food to make sure it wasn't poisoned. We lost a couple kids that way, but the bright side is they got a full page memorial in the yearbook.

People want to have a part! And so it is with a blog like this one. There's always an upside and a downside. If they aren't included, they drift away. They're always looking for a role to play. That leaves the writer, me, with a couple options. One, do my own selfish thing and let the people drift away. Two, include them, whether in an intrinsic way, like having co-writers, which isn't likely to happen, or get them involved in some other aspect of the blog.

The latter option could of course include nothing more than busy work, like writing me "Attaboy" letters and getting a nice response, but I don't want to go that route. I want it to be something fairly intrinsic without it being entirely so, something just good enough to keep you committed. As they used to say about the canned milk, "Contented cows are happy cows."

So the idea is that my readers will adopt my posts, like Cabbage Patch Kids. Each already has a name, a title. You simply get to know it intimately, kind of nurse it along in the public square, promote it in the world, then sit back and feel the pride of watching it succeed.

You adopt it! It's your "baby!" I would then have a list of the adopters, and periodically send you by email an update on how your baby is doing. If it got 40 visits from around the world, that'd be good. But what if it got 400? What if it just got 4? Of course if it's just 4, you'd have to promote it more!

I haven't got it fully worked out, but we would have to have some rules. Like if you were neglecting your baby, I might have to step in and take it away from you. But I don't really want any unpleasantness to intrude on the relationship at this point. Stay positive, keep everyone smiling!

So let's get started. So far I have over 1,300 babies up for adoption. You can go back to the very beginning, or check out the nursery from 2008, 2009, 2010, or some of our more recent deliveries.

One of my recent favorites is baby "Fahoup Fahep Fitzguh", a recent child, that could use some tender loving care. It tells the hilarious story of how the rock group came up with that name. I can see how a lot of people would like to adopt "FFF," because it'd be easy to promote a child who's a rock star!

You might want to adopt "The Legend of Paul Boone," from October. This child was an underachiever, but I still think it's got something valuable to say. All it needs is a little TLC, a loving parent to take it under his wing to help it make its way in the world.

Here's a good one that'd make a fun child, "Pitbulls, Sex Offenders, and Jake Brakes." This is the only post I know of that had people on Facebook organized against it. You realize, pitbull owners have no scruples against an angry response, and I was the unfortunate target of their ire. But if you're adventurous and can stand the heat, it'd be a lot of fun to see that post adopted. With that one, though, I'd need a full background check of the parent-applicant, just to make sure the pitbull people don't get their hands on it and kill it.

Go through the list and see if you can find a baby of your own. There could be great benefits in it for you. Like if you're a childless couple, can't have kids, and you're struggling with your marriage. This program might put the spark back in your relationship and give you something truly blessed to share. And one other benefit, it's a lot cheaper than an actual squalling rug rat. You get all the benefits of a child but none of the headaches!

Let's get you started. Leave a comment, telling me which one you want to adopt. And if you think you can handle twins, triplets, or even quadruplets, theoretically you could do that, but the process could also be that much more complicated. Definitely the parent who takes the pitbull post will want to stick with that one alone.

The Human Union

The burning issue of the day, and I'm finding myself to be pretty liberal on the subject, is whether animals should be allowed to join the Human Union.

Those who take the conservative position say, "It is called the Human Union," which is a great point. And they are 100 percent correct that since the inception, all these years, only humans have had admittance. But whether that's the way it should remain, of course that's key to the issue.

I don't think I'm too far off the mark to say, Just because something's been that way for a hundred years (or whatever it is) doesn't mean it needs to stay that way. On this issue, how do we know our forefathers were correct in their judgment? It's not like we were there to give our opinion or the opportunity to hold sway with decent arguments in favor of animals. So, say they made a mistake in excluding them, should we and the animals of today have to to maintain it? I don't think so.

And another thing, not just looking at the past but at the future, if we kept the argument that the forefathers' system should stand, those of the future will look back to our ratification of it for further justification that it should remain that way. And if we're simply ourselves ratifying the past because it is the past, then I can't see how we're passing on a valid basis for future generations to make their own determination. In that case, they would be as foolish (or more so) than we are now -- I know the word foolish is harsh -- and there will never be progress.

It seems that common sense cries out that the forefathers' opinions and choices are not of necessity more valid than our own. What leads us to think they would be? That they happened to live before us? So what? There's no infallibility because you live before someone else. In that case, we also have infallibility in relation to future generations. I don't see it!

Let's say we allowed animals in the Human Union, but future generations, as opinions shifted, thought animals should be excluded, would they then be prevented from making that determination simply because some conservative voice of the future reverences our present generation as past and thereby infallible? It's lunacy, and ironic, that conservatives now would say one thing, yet conservatives of the future would take the exact opposite side, simply out of a reverence for past opinion or precedent.

I say, let's debate it rationally, then decide the issue, not centering on precedent. Let's look at the actual implications of what it would mean for animals and humans both. It could very well usher in a new age of animal-human relations, where we're not always simply at one another's throats. Yes, it might make the separate Animal Union somewhat obsolete, somewhat, because animals of course could maintain their own union if that were their choice. They've already said as much, with some of their conservative members already saying, That's the way it's always been, and that their own forefathers knew what they were doing when they set it up that way.

The truth, of course, is far murkier. As I recall the history, the Animal Union started as an animal version of the Human Union. It looks like the animals never would've thought of it on their own, previously being content just to eat each other, yet complain that no one was doing a damned thing about it.

The Dawn Of Vigor Vivus

That's a really fantastic graphic, isn't it? I told the guy I wanted explosions, planets, beams of ethereal light, shafts of light, or shards, streaking across the newborn virgin sky. Which is a lot to expect for 20 bucks. You might get a small planet and a couple shards for that, but he really went all out. He blew my mind with this one!

So, instead of getting right into it today, I want to offer big praise, sincere plaudits, and enthusiastic kudos, and plenty of them, to my friend Jake across town, who tinkers with computer effects, etc. He said it'd be 20 bucks an hour, which seemed a little high, but then he said it'd only take an hour, so I got off easy. Especially when I think, something like that had to take more than an hour!

But, and this is understandable, he said he also wanted to get his name out there, and have something for his portfolio. I told him I represented one of the larger, more popular blogs on the internet, which I believe is true, so please, if you're visiting today, back me up on this. Jake's a good guy and needs to be encouraged any way we can. If you can throw a few bucks his way, whether on one of your own projects or as a tip for the pleasure of seeing this particular graphic, please feel free.

Jake, you did good, buddy. So, get ready, I'm coming over for more. I'd love it, just as an example, if you could work me up a killer "Devil" graphic -- think you got it in you? Something that really conveys the real evil of Satan, yet belittles him... I've got a project in mind having to do with Satan (the personification of what I'm talking about) communicating the anti-spirit of Rigor Mortis, the opposite of Vigor Vivus. If you need any guidance on the particulars, get with me. Basically it needs to be 425 pixels wide like this one, and you've got carte blanche, if you can keep it around 20 bucks again.

OK, without any further ado, and no further kissing up to sensitive artist types, let's get right to it ...

THE DAWN OF VIGOR VIVUS

(You can read my other great posts on "Vigor Vivus versus Rigor Mortis" at the link just given.)

Let me take you back to the olden days -- the really, really olden days -- back before there was anything except however you might conceptualize Pure Spirit/Mind and potentiality without limits. Are you game?

Like in the Tao Te Ching, there was really nothing, nothing differentiated, but all was one. Somewhere in that miniscule, yet infinite vastness, lay the spores of everything we now know and beyond. Picasso was in there, as well as Jesus Christ, Einstein, the Grandma Slump blog, Leonardo da Vinci, Buddha, Lao Te Tsu, Elvis Presley, Martin Luther King, Jr., love, and the 7th Billion Baby, just born the other day. Tao was unruffled.

In there as well, on the negative side, was the Republican party, Satan, all the jinns, the Oakland Police Department, Pol Pot, Milli Vanilli, scurvy, rickets, fundamentalism, jaundice, the Black Plague, increases in the price of stamps, spam, Walmart, and chick flicks. And once again, Tao was unruffled.

Then, according to Jake's great vision above, fulfilling my own brief instructions for him, everything erupted. You might call it a cataclysm, but I like to think it looked more like a gentle scene from a really cool ballet, a pastoral ballet if there is such a thing. The planets seethed and tugged at each other, but it was all good, like it says in the Bible. Shafts of light zoomed around, bowing to one another. God was pleased, being that Spirit of life-fulfillment at the heart of it, the play (lila) of the Hindus. And whatever James Joyce meant by "the excelsissimost empyrean (bolt, in sum) earthspake," that occurred. It was a stunner. And there was a half hour's silence in heaven, for the Divine to catch its breath (Spirit).

Here, then, my friends, is what the spirit of life had, has, and offers today: VIGOR VIVUS, life vigorously present and lived, the true life, what each of us needs for our own perfect fulfillment. All the possibilities are present for you. Yes, Tao was unruffled, but that doesn't mean there wasn't a positive, purposeful side, and a negative, destructive side. The negative is RIGOR MORTIS, death present as well, taking the fullness away and leaving you destitute and empty.

So, you see, it goes back to the very beginning, the life you and I are meant to live, the life of VIGOR VIVUS, then and now. But RIGOR MORTIS is always here as well, not to be denied, but not to submit to either. What was true in the beginning is now and ever shall be. The good and the bad. Which will you choose? I hope you fulfill all your personal potential by embracing the life-affirming values inherent in eternal VIGOR VIVUS. Please, get up off your ass and do it! Don't let another day go by! Let the words of Frank N. Furter be your guide, "Don't dream it, be it!"

OK, Jake, yes, go for it! Get me the "Devil" graphic ASAP. I'll raise the 20 bucks somehow. The cornier the better, horns, weird tail, and pitchfork. I wanted the Vigor Vivus graphic classy, but I want the Rigor Mortis one ridiculous. Stereotypical and hackneyed is OK, thanks. 425 pixels.

The Pink Professor -- The Importance Of Shaking Hands

Things at the Roadhog Roadhouse have been going as usual. Guys show up, guys drink, guys get in fights. It can be so bad, I hate to think of it, what ruffians do.

I just hear of it, since I don't go out there much, and I shake my head and inwardly wonder: Why is the heart of man so against his fellow man, especially when he's got a belly full of beer?

But I have to smile, since I know I have a man on the scene to handle these matters, the eruptions of one man against another. Of course that's the Pink Professor, who can't be there all the time, but when he is, things get straightened out real fast. He doesn't take any crap from any of them.

Gotta love him! And of course I do! Our relationship, you will recall, goes back now more than a year! And what a year! We met a year ago in September. And now September has come and gone again, October, too, and we're already into November. We've quit celebrating monthly anniversaries, which is usually the way it goes. Of course we weren't an item right away, but still once we became one we started looking back on those months as counting. Certainly they counted for the one year anniversary, because it wouldn't make a bit of sense to postdate something other than our first get-together of any kind.

Anyway, the P.P. is still on the job at the Roadhouse, bringing a softening influence to the otherwise coarse atmosphere of the place. Coarse is really the word I'd use, which is why most bikers' bars in recent years have taken the positive step of bringing a Pink Professor figure on board. Sometimes they're paid, sometimes they're just goodhearted volunteers, like my guy is. He likes to make a difference, that's one thing. And another, it makes his life more interesting than just teaching classes and grading essays all night.

He was telling me of the most recent craziness out there. Remember the 14-piece pool cue the one guy had? Well, now everyone has one. Which has an interesting benefit on the side: If someone gets in a fight before getting the damned thing assembled, it delays things enough so no real damage is done. Cross your fingers!

That happened the other night. Two guys got into it over something, something to do with one of the waitresses winking at them. They were at loggerheads, staring at each other with evil looks as they hastily assembled their cues. Then one hit on a brainchild, to take a whack at the other guy with his only half assembled, seven easy pieces. He took a swat, knocking a glass of beer across the room, and the other guy backed up.

They both saw the futility of fighting with just half a cue, so back they went, feverishly assembling them, but having a harder time, because the narrowest part of the cue is the trickiest to assemble, with the smaller threads. Now the other guy got ¾ the way done and came up swinging. The other guy dodged, because one of the pieces, not screwed in fully, flew across the room and broke a mirror, meaning seven years bad luck for someone.

He went running for it, slipped on the beer that had spilled, and fell on his butt. To make a long story short, he feigned injury while unscrewing a chair leg. He came up like a pack of bears spilling out of their den, with the biggest gaping maw anyone remembered seeing, chair leg in hand, right when the Pink Professor entered the room. Then both men stood there ... silent ... ashamed ... immediately convicted of the error of their ways.

This is the power of one great man! The guy with the chair leg tried to hand it to the Pink Professor, who just shook his head. "I don't need to take it from you. You know where it goes," was all he had to say, and the guy picked up the chair and reattached it. The other guy had stopped in mid-assembly of his cue. The Pink Professor, instead of disarming him, went over and helped him get it together. "You have to baby the last few pieces," he said cheerfully. He knew they guy wouldn't fight now. And that's what happened.

He brought the two combatants together and had them shake hands, which is always an important gesture in putting past grievances behind us. Once you've shaken hands with a man, you can't bear a grudge. It's a physical and mental impossibility. You're immediately one in heart and mind. Their hands joined, the P.P. put both his hands on top, as if to bless their sacred union, then withdrew. Each man looked eye to eye at the other, their big grins confessing they should've been friends all along. Then with gentleness they broke their grip, and went on to grip, each one, another beer, each treating the other and splitting the cost of the Pink Professor's next drink.

To me, that's beautiful. That they would treat each other to a beer and split the cost of the Pink Professor's next drink.

Please Don't Drag That String Around

I've got the great Elvis Presley song "Please Don't Drag That String Around" in mind. I'm pretty good at singing it, at least according to the way I hear things. Probably if I heard it played back with no accompaniment and my bare, crummy singing voice, it'd sound like crap. But thanks to the inner voice and the great acoustics in the shower, it's all good.

It's a great song, though, and I'd love to line up a dozen different versions on Spotify and listen to them. Except the only artist who does the song besides Elvis is someone called The Tuesday Blue Express. What is it about that song that no one does it? It's on Elvis' Gold Records Vol. 4 and the '60s Masters box set, two places. It's on a 45 I have at home. And of course The Tuesday Blue Express, whom I hadn't heard of before, but if they do this song despite the rest of the world, they have to be great.

OK, I just listened to their version. It's just a straightforward version, not at any different than Elvis,' with kind of a rockabilly jump sound. I don't know that it has any real reason to exist, which may be is why no one else does the song. What's the use, if you're not going to do anything with it? You can't outplead the King, baby.

"Please don't drag that string around." In the song, Elvis is a "puppet on a string" to his baby, recalling another of his great songs. His baby must realize his heart is tied to the other end, but maybe she just doesn't care. So he needs to plead, she's oblivious to what she has in this devoted man. Personally, I'd rather have a more equal relationship than that, not having to "jump to your command" like a puppet. That's probably why no one else does the song; it has kind of a pathetic theme.

Still, I love the song. And big plaudits go out to The Tuesday Blue Express for at least taking it on. To the rest of the assembled artists of the world, those who have turned your back on this song, shame on you. Beatles, Stones, Matt Monro, Dolly Parton, Porter Wagoner, Tex Beneke, Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, Dick Barnett (a kid I knew in school), and Paul Peterson, I'm looking right at you!

If I Had October To Do Over

Each of us has a finite number of months to live. And another one has passed.

I've had a wistful day, maybe it's the clouds and drizzle. I've been thinking back to October and wishing I'd done so much more with the time. I always have the best of intentions, but then there's this and that and the other thing that seems to hog up all the time. And before I know it, the month has passed and I haven't really accomplished anything.

On the blog I had 31 posts, and since there was 31 days in the month, that looks like I did one a day. But I didn't, because I wasn't inspired some of the days. Then when I was inspired, I was bang bang bang, with 31 being a pretty good number to end up with. But it's not enough. I'd love to have a month where I could put out, let's say 30,000 posts, a thousand a day! Good ones! Probably never happen ... not if I fritter away my time...

If only ... If only I could go back and do it again, things would be different! I swear I would have done so much more.

I can easily picturing myself in October, if I had it to do again, reading with good concentration for two solid hours a day, scholarly stuff, studies that would guide my thinking and contribute to my personal fulfillment. It didn't happen, that's for sure. But if I could do it over again, that'd be one of my highest priorities. Imagine all the stuff I could've learned in an extra 62 hours of in-depth study!

On the personal organization front: My place here is a mess. I look like someone from "Hoarders," except I'm generally happy. I'm surrounded by candy wrappers, since Halloween was just a couple days ago. I bought well over $20 worth of candy, really expecting a lot of kids. But guess what, I didn't get one single kid, leaving me with two heaping plastic bowls of candy! Certainly if I had October to do over I wouldn't have bought all that candy. And besides that, I would like to have kept myself more perfectly organized, everything in its place, everything neat and tidy. But it didn't happen, and at this point it isn't likely.

It would've been nice to have volunteered some quality time to service organizations and the church. They're constantly calling for volunteers, and I'm always thinking I should get in there and kick some serious accomplishment butt. But then I make excuses, I don't have the time, or they'd just give me busy work and tell me "Good job" to hook me into the system. November doesn't look good for it, December's always busy, then we're into the whole New Year. October would've been perfect, if only I had it back.

I would love to go back to October for something else. To avoid all conflict and recriminations. I had a few petty little arguments with people, just minor crap, nothing really. And it only took minutes. Then I wasted the rest of the day(s) stewing over it, thinking of stuff I could've said, thinking of ways to burn my bridges while also managing to avoid them in the grocery store. I hate rage and what it does to me. And if I could go back, I'd turn the heat down on the boiling pot.

I would change my diet if I could go back. I already mentioned the candy. I've been eating it like crazy. And I'm getting fat. Obese, at least by my standards. I haven't been walking much since it got colder. So the pounds go on and I'm more and more weighed down. October is key to all this, to my success at keeping the inches off, but now that it's gone, I'm losing hope. I should have taken the step to become a vegetarian, or at least a pescatarian. I remember starting October with that thought.

If I could relive October, and this minimum task is one I could have accomplished, I would memorize all the presidents and their dates as well as the continents. I keep seeing these questions on Jeopardy that I should be getting.

One other thing, I would hold my sleeping down to four quality hours a night, then spend the rest of the time striving for perfection and major accomplishments, and living completely without worry, if only I had October back again.

Masturbananda Transforms "The Little Drip"

Among the many inspiring stories from Sri Masturbananda's ashram, perhaps none tells of a greater transformation than the story of Gregor, the guy they called "The Little Drip." I think of his story often, anytime I need a boost in my devotions.

I only knew him afterward, but those who knew him before say he was pathetic. He'd be at his devotions, trying to follow the Master's teachings, but very little came of it. It was a real problem, and only became worse the more the other chelas (students) knew about it, and the more he thought of it. He had a lot of shame.

Remember, Sri Masturbananda's teaching is that we (men) can glimpse the Divine for two or three seconds at a time, at the climax of our devotions. We seek to eventually know divinity in a life of oneness. For now, we work ourselves up, then -- ahh, there's the Light! Then we clean up and get back to our work around the ashram.

Anyway, they started calling this poor guy, "The Little Drip." He was like a leaky faucet, but anytime he worked the handle, so to speak, nothing happened. I'd guess it was a playful nickname, but of course it hurt him. They say he had a weak, crooked smile, like he was very conflicted. But afterward -- Oh boy! -- he had a big fat grin, a smile as big as all outdoors! That is, after the Master stepped in to counsel him.

The Master's counsel was bold, personal guidance, including Gregor being able to accompany him as he went about his own devotions. Now, I've said it before, no one can look upon the Master in his ecstasy. But Master had Gregor behind a thick curtain, yet he was still able to behold much of Masturbananda's radiance. Then the words of power that came from the Master's lips, particularly as he reached his glory, just before the roof of the place blew off, had to be something from Heaven. Lastly, Gregor witnessed the tearing of the curtain between them, from bottom to top, exposing sights that I can only imagine. I'd call it a full frontal Transfiguration.

It only took one such experience and Gregor was a new man. No more was he "The Little Drip." A more apt name would be "The Gusher" or "Super Soaker" or "Old Faithful." Because from that day on, there was no more faithful chela at his devotions, and certainly none who could reach the divine in a more intense way. The guy was a mess ... and that was good!

Of course, the other chelas were very curious. They wanted to know what Sri Masturbananda had said in his climactic moments. But Gregor would never tell. To him it was a sublime, powerful mystery that had to be guarded at all cost. All he gave was this cryptic reply,  "Were I to speak one word of it, fire would come from the stones and consume you..." They glanced down at his stones and saw, clearly this was a man in heat.

We all know the end of the story, how Gregor became one of Master's closest disciples, and an inspiration not just to the ashram but to chelas around the world. Most of us are already more than a "Little Drip," but in him we're inspired to be so much more.

And so the story ends, with this saint of God an inspiration to all. It was not long after this that Sri Masturbananda gave Gregor the greater monastic name of Sri Niagarananda, his symbol forever the wash-bucket and mop.