Yeah, Big City Strippers

 The Big City

Part 5 of 28

I’ve finally got something nice to say about the Big City. They do strippers like nobody’s business, whereas the last strippers I ever heard of in the small town came through when I was underage. A little more on that later.

Concerning the Big City, of course I'm shocked by nearly everything about it. The amount of land it consumes to house it. The great resources pumped into its daily life, seemingly commensurate with the immensity of its population. The nameless, faceless society it’s established for itself, which proves the adage that the more people there are, the harder it is -- even impossible -- to know everyone’s name. Although in some social settings even in the Big City I’ve noticed a few people do call me by name. Get deep enough into the flora and fauna of the Big City and you’ll notice a few debt collectors in every dark alley. Once you get an invitation to check in with them, they receive you graciously, call you by name and seem to know your history, Social Security numbers, etc. The downside about them is it always turns nasty.

So let’s hear it for the small town in this regard. Even the debt collectors back home sleep at night, and they’re happy enough if you give them an occasional fruit pie -- and this goes double if it’s one of Grandma’s recipes you’re exploiting -- to show you a few more days of grace.

The Big City has it over the small town in one regard, as I mentioned, strippers. The last time strippers came through the small town was the centennial, and they were shut down after the wrestling team (minors) held down the entire front row, and finally rushed the stage. But the downfall came when the wrestling coach’s picture was on page one of the newspaper, with lots of kiss marks all over his big stupid face. A friend of mine had a single small red hair that he kept in a jar by the door, a little token of lost love, or love gone astray, or promised love where it just fizzled out. We think it was from one of the dancers, or maybe a hair fell out of a guy's nose. Whichever, it certainly helps recall a night of passion and craziness.

So that's how it is, I’m in the Big City. And whenever I can afford admission, even if it’s a pie I baked for the nice ticket man, I’m picking up a few eyefuls of stripper magic. Ummm, I can see it now in my nicely erect mind’s eye, two of the loveliest (but wildest) performers to ever hit the big stage, Flora and Fauna, one left-handed and one right, but however you shake 'em out, they look the same on both sides. Each side a mirror image of the other. Bodies perfectly proportioned, the top looking as good as the bottom. And the right side equal to the left. Very nasty, perky, responsive, absolutely no shame.

It’s a great thing, and I urge you, if you’re ever in the Big City, this is the best thing we’ve got going --- purrrrrr --- by farrrrrr, all the way! Live a little.

Grandpa's Dip & Thrust

 Part 23 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

For my lack of self-esteem, and it being so fragile, I've round up a few culprits. It’s mostly a generational thing, so I’m pinning the blame today mostly on Grandpa.

Talk about high self-esteem, Grandpa was the kind of guy who could tell others to kiss his bootie, then stand there and expect them literally to do it. His strong self-esteem led to all kinds of social situations where he was the No. 1 man. With even the mayor -- a man of definite pride -- taking the backseat whenever Grandpa was near, bowing, scraping, the whole self-immolation deal.

So it wasn’t any big deal that Grandpa, when other men of his generation were dead, dying, or hoping to die, was out on the town, breaking hearts and still able to teach women a thing or two. (There was about a two-year period when Grandma was sick, so she had no clue.) He had all the strength. Which, whether it’s right or wrong, it happened. I’d say he played his cards right, that’s the only explanation for his dominant ego and utter persistence at being a man of personal strength.

Those were the days of Men and Worms. You were one or the other, with most being Worms. But not him! His nights on the town were legendary. He still gets the credit for originating the (still on display at dance museums) Dip & Thrust. Look at it this way, he sired five children. That’s a lot of quality dipping and thrusting. It’s certainly more than we see in the modern world, where if you ever see anything but a Worm you go home, drop to your knees, and thank the Good Lord.

But our problem in the modern world is fragile self-esteem, so it’s not just me. Yes, a lot of the blame goes to previous generations not recycling it when they had the chance. But to the extent that having it today is still possible -- obviously -- we ourselves are to blame for not horning in and claiming our fair share. We’re weak. But we still have responsibility for it. Are we putting our self-esteem away and allowing it to survive? Or are we using it up? Do we ride it hard and put it away wet?

Whatever problems I have, small or great -- and essentially they’re monumental problems -- I still have hopes. If I keep my eye on the nightclubs, keep my eye on the ladies, and maybe come up with something even one-third as good as the Dip & Thrust, I might yet make something of myself. Until that happens, though, sadly, you'll mostly hear me say, "Woe is me,” while keeping a stiff upper lip. At least I had relatives that had it going on, and that’s more than most guys can say.

Down In Front, Idiot!

 Part 9 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

I won't give precise details about the neighborhood I grew up in. Except there were certain female creatures of approximately my age and species known for beating up boys. Not often, you couldn’t find a schedule for their attacks, and there was very little evidence left when the job was done. But it did happen. I was this close to the clubhouse one particular day and came this close myself to dying.

I believe the basic problem then came from the unfortunate fad of giving your kids a clubhouse. If I had kids, knowing what I knew then, they'd never get a clubhouse. And if I heard of clubhouses in the neighborhood, that'd be places my kids wouldn’t be playing. Because I wouldn’t want to see anyone beaten beyond recognition. That’s a good reason! Or for that matter, beatings less severe. One, it can do something to their self image (minor); 2) It can mean certain death, since bruises are nothing other than coagulated blood, that, if it reaches whatever brain they might have could be an aneurysm!

But I do remember a group of boys lead like prisoners to the worst switching of their lives in a clubhouse. The girls had knives and not only had cut switches off trees but had them honed. And no doubt they learned from one another the worst switching techniques before luring them to their near-death experience. I went out of my way to avoid everything about it. I once was in one of the clubhouses and heard girls coming, and but for a fire diversion — tossing a match into a pile of leaves and burning down half the town — I’d be dead today.

Now, let's take a look at our fiddler friend. He looks a lot like our Fiddler on the Roof friend from the movies, if memory serves. He's got a sort of an ethnic headpiece, not an attractive adornment in my opinion, feet like a platypus, a devil-may-care grin, and excellent fiddling technique. But something must be wrong with his hearing. Because those blocked from seeing the dancing girls were catcalling him — nicely at first — to be more considerate of their view.

Then going by the caption, it sounds like someone even called out, asking nicely but with a little more oomph, “Down in front, Idiot!” I don’t like that kind of talk, really, since you can get more honey — how’s that go? The sweeter you are the more people will like you? No, you can catch more bees with honey than with a net? The point is, If you deal with people gently you’re more able to manipulate their behavior, bend it to your will, than if you’re too direct and mean, coming on too strong. Plus bees.

Well, I think they had the right idea. Because the dancing girls, like dancing girls everywhere, also want to be seen. Their legs start just above the toes and go all the way to the promised land, next is the hips and everything above that. Dancing girls, professional women, never know if there’s a great agent in the audience with the keys to the kingdom of show biz looking to feature them in a Las Vegas revue or maybe even a feature film, a Hollywood tycoon.

Whatever they were thinking, things got hairy fast when the fiddler was accidentally kicked, fell and hurt his leg and had to be removed stage left. There’s no telling what all happened then. No one could match one foot with any particular bruise. Then the coagulation. And the problem really might have included sandbags as the dancers averred. You can trip over a few sandbags and buy the farm. Which still doesn't explain the fists. And possibly switches, clubs, and at the farthest extremity (only rumored) a battering ram, now missing.

We may never learn what the range of murder weapons included. We do know Moshe is no longer with us. And until Central Casting comes up with another Fiddler on the Roof guy, one with some good judgment, at least an iota of sense, they're using a CD of fiddling music -- an improvement in my opinion since everyone can now see the girls. And with the improved view, a few of the ladies have indeed been cast in Hollywood, some old time crime films, murder, mayhem, the whole shebang. More power to them!

I'm Finally Getting That Lap Dance

Celebrate with me! It's been a day of great success! I'm finally getting the lap dance I've always wanted, even though I've always been too reticent/cautious/embarrassed to actually go there and get one. Now -- better late than never -- it's all arranged.

And all the credit goes to the Spirit of Christmas and Generosity, believe it or not. We were out for lunch and got on the subject of what we should get each other for Christmas, this woman I know. We've known each other for a number of years, and, both of us getting older, it seems like we don't need stuff like we used to. This goes for my other old friends, too; it's getting harder and harder to get for them.

Anyway, I've had this idea for some time, but, like above, I've been too reticent, etc., to say anything about it. This time, I don't know what got into me -- blame it on the patty melt -- I just laid it on the line. My big idea... I know she likes working on handcrafts, for one. And I've long had the idea of getting a lap dance, ever since I talked to this guy I know who said he was at a bachelor party and got one. At the Kit Kat Klub. Everyone knows the place east of town.

Anyway, like I said, she likes handcrafts, so here's our arrangement. I'm going to get her a wallet kit, the kind made from rawhide where you stitch up the edges with leather. The kit comes with a nice big needle, so it's just like sewing. Then, more than just stitching it, you have these cool metal stamps, similar to rubber stamps. You heat them on the stove and press them into the leather and they leave very sharp western designs. I think the last bit of the craft is to insert a few plastic sheets inside, a great place to store family photos or possibly a driver's license. I'll also give her $40.

So far, so good. Then I spelled it out to her what I want her to do with it. When I'm dead, and when they cremate me and give my ashes to whoever -- it'll all be set out in my will -- she'll get the ashes and fill the wallet full, leaving just enough room for the $40. Sticking out the top. She'll take the wallet to the Kit Kat Klub, find the hottest dancer -- a blonde or redhead -- and arrange for the lap dance on it. Of course the money will be for the dancer, and I'll just have to settle for whatever a guy gets for $40.

It'll be everything a decent stripper could want, right? Easy work. Money. No fuss, no muss. Maybe a few ash spots on her behind.

So she said yes, even though the "gift" for me for Christmas probably won't be realized for quite a while. I'm feeling great, on top of the world, even though I won't likely be getting it this year. But someday! I hope I'll be able to look down and see it, but even if not, I'll still be happy up there, just knowing things played out as I wanted.

My Problem with Gold Diggers

One of the sad facts of my romantic life, such as it is, is I'm tired of being dumped by gold diggers. I mean, I get it, some ladies are in it for the riches. Then they find out ... certain things about me being financially embarrassed ... and, once again, it's the old heave-ho.

If you're wondering, Why don't the gold diggers just talk among themselves, compare notes, and thereby avoid me all together? The answer is, Gold diggers are a particularly catty species. If their fellow gold diggers are busy being disappointed, that frees up the better territory for the others. You know what I ought to do? Next time I'm dumped, I should wear a big sign around my neck: "Financially embarrassed." That'd show her! Not only would she be embarrassed in front of the others, she'd lose any advantage over the better territory, and it'd save the other gold diggers the trouble of messing with me. It'd be win-win all around!

Take a look at the line-up of dancers at Gus' Revue d'Paris de Beauregard, a little joint in Des Moines. I was most recently seeing the blonde. But now I'm dumped. So I'll probably be seeing brown and red in short order, since the blonde won't be telling them my troubles. Have you ever been financially embarrassed? It's as crappy as it sounds. Still, it keeps me up nights, mostly worrying, so at least I'm doing OK with that.

I know what you're wondering. I've heard it from a few guys over at the Salvation Army, where I've stayed the last couple weeks. Why are these high-flying specimens of feminine wiles interested in me in the first place? Because Gus and I were old school buddies, and he's spotting me drinks, and thinks he's lifting my spirits by giving me his personal table and tux at the Revue. And, yes, I am happy, depending on how many drinks he spots me. Plus, the girls.

But like I said, it's a drag getting dumped. The irony is rich. They dump me when they find out I haven't got money. But if I had money, they'd soak me silly, then dump me when I was poor. One way to look at it, I'm cutting out the middle man, and naturally hope springs eternal. It might really bloom, if, say, I and one of them were dropped on a desert island. I could say, "See, out here money's meaningless!" But that's too silly to hope for.

OK, so I was seeing the blonde. She found out about my financial embarrassment and her attitude switched on a dime. Figure of speech, 'cause if there'd been a dime, she'd've had it! One night she said she wanted money to live it up. I told her my situation, pulling out my pockets, even flapping my shirt pocket. She came real close as I offered her a good view of it, in good faith, and spit up in it and said that was my problem! Great girl!

Later, we're sitting silently at the kitchen table. She's filing her nails. I got snotty: "Do you enjoy doing your personal grooming at the dinner table?" Her response was curt: "You've been soiling the air around yourself for years!" I was like, "What?!" It seemed we were never on the same wavelength, and at that moment I knew it was true.

Dancing Tornadoes Away

With everything we're facing from global warming, and our leaders having no political will to pull our ass out of the fire, we're going to have to try something to make it better. I know around here we're about frantic with all the tornado watches, warnings, and actual visitations -- HELL! ... Excuse me, there went another one, a full twister ... just carried away the neighbor's shed! If he sees me looking, I'll have to go help with cleanup, so I'm going to keep writing...

Of course, I've been wracking my brain, thinking, Show me a way! We can't live like this. That's the third tornado just this morning. And the night was worse, since an EF5 interrupted one of my major dreams, the one where all the hedonists who've, incidentally, somehow managed to pass with flying colors a battery of sexual disease tests, are just settling in for a luxurious orgy here on the grounds. Then I'm woke up by the shutters flying off the house -- dammit! -- the tornado just grazing the place.

Anyway, I'm wracking my brain, and an idea comes to me, something I'm seriously going to try. I don't think it's been tried yet. If so, it hasn't done much good, so they must not be doing it right. That's dancing the tornadoes away. The idea just came to me, because there's some analogy there, a tornado is twisting the night away and that's what we do when we're dancing. It's fighting fire with fire; you've got a trouble, you combat it with the same trouble; a kid eats too much chocolate, you force feed him chocolate till it's running out his ears, he either quits, dies, or kills you.

Think about it: What if mankind stood up to these SOB tornadoes rather than running and hiding? You can't run from a bully. The bully will never let you live it down. He'll be on you everyday until you finally stand up. It reminds me of the story of "The Geese and the Poodle," one of my old stories. We had geese that let a poodle chase them, till they got tired. Then they flipped around and chased him, almost scaring him to death. He tucked his tail between his legs, or would've had it reached, and ran ... and he'd probably be running still, years later, if I hadn't let him in the house (1), and (2) if he hadn't died some months later from an unrelated car running over him in the drive.

So, what if we just stood up to the tornadoes and fought fire with fire! Meaning, we dance! We get all mankind, everyone in the state, out there when there's a tornado, morning, noon, and night, dancing up a storm! The jitterbug, the fox trot, even slow dancing. But you say the tornado, being an inanimate thing and not conscious, won't care. But maybe there is consciousness there. The yogis teach the same cosmic consciousness is in everything, so that could be our trump card. Our dancing and the consciousness in us, and the tornado and the consciousness in it, come together ... it's a beautiful thing. Beyond that, we have the pebbles in the pond theory, like in time travel movies, that every change in life, no matter how small, has unknown consequences. Running hasn't helped. We need a different pebble.

Holy crap! A tornado just went across the field on the other side of the road. It took out a cow. There go milk prices!

This might even become a moneymaker for me. Because until the idea catches on, I can hand out fliers and business cards (you can get 300 of them online for 10 bucks), and stand out in people's yards and dance the tornado away from their house. I'll do it myself and collect all the money. Or get a partner and cut him or her in for 30%, since it's my idea and I'm entitled to more. Most people don't get hit. So if a tornado doesn't show up 99% of the time, even if my idea lacks in basic science, it's still going to be apparently successful. Safe customers mean happy customers means big bucks!

Maybe the native peoples of the world knew this all along. They've been doing rain dances for centuries, and appeasing the gods by sacrificing virgins, the whole thing. My idea might not be that crazy.

Friends, I need to quit. Another tornado just touched down on the half acre, and I think the blackberry patch is gone. I saw some smaller thorns fly by the window. I need to get my boogie shoes on and find my groove thang. Someone's got to stop this SOB. That someone is me!

A Day Of Fancy Sword Work

PROLOGUE:

Dark, dense brooding ... then a field of light ... and back into the thicket. A sacred sword pointed is powerful, humbling the horses.

A day of adjusting, conjuring, bringing all energies to a head. My motivations being pure, I shall prevail. Tonight the zipper comes down!

Tonight the orgies will end and the true morality will prevail. Long live the town! Long live the country! I'm steaming mad at dirt.

I will boldly proclaim the work in which I am engaged. The key to everything is right here ... But first I have some normal errands to run.

We're out of shampoo, need cat litter, athlete's foot spray, baby aspirin, and a few other normal things. Off for my day. Goodbye.

COMMENTARY:

There's never been five more powerful, more meaningful tweets written. Earlier today it was an unconscious power fest that brought forth these words. After what I've been through this week, being shot at and being confronted by grange assassins, my consciousness had burrowed itself in a hole, concerned with having a nice day. My conscious mind said Live and let live. But deeper forces have been at work, which I didn't even realize until those five tweets presented themselves. It was expressed in such a way that, rereading them later, I was floored. I had my marching orders!

The fourth is perhaps less important than the first three. For therein I promise to write this blog post which is now being done. The fifth is definitely less important than the first four, because that concerns some household errands I needed to run, which I don't know that I will accomplish.

So, there's never been three more powerful, more meaningful tweets written than the first three. The fourth is great because of the resolve to declare my work. And the fifth is great because it shows I have not (and must not) lose the connection, no matter how strange my work sounds, to the day to day affairs of life.

So the fourth and the fifth are still very powerful, very meaningful, joining again their rightful place with the first three as the five most powerful, most meaningful tweets ever written.


SWORD WORK:

I did quite a bit of sword work today. Twirling, pointing, stabbing at things. Some of it will be related below.


THE GRANGE DANCE:

There is a grange dance tonight. It should be certain death for me just to show up. But I have the confidence that I shall prevail.

My confidence is the result of an extensive process of psychological stewing that accompanied today's fancy sword work. I started with the dark, dense brooding mentioned above. What was around the half acre that was decaying, I studied with close attention. I ceremonially cut some dying weeds and in the mind's eye saw them become black. Things will submit to me, then I will tend to them in their submission.

I passed one of my cutlasses over the objects of my attention and found myself with a bucket of water to rinse them clear. This very bad week was redeemed, the power the assassins held over me had been exposed to the light of day. What problems I had with the Grange society going from the Brotherhood to the Sisterhood, I resolved. No matter what gender they are, they're going down!

As I continued this important work, I saw a dawning of light before me, giving me the full assurances that the true morality is about to be revealed. The disparate parts of my consciousness are reuniting. My full purpose is becoming manifest. My true nature is being revealed, the one who brings rejoicing for all!


EPILOGUE:

Farmers' daughters: Put on your skimpy pants! I'm on my way!

My Head Screwed On Straight

Umm, huh, umm [moving my head back and forth], just want to make sure my head's screwed on straight. I can't keep it straight, everything I've been doing lately and saying. With time not being quite itself -- being sped up sometimes -- and an unremitting flurry of meetings, theories, schemes, friends, enemies, not to mention a real lack of understanding of Grange Brotherhood history, politics, and ways, I really don't know where I am.

So it's time to simplify things. I'm the good guy. But I'm still going to have a hard time saying the Brotherhood's the bad guys. Some are, perhaps, some aren't. Probably most of them are good in the same sense that people are generally good. Good until you turn your back on them, then they're the same stew of semi-good and 75% evil that all of us are. Pelaging Dr. Freud!

My own concern is to do like -- who were those guys, the Utilitarians? -- to advocate for the greatest good for the greatest number of people. Theoretically, because when my head isn't screwed on straight I wonder why I should care. I've got my guns and sacred swords if everyone gets out of hand. But I hate suffering, that's it, as necessary and unavoidable as it is. So I don't hate suffering at every level, since that would be to deny existence. And whether this is the greatest Creation there could ever be, etc.

So much suffering is simply perspective-driven; wouldn't it all have to be perspective-driven, if there's a suffering soul or consciousness? We've got it that even the Highest suffers on our behalf, which would suggest something intrinsic or objective. Then there's the whole matter of the Highest's choice in this matter, unless we take the Highest out of the realm of being just another character like every other character. If we think of the One somehow without a Two, it's even humorous to think of the One suffering; the perspective of it would be artificial, no doubt to use the wrong word, a thing of choice, chosen, therefore not wholly an intrinsic matter except insofar as Grace and Love are seen as separate from Being Itself. And with that, we're working with lingnastics and putting too much of ourselves into it...

Anyway, there's interesting ways of looking at things.

Then there's gift baskets and gift cards, which is what I really wanted to get to. I'll keep it short. The black cloaked figures along the road between here and the grange have loosened up toward me since that first Friday. This is positive. Like I said in a tweet yesterday, quoting the great song, "Sometimes good guys don't wear white." To further loosen them and find favor, I used some of the money from my savings account to buy for them gift baskets for their wives and/or significant others and gift cards for them. What they were specifically were some gift baskets from a bed and bath store, with towels, bath lotions, powders, etc., and the gift cards were each for $25 from The Olive Garden.

So on my way to the dance, the black cloaked figures in the trees were already trying to wave me on and wave at me. But I slowed down. At first they were looking suspicious because I seemed to be acting suspicious. But, like I do, lifestyle science stuff, I laughed and acted very inclusive -- we're just folks here, you and I -- and called them down from their tree and gave them one of these baskets and cards. You should've seen the look on their faces. Like, No one's ever done anything for me. This is the greatest gesture anyone's ever done for me, etc. I'm waving it all off, but they're still lathering it on thick and at length.

I made good time, though, and got to the grange way early. Since I'm trusted now, I went over to the barn and saw Lemuel brushing the horses and sharpening their shoes. The matrons were putting on their dancing clothes, like a costume party. The various orgy people were going through last minute choreography refinements. The farmers' daughters were cinching up their cutoffs, setting aside what it appears they normally wear, sack dresses and wool socks. And I saw other women and men going through their preparations, unbuttoning the top button to reveal cleavage, or, for the men, setting their zippers askew and pulling out cloth to give the slightest hint of underpants.

When the dance got going, I stayed inside quite a bit, but once in a while I could see the horses heads bob by the window as they were going to the barn or back to the grove. There's a great honor in all this procession work. They put a lot of pomp into it, especially with a fresh kill. Death isn't cheap to these people. They honor it by going to the extra trouble, which, frankly, I think the horses love. They have very little else to live for, and if horses watched TV I'm sure they would cherish the opportunity to see a well-placed shoe in slow motion, perhaps set to the 'Chariots of Fire' type of music.

But I didn't need to see it all this time. I know what an idiot kid looks like, his zipper down, then a horseshoe imprint in his forehead wasting him. Still, it makes me sad to think, One little mistake like that ... fatal ... what a waste! This will be something I bring an end to if I'm ever fortunate enough to be in a position of power with this organization. Because I feel for the parents at home, looking out their window, wondering what's keeping Billy. And to me Billy deserves more of a chance than this even though life sometimes says No.

Inside, I danced with a few of the farmers' daughters, who, while looking as hot as a fireplace poker, are so engaged in their part of allurement that there's very little actual life to them. Plus, I'm way too old for them. Mostly I danced with the matrons. The men trust me now so there was barely any surveillance from the curtains. A few of the matrons were decidedly forward, being aware that I'm now an old hand.

One tipsy gal had her arms around my backside and grabbed each side; there's two sides divided by a line down the middle, I should note, and she simultaneously had a handful of each, with the kind of grip we usually associate with chefs working with pizza dough. I'm thinking I might have some bruises. As close as this put our front extremities, there could've been some misunderstanding, and I'm lucky the horses and husbands were otherwise occupied.

Everything is working out neatly. The level of trust is so high. I had a wonderful time!

Pull Of Fiss And Vinegar (Tweets)

I was pull of fiss and vinegar tonight when I got home from the dance. So I think unfortunately I might've overdone it on the silliness.

You be the judge [opening the curtain and with a wave of the hand stepping back]:

-------------------------

I love the great director, Alfred Hitchpeepee.

Even though he was born in a different peepeetry.

He made a great movie called "The Birds," that included crows, sparrows, finches, and the tufted mammarymouse.

The critics gave him two thumbs up, with rubber gloves of course.

Which of his movies is the best has been a BONE of contention with movie buffs for years.

I Guess Everyone IS Looking For Some Tush (Tweets)

Ah, passing the time with paradise people / Paradise people are fine by me... (from the song 'Abergavenny.')

I shall win over the Grange Brotherhood with gift baskets and gift cards. Let them know, "Sometimes good guys don't wear white." (Standells)

I'm at the grange dance, just checking in. I heard some weird sing-song children's songs in the distance, but it's just fields for miles.

I've had a few dances, including one dance with a very amorous matron. She had hold of something behind me and pulled me close. She's drunk.

I'm going to have to check myself for bruises back there, which is going to require a good mirror, privacy, and some craning of the neck.

If You See A Red Dog Running Free

I woke up today in the greatest mood, with a song that I heard yesterday running through my mind. It's on repeat mode because it's the only thing I can think of.

The song is "Abergavenny," by Shannon. I have a 45 rpm record of it and it's also on an LP. I love it, stuff like this, "Taking a trip up to Abergavenny, Hoping the weather is fine, If you should see a red dog running free, Well, you know he's mine." And it's also got some great stuff about "Paradise people, fine by me." So, wherever Abergavenny is, "I've got to get there and fast!"

I love that "red dog running free" line. I take my dog for a walk and she used to run free. But now we have a roaming cop in the area all the time, who I call Deputy Dawgcatcher. And he's constantly on the lookout for vicious curs tasting freedom. My dog was running free one time and I saw Deputy Dawgcatcher coming into the area, so I have a deal with my dog, when I give out a high pitched shriek that only she can hear, that means "Come." Then we're walking along, my dog on her leash, and we crossed paths with Deputy D and he pointed out to me some other guy over there whose dog was running free. He's got to cite him.

Anyway, we don't want dogs running free that are going to kill us. But most wouldn't!

So I'm having a great morning, in the greatest mood, with the greatest song running through my head. If you know the record, it has that marching band in there. It's very nice.

Speaking of bands, tonight's the Friday night grange dance, Johnny Hotshot's band, the works, the grange people, the horses, matrons, farmers' daughters, black hooded Grange Brotherhood. I'm definitely going -- especially as everything's loosening up very nicely for me. I'm fitting right in, making some decent alliances, etc.

There are always ways of dealing with people to your best advantage. Put on a good face. Listen to happy music. Get yourself stoked up about your own qualities. See yourself divinely led, divinely inspired. Know you've got the entire divinity right there in your heart. Crap, it isn't rocket science, it's better. It's the secrets of the universe in a one inch cube right behind your navel. With the spiritual superhighway leading right by, with several on and off ramps to your brain. People look at you and they don't know what hit 'em.

Then you've got all the instincts it takes to arrange things, chairs, tables, gift baskets, flowers, smiling, touching shoulders, commisserating, strategic yielding, other people's wisdom taking your breath away...

That's the way I'm going tonight, with gift baskets and gift cards. A modest investment in gift baskets and gift cards will pay off handsomely. Wait and see!

But as for this morning:

Sunshine forever, lovely weather
Don't you wish you could be.....
Ah, taking a trip up to Abergavenny
Hoping the weather is fine
If you should see a red dog running free
Well, you know he's mine!

----------------------

"Abergavenny" music and lyrics by Jack Geller & Frere Manston, performed by Shannon, aka Marty Wilde, 1968 recording.

The Country Strikes Back

Another few days has passed. Time really flies when it's sped up. Now I can see why someone could live to be 104, like Grandma has. Because she's really only living every other day. So if she's only 52 in the actual passage of time, she's younger than I! A few more days of this time warp and it might turn out that I am somehow my grandmother's father. But I'll leave that worry for another day. If there's a paternity fight you'll be among the first to know.

My worry today is on some of the reactionaries among the country folk, who may be a little reluctant to submit to my ideas of bringing them and the city folk together. I did confer with some of the higher ups, in addition to numerous underlings. Each had a small but vocal cadre of people who are proving hard to sway. They want to protect their old ways, they say, but it could be they're just stubborn, hard to convince because they're also simply stupid. That's always something to take into consideration.

But when an immovable object meets an irresistible force something eventually's got to give. And it ain't gonna be me. I'll step up the expertise if that's what they want. Every group dynamics trick, not to mention the various tricks of human environmental science and the lifestyle sciences. I've been doing this since kindergarten. I saw the angles, like how my desk should be set in relation to the teacher's desk to make sure she noticed me. And the way my blanket should be oriented in relation to the other kids' to make it stand out. But some teachers were stupid too, and so along the way I got a few dings on my report card for being needy, clingy, etc. You have them in every group of people.

One of the big tricks I have for the country folks is what I call the art of commisseration. But commisserating with people is very time consuming, because to do it to maximum profit you have to do it individually or, at most, with two. That means getting them alone, like during a break, finding out some of their grievances, then piling on with, "Oh, yeah! I thought I was the only one who felt that way!" And occasionally catching my breath at some grievance they've stated. You look in their eye with a look that says "That's profound" and touch their shoulder, and immediately use your body language to lead them back to the group. What you're saying is two things: 1) I couldn't agree more; 2) We need to lead this group together in seeing things our way. They'll thank us.

So if these cretins give me any guff -- and it seems that's what some of them are up to -- I'll be commisserating fast and furious. Then when their guard's down, wham! They'll be spinning dizzy in their own dust, with no choice but to rejoin the group on my terms. Because in the meantime, I've arranged chairs, desks, sofas, bulletin boards, every piece of furniture. And when I present, those who are in most agreement with me, they'll all be subtly rewarded with better lighting, better ability to hear, fewer reflections from the sun through the windows, etc. Anyone left at the perimeter or in the inferior seating will have to move up to those least in agreement with them if they want the advantages. And so forth.

But I hate to make this a seminar in scientific manipulation. But I notice you're not complaining. And there are some very good reasons for that. But we shall go on...

I went to the second Friday grange dance a couple days ago, and there's another one tomorrow. Of course I was much more trusted at the second dance than at the first. I saw the whole set up of the orgies, all that, trying to ensnare folks who were clueless. I saw the horses kicking a few young men to death. I saw the dressing room for the farmers' daughters. And lots of other stuff. So, a few more weeks of this and I'll own the dance. And maybe before we're through I can test out some group dynamics and science on these horses in their barns.

And Then...Silence

I'm sitting here in rank silence.

The swirl of events that was the grange dance, the lead-up to it, getting there, being tested to the absolute max by a bevy of grange matrons on full display in the grove, being sustained against the hooves of assassin horses, then actually enjoying the dance and my time, is all so fresh in my mind that I am silenced.

I feel like I'm torn, to be honest, between competing, insistent impulses. Having passed the test, assuming there aren't others yet to come, I could very well be on my way to becoming a member of the Grange Brotherhood, if that's what I wanted. That would be a big step, because at that point I'd be a part of something vast, with underground connections, the long reach of organizational tentacles, and access to the mechanics of testing others. At this time next year I might be dressed like Spy vs. Spy and sitting in a tree with binoculars, flashing signals up the road.

Or I could withdraw from the whole thing -- which is what I believe Grandpa did -- and let them more or less forget me, melting back into city life, refusing to go back to the country. While the Brotherhood no doubt never forgets, even they are surely not forever rustling through their files looking for people to provoke. It has to be the same with them as with the rest of us, that in the course of time old grudges are pushed to the back burner. I know for me personally, something will seem crucially important one week, but then two weeks later it's forgotten completely, or at least the minor details.

With the Brotherhood, they are of course subject to mortality as are we all. Generations rise up and fall, and even many of their own sons leave. You'd think that'd give them some pause to reflect on pursuing others who may have lapsed, if they can't even keep the screws tight on their own children. I'm convinced of it. Maybe a grange master was very hard nosed in the '30s or '40s, back in Grandpa's heyday, when, they say, his reluctance to go to the country began, although I wasn't yet born and can't say much about it.

But grange masters come and go. I don't know who they've all been or even who the current master is. But they don't start out masters. So I assume they take on some of the same tone, perhaps unwillingly, of the society as a whole. In this day it'd be Live and Let Live, or aspects of that. It could be the grange master likes to keep up appearances only but is himself a very cool guy. The normal rough and tumble when he's acting officially, but laid back at home. I just don't know.

So I could join with the Brotherhood, or I could withdraw silently and forever shun the country.

The third option is obviously the one most fraught with peril, and that is to take on the Grange Brotherhood head on. After all, why should I have been subject to their terrible testing? Just because I went into the country? Just because I wanted the pleasure of a dance and perhaps a relationship that would lead to matrimony and child bearing? Who gave these guys the right to decide who lives and dies? Maybe I've been marked all along. It would explain a lot of the disappointments of my life. Let's say they had it in for Grandpa because of something that he did in the '40s. And so they've been following me, making my life miserable.

These are not the ways of an organization that have people's best interests at heart. These instead are the ways of an organization that is acting out of paranoia, the lust or will for power, and it's very reactionary. There's no legitimate reason why I should've been threatened with death a couple nights ago! I'm a man, not target practice for a horse.

What I will do ... is something for me to contemplate ... in the counsel of my own heart ... with the light and dark alternately rising and descending ... in personal silence and stewing ...

Tweets - 08-08-2009

The first one is not a tweet. This is the preamble to the tweets, which are recorded here daily or as often as I can manage, that my children, if I should ever meet a girl and have kids, will have a full record of what their father said. Every word being holy, I hate to commit linguistic onanism by having any of them fall to the ground:

Hey, it's 08-08 today, which with August being our fattest month, and it being the eighth, that's a very fat combination. What would be fatter? August 28 looks pretty big. Let me run through the possibilities. 20, 22, 26, 28, 29. Those are good sized, the 6 has a beer belly, the 9 a fat head. But 8 is big on both ends. Anyway...

Now that I have a feed back to Twitter when they get the bugs worked out of it, it's going to be sort of like double posting, but these will only have some kind of small 140 character (thereabouts) feed link, so it's no big deal.

Here they are, without further preamble:

What a great dance last night! But I saw things that the eye of man is not meant to see. Just like in the song 'Mama Told Me Not To Come.'

RT @jimmywellington: I wonder what Nietzche would think of Superman Underoos. | If Underoos are underwear, Nietzsche would prefer Uberwear.

I'm not going to say everything that goes on in the bathroom, but I'm starting to think maybe the I DID IT dance isn't necessary every time.

Amazing Race, how sweet it was But is that show still on? I watched it years ago, but haven't 4 a while. I'm wondering if it's here or gone.

-------------------------
Shout out to Jimmy Wellington (jimmywellington): You need to be a follower of me in return. I like seeing your funny writings.

"grandmaslump" on Twitter.

The Big Dance

I'm operating on just a few hours of sleep this morning, so I hope this all comes out OK. I got in late after spending a few eventful hours at the Friday night grange dance.

For those of you who know my area, it's down the hill, then south a few miles, then you turn back west. About halfway down that road, take a left and it's on your right side, just a piece. All along the way I was thinking of how many people have taken this route ... and how many never came back.

I was driving slowly, very reticent about the whole thing. Along the way I'd glance up into a tree and see one of the Grange Brotherhood leaning against the trunk about 10 feet up. Up ahead, then, I might see a small mirror in another tree flashing somewhere else in the vicinity, who knows where. And maybe arms waving. All very subtle. (They need to have me as a member. I could teach them some of the first principles of stealth.)

Steadily I made progress, frankly afraid. I started thinking, It's been a good run. I've enjoyed life for the most part. And if I die tonight, they'll probably think of something nice to say at my funeral.

I got there and parked and walked toward the grange. I had regained my courage, since everything seemed so normal. The strangest thing I saw was an old farmer leading a team of about 10 horses from around back over toward the fence at the grove.

Johnny Hotshot's band was already playing and couples were dancing. I felt my wallflower nature coming on. But I went over by the drinks table and had a few and finally worked up the courage to approach a young lady -- a farmer's daughter in the tightest little blue jeans cutoffs -- over by the former grange masters portraits.

Just then, I don't know what it was -- there must've been something in the drinks -- I felt woozy and started to swoon. This is where it got interesting. You remember how I'm an expert in Group Dynamics and Human Environmental Science? As soon as I got woozy I felt something physically move in my brain. Like mental overdrive. Imagine you saw a jeweler take out a super loupe and stick it in his eye, and he's able to evaluate an entire diamond mine at 50 paces. It was like that.

I staggered up against the wall, and my eye went funny, with everything about the inside of that grange being mentally mapped, with chart lines, labels and everything, including all body language of the people, right down to a scientific understanding of the corsages the women were wearing. All in a flash. I even perceived the band was about to take a break. And it turned out later they did!

I had asked the young lady to dance. But in that fateful instant her face flashed and I saw the outlines of an orange beak momentarily flicker. Then two men across the room, looking normal in every respect, except another flashing came and in that instant each wore black hoods. They were signaling to her to take me outside. She steadied me and I went with her willingly but with complete understanding of the nature of this tryst, that there could be no trust. My hopes of getting lucky were never realistic in the first place.

She led me toward the grove, obviously for the romantic charades. And indeed, I saw couples scattered on the grass, apparently intoxicated and beside themselves. One woman was being chased across the lawn by a farmer with the handle off a scythe. She was giggling and her top was unbuttoned.

And then I saw it! Over next to one tree, there it was, the thing that I thought lived only in sick legends, but there it was in fact, a full blown figure eight orgy! Next I glanced over where the trees are thickest and there were the horses from before! This was it! I was being led over here to test my morals. And if I dared so much as to touch my zipper, it would happen. One or more of those brute horses would rear up, let out a dreadful "hee haw!" and I would immediately be kicked to death. And deserved it too, knowing all I know.

At that second I had a choice to make, which was no choice. She was offering her honor, but would I honor her offer? Absolutely, positively not! The Group Dynamic SLASH Human Environment was as plain as the beak on her face. It was the oldest Grange Brotherhood trick in the book. The supposed "lovers" huffing and puffing? Every eye was on me so I looked away. If I'd been kicked to death, they would've separated without a woman's sigh. And I would've made my bed in a shallow grave, with the horses being led back to the barn and given an extra large lump of sugar.

But not tonight... I'm sorry I had to disappoint those horses and their big bucked sweet tooth.

Back inside, the band was coming back from their break. We danced. And I danced with a few of the old grange wives, careful to keep their big ponderous bosoms from touching me even if it meant dancing at arms length. I could see some of the Brotherhood, husbands standing in the shadows by the curtains just off the stage. Endlessly testing me. I definitely wasn't going to get lucky with any of these gals.

I enjoyed a few more drinks, did some more human environment mapping and group dynamics mental filing and went home. All in all, for the most part, I'd have to say it was a lovely evening.

-------------------
* The photo collage does not represent the actual people and animals at the grange. It is for illustrative purposes only. The farmer's daughter wasn't quite that cute.

Tweets - 08-07-2009

Our rural areas are protected and blessed by secret organizations like the Grange Brotherhood. I extend the right hand of peace to them.

When enemies can sit together and break bread, exchanging less menacing glances than before and tone down mutual hostilities, that's good.

I'm heading out for the Friday night grange dance. I hope it's a nice time.

The worst of the night seems to be over. Now I've been enjoying the dance as best I can. Trying to avoid contact with the bosoms of ladies.

An Open Letter To The Grange Brotherhood

I would like to share with you some thoughts in the hopes of smoothing things over and tamping down any tensions that may have inadvertently arisen between us. I hope this letter finds you -- all of you -- in good health and in good spirits. May the good Lord mightily bless you as you go forth with all your efforts in making the rural areas of this great country safe for yourselves, travelers, and others.

I address you today, dear friends, as one whose family has shared in the grange heritage. My grandparents, whose names were recorded in the Grange Book of Life a long time ago, probably the 1920s, '30s, '40s, or '50s -- in there somewhere -- had many a fine time participating in grange activities. And while I don't know everything that went down back then, of course, I always heard them speak in the highest terms of the grange lifestyle and even of your own Brotherhood by name.

What I can personally recall of the Grange Brotherhood is very vivid in my imagination from the time I was a child. To me the Brotherhood was like something from story books. I heard the tales of masked Brothers riding through the night so many times that it all became mashed together with other adventure stories, like Zorro and the Legend of the Headless Horseman. I remember waking up many a night in a cold sweat after one terrible recurring dream of one of the Grangers with a sword point at my throat, laughing maniacally, his face alternating, as things in dreams do, between a normal man's face and the face of a devil.

There would be plenty of times as a child that I was afraid to go to the country. I used to tremble when I realized the world wasn't a vast city but instead had all these wild places where Grangers could be hiding, waiting to waylay a horse thief, a city slicker, an educated interloper, or a child ripe for sacrifice. With the stories I heard, and I can still see Grandpa's face lit up by a flashlight under his chin, I couldn't believe anyone could be a horse thief. Because so many of his tales involved your training and sending forth of horses for assassinations and worse. It was all quite notorious. To this day I'm convinced that we have more people in the city than there are in the country simply because people are afraid of horses.

I hope you will forgive the wild fantasies of a child. How many times I prayed that the Grange Brotherhood would be swallowed up by quicksand! Or that the Cavalry would free the country from what I perceived to be your death grip. I would guess that little children in Afghanistan or Pakistan today have the same feelings about terrorists there. My heart goes out to them because I know the feeling very well!

But now I am a man, all grown up. And I am responsible for my own thoughts, with stories and hearsay to be set aside. Now it's up to me to make my own evaluations and to guide myself accordingly. This week, if there's been any tensions between me and the Brotherhood, I will say I believe a lot of it has come about because I've brought forward with me so many of those opinions from childhood. But with serious reflection, as I've engaged in as well, I'm starting to remember less dramatic stories of great benevolence on the part of the Grange Brotherhood as well. Stories of bringing in the crops, shingling barns, taffy pulls for crippled children, advocating for horses suffering from saddle sores, and the like.

As you may know, especially from this week and the things I've said on this blog, and other things you have perhaps gleaned from the efforts of your vast network of informants, I am something of a group dynamics expert. Being such, I'm able to piece things together of social organizations, whether through objective, empirical evidence or intuitive leaps. So I know that your purposes center in on maintaining your way of life, keeping the old ways alive, letting tradition keep its place of pride.

Perhaps you remember the slogan of the electronics firm, Zenith, which was, "The quality goes in before the name goes on." That is so true and I think applicable today. And while I haven't seen a Zenith appliance outside a Goodwill store for at least 25 years, a quick Google search reveals they're still in business, the lone surviving Zenith brother feverishly making spare parts for these antiques so that indeed their 'name will go on.' That's tradition for you, the right kind of pride!

I've gone on longer than I expected. So I must close.

Let me assure you, dear Brotherhood, that I hope whatever tensions have arisen this week are now eased. And that any relations we have from this point on will be pleasant and mutually profitable. I don't want or expect any trouble from you. And I say this in spite of your reputation. People can change when a sincere hand of friendship is truly extended, as mine is.

Tonight is the grange dance. I expect to be there. And I hope to share with you the warm fellowship that is only fitting between those with your rich integrity and someone like myself, whose family was always proud of our connection to the grange and the Grange Brotherhood itself.

Sincerely yours, Your Faithful Servant, &c.

The Dance Of Doom

The Dance of Doom? Gosh, I hope not. My intuition told me to say say, so in this case I hope it's wrong. Unless the doom is for someone else, because I have the confidence that I'm going to be unscathed.

The grange is kind of weird, but it's just their thing. They're a social group and social groups have their own ways. They want to protect their values and have a predictable way of life. Nothing wrong with that since it's all quite normal. Personally, I like a little more individualism -- being eccentric means being out of the center -- and do like more some unpredictable associations, whether mentally, spiritually, or socially. But I live and let live.

I know I've been going on this week about grange assassins, and I can't remember all that I said. Some of it I was kidding around. Because part of living and letting live is that I live, and part of my life is to kid around. So, just as an aside to any grange assassins who may be thinking about taking me out on Friday night, let's just forget about it. You're cool, you're admirable, you've got it going on, so do I. We all do.

And all that business about their daughters being informants up and down the line, and separating the human wheat and the chaff by apparent immoral means, and the slander against them and their horses (I admit it), that their horses are trained assassins as well, trained to do the bidding of their evil masters, being signaled with something as slight as a twitch, it was all just a misunderstanding. Upon considered reflection, I realize now that horses can't be trained to do anything.

In fact, horses are so stupid we don't even use them. We only reference them as to how much brute strength they have. Like with my lawn mower. It has a 3.5 horsepower engine. That means my lawn mower is 3½ times as strong as the average horse. And it's probably 3½ times smarter as well, since it's man made.

Maybe I'll put my lawn mower in the trunk of my car and take it. Then if one of these assassin horses tries anything, I'll have someone with me who's 3½ times stronger. It's well known horses don't like lawn mowers. Why? Because horses like grass and lawn mowers like grass. They're competing for precious resources.

If it weren't for horse races there'd barely be any horses, because we'd have no reason to keep them around. Which means we'll probably always have horses, because, whether they're 3½ stronger or not, they're usually a lot slower, so lawnmower races never caught on.

Anyway, I'm still planning to go to the dance. The grange people haven't bothered me all these years. They're good people. Stay out of their way and they'll stay out of yours. They just don't want anyone messing around with their old ways. And if they're ever very forward on enforcing their desires, it's just the same old reactionary instincts that other aggressive people prone to violence act on. They don't mean anything by it, they just can't help it.

I could do a whole thing on the group dynamics of tribal people. They do a lot of jumping around, shouting, face painting, etc., unconsciously of course, to dissipate their violent rage. You see a big fire with a missionary in a kettle and all these demons leaping around it. To them it's just group therapy.

We in civilized society do the same thing, as is easily seen even in the daily news with what the Republicans are up to. You know, they say Republicans don't like to dance. It's not that they don't like it and wouldn't try it if their instincts were channeled that way with some guidance. But at this point, they find blood lust a lot more satisfying. And the whole overly blown racist bent, just to cite one example of their behavior, helps reinforce group cohesion.

So whether it's the savages of a foreign land or the savages of our own beloved America, it's all the same. You get at the root of human behavior and you wish you were born a horse! Then at least you can live, move, and breathe unconsciously and be happy. Still, not as happy as the lawnmower, which has plenty of food and isn't burdened with the pressures of sentience. If I had it to do over again I don't know that I would.

The grange people have their dances for many of the same reasons, to sum up. And my own theory is that's what gets them worked up enough that we have more grange people. That is, it's all part of their mating ritual. And therein is the key to why the dance could very well be "The Dance of Doom" for someone who comes into their camp, dancing, chasing the farmers' daughters, and yet not wanting to adhere to their ways. One of the elders twitches his nose, a horse recognizes the signal. Suddenly the last sound you hear is "hee haw," just before being kicked to death.

Group Dynamics And Grange Dances

I confess I don't have any formal education in the field of group dynamics. But naturally, like everything else I set my mind to, I'm an expert in it. I feel that formal education takes away a person's fire and enforces conformity to a particular line of thought. I prefer to think for myself and discern the truth through intuition. Don't believe me? OK, my intuition is telling me right now that you, the average reader, think I'm full of crap, and that formal education should never be dissed. See how good I am?

Now that I've addressed the skeptics, let me invite you to please feel free to quote me in theme papers, term papers, dissertations, or group dynamics seminars. Whatever the style manual says about attributions, go with it. But as for seminars, oral presentations, of course I will understand if you don't feel like attributing the quotes to me personally, because one thing I know about group dynamics, the folks at seminars don't really care about such details. They hate being there in the first place and all they're interested in (short-term) is when the next coffee break is.

As for who I am and how I happen to have such a vast understanding of such a complex field -- group dynamics -- the actual truth is I'm like a hillbilly. You might've driven by and seen me sitting outside my house today chewing on a weed. Because that's what I was doing, the local man sitting there thinking. And I know I was seriously thinking because the weed was chewed to mush, which is what I do. If you tell your seminar audience that your quotes are from a weed-chewing hillbilly, actually that would make them more interested. But there's a good chance that seminar bookers won't want you back, because it's in their long-term interest that you mimic academic standards.

But I'm interested in group dynamics at various kinds of seminars, anything really. I'll just throw a dart and let it stick in one truth about seminars and tell me I'm not right: The audience will kiss the butt of the presenter every time, and they do it magnificently. Because you never know when the presenter is going to be looking right into your eyes, putting you on the spot, and you know you want to look good in the eyes of the rest of the audience. Am I right? Of course I am. But never fear, because the presenter is not going to turn on you. Whatever you say, he or she is going manage to affirm you.

Anyway, that's my group dynamics lesson for the day.

Now, how does this apply to grange dances? There's some serious group dynamics at grange dances, but they're different than at seminars. At grange dances the people all pretty much know each other. The folks who are unknown are those who accompany the regulars. There's a lot of interest in these unknown folks because a grange community is mentally a very inbred thing. Fresh blood raises fresher possibilities. But not everything that the unknown do will be affirmed, big difference. Because the group dynamic is one that has protection of the group at its base. If you fail at any point to impress, you will be shunned until you're so uncomfortable that you commit suicide or are kicked to death by a horse.

Check the stats. In rural areas there's more suicides and "accidental" horse kickings within two miles of a grange meeting place than any other place. (Before the decline of the family farm this wasn't true. At that time, let's say 1972 and before, most suicides took place by people hanging themselves in barns. Granges held second place. Although "accidental" horse kickings never took place in private barns and nearly always at granges.)

Let's say you're a newcomer at the grange. If you make it through the grueling introductions and being sized up, then it's time for the dance. I'm going to say something that they'll never tell you. This is where the real sizing up takes place. There are eyes on you the whole dance. There are people outside, apparently drunk, one leg on their car door. These people are as sober as a fundamentalist and equally eagle-eyed. They are looking for the real you, what you reveal when you think you're safe.

They'll have informants, apparently making out in cars, walking by sloshed, groping at each other, women with their shirts unbuttoned, seeming to be very loose in their morals, men with their pants pulled down, peeing against trees or even the side of the grange. It's all a test. I once saw a dozen people in a figure eight orgy because they wanted to break down one newcomer. And they got him too. He started to unzip his pants -- that's it -- when a horse suddenly appeared and kicked him to death.

If you're a man, say about my age, and you're there to meet a farmer's daughter, chances are you'll meet an informant. Because nearly everyone there is an informant, sizing you up, seeing if you're suitable to fit into their society. For those who make it, there are plenty of positive benefits besides surviving these terrible horses.

One positive benefit is that, from now on, unless they fail morally, they will have a community that watches over them like a hawk, keeping them ever in their sight, giving them that steady sense of protection and inclusion in the group. You'll never make a move without their approval, and you won't want to. Because you appreciate that structure in your life.

You'll feel safe as you advance on, knowing the rest of the group is there keeping that structure as rigid and right as possible. At some point -- you'll find it's like being in the company of polygamists -- you'll be part of a team of five or six, and you will walk in tight formation, staring straight ahead, turning without obvious signals to do so, losing all individuality. It's like they're drugged but it's not that at all. It's a strict discipline that you maintain because you appreciate the group's mind and heart.

It's a beautiful thing -- this group dynamic of discipline -- that, as I've said, extends even to their livestock, particularly their horses. Their horses have lost all the sense of their nature with a neatly enforced conditioning. Somehow they're trained to care about enforcing the structure, standing with a calculated casual stance meant to lull those marked for death into a sense of safety. Then as soon as you step behind them or even to the side, they'll whirl around and embed a horseshoe in your forehead. What they're trying to tell you is this, You didn't make the cut.

I'm planning on launching out a little in life. I've been alone long enough. Wish me luck. I'm going to the grange next Friday night for the dance. My family has a heritage in the grange even though Grandma and I haven't been there for years. I would guess most of them are suspicious of me because my family didn't adher to the discipline.

If I survive -- let's just say I will, fingers crossed -- I'll blog about it here next Saturday.

Tweets - 08-02-2009

I've always been a big fan of the science of group dynamics. And the sexual tensions at grange dances.

You might call me a group dynamologist and a grange dancologist. With an interest in sexual tension. And farmers' daughters.

To anyone who thinks I'm destined to lose in this endeavor, think again. Nothing about this is predestined. I'll be living life as it comes.

A farmer's daughter in shorts! Huff, huff, howullll! Whooooooo! Yip, yip, yip, yowwwwwwouuuulll. Vih! Vih! [Preening].

It just occurred to me that most of the farmers' daughters in my age group, over 50, might not be wearing those skimpy shorts.

There's no horse so deadly as the one trained expressly to kill.