Friday, December 31, 2010

Moldy Leftovers From Christmas

I've still got some of the Christmas tunes in mind. I'm trying to shake them, but it's hard.

One of the songs, which I love, that I can't get rid of is "Sleigh Ride." Even now I'm singing it in my head. "It'll nearly be like a picture print by Currier and Ives. These wonderful things are the things we remember all through our lives." It really is one of the more charming songs.

But one of the things I think of when I hear old songs is what became of the food mentioned. Because food doesn't keep. So in this song, they're passing around the coffee and the pumpkin pie, which in my way of thinking, since the song was written decades ago, has to be very old and moldy by now. The writer was looking at a fresh pie, but all I can picture is a moldy pie, or maybe a pie that's petrified and used as a doorstop in a barn.

My mother, out there somewhere, has an old apple that belonged to her great grandmother. It's in a case in her house. It's shriveled down and solidified itself. It's an apple mummy. If my great great grandmother had written a song about her apple, that's all she'd have left.

There's all kinds of old stuff that exists that shouldn't. This apple. Or leaves and flowers in books. And I've even had clumps of people's hair from 100 years ago that I've found in books. This stuff isn't moldy, thanks to being out of the air. It dried out so much, like the apple, that now it's impervious.

But the typical cup of coffee and pumpkin pie are going to be in bad shape by now, stale if nothing else. Because no one thinks to dehydrate them before long term storage. And to find a slice of pumpkin pie or cup of coffee pressed in a book is very rare.

One of the other Christmas songs, one I only heard six or seven times this year, is "Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree." It also has pumpkin pie in it: "Later we'll have some pumpkin pie and we'll do some caroling." It's the same problem. It may have been great when it was written, but that's some pie that's gone bad by now.

Thursday, December 30, 2010

2010 Bad, 2011 Good

I'm barely hanging on, dreading that there's still one more day of this dreadful year. The only optimism I have is because I know everything will be better as soon as we hit that magic moment of midnight on January 1. It's a real turning point.

The first thing I'll look for in the morning is "2011" on the newspaper. That's what I've traditionally done, but now I usually look on the internet. That's how I know that it's really happened, that we've finally flipped over from misery to bliss.

When I was a kid, I got excited about seeing the old man with the scythe and the baby with the top hat. They put it on the front page of the paper back then practically every year. Back then, they dealt in old traditional images like that, the old man and the baby. I was always a little confused about how the baby became an old man in only one year, but in general I understood the symbolism. The old is dead -- good riddance -- the new has come.

To me, January 1 is the best day of the New Year. January 3 or 4 I usually think are kind of depressing, because the whole thing for the most part is over. Then when it's Jan. 9 you've lost track, and for all you know it might be the 8th or 10th. It's still the New Year but you're used to it. The only thing that used to mess us up was writing checks, putting the wrong year. But now that we do debit cards all the time, of course we don't even have to think about it.

I don't know if I want to do a "year in review" for the blog this year. I'm pretty sure I did one last year. Oh, what the heck, I'll do a short one:

I really can't remember what I was writing about at the beginning of 2010. I'll go look. Just glancing at a couple titles: January - Drive For Pride, when I was into lifestyle coaching. February - Vernon Hoff, Female Impersonator, that was just an anthology of clippings on a guy who left behind no extensive life story, none that I know of. March - I had a short series on collecting dog food labels. There's some real beauties there. April - I started my "Industrial Section" series that went on for 200 parts straight, so that takes us through May, June, July, August, September, and much of October. Of course that was a very major thing. October - The rest of October was spent floundering around, because the "Industrial Section" posts had worn such deep grooves in my brain. But then I introduced my blessed guru, Swami Masturbananda. November - I introduced the Pink Professor. Also I hit my 1000th post. December - I focused on Masturbananda and the Pink Professor. Toward the end, I essentially became the Pink Professor's boyfriend. But we're still working out the details of our relationship and don't have anything to announce yet.

Maybe 2010 wasn't so terrible, but it's nothing compared to what 2011 will be! Only one more day of a cloudy, terrible time.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Defending Myself With A Crowbar

At this point, I feel I'm not guaranteed a Happy New Year until I flush out the guy who trained the secret camera on me. Because there's no telling what else he might try. Maybe he's busy even now with some surveillance equipment that I haven't yet seen.

It was a bummer of a Christmas and now the aftermath has been very down as well. Because I've been busy, I haven't taken this lying down. In fact, I've had very little rest since I found the camera, as I've kept a lonely vigil at all hours hoping to catch the guy. And not just catch him, but whack him with my crowbar.

The other day I renounced violence, and having done so, I took my arsenal of guns to the pawn shop. I figured that move would come back to haunt me, I just didn't know it'd be so soon. Now I'm without the kind of defense that is a defense. All I've got is this crowbar, plus of course any other rudimentary weapons I might marshal, kitchen knives, wet towels, and rocks from the road. Wet towels? Yes, if he's naked, I'll snap him in the butt. That always hurts.

Needless to say, since it would've been the headline if I'd caught him, I haven't seen the guy. It makes me thing one of several things: Maybe the camera was rigged to transmit or upload the pictures back to him. Or maybe he simply reads my blog, which was my theory in the first place, and knows I've got possession of the camera. In which case I won't see him coming back for it. And now that he knows that I'm waiting with a crowbar, everything might be defused ... till next time.

But I have been watching and waiting, very patiently. There's a little side place on the porch, and it can be very dark in there. I've been hanging out there, waiting in the darkness, just me and my crowbar. I've done everything a man can reasonably do with a crowbar. I've had it over my shoulder, resting at my leg, over my lap, and I've lifted it a few times. It turned out to be a bunch of false alarms, including dogs that were cutting through the yard, and one little kid who was selling candy for school. I don't suppose I'll see him at my door again anytime soon. But there was an upside to it: He dropped a box of chocolate bars, so I've been eating them. Plus there's a $2 off coupon for Pizza Hut on each one.

But there hasn't been any sign of the guy looking for the camera. I was halfway expecting him to show up, such as in the guise of a cable guy, a telephone repairman, or even an Avon lady. The last one, I'd love to see, just to see how well he could pull it off. A little gender bending is a great thing, I believe. I wouldn't hold it against him, I want to say, except I would still want to beat the crap out of him, only for other reasons. First, I would demand that he tell me what his mission was, if he was working for anyone else, and if there were any good deals on perfume, especially the kind (Skin So Soft) that keeps mosquitoes away.

So I've passed some hours at my post. And I haven't been in hiding the whole time. I was taking swings at the air, trying to see what kind of whoosh I could get. And a few times I took batting practice with the crowbar and some dirt clods. It's great to see them explode when I hit them. I also hit some good sized gravel off the road, and a few of them sailed pretty far. But they're a lot harder to hit with a crowbar than, say, a baseball bar. Still, there's ways of getting better accuracy. I always have theories about that, mostly variations on positive thinking teachings. If you think you're going to hit it -- it's like letting the Force be your guide -- you have a better chance of doing so. You just don't want to think about it too much.

I came in to write this, and to warm my fingers. A crowbar is a great conductor of cold. The cold air hits it and goes right through it. It cools off faster than an aluminum can in the freezer, or just about that fast.

Where you at, dude? What did you want? What was the camera for? Were you trying to get some dirt on me? Come back over for a few minutes, please...

Saturday, December 25, 2010

Someone Trained A Secret Camera On Me

I'm pretty sure it had to be someone who reads this blog, someone who is well aware of my comings and going, who trained a secret camera on me, which I have subsequently found and disabled.

I found it today, and I'm hoping it hasn't been there that long. Probably not, because I usually keep an eagle eye out for invasions of my privacy. I'm known for spending an extra long time kicking around for microphones and other surveillance equipment, lest anyone learn and document my secrets.

Of course I have enemies. No one in my position can hope to have everyone love him, though Lord knows I try. But I've done things, I've offended people, I've caused trouble for some of the authorities. Then there's the jealousy. When someone's on top, someone else wants to take his place.

But why now? That's a great question. It might be because it's the holidays, right when they think I might let down my guard. Or maybe it's just that it's the end of the year, and they've had this assignment and suddenly the calendar's against them and they've got to get it done. I can see that, because I myself hate to have to carry over old business to the new year.

What I actually think is going on is that they're looking for personal scandal. And I can guess what it's about, three guesses and the first two don't count, one of those deals. My post on "Body Language With The Pink Professor" was just a couple days ago. And I was a little coy about some of the possible goings-on between him and me, for very good reason. Because it's just the kind of scuttlebutt that can ruin a guy.

So what better way to try and bring me down than to turn to surveillance. Especially with a camera. It's economical, you don't have to pay someone to sit with it. You turn it on, you go to town for lunch, you come back and you've got pictures. What it might show, let's say if I was doing anything scandalous in its view, might be very damaging.

Have you seen those cameras they train on birds? They're insidious, because the birds don't realize it. You've got birds bathing, picking their feathers, eating, and even mating. But I'm not a bird ... I'm much smarter than that. And I'm not going to mate with the Pink Professor right out in the open, especially in view of their camera, if ever. Because that would be a roll of film that might very well end all hopes I have. It'd certainly end my viability in the short term, until the scandal died down.

OK, turning to the camera, I don't recognize the model. It's essentially a piece of plastic, and I don't see the usual markings of a camera, labels, an on-button, etc. Even the lens seems to be permanently encased in plastic, as though it's meant to be opened only by someone who knows its special secret. The back is completely open. I don't see any workings whatsoever. It's very weird.

In one of my photos, I've set some common household items next to it for scale, so you can get an idea of its dimensions. It's very small, a little smaller than other cameras I've seen. As to how it was supposed to function in the photographer's absence, that's another unknown, as there's no wires, no LEDs, no flash, no computer chips, no batteries, not even a solar panel to power it.

But, hey, I'm not alone in recognizing it clearly as a camera. I aimed it at two separate individuals, as an experiment, and they both thought it was a camera, one even going so far as to shield her face and say, "Don't take my picture!"

No one -- that is, no one I know -- likes to have their privacy invaded. They (and I) prefer to come and go undetected, unseen, and of course unrecorded. Whatever dirty business we might be up to when we get there, we'd prefer no one else found out about it. Let those goings-on be between us and our partner. Certain things are not meant for prying eyes and wagging tongues. And I for one don't appreciate anyone -- and I mean anyone -- trying to get pictures of it.

Thankfully, I've got possession of the camera now. And I plan on breaking it.

Note: I have a confidential word for the person who put this camera up: I believe I know who you are. I think I've got it narrowed down, your identity. So don't be surprised if there's a little 'turnabout is fair play' in your future! Just a friendly warning. But where and when I strike, that's going to be my own little secret.

Friday, December 24, 2010

Have A Merry Herman's Hermits Christmas

OK, My Sentimental Friend, I've been Bidin' My Time till Christmas got here so I could wish you all a Merry Herman's Hermits Christmas. Wouldn't that be Dandy? And I hope You Won't Be Leaving until I get it done.

The joy of Christmas has been the Story Of My Life, keeping me from being Little Boy Sad. If You're Thinking What I'm Thinking, you know Christmas is often sad for many people. To them, it's truly A Must To Avoid. Well, I Understand (Just How You Feel), but still I'll do it For Love, because I always believe things can always be Just A Little Bit Better.

I know the basic message of Christmas is meant to Make Me Happy, and you too, and that we truly live in a Wonderful World.

My Lady, the Virgin Mary, Just One Girl, heard the good news: Something Is Happening, with the word coming on Wings Of Love. At first, Joseph heard what she said and thought it was The End Of The World. He pictured her and some other guy as Silhouettes on the window, and said, "I Gotta Get Away!" But she pleaded, "I've Been Walkin' With My Angel," to which he replied, "Don't Try To Hurt Me."

Then finally he said, "OK, Tell Me Baby. Otherwise I Can Take Or Leave Your Loving." She defended herself, saying this was the Son of God who would be born, and now Joseph had to judge What Is Wrong, What Is Right. He told her he'd Dream On it that night. "I'll pray the Lord to Show Me Girl." Then he heard the word from on high, that Mary was indeed no Jezebel, and declared, "Now I Know Why."

Hold On, Listen People, the story gets better, please Wait For Me, Here I Come...

They went to the town of Bethlehem, to an inn. At first Joseph thought, "My Reservation's Been Confirmed," but as it turned out, this was no Holiday Inn. They tried to check in, but the innkeeper, The Man With The Cigar, told them there was no room, not Upstairs, Downstairs. He pointed to the exit, as if to say, "This Door Swings Both Ways."

Outside, they found a little stable at the end of Gaslite Street, barely fit for a Rattler (or even your Mother-In-Law), let alone the Son of God. Mary pondered these things in her heart, thinking, "I Wonder..." Joseph turned to the Big Man above, complaining, "Where Were You When I Needed You?," but suddenly he Got A Feeling that It's Alright Now.

Finally, Mary gave birth to her son, and patted his little head and said, "Oo-Ee-Baby ... All The Things I Do For You Baby ... You're The Most Beautiful Thing In My Life." Suddenly they saw a flash and looked up at the sky: Here Comes The Star! It's a thrilling story, isn't it? ... Can't You Feel My Heartbeat?

I hope you agree, that today, for us, Years May Come, Years May Go, but the whole world can still know that God's been Thinkin' Of You. Each one can have a Merry Herman's Hermits Christmas and make it a beautiful time to Take Love, Give Love. And each one can agree with everyone everywhere, and know, I'm Into Something Good.

Tonight, this Christmas, let it be just like that first night: There's A Kind Of Hush All Over The World. So Smile Please, because I'm wishing you a great Christmas! You Bet Yer Life I Do.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Body Language With The Pink Professor

Sometimes you just know it's right.

Every once in a while, if you're lucky -- maybe just once in your life -- you find you're completely in sync, sympatico, with another person. She or he gives you a look and you know what it means. Then you return the same look, or maybe you mix it up with an entirely different look, and the meaning again is clear.

I guess I really stumbled on to something back in September when I visited the Roadhouse bikers bar on a daring lark. Because I met someone that night who turned out to be very special to me. I really didn't go there to get lucky. Why would I? I refuse to touch anything if I don't know where it's been. But over the last few months, you know, with a little eye contact here, a pat on the shoulder there, a tender moment or two, a few huge belly laughs, a knowing glance across the room, a deepening trust, some parallels in our interests with enough divergences to keep it interesting, and even a bumping of heads a couple times, things have developed nicely.

In the meantime, I've learned the Pink Professor's given name, which I need to keep confidential for the time being. For all the things he's not paranoid about, of course there has to be something he is, and the internet is one of them. When I first met him, in fact, I needed to talk about him only in hypothetical terms because I didn't have the clearance to even declare him as an actual person. And I honored that. But things have advanced on for us ... now he knows my name and I know his!

He asked me if I wanted to come over to his place, which I knew would probably be desirable on multiple levels. We might have a couple drinks, sit on the couch, spend some time looking at books, watch Rachel Maddow, whom we both love, enjoy some crackers and cheese, listen to music, and talk. So I've been over a time or two, and he's super cool. We're getting closer all the time, which is a real joy to me. That was part of the whole thing about me renouncing violence the other day, something he encouraged.

Last night I was over at his place. And I tried something a little different when I got there. I immediately put my finger to my lips when he opened the door, and he got the message. That's how sympatico we are. Of course what I was trying to say was, 'Let's not say anything, OK? Let's just enjoy some peace and quiet.' He put his hands up, as if to say, 'I'm amenable to anything you suggest. It's cool with me.' I put my hand to my chest, indicating myself, and motioned toward the couch, which he understood. He directed me over and he took the easy chair on the other side of the coffee table.

The Pink Professor lifted his right hand and dropped it in an inquiring way, as if to ask, 'So what's going on?' I put both my hands up in the gesture that says, 'Quite a bit. I'm overwhelmed, you know, the holidays..." He smiled and made a sweeping gesture upwards, as if to say, "Santa Claus will be here before you know it and it'll all be over!" I wiped my forehead, as if to say, "I hope you're right!"

We sat and visited like that for a while. Then I picked up a pillow and hugged it tight to myself and closed my eyes. He must've read my mind, because when I opened my eyes, he was standing there and pointed to the couch. I touched the seat and he sat next to me. He patted my leg, then went to get the drinks and crackers and cheese and returned. I fed him a cracker ... and he reciprocated. Plus, we clinked glasses.

The Pink Professor and I had a nice quiet evening in. I leaned back on the couch, reached over and got the pillow, as if to say, 'We're in for the evening. I'm one old slipper and you're the other.' I opened one eye and looked at him, and opened my mouth, as if to say, 'Eh?' He laughed and nodded, as if to say, 'We're definitely two old slippers!'

To make a long story short, we didn't go to the Roadhouse, leaving them -- I don't know -- probably at their wits' end.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Merry Christmas To Random Names

I'm looking around for new ways to bless the lives of folks, since that's what I like to do at Christmas.

You've probably heard of me, even though I've never revealed, until now, what I'm known for. You remember hearing those stories every year about the anonymous guy who puts very valuable gold coins in the Salvation Army bucket? That's me. And I'll still be doing that, like always because I still get a thrill out of seeing the articles about me.

If they really wanted to catch me, they could. Surveillance video, DNA on the coins. But thankfully, so far no one has! 

But now I'm looking for other additional ways -- perhaps ways that aren't so expensive -- to be a blessing. Regular money's of course cheaper than gold. I could just drive along and throw money out the window. But if I did that, there'd be a crowd, the crowd would go ballistic, people would be shoving each other out of the way to get it, someone would be pushed in front of a car and killed. And, anyway, I've never liked the whole thing of handing out money to random people. It's appealing to something base in them. There's also articles about the guy who does that -- I know him -- and mostly he's just looking for someone to get hurt.

You have to be real careful about anything you do. Plus, if you want it to be an actual blessing, you have to look at it in context. By that I mean, if it's not money or it's not gold, it's anticlimactic, and no one really cares. Like if you hand out calendars ... everyone knows calendars are freebies everywhere, banks, barber shops, nursing homes. There's no glamor to them. So if I start handing out something less desirable than money, no one's going to appreciate it.

I've thought about it, and I'm thinking, what if I just wished Merry Christmas to random names. Meaning, names that are legitimate-sounding enough to actually be someone out there, but not names that are celebrity names. I do wish a Merry Christmas to Lady Gaga, whose actual name is (I'll look it up to get it right, even though I basically know it's something like Stephanie Germaniotta) Stefani Germanotta ... wow, I was darned close!

If I were to wish a Merry Christmas to celebrities ... you know what, I probably wouldn't get very far. I'm an old codger and I don't know the current breed of celebrities. There'd be Alex Trebek; I see him almost everyday. I think it's amazing how well Alex does at small talk on the show. He's never stumbling and bumbling, never tripping over his words, never saying anything inappropriate. Myself, I would look at some of the mousy people on there, and introduce them as today's sacrificial lamb, since you know they're not going to win. A couple days ago they had a guy on there who looked like the stereotypical lush at a wild party; if they'd put him in a bathrobe, you'd know him anywhere. I said he'd never make it, but he gave the champ a good run for the money and almost won.

To wish Merry Christmas to celebrities, I'm the age that I'd wish Paul and Ringo Merry Christmas ... they're favorites. I don't know of many other celebrities I really like that much, but there has to be some. I love Drew Carey ... Drew Carey has to be the nicest guy on TV. So a big Merry Christmas to him.

Now, getting to the random non-celebrity names, and I need to say I'm not good at making up names:

Merry Christmas to Nancy Grundy, Roscoe Jones, Ted Rath, Cyrus Paulson, Dan Griffin (there has to be a million of them), Adam Wagner, Priscilla Lopez, Wilma Theramin, Missy Critchett, Duff Dorfman, Walt Plantain, Quincy Cobb, and Linda Zuckerman.

I don't know anyone personally by any of those names. But Merry Christmas to each one and also to you. It's coming up. I hope you've been good, so Santa won't overlook you!

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

I've Renounced Violence

I'm renouncing violence. I have renounced violence. I really did. And I took a major step today to prove it.

What do I need a major arsenal for, exactly? Am I really a better person if I have a wall full of gun racks and guns? And if it has nothing to do with being a better person, am I really that much safer with all that firepower? In a certain sense, yes, because I could've blown a hole in the wall to keep you out. But then, looking at it more closely, no, because I myself could've been killed by a fearful society trying to protect itself.

I was always brought up with the dictate that we have to protect our own. Because there's always someone out to get what you have, and to get you. So we've loaded up on guns, making our own shells, etc. But when you live that way, you notice enemies around every corner, someone wanting to take away your way of life. Finally, our way of life becomes a matter of complete fear. With an itchy trigger finger that gets itchier all the time.

I've been talking some of this over recently with the Pink Professor. I would've gone with his logo but I accidentally messed up the file. That ticks me off. So I used the guns graphic and my raging bear, which I've used numerous times. It's just as well, because rage is a part of the life I've been protecting. Fear and rage. Being a threat to our neighbors, who need to be gotten before they get us.

Then today -- and like I said, the Pink Professor was instrumental in helping me sort through some of this -- I took a major step in renouncing violence. How? By taking my guns to the pawn shop and selling them, literally lock, stock, and barrel. It took my own car and my cousin Roto used his truck to get all of them there. He couldn't believe I was doing it, since he's worse than me, standing guard every evening with a cocked gun at the window.

I listened to the Pink Professor. Do you know how crazy that sounds to a guy like Roto? But the P.P. is my friend, so I wasn't ashamed to tell Roto, Those days are behind me ... all the guns, everything.

But I want to tell you, it was hard. Especially when I looked at the guns all packed up. Suddenly I wanted to call the whole thing off. Because I saw how real it was. But I kept the larger purpose in mind, that violence is not the answer. They say it's never the answer, which I don't really believe. But frankly, is it ever the answer for one single, lone guy? No, it only causes heartache and misery.

There was a story on the internet just this morning (12-21-2010) about a guy -- I think he was in South Korea [turns out it was Brazil] -- who got married with apparently nothing on his mind wrong. But then at the reception, he pulled out a gun and killed his bride, the best man, and himself. I'm going to confess, there was a time in my life when I would've said, "So? What's your point? Do you have a point, or do I have to grind one for you on your head?" But those days are past. Now I say, he should've renounced violence, sold his guns at the pawn shop, got counseling, confessed his sick fantasy to his bride-to-be, then married her, if she was crazy enough to still want him.

Getting back to me, do I think it's going to be easy for me not to have my arsenal? Well, I'm thinking some days will be better than others. Like if I'm not angry. But other days will probably be tough. Like if I see a dog pooping in my yard, or someone dumps a bunch of cats in the driveway, or I'm watching something unpleasant on TV. Did you hear about that guy shooting out his TV set because he didn't like "Dancing with the Stars"? That wasn't me, but it could've been, if I was stupid enough to watch shows like that, or Fox News.

To renounce violence. That's a pretty lofty thing for a guy to do, right? But it really happened! I actually took my guns to the pawn shop today and sold them. I had one more major pang of regret, and that's when I saw the pawn guy carrying them into the back room. I turned and looked at the ones he had one last time. And that's how it ended. They're at the pawn shop. So some other violent guy who hasn't renounced violence can buy them and maybe kill me in a fit of road rage.

You want to hear how peaceful I am? I even called the pawn shop and warned them I was coming, and asked them not to be freaked out when I came in with armloads of guns. They said, "Just so they're unloaded," which kind of pissed me off; I mean, I'm not stupid, loser! But I counted to 10, held my head, and, in one final outburst, shot the phone. It was one of the cheapies you get at Walmart, so no big deal.

Tonight, then, here I sit, virtually defenseless. I was looking out the window at a dark yard, imagining all kinds of forms and shadows over by the garage. I just hope it's no one. At this point, all I've got is God help me. And since God does help those who help themselves, I'll have no one else to blame but myself.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Pink Professors Needed -- Immediate Openings

A month ago I wrote about the need biker bars have for a Pink Professor-type of guy in their midst. I just reread my post, and I had to say 'Amen' to everything I wrote. It was way back in November, so I might've easily changed my mind, but I didn't.

The truth is, I think about the Pink Professor a lot ... I mean a lot. Of course I see him when I'm out at the Roadhouse. I walk in, and even though the guys are getting used to me, he always comes over and takes me under his wing. It lets the other guys know I'm all right despite any appearances to the contrary.

And another truth I may as well put out, just to be honest, is that I myself might take on the role of Pink Professor at one of the other competing biker bars. But what I want to do -- just to be on the safe side -- is hang out with the Pink Professor I know, even though he keeps encouraging me to do it. I actually believe I intuitively know the whole psychology of what's going on in the Pink Professor/bikers relationship -- I can grasp it in a flash, not meaning to brag -- but there's a side of me that's reticent to just launch out on my own. So I'm putting it off for a while, which I'm not proud of but that's just the way I feel right now.

OK, if I jumped in, that would almost cover our town. That'd get the majority of the biker bars, since there's only three. And frankly, I don't know what the third is doing. Maybe they have a Pink Professor; I have to confess some ignorance on this, being fairly new to the scene myself. I'd have a hard time just going there, even though I did that at the Roadhog Roadhouse the first time on a daring lark. Every eye was trained on me as I made my way to a table. Even guys who were chalking their pool cues took a break. One of the waitresses came over to take my order, and I was careful not to glance down at her cleavage, knowing that at any minute they might twist some handlebars around my neck.

That's when I met the Pink Professor. The above account of that night is different from the first time I gave it because I didn't have sufficient clearance at the time to talk about him except in the most hypothetical terms, and also because I'm not always that consistent in recalling the past. I'm a truthful person in many respects, but sometimes I too can blow it.

Anyway, I love the guy. He's there at the bar. He's good to new people who come in. He's good for the culture of the bar, because of new blood welcomed by him, and because of the softening influence he has on the existing clientele. And that's what I was getting into way back in November, how rough is distinguished by soft or nice, and how it's also softened up in a way that makes the bikers lovable in multiple ways. They are lovable, but let's face it, they also could kill you. A Pink Professor is literally a lifesaver!

Now, even though we've almost got my town covered, that doesn't mean your town is. Maybe it is, because of course our Pink Professor isn't the only one. But it's more likely that the biker bars in your town are still wanting for one. There's plenty of Pink Professors, I don't doubt that, whether they're in academia or just intelligent, softer guys sitting at home next to their bookcase. But they don't always know what's going on with bikers bars and the need they have. I'm just hoping this post will be read by a few of them, so they'll get busy at least looking at the opportunities.

I guess I could call this "The Pink Professor Project," for lack of a better name. I might write to colleges, particularly to humanities or music departments, something like that, to see if I can get up some interest and raise their consciousness about it. And of course I'll give them a word of warning. When they go out nosing around one of the bikers bars in their area, they'll have to ease into it. But if they're the Pink Professor type we're needing, they'll know all that by intuition. Hey, that's a message to me myself! I don't really need to be reticent, since if I'm the type, I'll know how to ease into a P.P. situation of my own ... I'll have to think about that!

It's my belief, and I share this with our Pink Professor, that we'll have better bikers bars if we have more Pink Professors. We're aiming for one at each. So if you think you've got what it takes, you don't need to write to me about it, there's no one to call, and no resumes are necessary. Just check out one of the bars in your area, ease in, and make inquiries. If they already have a P.P., he'll greet you and kindly let you know. If they don't, that's the place you can make your home.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Calling The Lady Lawyer

Miscellaneous crap today:

"I need some legal advice and sexual release."
"I'm sorry, sir, my services don't extend that far."
"OK, skip the legal advice."

"Why did Abraham Lincoln ask everyone not to eat?"
"Because he was making the Emaciation Proclamation."
"But it was the Emancipation Proclamation."
"OK, so why'd he ask everyone not to eat?"

I'm so virile I have balls that haven't dropped yet.

The Roto Rooter guy just got married. He finally took the plunge.

5) TAR
Target -- where tar babies shop.

I crapped so much my flush was 'To be continued.'

Look at the butt on this thing!

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Vibratory Essence: The One Who Died

I had troubles with this one. There's all kinds of troubles -- ethical issues that are beyond even my ability to full describe.

But I collected her vibratory essence (or energy) and brought it home and had it on my shelf. What was I going to do with it, except honor her by putting it to good use? I didn't want her to have lived and died in vain; that'd be a royal bummer. So with devotion to Swami Masturbananda, I would honor her...

It's a sad story. Because the fact of the matter is, that somehow unknown to me, the whole process of collecting her essence went horribly wrong. I had seen her sitting in the car in a blue shirt. I thought she was cute. So I sat the jar there next to the car -- then when I went back innocently to retrieve it, I was confronted with the horrifying sight seen in the photo. She was sapped of everything, and all that was left was a mass of indistinct white mush, human shaped, and of course a very nice blue shirt.

I didn't touch a thing at the scene. I just snapped the photo and got my jar and got the heck out of there. Of course she was later found, but so far the paper says there's no leads. I'm just trusting my readers not to mention any of this, and let me express my thanks for that in advance.

The police were reportedly "baffled" right away and threw up their hands. They have no idea what the white mush is, or they're not saying. It's all very baffling. The brought in a psychic. Apparently she discerned an unidentifiable "hot spot" where my jar had been, but beyond that even she's baffled and drawing a blank.

That's where everything stands now. And as long as all of us keep our mouths shut, there's won't be any trouble. And just to make sure none of you talk, remember, I know where you live and I have access to lots of mason jars.

But the bigger issue, what was really bugging me, was what to do with her vibratory essence. I gladly used the essence of the showgirl, essentially gotten in the same way. But she was alive when I last saw her. Since this other woman somehow died, it didn't seem like the same thing. But it wouldn't be a case of necrophilia, technically, because her essence was still very much alive. It's not like I'd be misusing a dead body or whatever the white mush is.

Anyway, whose fault was this? OK, I guess it's mine. Still, did she have to sit there forever? Wouldn't she have noticed she was turning to mush and call 911? Or maybe the essence was just sucked out so fast that she didn't have time. It's a terrible thought, that somehow I'm to blame.

So I've seen her jar on the shelf for the last few days. And I was thinking I needed to get her out of the way -- with the added sadness -- before I could go on and actually enjoy the others. I made my best effort. It seemed like her jar was more fully alive than any of the others. I reasoned, what could be the harm? I'm a lover, not a killer. This wasn't even a killing. I was as surprised as anyone.

Earlier tonight, then, I made a meal and had her jar set there. I showered as before. Then it was time for my devotions. The jar was there at the bed. And of course I was there, albeit in a ongoing depressed way, both mentally ... and physically. Detumescence was the order of the evening, impossible to fight.

It was no use. I needed to do the right thing. So I took her jar outside and unscrewed it, releasing whatever essence there was to the night air. I saw a small white ball of light, a little bigger than a golf ball float out. It floated around me for a few seconds, as if to say, "I forgive you." Then it was tentative in its movements, but it finally floated toward the road. I threw up my hands and cried out, but it was too late. A truck came racing around the corner and accidentally ran over her.

Friday, December 17, 2010

My Date With Her Vibratory Essence -- Not So Hot

I should've written this this morning. I was a lot more positive about it then, even though I was already pretty bummed. But you get a whole day to think about it and to see the remains of the evening, for me it's depressing.

I was psyched last night for my big date with the vibratory essence (energy) of one of the showgirls from the other night. I definitely went all out, setting the mood with a delicious meal of hamburger, canned spinach, and apricots. I had the gift of a blue bra to offer, which looks like it somehow shrunk from yesterday's picture.

We sat on the couch, me and the jar supposedly storing her essence, and watched TV briefly, until I was so overcome with lust that we made a quick trip to the bathroom, for my shower, then to the bedroom. The purpose in all this, remember, is not simply the satisfaction of lust. The purpose is to glimpse the highest consciousness in those climactic eight to 10 seconds that we're granted. I was thinking -- and this should be obvious -- that the vibratory essence of a showgirl would intensify the experience, and perhaps send me into some inner realm presently reserved for the angels. To me, that's possible, and since it's a religious opinion, no one can dispute it (successfully).

I turned the light down low, then I looked intently at the mason jar and I believed it (she) was looking back at me. Our eyes met -- that's my surmise -- then it was time to strip. I stripped, then unscrewed the jar, that her essence might roam freely, and perform its wanton will on me as it would. The little bra fell to the floor, and I never observed the essence wearing it. But I figured, We're naked, and this just saves me the time it'd take to unfasten those tiny little hooks.

I gazed into the jar from the top and besought her with longing eyes, that she'd emerge forth to take me, perhaps again and again. But there was nothing happening. I held the jar to my ear, but I heard nothing except a very light sound of the sea, like you hear in a shell. I peered in again and saw no movement, no fog, no vapor, no apparition, no movement of any kind, not a creature was stirring, not even, thankfully, a mouse.

But not being one to give up easily, I poured what I hoped was this sexy young thang's vital vibratory energy all over me, then, in the Swami Masturbananda tradition, it was a short journey from hither to thither. Finally, I rested from my labors. In those few seconds, eight to 10, I did glimpse something heavenly, something of the greater consciousness, but then it was over. And what I had laying there, cold up against my leg, was an empty jar, and about a foot away, a two piece gold lid.

This is where it gets depressing, because I went so fast from ecstasy to the pits of despair. Not only was it all over, but I suddenly allowed my thoughts on the jars and the vibratory essence to face hard reason. The thought was suddenly inescapable, that I was very much alone, and that the jar had been empty of vibratory energy all along. That, after I'd wasted good money on spinach, apricots, and the little bra...

So where does this leave me? I'll be working through my theories again, factoring in this important experience and what I've learned, trying to see what might be done to rescue the whole works. Because remember, I've still got 23 jars to go. And if they're all empty, I may have a fairly decent time 23 times in a row, but it won't be all I hoped for.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

Her Essence: You're Lookin' Hot Tonight

I've got a hot date tonight. So I've only got enough time to jot down some of the essentials of what's going on. I don't want her to get cold feet.

You're looking at a jar of the vibratory essence of one of the eight showgirls from yesterday. I got the idea from riffing on a teaching of my beloved guru Swami Masturbananda. He of course intensifies his devotions by practicing them where young maidens have recently been, knowing their vibratory essence (or energy) still lingers. My idea builds on that, storing the essence in jars, then using it in the privacy of your own home. Our goal is to glimpse the divine consciousness in these times of great sensory excitement...

I've been thinking about it all day, letting the intensity build. I've got a pantry of about 24 lovers, and I'm sure each one of them is eager to be chosen. But I didn't drag out their suspense; I quickly chose one right from the front. To all appearances, there's nothing in the jar. But I thought I felt at least a little electrical tingling and motion when I took it off the shelf.

I want this to be good for her as well as me. So you can see, I went to the trouble of getting a tiny bra to hang on the jar. Just in case she likes gifts. I'm just hoping it'll fit, since I can't actually see her well enough to judge sizes. Anyway, it might be more or less symbolic, but if I see it fill out and start walking around the room, I'll let you know!

My plans are for a little candlelight dinner here at the house. I'll be frying a hamburger, then we'll have some canned spinach and apricots. After dinner, I might shower, and naturally she'll have a front row seat for that. Then we could sit on the couch and watch a little TV, or, if nothing good's on, we might just call it an evening. One thing is certain, long before we dose off, I'll be unscrewing the lid ... and ... and ... we'll go from there.

Don't worry, I'll be gentle, no hurried pawing. The biggest thing is that we're both comfortable, and that hopefully we still respect one another in the morning. I'm sure everything will come out well in the end, and that in my glimpses of the highest consciousness I'll be that much closer to the divine. In that sense, I intend to make Swami Masturbananda very happy.

Is it just me or does it look like that jar's fogging up? Just a little?

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

I Collect The Vibratory Essence Of Eight Showgirls

I paid a surprise visit to Johnny's Kit Kat Club on the west side of town. That's me in the middle. It's kind of funny, I'm not a celebrity and none of these ladies even knew me. But I went on the reverse psychology principle that if you wear a bathrobe and pajamas, they'll think you're someone. And man, did they gather around!

You can see I took advantage of their momentary confusion to set out mason jars to gather up some of the vibratory essence of these women. At least I hope they're women. Sometimes the Kit Kat Club swings several of the other ways. But whatever, with looks like this, whatever they are, I'll make do! Which one shall I do first? I think I'll go with the blonde.

This is my current thing, riffing off of some of Swami Masturbananda's teachings and practices. If it's true that our vibratory essence or energy lingers after we've gone, then it stands to reason we might collect some of it for storage and later use while we're there. How exactly that should be done, though, is what I don't really know; whether it would take some kind of battery, it'd help to have some scientific input. Barring that, I'm just doing the best I can, with at least a plausible idea that collecting the energy in jars might work.

Then what you do with the energy, of course that's your business. Since I'm a follower of the swami, my own interests lie in seeking better, more sustained ways of glimpsing the divine consciousness. Swami Masturbananda's teaching is different from many other holy men, in that he believes the divine has given us a particular means of reaching the higher consciousness, at least for eight to 10 seconds at a time. I've been giving this a lot of thought, and if, maybe with the jar method we can prolong that time, who knows what other breakthroughs we might make?

So I collected the energy from these showgirls earlier this evening. And other than that, I set jars at various places around town today. Then after I left Johnny's I went and retrieved them.

One place I was today, I saw a cute woman sitting in a car. She had on a blue shirt. I set the jar by her door, then crept away. I figured she'd be gone after a while and no harm would come to her. But I was obviously mistaken, since when I returned to get the jar, this is what I saw in the car, the same blue shirt, but her body apparently nothing but some kind of white mush. She had completely collapsed!

Of course I got the heck out of there! And I'm trusting that no one will report the incident to the police, because they might not understand that I haven't got all the scientific kinks worked out of this method of capturing a person's essence. This is the first time I've ever seen this happen, so perhaps I'll be more careful next time. I'm definitely going to be careful to label that particular jar, because if I took the complete life force out of her, there's no telling what might happen when I open it some night! I wouldn't blame her if she's hard to handle and a little ticked.

But hard to handle's what I like! Because what better to sustain the glimpses of the divine consciousness than having a partner on the warpath! I might have to open the jar just a crack and see what a little bit's like.

Anyway, the more I experiment, the more I'm going to know. And I'm ready to get to it. I need to write up this report for my own records and also in case I'm killed; I'm going to need someone surviving to dispose of these jars, or at least get them to the Swami, because he won't have any trouble with them.

Assuming I survive, I'm thinking along these lines: Mixing different essences for unique experiences and/or for greater intensity. Plus, I'm thinking about putting some kind of "bait" in the jars -- like a diamond or a $20 bill -- to entice the energy to gather in greater quantities. There's all kinds of things that are going through my mind. Again, my purposes are lofty, what we can glimpse right at the heart of existence. And no one can fault someone else's religion.

Friends, it's nearly time for me to retire -- not to sleep, but, well, I'll leave that to your imagination. I'm saving time already, since I'm already in my PJs.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

On Capturing The Essence Of Future Lovers In Jars

Ummmmm! I do like those curves, you sweet thang! If you'd just step out of the shadows and come down off that mudflap where I might see you better, that'd be great ...I can tell you like to get down and dirty ... Just let me get one of these jars open and you can slip in and make yourself more comfortable.

My mind's been racing, and my heart, since coming up with a nice riff on Swami Masturbananda's teaching about air devotions with a person's essence after she or he has departed. You may remember, he sees where the maidens are, then after they're gone, he puts his tent on that spot, giving him very nice relations with their remaining energy.

I was writing about that, and thinking about that, and I came up with the idea of capturing their essence in jars, then taking it home for greater privacy, rather than thrusting and putting on a XXX show out in public. Plus, if you keep a whole pantry of jars, you could be set for a cold winter -- I don't know -- or if you just don't feel like going out. You might take down a jar of "Essence of Cool Redhead" and just stay home.

Of course this isn't exactly Swami Masturbananda's teaching, so it might not be infallible. Next time I see him I'll run it by him. And I know what will happen: If it's something he endorses, everyone will be doing it. As it is for now, though, it's up to me to try it or theorize about it or promote it. I don't really have any big reason to promote it, since I don't have any financial interest in the making or selling of jars. The only reason I might promote it would be to spread happiness among the general public, since I'm sure there's a lot of lonely hearts out there who wouldn't mind a date every night. Men and women, I'm thinking, although I've always had my doubts that women are by nature sexual creatures. In my experience, it seems like most of them would rather knit, crochet, or put on a mudpack, curlers, and go to bed early.

So if I do anything, like usual, it'll have to center in on the experience of men. And jarfuls of the essence of women, gathered or captured here or there, wherever a guy might reasonably do it without interference or trouble. I'm trying to think of where I was the other day, before I had this idea. There was a sweet young thang that went by. You'd probably like to have a whole case of her in jars. And label them, and carefully use up the supply, like 1000 year old wine, a sip every decade or so. You weren't there, but if you had been, you'd probably still be standing there canning essence! And there'd be no reason to boil it 'cause it was hot enough. Although boiling canned food is meant to get rid of bacteria, and I couldn't swear she wouldn't have some of that.

But labeling and stocking and all that, that's part of the theoretical work that I said someone would need to do. Because, frankly, I don't know how long someone's vibratory essence would stay fresh in a jar. Being theoretically very subtle, it could be that it'd evaporate or even go bad quickly. I know it's tricky to store mushrooms, just to name something that's physically present but is also evanescent in certain respects. You need to eat them about as soon as you find them. So, if we determine that a mason jar of essence can't be reliably kept, that'd have ramifications for a lot of this.

I'm going to keep thinking about it. And I'm going to use some of the jars we've got around the house before I buy actual canning jars. The trouble is they might not be as pure, since they've already had food in them. So I might get someone who tastes like peanut butter, or, worse, pickles. Here's a great idea, capture some essence in an old Tabasco bottle. Now that'd be spicy! Even if the bottles or jars are used, it's worth a try, just to get me started.

There's a few ladies who go by with their dogs every morning. So what I'll do, I'll be right around the corner and as soon as they're out of sight, I'll get over to the sidewalk and get what I can. And just hope when I'm pouring it out some lonely night it doesn't turn out that I got their dog mixed in with it. That'd be bad. Think of me in my bathrobe and suddenly a jar of dog essence is peeing on my leg!

What I might do is just leave a few jars around town, like where the cheerleaders hang out, and hope for the best. How, though, I'm going to know precisely what I've got, again, that's going to be a problem. Instead of cheerleaders, some of the football players might seep in, say, if the cheerleaders somehow get the essence of the players on them by the obvious exchange of energy that goes in that kind of symbiotic relationship. Then I'm pouring out a big jar of a sweet rah-rah girl and find myself gang tackled in my own bed! And the last thing I want is my backfield in motion...

So there's some complications to work out. But it definitely sounds like a good idea, at least in theory. You could have jars all over town, but unless they're carefully monitored, it could be disaster at every turn. I just need to have some way of examining the captured essence, otherwise there's no quality controls.

Monday, December 13, 2010

Air Devotions With Swami Masturbananda

What a terrific master! Swami Sri Masturbananda goes to any length to help his chelas (students) realize the divine consciousness.

His whole teaching is a simple one, that each of us has a place in the highest consciousness but we generally fail to realize it. It's technically wrong to call it a place of ecstasy per se, for it is the place where the joy of life simply is. It's our birthright, our existence-right. It's where we always are, but with delusion ... we often don't know it.

So far, so good. That's what most masters teach. But our master takes it one step further. The divine -- the source at the heart of life -- has been gracious, giving us the means to experience the ecstasy, the highest consciousness, in up to 10-12 second glimpses, bypassing possibly a million fruitless incarnations. The awareness is literally here and now!

How this works out for men, most of us chelas can describe the process very easily. How it works out for women, they have some means of doing it which is mostly a mystery to men. Because our experience has mostly been that they're prudes who by and large have shunned our advances. But what we see in the media is different, that they are indeed supposedly very libidinous and can barely be tamed. Presumably in these activities, if indeed there are activities, they are also occasionally glimpsing the presence and joy of the divine.

Whatever women's experiences actually are, of course we know they do us men a lot of good, being one of the two main sources of the mind-stuff at the heart of this devotional activity. We like the wiggle in their walk, and, for some, the giggle in their talk is very nice. And who hasn't glimpsed a group of women bicyclists passing by at times, with the seat perhaps a little high? Even something like this, originating more in a desire for aerodynamics than in fueling some third party's fantasies, can be a very gripping image, one to mentally file away for future reference.

One of Swami Masturbananda's interesting techniques, in my opinion best practiced with as much privacy as you can manage, is to share in the actual essence of the person when they're no longer (apparently) physically present. Are you catching his drift? Everything is energy, and to be where it has recently been concentrated is to share those vibrations. A good term for it would be air devotions. With the imagination, remembrance, and the actual vibrations, it may be second best in certain respects, but it's still pretty good.

What I can describe is what I saw with the master himself in India. A group of giggling maidens went up the side of the mountain to get some laundry that was drying. They where there wiggling and giggling for maybe 10 minutes, folding their underwear and stockings and things. They had the joy of life.

Then they left, and as soon as they did, Master led out a group of students, pitching his little tent right on the spot. In the illustration above, I've made a cutaway version so you can see that he's in there; in actual fact, no man can look upon him in his heat and live. He's there because their essence, in part, is still there. With a few devotional moves -- hips swiveling, pelvic thrusts, etc. -- his air devotions are completed. For the average student doing this, the tent might collapse. For the master, with his greater power, it usually blows up, dissolves, or spontaneously combusts.

Is there any harm or foul to the maidens? None that we know of, although, again, with his greater power, it's technically possible that he has heirs he hasn't yet met. But, hey, we're in a vast, wonderful, swirling creation, and things happen! For the rest of us, air devotions -- whether after a Christmas party or a walk in the park -- are going to have few extraneous results, except possible arrest for indecent exposure. We just have to hope that our society lives up to its great principles of religious freedom.

Addressing that last point, there might be some value in tweaking Masturbananda's techniques, such as carrying a jar with you in public, then capturing some of the essence and taking it home for greater privacy. And of course in that case -- as if I have to tell you! -- you wouldn't need to pack the tent. You wouldn't even need a tent in that case, since you'd be home with your normal bed or bathroom. I don't know, you might even keep jarfuls in a pantry so you're not always having to run out.

Friday, December 10, 2010

I Double The Rage, Beating Santa Fans

Victory! I found the way to pull this thing out of the fire ... I simply refused to take no for an answer...

They thought they were going to bully me into submission? They thought they were going to win the day with death threats and picketing outside my house? Well, maybe next time they'll think again! Because not only did I pull the thing out of the fire, I kicked ___ and took names! Leaving them to slink off, never to rise again!

That felt good ... And it showed the power of one man sufficiently enraged, with the lesson being, I guess, to tap into the power of your rage at just the right moment. Then when it's unleashed, to let it run rampant, taking no prisoners. Maybe it doesn't sound like a formula for success in the civic arena, where footsie and tabling motions is the usual order of the day. But it could be it's just not used enough; people are too reticent to get really mad, not knowing the secret.

I'm going to have to summarize the whole thing for those of you who've been too ___-lazy the last couple days to read my ___n' blog. The idea came to me that we really ought to do some editing on the beloved poem, "Twas The Night Before Christmas." There's several objectionable things in the poem, as it portrays Santa Claus in a way that's unhealthy and undesirable for our children. You could make a case that it encourages obesity, wearing fur, and smoking, just to name a few. I only raised an objection to the latter, merely seeking to remove the verse

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

Then, of course, I was met with protests, a quickly put together sideshow of the stupid American mob full of their usual insults and death threats, driven by the local media putting a false slant on the issue, making it an issue of "Crank vs. Beloved Poem," and even questioning my paternity. The positive difference my cause would make for children was neglected. Well, it came to a head last night in a big meeting of the community. An issue this big doesn't come along everyday, so everyone in town was there.

I was fearful on arriving and seeing the crowds, but then I was immediately encouraged when some of the people wanted my autograph. Seriously. I suddenly realized the value in being a major villain: Everyone secretly loves you! Jesse James, Al Capone, Adolph Hitler, the Khmer Rouge, the Soviet dictators, etc. Can it be just a coincidence that these guys are on the History channel all the time? And just the other day I saw a set of six shot glasses for sale with pictures of the Soviet dictators on them, seriously! I suddenly had the key...

Damn, this is something to work with! This is why the Republicans won the election! People love the bad guy! They just want to see someone blow everything up! They don't really care that I might be trying to save their children, that doesn't matter to them; they just want the bad guy to come in and make a mess.

Right there on the curb, I took some pantywaist's bullhorn from his hand and addressed the mob, telling them to shut the ___ up, that this stinking poem was going down. I shouted they could accept it peacefully or they could go to ___, it made no never mind to me. I next threw the bullhorn to the ground and stomped on it, prompting 10 more people to ask for my autograph.

The meeting was at the library, and it was packed out. And suddenly I had the key to life: Walk in there like you know what you're doing, stand there with your face set like flint, and periodically finger the panel and no one's going to give you any ___. It's all Jesus. It's all Jungian archetypes on display. No one can question mythology. Satan in Milton, cf. Stanley Fish, Surprised By Sin. It all proclaims the power of the villain!

There were several church/librarian ladies on the panel, and of course one of the town's milquetoast leaders as moderator. This poor schmuck is one of the town leaders just because everyone else is too lazy to do it and he likes the attention. My blood boils when I think of him. I've been in meetings he's lead before. He's so hopelessly officious, everything has to be cut and dry from a prior meeting in the backroom. But he shuffles papers and occasionally acts confused to give the illusion that the meeting's conclusions aren't foreordained.

Well, he wasn't expecting this: The place cleared out when I strode to the front and picked up his desk and held it over my head. I stood there and calmly outlined my position about the line in the poem being objectionable because of the bad example (smoking) it sets for our children and future generations. I talked for 15 minutes, the desk fully aloft. I explained that we could do this the easy way or the hard way, and that, frankly, it felt like I was in the mood for a little of both.

The crowd by now was putty in my hands. They knew a 200-pound desk being held high that whole time was an implied threat to the whole system, and that I was likely to do anything to get my way. I was negotiating from a position of strength. In a very calm way, I asked the crowd to push up against the wall, because I didn't want anyone to get hurt. Then in the big open space, I brought that SOBin' desk down, shattering it in a million pieces. I stomped through the debris, pointing my finger in their faces and screamed out a rant that is still echoing in the walls.

I went to the press corps and dressed them down. Then I turned my attention to those who'd really opposed me, the grade school teachers and librarians. I had these old marms and the few pantywaist "men" in that line of work in tears. They blubbered out an admission that they were guilty of shortsightedness. Finally, I pulled the moderator from his chair, getting him in a full nelson with my knee up against his back. I screamed, "Tell them! Tell them!" And he also blubbered out an admission, that he'd never run an honest meeting in his life.

That cinched my case. But I wasn't finished yet. I called for a mob to come together. And we all took the offenders from the room out into the parking lot, the teachers, librarians, the moderator, and the local press. I had a kid get the tar and feathers that I keep in my car. We stripped them all naked, tarred and feathered them, and literally ran them out of town on a rail. They were barely out of town when they were all struck and killed by a train.

Now no one dared oppose me. I led the mob to the east side of town, where we stood outside a notorious whorehouse. The mayor was roused from bed. With his pants and underwear still around his ankles, he signed an official proclamation, by fiat removing the offending verse from "Twas The Night Before Christmas." It's finally done! The children are saved from a life of smoking! And now Santa will live forever!

So, to the rest of you out there, beware when you recite this poem. Because I will be watching and I will be listening. And I will track you down. You don't want to see what I can do when I get really good and mad.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

I'm Afraid Of Death Threats From Santa Fans

It's been a tough couple days around here. I've always known the American citizenry is a sleeping murderous giant, able to rise from its stupor if sufficiently aroused. It doesn't always take much, a few minor kicks to its psychic groin, like 9/11, a Facebook redesign, or the terrible Yogi Bear voice in the new movie. It really can be anything, if the media gets a hold of it and makes it the next biggest thing.

I've been involved in a few close calls, but so far there's always been other more vocal hotheads who step in and take the spotlight, meaning I've been able to remain in obscurity and not get any significant blame. But this time, it looks like they're trying to pin the whole rap on me and me alone. And as far as I can tell, if this is a matter for blame -- I think I deserve a medal -- then I guess this time I'll have to be it.

Thankfully for me, though, so far, it's only a local story, and I'm hoping that's the way it stays. I hope we can resolve this to my satisfaction without too much publicity. Or, I'd like to see some positive signs of progress, then have some other opportunistic guy step in to get the credit and thereby absorb the brunt of the blame as well.

It'd really be too much for me, let's say, to have CNN trucks and the whole media frenzy scene at my humble door. I really don't like criticism as it is ... I only read about half the mail I get on the blog ... I still have notes from my 2nd grade teacher my mom hasn't seen yet, that's how sensitive I am ... so to get it from strangers far and wide, spouting off, comparing me to the other great villains of history would be too much.

And maybe you noticed it before, that anytime some local guy makes the news, it's always accompanied by death threats? Meaning, I guess, that there's plenty of wackos out there who don't realize phone calls can be traced, email leaves a clear digital trail, and, even if you get me, they're doing wonderful things with forensics and you'll never get away with it. Still, in the heat of the moment, anything can happen. The police can't be everywhere. Unlike Sherwin-Williams, Dunkin Donuts doesn't cover the world. And they might be pro-Santa anyway.

They think I'm anti-Santa. That's the spin this thing has taken. That I'm opposed to Christmas, and they're even invoking God, saying God hates me. I know there's some group out there who's so close to God they have the authorized list of everyone He hates. If they get wind of this controversy, all hope will be lost. The bad news for me is that they're clearly attracted to any kind of nasty scuttlebutt.

I don't know how I could've made this any more obvious: I'm not against Santa Claus, tradition, Christmas, or God. All I wanted to do was call for some very minor tinkering with a poem, "Twas The Night Before Christmas," to take out one little reference to Santa smoking a pipe. Is that so huge?

I could almost understand the controversy if the protesters were pipe-smokers or big fans of the pipe. These fanatics really love the pipe and expect everyone else to as well. I'd say they're just babies who haven't given up the pacifier. And before they get upset, just let me say, I myself have smoked a pipe. A few times in the past. The terrible thing, in my opinion, about smoking a pipe is that you waste all day keeping it lit. There's something about a pipe, it can't keep the required mixture of fire and oxygen in its little bowl; it's self-snuffing, the most suicidal form of smoking.

But my cause, if that's what you want to call it, has a very small goal but with some very major benefits. If we can protect untold generations of children from this line in the poem,

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

just think of the positive difference that might come from that. Face it, those not yet born, but who definitely will be born, will also grow up hearing this poem. But the big difference is they won't know the difference if this line is missing. And, look, we're talking about a virtual infinity of new generations coming along. Let's just think of the next million generations; this poem is going to outlive us all, especially the ones who started smoking thanks to Santa's bad example. In that million generations, if we can stop just one child from smoking -- let's say he's a little guy a couple hundred thousand years from now -- wouldn't it be well worth it? I believe so.

When it happens, they'll interview him and he'll give all the credit to there being something about this poem that he can't put his finger on, but whatever it is, he'll say, he definitely felt no desire to start smoking. Crowds will erupt in glory, young women will name their children after me, and college freshmen will spend the whole day in their dorm, privately celebrating.

Of course, the trick is negotiating my way through the thicket at hand to the clearance ahead, from the darkness to the sunshine. And I'm looking for some other guy to step in to take the credit. Because, at least till Christmas is come and gone this year, I'm very afraid I'm going to be getting death threats from die hard Santa fans. Well, I've got to go. Sunrise is at hand, and that's about the time they always get up.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Battling "Twas The Night Before Christmas"

I've been involved in a pitched battle against the poem "Twas The Night Before Christmas." My goal is to see it removed from circulation, or barring that, to get it out of the reach of children.

Maybe you saw the article in the Daily News yesterday, "Local Man Objects To Beloved Poem." The way they slanted the story, it sounds like I'm some kind of crank. And I'm thinking the lack of public support I'm getting so far is mostly owed to that. It's only been a couple days and so far it's been a lonely battle.

Of course I think my objections to this "beloved poem" are entirely just. And anyway, isn't this supposed to be a land where we respect one another's right to "air grievances"? If I could just get a fair hearing without people prejudging who's right and who's wrong, then I'm sure I'd come out with the long end of the stick.

My basic objection to this "beloved poem" is the line that, I believe, glorifies smoking, presenting some very harmful imagery for our children to be reading or hearing:

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

Essentially, if they'd agree to excise that one little verse, I'd be happy. I mean, I see objectionable content throughout the poem, but I'm willing to pull back on some of the other things. It's just that I don't think smoking is healthy for children or other living things, like war. How many deaths do they attribute to smoking? I don't know, but I know it's a high number. And how many smokers were influenced to start smoking because of the bad example of a beloved character, Santa Claus, as portrayed in this poem? It has to be a lot!

Anyone looking at the poem can see the line doesn't really fit anyway. The line right before this one says, "And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow." How would you reconcile that with a guy having a stump of a pipe held tight in his teeth, with smoke encircling his head like a wreath?" Assuming this wasn't the first time he'd smoked, which would be ridiculous, his beard wouldn't be white as snow, but instead would be brown not only from the smoke but from spit from his mouth darkened by tobacco use. And with smoke encircling your head like a wreath, naturally that means discoloration of the beard, the teeth, and even the walls around you.

So if you take the objectionable line out, it would go from the part about the white beard to the part about his broad face and round belly. No one would even miss it! And yet there it sets, year after year, and even century after century. By the way, to note his round belly might contribute to obesity among our youth, but I'm willing to overlook that. I'm not even going to get into the other things I object to, since it would take away my focus. But start thinking about some of this language: "The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow..." It really could've been more family-friendly. I mean, I'm not Dobson, but some things are truly objectionable.

Really, I shouldn't be alone in this. I've heard how others have taken up the anti-smoking banner, and have even been successful in getting certain things shelved, like old cartoons where various characters are smoking. And I haven't heard anyone calling them cranks. It all depends on what you're against, what you feel like shelving. I even heard that Bob Barker somehow had the veto on old episodes of "The Price Is Right" where they gave away fur coats. They can't show those episodes now thanks to that! Because suddenly fur is on everyone's $#!+ list. Well, Bob Barker would surely object to this line from our "beloved poem":

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

Personally, I don't care about the issue of fur. Animals that are already dead don't need it anyway. And if we eat their meat, what's wrong with using their fur? You could argue that their meat is more essential to their survival than their fur, although I know both things are essential. But if you're missing your meat, you definitely don't need your fur. Plus, if even Santa Claus himself wears fur, there can't be anything too bad about it.

So please, give me a break. I'm only pitching in to do my part on something that most people would probably agree to anyway, if it weren't such a "beloved poem," a thing of tradition in question. That said, I don't deserve to be called a crank. And I don't deserve anyone's personal scorn. In fact, the lives I save may be those very people's children. Think about it, if I can keep one little child safe -- just one little child -- then it will be well worth the price of everyone's scorn.

The poem, I'll admit, is a great one. But it doesn't need this one objectionable stanza to be great. It would be better without it, in my opinion.

If you agree with me, and I'm hoping that there will be groundswell of support, of course, please start a petition in your area, and present it to the proper authorities, libraries, teachers, the Christmas Club at your bank, Santa's helpers at the mall, and others of your choosing.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

The Pink Professor A Baton Twirler

You might remember an acquaintance of mine. I've written about him a few times. He's a guy they call the Pink Professor, and he really stands out at the Roadhog Roadhouse, a bikers' bar he frequents. You might think they bully him something fierce, but they don't. That was their inclination at first, but it turned out he was fairly quickly accepted and was completely incorporated into the Roadhog family.

He showed them by the strength and quality of his character that he was OK. And that doesn't just go for Pink Professor types, because everyone who's accepted into the Roadhog family has to prove the same thing. For all their rough exterior and seeming devil-may-care attitude, bikers are (not too deep down) people of great sensitivity, tradition, and quality. I know because I've been there too, and am getting close to them, and will probably also be accepted.

You can look up some of my other posts with the tag "Pink-Professor" to see some of the background there, and what it's like at the Roadhouse. Basically, the Pink Professor is a very open and caring and helpful person, stepping in even when the others might think they're too busy to help someone. I seem to remember writing about him teaching some new folks about playing pool. That's the kind of guy he is.

It does my heart a lot of good to see the way things go for him. Because I'm also a kind of bleeding heart, wanting the best in human relationships, regardless of the differences that might otherwise separate us. And some people really stand out, especially at first, before you get to know them, but then when you get to know them, they're people just like anyone else. It helps, I believe, if you wear your sensitivity on your sleeve, like the P.P. does, or like I do, for that matter.

The P.P. will console you if you're down. That's the kind of guy he is. Or he'll give you a playful slug on the arm and playfully scold you if he knows you can take it. I do that too, like with my dog Underbrush. I've got her trained to love -- to absolutely love -- playful scolding and playful threats such as, "I'm gonna get you!" and "You're meat, dead meat!" The P.P. might say to one of his trusted confidantes out there, "Your bike sucks." And whereas the guy would likely kick the crap out of anyone else who said that, to the P.P. he just mimics a slow motion slug to the face, with the P.P. backing up like he's mortally wounded! It's beautiful!

I was out at the Roadhog the other night. Just between you and me, I'm trying to gain acceptance into their circle as well. I want to ascend, you might say, at least to the plateau of being able to tell a biker, playfully of course, that his bike sucks. Then, who knows, maybe I'll be on the receiving end of a slow motion slug. I love doing that kind of stuff with those who know me best -- then "making up" with the darkest beer the bar serves, which usually turns out to be a super expensive bottle of Guinness. But it's just money and you only live once.

Anyway, I was out at the Roadhog the other night, sitting in a booth with the Pink Professor and I kept watching his hand, my watching not apparently noticed by him. He kept twitching and moving his fingers, apparently in rhythm to the music on the jukebox, but almost like he was practicing something, like he had a family-friendly activity in mind that had something to do with his hand. If it had been the other thing, I would've turned my head and given the guy his space. I mean, I've been around, I know what goes on. After all, I'm a disciple of the Indian guru Swami Masturbananda, so I'm not naive. But this hand movement wasn't that.

I thought (99%) that I recognized the gestures. So, after a while, I decided just to be bold and ask him what was going on. One reason, I know he loves it when people ask him what's going on. Because that gives him a chance to shine, to let his beautiful personality play itself out. He got a big grin on his face, almost a guilty grin, almost as if to say, "You caught me! You're too good!" I shrugged my shoulders, as if to say, "You're under constant surveillance, my friend. After all, you've got a reputation!" He shot back a steady look, looking right into my eyes and wouldn't break the stare, as if to say, "Are you sure you can keep up with me?" But I returned the stare, as if to say, "I'll do anything that you do!" Finally, he laughed and waved me off, as if to say, "I surrender," even waving a pretend white flag.

When the chuckles died down, he said, "You're wondering about the hand movements..." I nodded in agreement, for that was exactly what had caught my attention. I didn't let on that I already knew (99%). He said it went way back, to the time he was a kid, to the first group of roughnecks (some of the town boys) he hung out with. Of course they weren't really roughnecks, but that's how they fancied themselves. They'd walk around town looking tough. But they had a very youthful (future) Pink Professor to keep them softened up. ("Back then I wasn't a Pink Professor, just a regular pink kid.") And how would he do this? By pretending he was the group's baton twirler!

Whether it was a stick, a branch from a tree, or just a pretend baton, the group would be walking along and he would veer off into the passing lane and advance to the front, twirling his "baton." The boss of the group -- some kid, and his underlings -- would feel fairly embarrassed about it, but then, like the way it is with roughnecks everywhere, after a while they'd see it as a thing of pride to have their own baton twirler! I nodded in wonderment, for I too was the baton twirler in my own little circle of roughneck boys! And I told him so!

The P.P. reached his hand across the table and shook mine. We really had something in common. I don't know, maybe every little town had a dozen or so baton twirlers. But I was the only one I ever knew about at the time. I had an insulated life and we baton twirlers didn't communicate even from town to town. I just came up with it on my own, thinking, "We need a baton twirler." My best move was to throw the baton up (pretend) 100 feet in the air and wait for it to come down!

I asked the Pink Professor, "What do you think?," then I gestured around the room. This was one thing he hadn't tried -- to be the baton twirler among the Roadhog clientele. They might think it too childish. But I don't know ... maybe if you approached it right, and maybe just started twirling a pool cue for a few seconds over by the jukebox, then a couple minutes over by the bar, then five or 10 minutes over by the pool table, it wouldn't take long before they'd have him twirling something every night.

But the thing is, he doesn't actually know how to twirl a baton (and neither do I, alas, just the air baton). We pretended we were doing it so much, we never really learned how to do it. Speaking now just for myself, I never even owned a baton ... and it's one of the biggest regrets of my life.

Note: If you too were the baton twirling boy in your group of friends, please write about it in my comments.