We Join Ourselves in Holy Matrimony

We have the world's greatest treat for you, as we near the end of this story. Which, as a story, now actually promises to go on and on, however many years of life we are granted, not just for The Pink Professor and me, but for our second happy couple, bubbling over for having finally discovered one another, the billionaire and Garrett Al (aka Geritol and Jor-el).

Old Maude, our kitchen help at the Roadhog Roadhouse was pure gold and true to her word, "With you guys' billions and my brains, we'll have the greatest double wedding this happy burg's ever seen!" Which was really saying something, because she's been around a long time. The historical society/museum has her out for special events, to share firsthand memories of the settlers who stole this land fair and square and proceeded to civilize it. (We made her the figurehead in charge, while the billionaire's people actually handled the massive arrangements.)

Festivities started at the courthouse, with Pink and I, and the billionaire and Geritol, holding up our marriage licenses for photographers and well-wishers. Next, we took our places in matching gold limousine convertibles, and with 100 motorcycles flanking us, biker friends from the bar, made our way slowly through town to the Roadhog Roadhouse. Workers, of course under Old Maude's supervision (wink wink), had the place so decked in flowers and ribbons, the breeze coming through made it like an optical illusion, the entire place in beautiful motion.

The official wedding ceremonies were quiet, traditional, and dignified. The billionaire and Jor-el took traditional vows. Garrett Al and I go way back, and as I watched him, I thought back to the early days, when he essentially molested me in my own yard. I was freaked out, but Geritol proved himself the truest friend in the years since, especially after he took on an extra-cosmic consciousness and began channeling (and identifying) with Jor-el, Superman's father on Krypton. The stories he can tell! And now here he is, a brand new wonderful chapter in his life, becoming the billionaire's husband. I'm very emotional -- this is true -- I had a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit and of course "something in my eye."

For Pink and myself, some of our extended biker family have various kids here and there around the county and neighboring areas, so a bunch of them were with us, walking slowly and dropping pink rose petals. The bikers were extremely proud. Then Pink, accompanied by his mother, and I, carrying my dog Roughage, my other best friend, proceeded down the aisle. We veered off, his mom standing proudly to the side, and Roughage was well-behaved while working over a bowl of beef jerky, and the minister reappeared.

We're two guys who wear our sensitivity on our sleeve, so naturally we wrote our own vows. They're kind of mushy, so I won't give them in full. But remember, Pink went to San Francisco and nurtured a group of street people underground for four years, inspiring them by his presence and only 7% of my soul, so his vows centered on the theme of 100% and completion. For my vows, I remembered back to the time a guy showed up at the Roadhog with a 14-piece pool cue, and how we avoided huge trouble thanks to The Pink Professor. My point got a little mixed up -- I couldn't remember if the guy started with the tip and worked down or the handle and worked up. But I worked it out in the end when I looked Pink in the eyes and said, "Life's like that 14-piece pool cue, sometimes the pieces come together just right. And that's our life together."

The schmaltz over, the rings, the kissing, and the rice, we all retired to the courtyard, where there were beer nuts and bar pickles in vast quantities. The billionaire had also spent a cool $6 million to bring in the professional roadshow of "Grease." When the troupe did an encore of "You're the One That I Want" and "We Go Together," the wedding party and all the guests were up, everyone shaking their respective booties, totally working it out.

Old Maude and I also got down for a while. She can dance! I congratulated her on a job well done.

The Bikers Bar Is Now Mine

Whatever your troubles,
the Roadhog Roadhouse

always makes things better.

The billionaire is everything a great friend should be, extremely rich, wallet always open, and when you need him, nearby. When I first met him, I said, "A guy could get used to this," and that early intuition has been confirmed time and time again.

That's not to say I don't sometimes want to use my own money. Just to clarify, I personally make about $450 a month in disability income (game toe), then on top of that I have around $2.1 billion, thanks to the billionaire. Some of that I'm saving -- the $450 -- in case the rest goes ... fizz.

Something happened this morning that for a second pissed me off at him, but I can't stay mad very long at such a good, rich friend. Although in a way I'm doing him a favor with my anger, because billionaires don't get that true gut reaction very often. Everyone's always kissing up to him, he probably likes being told off once in a while.

He came over very early, before I'd even been to the bathroom, before the dog had been out, and mousetraps checked, you know the routine. A guy wants his private moments without every billionaire in the world horning in. To make matters worse, he springs this news on me, that he bought the Roadhog Roadhouse bikers bar!

I was all up in his face, and pounded on his chest, crying, "You knew I wanted that bar!" Only I hadn't gotten around to it yet; the world of high finance is new to me; I didn't even know who to contact, Eddie, probably, since he's the owner. So I'm halfway cussing the billionaire out, "You son of a --! You rotten bast-- !"

His fun over, the stringing me along, he laughs and says, "I bought it for you, silly. I didn't want someone else to get it. Eddie wanted out." I started to say the obligatory, "I'll pay you back," but he waved it off. "What's the difference?" he said, which is true. When you're extremely rich, and you're friends with someone, the rest is just laughter and backslapping; no one's in anyone's debt, he's just happy to do it, and in that spirit, I accepted the keys.

We did get down to some serious stuff, when he said that friend and confidante Garrett Al (aka Geritol and Jor-el) filled him in on the whole Pink Professor situation. Of course I know the Pink Professor through the Roadhog; it's our basic rendezvous point. But he's been MIA, after an argument we had a few years ago over meditation practices. And I want him back, but where to look?

The billionaire said, "You know I stand ready to help with anything you need in the search. I want to wrap this up ASAP, because I don't want you suffering, OK?" I nodded and kept my head down. He saw that hint of pain and exclaimed, "OK, that's it! I'm now in charge!" I was speechless. What can you say when you have a friend so doggoned filthy rich and dripping with confidence, but "Yes sir!"

We sat and he said, "Tell me everything you know." The discussion went on for quite a while, as I shared with no real goal, since I didn't think I knew anything. "Tell me everything you've ever talked about, and don't worry, I respect your privacy and won't share it with Geritol." (Jor-el and I have a history, and whereas I'm not that hushed mouth around him anymore, it's nice to know my dirty laundry won't be hanging in plain sight.)

After an hour of sharing, the billionaire exclaimed, "I know where he is!" taking from our conversation this one little obscure nugget. "You were in San Francisco in 1975. You spent a night under an interstate bridge. You told the Pink Professor you left a piece of your soul there. Your argument was over kundalini meditation. He went there to find that piece and reconcile himself to you." I filled in the rest, "But he's blocked, and now can't come home, analogous to failing to attain samadhi in yoga, till he restores and completes me." The billionaire nodded, "I suspect as much."

He said he'd handle the preparations. I would spend the day tidying up the Roadhog bar -- Eddie left some dust bunnies behind -- while he would oversee construction of a blimp and a full blimp port. We would find the Pink Professor and bring him home in style!

That was a couple hours ago. I brushed my teeth, went to the bathroom, and for 20 minutes was sweeping up behind the bar -- thanks, Eddie, the dust bunnies were dinosaurs! -- then took a load of trash out back. Some guy's sleeping in the dumpster so I had to leave the wastecans next to it. Looks to be a good day.

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.