Champion Jack Dupree -- Sex With A Mule 2

I was listening to the song, "Me and My Mule" by Champion Jack Dupree today, an odd coincidence since a couple days ago I just wrote my post, "Sex With A Mule."  I don't know if I'm going to live that down. I lost several Twitter followers, probably because of my promos:

"Sex with a Mule," it's not as bad as it sounds.

Sex with a mule? If it kicks, you end up with a hoof print the size of a pie on your face.

There is no sex with a mule in my "Sex With A Mule." It's just a guy makes an embarrassing verbal blunder.

It's just an embarrassing verbal blunder, something about sex and mules.

Last call for sex with the mule. All aboard!

I couldn't get 20 people to look at this. They see "Sex with a Mule" and it scares them off. Why?

See how frantic I was getting there at the end, saying it was just about an "embarrassing verbal blunder," then even questioning my readers, 'Why are you all so scared of "Sex with a Mule."'

Anyway, getting back to Champion Jack Dupree, all that was just a coincidence, really having nothing to do with Dupree and his song. I'm sure Champion Jack basically kept things on the up and up when it came to his mules, and certainly for the most part there wouldn't have been any hanky panky. I mean, I wasn't actually there. And I know one thing can definitely lead to another, and any man can be driven to temptation, with the possible exception of the Pope.

But it's tough to believe any man would be that driven by the various primal instincts, like all the time. It surely wouldn't have happened very often, of that we can be sure, reasonably sure. There's clearly nothing much in the song of a sexual nature, although it's probably true that we wouldn't expect him to come right out and say he was getting it on with a mule. For that you'd have to read between the lines. We do know that he went from a warm bed to the mule in the barn, and that he and the mule then went skipping over the countryside.

I'm going to just quote the lyrics to the song so you can read it for yourself. It's him talking to music, not singing:

Yeah, it's 4 o'clock in the mornin',
and I got to go out here with this mule.
I ain't never seen nothin' like this before in my life,
this early in the morning.
I'll go on down to the barn and get him.
I don't wanna go but I will.

Well, let me open this door here.
C'mon out here, mule! [sounds of clomping]
Listen, standin' up there like you're half asleep.
C'mon, let's get out there in that field. [hee-hawing]
Ain't no use of you howling, I didn't howl when they woke ME up..
So you just as well shut up and come out here.

C'mon cross this bridge here.
This bridge is only big enough for me and you.
C'mon. You know I wouldn't go out here this mornin',
with that woman I love, she got long curly hair hangin' down her back.
But I wished it was on her head, yeah.

Let me see that she put our lunch in here.
Yeah, she put my lunch in here and some oats in here for the mule,
she mustn't think I wasn't comin' back till 12 o'clock.

Oh-oh, it's done started rainin' now.
Let's go on back now.
I'm glad of that.
Come on back cross this bridge.
It's funny all them window shade's down.
This time of day everybody's due to be up.
C'mon, let's go on in.
Yeah, and what I hope, I hope it rain again tomorrow.

Pretty nice song, huh? I hear this song, and I read the lyrics, and at first I don't see a problem. Where's the problem? To me, it all sounds quite innocent. There's no mention of any hanky panky. In fact, it's clear that he's taking the mule out to work in a field, and he'd rather not be up at 4 in the morning.

But he doesn't have that much good to say about the woman he supposedly loves. She has hair down her back and he wishes it was on her head! Maybe the mule looked better to him, since they're supposed to have hair down their backs. Note, he doesn't say anything bad about the mule's appearance, only his woman's. Not a good sign.

What I can't figure out about the song is why all the window shades are down at his place, even though everyone's due to be up at that time. To me, this might be where the hanky panky is. The woman has some other guy over, the shades are pulled down, she's not expecting Man and Mule back till late, that's why she packed a lunch for both. Maybe there's some alienation of affections going on, like he hasn't been giving her the proper attention. Or she's jealous about something that's been going on with him.

I'm going to go with this hanky panky angle. When he gets in the house and finds the woman in the sack with another man (there's no reference to any other beast), he's going to be mad. It'd be like a kick to the head. And there's no telling what he might do, especially if he has to stay the night in the barn. If he's not careful, there might be another kick to the head. Hoof prints the size of a pie.

UPDATE: Please note the strange verse about the lunch. The woman fixed him a lunch and put some oats in the sack for the mule. Meaning Dupree is feeling his oats in the sack, the "his" in this case being the mule's!

My Worries If I'm A Dog

I don't know if dogs have worries. I know there's things about their lives they don't like. Underbrush hates it when I pull out the brushes and clippers and things. I would guess, then, if they have preferences, then they have some worries about they don't like, even if it's only manifest in the immediate moment of the thing.

It definitely appears that dogs don't care about who they are, the kind of dog they are, and how they compare to other dogs. There's no identity crises, no ruing their fate, "If I'd only been born a parakeet!" What their lives are is perfectly OK.

I was out watching dogs play one day at one of the parks where dogs run free, and to me it looked like some of the smaller dogs had worries. Because the big dogs were running around, all excited to sniff them, etc., and the little dogs felt somewhat threatened. Most of them seemed a little more hesitant to scamper. But then I saw a couple of smaller dogs who didn't care and romped with the best of them.

One thing that's helpful for dogs is that they have their normal instinctual habits mixed with people taking care of them. So when they're in nature, they're doing dog things, but no one's going to allow them to kill each other. They have a bed at home, their own toys, and food dish.

I wanted to get to some of my worries if I suddenly found myself as a dog. If I suddenly had all the normal instincts, that would be helpful, but it could be a transformation like this might leave me lacking a few. Right away, I'd be concerned about marking territory. Do you just claim territory? Or do you have to hang around for a while until it looks safe to claim it? And is peeing on it really all it takes? Do I need to keep the pee fresh? Can't I just pee "No Trespassing" in the yard?

Peeing is about half of what a dog does. Preceded by about an hour of sniffing out messages left by other dogs. I'm totally unfamiliar with how that goes. How many variations are there in the odors? Could someone get me a manual on what the different odors mean? Are other dogs going to respect the odors I leave?

Speaking of odors, there's all the sniffing of one another. I saw a lot of this out at the dog park. They're getting up close and personal. Blah, what can I say? It has a nasty look to it. This is going to be a big worry, getting used to it and knowing what it all means.

No discussion of my worries as a dog would be complete without touching on sex. If I'm a boy dog, that's different, without getting too graphic about it. Girl dogs have their own worries, probably. A favorite song would have to be "Why Don't We Do It In The Road?" Sounds terrible. If you're a miniature dog and a dog the size of a couch, or, worse, a pitbull, shows up, that could be some terrible action.

Let's get back to the playful, less repulsive stuff. When I was at the dog park, I saw a bunch of dogs arguing over a Frisbee, who gets it. One had it in his mouth, then another grabbed it, then it fell in the dirt and a smaller dog took it over, followed by a bigger dog. All of them had it in their mouth, with drool everywhere. This would be a massive worry for me.

Lastly, there's the bad designs some dogs have. Like I said, dogs don't seem to worry about any of this. But it's a bad look for anyone looking on if, say, you're a totally black dog but you have a blond spot with your anus right in the center of it. I saw a dog like this out there. What a place for a blond spot! If this is what they mean by blonds having more fun, give me misery. A pitiful design like this makes me question the idea of a loving God.

Sex With A Mule

This little trifle is called "Sex with a Mule." Not that there is any actual sex with a mule taking place. And no mules were harmed in the writing of this blog, as though they could be.

It's simply about a guy giving a talk to a group of men and making a very bad mistake.

He's explaining to the group that, "Men do not like what they hate. No, those things they hate. They like what they like. And they love what they love." So far, so good. You could barely dispute the logic. So, with great confidence he goes on, and he probably shouldn't have: "As an example, men love having sex with a mule, but they'd hate to have sex with a woman. I should know."

At this point, of course, there's nervous titters from the gathered men, that quite soon becomes outright laughter and euphoria. There's a few guys backslapping some of the smaller men. The speaker is looking around, thinking something has definitely gone wrong. Someone at the head table cups his hand up by his ear and fills him in on his mistake.

He stands at the podium, knowing this is a good laugh on him. Good God, why did I even mention sex? And mules? Someone's going to think -- Oh! What'd I say?!"  Wouldn't that be terrible? Just thinking of it does a number on my mind. I'll probably dream of it tonight!

He gets the crowd quieted down. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, may I have your attention?" Everything's quieting down, finally, when a wag in the back lets out a "Hee haw!" It sounds like it came from a very shocked mule, like maybe the speaker had sneaked up on it! The place erupts! The speaker is looking at the red velvet curtains, thinking he might have to leave town and never come back.

But he bravely presses on, at first frowning severely, then figuring he'd better just laugh along with the rest. It'll make him look like a better sport. He gavels the place into submission.

"I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I obviously made a bad mistake. Frankly, my real mistake was to mention that subject at all. But I did, and it seems I got it terribly wrong. Of course, what I meant to say was, 'Men love having sex with a woman, but they'd hate having sex with a mule. I should know.'"

American Gigantism Run Amok*

Big things and little things.

With nuclear radiation or a heavy dose of a concentrated essence, like too much wasp venom, you can get the giant version of a thing. How you might become terrifically small, maybe it would take the same concentrated essence, but only a touch of it in some vital location.

Ants, bugs, spiders, all of life's more terrifying creatures can have and have had their gigantic versions in the movies. They run amok so that we really notice them. Meaning, it stands to reason, that they're busy running amok on their own little scale all the time but no one cares.

The ants were doing a whole thing with an anthill out by the tree, and I went to mow the yard and noticed a mountain the size of a bushel basket. That's a lot of digging. Imagine what they'd do as giants. They'd roll over in their sleep and tip my house off the foundation.

Then there's the genre of the "Attack of the 50 Ft. Woman." Making me wonder what she'd do for company, were it not for spending all the time running amok. A 50 foot man? Another 50 foot woman. Or a 40 foot man? There's the Giant Wasp Woman, and at the other end, the Incredible Shrinking Man.

Which brings me to boob jobs. I personally wouldn't want to be packing around two gallons of silicon and don't see why anyone would. It's American gigantism run amok, or world gigantism, assuming everyone else is as infatuated with bigger and better like us. You ought to be happy with the ones you've got by nature.

Personally, I think small in things are OK. Wasn't that what we were going to years ago? Miniaturization. Small things are very important. As an example, small things can hurt like big things can't. The tip of a needle jabbed against your arm feels worse than the handle of a big hammer, like if it's just a jab. Even the tip of a toothpick sticking you in the chest, popping out of a T-shirt pocket, is pretty painful.

When it comes to smallness, it hurts because the thing has better access. There's not enough around the tip to block it out when it touches you. But big is still terrible, with destructive power, coming from its weight, like in a 16 ton anvil dropped on you. Your bones are crunched. Worse than 16 tons of marshmallows.

I'm not so sure American gigantism is such a big problem anymore. I read the other day that the era of the skyscraper is over with. (Orion magazine, July-Aug. 2011 issue.)

--------------------
*The title is a phrase from the "Introduction" by Kevin Baker, p. xii, preceding Bernard Malamud's "The Natural," Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2003. If you want to write them and tell them I used the phrase, their address is 19 Union Square West, New York, 10003. I'd rather you didn't write to them, but what the hey. Thanks, Kevin. When I read an introduction in a book from 2003, I start thinking, he has no idea whether people are reading it or how many. There's nowhere to check his hits. He might be walking down the street, thinking to himself, "Here I am, a literary genius, and no one recognizes me." I personally read your introduction today and thought it was very good. It wasn't lengthy like some introductions, which discourage me when I see them, like half the book. Seriously, check out the introduction to "Kabir -- The Weaver's Songs," published by Penguin Books in India in 2003. We've got the introduction clocking in at 96 pages! Out of just over 300 pages. It was written by the translator, Vinay Dharwadker. Clearly a case of Indian gigantism run amok. But I frankly don't think you'd know that much about Kabir without a good sized introduction, although it gets extremely technical.

Somehow Standing Gives It More Honor

To me, one of the odd things we have to do is stand up at various times, to honor something.

It's not precisely odd, because it's hoary convention, and there's no real reason to even be thinking of it unless you just happen to think of such things.

We have the bodies we have, a butt to sit on and two legs to stand on. And somehow the idea took root, at least where I live, that standing on your legs gives more honor than sitting on your butt. Of course there's no real reason why that should be so, and maybe it's just the opposite somewhere else. Like in countries where they belch to show their appreciation for a meal.

The flag is the recipient of a lot of social honor like standing, holding your hand on your heart, etc. But there's not an entirely consistent doctrine to it. Social conformity and common sense born in habit gives most of your cues.

I'm using the community parade as my example. If there was a flag in an unmanned vehicle coming down the street and you were the only person there, speaking for myself, I probably wouldn't stand up. Because, really, what's the use? The flag itself doesn't care. And the only difference it makes to me is the energy expended for no real purpose, except maybe a second of exercise.

But the flag definitely has a social element to it. We're part of a country, we are generally like-minded, having gone to the same schools and heard the same things. Mix it in with some holidays being patriotic, like July 4, and the presence of veterans, and the lessons speak to us, Stand up! Along with social conformity. If you're not a Jehovah's Witness and everyone else is standing up, unless you're in a wheelchair, you better stand up. I'd hate to be a Jehovah's Witness, if not for all the other good reasons, then for that one alone.

The amusing part about a July 4 parade is that there's always lots of flags, and we're not standing up for all of them. If it's a big one, that's one sure standing moment. If there's a bunch of little flags on a vehicle, usually that's a standing moment, especially if there's veterans on board. If the marching band comes by with a flag prominently in front, that's a standing moment. But if it's two flags on a kid's bike handlebars, that's not a standing moment. And the same for people in the nursing home float, a few old ladies waving flags, no one's standing for them.

Some churches have everyone stand for the reading of the Gospel lesson. This is one that makes even less sense to me. At least the flag is an overall symbol for a nation, a people. The Gospel just happens to be one part of the Bible. Doctrinally, I've never heard it said that the Gospels are preeminent as scripture. To be even remotely consistent, you ought to be standing for any Bible verse.

But the Gospels have a certain prominence, they often come right before the sermon, and that must be part of it. Also, they're the first thing in the New Testament. Two, they're the closest thing to biographies of Jesus. And, three, they have the key verses every kid going to church needed to memorize, like John 3:16.

As part of the Bible, though, even though they quote Jesus extensively, they're not so head and shoulders above the other books. You could make a good argument that the letters of Paul honor Christ in a more transcendent way overall, and if we're going to stand for anything, those would be good candidates.

But I'd back up and ask how does standing for a particular section of the Bible give more honor to it? Aside from the point that you could make that you're giving short shrift to the rest of it. Why is me on my feet any more honoring than me on my butt? And, as to consistency again, why aren't we all standing every time the minister or liturgist quotes from the Gospels? Why is it that the formalized reading of consecutive verses from these particular four books demands standing, but the incidental reading or quoting doesn't?

The real thing that shows it's arbitrary is that every church has its own custom. I've never seen any consistency on this, but with the flags it's a general custom for the whole country.

Of course I do it, the standing. What are you going to do, sit and look like a jerk? It's better than when I was a kid and you had to stand for the always incredibly long pastoral prayer. My biggest memory of those days is the sight of my white knuckles clutching the pew in front of me, and shifting foot to foot.

We ought to get together and do something like performance art on this. Like standing at obviously weird times, every time a bus goes by, or someone in blue jeans walks by.

Middle Fingerings I Have Seen

I wanted to wait till I saw four or five more fingerings to write this up, but who knows how long it might take for that.

I saw a great middle fingering the other day, and I figured everyone would appreciate hearing about it.

They've had some streets closed in town, like they do in every town in the summer, and it's made for some major inconvenience. Traffic is down to one lane, and tempers get pretty short when it comes to all the red lights. You're way back there, the light changes, three or four guys from the sides are still making it through, then you realize you haven't even moved yet and the light is already red again.

I just happened to be at one of these bottleneck intersections, a frustrating one, and the nonstop heatwave wasn't helping. The traffic was going at its usual snail's pace, then it was backed up at the light a block away, with the cars stretching clear to the other block.

Most drivers don't pull out in the middle of the intersection, thereby blocking cross traffic, but stay back behind their own red light. But this one lady, an older lady, had crept through the intersection even though it meant she was going to be somewhat blocking cross traffic. Another woman, probably 30-32 years old, and probably out on an important errand and not wanting to be delayed, was coming in the cross traffic, when she saw her quandary. The first lady managed to scooch another two or three feet forward, meaning the cross traffic woman had a little more leeway after some seconds to make it through.

As she was going through, from the time she began her passage till she was definitely by, she had a very erect middle finger waving in the air toward the lady. Mercifully, it didn't appear that she saw it. But I saw the whole thing.

I'm going back to my distant memory archives for two other memorable fingerings. I was hitchhiking with a guy back in the '70s. I can't remember exactly where we were, but we had spent some time on the road and some time without a ride. There was an on ramp and a single guy was coming up it. We were beyond the on ramp and on the side of the road itself. It looked like he was sort of hesitating, like he didn't know whether to pick us up or not. Then he sped up and was going to keep going.

At that point -- and this looked sort of like "High Noon" -- my friend brought out his biggest middle finger, and took it up way above his head, then brought it down square with his face in the guy's direction, and accentuated the whole thing with his feet stomped down and planted, just like a gunslinger. It was a dramatic fingering and is still vivid in my memory now just 40 years ago in July.

But the really memorable thing is that the guy came screeching to a halt right there on the highway. And we're thinking all kinds of bad things might be happening. We talked it over hurriedly about what we should do, which came down to something like this, if the guy meant trouble for us, at least one of us should run up and get in the car and drive it away. We wouldn't be stealing it, we were only thinking we might need to go for help. If both of us could get in, we'd escape danger. Our imagination turned out to be worse than what happened.

The guy put it in reverse and came back at a pretty good clip. And he said something like, "I don't appreciate getting the fuck finger!" I do remember he said precisely that, those exact words. My friend said something like, "And we don't appreciate" [exact words there] you acting like you're going to stop and then going on [just a paraphrase.] The guy was reasonably calm and explained that he had thought about picking us up, but seeing that he was only going a few miles up the road, he didn't think it would do us much good. Which was true; we were going hundreds of miles.*

My third and last middle fingering story for tonight goes back even before that. I was a kid probably about 12-13. (I'm thinking there was a middle fingering in this story, there was certainly an unwelcome "Fuck you!" thrown out.)

Some local guys were playing basketball in the school gym. I don't know how it was arranged or anything about it, but I was there watching, and my dad was acting as one of the refs. What in the world ever qualified my dad to be a ref for these guys, I also don't know. It certainly wasn't one of his regular jobs. But apparently he knew enough about basketball to get the job done.

And these were big guys, like 17-23 years old probably, big tough guys. The story is more than just the "Fuck you." There's a bit that involved me. They didn't have anyone to run the clock and the scoring. So for some incredible reason that I still can't fathom -- and it still seems like a surreal dream, one of those dreams where you're not prepared for the task they give you -- they wanted me to do it. Me, a dumb kid who didn't know the first thing about running an electronic clock, keeping score, the intricacies of basketball, none of it. What button am I supposed to push? When am I supposed to do what? It was crazy. I still shudder.

Naturally, I caused all kinds of problems with the scoring, with getting the clock changed, with holding the buttons too long, pushing the wrong buttons, etc. Various ones would come over and fix what I had screwed up, until I screwed it up too many times, at which point I was dismissed from the job. I look back on a time when my confidence was really shaken, and it's likely that whatever insecurities I have were really set in motion then.

OK, the major fingering (or at least the outburst.) There was some kind of foul, the exact incident I don't know, although I do remember the name of the guy who was at fault (which I'll keep to myself, except I guess I could put his first name, Kenny). My dad called a foul on him, then the guy erupted, contesting it vigorously. But my dad stood his ground. He was a guy of great confidence, I have to give him that. These were big guys and this guy was very pissed off. But my dad was unyielding to all of it.

Then it happened, a big loud "Fuck you!" hurled at my dad by Kenny, and I'm thinking there was a middle finger as well. Wouldn't there be? Anyway, when that happened, my dad made the motion they make when a guy gets ejected from the game. And remember, this isn't professional ball or even a league as far as I know, just some guys playing in the gym! My dad threw the guy out of the game! The guy was there, still going ballistic, just let your imagination run wild what a guy like that would do. But by God, after a little bit of that, he stalked off to the dressing room and my dad had prevailed.

Don't ever finger anyone, because I'll be there to see it, and I will write you up for sure!

*UPDATE: Thinking about it later, I can't honestly be sure the roles weren't reversed, that it wasn't me that did the "High Noon" fingering and said the bit about "And we don't appreciate..." I sure seem to remember the stance. My body remembers it like memory burn. But it could just have been from us reenacting it several times in fun after the fact.

Elvis Presley -- The Crown Of Creation

From where I sit, all the key trajectories -- known and unknown, past and present -- point directly to Elvis Presley as the crown of creation.

Isn't that something? We've got the crown of creation narrowed down just like that. From here on out, except in us keeping Elvis' memory alive, it's all downhill. Mankind will struggle, global warming will eradicate the icebergs, robots will enslave us, winning lottery numbers will forever elude us, and finally the sun will become a red giant and wipe out everything we know. Our only hope today is Elvis, and, face it, eventually even that's not going to be enough.

But for our purposes, let's keep it on the bright side. The robots and the sun problems are still some years in the distant future. We have a full, bright future just out in front of us and for the foreseeable future, especially if we keep Elvis Presley at the center of it. I personally love Elvis -- this is true -- and what happiness I have, it's mostly Elvis.

We've already glimpsed the end of the world, above. But the world had a beginning as well. And that's where we'll start.

Formation of the Earth -- I've been seeing more and more TV shows that show the Earth being formed in a series of cataclysms lasting millions of years. Like a dust bunny, it started as one isolated piece of stone floating in space. Then thanks to gravity, many rocks came together. With gravity and heat, all of it fused together, then it was a seething, inhospitable ball of hell. The proto-moon slammed into it, then the forming moon and the forming Earth went into a tug of war/dance that helped us more than the moon. What was it all about? Whatever cosmic entity or intelligence there is at the heart of all things was preparing the way for Elvis.

Adam -- Adam came into existence. One day an unusually intelligent ape used blood and charred wood fragments to make paint, and started painting his hopes and dreams on the walls of his cave. (Train cars were not yet invented.) This mixture of thought and culture helped him bridge the gap between beast and man, and he called himself Adam. Adam's genius is not generally well-appreciated, but you try it: Go from the species you are to something a transcendental step up. It's tough to do. But he somehow knew, he glimpsed it from afar, the coming of his greatest son, Elvis, and that put a spring in his step. And one other thing, both Adam and Elvis are recognizable from their first names alone.

Buddha and Christ -- I'm lumping them together and letting them also represent other smart guys from the same general time frame, like Socrates and Plato. Buddha glimpsed that all of life was suffering, and ever would be until Elvis came. Jesus Christ took on Himself the sins of the world, freeing up man's path and clearing the way sufficiently for the coming of Elvis. The other smart guys also had their role in Elvis' arrival, Plato even glimpsing Elvis' fairly platonic relationship with Annette Day in "Double Trouble," thanks to her being an underage character most of the film.

Leonardo da Vinci -- I'm including Leonardo basically because any list of the world's great men is incomplete without him. His artwork of the naked man with the outstretched arms is the first full frontal nudity I ever saw, except for my baby brother, almost two years younger than me, having his diaper changed. Leonardo's connection with Elvis is unknown, except his notebooks have some obscure mentions, depending on how you read them, a letter on this page, a word on that page, of a "King" "of" "rocks" "and" "roll[ing wheel]."

Albert Einstein -- I have mixed feelings about Einstein. He's was a brainiac and is credited with being the Father of the Father of the Atomic Bomb, something like that. So he was very smart, but he also gets the blame, and rightly so, for a lot of destruction, and doubtless more to come. But to the extent that Einstein had anything to do with Elvis, he's OK in my book. It's interesting that he didn't die until April 1955, meaning he probably listened to and owned some of Elvis' Sun recordings. Anyone as smart as Einstein would have to see Elvis' genius.

Elvis Himself -- I was born about the time of Elvis' first recording, so what do you know about that? Then from an early age I had a deep appreciation of him, having his "Loving You" LP as my first record. Even as a five-year-old, I knew Elvis was the crown of creation. He had the greatest voice, the greatest musical instincts, and was drop-dead gorgeous. Put it all together, and with him being him, you've got something!

But think, if there wasn't a great element of destiny at work here, Elvis Presley might have remained a truck driver. We need truck drivers, of course, and I honor that. But this was Elvis, he needed to get out of that line of work and get on with his great destiny, which he did, much to my relief.

It sounds like everything is "happily ever after," but there were still flies in the ointment. For one example, we have mixed feelings about Colonel Tom Parker, Elvis' manager. In my opinion, he gets high marks for putting Elvis out there and keeping the demand high. But he gets low marks for keeping Elvis in the movies too long and not letting him record higher quality stuff in the '60s. Yes, I treasure my Elvis soundtracks, but they're clearly inferior to his '50s and first post-Army stuff or the later '60s American Recordings tracks. One last thing, to me he also took too big a cut of Elvis' money.

OK, Elvis Presley was the crown of creation. But what about his death and the years since? It's a drag that he died. And you may have noticed, everything has gone downhill since Elvis' death in 1977. The incidence of everything bad is up starkly since, drug use, teen pregnancy, suicide, bank frauds, political corruption, sports strikes, essay questions on college exams, internet spam, terrorism, inflation, and the price of stamps. The only reason we're not all dead and gone is the continued devotion of Elvis' fans for his music and memory. And thankfully the company controlling Elvis' output keeps reissuing everything; it's like every week we get another reissue of his top 10 hits.

Do you want to be happy? I believe you do. Listen to more Elvis music! I'm happy! Already today I've listened to "Big Boss Man," "Ask Me," "It Hurts Me," "Little Sister," and "Never Ending." Pretty cool, huh?

The Pink Professor -- The 14-Piece Pool Cue

I'm always interested in people getting along better and having good friendship. And my friend the Pink Professor also has that as one of his goals, which he's able to accomplish in his work at the Roadhog Roadhouse, a bikers bar and grill.

You might recall, sometime back my friend took on the Pink Professor role typical at bikers bars, though qualified men are still in high demand. What was different about him was how he just showed up one night and worked himself into the role, just by his good nature. He has the gifts it takes to soften the otherwise very rough and tough atmosphere of the place, and that's what they want.

The trust everyone has in him comes in very handy when there's some kind of eruption, when the more base, ruffian elements of their nature start creeping back in. At those times, there's no one who can moderate or referee like a Pink Professor figure. That's certainly the way it was at the Roadhouse when the guy with the 14-piece pool cue showed up...

Almost every man who plays pool there uses one of the house sticks. They're not looking for the added nuance or class of a custom stick. But there's a few who show up with a two-piece cue in a case, and they always think they're hot stuff. Just imagine what happens when a guy shows up with a 14-piecer!

Well, it happened. A guy, who we now know was named John, came in and started making a general nuisance of himself. He was screwing around with the bartender over how good the drinks were, snotting off to the waitresses about the promptness of their service, and even singing loudly along with the jukebox. But his worst offense came when he was challenged to a game by Dirk, then went out to his bike and brought in a case with 14 pieces of a cue stick in it.

Now, Dirk is a guy who needs everything predictable and normal or he more or less loses it. And get a few beers in him, he's liable to go ballistic. He was ticked off when John opened his case and started putting his cue together. It was going to take him forever. First, he seemed indecisive about which piece to start with, but after some deliberation decided to go with the tip end. Then he rethought it, that it'd be more natural to start with the heavy end, where you've got the heft well in hand.

He had the base piece, then got the next piece. He started screwing it in and it squeaked. So he unscrewed it and spat in the hole, then screwed it again. He looked satisfied and nodded at his own expertise on handling a decent stick. Dirk was standing there with the commoner's one-piece stick, feeling a little inferior. John took the third piece. The screw went in crooked, meaning he couldn't cinch it. He struggled to loosen it, then guided it carefully, a bead of sweat appearing on his brow. His hands also were perspiring, so he went to the bar and got a napkin. Then it was time for the fourth piece, the fifth, the sixth, and so forth. Each one presented its own challenge, but John knew just the remedy to finally solve each difficult problem.

Dirk was looking like he might crap his pants, he was that pissed. Halfway done, John paused, because when you get to the narrower pieces, they're more delicate. He wanted to check out each one before attempting to screw them together, so nothing would break. It was quite an operation, a couple requiring spit, then a safe cracker's touch. John was being very careful with the treads. He wanted them cinched in, but of course the instructions say not to over-tighten. He had a few more pieces to go, when Dirk threw up his hands in disgust and called the whole thing off. Both men were suddenly in each other's face and it was all they could do to pull them apart.

The next night, the whole story was told to the Pink Professor. Of course Dirk was there, but no one had any reason to expect John, a brand new guy, to show up again, when who walks in the door? The Pink Professor greeted him in a friendly way and offered to buy him a beer, before telling him he'd heard about the cue and would love to see it. John was taken aback with his friendliness, but naturally he'd love to show it off. From start to finish, the Pink Professor expressed appreciation for the intricate pool cue's pieces, its sheen, its workmanship, its expense, and even the solid construction of the plain black case.

Dirk was listening in and muttering, still sore and nursing his wounds. The Pink Professor called him closer and sort of acted like he didn't know the game had never actually happened the night before. He started complimenting Dirk for being the first man in the place to take on a man with a stick like that. How brave Dirk was! What a nice man Dirk was for welcoming and taking a new man under his wing! Dirk has real class! If we only had more like Dirk, what a fantastic world this would be! The Pink Professor laid it on thick. In a few minutes, John and Dirk were arguing in a friendly way which one would buy a beer first for the other. They were fast buddies, with John letting Dirk take the case around and show everyone.

John also had a compliment for Dirk, confessing that he'd taken so long putting the cue together because he was a little worried that Dirk was a pool shark. He complimented Dirk's look of confidence. He confessed he could've had it together in less than five minutes, which he and Dirk now set about together to accomplish. Before long, Dirk was taking down the information on the stick, where to order them, their selling points, etc. The night went on like that, with a few friendly games. Neither man turned out to be a pool shark. Both of them had their technical failings, but everyone was generous, saying it was the beer's fault.

In Bed With The Princess And The Pea

I met an actual real life princess, and started thinking, Lucky me! This doesn't happen very often, for one thing, and the fact that she came on pretty strong was a real bonus.

We had a nice time out on the town, then when I went to drop her off, she asked me into the palace. Of course I was eager to see what might happen.

We had a drink or two, then it was time to get down to business. I was thinking she'd have one of those four poster beds with curtains all around. But instead, it was just a mattress in the middle of the room.

OK, let's get to it. We started a little bit of necking. She was doing some groping, and I in turn was also all hands. We were very soon getting into the prone position, when suddenly she had some apparently minor discomfort.

I asked what was wrong. She cussed a blue streak, with some complaint about there being a pea on the floor under the mattress. Oh, that's all? I thought, a little relieved because I was afraid she didn't like the sight of me in my birthday suit. It could stand some alterations.

I said I'd get it out, then we'd pick up where we left off. But she protested that that would be too much trouble. "There's another mattress in the closet," she said, which to me sounded tougher than just getting rid of the pea. But since I hardly ever get to first base with a princess, I wasn't going to argue.

We had two mattresses now and I got her comfortable again, I thought, and I was getting ready to make a serious move on her involving some above-the-waist fooling around. But she surprised me again with new complaints about the pea. She suggested another mattress, although I made a serious case for simply getting the pea out. But she wouldn't take no for an answer.

With three mattresses, I thought, she'd have to be comfortable enough. You could put a jackhammer under three mattresses and turn it on low and not feel it. But it was no good. I thought I could just go straight to the real goods, when she objected, saying she needed serious comfort measures, and she needed them now! "Yeah," I said, a little sarcastically, "I know the feeling, sheesh!"

We may as well skip ahead. It went on like that, the fourth, fifth, and sixth mattress. Then a few more, seven, eight, nine. An hour had passed and by now we had a grand total of 18 mattresses stacked up, which is a lot of heavy lifting for an old man who started the night in pretty good shape...

18 mattresses! That meant we had mattresses stacked nearly to the ceiling. We were up there with the chandelier practically in our face. I was exhausted, but finally my heavy breathing died down. Then she revealed herself to me and the heavy breathing returned. I looked down and it looked like it was going to be smooth sailing from here on out. It reminded me of driving down the street and seeing someone's garage left open. Very inviting.

I prepared myself for the greatest bliss, the sweet denouement to a wonderful night. But just before I was able to cross the threshold toward satisfaction, again she started in with the bitching about the pea. Somehow she felt the damned thing 18 stories up! This stinking pea was getting more action than me!

Since there wasn't room for any more mattresses, I had another idea, but it would take some doing. I kissed her forehead and moved her hand down and asked her to save my place. It would just be a matter of climbing down and getting rid of the pea once and for all...

I ran out to the garage and looked around, getting just the right equipment. Then back in and to the basement. I took the automatic pea finder and started touching the basement ceiling in various places. In a few minutes, I had it! The red light was blinking! Now it was just a matter of drilling up -- [drill noises here] -- and as the drill pushed up, I pulled it back and the pea fell harmlessly into my hot little hand. "Now I've got you, you little bastard!"

With the obstruction to our happiness completely removed, I headed back upstairs and made the difficult climb all the way back to the ceiling. And there she was, looking very comfortable. Her hand was still in place, which I lovingly removed and kissed. The princess was truly ready for me, snuggling against me, writhing, and reaching for me as I also sought out and discovered her love.

The tension of the evening had completely melted away, with another form of intensity taking its place, this intensity being of bliss. This was going to be one mind-blowing night, I was certain, with the princess fully yielded to me, and, it should go without saying, me fully yielded to her. We were both worked up, to the max!

The time had come. I was going to go for it. She was open to me, when without warning she suddenly went limp and showed a terrible grimace on her face. I felt my heart and the rest of me sink. What now? She was uncomfortable again, "That hole's letting in a draft."

Sri Masturbananda -- The Wood Manhood Affair

The spiritual realm continues to reverberate with the news of Brother Unsettled's transformation into a dead tree and his sudden decay.

No one can quite believe it, except of course our all-wise master, Sri Masturbanda. He clearly saw Unsettled's karma and many struggles and had to know something like this would happen. There's no way I personally could've foreseen it, that's for sure, since I've never heard of such a thing before. So I'm thinking, Live and learn.

The problem was Unsettled's disturbing response to Masturbananda's teachings, leading to Master giving him the name Unsettled. Maybe at some level he didn't think himself worthy. I hope it's something like that. That would explain his austerities, and how he couldn't quite get into the work as it was taught.

As I've explained a time or two, Master's teachings are meant to lead us into the experience of oneness with the Cosmic Father and Mother. But since we're so ego-bound we have a hard time making the higher connection. For the most part, it's only in devoting ourselves to the practice of Masturbananda's teachings -- driving ourselves to climactic ecstasy -- that we generally have those highest glimpses of the Divine. Yes, it's seconds at a time, but how precious those are! (We understand there is a correlate experience for women, but precisely how it works remains a mystery.)

Whatever Unsettled's basic problem was, he couldn't quite accept and practice the devotions. He would sit morose and take in the teaching, but then when all were dismissed for personal practice, he'd be out walking by the river or in the forest. I was eating a Twinkie over by the fence one day, hoping the extra calories would give me that much more oomph where it counts, and saw him walking by all hangdog and occasionally slapping himself silly, unfortunately on the face.

Of course you'll remember I have a secondary expertise in group dynamics, so I was very aware of the tension between Masturbananda and Unsettled, more from the latter's side since Master has pretty much risen above the selfish will. Master is merciful, but there's an aspect of mercy that allows the errant one to go his way. I could see the various dynamics at play and it broke my heart. I came that close to sneaking into Unsettled's room and hanging some pinups on his wall. The very least I could do was keep an eye on him.

Unsettled was drifting away, and we were at our wit's end on what to do. But "Each man to his work" was what the other chelas (disciples) always said, so we would quickly retire to our quarters. Master would smile on our eagerness to get to the work, knowing our momentary fellowship with the Divine was at hand, and quite literally so.

But where was Brother Unsettled at these blessed times? Off in the forest. Now, what I'm going to say to you is shocking and utterly personal. I don't want any of this information getting to Unsettled's family. In keeping an eye on him, I trailed him a few times. Lest anyone think I was being unfaithful to the work, let me say I wasn't; I cut off the bottom of a pants pocket, so I was able to do two things at once.

What I saw on those occasions was something I never expected, not in a million incarnations. Brother Unsettled was abusing his manhood, but not in the prescribed manner. He was rubbing it against the chain link fence, splintery boards, and trees. He even stole a cheese grater from the ashram kitchen! Even from a distance I could see it was a gnarly mess. But there wasn't any blood, meaning this had been his habit for some time. It appeared to be toughened, scabbed or calloused over. A few glimpses of such a horrendous sight, and I'll admit it, I felt myself shrivel up to nothing. So that's what he was doing!

Friends, we're dealing with cosmic, spiritual, transcendental realities. And those in the know, know. I was startled to look across the way and see Sri Masturbananda also observing this terror. He intercepted me on the way back and told me it was too late for Unsettled. He was too far gone, and even then was being negatively transformed. Because of all the whacking against and rubbing against tree bark, day after day, he completely turned to wood, which of course is halfway to petrification, had he been able to take that next step.

Pictured above is Brother Unsettled's preserved wooden manhood, somewhat shrunken from its original size, being now about three inches. In this display, as an honor to his memory, we have surrounded it with other pieces of wood, commemorating his days alone in the forest.

The story obviously has a sad ending, but there is one bright spot. Found near Unsettled's broken wooden remains was a piece of wood that had apparently caught his eye, and very likely gave him what little pleasure in life he was able to enjoy. It is the hope of the brothers of the ashram that he experienced the Divine in whatever seconds of release he was able to experience with this yoni-shaped piece of wood.

The Somnambulant Biker

While I was eating my way to heaven, at the same bar and grill, they had their massive phalanx of big screen TVs tuned precisely to the channel with the bike race.

I looked up several times, mostly to see if I was under close observation, but also to keep track of the race. The bicyclists were gathered in a tight pack, with pretty much all of them going the same direction.

If you're in a bicycle race, there's some dangers; you don't want to be involved in a massive pileup. But there was one guy, and he's the guy I really had my eye on, who fell asleep numerous times in the race. Which is understandable to me, because just watching the race was making me sleepy. Not that it wasn't exciting; it was, but that kind of intense action and the riders in such a tight pack drained me emotionally and physically.

This guy, who they were calling the Somnambulant Biker, shares that psychological/physiological response with me. Frankly, I don't think he has any business being a bike racer if he can't overcome it. I know I would make a terrible bike racer. If I were in the middle of the pack -- this is the root of it -- I'd be so focused on that fact alone that it'd be hard for me to keep going the same speed as everyone else. It'd be like hypnotism; I'd be getting sleepy, very sleepy, then-- there I'd go, veering off. That's exactly what this guy did. Spinning out of control, he wiped out several competitors and came to a rest in a pile of hay bales.

But that wasn't the end for him. They got him up -- his team -- thanks to some smelling salts and got him going. I could read their lips, "You need to wake up, keep your focus," maybe the worst thing they could've said. Because it's not the focus that's off. It'd be better for him to lose his focus and thereby avert the hypnotic trap.

The next psychological challenge for him appeared to be the sharp turns. I can see that. You're going straight, then you have a hairpin turn, it does things to your thinking. If only it'd been more gradual, it'd give him time to adjust to the difference. Our minds aren't made to accept drastic changes, as seen in the biological explanation "ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny" -- things are meant to be gradual. But instead of accepting limits, we think we can circumvent nature, so for that reason it's so much easier to wipe out on sharp turns after long straightaways. And sure enough, the Somnambulant Biker fell asleep, and wiped out several more competitors before again coming to a rest on several bales of hay.

I was thinking, This guy ought to be disqualified, but of course I understood what he was going through. I looked down at another load of writhing mashed potatoes and almost fell asleep myself. So I was sympathetic, rooting for him when his team gave him another few whiffs of smelling salts. Then once again he was on his way.

It went on like that several other times. He had wiped out most of the field but was still going.

Then they were on the last lap and everything was going OK. He had to have retained quite a bit of smelling salts residue in his nasal passages, surely he could make it to the end. And yet the thought processes at work, driving him to sleep, were too much.

They were on the very last straightaway, just him and the last three competitors still in it. And I guess he got to thinking, I just might win. You know how that goes? It's an overwhelming thing to think you might come in first, because you're also thinking of all that could go wrong: It could be this, or this, or this -- the possibilities are endless. You keep thinking, thinking, thinking, worrying, stewing, and it builds on itself, it's mounting up, it's so intense, crazy intense, so bad that even on a straightaway you're not safe.

Actually, a straightaway might be the worst place to be, because you're also thinking how clear your thoughts should be, so you're going nuts thinking something is truly wrong with you. Then the closer you get, the worse it is. And so it was for the Somnambulant Biker. He was so lost in thought as they came down the final stretch, he completely blanked out, went completely black, veering back and forth, and knocking out the competition, only coming to an abrupt stop when he flipped over and crashed just an inch over the finish line.

Shivering In The Shadows

RUNNING FROM THE SHADOWS

One time recently when I went to a shadowy area, I saw men shivering in the shadows. They looked up, then looked down. But when I went back and started shivering myself, they really noticed me and sent me away, "You don't belong here." I felt like I was being chased out.

The shadowy area has men with their legs against the building. One leg at a time, but there was one young buck who tried to get two up at the same time.

I saw one guy sitting, both legs under him, and he sat there, a guy shivering. I was drawn to this last guy shivering. Mentally, I made a note of the fact that it wasn't that cold. He looked up at me. I saw he had half gloves on that were of the coarsest material and ratty.

I asked if he was happy and he didn't want to answer right away. Shivering and scoping me out, he rasped and coughed. It went like that a while, and I figured he resented me. I turned to go, when the coughing and shivering ceased. He nodded and said he was like everyone else, happy at times, unhappy at other times.

"That's the best answer," I said to his smile. Then I parodied a shivering man for a few seconds. He laughed and rasped, then I left. But he was probably shivering again before I got back to the full sunshine. I passed the leg guys on my way back.

All this last stuff happened before I felt I was being chased out.

At home, I sat on the north side of the garage in the shadows and shivered till the bugs got too bad. Then I went in.

I Ate My Way To Heaven

Here's an odd one.

I went out to eat today, not thinking it'd be anything out of the ordinary. But as it turned out, it was one of the strangest and most satisfying experiences in my life. After it was over, they said I ate my way to heaven, and it looks like they were right!

I went in with sandwiches on my mind, but ended up eating nothing but mashed potatoes. Heaps and mounds of hot, writhing, mashed potatoes. I'm farsighted, so I had to take my glasses off to focus on the task at hand, thanks to the thrusting movements and the general excitement of the crowd urging me on.

First, let me say, I'm nothing special. There were others at the trough, so to speak. But for each guy, and a couple of lesbians, everything was fresh, meaning no seconds, sloppy or otherwise. I may as well say, I wouldn't want seconds no matter how nicely they were prepared.

Remember, this wasn't what I went in for. But it's amazing what can happen when you're not expecting it. Something had provoked these people. It might have been like one of those "The Boss is Out of Town" sales, where anything goes. Definitely, someone had an idea. I was guessing one of the waitresses got it started. I wasn't there at the time. But instead of everyone else ushering her to the back room to make herself decent, everything got out of hand, and before you knew it, it was crazy time for the whole crew. It explained some of the disgusted-looking people headed for their cars when I was trying to get it.

I barely got in when someone grabbed me and I found myself facing-- looking down at-- good God, heaps and mounds of hot writhing mashed potatoes, and some of the most compliant servers I'd ever seen. With some of the cutest smiles just a few feet up. There were no words exchanged; you wouldn't have been able to hear them anyway over the shouts of revelers. Of course there weren't any introductions, no "Mother, may I?" Just cooks endlessly spooning out more and more mashed potatoes, and those of us who were intimately involved in doing our level best to clean them up.

My face had to be a terrible mess. But there weren't any napkins, and the urgency of the moment probably would've kept me from bothering. My hands were already occupied anyway, since I figured if I had one base covered, I may as well go for the others, too. It's not that far to reach, which goes without saying. If it meant a little more excitement all around, I saw it as a benefit.

I don't know how much mashed potatoes I ate, but it had to be more than the government's daily recommended serving. After a while, though, I'd had enough, and there were others to be served.

At that point, I learned there must have been some planning for this event, like it was an exquisite event of performance art that I just happened to be there for. Because a guy came up and presented me with a cool T-shirt that said, "I Ate My Way To Heaven" with an advertisement for the place, a bar and grill.

Stepping Out Of Character

It said on the news this week that Stephen Colbert "stepped out of character" to record a PSA for "It Gets Better." I don't remember him stepping out of character before. The other day I was trying to remember what his character was before he took on his own show. I can't think of it.

Then just today I was watching a performance somewhere and suddenly, unexpectedly, the announcer said the guy was going to "step out of character" to explain certain things. So he went from interesting performance mode to boring explanation mode. I wish he would've stayed in character.

But I actually like the idea of everyone stepping out of character, if you can manage it. If you are a character. I can't think of a good reason to go through life with just one character. If you're really living, you're a swirl of characters anyway, like a color wheel on a Christmas tree. Put on your new character like a pair of pants, or, if it's not so voluntary for you, accept gladly whatever your twisted brain thrusts on you.

There's a guy walking around town who acts kind of crazy. He passed me on the sidewalk one day and he was ranting and raving about something, nearly oblivious to me passing although he did look at me. It'd be cool to see him step out of character and go into explanatory mode: "I frankly don't like ranting and raving that much. But somewhere along the line, I noticed the voices in my head needed to vent. It's has a downside, believe it or not, people tend to avoid me. Go figure." Then he goes back into character, frothing and casting himself into the fire.

My experience with doctors is they have a fairly predictable character. They go around thinking all the time, "I'm a doctor," and that's a standard they have to live up to. That's one of the reasons you never see a doctor in public, because they're so image-conscious. The only time you see a doctor is in the little room. You step out of the little room and they're already gone, vanished. They're very rational and can't overcome it. But what if you had a doctor who had numerous characters to choose from? He has a dartboard with characters listed, throws a dart and that's what he becomes. Punk rocker, hillbilly, nerd, nitwit. How about average guy? "Hi, I'm an average person. I exist outside the office."

A teen girl could (and should) step out of character. This is someone who spends her day picking on the other girls, like one of the mean girls on Facebook who drives someone else to suicide. For her to step out of character is going to be hard, since there's zero self-reflection at work. So somehow she has to be magically zapped. Suddenly she's a nice girl, concerned with such weird concepts as honor and decency. "My explanation for my prior bad behavior is this, that it's somehow hormonally-driven. They say our maturity is two years ahead of boys, so I pity them."

Of course a boy can be a real bully, slugging other guys in the arm and making a nuisance of himself in other ways. He could step out of character and make his explanation of it. Then he submits himself to a kind mentor, learns a good trade like carpentry, and lives happily ever after. But most bullies are going to be better after they're 21 anyway, except for the ones who end up in prison. Where they also can learn carpentry.