Tsunami Warnings In Bali

 

Part 20 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

Bali is a province of Indonesia and the westernmost of the Lesser Sunda Islands. The woman is Gede. The man is Komang. That’s all you need to know. It’s far-flung, way out there near the ends of the earth. Unless you’re there, and then it’s the same as my place, the center of everything.

Have I ever been to Bali? I’ve heard people claim I’ve been there, but I don't know why. I think they're just trying to confuse me. Because it’s not something I’d lie about. If I’d been there, I'd gladly confess it. I'd be so glad to confess it, people would run from me: "There's that guy that wants to talk about Bali all the time." But if I did something incriminating there, I wouldn't mention it. I wish I could tell you all the stuff I don't mention. If you never see a particular thing mentioned on my blog, I might be guilty of it.

It'd been nice if I had the kind of job where I was sent by an employer somewhere near Bali. Then instead of strictly taking care of the business, I'd make my way to Bali. The employer might connect the dots and I’d potentially be forced to repay him for a wasted trip. But none of that happened.

So I’m going on second hand information, TV as well as ordinary secret contacts around the world. Secret contacts were indeed my source for the report of a man’s death in Bali, and the show he attended. In which his fate can be traced to the witch doctor.

To me, even the word “witch doctor” cries out something to beware of! We hear the word and we think of someone in a high position of power with witches, delving into the higher mysteries, and now having the diploma to prove it, a doctor's degree. What was his project and his doctor’s degree based on, “Making Tourists Comfortable Enough In Storms” or “Bewitching Foolish Inaction Till It’s Too Late”?

Good thing I wasn’t there, because I might've been susceptible to hocus pocus. I’m very easily led. I’m such a trusting person, mostly because I’m honest and good. And I jump to the conclusion that everyone’s as good as me. Get a clue: They’re not! This guy is Exhibit A. What kind of psycho performs for tourists, then hopes, even conspires, to make them victims? I’d say his diagnosis is off the charts in the wrong direction!

But Kenneth the Tourist knew better than to trust a man with makeup. Even though the slithering dancing girl (Gede) doubtlessly added to his credibility. He’s got that big loin cloth, what’s he packing under that thing? I’m not trying to second guess the fate involved in this thing. But packing that much, I can see how Kenneth could’ve fallen for his act. When the truth is just the opposite. Sometimes the less you pack, the more trustworthy you are. You figure, People aren’t going to trust me, so I have to double down on believability.

Komang's message was soothing. The message was "It’s a great night, have a great time." And Gede backed him up with a plaintive plea for westerners to adopt her and take her home with them to engage in romance and housekeeping. Kenneth didn’t stand a chance. On the other hand, anyone dumb enough to fall for that native lingo got what he deserved.

Terribly Bad Explosive Temper

Part 12 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

Here's some sad hotheads, Helen and McClellan, who in the end couldn't stand each other but never really broke up, perhaps going for some dubious award. We hear such stories occasionally but never expected it of someone we actually knew.

Of course I would've preferred they got along perfectly. The way it was at first for Helen and McClellan. Feeling up each other all the time. Bragging how they were made for each other. The only dinner guests I've had french-kiss at the dinner table. But it was a fairly wanton restaurant, the waitresses with their outfit down to here and shorts tucked in, a little wedged in back, a cute look.

For years they said McClellan completed her and Helen him. And everywhere Helen went, McClellan was sure to go. If McClellan ordered butterscotch tutti frutti, Helen chimed in, “Make it a deuce!” If Helen put a log on the fire, McClellan had a chainsaw near and ran out to fetch a single stick at the very least. Neither thought he was better than her, and her idea was just the opposite but the same. And each had a beautiful voice for lowly yodeling when the magic moment arrived. I overheard this singing down the hall a couple times, gladdening my heart. Only ruined by the squeaky bed springs; by itself it would've made a great ringtone.

How tough it was, then, to have them suddenly at loggerheads. It just started, no one knew why. They just bumped heads over every trivial nothing, and their hearts were beaten and battered in unnecessary struggles to the point of threatening one other, with his or her voice in full-throated derisive minor chords: “You go your way, I’ll go mine!” Countered with, “I will go my way, you go yours!” A tough read for anyone who knew them, his devotion, her devotion, and the devotion they had in common. Like two halves of your heart -- opposite sides -- shriveling up and dying.

And now more bad news. They're gone. And I don't know which I’ll miss more. McClellan was a friend. We were friends from our youth. Then there was my friendship with Helen, which started out me trying to avoid her as much as possible to keep McClellan's jealousy under control. But it turned out Helen was the most jealous, because I was more naturally drawn to McClellan as old friends. And boy to boy friendship action shouldn't have been an issue, because it's easy to be a friend without there being anything more. I wouldn’t cross that boundary for love or money, as crazy as Helen turned out to be.

But now it’s all gone by the boards. The days of what-ifs have passed. The time for finger-pointing’s still here but to no profit. Nothing, absolutely zero net unless it’d just be one of life’s lessons worth learning. That if you’ve got a couple of hotheads, it doesn’t matter what “love” they have for each other, they're going to eventually explode, and there’s always the danger that they'll both be foolishly annihilated.

It started out like nothing. But built from there. Each surreptitiously, completely on the sly, neither one suspecting, and their friends suspecting nothing, managing to accumulate an arsenal. And they studied up on homemade bombs. Someone should’ve known! Then rented out adjacent abandoned malls, such a huge unexpected undertaking that they could do it in plain sight without anyone realizing. Then coincidentally, without synchronization, each lured the other to their respective mall and each ... [if only I could've stopped it] .... plunged the plunger.

Yes, it happened, leaving a hole in our state the size of Wyoming, making the news. So now, after so much mushy romance, they’re dead and gone… Finis, done, outta here, BOOM! I have huge regrets. Seeing how mismatched they turned out to be, I myself probably should've killed McClellan and gone after Helen.

Newsletter -- 3-Day Stubble

LOVE ANTICS -- Every household has their little jokes. It's no different for me and my husband the Pink Professor. We're something of friendly rivals when it comes to working, always playfully arguing which one works hardest. I strut around the room, my head pushed back, sort of like a drum majorette on the march, going, "I be the hardest worker!" Then he leaps up and falls back suddenly to his chair, going, "I've been working so hard I can't even stand up, at least you're still fit to strut!"

That's the way a marriage should be, am I right? It's not all seriousness and "How was your day, dear?" Little love antics along with friendly competition, being strong for each other and each other's biggest fan, but still wanting some advantage for yourself, as in, "Look at me, dog, I am bad!" Woo hoo! I haven't been this cranked since that time I drank a Mountain Dew in the '80s. But this guy, Pink, simply always brings out the devil in me. OK, a blushing devil, since as everyone knows, I'm fundamentally good.

OK, hard work was the subject. And I've been putting in some of the longest damned hours of my life. Working on my newsletter project, the newsletter I hope to get going, to be sent out via email to subscribers, and as an adjunct to the blog. In it, I promise, there will be lots of juicy tidbits about me and Pink. Just a sample, I was working up an advice column, with fake questions, but general stuff everyone gets caught up in, using some of the things we've been through to guide me in my advice.

One biggie, usually quite hush-hush in most relationships, has to be, "Who initiates?" and "What response should the other partner then make? Is there any obligation?" Of course, one believes if it's obligatory, strictly speaking, that's no good, because in any relationship there has to be free choice or you're as good as a slave. Still, to a certain extent, depending on various factors, there indeed is an expectation that there will be some mutual follow-through. The best example I have is this: If Pink initiates the idea that we grill dinner, I don't have to agree with his choice, but if I don't follow-through on it at least occasionally I should have a good reason.

OK, that shows I've been working hard, and I doesn't show any sign of letting up. And here's the thing, I've been working so hard that I neglected my hygiene and appearance. As of this morning, I hadn't had a shower in three days, I had on the same undies and shirt and pants, and I hadn't shaved. I literally had the worst three-day stubble of my life. That's how much effort the newsletter's getting from me. It's been all-consuming.

So as horseplay, Pink comes out this morning and sees my disgusting appearance and acts like he doesn't recognize me. "Have you see DBK, my clean-shaven hubby?" Then he laughs and says, "I always wondered what you'd look like with a beard!" "It's not a beard," I protested, "but a three-day stubble that looks more like a week's!" Pink, ever the playful one, says, "Whatever it is, it's butt ugly and you need to take care of yourself, OK?" Was I hurt? No, I just laughed, and we fell into each other's arms, and, believe it or not, we did grill a little earlier, burgers and a few chicken legs. I didn't have a "headache," which would've been very convincing, given the heat.

SUBSCRIPTIONS -- I am serious about the newsletter. I want people to subscribe but I don't want them to UNsubscribe. Nothing brings me down faster in my relationship with my readers -- complete strangers -- than when they rudely turn away. I used to have a bunch of faithful followers on Facebook. They were all, "Attaboy, we love you," etc., then one by one they fell away. I don't know what changed, although I suspect they were lured away by someone in disguise.

THREE-DAYS -- It's funny I haven't published the newsletter for three days now. Giving me time, as it were, to have regrown my three-day stubble (as everything above this paragraph was written three days ago). Although I didn't, instead remaining clean shaven. The true reason I haven't been around is, I went to the cellar for preserves and, finding none, kept looking.

Ruthie Gets Her Man

We have a love match! Old Professor Woolworth and our lovely student union cafeteria lady, Ruthie! With me the middle man, seeking to ensnare Woolworth and three other psychology profs in a compromising position. Little did I know it'd end in a whirlwind mutual seduction and wedding all the same day! For that, I can only thank my lucky stars above.

As it turned out, Woolworth had his eye on Ruthie for many years. But he always figured that his being a lowly psychology professor at the university meant he had no chance with someone at her level. She was always friendly to him, yes, but was she really? As a psych prof he looked for unspoken truths and ulterior motives, to the point he was completely mixed up on which was which. While all that time Ruthie was juicy fruit, ripe for the picking by the right man.

My part in this love story was not completely pure. I'm still trying to get to the bottom of the Money Mule question, Why do money mules always take the money and run, never returning? And I asked four professors to help in the study. But first, as always, I needed to find out if they had scholarship on their minds and not just sex. Enter Ruthie, exquisitely dolled up, a temptation for each.

Sure enough, when my back was turned (so they thought, for I had cameras in nearly every room), each professor failed the test. Professor Morningwood was up first, barely waiting for me to be out of sight. His reasoning was "The early bird gets the worm" He beamed as he got Ruthie alone. "We'll start early and make love throughout the long day!" But she was repulsed, knowing he'd only make hay while the sun shined, then desert her by nightfall.

Ruthie ran, but right into the waiting grasp of Professor Cherrywood. And "grasp" is the right word. Cherrywood is a hands-on kind of guy, always seeking out the sweetest fruit and seeing if it's ripe for the picking. With skill and dexterity, he had Ruthie against the wall, doing his full appraisal. "This is good," he thought, his grubby hands all over her: "Plump, ripe, juicy, with just the right hardness and flavor," before Ruthie had had quite enough and slapped him, leaving Cherrywood in the pits.

Next, Professor Deadwood lurked in the shadows down the hall. He knew he needed her, but he was worried, "What will I do with her if I get her?" Yet he couldn't resist, with her beauty and how exquisitely she was dolled up, and the bountifulness in her every move. So great! Something in the way she moved ... made Deadwood almost move. He was certain he felt a twitch -- could it be? ... his first stirring in years? Yes! He believed it was so. Meds hadn't worked, counseling, and manual rousing techniques had all failed, but now, with his professorial gown around his ankles and trusting the sensation of that surge of confidence, he made his move. Which -- DAMN! -- ended before it began, phantom arousal playing him false...

Watching these encounters on video, I could only shake my head. These men aren't the scholars I need ... They're lecherous! Nothing on their minds but sex! I strode back and forth in the control room, fuming, wondering what I could do now. How can the money mule question be answered if I have no help? It went on like that. I was absolutely lost in confusion, consumed by my own worries. It must have been 20 minutes of pacing and sweating, and I'd lost my focus. Then I suddenly realized, "Ruthie! Woolworth!" Rushing to the panel I pushed all the buttons. Where were they?!

I raced the halls, but hearing nothing could only imagine the worst. When I thought I heard ... yes, it is ... I heard what I can only call the very subtle whispers and cooing of cuddling and loving afterglow. I almost burst in but thought better of it. You sly dog! I thought to myself of Woolworth. You took her in complete sincerity and tenderness and now she's yours ... You are the man for the job! The job of understanding Money Mules. (As it turned out, maybe Ruthie took him.)

Long story short -- let's just say they took each other -- they were totally in love. Woolworth had more going on behind that beard than anyone gave him credit for. And Ruthie, though exquisitely dolled up, was a doll in reality. Neither one had thought they were good enough for the other, and that's what kept them apart. But being alone, apart from the high station of cashiers and low station of psych profs, they realized they were soul mates. I conducted the wedding ceremony. The others served as witnesses. And we would live happily ever after.

As a wedding gift, and payment in part for Money Mule research, I sent them forth with a big box stuffed with $300,000. Whether I'll ever see them again, that I doubt. You send someone out with that kind of money, they've never been known to return.

We Join Ourselves in Holy Matrimony

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pink Professor Fails To Be Found

A forlorner passel of professors than these guys I've never seen, tasked with finding The Pink Professor but returning home today with, unfortunately, bad news. No matter where they looked, he wasn't there. No one remembered seeing him in the various states they went through. An obvious question would be, How did you cover the entire country in one day and take that as a real effort? But I only asked them about the places they looked.

I was perhaps a little sterner than I should have been, putting my questions to them with abruptness. "Did you try the mountains? Did you try the valleys? The large cities, the small towns? Bars, churches, grottoes, fens, forests, granges, museums, parks, moors, deserts, garage sales, colleges, libraries, dives, monasteries, warehouses, bomb shelters, the bottom floor, the top floor, basements, rooftops, jails, nooks, crannies, and -- perish the thought! -- cemeteries?"

Yes, yes, yes, yes... they had tried all those places. One prof even thought of seeking him in chat rooms, and while he found no sign of The Pink Professor, for the next six months he has dates. So, from his point of view, my expenditures weren't a complete waste, just so someone's there to pay the medic after he's knifed or worse. Still, I'm glad he checked the chat rooms. Perhaps Pink had fallen so low as to seek comfort there. Just the thought of it brings tears to my eyes.

I was very morose through the afternoon yesterday, then certainly through the night. I tried to listen to music, but interpreted every song in terms of myself and The Pink Professor, and bawled like a baby.  Including an old song sung by the Kingston Trio, "I Bawled," which goes, "And I bawled, I bawled, I bawled, I bawled, mon you should've heard me bawl!" But worst of all was Andrew Bird's "Armchairs:" "I dreamed you were a cosmonaut of the space between our chairs, and I was a cartographer of the tangles in your hair." That's our relationship. Which tangles ... I may ... never again see... Then "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" came on and I was gone.

But enough about me and that wreckage. I had to renew my confidence. I prayed, and in response the image of The Old Philosopher, Eddie Lawrence came to me [he's on Spotify], from his unrecorded song, "The Billionaire Philosopher":

"Is that what's got ya down, Moopsie? Well, you raise your head up high, and you get out of that bed, and you go forth with renewed confidence, and you will show the world! You'll show the world! That nothing can bring you down, and nobody can deny you your dear professor friend, as long as you got [BANG BANG] Billionaire Power!"

Hell's bells, why was I down? Didn't the billionaire tell me, Money is power, achievement itself? He's demonstrated it enough times, and yet there I sat, thinking myself into the pits, writhing and twisting myself out of shape in poverty. It's ridiculous!

So this morning, that's why I could "show the world," when the professors came in with their sad sack story, telling me where they'd been, and that the Pink Professor was in none of those places. All I can say now is, We've eliminated where he's NOT. If I don't find him today, there's always tomorrow. And if I can't come up with a good idea, the billionaire's sure to know something. He'll hire better people, professors with a single brain cell to rub between them, instead of these local guys, good for the work, perhaps, of an intro course, or some idiot's job like sorting books, but not so good for a transcontinental manhunt, no matter what affinity they may share with The Pink Professor based on themselves being dedicated, albeit lacking, scholars.

A few days ago, I learned an important lesson, when the billionaire taught me that I indeed was a billionaire. And billionaires, while they can grieve as others, are smart enough to know they mustn't wallow. What's the use, when you have that much money? As a poor man, sure, I could never find The Pink Professor, and, believe me, I'd already checked out a few of those chat rooms. Not that I expected him there, but I did expect some of those guys to know of him and be lusting for him. I allow that; you can look, just don't touch.

Now that I have money, I swear, I'm going to have his unremitting pink shield vulcanized, made to emit powerful volts. Bringing pleasure and healing to himself and me, as we intuit its underlying power and know its subtle magic. But swift destruction to all adulterers, and those making even the slightest trespass. I invoke the spirit of Jamake Highwater's Mythology of Transgression.

No sir, this is one billionaire, speaking of myself, and polishing an apple on my vest, who refuses to waste away and watch his life wither on the vine. There's too much going on inside me-- to speak of something other than material wealth. That's where I keep the meat of the goodie, moxie on the ball.

As to what the Pink Professor may be up to? Maybe he mistakenly thinks I'm the kind of guy to carry a grudge. He surely doesn't. Maybe he thinks he was in the wrong and so is terribly embarrassed. I know neither of us was really wrong, and he surely knows that, too. Or maybe he has some other reason for being gone. Time will tell, and when I find him, I'll know.

Friends, I feel it in my bones, I've already pictured the happy consummation of this struggle, this search, in my mind. So let it be written, so let it be done. Roger Wilco and out. This bastard's goin' down! Tora, Tora, Tora! 54-40 or fight! Millions for tribute, not a cent for charity. Once I was lost, now I am found. Just as I am, though tossed about with many a conflict, many a doubt, fightings and fears within, without, my loving Pink Professor, my darling, I come, I come.

How He Made His Billions

EVEN THE STOP SIGN IS PIXELATED
TO CONCEAL THE LOCATION OF THIS VEIN

It's been several days since the billionaire came to town. And I've made it my business to be "in" with him and find out everything I can about his dealings. Why am I doing that? Because it's been a long time since I've met someone who could very well be my soul mate. And money has nothing to do with it, although, if I were to be perfectly honest, it doesn't hurt.

But enough on that subject -- the vagaries of soul mating, true love, etc. -- because, frankly, it's a sore subject. I haven't written much about it, but, yes, long time readers of the blog know I had a true love ... once ... although I've never shared what precisely happened to drive us apart. I've already said too much. Let's get back to the billionaire, who, c'mon guys and gals, anyone, you have to concede he'd be a fantastic catch!

Anyway, the whole thing very well could be out of my hands entirely. The fact that we've run into each other a half dozen times in a town this size, that he bought my Easter bunnies and all the rest, was enough to tell me something's happening. With the next thing being he visited my house earlier today. I was so embarrassed; I still had bedhead. And I'm mostly bald, which with bedhead is a terrible look. But he didn't seem to be nonplussed.

He found out where I lived and wanted to come by and "make things right," since I'd erupted at Patsy's Steakhouse when he yet again called me "The Easter Bunny guy." It was a long day, that's all. I don't mind being the Easter Bunny guy, if it's right that a once-a-year activity should define you. In this case, since the billionaire didn't really know me and my many qualities, it's completely understandable that that's the label he should hang on me, as a kind of shorthand sobriquet.

I should just come out and say it, we are fast friends now, OK? I'm batting .1000, the first billionaire I've ever known and we're fast friends! I brushed it off, the whole "Easter Bunny guy" thing. He asked about me and my house, what I do, etc. I didn't hold back. I told him the truth of how I'm on disability because of my game toe. He thought that was cool, but then -- I couldn't believe it -- said he wouldn't mind helping me get it fixed. I had to beg off on that point. I'm not only adverse to pain, I also hate poverty.

Plus, I wanted to know more about him. How a guy can be a billionaire. What happens that makes you so filthy rich? Is it true what they say, that once you have your first billion the rest just happen? Good news, he said, that's exactly what happens! But he never stays still, resting on his mountains of cash. He's always looking for more. I think he saw a twinge of discomfort on my face. "That's not to say I obsess over it ... I want to live life to the fullest in small ways too."

Was I charmed? Yes, absolutely, what guy wouldn't be? But, as I said above, I still have this place, this hole in my heart, and I'm not sure at this point that anyone else can fill it. Damn it! And he has to be a billionaire, too! But we're leaving it at that, agreeing to be friends, do things together, yes, and take the rest of it slowly. Already he wants me to go with him on some buying trips around town, and he said he'll show me a good time. "But what about your game toe?" he asked. I told him, "Don't worry about that ... My tootsie-wootsies are feeling no pain!" We laughed, marking the first time in my life I ever saw a billionaire's eyelashes flutter.

"So where did you get your billions?" I asked. "Was it an inheritance, a well-paying part-time job, what?"

He looked around, suspiciously. We lowered our heads to the table and pulled in together. I believe I can publicly reveal his whispered confidential answer: "Rainbows. That business about the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow ... That's only half of it ... I can get all the gold I want, which, as you may know, is one of the most precious elements on earth..."

"But how?" I asked. As of today, as you might expect, he wouldn't say.

Valentine's Day -- The Love Machine

ELVIS PRESLEY - "The Love Machine"
(Click pic for YouTube video)

Here's a great song for Valentine's Day, Elvis Presley from the movie Easy Come, Easy Go, doing "The Love Machine." I listened to it earlier this morning and now it's all I can think of.

In fact, I'm giddy as Scrooge after his ghostly visitors, with everyone stopping by -- the milkman and paperboy -- both perplexed as to my joy. They must think an old single guy can't be overflowing with joy on Valentine's Day, but they know not the source of my happiness ... Elvis' happiness. He's like my older, more successful brother, and if I stick with him, surely one of these gals will notice me in the shadows. "It may be Susie or Maybelline. She could be Kathy or Angeline. Let the wheel go round, round and round, try your luck right now on the Love Machine."

Beyond me and my love troubles -- and please be in prayer that my many trips around the square tonight are profitable -- I do get some measure of joy, and dare I say, satisfaction, from Elvis' work in this movie, putting the Love Machine out there for his mates in the Navy, that they might immediately get not just the girls' measurements but their phone numbers. (I pixellated all phone numbers on the off chance that they've changed since the mid-'60s.)

One great thing about the Love Machine that gets my imagination running wild is that this definitely beats the dating scene today. I see these guys on TV with their dating websites -- that one old white-haired fart -- and it makes me sick. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned nature, this person sniffing around and this person sniffing around and they happen to bump noses? Every three-legged blind dog hobbling down the street gets a date, how did the human race go so wrong? We've all had ancestors, and the world has even somehow become overpopulated, but now, suddenly, we're such wallflowers we need to go through a thousand computer profiles? Gimme a break.

You say, "Yeah, but what about you driving around the square, tonight of all nights?" OK, fair point, but in my defense, I'm old, wasting away, with bad hair, bad teeth, and conversationally-challenged, the whole bit. You won't believe what I did, though, just yesterday. Knowing Valentine's Day was here, I went out and bought $218 worth of new clothes, true story. But while there, trying on one of the shirts, I caught a glimpse of the back of my head in a three-way mirror, OK? How horrendous! My bald spot's grown! Not only that, the tangle of wild hair around it makes it look like a clearing in the jungle. Big enough to set down a small plane but not big enough for a settlement. That's why I'm so down on my chances.

But all hope isn't lost yet. The Elvis video's great, because it presents a definite alternative to websites. You get the cards and information from many women, put them on a wheel of fortune, and spin it. Take down the number and you're off. It's social media without the computer! They've apparently all agreed to this system, so when you come calling -- if you've got $218 in new shirts and pants and have trimmed your jungle -- they're gonna be up for it. Certainly if you happen to be Elvis himself, or one of his good-looking Navy brothers, it shouldn't be any problem.

Maybe I will try a few of these phone numbers. This movie was made around '66 or '67. If these gals were around 22 then, that'd make them only 70-something now. Heh heh, this is gonna work. I'm only 62, which would be a good match for a 70-year-old lady. So screw the square, tonight I'm spinning the wheel!

The Chinese Placemat Gang

If you're Chinese -- working in a restaurant or not, and if not we hope you find a job soon -- you've probably been reading with some concerns my recent posts about destroying February and reallocating its days around the calendar. Concerns because of a possible conflict between your own zodiac system (as found on a well-known Chinese restaurant placemat) and my plans for February. I had the same concerns...

I don't know what it was exactly, unless it was still the bad effects of the Chinese buffet I ate a few weeks ago, but I woke up last night, in the middle of the night, feverishly trying to work it out in my own mind, what the plan would mean for honorable placemat. Would it somehow lose its effectiveness and become unusable, even obsolete?

I love those placemats, featuring as they do the animal kingdom from a Chinese perspective. You'll recall they've got 12 animals as zodiac illustrations, relating to the year you were born, with advice for the lovelorn. "Is it good that my husband is a rat? What if my girlfriend's a cock? Should I marry her anyway? Or get her fixed?" I've actually tried its advice a few times and got some real dogs. As for me, going by my birth year (1953), I am a rat. Even though I like to think I'm a tiger.

In the middle of the night, though, I couldn't quite remember what the system was. I was thinking the illustrations pertained somehow to the particular months. So say the boar was February, and you got rid of the boar, it'd throw the whole thing out of whack. The boar's pretty virile. If it was the rabbit left out that wouldn't be so bad. But rabbits are very prolific. Not that that does the Chinese any good, since they can only have one bunny.

It might not be so bad to cut the boar out, just thinking out loud. You get rid of the more virile ones and a sneaky little rat like me starts looking better. Although if, as above, my girlfriend truly did turn out to be a cock, then whether I'm rat, rabbit, or boar, we're gonna have problems. It's not that I'm necessarily that choosy, but I like some truth in advertising.

Even though I was wrong about the system -- destroying February has no effect on the Chinese placemat -- I'm still glad I got up to check it out. China's a big place and for some reason we always associate the word "hordes" with them. They've also got some mean evildoers -- like Fu Manchu and Wicked Wang Fu -- who'd love to sink their big gnarly fingernails into a guy like me. Were I to offend the most populous nation on earth, it could be tragic. Which I would never do intentionally, and if I have done so, accidentally, just let me sincerely say, So solly.

Now that we're all friends again, if each Chinese person out there were to send me a note of support for destroying February, that would be great. And if each one of you could also enclose $1, win or lose, I'd be filthy rich.

Midas Touch No!

The last month or so I've been re-reading some of my favorite psychoanalytical texts, which naturally include C.G. Jung's Psychology and Alchemy, one of my go-to books for years. And something weird happened to me, much weirder than usual.

You probably recall what alchemy is all about. The changing by chemical processes of other forms of matter into gold, tough to do. But Jung argued that the alchemists -- the good ones -- had other more profound motives, coming up with psychological gold, the coming to the fullness of the Self. It was the gold standard of self-help exercises.

Unfortunately, when I start messing with stuff like this, things happen. I hate to mention a few years ago when I was messing with sacred scriptures, a la Nebuchadnezzar, I went crazy and was literally a wild animal in the fields. Yeah. Well, this time someone forgot to warn me about the spirits of gold, so I've had a problem with turning things into gold. Anything at home I've touched, including all the TV remotes. Solid gold. I took a few of them to the jewelry store and now I can't change the channel. The TV's stuck on Jerry Springer's channel and I'm about sick of ads for The General Insurance.

The problem all started when I was concentrating very hard on my reading, reading with one eye shut. My theory is I was overloading one side of the brain, which Jung never thought of. To make matters worse, since I've been doing this for a few years, I was wearing my reading glasses, which only has one lens. It really magnifies things, overloading the brain that much faster.

And now, trying to deal with turning things into gold -- the Midas touch -- is tougher than you'd think. I wanted to go to the country and think it over, but I couldn't drive my car. And so forth. I can't have a gold car sitting in the driveway. They'll put me back in the home for crazy nuisances.

As I continued to mess with this stuff, then, I made some progress in controlling it. I discovered I could turn it off by saying "Midas touch no," and turn it on again with "Midas touch yes." It worked hit and miss the first few times, but with persistence, I got it so it was extremely reliable.

OK, this leads to the conundrum I'm in now. Having the Midas touch did wonders for my confidence. You can imagine. My confidence before was crap; now, so to speak, it's gold. I was operating with the gold standard of confidence. It seemed like there was nothing I couldn't do.

So guess what... Without having an account at Match.com or any other dating site, I met a woman, Edna, and came on to her with the utmost confidence, the way they like it. Smooth as silk, right there in the supermarket, "Hey baby," and my confident pitch, my chatter, my romantic spiel, my love patter, was such that it won the day ... and the lady. We started seeing each other. I had my ordinary hardtop car cut down to a convertible, and the little bits of hair I have on the sides of my head were flapping in the breeze. We talked of going to Mexico and sitting on the beach, writing our names in the sand, then standing back and daring the waves to efface them. (In Mexico you get up when you want, eat when you want; everything you do you do when you want. Why people escape to the U.S. is beyond me.)

The subject of gold came up, as in friendship rings, and I'd had the Midas touch set on NO for quite a while, allowing me to freely handle her, to the extent she would let me. I try to be subtle, you know, never having been a real wolf, a bear when it comes to the hands, and certainly I was brought up not to be boorish with women. My mom drilled that in my head, always pointing to Dad as the kind of gentleman I should be. And Dad did pretty damned good, out of all the women in the world getting my mother.

She -- Edna, my girlfriend -- was saying, "So you say 'Midas touch yes,' 'Midas touch no,' yes, no, yes, no, like that, and you're able to override C.G. Jung's teachings on alchemy and produce actual gold by mere touch." "Yes," I said, "Midas touch no, Midas touch yes, just like that." Catch my big mistake?

OK, she's so impressed by my power that now she's all hands, a fox, a wolf, boorish. But I'm leaning back, my eyes are rolled back so far in my head I can see the stars behind me. Naturally at this point I'm oblivious to any and all consequences. Given my excitement, of course I lunged ahead and was all over her, when-- Great God in Heaven! Infernal Spirits of a Christless Hell! What have I done? I looked down, aghast, and Edna was solid gold!

I raised my hands, looking at those two instruments of destruction with the impulse of searing hatred in my eyes. "You flaky sons of bitches!" I cried in anger. "No, wait, I have to get a grip. First things first, 'Midas touch no,'" turning it off.

But what was done was done... I didn't have a way to reverse the process. I didn't know what to do. Basically this is what's happened: I went from the sweetest, dirtiest girlfriend I've ever had to the biggest, nudest paperweight in the world. Fully nude except for an Egyptian tiara, worth her weight in gold, certainly, but at the same time worthless. You can't sell the transformed corpse of your girlfriend. They say.

And it's these flaky sons-of-bitchin' hands that did this! And my big mouth.

My Favorite Ex-Wife and Their Club

Like most guys my age (61), I have a messy history, especially in the area known as love. You think you have just the right gal, then it turns out she's not that great and you need another. Then another. Then another. It's a little principle I guess I'll call Live and Learn.

Then -- and this makes for a messy present as well -- they all have to still be alive, and as luck would have it, right in this area, so they (and I) can't help but run into each other from time to time. But I've gotten pretty good about sneaking around grocery stores, holding cereal boxes up to my head when I peek around corners, and keeping my eyes down in the checkout line. But accidents do happen.

It just so happened the other day I ran into my favorite ex-wife, the one I doted on, and she informed me that the four of them have been meeting. Apparently there's a website that helps ex-wives form their own club, along with bylaws, officers, new business, and, especially, old business. Letting old business resurface, and thereby giving them the opportunity to crap on me all over again -- their goal -- when the spirit moves. Little things, like stealing the ex-husband's paper, keying his car, all the way up to uber reputational despoilage.

But it was kind of good running into her, Polli Marie. Since I loved her most of all, until it all went to hell. My right eye has this thing where it involuntarily wanders -- which no one believes -- so they all got the wrong idea when I'm looking around. That I have an attitude, that I'm the roving type, etc.

My first three wives were all high school chums, who thought they wanted me. So I gave in, one at a time. I saw a huge benefit in that they were all big-boned women and obviously suited for service. I had the property here, my grandparents', and all the things from their successful household, wash tubs, clotheslines, dressing tables, and everything. So it was an easy choice to marry them and put them to work. Definitely freed up time for me and my wandering eye.

Of course I'd come home -- let's say after hunting and fishing -- and get meals from them (we were married sequentially, which should go without saying) -- and drop off fresh game and fish for them to clean. I thought it was a happy way to do things, but all I ever got was guff. Too much work, not enough sex, was their main complaint. But I could hardly stand the gamey smell. So we divorced: First Cindy Jane, then Linda Jane, then Myrtle Jane ... I told myself I had to get off the Jane gang. Three strikes, they're out!

Well, it just so happened that when Myrt and me were married, my wandering eye landed one day on the sexiest little so-and-so I'd ever seen thus far. Small-boned, lithe, flexible, not naturally given to the wash basin and game. And that's how I treated her, as though she were incapable of actual work. I made her my little queen. Had her propped up on the couch -- her throne -- with pillows and Grandma's old nicknacks for her palace.

I doted on that beautiful woman, Polli Marie. "O my Polli Marie, Polli Marie, Polli Marie!," her name still gives me the world's worst hots. She'd been a farmer's daughter, so I suppose she could've done some work. But you gotta understand, I'd already worked myself out of three wives, naturally I'm going the other way on my sweet, precious Polli Marie!

Then it happened, I came home one day laden with game and fish -- set to clean them myself, thanks to having been abandoned by the big-boned ones -- and Polli Marie was nowhere in sight. I checked her throne, I checked the other throne, everywhere, but she was gone! With my wandering eye, also a source of her grief, I scoured the town and finally found her applying for a job at the library. Of course I threw the book at her. I probably shouldn't have, but I did. No small-boned wife of mine will ever work! She left me and ever since I've been single.

Now that I hear they're caught up in this internet crap, forming an ex-wives club, I'm beside myself with grief. Frankly, if I can't have them -- three of them for work and the precious one on her throne -- I don't want to hear about them at all. (That's why I burnt the edges of the above graphic, symbolically burning away the past.) If, though, I do have to hear about them .... If I have to suffer the slings and arrows of this club ... I definitely hope Polli Marie is elected president. The others, with their big bones, aren't fit to lead, only to take orders from my queen, and work.

She's Cute ... He's Handsome ... Stop! Don't Do It!

This is just the kind of argument you want to get into ...

You caught her fair and square, bald-faced, lying, red-handed, in the act, in flagrante delicto, as it were. You had her right where you wanted, names, dates, suspicious comings and goings. This would be your big chance to be rid of her, no questions asked. No one could blame you.

Then -- you should have known -- as sure as the sun doth rise, she has the names and dates, and suspicious comings and goings of you as well. A little tit for tat, what's good for the goose is good for the gander, or vice versa. You tried to avoid that infernal lipstick! Proving to yourself once and for all, there's no fool like an old fool!

It's the same old story, times two. You're out and about, you catch an eye, an eye catches you, then there's a smile and an exciting closeness. It's a crowded room, pretty dark, you can duck through this curtain and out this door, the back door, and find a booth somewhere. No one's looking, you think. In this whole big world, surely you can duck scrutiny for a paltry hour; you've been around, you see people, they're out of sight in a flash.

But there's always some little thing. Someone crossing the street the opposite way, catching a glance, noticing something out of place, a slightly different person on your arm. But they don't say anything, don't greet you, and maybe turn their head to look the other way. Saving their kind attentions for later, the gossip mill.

She, however, was very discrete, coming up with one excuse after another for her absences. Doctor appointments, visiting a sick friend, Christmas shopping in July, having her dress mended. But you started thinking, Something's going on. And decided to call in a private detective for answers.

He tailed her, but good. She wasn't so secure she didn't look behind her and around. But she kept right on going, not noticing him. Then the assignation, a dark stairwell, a key to the door. Their meeting went well, such as it was. The detective was back with the details within the hour. Now to confront her! And be done with it!

She was ready, though, the evidence she has against you bringing out an added brazenness. This is why she had no shame!

Fortunately, friends, the above scenario is fictional. The very sad people in the illustration, just actors, helped me make a point. The point being, if you haven't yet crossed that line -- and there has to be a few of you who've thus far held back -- there's still hope for your relationship. You may seriously think you've lost the fire as a couple, but it's very likely that's just a deception. Because whatever it was a long time ago, the mutual attraction that brought you together, isn't dead. Much more likely, you've simply set it aside, by neglect, or from a lack of imagination. The old fire's still there, present somewhere, just waiting to be rekindled.

I've had friends who've crossed that line, and I've kept their confidence, only because they're my friends. But I know they're miserable. Had they only come to me before it happened -- this goes for male and female -- I would've told them, "Don't do it!" In my favor I would've brought out the old truth, "The grass always looks greener on the other side of the fence." I would've then lead them through a few questions -- delving into their thinking -- before emptying a pitcher of iced water in their lap. They'd have come up cussing me, obviously, but when they got hold of themselves, they'd have thanked me.

It's too late for them now, many of them, but that doesn't mean it's too late for you. Let's say you're getting ready to go right now. But somehow (Who knows how it happens, but thank God it does!) you found your way to this blog -- a very popular blog, yes, but still obscure enough that you basically need divine guidance to find it -- and you're reading this post, and it's hitting you like a ton of bricks. You're saying to yourself: "Yes, yes ... just the word I needed, as within the hour -- or maybe even sooner -- I was planning to throw it all away with some hot little floozy [or tall, dark, handsome paramour with a pencil-thin mustache, smoking a Swisher's Sweet, very sexy.]"

It's fantastic news to me to know now that I had some little part in changing your plans. And that you've decided to take another look at your mate, your partner over all these years. She ain't so bad, is she? He's still pretty cool, isn't he? You look up, you look at each other, there's a meaningful look, a glance, and a sly smile.

Forget everything else! Take your pill and fill the tubs in the backyard! Maybe you can make it before sundown!

Super Brain

I've mentioned a few times over the years that one of my pet names for myself is Super Brain. It's done wonders for my self-image but has been a detriment to my love life ("Super Brain knows you're in it for the free meals.") Be all that as it may, the name's stuck. And for good reason, thanks to my super brain, silly. The following is an account born in my meditations just this morning:

Super Brain is alone with his thoughts. At this moment he's monitoring the various energies as they go deep, seeing how they generally bypass actual information of a practical nature, inventions that might help mankind in some way, and veer off into fantasy realms, often tripping over themselves.

It's something like "Journey to the Center of the Earth," that story. I'll note it's a lot easier to make the descent than it may be, looking ahead, to get back out. I can't depend on a rock basin atop a volcano ready to blow. Super Brain calculates the odds. The rock basin and volcano being there, pretty good. Blowing at that precise second, less so. Survival with the heat and the difficulties of landing once blown free and clear, also not good. If that happens Super Brain calculates nothing but pain, discomfort, and a terrible death.

But we're far from that point. Super Brain continues to descend to the depths of himself. I see channels of light, synapses larger than most people's. I'm seeing these are synapses that don't mess around. For a lot of people, they're always shorting out, barely making a connection, but these are ones that receive from the previous synapse and add motive power before sending it to the next. Meaning -- ye gods! -- when a thought starts to occur it's already huge and powerful, but by the time it's fully considered, it's Everest! The fact that I can simultaneously shrink it down and make it presentable to others, as in this report, is itself a seismic miracle. Of tectonic proportions. Super Brain double backs on himself with amazement.

That's something to consider, although it threatens to put Super Brain into many simultaneous massive loops. Still, "Know thyself / Physician, heal thyself," -- if Super Brain wants to consider its own mighty workings, vis-a-vis the relation he has to himself -- although this is where a monumental conscious split might happen -- there's great danger in telling Super Brain to settle down. I must be careful not to become multiple Super Brains, as that would crowd out others from their rightful place in sharing the thoughts of the world. It would be immoral to swallow up all consciousness. But Super Brain is like the proverbial 5000 pound gorilla, demanding free reign, meaning we have to stand back and clean up the damage later.

Thinking on Super Brain's thoughts on himself -- how majestic the peaks -- how awesome and unsearchable the terrible depths, with all the power it takes to make it work -- a mighty surge overpowering all other insurgents! Super Brain doesn't fight the same war twice. Super Brain is a dynamic thinking entity of no observable limits. Although Super Brain obviously could observe them if he wanted. Super Brain's cranial habitation does not truly hold it. Another obvious miracle. Super Brain thinks and thinks and thinks and thinks on itself and remains healthy, ever strengthening and doubling in thinking might.

Now I'm going to perform an utterly magnificent feat, to cast Super Brain's thoughts on terrain and realms very far from it. My first stop: Out by the Tastee Freeze. What do I behold in that far off locale, at least 60 blocks from here? They're still closed. They've been closed for decades. You'd think someone would buy the run-down property, tear down the old place, and put something else there. A Taco John or something.

Super Brain sees -- wow! -- an investment opportunity. Super Brain actually truly sees the possibilities of entrepreneurship. All it'd take is a quick call to corporate, a plan that Super Brain might work out with lawyers -- himself able to guide the best legal minds in plush offices around the square. But is that really the direction Super Brain wants to go? It'd be good money. At first, though, his energies would be tied up in hiring teenagers to make tacos, and he can see -- thanks to the vast energies making these thoughts simply occur -- that would be so unrewarding.

Super Brain is not tiring, no. But Super Brain's vast energies are making the body tired. Must direct energies to recharge. Meaning, looking to the gigantic nucleus of pulsing light and dark right at the core of Super Brain, and sending forth power. Energy to the toes! Energy to the hands! Energy to the vital organs! Energy to the organs shriveling from lack of use. Super Brain must make the body more attractive to potential mates. (Troll nursing homes to find rich widows. Have to get them when they're new, before they've signed over the house.) Like spinach, Super Brain makes biceps anvils, hands hammers, dinghy tattoo on chest a battleship. Pipe is spinning, strident music playing, theme song. I'm a whirlwind of hitting objects with my fist and having them land in a more ordered arrangement. I'm strong to the finish.

Super Brain semi-drifts into a quiescent state, the body relaxes. Semi-drifts, because Super Brain continues forever his activity, now monitoring all things in a mighty way, crickets in the pantry, birds outside, and the air conditioner popping on again.

Must rouse myself and get on with my day.

My Wife the Orangutan

NOTE: THIS IS AN IMAGINARY STORY FROM SOMEWHERE DEEP IN THE IMAGINARY GRANDMA SLUMP UNIVERSE. I DON'T REALLY HAVE AN ORANGUTAN FOR A WIFE. IT'S TOUGH TO GET ORANGUTANS. BUT I HAVE A FRIEND (TRICKY THE DEMON) WHO PUT THE THOUGHT IN MY MIND: "WHAT IF A MAN HAD AN ORANGUTAN FOR A WIFE?"

It was a dream come true. So many times I'd dreamed of having that one true love. Which then always eluded me. You know how dreams are, this becomes that; it's all inexplicable, and forms don't persist, and the normally imaginable is replaced by the utterly fantastic.

That happened one morning, in the last dream of the night, that I was in love with a huge orangutan. She and I were sharing a deep moment of eye contact. I hesitate to share my thoughts at that moment, but thank goodness I woke up or we might have prematurely erased the boundaries of propriety, absent marital vows. Crossing this boundary with an orangutan would be put me in a Huff Post story, destroying my life and opening me to the threats of bullies, and then stories about that.

The thought, though, wouldn't go away. Her size, the muscles, the tenderness of her fur, the depths of the eyes, even the quirkiness of her smeared-on lipstick. It's that desire for mature relations where there's still a hint of innocence that does something to you. It's true for the saint and the sinner, the witchdoctor as well as the man of medicine. They see it everyday and they're not turned on -- nothing they'll confess to, anyway, but flutter those eyes in a motel room, and pucker those tentative, quivering lips, and Katy, bar the door! Cigarette time.

I drove by the zoo -- must've been 800 times, thinking, Is this right? Neighborhood Watch noticed me after 100. I was trailed by cops every time after 300. I ran out of gas around 500 and was beat up by boy scouts. Some time between 798 and 800 -- I guess it was 799 -- I turned in.

I hustled myself to the orangutan exhibit, where our eyes met again and again. Must've been 800 times. The zookeepers noticed me after 100. I was monitored by the other orangutans every time after 300. I was exhausted around 500 and beat up by the aviary. Some time between 798 and 800 -- I guess it was 799 -- we fell in love.

It was only a matter of her downing a case of energy drink, washed down by a single pot of whole bean coffee, and a touch of Tabasco on the tongue, before she broke loose. We fled immediately to an ordained friend, an extremely traditional hidebound guy, outspoken in his opposition to any deviation from societal norms. So strict is he there's no plumbing the depths of it. He readily married us, me in my normal clothes, she nude except for a lampshade on her head as a veil. We said, "I do," and I carefully lifted the shade and beheld my bride.

We were understandably nervous about what would come next. I hesitate to write about something so tender. But we drove by the motel, must've been 800 times. Some kids sneaking in the pool noticed us after 100. A guy looking for handouts stood up every time we went by after 300. I stopped to check a tire around 500 and was beat up by a gang. Some time between 798 and 800 -- I guess it was 799 -- we checked in.

Then it was off to our room, which we went to directly the first time. I will let it fade to black, leaving aside the close to 800 times we consummated the marriage, and the other way stations it took us to get there -- the 100, 300, 500, 798 and 799. We didn't have time for all that, working as we did through the entire King Konga Sutra. Had I known orangutans were so tireless and persistently demanding -- Downtown's an entire city itself -- I might have found someone else, a goldfish or even a woman.

But the deed was done, and the marriage was real.

The story doesn't end there. I'm writing this account on the eve of our 85th anniversary. Yes, it's now the year 2099, and, yes, the zoo still drives by occasionally, looking for her. No one told me orangutans lived so extremely long. Or me, for that matter.

A Psychotic vs. Romeo & Juliet

Editor's Note: I don't feel bad about writing this, if that's what you're thinking. What? Should I feel guilty? I'm sorry, I don't see it that way. Thank you for your kind indulgence. Editor out!

Have you ever been attracted to a girl, and say you become something of a couple, and then you're invited over to meet her parents? That happened to me once. I can still see (in my mind's eye) her father sitting in the corner, in an easy chair, reading the paper. He barely looked up at me, and whatever acknowledgement he gave of my presence was very much like a dismissing growl. Not a good experience. But at least I got out of there alive, unlike this other guy I heard of...

They had to reconstruct exactly what happened from the girl's sworn testimony. Because the boy didn't make it out. The father actually made it, but he was such a psychotic, his testimony would be worthless, sworn or not.

It was just like my situation, she took him home to meet her father. Mom apparently wasn't in the picture. As it happened, Dad was in the bathroom with the door open, right off the hallway, so she took the boy there. Dad was shaving with one of those Norelco-type electric jobs. You know the type? They're strictly no fuss, no muss...

Of course the father looked out the door askance at the boy, being sensitive to such things, meeting new people, possible boyfriends. I'd guess it'd have something to do with a house being a man's castle, but it's just as likely there was more of a personal revulsion, because, as we'll learn later, he was completely psychotic. Which can be a bad scene.

But it was the boy who started having a reaction to seeing the dad with the Norelco-like device. Which could've been a reaction based on something physical at the scene, like pheromones. I know that's common. It sounds like he sensed death. The girl said he whispered something about being worried, and she could see him sweating, like he was afraid the father might do something in despair, like cutting his wrists with the shaver.

I can only imagine what he was thinking: What chance will I have with her if I'm responsible for her father's death, him bleeding to death in a bathroom she'd never be able to use again in perfect peace? That's an entirely logical question to ask oneself. I know I wouldn't be comfortable under those circumstances, unless I really had to go.

The best thing the boy could do -- the only thing, really -- was treat her dad somewhat warily, lest he have an active psychosis thing going. It's obviously a bad combination when you have a sharp razor and an active psychosis. You'd have to think, He might fly around the room killing us all, not just himself but me and his daughter. It'd be Romeo and Juliet all over, a perfect one for one parallel.

Really, though, what is it with psychotics and weapons? They're not able to do one single other thing right in life -- cause and effect completely elude them. But there is one thing they're good at, weapons and complete destruction; that they're good at!

OK, this is where the girl's sworn testimony comes in. The boy handles the threatening situation based on something he saw on TV, where they brought in a guy's aged mother to talk him down. Going on the assumption that if the guy's psychotic, and not good at any cause and effect sequence apart from weapons, it would stand to reason that portraying his mother might do the trick.

So the boy whispers to the girl, "What's your paternal grandmother's first name? "Grandma?" "No, her actual name." "Wilma."

"Hello, sonny, I'm your old mother Wilma. I want you to listen to me and behave," and he goes on with that line of thinking, very simple and direct instructions or commands. The dad goes, "Mom, you've changed."

"No, no, sonny," the boyfriend said, "I'm the same old mother you've always loved. Back among the living and feeling better than ever."

Like that, then, he's calming the guy down more ... more ... ever more, and finally takes possession of the shaver. But suddenly the dad lunges for a knife behind the towels, comes at the boyfriend, and immediately kills his "mother." To me this is the ultimate proof of his psychosis, although some readers might surmise it was an Oedipal thing. I really wouldn't disagree, but it's that from a psychotic point of view.

And so it's true, they were Romeo and Juliet, paralleled. Shakespeare was right about so many things, including the biggest from Romeo and Juliet: Some families simply should not intermarry. Because there's bound to be trouble. The parallels are beyond spooky.

Valentine's Day -- My Date's Heartbeat

Note: It's Valentine's Day, so we're celebrating LOVE and all the accoutrements that go with it, including, between the lines, a dash of sex. It's great to "couple," however you do it, whether together in the flesh or in some other sense. I've had a few dates lately. She and I went out for our Valentine's Day date last night, to avoid the rush -- the crush of people -- on Valentine's Day itself.

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

Remember a few weeks ago I said I had a couple dates? Well, guess what: It's true, lightning can strike in the same spot twice! We had another one.

The difference between this date and the others is that we know each other so much better. We have exchanged calls, texts, and Facebook statuses. I'm pretty well up to snuff on her love of funny cat videos and miniature horses. I appreciate the psychology behind liking miniature horses.

This time, again, we came together over dinner, for Valentine's Day. I did the traditional thing, which is paying for her meal. No dutch treat for me. I'm old-fashioned like that. My dad probably did it before he and mom were married, even though, as I understand it, he was something of a pauper.

Later, without getting into too much of the nitty-gritty details, I found myself in a position of resting my head on her chest, just under her chin. By resting my head, I mean sideways, definitely not my face directly buried in her chest. It was a touching moment, right out of the old song, "Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child." Which, after all, I am.

And she seemed comfortable with it. I was comfortable. It gave me a lot to think about, as you can imagine, about proximity and what it could all lead to. Of which, speaking of comfort, I'm not comfortable saying too much.

Then I started thinking, "I can hear her heartbeat." Thumpa-thumpa -- thumpa-thumpa, etc. It really did something to my thought processes, giving me the thought, "Good grief, this is a living other ... blood is flowing ... each cell is being nourished," and other things along those lines.

Then the more I thought the sillier I felt. Of course her heart's beating! There's nothing wrong with that, is there? It's just you don't hear it that often. I kept toying with the idea. She might've thought I was lingering a bit too long, but what could I do, being a motherless child and all? Who knows her secret thoughts, probably something about nurturing and me being clingy?

My silly thoughts went something like this: Hearts beating, hasn't it been done to death? All these years the same thing, we haven't risen above it. Even though they've done marvelous things with artificial hearts, they still haven't got one to sound as lifelike as this, I presume. I keyed in on how regular it was. She wasn't varying much from the same old thumpa-thumpa you think of as the heartbeat's basic stereotype. How exciting is it having me attached to her breasts, in that sideways manner of speaking? Obviously not too exciting... she had the same beat-beat regularity...

Continuing this lovely reverie, I noted to myself, Aren't heartbeats these days almost passé? We've denied so long that we're living things -- not willing to use a bathroom if another human soul is within 50 feet -- both because of the well-known reluctance to pass waste in public as well as the fear of being sexually attacked by truck drivers in the area -- why, at the end of it all, is a heartbeat allowable?

This woman is mortal! I exclaimed with my inner silent voice. Not the goddess I imagined. Someday, although God forbid, her heart will be stilled. And if we proceed down this path, I might be there, whether it's 10 years or 30 years later, when it happens. What will I do? What should I do? CPR? How am I to know if this mortal machine can be repaired either by medicine or mechanic?

I felt my own heartbeat quicken its pace, making me no more innocent than she. When a thought like that hits you -- you know as well as I -- it's a real bastard to shake.

Our Peanut Shell Moment

I had a date today after church -- yes, a woman this time; I met her in church, so she's not your average pervert -- and we shared a special moment.

I asked her out, and we made our way in my car to a hamburger restaurant where they also give away free peanuts. I always like that. The burgers may be average to a little better, but the peanuts are always to die for. And free to boot.

We sat somewhere near the door, seemingly a meaningless detail, but it's not in this sense: That's right where purse snatchers like to see people, so they can grab your purse and have an unimpeded path to the door and beyond. I asked her if it'd be OK for me to watch her purse, since she seemed to be a little careless about it. She looked at me, I believe admiringly, as someone who only sought her well-being. She passed me the purse and we both felt better.

Then it was time to get down to some serious eating. She had the regular cheeseburger and me the hamburger, both pretty large, plus fries. She was drinking pink lemonade and I ginger ale. And of course I was eating the free peanuts. I had one container of peanuts and one for the shells, something new for me, since before I've always made do with the same container.

At some point, then, I came across what looked to me to be the perfect peanut shell, pictured above. It was broken perfectly, was incredibly flat, and seemed to have some use beyond its life as the shell of a peanut now eaten. I suggested to her that she could use it for a little cup, good for just a sip of water, were she to keep it. Frankly, it looked like a small trough, so if you had a small animal, a gerbil or even a bird, you could use it for water or grain. Or just enjoy it yourself, maybe as a nicknack for the mantle.

She was absolutely adorable in picking it up and putting it to her lips as a demonstration of how useful it might be. I looked at her and she looked at me. Our eyes met and it was tender. Then, as if having some slight embarrassment for revealing too much of her core being -- and I being intuitive enough to see it displayed in such a raw way -- she pulled it down and put it among the other shells. She was a little flushed. I did my best to dispel it by patting her hand and smiling, while reaching with the other hand, on the sly, to retrieve the shell and spirit it into my jacket pocket.

All the way home I did what anyone would do, prayed that nothing would crush the shell whose moment we had shared. And sure enough, it was fine, arriving with me moments ago here at home, for a quick photo shoot and this blog. Wish us well. We shared that beautiful time. There's so much more to come! I hope.

An Accidental Stabbing Death

His wife was having a hard time slicing a ham sandwich. The blade seemed a bit dull, prompting the man to comment on it. She made a motion toward him to show how sharp the knife was, apparently joking, then immediately pulled back. As luck would have it.

He reached over, thanking his lucky stars for his life and health, and took the knife and stabbed her to death, the love of his life. That was all she wrote, as the saying has it. She slumped to the floor, a tangled mess of body stuff, without life, her lifeblood there, the whole scene.

An investigation revealed the truth, that it was a matter of confusion, not the fulfilling of a premeditated plan. Sometimes you just act on instinct, kill or be killed. And the only time he would end up serving would be a life sentence, not confined but alone at home, wondering how things might've been different. How can ham sliced so thin be so damned hard to cut? It seems to toughen up when fried.

They were all gathered at the funeral, her relatives and his. Just like their wedding, each side of the chapel hosted the respective sides of the family. But now he was all alone, released on his own recognizance but wisely keeping a low profile until he had to appear.

The casket was in place, the flowers primped and fluffed, the cards of remembrance in their little basket. There was a kind of hush in the place, the pall of sadness more than you could easily bear. The husband was the last one to enter, escorted to his front row seat by an understanding daughter.

He stood up to eulogize the dearly departed. He thanked everyone for coming to pay tribute to the love of his life. Then he touched on his sadness how she had "jokingly" came at him that way with the knife. He knew she was smiling, but perhaps something more maniacal lay behind it. In short, he didn't think, he acted, like you'd act if a wild beast lunged at you.

He paused for a long time, choking back tears. And concluded with a barely audible, "Love conquers all," before he was escorted away, lost in loud sobbing.

I Love You For a Hundred Thousand Reasons

"I Love You Because" is a song on Elvis Presley's first album. It has the lyric, "I love you for a hundred thousand reasons." But you have to think the reasons would be fairly thin by the time you got to 100,000...

Whatever Happened to Bushwhacking?

 These typical teenagers will soon be "parking" on a lonely country road.
At least, they HOPE it'll be lonely!

One of our biggest fears years ago was bushwhackers. Those dreaded ambushers who came upon you parked on a lonely country road to interrupt ... whatever you happened to be doing. Which might or might not have involved intimate romantic contact. I hate to be specific.

Whatever happened to bushwhackers? I never hear anything about them anymore. Although it could be that I'm not in the right company to hear much. I fear that if we had bushwhackers yet today, they would've taken it way beyond the free meal, belling of the antenna, and smudging of the license plates. In today's brave new world, they might kill you!

Maybe there's not that many kids parking anymore, with changing standards. Standards have loosened, so maybe now they're just in their own rooms going at it. I really don't know. "Jimmy, when you and Joan are done, please come down for dinner ... and don't forget to straighten the sheets!"

Of course, it wasn't that way years ago, like other things that change over time. But if the current generation (or their kids) knew where they came from, those illicit assignations along the roads, they might have a greater appreciation for the old days. Parking itself was a result of changing standards, a more mobile society. So if it has switched in the meantime, we'll just chalk it up to progress.

But when parking was going on, it gave rise to an antagonist, the bushwhackers. Those terrible bushwhackers! Who were out and about, hoping to catch a glimpse of nudity, perhaps, and certainly to interrupt the proceedings.

The way I remember it, though, there was more to it. I alluded to it a little above. It was like a sport. The bushwhacker carried a string of bells, and once those were around your antenna, you were his captive. That gave him the opportunity to take the young woman's lipstick and smudge the license plate up real good. Then you were obligated to take him to the diner and pay for a free meal.

I always hated providing the free meal. Not so much the expense, but the time and trouble it took to go with him. We'd be leading the way, and there he'd be in his car following us, till we pulled in. I bought more patty melts and french friends back then than I have at any point in my life since! And it wasn't fun. I'd be sitting there irate.

These days, even if there are bushwhackers -- I said they might kill you, but they might also fear getting killed. With everyone packing heat, anything could happen. It could turn deadly real fast! Which is probably why you never see bells around antennas or lipstick-smudged license plates anymore. That was terrible, your dad coming out in the morning ... "What have we here? Lipstick on the license plates?"

It's terrible, the memories, but of course it went with the territory. Now, looking back, I can see it was all in good fun. A few of the bushwhackers I even remember with a degree of fondness. One of them was even mayor of the town way after we all grew up. So that's a strange bit of trivia, something I never expected back in the day, buying him a patty melt.