The Pink Professor -- How Much More?

Whatever happened to The Pink Professor? That's the Number One question I get, and on a daily basis. At the grocery store, swimming pool, Tupperware parties, garage sales, talking with homeless friends under the bridge in the Big City, and really everywhere. And if someone asks me in daily life, I just tell them. But on the blog it has to be different. Because he told me he’d rather I wasn't spreading his personal business online. Of course, him being him, he said it in a nice way, but me being me, I find the nasty edge of every “friendly request.” You don’t call something a “friendly request” unless you know damn-well there’s nasty ways I can take it. But I can never stay mad at him...

Anyway, I told him the problem I face -- insatiable public curiosity -- and he gave me leeway to say a few things about what he’s up to. Even though he doesn’t want anything down and dirty, anything resembling the full scoop, any relationship dishing, which probably includes pillow talk. (He's into tickling me till I about pee my jammas to make me tell him everything on my mind.) So are you game for something boring, his favorite party recipes, and aspirations as a child?

He probably always had his sights on being a professor. Smart kids like him, they know what they want to be. I'm still flailing about in that area. Now 65, I retired from odd jobs, all boring. He recently retired from the university, but kept his nighttime gig as the Pink Professor figure at the Roadhouse; his great virtue is he's a softening influence in such tough environs. His favorite party recipe: nachos and salsa, heated 23 seconds in the microwave.

As far as our relationship, we're OK. And I want to keep it that way, going out of my way to keep his personal business personal. But again, I can say a few things without being too invasive, like the fact that he wears baby-soft PJs to bed, but prefers me au naturel.

But let me bring this back to his work: it's no secret that he's a great reconciler, like when two morons are fighting over scoring a game of pool. Pink always soothes the troubled waters; he's a bridge over them. When I'm around, I serve as a complement to him, with my ability to cast insults with reckless abandon and eschew the bitter consequences of my actions. Then he does his soft-shoe thing again and everyone can see how mellow he truly is. In our personal time, though, once I've had my fill of the Eskimo-nose cuteness, I bust.

One of the things that pushes me over the edge is him allowing himself to be used by these Roadhouse creatures. I get that he has a mission, but everyone needs their space. And if it takes a person — a do-gooder without an off button — till the middle of the night to reconcile the divvying up of a bushel of bar peanuts in the shell, who am I to bitch and moan? I’ve heard (and don’t hold me to this) that other people keep more regular hours, with the wee hours of the morning pretty much to themselves. They’re not on the hook for calls to negotiate the terms of a flagrant motorcycle absconder making restitution or other legal arrangements to get out of eight months in jail when it’d probably be to their ultimate benefit to actually do a little time; it'd teach them a lesson, that you do the crime, you also have to do ... whatever-it-is...

Because the rest of us have a life, too. Most of us grew up respecting the generous boundaries of the law. And if you don’t feel like doing that, then don’t expect the rest of us to be there round-the-clock to bail your sorry ass out, thereby curtailing our lives together — when maybe we had other plans, ever heard of that? And what if we simply don’t want to be wasting our time with the dregs of so-called humanity that wouldn’t have two brain cells to rub together were Einstein himself their nursemaid. Spare me, folks, the pleas of "Humanity!" That went down with the Hindenburg, and the less I hear of it in these modern times -- possibly the end of days -- the better.

Yes, I reached the boiling point a long time ago! And now I say, How Much More?! Leave the Pink Professor alone! In fact -- let me put this out there! -- if I hear of just one more motorcycle loser cracking peanuts in the crook of his arm, then stealing someone’s woman because of this great bar trick, then having his own noggin cracked open in the ensuing melee, then needing a 24-7 nursemaid for his precious care lest he bleed to death or find himself in unremitting convulsions — Call Pink Professor Hand-Holding Unlimited day or night — I will scream, then find myself on an interminable stampede, stomping heads in a certain all night bar and grill! You don’t think I know how to knock heads, do you? Well, you try me -- you heard me, just try me! I start stomping, I don't quit! Because I've had it. I’m up to here with it, and according to sources, I’m liable to snap. That's right, you heard me, losers: I'm this close -- you see this? -- you see what I am? Just that close! This old ME! ME! ME! shit's gotta cease...

Frankly, friends, I believe the Pink Professor is overworked. But I’m sure it'll all work out in some way for the best. 

The Pink Professor -- Rabble At The Door

Don't you just despise the rabble of mankind? Yes, yes, thank you, me, too; they can be the worst! And it seems like it always goes something like this: A benevolent patron blesses their lives a few times, then they get spoiled, then he's out of sight for a while, and when they find him, they're right back, clamoring, begging for favors.

It's so awful because the Pink Professor lives his life for service. He really does. That's one of the things that drove us sort-of halfway apart. He has a hard time staying home. The guys at the Roadhog Roadhouse always need him. Most of the time they want to burden him with their halfwit problems, like how to scrounge up enough dough to drink themselves into a stupor, or worse, women problems. It’s pathetic that that's such a problem for these guys; those women are robbing you blind; stay sober and you might notice it!

Pink and I were out for Thanksgiving and there the rabble was. We dropped by DQ for a taste of their divine ice milk creations and there they were. And later we were at his pad/compound for a little R&R and catching up, and, damned right, there they were. In honor of Thanksgiving, get a life, turkeys!

Pink and I tried to stay in good humor as they pounded at the doors and windows, clamoring for his attention. Which got old fast. The rattling of the gates, the pitchforks, the burning torches. We get the point! You have needs! Still, we tried to cuddle and take in some well-deserved "me time," till finally I erupted, “If I hear one more of those awful bar and grill creatures shouting ‘PINK PROFESSOR!’, I’m liable to explode! And I don’t mean in a good way!...”

Maybe my crying out toned them down. The racket died down. But most of them had retired to the park across the street to strategize. When Pink said, “Could I ask you a professional question, not on the clock?”

ME: “Shoot, darling ... anything.” PP: “As the King of Group Dynamics, what do you think is the best way to fend off a clamoring mob?” This brought me to a whole different mindset. Involving the many nuances contained in my Three R's of Group Dynamics: aRrange, Reconnoiter, and Ruminate.

ME: “Hmm. My mind’s still a little flush after ... our exertions ... but let me think, darling. Well, the verdict is not 100% bad, but damn near. Let’s apply the 3 R’s of Group Dynamics. It’s tough to (1) aRrange, because we’re locked in the compound — albeit cuddled up snugly in this warm bed, a feather bed if the sensors of my nude supple body have kept their suppleness, and at 65 and half dead that’s not a given... We also have limits aRranging, because they’re a mad clamoring mob, different from my controlled seminars. We can do (2) Reconnoitering well enough, within limits, patching into the compound’s video system, also outfitted with a live audio feed, giving us the ability to both see and hear, with the luxury of not needing the encumbrance of clothing or the inconvenience of climbing out of this comfy, sumptuous bed. And, naturally, (3) Ruminating follows easily enough. What are they saying? What is their tone? How sharp are those mattocks they’re waving? Should we release the hounds? By the way, you fed the dogs last night? Right?

Pink jumped up and ran to the pen where the dogs were — some vicious breed, the exact name of which I forget, but they might be related to rabid dingoes (dingoes aren’t susceptible to rabies, but with reverse engineering, some natural immunities are overcome.) As PP hied it out of that warm moist bed, I thought of the Tom Jones album, What was it, “If You Got ‘Em, Swing ‘Em”? "Hung Like Iron?" "All Pendulum, No Clock?” Let me Google it, oh yeah, “The Lead and How to Swing It.” Take your pick, it’s all verrrry good, dahling.

He came back with a guilty look of responsibility on his finely chiseled face, practically a rock jaw in motion, pleasant to a fault. “I slipped on the pee mop [used for the dingo creatures] and hit the switch, and the dogs lunged through the aperture, the swinging door, and ... and ...” I waited, afraid for what he might say, “and we won’t need dog food for a while.” Great news all around!

I brought us back to our conversation on Group Dynamics. "In this case, our aRranging took care of the problem, however brief the respite may be." Because having that particular breed of animal running the streets en masse could have further consequences. But let's say they ran for the country, hunters will get them. I certainly wasn't going out to Reconnoiter them, I Ruminated.

The compound back on lock-down, we locked-down ... in the chamber of privacy ... a feather bed whose origin was surely a serious blow to numerous bird species ... And pulled the curtains ... tightly ... around that bed of wonders ... And that’s all she wrote, all she dared share when putting quill to parchment.

The Pink Professor -- The Importance Of Shaking Hands

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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