Even Old Maude's Happy for Us

Our happy ending hasn't ended yet. We've got a few more days of April and we're going to milk it for all it's worth. Anytime anyone's happy, that's what you should do, because sadness, heartache, and pain are looming in the future for all of us. But today we eat, drink, and be merry! Let's live it up in April, and ... let May take care of itself.

We pulled the blimp into the new blimp port on the west side of town, just north of my $20 million personal library. Townspeople were all around to welcome us back. There were huge cheers for the billionaire, bigger cheers for me, more subdued cheers for almost everyone else, then extremely huge cheers for The Pink Professor. He'd been gone so long, they couldn't help themselves.

Construction teams had erected bleachers and a platform so we could address the folks about our splendid journey to San Francisco. For my part, I read verbatim my blog posts for the last few days. There were lots of oooos and ahhhhs in the crowd and excitement was at a fever pitch, particularly on some of the more harrowing accounts, like when I had to climb up the blimp ladder backwards like a crawdad.

We then were off for a gala whirlwind reception at the downtown coffee shop. The shop belonging to the billionaire, the employees were glad to see him return in one piece, so they'd get their checks. Next we went to Patsy's Steakhouse, also owned by the billionaire. The steaks were great, and, like the coffee shop, there was real relief that the boss was safely back and able to pass out checks. Finally, toward mid-afternoon we were at the Roadhog Roadhouse, which, I believe, either I or the billionaire owns. (I just checked, and I personally am the owner of the Roadhog, according to the post, "The Bikers Bar Is Now Mine." The fact is, when you're a billionaire it's very hard to keep track of what you own.) The employees there were glad to see both of us, but it seemed like they assumed the billionaire owned it. That's OK with me, I've a forgiving guy; I wouldn't forget their paychecks over such an understandable slight.)

The Pink Professor, who worked at the Roadhog for several years, before his disappearance to San Francisco, got the biggest reception. The place erupted when I raised his hand in victory and we kissed. A few others came in from the back court and we had to repeat the scene. The place erupted again. Then a few stragglers, who'd been in the bathroom, came out and we had to repeat it again. Three kisses, three grand ovations! Then I started going, "Where the hell's old Maude?"

One of the cooks confides in me .... he didn't think Maude was all that cool about public displays of affection .... of a certain sort. I thought, "Oh, I get it."

Let me say something important here. The whole story this month, I've been told, hasn't had very many female characters or interaction. Yes, I mentioned my mother once or twice, and there was Patsy from the steakhouse. But by and large, it's true, it's been male-dominated. And while old Maude can't make up entirely for that lapse, certainly she's better than nothing. So we're going to bring her out, and put her on the spot, and see if we can bring her around to celebrate our love.

The whole place joined me in chanting, "Maude! Maude! Maude! Maude!" Finally, out she comes, and the place erupted. She was wiping her hands. "Yeah?" she deadpanned. I looked at her, as if to say, You're our treasure. She came over, then sensing The Pink Professor and I were about to kiss, leaned forward and we both "accidentally" kissed Maude's cheek instead.

Old Maude brought the place down when she wisecracked, "See, you two can kiss girls!"

Arrival! The Name of the Game

This whole thing, I could've set it to ABBA music, like Mamma Mia.

I recently got the box set of their CDs, and I'm in tears with almost every song -- as Agnetha, Björn, Benny, and Anni-Frid recall the various incidents in my life. My birth, "Take a Chance on Me." School: "On and On and On." The years of acne: "I Saw It in the Mirror." Adulthood: "Should I Laugh or Cry." And, of course, when I first met The Pink Professor: "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)." But in this present adventure, I've cued up one very special track...

The blimp's sound system blares forth the song "SOS" as we pass the mixmaster/tangle outside San Francisco, where I lost a piece of my soul in 1975, which in recent years drew The Pink Professor to it. So, yes! he's down there ... somewhere! We pass with searchlights invading, scattering about, and scouring the area, with our ladder dangling free in the breeze.

I can see a large group assembling, coming up from under the bridge, one by one, two by two, and others, with some going back down. Apparently underlings or students or devotees, certainly strays taken in by The Pink Professor, whose drive to nurture and mold character is strong wherever he goes. I can't wait to be with him again!

Our glad reunion is delayed, though, because turning the blimp around is not an easy thing to accomplish. I swear, we're about halfway to Hawaii before we've turned it around for a second pass. They might've prevented Pearl Harbor with nothing more than a blimp in the bay area on cruise control. We come back for another pass, and some of the underlings are once again out, but different ones. Then, in the long process of turning around again, I see the lights of Reno. Finally, we're back for another precious pass, and this time I behold the majestic figure of The Pink Professor, standing there tall, but waving us off, "No! No! Go away!"

I say to myself, "God bless him! He's so dedicated to his work, he's willing to sacrifice his own happiness." Out to sea we go again, back to the Hawaii area, with the Arizona memorial looking as beautiful as it did that first infamous day in 1941. Then we're back for another pass, but this time I've worked my way down the ladder and am hanging by my legs.

Maybe he actually wanted to stay there, but in an impulsive act, seeing my love was very thick -- thick as thieves -- the Pink Professor grabbed my arms and I managed to hold him as we passed Oakland. I have to confess, "Slipping Through My Fingers" ran through my fearful mind. But with an extraordinary effort he shimmied up my body and started up the ladder. Those on the massive vessel cheered us on. I, however, couldn't get myself turned around, so I was left with one dire option, to climb up backwards, like a crawdad.

Sounds impossible, I know, but they kept playing "SOS" and it gave me strength:

"When you're gone, though I try how can I carry on?"

I love the driving guitar on that part; it gives me moves like Jagger. I'm telling myself, The love of your life is directly above you, climb with all your might, just as the crawdad makes his way under his rock, be it easy, be it hard. It's true, crawdads don't take days off. And like the post office, they simply aren't put off by the elements.

We docked for the night at the Transamerica Pyramid Center. If you know anything about San Francisco, it's a big building that tapers to a point, hence the name.

Mental Parasitism - Phoenix

I had escaped, clinging to the helicopter. But could I really leave my own forces -- all newbies -- to the treacherous ladies Auxiliary? The pilot insisted on this, convincing me after four hours of the most intense scolding I've ever received. So back up we went, me once again clinging to the skid, and he dropped me off on top of the building.

(I shall not belabor the heroics, since my desire today is to get to my trip to Phoenix and everything I can fit in about that.)

The forces of my now-defunct new Institute of Mental Parasitism were rallied in the break room, liberating the remaining donuts from the women. I was just about to lay out a plan of action when the door burst open, and there she was -- Mrs. X! -- every bit the villainess I despised. I hated her, knowing it would either be her or me leading this Institute.

Our eyes locked. I knew this would be mental parasitism to the death, or till I left for Phoenix. I gave it my all, bringing her to her knees. But with her husband's power adding to her own, she rallied and brought me to my knees. I thought I was a goner till I rallied, mentally pushing her back on her ass with a thud. I saw desperation in her eyes, quickly replaced by a new determination. She mentally pushed me to my ass, our eyes still locked. I felt myself being completely drained, but fought back, shooting daggers. Her own daggers, however, alas, were sharper and I was propelled back, crashing against the wall.

My brave forces dashed in and dragged me away. And so, all was lost. The pilot cradled me like Michelangelo's Pietà, then we got the hell out of there. Mrs. X shouted, "I'll get you if I have to search a million years!"

Since then I've managed to make it pretty far, hitchhiking to Phoenix. Right away I got a ride with an old farmer who said, "Ahm only goin' up the road a mile, but I can getcha that fur, n'yuk n'yuk." Desperate times and all, I put him in my mental grasp and he ended up driving me the whole way. My grasp was so great he offered not one word of complaint.

Along the way we saw all kinds of cool stuff, motels, people, restaurants, cacti, and even a goat chewing lazily in the ditch. It wasn't tied up or anything. I saw things I haven't seen in years. This one gas station had gas at 27.9 cents a gallon. It was so cheap we filled up twice.

Now, concerning Phoenix, that's a tough word to spell, believing as I do that the "oe" was probably originally a diphthong. I need to Google it. Or find a librarian to put under my mental parasitism spell, so I'd never have to Google anything ever again. Bleh...

Let me be brutally honest, enough pretending. Friends, I'm desperate. I'm so f'in' far from home I may never get back. Mrs. X said she'd hunt me a million years! The old Institute kept the women under their thumb for so long, and even I, the original feminist male, didn't promise or show any intentions of bettering their lot. I admit, I was content to be served, with the fantastic rolls and other goodies they were known to bring in. This one old gal -- probably fishing for a husband -- made those giant cinnamon rolls, enough gooey frosting and pecans to choke on, and all she ever got was an occasional thank you. I remember nodding her direction indifferently. If she gets her sticky hands on me, I'm done!

Gotta keep running... The old Institute has arisen from the ashes, like the Phoenix I'm in. But I'm getting so tired, exhausted, and mentally empty, that even were I to find a likely host in this library, I don't know if I could manage the feeblest eye lock. A mere child might turn it around on me and have me in his grasp! Then I'd be reduced to the babbling of an 8-year-old, goo-goo'ing to the librarian about, "Whe be the Mary Poppin book, eh?" 8-year-old dialect...

On the other hand, what a terrific subterfuge that would be. Find a kid, teach him a few quick pointers on mental parasitism -- Mr. X accomplished it with his shrew -- and have him put me in his mental grasp, then when the Auxiliary catches me, they'll see I've hopelessly devolved and leave me alone.

If I could break free of the kid, then, I could roam these Arizona streets, hoping for the return of my own superior mentality. Then I'd change my name, get all the usual fake ID, and start a new life. Till then, when and if I find him, I'll be living in his closet like ET.

THE END

Weather Fun -- Rainchasing

I know you can't tell it, but I wouldn't lie to you: I'm not at home right now, but I'm out in the field. Stormchasing!

I'm accompanying a friend, going cross-country, learning about stormchasing, and even helping him with some of the routine tasks. Like charting our findings and experiences. I had no idea guys even did this, but it's lots of fun.

It's not entirely as dangerous as some of the stormchasing you hear about on TV, for which I'm thankful. But there's still some danger even when you're chasing rain. Watching for it, then going right into the eye of the storm, you can get plenty wet. And anything could happen ... for one, you might slip in the mud.

We started out today -- and now we're about 100 miles from home -- looking on internet weather sites, then buzzing over where the orange and red were the most intense. According to the map's legend, those are the places with the biggest rain traffic. More water than you can shake a stick at!

I have to say, I really like the accuracy of these internet maps, because we found rain most of the time. And the times we didn't, we got the sworn testimony of others there that it had rained, as well as the evidence of soaked soil and pavement we could see. The times we were there for the rain we filled a babyfood jar with it, giving us all the proof we need that we personally witnessed it.

OK, I'm a newbie, so forgive my excitement. But I was really thrilled when I experienced for myself rain the first time. We were only about 50 miles from home, so you can be that close and get rain. The map showed a red spot probably five miles in diameter. My friend spoke with all the confidence in the world: "We will run right smack into it!" I crossed my fingers for luck and he hit the gas. Within 10 minutes, there we were, with rain coming down in sheets. A thing of beauty. I noted it as follows in my journal: "I'm out here, and this is definitely rain!"

I got out and in addition to getting extremely wet I got some pretty good firsthand data. Preliminary measurements indicated the rain intensity was in the "buckets" range. Of course we will review the data later, but I think it will hold up. I haven't been that wet in a long time, actually since the last time I went swimming. The big difference then was the water was completely horizontal and in a pool, and here it was vertical, coming from the sky.

That was a thrill. But there's another thrill, which comes from having uncertainty. It might even be more fun, because anyone can see a red spot on a map and know it's rain. The real fun is to be had when you're not sure you're going to get rain. That's because you're working off past memories, and even your gut. You don't see rain, it looks negligible on the map, but you "feel" it might still be there. 

This is where my friend's years of rainchasing trumped any experience I had, which wasn't much. He found a couple of negligible spots on the map, printed a hard copy, and took out a compass, protractor, and three darts. He drew a few circles, then studied the various angles between them, and put the paper on his car, stepped back and threw the darts. One dart hit the map in a promising place. The other two hit the rear tire, meaning there was a short delay before we could leave.

Once the tire was changed, by now the data was out of date, but thanks to the magic of science, and the various histrionics my friend went through with the compass, etc. -- extrapolation -- when we got there, we weren't disappointed. We were just in time for a few sprinkles. I put my hand up and personally attest that I felt definite drops. Water from the sky, it's a strange thing when you really stop and consider it. It varies from lots to not much.

Along the way, I acquired some other good proof -- proof is always needed later when you're bragging with other rainchasers. I got some great pictures of various puddles, water standing in fields, gullies that were newly washed, and the flat tire, mud-splattered on the side of the road.

Just to anticipate what I know you'd say to me, yes, we are staying safe. Safety is always job number one. We haven't forgotten, rainchasing is exhilarating but also very dangerous. It's exactly like I heard as a kid, you can drown in a teaspoon of water, if you hold it just so and breathe with all your might. But we took certain precautions for safety sake: We generally used an umbrella, and we left the teaspoon at home.