Be Normal, It's Not That Hard

No. 9 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

I always try to be an encouragement to my psycho friends, "C'mon, be normal! It's so easy! Try it ... Put one brain cell in front of the other and think! If you try it, you'll find it's just like ice skating. You put one foot forth and tippie-toe along -- have confidence! -- and pretty soon you're sailing across the beautiful ice! Gliding like that..." When naturally they crumple. So much for my theory that good coaching solves everything, when you're talking to a guy whose head's stuffed with mush, and maybe even the mush isn't connected.

But, patience, I keep trying. I'll always believe, Put your mind to it and great things will happen. And don't we all have aspirations? I was taught that. And if I didn’t believe it, I’d give up. I’d hate to look out on life’s landscape and see nothing looking back. Rather, I look out and I’m part of it, along with everyone else, with hopes, dreams, and possibilities. The overall prognosis is good. If we could just get rid of the pessimism which so often marks our lives on a day to day basis. Think, people!

It probably should be established what the baseline in life is, what we should all be or strive to be. It’s called Normal. A very simple word, huh? Although normal doesn’t always mean perfect or completely whole. It means not too many challenges, not too much personal hot water or stewing in it, but a basic path right down the middle. Like a karate chop, split the difference. Someone holds up four fingers, you don’t bite them off.

The big emphasis needs to be on our mental life and maintaining a decent enough standing. A guy has a stick. He does things with the stick as a sort of tool. All normal enough to understand. But he doesn’t poke his eye out. That’s far from normal, unless it’s an accident, then it’s a normal consequence of life when it’s gone bad. But once you've literally poked out an eye, all kinds of nasty things can easily follow, and I'll probably have to wrestle you to the ground.

So what about mentality when it’s off the normal track? It’s normal in the sense that things can go wrong. But it’s abnormal if the organism is out of whack and doing things against its well-being. Without giving an exhaustive description — which would be dry and boring — this is where the Psycho Squad springs into action. We look out on the world as though with an all-seeing eye. What we see looking back is a more or less normal sector. With a fairly large abnormal sector, causing crazy havoc for itself and others.

It's great to rev up the siren and make our wondrous forays into the night, because we're hoping to bring wayward minds back toward the norm. We give a quick diagnosis, say, holding up two fingers pointing to my eyes and theirs, hoping to see something registering, and if not, that’s a moment of crisis. Is the person armed? Can he or she be a threat to our normal lives and limbs? From there many paths present themselves, which we see in a flash. “Get this person to the hospital! Hup to! Hup to! ... And while you're at it, if you've got a sec, check again for guns."

Say you're the victim, the patient. You'll be happy when you’re back to normal. And, really, normal’s not so hard. Fingers to eyes, try to keep up. Let these things register in your psyche. Like falling off a log. Which takes absolutely nothing but gravity and the normal imbalances we all have, the normal inability to keep our footing on normal rotating slippery logs.

Birth, Life, and Death

No. 23 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

As the school year winds down at Dump Overlook High there's a big assembly, with the guidance counselor offering his thoughts on the year just passed and his vision for the future. The natural assumption is that he has lots of wisdom and will draw something good from it for our inspiration.

The year I graduated it was a big production, with me even having a part in crafting the grand backdrop. I’m proud to say the backdrop hadn't always been so lavish. Some years it was no more than a few pathetic sheets of paper tacked to the front of the podium with illustrations like the sun, moon, and stars, a sky motif illustrating the passing of the years and our hopes and dreams.

My year was a much bigger deal, with a huge backdrop on Birth, Life, and Death. The scheme was almost philosophical. Birth is over here on the viewer’s left, the beginning. Life is the indeterminate span after Birth, which unfortunately leads — varying from person to person, depending on his or her susceptibility to whatever's catching, everything from polio to gonorrhea and its associated itching — to a possibly brutal and painful Death. It's humbling to think of some of the ways you can die. I knew a guy literally decapitated! Never knew what hit him. Only knew, whatever it was, it was fast...

For the assembly I was privileged to work on the DEATH sign. They even put me in charge of it! A little sop from the guidance counselor, I later thought, to give me a deeper sense of my native aptitude, a lesson in sticking to a job, and encouragement that I could oversee something successfully. And I had very little help with it. I hate to ask people to help, but there were a few kids who were also at loose ends and we were cobbled together for the project. A few of them mixed the paint and the rest of us daubed it in, making, I’m sure you'll agree, a nice tableau.

I had a lot of pride looking at it as he spoke. I kept thinking, It could’ve been better. I saw a few streaks that should’ve been touched up. But there was a deadline and we didn’t have the time we needed to pour into it, with classes and tests and the fact that people have a social life, dates, dealing with hormones, etc.

Still, I thought proudly, it looked pretty good! Especially if you figure in the guys who did the BIRTH panel didn’t put in half the sweat, and as far as elbow grease they also had the short end of the stick. The LIFE team did a great job, but they had a lot more people. And anytime a panel is central to a presentation, of course that’s where the resources will go. Like being born on third base, it’s not a great feat if you’re first to score.

And think of this, everyone’s down on DEATH. We’re not supposed to think of Death like we think of Life. So instead of being on third base, it’s like being stillborn from the get-go, having to claw our way up from the slime, hunkering down and pushing forward despite the obstacles, and having to even justify our existence! It’s obvious if it weren’t for the whole scheme of BIRTH and LIFE they would’ve left DEATH out all together. Which isn't fair but it’s a fact. Meaning, actually, as far as everyone was concerned, we were on the project by forced necessity, not something to be proud of.

Still, you know, as far as these things go, the guidance counselor gave one heck of a talk. Backed by one of the best damned DEATH panels anyone’s ever come up with! Then when it was all over, it was all tossed out, I guess. The landfill guy probably looked at it and thought, Not bad at all.

Comfort Schmomfort

Comfort, Schmomfort. Schmomfort isch my teasching. Eschew Comfort, Choose Schmomfort.

Where hasch Comfort gotten usch? We're lazschy, clinging, never schatisfied, deep in debt, peeking out the blinds, the schades. That's the firscht thing I do, schurely every morning.

Yesch, it'sch scho! When all the time -- in plain schight, no lessch, and open to all -- Schmomfort opens wide thosche schmomforting arms, schaying, pleading, "Schmomfort, Schmomfort my people. Lischten to Schmomfort and rescheive Schmomfort in rische abundance." All the schmomforting Schmomfort you need and more. Schmomfort, scho musch that no one can schmomfortly take it from you. Let 'em try, huh?

Friends, let me schmestify: As I write thisch schmestimony I'm schitting in a broken chair. It'sch wobbly, appears to be on itsch last legs, and it isch. The armreschts, they're schtill a place to rescht my arms -- but there'sch scho much brokennesch that the rescht is schistory. I'm honeschtly nearly provoked to throw thisch chair away and get a new one. Only one thing schtands in my way: Schmomfort!

That's juscht me. What about you? And, no, I'm no one schpecial, just another schmo. But I can't schmomfortably let you go! I would tossch and turn and barely schleep if I tried. Maybe I schould let you go, and schettle myschelf schmomfortably in my own Schmomfort. Who wouldn't, if you know what I know? I'd have it all to myschelf! Can you guessch what'sch holding me back? Schmomfort itschelf, yes, the schame. That's Schmomfort, brother, schister.

Because Schmomfort isch without end. Comfort, too, of coursche, but Comfort takes us to a falls schend. True, huh? You go for Comfort, you getsch a falsche end. A big fat falls schend that you'll be schitting on forever. It's scho true! I've scheen the ravages of Comfort. Schtarts off with schitting a schpell, then on and on. Butt time fails me to schow and tell the whole teasching. Schuffice to schay, when you need a bigger schair, by then it'sch too late, butt time fails you two...

Have you already schlipped away? Are you scho far away you're outta schight? Have you drifted scho far, then hit the rusches of Comfort? Perhaps crasched on the schoals? If scho, what can I schay, go on, take your rescht. Don't let me dischturb you.

Schtill, friends, I have to believe there are schome here today -- schurly many -- who would be able to agree and schay: "Yesch, I hear the voisch of Schmomfort!" And you're ready to take the firscht schtep. Until it'sch schtep after schoothing schtep, all the blessched way on the scherene path to meet for yourschelf and know Schmomfort and Schmomfort's perfect peasche.

Pleasche, schtep out now.

Going Stag

I used to always hear about going to things stag. One guy. I don't hear that much anymore. Maybe we forgot what a stag is, which would be the root of the idea. The way I remember it, a stag is some kind of deer or super antelope, standing at a river pass, alone, drinking, while the other animals keep a respectful distance, waiting their turn.

With just that definition it's easy to see how they got the phrase "going stag," which often applied to bachelors. Then one would be about to get married and the others had a stag party for him. His last night of complete freedom, hanging out with the other stags, drinking himself sick. Some kind of entertainment. That's when the stags got together, but usually they went to things alone. Not that I'm up on it or in any position to get clinical; I never did research on it.

Do I ever go stag? Afraid so, more times than I like really. Like out to eat, but I don't like the look of it or the feel of it. And that's the way with most stags. They sit in their car with their bag of tacos and eat them as fast as possible. It takes me a little longer because I have to put hot sauce on each one as I go. I was out the other day and another guy I know was also stag. I motioned back and forth between us, two guys doing the same thing, whatever it was, independent, alone, but briefly together and witnesses to the thing. He waved and looked down.

Childhood was better. Like when my mom or grandma would go with me to the doctor's office, or all the kids had to go. Now mom and grandma are gone and I'm old, so I'm at the doctor's stag. The nurses watch me come in. And give me the computer interface to type my info in. Someone they can contact? I have relatives, who no doubt have their thing going on somewhere, ducking in, ducking out. I put the funeral home. They appreciate the business.

Really, it's nearly everything I go stag for. The library, church. I don't go on vacations that much, but I know guys who do. Taking selfies of themselves in front of the the world's largest steam shovel, stag. I personally hate tourist sites: "It's all been done before!" Who cares? I've thought about going to Mt. Rushmore, but I'm iffy. I read the book by John (Fire) Lame Deer and he's dead-set against Mt. Rushmore. And from his perspective it's obvious, we should never have messed up that mountain! So who wants to see that? Especially stag. Although I wouldn't want to go with friends either, because no doubt they've missed Lame Deer's great book and would love seeing it. Guess I'd rather go stag, but I'd rather not go at all.

I hate to make going stag sound pathetic. It's just a fact of life. Most people go stag to the post office regularly. I'm at the post office a few times a week and it's a parade of one-person at a time. The dentist, I'm always stag there. In that case, I'm very breezy about it. I breeze in, greet everyone in a bubbly way. It's sophisticated enough there they've got your basic paperwork taken care of on the computer. There's nothing to it. They get me in, there's room in the chair for one, so stag is the only way to fly.

Wouldn't it be crazy to rent someone to go with you? As in professional daters; I can't remember what that's called. Escorts was what it used to be called. Probably personal assistant now. You go to a massage parlor. They see another stag coming in. And you offer to pay them up front just to go to the zoo with you. Where there might be some captive stags -- the real deal -- looking for a way out. Follow me!

Golden Children Everywhere

THE GOLDEN CHILD - #17 (END)

Oh yeah, you had to know there'd be a happy ending. That's the way my life goes, many happy returns. Myra Kula Electra and I are still on good terms. We've seen each other only a couple times, though, so there hasn't been many opportunities for fireworks. I assume she's out there somewhere still, happy and bringing joy to the world around her.

The Tractor Promenade, now a national sensation, is turning away offers for appearances, since they're only able to be so many places. The guys who "dance" in it have other jobs. Office jobs, a couple of them work at the feed store, one's a fireman, etc. And no doubt they're afraid to just up and quit for the riches of continual performances, having taken into account the fickleness of the American public -- you quit your job at the store and next thing you know America's moved on to the next flash in the pan.

The black prison bus came -- thankfully -- and took the four prisoners back to the work release farm. Which isn't entirely good news for me, although I've put up with it all this time, since, of course, the farm's only about 8 miles directly southwest of my place. Those dudes are devious. They could steal dark clothes, charcoal their faces, and crawl that far in about an hour and kill me in my sleep, if they wanted to. And I can't see why they wouldn't want to, knowing as I do the extent of their evil; after all, they did have public sex with Myra Kula Electra at the July 4 celebration a few years ago. A blight on their memory I will never forget!

The town still sees me as more or less a hero, having freed the area of demons, sealed a major portal to hell, and brought excitement to this sleepy burg like they haven't had in a long time. Still, it hurts to see downtown ripped to shreds, fixtures on the courthouse dangling, etc.; it all looks like a war zone. But let's say we get a major employer back in town, it won't take forever to come up with the money to fix it. Hell, we could get a benefit performance with the Tractor Promenade; that'd bring in a few bucks. The bright side is, let's say we're all around 50 years from now -- there'll be memorial markers to me, etc., and kids will be playing me in school plays.

Speaking of kids! Some of those kids 50 years from now will be the grandchildren of all the kids who've come into the world since the battle ended. Naturally they had to be in utero before the whole thing happened -- I guess; it's not like I was there for every conception; conceivably (no pun intended) Heaven could be so happy they speeded up things. Anyway, be all that as it may, there's been independent verification from some radio ministers that the world has been blessed with many, many golden children -- all basically born the same week. No one's ever seen anything like it! It was in the news for the joy of it itself, plus the strain it's putting on businesses who provide lenient leave for parents after blessed events.

These kids, if the reports are true, all have a cheerful look. I'm not going to lie. Somehow they look like me when I was born. I'm not going to put up a baby picture -- although if I did, you'd fall over in love with me. Even I can't believe it, when I look in the mirror now I look like an average dumb old man. Except for the sardonic grin every time someone says something overly conventional, I'm as UN-golden looking as anyone ... now. But back then it was different. That's what these kids look like! Although they're various genders, with various orientations, various races, various everything. Two eyes like me, etc.

Welcome, Golden Children! Please raise your right hand. (Children everywhere are raising their hands, hearing/reading these words despite distance, through walls, in other countries, whatever). Repeat after me, mentally: "I am a Golden Child. I promise to do my best to live up to that great role. I will stand for goodness, justice, and see the beauty in everyone. I will live my life creatively, with good humor, with affection, in love with life and others. I promise to do the rest of the things written on the paper that the author of this blog -- dbkundalini -- is holding up for me to read," etc., etc., "which lists many life-affirming things, all of which I heartily agree to."

Having sworn in all the Golden Children, I now evaporate back into spirit (as the Golden Child) and pass my reign herewith unto this new multitude, wishing them all the best, now and forever.

THE END  

Go Whole Hog!

My family's philosophy when I grew up was, Anything worth doing is worth doing whole hog. Go long, go deep, or go home. Lukewarm doesn't cut it, we'll spew you out of our mouth.

Now I'm old, and kids come to me for advice. (It's true, here and there you find stragglers.) And I tell them, much like Joseph Campbell's "Follow your bliss," whatever it is, go whole hog! They look at me, with doubt in their big innocent Walter Keane eyes. But I get a stern look on my face, and in my agitation point toward the door, snarling, "Now!"

I've been going whole hog all my life, and except for the dangers of always being ALL IN, it's been a fairly good ride.

But, let me say, I used to have a secret grudge against some in my family. Even though we believed in going whole hog -- and this is literal -- I'd still catch them buying half an animal. Know what I mean? That's one of three things: Shortsightedness, absentmindedness, or hypocrisy. I don't think it was hypocrisy, because they still went whole hog in everything else.

I'd think, "What's the use of buying half a hog or beef? Especially if it means letting the other half go to waste. Buy the whole thing!" And lockers back then were meant to handle the whole thing. These were people who went through the Depression. When times were good they built meat lockers like you wouldn't believe, the size of football fields.

In more recent years, though, as you'd probably guess, some of our sicklier friends stopped eating vast quantities of meat, and that didn't help. Guys at the locker threw up their hands and went out of business. The enormous freezer units were pulled out -- electricity also went up, taxes went up on the larger buildings, etc. Leading me to one conclusion: Life is nothing but a big conspiracy to screw us out of decent sized meat lockers.

There were still folks who needed lockers -- thank God -- but they had to do with smaller ones. My family, I regret to repeat, had a part in this devolution, buying half an animal when a full animal would've been better.

You never know what your actions might be if you don't go whole hog. But I've seen it happen. That's one of the benefits of old age. The wisdom of going whole hog. The chief detriment is they think you're crazy, depriving themselves.

A long-haired (bald on top) guy marches around the square with a protest sign, "Buy the whole animal." But across the lawn, a bunch of PETA women are stripped naked and painted like tigers. You tell me, who draws the crowd? The old man can do nothing but go home in tears. That, and prepare himself for even smaller lockers. Tell you what I'll do, I'll double down on buying personal freezers, energy crisis be damned!

Sorry I went on and on about it. There's very few things I care passionately about; meat lockers just happens to be one of them.

Anyway, people come to me. And that's what I say, Go whole hog. The ironic thing is, I myself have never ventured very far from my old comfort zone. But when I chose this path, I went whole hog. And so here I've been, in my comfort zone, at my grandparents' old place, vegetating and chilling, chilling and vegetating, but always doing it, strictly, whole hog.

Once You Go Ojibaway...

I heard the call from the shower stall two stalls down, "Ojibaway! Ojibaway!" Two things about it: 1) I didn't need three guesses to know what was going on; and, 2) I knew he'd be dead by noon. Another non-native Gone Ojibaway, sad.

And yet there's always the temptation, as I well know. Forbidden fruit, etc., trying to be something other than what you are. We've all heard the mythology that the Ojibaway are the studliest guys in the world, and they are inarguably culturally well-endowed. Who wouldn't want to be Ojibaway, if only for a day? Struttin', secure in yourself, always on the move, on the prowl, luxuriating in the wildest things, and taking names and kicking ass, and, of course, carrying out the terrible ritual murders of those who've Gone Them.

I for one have always taken pride in my own personal restraint. Naturally, I've been very tempted. But when it comes to temptation, by and large I simply keep it to myself. I don't make the various moves you have to make to make fantasy reality. I'm afraid of lots of things in life, and it's this constant fear, while taking away some of my quality of life, that has at least given me quantity; I'm busy getting old, always looking out for even imaginary dangers. But what goes on behind closed doors, as far as I'm concerned, even in hot showers, stays there, hidden and steamy wet. If I can get in on it, I'm very careful ... picky and choosy.

Likewise, I'm always amazed at the vast number of stupid guys who don't share my caution. And some of them, the ones I've known, I thought were a lot smarter than that. This one guy, whose white guy name was LeRoy, and whose Ojibaway name I don't remember, one day Went Ojibaway ... and that was it. We gathered at the funeral home and no one said a word about it. It was also the unspoken word -- the O word -- at his grave site. The only reference to it at all was the sudden appearance of a mysterious bloody feather atop his casket.

I'm sure I don't have to tell most of you, the Ojibaway don't mess around. Once you Go Ojibaway you don't go back. Because the Ojibaway are just that fast. They're on you like a ton of buffalo. Knife to the throat, knife to the back, knife to the heart, and a bit of poison in each ear. And speaking as one who's had plenty of ear problems, itching, I'm very worried about Ojibaway poison.

There are immense payoffs, they say, and I guess we'd have to admit it, to Going Ojibaway. The wild sex, first, and, second, those amazing dreams of tribal mythology that puts you right at the center of everything. For the few hours you have left, you're going to feel things, see things, and experience things you've never known before. But when the Ojibaway avenger gets there, you'll also feel things, see things, and experience things you've never known before. And that you'll never know again.

No, no, no, none of it's for me! Would I like to experience those few hours of ecstasy? Of course I would! But I'm very strong, as I said, and I do not give into temptation. That's why other guys like me are falling like flies and I alone continue on.

So beware ... Beware indeed! ... The Ojibaway lifestyle -- with amazing powers and satisfaction that just don't quit -- is uniquely for the Ojibaway who are Ojibaway by nature. Anyone else foolhardy enough to mess with it, schittttt [gesture and noise of your throat being cut.]

Paywall -- You Just Lost the Daily Option

I heard an interesting quote, that I think really applies here: "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." Whoa! Let that sink in! That's "the mass of men," Joe Average, Walt Wimp. So applicable, definitely, to the situation here at hand! Whoever first said that surely had in mind the Wimps of our present day. How prescient!

It's in that awareness, and that spirit, that I announce an executive decision, made without consulting anyone, asking no counsel but my own inner authority: I have cut off and immediately terminated your opportunity to sign up for a Daily subscription plan. That option is hereby gone. You're out. We've already moved past it. You've been judged unworthy. Your inaction doomed you, as I figured all along it would.

Does this mean the paywall for my blog is dead? No, how would you come to such an absurd conclusion? Did you do it on your own? What a leap! It certainly does not mean that. But it does mean that for those who might still avail themselves of one of the higher subscription plans, your time also is running out. Do not delay. The cutoff point could come at any time. Act now or possibly be left high and dry. Don't presume, the time remaining is short. Act now, with all haste. Due diligence must be your watchword.

With the Daily option gone, that leaves plenty of options: Weekly, Monthly, Yearly, and Lifetime. If finances are an issue, then by all means I'd say go with the Weekly plan. At $700 a week, it's your most economical rate, but it might not last. Lock it in now. The other plans remain more secure, Monthly ($2,800), Yearly ($33,599), and Lifetime ($5 million.) You can have a fair to excellent hope of those being available.

But who knows? Sometimes life's opportunities are fleeting. All the things we have to go through to exist ... most of it has nothing to do without our own conscious choices. But there are a few things, some of the things of happiness that the moment makes demands on us. My part in that is to experience it along with everyone else. But once in a while, as here, I have something to do with it. And I don't mind teaching a few dawdlers a lesson or two about life! Ever hear the old saw, Time waits for no man... ? Well, things happen.

So that gate is shut, that door is locked. May the money you might have used for the Daily option canker and rot. I wouldn't accept it now were you to throw it at my feet. The reason why -- and this is obviously a serious matter -- is Wimps are not worthy. There was a very good reason, as it turns out, why you were so labeled. Your failure to seize the moment was signal. Opportunity knocked, but you failed to answer. Forgoing your role in the equation was a crucial decision, and lamentable...

For me, the term Wimp always calls to mind a dreadful condition of spinelessness, and in this case the allusion is deadly accurate. It's weird that you share life with me. It just makes you realize, we're all that close. We breathe the same air, we see the same sky. Day is day for each of us. But there's huge differences in how people seem to function.

Maybe it's not entirely your fault, although I'm not looking to prop you up with excuses. Newborns sometimes lack just the right oxygen mix, then years later pay for that in failing health. However true that might be, I'm convinced most of our problems are our fault. How much oxygen would you have needed to do the right thing in this instance?

So, yes, the paywall's still going up. That won't be stopped. But something has been stopped, something has been terminated. The Daily subscription option. If you have only $100 to spend, keep it -- we'll do without your meager contribution.  The clarion call that you somehow missed has now gone silent, what was warm is now cold, and your chances are through. What a terrible thing it must be -- I'm trying to imagine it --  to realize how close you were, how your opportunity was right there at hand, and you were unwilling.

Closing Out September

I'm closing out September with a few trifles. 30 days hath September, and today's the day it hath them!

I spent most of September on other projects -- note to self -- hence my lack of posts here.

It was actually one project, involving photography, and it's amazing how consuming it was for me. But it had a definite lifespan. I can't say I didn't see it coming, because I felt it coming as sure as anything.

Most things that I become extremely interested in like that have a lifespan. The arc is natural enough, starting with my first discovery, my first steps, a few tentative moves, then I become more interested. Soon I'm an old hand, showing what I have, in this case thinking I have a real eye for it, and I believe I do. Now I'm evaluating it, but only periodically, thinking occasionally of the vanity, yet persisting in ever new variations of participation. Midway through, I'm really able to produce, like the long distance runner. There's still enough avenues to run down, so I'm thinking I'm doing something useful, but the nagging in my mind is getting louder all the time: Why? I keep going, I double down on my efforts, I set goals and meet them, and soon I'm such an old hand it's like I've been doing it forever. I'm established, I'm even respected. But I start seeing the arc as an arc indeed and know that I'm getting toward the end. I make a resolution: I'll just be this interested in it, self limiting. Except I know that will never work. Because when I've pierced through to the full realization of the vanity -- knowing its true worthlessness -- I start casting about for something tried and true, something that does have value to me.

That is a funny paragraph, and every word is true!

The good news about a life pursuit like this is that I didn't make a large investment in it. I didn't make any commitments. There's nothing I have to be ashamed of. No one got hurt. And it was even kind of fun, while also serving as a cautionary tale to me about whatever my next consuming interest is, to look for the arc early on.

Hail The Conquering Industrialist!

Today's post is a highly personal one, as I buck up my self-image after a day of terrible doubt. Remember yesterday, I envisioned my own passing and that of my blog, as seemed all but certain at some point in the next five billion years.

Of course it seems absurd even to me that something this piddling would set me back. But in fact it did. I think there's something about extremely large numbers, billions of years, that messes up my thinking. You know?

Our thinking -- and I think this is true of other people too -- can be spooked. Because we're so used to thinking in terms of today and tomorrow and Christmas and our next birthday. To suddenly see yourself dead, the entire world destroyed, and your blog ended is different.

So yesterday, through the day, I had a hard time putting it out of my mind, but I did my best. As much as I could, I focused on my current reputation, the boldness I live by, the success I've had, and my life's overall mojo. This became a matter of exaltation, lifting myself in self esteem. As a life coach for others, naturally the saying, "Physician, heal thyself," applies to me.

For this purpose, then, in the exaltation process, I envisioned myself in the greatest terms. I became the embodiment of the conquering industrialist, like the dreaded monarchs of old.

You also can imagine it: There's the parade of the conqueror, leading in his foreign captives, along with the beasts of the foreign countries, and their women. Picture it with me, but remember I said it was highly personal. I have to work on my own personal issues, even if some think it's tasteless to do so in public.

Here comes the conquering industrialist, conquering what exactly? The Major Industrial Powers (MIP), doing his best to take them captive. In cage number one, a big gold cage on wheels, we have MIP executives who have been captured. They're nude, displaying their very small parts, and slumped against the bars. In cage number two, a big silver cage, we have MIP officials, nude, displaying slightly larger parts, angry at the executives for advising them to cut corners, making them susceptible to Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) forces. In cage number three, a big bronze cage, we have MIP underlings, foremen and leadmen, also nude, displaying larger parts yet, angry at the officials and executives for giving them such shoddy leadership that their products turned out inferior and overpriced. And in the last cage, the fourth, a big corrugated cardboard (paper) cage, we have MIP peons, workers, truck drivers, and lunch ladies, all nude, displaying the largest parts, except for the lunch ladies, angry at the underlings, foremen and leadmen, and the officials and executives for implicating them in this massive fraud called the MIP.

In this scenario, I am the conquering industrialist, along with other RIM leaders, distributing whips and cattle prods with which to threaten the MIP captives. But at the last second, in my mercy, I command them to set their weapons down, and release the MIP failures, who take multiple paths out of town. Of course the peon class we would welcome more gladly into the RIM ranks; that goes without saying. And up the line it would go like that, with the MIP executives receiving the most scorn, being passed over for any pencil pushing jobs there might've been. As said, they take various paths out of town.

OK, now put this industrial parade out of your mind. And picture me, consolidating in my own person everything, the best the RIM has to offer. I become larger than life, a colossus, striding over the world, going from victory to victory. I take my place, the red giant sun behind me, even it being dimmed in the effulgence of my glory. I occupy such a position of prominence and pride, like the biblical Herod who became filled with worms and died, the people can't even look upon me for the brightness. "This is not a man," they shout, "but a god." I advise my tribunes, much shorter than I, to plead with the people, that such a conquering industrialist considers the word "god" beneath him. They must do better!

Three graybeards step forward, who have studied theology and depth psychology, and they go into a big clawing death match, scratching and biting. One graybeard falls. The other two bring out cudgels, mallets, and spears, and fight. The larger man has the smaller man down. But the smaller man thrusts a scimitar into the larger man's gut, all quite a surprise to him, I must say. The winner's graybeard red with the others' blood, he proclaims me the master of life itself, knowing how many factories depend on my beneficence.

As to the conquered women I mentioned, they minister to me in private.

Right here, after their ministering, I become fully aware of the phenomenon of 'The Psychic Price,' and I become so small the people can't see me. The women don't know what happened to me. I am suddenly dressed in rags and, unlike Herod, am able even to elude the much larger worms that are on the way to consume me. Notice how great I am! Because this is the stumbling block that gets everyone else! But I am a very small man, dressed in rags, little more than a worm myself!

I pick up a used toothpick, its size in relation to me the size of a huge sword. This now is the conquering industrialist's sacred sword. I turn a corner, unseen by anyone, and run right into a dust bunny. I use the sword, this toothpick, to cut my way through the dust bunny thicket. I'm becoming smaller all the time. I'm so humbled. I'm being blown about in the wind and happen to land on top of a fleeing beggar's sandal. He's running because the whole crowd is running, not knowing what happened to the colossus who had been before them. Even the women wish I'd come back.

But the beggar is looking out for number one. He runs to a place beneath a bridge, where he stays. I'm there, now hiding behind a grain of sand. I hear him thanking his lucky stars that he wasn't trampled. He falls asleep, and I hear him blubbering in his sleep, that God should bless their mighty victor, meaning me. "Keep him safe, snuffle, snore," he says. "Bring him prosperity, snuffle, snore," the beggar prays.

As I hear him pray, I'm increasing in size. Finally, I'm normal sized. And because I have powers, I start a campfire and make the man a decent meal of two eggs, four pieces of bacon, hashbrowns, and pancakes with strawberries, sauce, and whipped cream, which you might recognize as IHOP's current special, the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity, Bacon and Eggs Combo, embarrassing to say but delicious to eat. (I don't actually say it. I just get the waitresses' attention, point at the menu and grunt.)

After a while, the beggar sniffs the air like a horny camel, being very much like a thankful Ali Baba at this point, knowing Allah has sent him the food of the gods, something apparently from IHOP. He looks over and sees me keeping the eggs warm in the fire. I have on a very coarse fiber sack dress, or maybe I should call it a prophet's robe. And a hood. My head is pulled in so he can't see my face. The hood's hole keeps everything very dark within. But when I turn my gaze on him, he's able to see two gleaming lights, my eyes.

I suddenly remember he saved me, turn off my eyes and the darkness within, revealing myself very much a normal man, a humble man. He sputters, "You, you, are you?--" "Yes," I smile, a smile playing across my lips, "I am me. Good to know you, kind beggar."

(Let this be a lesson to you. Sometime in the future you too might see me. Oftentimes, I'm right out in public. But I will be that anonymous person you may not recognize. I could be in the next booth from you in a restaurant. I might be that guy in the library earnestly scanning every magazine they have. When you look over, maybe I'll have my eyes turned on, or maybe they'll be turned off. You never know. In fact, I've done many things in life quite anonymously. The other day I put money in a parking meter; no one around appeared to recognize me; I did it like any other person. But maybe you'll be one of the first, after this beggar, of course, to know it's me. Wouldn't it be great for you to recognize me?)

I tell the beggar to come to my factory. I give him a whitewall tire for his trouble. I take off the prophet's robe and put on my normal clothes. People come by to see me, telling me of incredible dreams they've been having about me and the end of the world. I soothe their frazzled nerves, telling them, "No, as long as I'm in the world, the Earth will be spared."

That is what the conquering industrialist speaks. That is what the conquering industrialist declares is done.

Deeply Ingrained Patterns Of Industrial Behavior

Everyone here knows I'm fascinated with certain scholarly pursuits, among them the lifestyle sciences, human environmental science, and group dynamics. I was charting out some of this over a year ago as a lifestyle coach. That's a great thing to call yourself. It sounds great, and it's a completely unregulated field.

You might remember my post a little over a year ago sketching out the "Three Rs of Intentional Group Dynamics": 1) aRrange, 2) Reconnoiter, and, 3) Ruminate. Since then, I've had the interesting experience of seeing both my name and the "Three Rs" in a couple of textbooks (alas, for undergrads). It's interesting, but they don't pay you when you're quoted in textbooks. So that's what I learned from textbooks in the last year!

The "Three Rs," as stated above, are meant for the intentional study or guiding of group dynamics. Obviously, "aRrange" is all about intentionality, the careful arranging in advance of spatial conditions depending on your purpose. You want chairs in the right place, knives put away, etc. But reconnoitering and ruminating are more general steps valuable for any group dynamics experience, being more easily done on the fly than aRranging. But you can aRrange somewhat on the fly, depending, again, on your purpose, and the exigencies of the situation.

I don't want to give away too many trade secrets, but I'm actually pretty good at aRranging on the fly. Let's say you walk into a room of people. The group dynamic's already in motion. But anything you do, like a pebble in a pond, is going to have a ripple effect. You can still do very subtle things to aRrange. Everyone's chair might be angled to the left, angle yours to the right. Everyone might be very quiet, you yawn loudly. There's a thousand ways to stir the pot and subtly aRrange things. The element of surprise is your friend, with the goal of having a lovely time of reconnoitering, then later ruminating.

I love getting together with my fellow residential industrialists in small groups or individually. Doing so over the last few months has been a real experience, showing me some of the deeply ingrained patterns of human behavior in an industrial setting. I thought it'd be fun to mention just a few of the common types and how they relate. You can see if these match up with your experience.

THE EXECUTIVE FOREMAN -- The executive foreman is the guy who never works on the lines or in the plant. He's the foreman of foremen. He doesn't have much to say in the hall, but you can tell he loves the attention of everyone looking at him as he passes. But he's so used to it, it barely registers on his features. The peons aren't exactly afraid of him. They're more afraid of their own foreman getting in trouble with the exec, then taking it out on them. The executive foreman is known for keeping his seething temper under wraps except for when he has a foreman in his office and the door's closed. I love reconnoitering and ruminating them. They always think you're observing someone else. It never occurs to them that they're under surveillance. But I've visited with them, pulling the curtains to get it dim and pull my chair in close to theirs (aRranging), and you ought to see the dynamics! Like big blubbering babies or sinners with a priest. Much sadder than you'd think. Then I ruminate about them with the foremen after hours over drinks. For them, it's non-stop entertainment and laughs.

THE FOREMAN -- There's few people in the factory as personally insecure as the foreman, so it's a great release for them to laugh about the execs over drinks. But my own opinion is they drink way too much. Yet the average guy thinks a foreman has it made. But they're insecure because they've been picked off the line, being promoted, and now they're directly responsible for everyone else's performance. They're at the mercy of the weakest link. So their insecurity's always showing itself, like if people have to go to the bathroom and they have to fill in. Because what if two people have to go to the bathroom? They can't stop the line. So they might be running back and forth, and with desperation comes carelessness. This is where I've seen foremen lose a finger. Group dynamics with a bunch of foremen is great fun, after hours, because they're always drunk. And they'll tell you anything you want to know.

THE LUNCH ROOM LADY -- No one has a better job than the lunch room lady. Her personality's always one for kidding around. She's heard it all and is hardened. She usually has a deep, tough voice. She laughs with gusto. She'll jokingly overcharge you at the cash register, saying a sandwich and coffee are $65.00 or even $1,000! She has cute nicknames for most of the guys, Easy Street, Easy Money, and one I heard for a guy named Les, Worth-less. She's kind of a go-between for people throughout the factory, since the breaks are staggered, so she's always relaying messages. But you can have a bad lunch lady, one who casually drops gossip about who your girlfriend was talking to at the last break, etc., and that's where you get some real factory fights ... I got a couple of these hotheads together in the parking lot one night, thinking I'd get their "feelings" in a group therapy-kind of session. But I ended up refereeing the bloodiest fight I've ever seen. It was very interesting.

THE PEONS -- The peon is a broad type, of course. Ranging from the old faithfuls to the young guys who can't make it a week. The happiest peon is the guy who gets his job and stays at it for years. Everyone knows he's weighing down that position and doing well. He doesn't want to be foreman or executive foreman. He's got a wife at home, he's not out drinking his paycheck.

The mid-happiest peon is the one who's good at what he does but is always looking at his options, maybe wanting to bid on something easier. He's got an in with the foreman -- he's heard some confessions at the bar and knows the value of good information. And in addition, because he's good at his work, and can hold his pee till scheduled breaks, he'll move up in the company.

The saddest peon -- this one is a toss-up. You've got the ones who aren't good at what they do, who need help, who are sickly or need to use the bathroom too much. They're the guys who get a reputation for inefficiency or an inability to improve. The other saddest peon would have to be those young guys who don't want to be there at all. You can't tell them a thing. They don't know the value of a job, etc. They talk back because they don't care. They're jealous about their girlfriends. And, of course, they always have tattoos.

Group dynamics with the old faithfuls is boring, since they're sober and strictly faithful to their spouse. The mid-happy ones do some drinking, and, just like trying to move up on the job, they're also sowing their wild oats after hours. So there's some good scuttlebutt. The saddest ones are so easy it's ridiculous. For the inefficient ones they'll blubber on your shoulder. And the others don't care. But be careful, they'll pull a switchblade on you if you pry too deeply. Stay up to date on your tetanus shots.

The whole factory is a one big group dynamics laboratory. And I love it! It's more or less already aRranged for you, just waiting for you to step in, to Reconnoiter, then Ruminate to your heart's content!

I Fillet The Industrial Powers

All kidding aside, I'm really in a bad mood tonight.

As you probably know very well, I'm something of a life coach on topics like self-esteem, personal pride, and confidence. I've long been a student of the various lifestyle sciences, etc., as well as a teacher. When I'm a student, I'm hoping my teachers will go easy on me. When I'm a teacher, I go tough on my students. My big aim is to master everything, thus dispensing with all teachers, giving me a free shot at the others.

OK, I'm all that ... self-esteem, pride, confidence, lifestyle sciences, human environmental studies, and so forth ... but tonight it's strictly a case of "Physician, Heal Thyself," in that I am hitting bottom ... personally, emotionally, psychologically. I'm overwrought, wrung out, and really feeling crabby.

This is a dangerous place for me, psychically. Because I know as well as anyone the psychic price that goes along with moods, acting out, and lashing out. They used to say at the local Ford dealer, "It only takes a minute to get a better deal," and I know it only takes a minute to bottom out. Having to do with my emotional life and not in buying cars. Except buying cars would make anyone mad.

All along -- the last month and more -- I've had it in for the industrial powers. They've made me periodically blow my top. It hasn't been a good ride for me in terms of taking care of myself, even if the sacrifices I've made for the sake of the world and my own town have been my privilege. There are those times I've gotten the job done, and I've felt a corresponding pride -- Who wouldn't? Then there have been those other times when I've felt a certain frustration and have bottomed out. My mood swings would make an interesting horror film.

So, tonight, I need to work through some of these feelings, which I know are spurred on by the industrial powers, those blasted industrialists, and all my concerns over the industrial section of my own town and other cities.

Today, driving along, I saw a road called "Industrial Lane"! I was thinking, "Good grief, isn't it enough that we give these filthy industrialists access to great tracts of our precious land -- any picture from space proves that real estate on the earth is a finite commodity -- but do we also have to name our streets after them?!" Industrial Park, Industrial Lane, Industrial Drive, etc., there's no telling where it will end!

Also driving along today, I was in a smaller town, much smaller than the one I've grown used to. And there was a railroad track, and there was some dinky wannabe industrial section. It was small, yet it still took up a good chunk of the very small town. I could only shake my head ... as well as let my anger simmer, smolder, and it finally erupted, resulting at me shaking my head in sorrow.

And so it goes. The world goes on, rolls on on its merry way, oblivious to the danger, the very clear and present danger. A few of us know ... too few ... and of those, how many of us are getting downright mad? I for one am.

I think of the fat cats, sitting in their offices, just sitting there with a cigar and a smile on their face. They hate me and I hate them. My hatred is pure. I would love to lash out and fillet them. Dress them down, like a big moose hanging in a tree.

An Idea On The Vine

Any idea, you should let it ripen on the vine.

The seeds of an idea, its first hint, takes root in the soil of thought. The posts and poles, horizontal and vertical, are there as a structure for it. That would be the architecture of your brain, your mind.

Somehow then your idea starts out as a seed in the tender, unpredictable soil of thought. It's pushing and striving to get buried in the best soil. There's lots of other seeds already in the area. The image is easy to see.

Now, you as the owner of the vineyard, the dresser of the thing, are paying attention to your best soil and best seed. You want to get the thing going. You already have other vines producing, of course, but this is for the future, immediate or distant, and it's not good to rely only on what you already have.

So there it is, the one seed, this seed, and all the other seeds, in the soil of thought, and they -- or it -- gets going. You see it growing, it grows rich and lustrous until it's seed days are way behind it.

Your idea has sprouted and is out of the ground, up on the structure, starting to wind around, starting to toughen up and develop further, starting to cling, to take possession of the structure, while down here it's choking and putting other seeds and sprouts out of their misery. This is one killer idea.

A little time passes, while you're carefully tending, carefully watering, pruning and nurturing it. It's big enough and strong enough, really, to stand on its own. You could go back to the house and take a nap. And it'd be good if you did.

Then you can come back and the idea is virtually full grown, pretty enough on the vine that you start bringing in decorative trellises to make it look at home. They've got horizontal and vertical aspects and are made out of the prettiest wood painted white.

As time goes by, quickly, you're doing the last little touches on the idea, pictured here as quite a lively vine, which has flowered up and is giving life to little bits of fruit, that then become bigger, plumper, mature, obviously juicy.

You hate to waste anything, but you simply have to have a bite, so you find one off at the edge somewhere and bite in. Ahh, it's perfection!

Now it's time to stand back and let the natural elements do their thing. Any meddling at this point would be superfluous, and potentially harmful to the thing. You've done your part in giving it life, now it's time to let it live freely. All the while producing fruit for you that will be the richest, best, most welcome fruit.

It's good for the taste, and good for the soul.

The Apparent Ability Of Creatures To Know Their Schedule

It's been a week of scientific study, as I have noted and interpreted "The Apparent Intelligence of Creatures" and "The Apparent Quick Adaptability of Creatures." Both studies involved the kids waiting for the school bus outside, across the street.

Today I was at the window with my clipboard and microscopes, tapping my watch because no one was showing up. The bus usually comes from the south, but the south was clear. The last couple of days it came from the west, but the west was also clear. As for the pathways, there were no kids to be seen.

Those are the facts as I observed their absence.

Of course my first thought was that everyone called in sick. Including the bus driver. Because I'm not feeling that well myself. I woke up today feeling dizzy and tipsy; I haven't got my normal balance. So I've been stumbling and staggering around. It could be possible, now that I think of it, that I had a stroke and was looking out the wrong window. That was obviously skew the results of the study. That would be an epistemological nightmare really, since there would be no basis for me to trust any of the information that I feel my senses are receiving and processing.

Except I'm sure I was looking out the right window. It's the window facing the street, right? The same one I look out everyday. Being dizzy isn't going to make me that confused. So that can't be it.

The only other possibility I can come up with -- and it's a long shot -- is that school might've been called off today. Like maybe it's a teachers' "in service." I wish we would've had those when I was in school. The kids today, if it's not a snow day it's an "in service" day! So they're sitting home five days out of seven playing video games and inflicting their parents with noise. This is why the younger generation doesn't know a thing about a thing, because the teachers are so busy learning to teach that they never get around to teaching!

So let's say the called off school. Since I don't go to school, there's no reason I should know that. They didn't tell me. But the apparently told everyone else. Leading me to think that my study today isn't all in vain. Because this proves (or suggests) something about the apparent ability of creatures to know their own schedules. If you're scheduled to go to school, you know that. And if it's called off, that you also know.

The apparent intelligence and ability that these parents and kids and bus drivers have is amazing.

The Apparent Quick Adaptability Of Creatures

Yesterday I wrote on "The Apparent Intelligence of Creatures," and I thank you for your curious, scientifically-oriented questions and comments. If I ever get a FAQ page up and running, I will direct you there for the useful, ready made answers I will have written by then.

Today I'm going to come up with a sequel to yesterday's post, since I was able to witness a few more things in regards to the subjects of yesterday's study. Today I'm thinking of "The Apparent Quick Adaptability of Creatures."

I was halfway expecting this. I'm glad that the bus comes to pick up the kids at about the same time everyday. Since it's so predictable, I'm able to be in place to see it without much worry about it beforehand. I go to the window at about the right time, the kids are there, and the bus comes. It's all like clockwork.

Yesterday and today both there was a school truck near where the kids normally stand waiting for the bus. Whether that guy's there for this switch in their routine, I don't know. I didn't see him doing any overt motions about what they should do.

Here's the apparent quick adaptability of the kids. Yesterday they were in the place where they've normally been, then had to exercise their apparent intelligence in the light of a different turn of events, the bus coming from a different direction. Today, for the most part, they were prepared for the bus coming from the west instead of the south. Meaning there was a more northerly direction they were facing.

It worked out exactly like that, as sure as anything. They apparently adapted just that quickly. (I use the word "apparently" because I don't know what sort of direction they may have gotten from the bus driver yesterday, or the guy in the truck, or their parents at home, perhaps reading a set of instructions about what their kids should do.)

But remember yesterday when I speculated that there could be the one kid who wouldn't get it right and then would fall on his face in the snow? There was that one kid today! Whether he hadn't adapted, or didn't get the note, or hadn't been present yesterday, I don't know. From my point of view at the window this is all like a silent movie with no subtitles. I myself am trying to adapt to the situation on the ground without the benefit of all my senses, without the benefit of hearing the bus driver, the guy in the truck, or of seeing any possible notes sent home by the school.

He came around front of the truck, like he'd suddenly realized the bus was somewhere different than it usually is. He made a sharp turn, then he slipped and went down! He was out of my view, having fallen behind a snow bank between him and me. I watched, hoping he wasn't hurt. Within 10 seconds, thereabouts, he was up and rushing north to get on the bus. But ... survival of the fittest.

What would be really interesting is if I could somehow observe him in particular tomorrow, to see whether he also adapts quickly to the situation. But I won't be able to tell which one he is, unless he doesn't adapt and falls again. My assumption would be -- unless he is a complete boneheaded nitwit -- that he will expect the bus to come from the west tomorrow.

It does my old heart good to see the way the younger generation of human beings deals with things. They are apparently just as quickly adaptable to changing circumstances on the ground as we were back when I was a kid.

The Apparent Intelligence Of Creatures

I saw something today that really gave me an appreciation for the apparent intelligence of creatures, myself included.

Sometimes I think I'm a little dull, a little slow on the uptake. Someone will be spelling a word, let's say, and I'll need them to go very slowly, then repeat it, because I can't keep track of letters (that well) when they're given in a sequence quickly. Just last night, as an example, I had to listen to a podcast 10 times to get the URL for http://rcrdlbl.com/. Someone says it's "r c r d l b l" and I'm not expecting it, I'm like, "What?!" (In case you're worried that might take you to a site that would rip you off, it won't. It stands for Record Label and is a place where artists post their songs.)

Anyway, no matter how dull I am, sometimes I amaze myself by being intelligent. With the creaturely intelligence that appears to be native to all creatures, given their own domain and level of raw ability. Look, I was able to think of that very intelligent description without much aforethought and without memorizing it in advance of writing it. It flowed forth, even though if I wanted to repeat it, I'd have to look at it a dozen times, and I would definitely have a hard time memorizing it.

Today I saw a thrilling display of the apparent intelligence of creatures. I was amazed. It was this:

I look outside in the morning when I'm feeding the cat and getting a bagel. I see the kids gathered across the road, waiting for the bus. The bus always comes from the south. They're standing on the east side of the street, waiting to board the bus through the door, which would be facing east. That's pretty smart of them right there, as they anticipate the bus's approach and depend on the door being in the same place each day. That they even know what a door is and how to use it takes intelligence as well.

(Maybe this isn't that amazing. Even my pets know how to use a door.)

Today, then, something way out of the ordinary happened. And I thought, they are smart! Because of the snow, I guess, the bus came from the west and pulled up on the road facing east. Yet the kids are still standing there, now southerly from the bus. The door will be north of where they're standing.

Every one of those kids recognized it as the bus they were waiting for. Every one of them saw the changed circumstances and immediately adapted. Now, some may have been following the crowd, stupefied by the weirdness of the moment. But just going by the appearance, it looked like each one of them was making an educated move, knowing through their apparent intelligence that they should approach and board the bus like usual, only going in a different direction, as everything about the scene was somewhat different than what they were expecting.

Not one kid was left behind! You might think there'd be at least one kid who would search around for what to do, then walk toward a phantom bus parked where it normally is, lift his leg as though boarding it, and fall flat on his face. But it did not happen!

I stood there at the window, thinking exactly what you're reading here, of how great the apparent intelligence of creatures is.

"Drive For Pride" -- Be Constantly At It

One of the worst things that I'm conscious of in life is the gap between a potential threat and a potential resolution.

Into every life rain must fall, they say. And to live is to suffer. So it's not surprising when bad things (or potentially bad things) happen. We work to avoid them, then something happens anyway.

When one of these situations comes up -- as they often do -- for me it's a draining things. A withering experience. Then after it's over I tell myself I need to work on that, so that next time I'm facing it with some equilibrium.

That's what we're supposed to get out of our spiritual traditions, such as "Do not worry about tomorrow, for the evil of this day is sufficient." True, true, true. But how to practice it? That's the thing.

But if every time there's a setback or even a perceived threat of one it's a withering experience, then you still have a ways to go. I know I do!

The lesson for me -- and I hope I don't forget it, even though I likely will -- is to be working on my foundations in the good times, then maybe it won't be so bad when it is bad. Just be constantly at it, taking out time for bathroom breaks, meals, sleeping, and hobbies. Don't let a day go by without some positive soul searching or soul feeding.

The whole thing -- pride, self-esteem, confidence -- has a foundation, and as far as I'm concerned that's it. It's like eating, except it's nutrition for your soul. I had one of these withering experiences today ... and I wasn't fully ready. So that's something to work on harder for me!

The "Drive For Pride" Rolls On -- Again

Like Elvis said, "It's been a long time, baby!" (He said something like that in the '68 comeback special, which I just saw again in the last month.)

What I'm quoting the King for is because, for this blog, "it's been a long time, baby," since I've been able to say "The 'Drive for Pride' Rolls On!" I semi-checked the archives and it looks like the last time I used that exact phrase was October 9, 2009. (I also alluded to it on Oct. 18, as well as some variation of it on Sept. 21, 24, and 27.)

So, yes, "It has indeed been a long time, baby!" A long time comin', but now it's here. I can honestly say it, with my sleeves rolled up and my spirit soaring. Once more. Not down, not out, not on life's edge, nearly medication free, and clean as a whistle. I'm dry, I'm straight, and I'm feeling proud.

I'm here to bless your socks off. With what? With my teachings on pride, confidence, self-esteem, self-help, and the lifestyle sciences, of course, silly. What else? It's what I do. It's why I was put on this green earth, with a great talent -- all innate, no formal training -- to expostulate with those who may be without pride, postulating various postulates on pride and all the rest.

I'm geared up. I've been in for my 3,000 mile checkup. I'm venturing forth with a clean bill of health. I've got the brain of a 57-year-old man (please don't tell him), and I'm ready to do something with it. I'm all revved up and can't be stopped, can't be slowed down at this point. I've got my life's mission before me ... and I plan to fulfill it both to the heights and to the depths. Every ear shall hear my life's cry!

There's just one problem. One tiny problem. It's going to have to wait till tomorrow. It's getting practically to my bedtime tonight. And I've been up since 5:30 a.m. I'm afraid I can't get to it tonight, being tired and also wanting to maximize my time for rest tonight. So I need to take my dog out for her nightly duty, then brush and floss and get to bed.

Tonight is a night simply to exclaim that The "Drive for Pride" Rolls On! Again!

"Boy, my boy! I did 29 pictures like that, baby! Could just move my little finger: 'You ain't nothin' but a hound dog...'"

The "Drive For Pride" -- Eye To Eye

The eye is the pride master's most valuable friend. Both eyes.

With your eyes you communicate a million things, good and bad. Direct eye contact, while being conscious and merciful with it, shows concern and real care. It shows that someone's "home" inside you.

The use of the eyes is something I'm both good at and fail at often.

When I'm with someone, my problem is I'm thinking too much and not letting nature take its course. I'm not instinctual enough in the moment. That's something I need to work on. So I'm afraid I'm communicating a lot of this thinking when the eye contact is happening. And that conveys a very calculating look, which I hate. So I've got it about half going on. Not good enough!

Another problem I guess I can confess to is not having enough pride myself. So when I'm dealing with some folks, I don't have an adequate basis for giving them the non-thinking, non-worried eye contact that makes a real connection. There's still a lot held back, because I'm still dealing with too many things in my "home."

The place I want to get to is this: To venture forth with everything settled within. My own pride locked solidly in place. Fully secure in my role. Valuing myself what I have to offer. Then when I walk into a room, whatever the circumstances, I can be so many miles ahead, instead of having to play catch up. When you're playing catch up, that's where a lot of the thinking comes in. It's a matter then of really only being half there.

What would it be like to be all there? I'm not saying there have never been times. I've been "all there" at times in my life. For me, one on one is always better. But I've been "all there" with more than that, just not usually. But if I keep it in mind, if I work on it, I'll get there on a more regular basis.

So you get pride -- however that happens. The voice you speak to yourself with. You become comfortable in your role. You see the relationships you have and you have a valuable part in them. Then there are other relationships, that occur more on the fly, very incidental relationships ... you have a basis to step in them immediately. Then you're there, it's a matter of being there at this point with all you are.

That's where the eyes come in. You make that meaningful eye contact (without too much conscious thinking about it) and the world will be at your feet, in a good way.