Pullin' Up Stakes

Part 29 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Saying goodbye's always one of the toughest things when it comes to a traveling rodeo/wild-west show. Some of the cowpokes have found new girlfriends and just got settled in when it's time to leave. But it affects everyone. It’s like saying goodbye to a loved one, like your dad when he goes into the service and has to report at such-and-such hours on a particular day. You’re afraid you might never see him again, which happened just like that in some of our more deadly wars.

Plus, rodeo folk are very emotional, going from place to place like that, never having a permanent spot to call home. They get used to the fans and especially the ones who are real autograph-hounds; they love that kind of devotion, which should probably reach across a lot of different occupations but always seems to center on the personalities performing in a big show, a major production.

But the calendar, while wide open on the days ahead, is very finite when it comes to particular spans. If you’re in a place two weeks, those days are frittered away before long and finally complete. It hardly pays to unpack because as soon as you do you’re packing again. Life calls us, though, everyone of us, to a bumpy ride of today, tomorrows, and the days of the far-flung future. What we’re doing today will soon be over and another span of time will open up, its vistas barely known, at least in their fullness. Getting fairly emotional here.

I remember way back, that’s the way it was with the traveling rodeos and carnivals, what have you, when I was little. And gypsies, which there were plenty of back then. What ever happened to the gypsies? I don’t know. They were very social people, so it could’ve been that one fell in a hole and the others were obliged to follow. I don't want to be spreading rumors, and I hope there’s no truth to that, but my mother really believed it, or maybe she just wanted to discourage me from ever being one. Whatever she thought, though, I kept to the straight and narrow, maintaining the path without fail.

Rodeo folk are folk just like us, though. And it’s easy to imagine that they’d like to have a piece of God’s sod that is theirs alone, a place to bed down at night and a place to wake up and see the same patch of sky everyday. There really is something about seeing the same patch of sky everyday, although I guess it’s not for everyone. Maybe for some of the more sentimental rodeo performers (and management), whereas any who are hardened or just have a tougher, more unsentimental bent it’d be different.

I remember waving goodbye as a kid to the traveling rodeo. We stayed almost till the bitter end, then I'd feel like I was going to cry and embarrass myself if I stayed another minute. So over the hill I went, then crept back a little bit later and they were gone. It was sentimental and they were fine folks, don‘t get me wrong, but they vanished so fast there wasn’t so much as a goodbye.

Misery Adores Company

 

Part 2 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

What about you? Did you ever get one of those childhoods where anything that could go wrong did go wrong? And it ended up doing a number on your whole personality, to the point that on a good day you’re still a big fat zero? I see a few sad hands. This month we’re touching on these unfortunately common issues of fragile self-esteem. And that's the proper way of saying it, as editor-in-chief here, although I realize all too well that “Misery adores company.” But if it weren’t for my fellow-sufferers, probably no one would believe the things to come. Our dismal past exposed to a disbelieving, disapproving public!

Of course I should know quite a bit about it, and I could even be called one of the foremost experts on it. I think that’s true, at least, and I’m flattered if you think it too. But the story could be told as well by my sworn enemies, wherever they are, those who tormented me beyond all sense. And yet I’m willing to concede they perhaps had good reasons, even if they were only reasons of their own. The degree to which indeed I was "squirrelly" hasn't been conclusively proven. But certainly they know who they are, to the extent that I’m that memorable, and it’s not hard to imagine that wherever they are they’ve made a success of their lives. Perhaps as prison guards, mafia hit-men, factory foremen, professional wrestlers, or gym teachers.

I know this much, I’m certainly not going to look up any of them. And I’ve avoided class reunions for this reason. Because anywhere there’s a punch bowl there’s a potential drowning. And I’ve managed somehow -- a guy hypnotized me at the shopping center once, about the time I took Abraham Lincoln as my personal spirit animal -- to live a semi-proud life, semi-proud of myself for respecting myself enough to sit up and take nourishment. Today I had my usual bowl of plain oatmeal, and just because my fragile self-esteem is such a vital part of my outlook, two pieces of burnt toast with butter past the expiration date.

Some of you may have sympathy for me. I'm proud to have your sympathy, because that lets me know that in a rough and tumble world there are still good people. So let me confer a few blessings your way. "This reader, among my best friends, knows a sad sack story when he or she hears it. May he or she be free of all bullies, evil-doers, letchs, trolls, souped-up athletes, gym teachers, prison guards, towel snappers, and extortionists. Let his or her self-esteem be up there with the immortals, who know the glory of righteous suffering but wouldn’t inflict unnecessary pain on a fly, killing them, yes, because we’re trying to avoid the next global plague, but quickly and with mercy."

Did I do the pledge yet? Looks like I didn't: “I pledge destruction to fragile self-esteem, and to the mental conditions from which it thrives, one person, under valued, too divided, with happiness and private showers for all.” Now, c’mon, guys, get me off this damned nail!

From Symmetry To Cemetery

 

Part 27 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

I know it’s hard to say any one person deserves to die more than another — barring hideous capital offenses, crimes against humanity, and unrepented pigheadedness. But could we at least make an exception for the overly-fastidious and those with strange quirks? This is something I could head up, although my deep seated tenderness will eventually be the death of me. I can only resist it for a while, because nothing hits me like a sob story.

But of course there’s sob stories and SOB stories. Bob would be in the last category, a real SOB. Mostly because he's annoying, with a very pronounced longing, even demand for symmetry. Have you ever had the symmetry bug? An overabundance of balance? If there's a shrub on the left side of your house there has to be one on the right? That kind of thing.

There’s nothing more predictable than symmetry, which is why every freethinker's first impulse is to mess it up. Symmetry sufferers have too much thought for harmonious arrangement. To the point of even their shaving cream, wanting it to stretch nicely from ear to ear. If there's something neat about it's upper border, it needs an equal lower border. And maybe a dab on top of the head and one under the chin.

Do I personally have trouble with symmetry? I believe so or it wouldn’t upset me so much thinking of Bob. But I try to foresee it and work fastidiously to make things less harmonious. Take this blog post up until now. It started with a general beginning, introduced a particular case, and now I’m in the process of giving and taking, my own problems with symmetry. Even now I can see what it'd need for good symmetry to the end. Which, if Bob were writing it, would flow as predictably as sexual waste in a prison shower. But I’m going to purposely mess it up with something unrelated.

By the way, have you ever seen a prison shower in real life? I’ve never been “in” prison but I toured one. Our hands were marked with invisible ink visible under a black light. I had such fear that day. I even pictured a guy jumping me, cutting off my arm, stuffing it into his sleeve and going through the black light. With me bleeding to death in his cell and the rest of the tour group going on without me. Anyway, I saw their shower, just a big room, shower heads all around, a big old public shower for men. Thinking of it over 30 years later, I still get nightmares.

See, my prison story ruins the symmetry. Meaning, I'd get kicked out of Bob’s Club, him and his fluorescent shaving cream! I'm not sure how they shave in prison. They don’t want anyone cutting their throat and getting out early. Hey, do you think maybe Bob had a record? Maybe Bob “served time”? I hadn’t thought of that! I just thought he was a neat freak, but maybe he was sending prisoners a message...

Right there's a good enough reason for him pass on. With him dead we can sleep better, knowing he’s not going to be shaving his symmetrical arrangement and “accidentally” slipping and cutting our throat.

The Mystic Thermometer

No. 30 of 30 - Thermometer series

There was a rumor, fleeting though it was, that I was a quitter. Which I immediately denied. How could anyone think I’d quit now, going on a month into the thermometer drive? If I was going to quit, it would’ve been the first week, not now. Even if I didn’t feel it at this point, I’d at least fake it. I don’t drive somewhere just to turn around at the edge of town. Sheesh, whoever is saying that — I think I might know the guy spreading these rumors — just back off, cease, desist, quit while you’re ahead. But today's a day for happiness, not getting even.

The other reason I would never quit, even say it was a week ago, is because this thermometer thing is a real soul thing. Probably what a whale thinks when it’s swimming the world’s seas. The deepest seas to the whale are a piece of cake. It’s not easily frightened of drowning even though they’re not fish but mammals. You could have the biggest man in the world, an eight-foot giant. And if you threw him in the ocean he’d be scared to death. Not a whale.

And not me. Because something’s stirring in me that’s beyond me and yet part of me. Think of it as the highest realization, that I am the whale, I am the thermometer. It’s funny, one of my biggest fears when my mother would take my temperature was the thermometer. I be lying there in bed and thinking, "I might bite the thermometer in half and die of cuts," or "I might swallow the thermometer, gulp, or I’d be so hot the thermometer would blow its end off (like in cartoons), and it’d get in my eyes and I’d go blind." But now I’ve come full circle, being myself one with the thermometer.

There’s a possible world religion in the making here, folks! Where someday people could be going door to door with leaflets and invitations. Telling people how the inner mercury, the inner sap is always rising or falling. With the thermometer telling your temperature in that sense, You’re hot blooded, check it and see, or you’re cold as ice and someday you’ll have to pay the price.  I always heard we were warm-blooded, which again is also true of the whale. But the mystical reality speaks of not being lukewarm but hot or cold, or being spat out of its mouth...

The lesson about has to be: Be the best cold or the best hot you can be, no in between. And it’s true, we always remember the times we're absolutely cold or hot. I almost froze to death one time, with the weirdest thing happening; at the time I became extremely warm and still knew I’d die of frostbite. So I got up and I ran, I ran so far from there, till I was home, safe in my own bed, warm again. My mom came and asked me what happened. I was out of my mind, not knowing the future, but my exact words were, “Look to the Mystic Thermometer, Mother.” She was freaked out because I always said mom or momma till that day!

Now today is here. Friends. And while it is called today, that is when you must choose. Will you like this blog, subscribe, and/or comment? Will you go the full measure as I have? Will you found a men’s division in your efforts? Will you found a ladies aid group as well? Will you alternately find yourself paranoid, pulling up the blankets lest the world encroach? Or will you find in yourself absolute confidence, casting off your many blankets and shouting it to the world?

Those two scenarios show what your mercury, your sap, the juice in your blessed marrow is doing. Up or down. But it doesn’t go horizontal. You go horizontal, out into the world with the good news of this blog, only when the Mystic Thermometer climbs for the sky. Or you shy away from that horizontal move when instead of climbing for the sky it digs a hole, crawls in, and covers itself in the blessed soil of death, then using whatever strength it has left (and in the absence of air) to dig itself farther and farther below. In all my days I’ve never heard of it burrowing very deeply. It gets a few feet down, let’s say, then reaches around itself, huddles tightly and dies.

Don’t let that happen, unless you are completely without sense.

Homeless Seeking $ God Bless

With me in the Big City, everything's getting very real. Oh boy, what an eye-opener it is, the dregs of society. And that's just me, but there's plenty of others, standing on this corner, that corner, and of course freeway ramps. I thought of doing it, but don't want to get caught encroaching on another guy's territory.

I was staking out a place one day for panhandling, more like checking it out, trying to picture how I'd look this time of the day or that time. I don't want the sun in my eyes, definitely, and the less sunburn the better. I would want everyone to see me, if not for my financial benefit, then not to be run over. But I haven't brought myself to do it yet. I'm not up on the etiquette or logistics, and a big thing with me is doing it right.

In the picture above, the handwriting is from a couple signs I found. I expect they'll be a decent model for me for composing my own stuff. Even though I'm above average in religion, I don't think the religious approach toward an effective guilt trip is the best approach. Society's so secular these days, the tried and true assumptions of long-ago need to be updated. Frankly, instead of Jesus, I'd more readily mention Buddha or Hindu yogis. Because I think Big City people appreciate a global approach; it's beyond their expectations, which would probably pay rich dividends.

And look at the handwriting, just a damned scrawl. Which, I'll give 'em this, it's more effective than an overly-produced computer printout with picture-perfect fonts. But a certain amount of neatness counts. Too sloppy and the suspicion is you're too far gone to be helped. There's a happy medium between sloppy and overdone. Especially if you had a Buddha, let's say, and your handwriting recalled the mystic look of the East without being obscure. What would be really cool would be a Hindu ochre (orangish) robe and an occasional apparently-sincere mudra. Out in the open, naturally, chest high; you're not scratching your muladhara chakra by any means!

I've been watching a bunch of YouTube videos. And I came across a bunch of anti-panhandling guys there. Who park in the lonely corners of Walmart and zoom their cameras in on panhandlers infesting those environs. Who are there so often they've worn away the grass! You can't tell me that's a good look. Anyway, the YouTubers are doing real reconnaissance, documenting the panhandlers' lives and finding that quite a number of them aren't indigent in the least. Which they hold against them.

I guess I can sort of see their point. Which is that people who pretend to be homeless or pretend to be poor could very well be making it worse for others. First, am I homeless or poor? Well, going by the technicalities. I'm technically homeless as long as my house back home is leveled and they never get it fixed. There's so much mold, mildew, backed up sewage and odor, along with vermin, parasites, rats, and the occasional fly, that a guy is easily fed up with it. When I left the last time, those weren't dry heaves.

In the Big City, yes, yes, I have a place to stay. Big damned deal. There's more to being down on your luck than whether you're homeless or not. Yet you about have to use the word homeless on your sign, because, look at the problem, you can't have a sign too complicated. I couldn't tell everything about my dismantled house. It's funny, but I myself barely look at panhandlers at all, I definitely haven't got all day to read the signs. Sheesh, it's all words, words, words, meant to create an atmosphere and push buttons, not be to be technically true, like you'd have to be in a court of law. This is where the YouTube thought-police cross the line.

Remember, I haven't panhandled at all. So if I had, of course I'd have more knowledge on the subject, what's effective and what should be avoided. And I never give anyone anything, so I haven't had extensive contacts with them. (A little, which I'll mention later.*)

But speaking as a layman, I have to think you want to come across as totally personable, kind, soft spoken, sincere, and not apparently putting the squeeze on folks. Watch the eye contact -- not too much -- and respect people's boundaries and keep them comfortable. Oh yes, this is getting me excited. I'm rubbing my hands together even now in glee at the haul I'd no doubt make! Being the nicest guy you've ever met. I believe I come across as someone without a selfish bone in his body. If I were standing at the off ramp, I'm sure you'd see me as someone doing you a favor. I'm just so intrinsically honest and pleasant, begging would make me a millionaire overnight. My pockets bulging out, a big sack like Santa Claus on my back, so full of money I'd have to hire guards to walk me home. Very soon I'd be strictly turning away all change in favor of more lightweight bills. A matter of policy.

Eventually I'd use some of the money to buy better clothes. So I'm panhandling during the day, probably an hour tops would give me enough to live well, then I'd be out at fancy restaurants at night. In my new clothes, some of the same people would see me and think I looked familiar, but there's lots of guys who look sort of like me. If they approached me in my off hours, I'd raise my hands and giving them a solid no comprende every time. Nicely, of course.

*Here's the reference to the panhandler I met when I got to the Big City. I was out scavenging soda/beer cans and cashing them in at the salvage yard. And I got a bunch of cans under bridges, right near this guy who was panhandling day after day. I'd also already met another guy in his circle, who was going to help guide me on the Shamanic Path; I called him Wolf, he called me Grandpa. So I was in the vicinity of the bridge where Wolf said he lived, but he was gone. The panhandler was letting me know where Wolf went, which was "That way." In our other meetings, he told me the direction Wolf went, "That way," and that was nice. I don't think my panhandler is rich, etc., but maybe he does go home at night to a nice place. I wouldn't begrudge him that. It'd be great.

Crumpled Bird -- Take the Plunge

It's not too late to change my mind, let me state that right now as an absolute fact. I said the other day I was putting up The Sign of the Crumpled Bird, with the possibility that I'd then be having real world meetings with people around town. I've been sick ever since I said it, but you'll notice, I haven't deleted the post. I could be sick from anything. Look at me in Pocock's artwork, I don't know whether to dive in or throw up. That's truly how things stand.

I like the looks of the tub. We didn't have a tub at hand, actually, when Pocock was sketching me. So he either drew it from memory of what tubs look like -- in which case I'm impressed -- or more likely he copied it from a tub catalog. It brings up an interesting thing in my mind about drawing circles. When you draw a circle from the side it becomes more of a football-shaped thing. Meaning, one could theorize, that if you looked at a football standing over it and looking down, it ought to be a circle. But it's not.

That'd be a good thing to talk about in one of these real life meetings. Say I do put up the Sign of the Crumpled Bird, indicating I'm somewhere near at hand, in the vicinity, then I see a group of people milling around wondering if I'm going to show up. I edge in, let's also say, and peel off the most interesting looking guy from the periphery, and take him somewhat privately to get away from the crowd. Really, do I want a bunch of people who crowd in to see my sign, some guy who's close to it, like an investigator, trying to discern more about the author of the sign than he otherwise should? Or do I want the guy who's wondering but is more skeptical, even dismissive of the whole thing?

Good question, huh? I believe I can confess it, I've always been something of a profiler, finicky, nit-picky, selective. That guy at the edge, he's more my cup of tea (or soup) than the closer guy, who barely gives me room to breathe. I need room to breathe, that's key. And if I need a quick escape, to get the hell out of there, I don't want the guy pressing in, breathing down my neck, but, hey, that's just me.

Maybe the Crumpled Bird is a mistake, a bad idea. But I'm not giving up quite yet. No, I take that back, it's a great idea, separate the wheat from the chaff. I've always been good at that. I can be selective. The sign means I'm in the area, not that I'm necessarily going to swoop in and select someone. And I really feel for that guy at the edge. Maybe he's a real iconoclast. Just wants the crowd to disperse a bit so he can draw a mustache on my bird, or deface the sign in some other way, knowing it would very likely lure me out to choose him immediately on that account.

Life is hard, ah yes, they used to teach us you can't win. But I'm sure you can win. If you really pay attention, read the signs that life puts out there, etc., etc. Life's own version of the Crumpled Bird. Gotta take that plunge!

SPECIAL THANKS to E. Nubbi Pocock for today's artwork. I appreciate it very much, and the price was definitely right, zero. Thanks again. As an aside, though, no offense intended, If my pocock was nubbi I don't think I'd be parading around like E. did, making it my name! Am I right?

The Time Machine Got Me a Domme

Earlier this month I watched the 1960 movie "The Time Machine," based on H.G. Wells' novel. Maybe you remember it. The guy goes far into the future, all the way to the year 802701, farther than anyone's ever gone before, to my knowledge.

Well, it just so happens that the H.G. Wells Museum is only 35 miles from me, the pride of Silage City. And to add one more incredible coincidence, they've had his actual time machine on display the last couple of months. To get right to the point, I messed with it, accidentally taking it back before the museum was built. But Grandma's house has been around forever, so I hauled it home. Then when I realized no one would be looking for it, I started carting it around in the back of my pickup. And had no good reason to use it ... until the other night.

My current lady was a meek and mild gal, delighted with any little thing I might do for her. I asked where she wanted to go for her birthday. At first she said I should just save my money and not bother, but I'm saying, "No, I want to treat you right, kitten. C'mon, let's go, you're worth it." So I took her to the nicest place in town, steak, potato, salad, endless bread, the works, and desserts to die for.

After we ate, I suggested one of the desserts. In her meekness, she was very reticent, until I convinced her it'd be OK. "It's only money." "OK, darling," she said, "If you think it's best." So meek. The guy brings us the most delicious looking apple caramel cake sticky ice cream mountain plate thing and two spoons. I can see this will be bad for me, because now I wanted it all for myself and not to share it.

So I excused myself and ran out to the time machine. I had a plan. I would go back to the time and place of her birth, across town, thinking that if I could just delay her birth 10 minutes, it'd give me time to get back and eat the dessert. Then 10 minutes later, likely, she'd appear across from me. So that's exactly what I did. I'm at the hospital, 1953, and pulled the fire alarm. It put her parents in a panic and her mom's contractions completely stopped.

I get back to the present and my lady's not there, just the dessert, which I'm able to eat in peace. Success! But then I'm waiting, waiting, waiting, and she never shows up. I'm thinking, Crap, maybe there was a problem with her not being born. At this rate I'm not even going to have a lady! And I'd hate to walk out of here alone, always a bad look for a guy. OK for losers, not me.

So what other choice did I have but to fix things? I told a waitress I'm going to the can. Then out I went again, through the restroom window.

I get back to 1953, this time two minutes before I would arrive the first time. I hid around the corner, saw myself going toward the alarm and killed "me." I looked down at my body and dragged it away. Always one of my greatest fears, to be dumped in a janitor's closet. But there was no time for anything better. Now I'm heading down the hall to the birth chambers, when what do I see but the waiting room is actually on fire. I pull the fire alarm again and hurry down to counsel anyone having fits.

But this time I see her father pumping up her mom with confidence. The only difference apparently was the first time there wasn't a fire but this time there was. The first time uncertainty led to anxiety but this time certainty gave them confidence. I made a note of it, a great self-help point to tweet in the future.

Before I could get into the delivery room I heard her mother doing some extremely loud pushing, out of her confidence, then the cry of my future lady, a very bold cry for a baby, like something from Wagner. One of those big gals with the winged helmets. A real take-charge sound!

I rushed back to the present as fast as I could, and found my lady already at the table. Not only that, but her whole new life had been one of boldness, daring, and confidence -- all these years -- meaning that in this present continuum she's always the boss. She demanded to know where I'd been. I said the restroom and she called me a wimp. "You can't hold it 10 minutes?" I sat down and saw that she had not only eaten the entire dessert, but heard her setting down a new rule, that since I am hopelessly out of shape and a constant disappointment, I must never eat any dessert without her permission.

And that's the way it's been the last few days. She went from Zero to Hero. I now have to ask her permission to do anything, get up, take a nap, go for coffee, spend a nickel, etc. All of it's kind of kinky, if you know what I mean, but the micromanaging has a huge downside too. I mean, so what if I want an occasional beer with a friend? I can't get the permission! A friend calls and I'm like, "Brunhilde says no, and for you to never call again." I'm her slave!

All because of H.G. Wells and his stinking time machine, which I also had to ask her permission to destroy. So embarrassing crawling in. "Mistress, I know this is an odd request." I looked up at her, just narrowly not breaking the rule against eye contact, and saw her look of imperial impatience and disdain. "But I have a time machine I have to destroy. May I use the crowbar, just this once, Ma'am?" She kicked my ass and sent me on my way, which I took as a reluctant "Yes."

Before I destroyed it, the temptation occurred to me, I could still fix this.

Resolution: To Be a Better Person

It's the day for New Year's resolutions. I make them and I keep them. The one I've made most often, for years, is to be a better person. And it's been good to see my growth and how I've excelled. I'm pretty proud of it.

Looking back on my achievement, and thinking ahead after making the same resolution today, I know it would be a lot easier if I didn't have everyone else dragging me down. That's been the continual problem, but it's something I've worked on without much complaint.

The key thing is to be aware of what's going on around me, to be ever vigilant, and to avoid them as much as seems decent. You probably understand, I want my focus to be on my own progress and not on the nuisance of them dragging me down. They've been very persistent!

I'd hate to begin listing the situations where I've seen it, because that would practically be all I'd have time for. The short version of it is this: they've dragged me down in every way you can imagine, and it happens essentially everywhere. Yes, I've gotten the acclaim, the popularity, but it's always been coupled with a terrible envy, so oppressive. I'd say it's the psychological equivalent of terrorism, if they get their hooks firmly in me.

It's strange to think of it, but I was much better at avoiding them as a kid than I am as an adult. I was very sneaky as a kid, keeping my attributes under wraps. I was practically invisible. If anyone saw me, I was like a shadow, best discerned in hindsight, "Did you just see someone go by?" "I thought I did, but I didn't wanna say anything." They were freaked out, hair standing on end, the whole bit, in awe in the truest sense of the word. I was the only one not awed, since I knew it was me.

Then as I got older, and life had more consequences, it was tougher to fly under the radar. The police being always on the lookout for the truly sneaky, mostly adults, I had to put those days behind me. Which of course meant being fully exposed to the public eye. Internally, I rebelled, but outwardly I conformed.

Despite it all, I became a pretty good person. And kept making and keeping my resolution. Perhaps it was some family gene in earlier days that let me escape people more who sought to drag me down. Now, though, in old age, with my genes under greater stress, I feel more vulnerability. And so there's always -- literally always -- someone trying to drag me down. And often succeeding. Terrible burden...

But my resolution is true, and I reiterate it, that I might be a better person, in every way. Smarter, healthier, friendlier, more helpful, more understanding, being more open to people and their personal situations, as far as would be profitable to them. May I be more together within myself, with God, and the community.

Hezekiah and Stub

*About the graphic

I've never liked personality tests. Take me as I am. Or get to know me as we go along. But no, Hezekiahs aren't allowed to relax. You're at school and fill one out and they call you to the office and accuse you of being a Stub. Never a good feeling. Fortunately, in my case, I knew they were wrong. I'd never a Stub!

But I'm lazy, so I'd game the system. Because I'm so much a Hezekiah I don't think I have to prove it. So I'd look at the test pattern and note what they were looking for. You see the first and sixth and twelfth question are essentially the same, repeating the pattern till the end. I'd do all those at once, giving the same answer. Then I'd go back and do the same with the others. Sounds like a Stub, I know. And indeed, you tend to come out looking like a Stub. When in fact I've been a Hezekiah all along! Apparently a subversive Hezekiah...

They always think Hezekiahs should act strictly like Hezekiahs, which, ironically, would be Stub behavior. A true Hezekiah is going to veer into Stub territory now and then, and hurry back out. Because it's give and take. Strictness isn't key to the true Hezekiah. But the big problem was that those who make the tests are Stubs, and naturally they interpret the results in a Stubbish way.

Just in case you weren't around for Hezekiah and Stub, which we used to have in school, they're two dogs. Hezekiah likes to hunt, Stub to guard. But things happen to keep it amusing, like Stub might chase a squirrel off the property, unaware there's a burglar, too, who trips over Hezekiah sleeping, meaning Hezekiah saves the day!

There's so many of these old stories, it's probably only natural that they'd come up with offshoots, like personality tests. I often think of Hezekiah and Stub, and put my own spin on life through them. Like this: The theoretical pure Hezekiah has no resistance in life, going along with the flow, surviving. The theoretical pure Stub has complete resistance, is in control, and so dies. Of course there is no pure Hezekiah or Stub after those terms, at the extremes. It's all a matter of tendencies on a scale.

To me, the names themselves speak to how they're termed. Hezekiah is a lazy sounding hound, occasionally lifting an ear to note the passing of a train or send a fly on its way. Stub is a super-efficient sounding dog, lean and muscular, sleeping, perhaps, but fully alert to everything. And that's the way they looked. Hezekiah can be roused from his equanimity, but it takes a truly necessary reason. Stub is efficient, therefore more alert and controlled by events. Hezekiah tends to be self-reliant, flexible, and nice (or indifferent.) Stub is hard and can be mean, being the opposite in terms of flexibility. On and on.

Of course, the Hezekian philosophy of life is the one that sounds best to me, if I could live up to it. Good old Hezekiah has an innate knowledge that All is One; he is not in competition, opposing life, but seems himself integrally one with what is. Hezekiah might think, "Yes, if I reach up to steal food, I might get my paw caught in the band-saw, but I might not." (Frankly, I'm more cautious than that.) Stub knows all the angles and is never content with might/might not. That sounds the wisest for survival, and as I said I also can be quite cautious, because angles can change unexpectedly, meaning security can quickly become a false security. But Hezekiah also knows you're going to get it in the end, whatever cautions you take.

Our whole perspective on life and mortality are at issue here, as I was just getting at. And you know how it generally is with actual dogs, apart from being babied by modern owners taking them to the vet to put them down. They seem very stoic, crawling to isolation somewhere and simply dying. In the Hezekiah and Stub stories, though, Hezekiah has a looser grip on his personal existence. He seems more prepared to die ... "Just let me get through this one last meal, thank you kindly." Then he goes on to a ripe old age. I believe that's me.

But Stub is rigidly opposed to his own demise, while being unsympathetic to others. I've always seen a contradiction in that: Is Stub already dead in some sense, clinging to life as he is with a bad attitude? It's only a matter of time before Stub dies, standing up, and rots away. Then his skeleton will be found in place, appearing still to be on guard! Would serve him right.

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* The "Hezekiah" and "Stub" characters -- ©1925, renewed 1943, Institute for Dog-People Research -- are now public domain. Stub was originally gray but re-imagined as brown in the 1940s, when the Nazis' dog mascot "Fuery" also appeared to be gray. We say "appeared to be gray" because his only appearances were in black and white illustrations, meaning he could very well have also been brown. 

Hezekiah and Stub were very familiar friends to schoolchildren since their first appearance in the 1920s until they were phased out for use in public education in 1966. In the 1930s they were credited with the great accomplishment of ending the Great Depression. But by 1966, with the rise of secular humanism, situational ethics, the godless one world government, and color TV, they were gone.

People in Chains

At the risk of inflaming an already troubled world, I have a few comments to make. Further, I know I am putting this blog and my reputation at risk as well. For I have very sensitive readers, most of whom have told me time and time again that anything that rocks the boat doesn't sit well with them. In other words, they've threatened to "hit the doors" if I ever say anything evenly the slightest bit controversial, in anger and rage abandoning me out of revenge.

But I shall be bold. I've weighed all the different factors -- and others I'm too afraid to list -- and have decided, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained." If my readers, precious in my sight though they be, are so super sensitive, so supercilious, to anything that even might rock their world, and however slightly at that, are they really worth having? In that case I'm as much in chains as the poor folks seen in my illustration.

Anyway, being bold, here's my sincere contention, Everyone's got something going on, some problem, let's say, something that's holding them down. It may be a complex, a behavior, a predisposition, a habit, or longings, not yet acted on but enslaving them every bit as much. I will simply lay it on the line: I feel sympathy for them and want their lives to be better, to enhance them as much as I can, if I can.

I will make a few comments on each one, expressing myself in sympathy and grace, thankful that it's not me, for There but for the grace of God go I.

Let's go left to right. The older lady's chain is LUST. I've known several people on the chain of lust, true story. They're always on the make, sniffing the air for whatever opportunities there might be to get their jollies. As I'm given to understand, lust is a terrible taskmaster, capturing first your attention, then keeping you firmly on the hook until you've gone the full mile demanded. For the lady here, as sad as it is to say, there's no turning back. She will either grab the guy next to her, RUDE as he is, or the PRIGGISH guy. Who, being PRIGGISH, might put up quite a fight.

Then there is RUDE. I really hate it when people are RUDE. Their biggest thing is they've given up on human sympathy. See the connection? If you have sympathy for other folks, you will bend over backwards to understand them and to accommodate them. But being RUDE is to show a lack of sympathy, showing itself by acting mean. Have I ever been RUDE to someone? This is something that, yes, I have done. But my sympathy is such that it's never gone on for long. I get over it very fast.

PRIGGISH.  I've actually been accused before of being PRIGGISH ... because I believe in clean living and I don't allow blue material on my blog. Me PRIGGISH? Ha! Let me say I'm a little turned on by the lady in the pink dress. The little BORED kid looks like she could almost be my daughter -- if Pink and me got married, then did it, 40 years ago when I was young. I see she's MOODY, which can be good, if she's clawing cat MOODY.

HELLION - All boys are potentially little HELLIONS. I used to be a boy, and still use the HELLION attitude as a boy does. But it's never misbehavior, or used in being RUDE. I'm not a vandal or anything like that. I use the HELLION nature if I need the confidence to do something, like jump over a creek, climb over rocks and boulders, something hard. I think "I'm a boy!" and dive right in, fighting and going at it like a tornado.

MOODY - As said above, I like a certain amount of moodiness. It gets old, though, if it's constant. Variety is the spice of life. Mix your sullenness with good cheer, grumpiness with bubblyness. Keep me guessing, but not so much that I'm perplexed.

BORED - Little girl, why would you be bored? You have your whole life ahead of you. You know next to nothing about anything. Everyday should be a day of excited discovery for you. I want to see you bouncing around, going from one project to the next. Let's set you up with finger painting activities, kite flying, origami, reading cool books at the library, and going to various fun outings -- touring museums, theme parks, and going on trail rides. As for theme parks, though, I'm BORED by them, so I'd skip that. 

I'm More Than My Squarish Body

Jane is often invited to visit groups and give talks at meetings. Most people are interested in her squarish body and features. That's all understandable enough, of course, since who isn't curious about anyone with something immediately different about them? But she also wants all of us to realize that she's more than her squarish body. She is not a zoological specimen, pinned to a black mat under glass, only to be labeled, "Squarish."

In regard to the differences people have -- when I heard her talk before a church group -- she said she'd recently had the opportunity to meet a guy with three ears. His two ears are naturally in the ordinary places, but, due to a developmental issue, he has a third ear in the middle of his forehead. Not as great as eyes on the back of your head, but still distinctive. She says he gave a talk on himself and took questions, and was able to hear even the most soft-spoken folks in the back of the room.

"He saw me sitting there," she said, "with my squarish body, and it seemed like he was wondering about me. But probably because of his third ear, his own difference, he wasn't fast to blurt it out. I would say I was probably the most accepting person there of him and his third ear."

In the course of her talk, Jane said that way back in the old days, kids in school were merciless. But now with everyone grown up, she gets a more sympathetic reception. I nodded, because I had issues as a kid, too, like lots of kids, but now I'm Sympathy Personified. I wanted to give her an "Attagirl," but those kinds of extraneous comments are frowned upon by the group, which has to hear my comments every week but only has this one shot to hear a woman with a squarish body.

Anyway, she said she's given this same talk numerous times, in schools, for civic organizations, and even for coffee clubs and in prisons. She varies it -- which is all very understandable -- for the group hosting her. "School children do a lot of staring, but of all the people, they're the closest to true understanding. One little roundish boy told me, 'You were born squarish, I was born roundish!' I needed kids like that when I was a kid!"

When it came time for questions, I thought, Should I ask her something about her experience with a squarish body, or something more process-oriented? I actually know better, I swear, but I went with the process question and amazingly got a squarish body answer: "Do you like giving these talks?" I believe she picked up on what I was getting at: Why subject yourself to this kind of carnival, the whole thing highlighting, really, what is extraneous to your basic humanity, your shape?

She gave me the usual rigamarole mumbo-jumbo answer you might expect. She knows people are curious, etc., and she has nothing to be ashamed of... I'm looking like, "Yeah, but..." Then she got down to brass tacks, and I believe I perceived an underlying hatred of the whole process, when she said, "My biggest problem with it is I think of myself as normal, just another person. And since I'm more than a person with a squarish body, sometimes I wonder why I'm dwelling on that one thing. Does that make sense?" I nodded, and she declared, "I'm much more than my squarish body. Just like the other guy is more than his third ear."

I felt pretty good with her answer. Although I got a dirty look from our group's leader. Since I'd very clearly subverted the whole session, bringing forth from her a proud proclamation that she's more than her squarish body, the very reason we were sitting there listening to her. We dismissed in shame and rolled our roundish bodies home.

The Reincarnation of Edgar Allan Poe

I took a Facebook personality quiz the other day and found out something interesting: I was Edgar Allan Poe in a previous lifetime! My biggest quandary at this point is I've seen several of my friends who were also Poe. I say it's a quandary, but it's probably just a glitch, because it's more likely I'm Poe than any of them. The other choices were Mozart, Darwin, Lincoln, and Jimmy Durante.

According to the quiz, I'm Poe because I tend to be moody, solitary, inner-directed, and decisive. It definitely puts a good spin on my personality; I haven't been much at parties, but now I'll be able to say I'm a famous dead author, a great icebreaker.

One big problem for me in judging all this is I don't know that much about Poe. I do have "my" complete works on the shelf, so that's a start. I've looked through them a few times, then wonder why; they don't look that interesting. Now I know why, because I wrote it all! However, of all the stories in the world "The Tell-Tale Heart" was my favorite story as a kid. I read it in school maybe five, six times. The other stuff, not so much.

I remember one Halloween, they gave us a great treat. We went to a dark room at school and watched "The Raven" from a 16mm projector. That was great fun. The color was really good, and you get a good vibe when you actually hear the projector clacking away. Whatever scary parts there were, kids were making scary noises and laughing, all great fun.

I never actually read "The Raven," though, till I was an adult. So I wasn't familiar with one of my greatest poems till way past childhood. Depriving myself, obviously, since it truly is very creepy. And because they mention it on Jeopardy about 10 times a month, always on the Teen Tournament.

A couple years ago I read a book that tied me in somehow with a murder in New York. My memory never being that good, I can't remember what it was all about. A young woman had gone to an abortion provider, who was another woman in a house, then crossed over the river, and was found dead in New Jersey. Somehow I, Edgar Allan Poe, was connected with that. I wrote a story based on it, changing the names. It's in my Collected Works.

One of the things I'm very proud of is that the Beatles mentioned me in one of their songs, "I Am the Walrus," and that I'm pictured on the Sgt. Pepper album, my big blockhead and huge forehead making me stand out in quite a stark, wonderful way.

Now that I'm back -- or now that I realize I'm me -- it might be worth a little effort to see if I can get some back royalties. I know what everyone's objection will be, the supposed fact that since I'm dead all these years the works have passed into the public domain. Except -- my retort is obvious -- how does that apply if I'm manifestly not dead? Gotcha there. The quiz doesn't lie, and now that I think of it I'm getting back some of memories. A couple biographies from the library and I'll be my old self again.

I'll start with Wikipedia. I was born about a month before Abraham Lincoln, coincidentally one of my current Facebook friends who took the quiz. I died at the ancient age of 40. I'm best known for my tales of mystery and the macabre. I had a financially difficult life and career.

I attended the University of Virginia for one semester, failing all my classes except Creative Writing, in which I excelled. In 1835, I married my 13-year-old cousin. Our first son is presently reincarnated as Jerry Lee Lewis. I died in Baltimore, the cause of my death being variously attributed to alcohol, brain congestion, cholera, drugs, heart disease, rabies, suicide, tuberculosis, and other agents. Obviously I had a hard time avoiding trouble, including the difficulty of getting life insurance.

Please, everyone, help make my life and career better in this present incarnation. Read the Grandma Slump blog faithfully -- I haven't lost my great talent. Send money. And any advice you may have on how to stay well. For any illness or condition, since I've had them all. Whatever goes around, I catch, so I need your help. Just pray it's not Ebola.

Which Are You, Queasledee or Queasledum?

How about you? Ever get a terrible feeling of malaise coming on -- a vague sort of inner discord, seemingly from no where -- that if left to itself becomes funk, then progressively escalates into a big enough depression that you're in the hospital?

Honestly, no, this has never happened to me. I've had the malaise and the funk, of course. But somehow -- maybe just lucky -- I've avoided the depths of it that some people experience. I'd like to think I have at least a small degree of knowledge, something within, that puts me on the upward path.

I guess it's always a positive to "know yourself," whether it's what color your parachute is, what your rainbow color is, which animal you are, which Beatle, which Stooge, which pizza topping, etc. By the way, I think a good one would be "Which movie streaming service are you?" If you're Hulu Plus, you're more tolerant of suffering than Netflix, because of Hulu's many commercials. If Amazon, you're more prone to temptation, because of all the movies you can't watch without paying more.

When it comes to malaise/depression -- Queasiness -- you might ask yourself, "Am I Queasledee or Queasledum?" I'm presenting the two, Dee on the left and Dum on the right. Just looking at them and thinking intuitively, I like Dee's colors more. Dum's bright yellow shirt gives me the feeling of malaise simply dragging on. Whereas Dee's rich blue is much more integral to me, giving the stimulation I'd need to get over it. On the other hand, Dum's shoes are red, recalling something earthy, like clay, something grounded. But, again, there's yellow, Dee's shoes, a nasty color for shoes, unless they're just tennis shoes for fun. So what would that make me right now, going only by that, 90% Queasledee and 10% Queasledum.

Notice, the heads are the same. These two could be mirror images of each other, both seated on a terribly burdened stool. It's not somewhere I'd like to sit, not for long, not with my obvious weight truly bearing down. This tells us something important, though, that the things we depend on in challenging times can actually be quite small in relation to our much larger problem. How many people I've heard of who've gotten better, transcending the enormity of their problems, not by knowing whether they were Queasledee or Queasledum, but by taking whatever small pill their doctors prescribed. That might be the true answer.

Be that as it may, we sometimes find malaise returning, and I personally don't want to bother my doctor too many times. For that, I've added the four "Dorkheads" under Dee and Dum. This gives the whole scheme added variables that come in handy for complicating things. Simply having Dee and Dum there as binary opposites -- or perhaps as close, though not identical types -- doesn't get us very far. But adding the Dorkheads, each Dorkhead can go with each of the main bodies. One, two, three, or four, see?

Here's how I see it. You come to the determination, say, that your malaise is best described by Queasledee. Now, which of the Dorkheads would you use, if any, to supplement your findings? I've had quite a number of down times when I wouldn't have added any Dorkheads. I would've said, "I'm Queasledum right down the line," or Queasledee. Then other times, I'm definitely not satisfied till a Dorkhead is added. I'm a big fan of the one looking most downward with a strong kick from one of the upward looking ones. That tells me an important lesson, that it's up to me to choose, and the rest of it's likely irrelevant.

Whatever you do with this tool, of course that's up to you. I offer no guarantees, and this is for entertainment purposes only. I'm just putting the information out there, like they do on commercials. "Professional driver on closed course. Do not attempt this," as the driver drives along like any of us would do. If you're happy, stay happy. If you're upset, take your business elsewhere.

If you turn out to be Queasledee, or if you turn out to be Queasledum, with or without Dorkheads, may all your searching find you the ultimate happiness. When you get over it, then, may you be the happiest person you can be, Cheerfuldee or Cheerfuldum.

The Nice Guy Certification Program

Let's say you're a nice guy. You see some other guy who looks like he'd be nice. Then you're disappointed when he turns out to be a crumb. To me, that's disgusting, because I always expect more out of people. But I've come to realize that not everyone's had the same advantages as me (family, attitudes, proper number of chromosomes), and that they are what they are based on that.

Once you become suspicious, though, and reluctant to engage with others out of this disappointment, you're on a track that's less than pleasing. To you -- being a nice guy -- it's foreign and funny-feeling. Maybe you're not a people-person or extrovert, as I'm not, but you still like to be friendly with folks and get to know them. You never can tell if it's your niceness that will inspire them in some way. An opportunity not to be missed!

Something I believe would go a long way toward making our relationships better would be a certification program, which in the end declares we are indeed "Nice Guys." We'd have a card for our wallet, an actual certificate for the wall, and maybe a medallion to wear as a necklace. I think it'd be great -- say I'm a stranger in town -- to sit down at a table and look around and see a couple guys with medallions. I could go over and not have to wonder if they're nice guys.

So I'm working on the program for this, which could be done in part online. What I've got so far is that there would be some quizzes, some long form work, and some interviews and get-togethers. Eventually, we could have branch offices in major cities, then everywhere, where people could come. That'd actually be better than online, because most of the people I've met online aren't very nice. Something about computers brings out the monster in them.

Speaking of "bringing out the monster," lest you think all this is sweetness and light, the interviews won't just be nice stuff -- I'm not that naive -- but more like psychological torture. Got it? We have ways of dealing with you. Because people's true demeanor comes out when they're under pressure. We will be very accusatory, reduce them to tears, and lambast everything about them, very demeaning and insulting. In general, it will be unpleasant. I can see us having private duty police (on staff) who are good at slapping perps around, who don't take no crap from nobody. They're willing to put the hot light on you and let you fry. You'll be submitting to treatment no man should have to bear. Because we want to see the real you, the nice you.

I'm not willing, you see, simply to issue cards to a bunch of crumbs. In that, yes, there'd be more money, but it would defeat the purpose. What I am willing to do -- as nicely as I can, with a greater focus on being realistic -- is put you through your paces. Which you will appreciate. When I put my signature on your "Nice Guy" card, I want to know, 110%, that you are what you said you were. So the short answer is, If you're not truly willing to prove how nice you are, we'll leave you with the obvious dregs, as forever questionable.

There will be some things about this that you might not expect. Such as: Before you even receive our packet, you might receive a packet from "an enemy organization" -- also us -- striving to see if you've ordered the "nice" packet under false pretenses. I'm very suspicious, because I've seen every kind of double-handed, two-faced, bottom-of-the-deck dealing, scurrilous phonies in my life. And everyone of them had a computer! I'd rather they didn't even apply, but if they do, certainly I want to ferret them out. Trickery will help with that.

Then, to come up with the psychological tests, I won't just doing that myself. But I'll be working with some of the dregs of society, along with good people -- most of these having psychology degrees, some from the most nefarious universities we can find -- to make the questions and situations so scientifically tricky that no one will be able to achieve a really good grade. If you're not nice, you'll fail by 30 points. That's easy. But if you are nice you'll only pass by a point or two. Everyone who passes will pass with a D-minus, which will be a good grade!

Please, though, don't worry so much about the pain before you, the pain you will have to endure. Look ahead to the glory of having certification on something that's truly worth the trouble. Folks will know you've been through hell and back, then through hell again and barely back, and have been shown to be a nice guy. You will be someone -- with your card, certificate, and medallion -- that they'll want to be with. They along with you will literally be refined company.

As you can see in the publicity, this isn't just for "Nice Guys," but gals are welcome, too! If fact we prefer it that way, if for no other reason than a lot of guys like to mix with gals. And if we don't know how nice they are, that's a huge hurdle. We're even putting the gals ahead of the guys! Like Ladies Night. You can go to the head of the line. And face first the struggle, turmoil, and torture of the testing process, so you'll be ready to receive "Nice Guys" coming through after you. That'll be good incentive for them and even something of a reward.

Another big feature I'm looking at is "Nice Couples" applying together, who will save a dollar on the whole works.

Hellbent for Leather or Swaying toward Lavender

I've never been an absolutist, that you have to be either Hellbent for Leather or Swaying toward Lavender exclusively. I hear some of them saying that and I just have to laugh. Instead, my conviction has always been, sometimes you may be one, sometimes the other, and sometimes, although it's rarer, you can be both at the same time!

In holding this opinion, of course I know I'm in the minority. Making me -- obviously -- more a Swaying toward Lavender guy than a Hellbent for Leather, but watch out -- I'm frequently Hellbent for Leather, so it's not like you can put me in a box and keep me there!

In my defense, I've always been that way no matter what method you use to describe personality types, and I'm not likely to change now. I just happen to think folks are more well-rounded (or varying) than many of us can believe. Although, as you might expect, it's those who are predominantly Hellbent for Leather who tend to keep the more absolutist points of view. Leaving us predominantly Swaying toward Lavender types as the ones holding up the banner of "To Each His Own ... Depending."

How do I feel about the absolutist types? In my more Swaying toward Lavender moods, naturally I completely understand. But in my more Hellbent for Leather moods, I'd frankly like to take a leather strap to their hide and beat them to a bloody pulp, or to a better understanding, whichever comes first. Lest anyone be concerned by my statement, know this, my Swaying toward Lavender nature keeps me from acting on it. Unlike the definite Hellbent for Leather types, who frequently lack all restraint. The prisons are full of them.

It's one of the interesting things about personalities, how we got that way. Maybe we were born that way, or maybe it's our social environment. Take me again, as an example. A lot of the folks in my family were Hellbent for Leathers through and through. Grandpa had that Hellbent for Leather thing through and through. But he was a country boy, raised in tough times, having to struggle through World War I, the Depression, and digging outhouse holes for a living. The crowd he ran with was the same, Hellbent for Leathers, so that was that.

Grandma softened him up somewhat -- being a city girl with sisters and so a definite Swaying toward Lavender. That affected my mother, also a Swaying toward Lavender. But Mom was a mix, and that's partly how I got the mix -- as well as a conflicted personality. It's like this: Mom was 60-40 Swaying toward Lavender, Dad was 62-36-2 Hellbent for Leather, the 2 being undecided. Dad was great, but it was that 2, small as it sounds, that was the wildcard. That damned 2's sent me into a tizzy more than once! Particularly when my Swaying toward Lavender is waxing, my last bit of waning Hellbent for Leather is sometimes too much for me to take; I hit that tiny patch of paternal indecision on the downswing and the slick spot puts me on my ass.

Please, though, I don't want you feeling sorry for me. Because I had only two parents and a happy home. There's lots of people who don't share my good fortune. And unless they've managed some real personal diligence -- and this advantage is obviously more for the Hellbent for Leathers -- they can be so overcome it's ridiculous. That's the tragic side of Swaying toward Lavender; it can so easily get out of whack.

Let's say they have a father out of the home, an ex-stepfather and a current stepfather. And let's say the fathers were, respectively, strong-STL, strong-HFL, and strong-STL. That's a bad combination but all too common. In her shopping for men, Mom needed to find a moderate-STL or moderate-HFL for her last hookup. But sometimes, when lust is at its hottest, she won't be thinking clearly, particularly if she's reacting to one of the first two men; so instead of splitting the difference (picking a moderate) she foolishly doubles down on one extreme. At which point it's too late.

It's the kids I feel sorry for, not the mom. As for her, my Swaying toward Lavender nature says, "Fine, live and let live," if it's not someone I have to intervene for, like a relative. As long as it's someone out there, someone I don't have to help, someone who has to stew in her own juices and suffer on her own, anonymous to me personally, even if she ends up a total wreck on the human highway, then I reiterate, "Fine, live and let live." But I can see myself really heating up if it's someone I might have to rescue. I can see myself getting very hot under the collar, my muscles suddenly bulging out, then I Leather Out, and preemptively intervene even to the point of force. That's Grandpa and Dad in me -- the killer trump being Dad's little 2 -- Grandma and Mom remain in complete occlusion till they cycle back around.

But all that's hypothetical today! Today, friends, I'm happy as can be. I'm writing this, I'm almost done. Then I'm off to meet friends uptown -- all Swaying toward Lavenders -- where we're going to celebrate together, it being Crouton Appreciation Day.

Celebrity Deaths -- If Only I'd Been There!

Famous people with their huge problems have always been off limits to us common folks. So it seems that they develop huge problems and die, whether by their own hand or another. I always think the same thing: "If only I'd been there!"

Because my philosophy has always been, People are people. What's good for one's good for another. One size fits all. And I've always been good at this sort of thing -- not to toot my own horn but just to state the facts. If only I'd been there, frankly, it's bloody hell likely they would've made it through. Not to put too fine a point on it.

I remember thinking this when Elvis was in his downward spiral, expressed in one of his last songs, "Way Down," his last single before his death. My thought went something like this, "The guy's in the grips of Death ... sure wish I could be there!" But of course, you know how it goes, he had lots of hangers-on and it would've taken some doing for me to get in.

Too bad. Because with my natural talents of talking anyone down, if they're able to think at all -- I'm no good with human vegetables -- I'm sure he'd still be recording today. I'm able to do this because I'm super friendly, very competent and empathetic, and able to contextualize the truths of life for the individual. Pretty good, huh? In a way -- and this is my biggest secret -- I'm really only channeling the female forebears of my family, Mom and Grandma, who had social skills that didn't quit.

Going way back, back before I had any idea about any of this, I probably could've helped Judy Garland. She was still alive when I was a budding kid, but I didn't know much about my abilities. I was a little too young and stupid. But let's say they had explained the issue to me, and opened the door, and explained to me who she was, the kid from the Wizard of Oz, I probably could've helped.

Since then, many crises have come and gone, demanding but not receiving my counsel. I won't mention the lesser lights because of their families' continued grief. But I can think of writers, politicians, and movie stars that I could've helped. Of course there's a huge name, Michael Jackson, not a lesser light. He needed a lot of help, all along the way, which I would've been happy to provide. But in his case, it being a matter of years, I might've needed a job in the same town. Or, who knows, I might've cleared him up right away and gotten back home right away.

OK, I can't help Michael now, or Elvis, or Judy, but there's plenty of celebrities in trouble today. I read the Huffington Post, so I know. Whether they'll contact me or not, that I don't know. I only know that if they did, it would only benefit them.

It'd be nice to be known, not for my own benefit or ego, of course, but for of the positive good I could be doing. Some famous person – maybe an actor, singer, a writer, someone in despair – wouldn't have to linger but could simply say, "What about that guy with the blog? Get him!" Then I would take a few days off, go there and get everything worked out. Everyone would be happy. Everyone would win.

Everyone's Comfortable With Themselves

There's something very interesting I've noticed. The old discomfort people used to have with themselves seems to be gone. It's obviously a new day for self-confidence and pride, which I think is a great thing.

We used to have this whole thing with magnifying our supposed imperfections, thinking we were ugly, etc., and we didn't have the same attitude prevalent today. I don't know why we did it. I guess it could've had something to do with our parents, always worrying themselves sick with how we looked. "You can't go out with your hair like that! Is that what you're going to wear?! I'd be ashamed to be seen with you!" So we'd carry that attitude with us, like a constant burden.

But now everything's a lot more swinging. Babies get their ears pierced, parents are proud of everything their offspring do, and style is really any old thing you can throw on. I love it, it's a new day! Our lives are on display! Everyone's happy!

Another thing that might explain the lack of discomfort is all the cameras we're toting around. Digital cameras. We see people taking pictures of everything, whereas we didn't do that 40 years ago. You had a roll of 24 pictures and it cost money to get them developed. But with digital, it's all free, so everyone's walking around town taking pictures of themselves with the camera extended arm's length. "There's a cool expression! Look how I can cross my eyes! I'm cool!" It's great! You're more proud of yourself when you're clicking pictures.

I have to confess, I still carry over some of the old discomfort myself. I say, I'm too bald, too fat (although my doctor says I'm by no means obese), my teeth suck, there's nose hair where there used to be none, etc. It's hard to get with it, with the new way of doing things, but I'm really trying. I look and see guys who look far worse than me, only they don't know it. And I think, I should act like that, then think like that, and without comparing myself to those who look worse, be simply proud of myself.

People today, I honestly think, have got it going on! And I'm getting into the flow of things. I may be an old man, but I'm trying to be the best old man, even a folklore-looking codger, let's say, that young hipsters might like to have their picture taken with. I'm flashing gang signs that I just made up. I'm with the best people on earth, the average guy and gal on the street! Take off your suit jacket and break dance on the street. Spin on your jacket, it's just cloth! True!

So I'm out there ... and more. And what do I see? People who are psychically healthy, very healthy. They're proud of their tattoos, their bra straps, their headbands, shirt tails, and underwear. They're flashing cool hand signs everywhere, one finger, two finger with a gap, five fingers straight up, the A-OK sign, etc. They're proud if they're bald, furry, wearing black, wearing white, in make-up, without make-up, if they're Plain Jane or Jane Mansfield, Bubba or Burt Reynolds, whatever may be may be, world without end, Amen.

I was out today, sitting in a restaurant, and saw some of the greatest cleavage of my life. This was breakfast. I drooled egg yolk on my shirt, which I'm proud of. It's like a shirt tattoo. Lastly, my complexion -- like I said, I'm old, but once in a while I still, even I, get a pimple. Who cares? It's not like anyone cares anymore.

I Pour Contempt On All My Pride

It's time for a whole new life, of course strictly applied first to myself. No more pride! Bring out the buckets of pride killer, that I may pour contempt on all my pride! From here on out, my richest gain I shall count but loss.

Realistically, I don't have that much to be proud of. And that's not the declaration, the bitter words of a guy down in the dumps, because I'm not. By any true measure, I'm on top of the world. It's just that I've suddenly realized -- call it a much needed awakening, a kick in the spiritual pants -- that pride is basically worthless. I'm saying it by proxy for everyone else, too. Forbid it, that any of us should boast!

Am I guilty of overweening pride? I sure am. Like I just said, I believe it applies to everyone but I start with myself. All the vain things truly have charmed me, along with everyone else. So much so that I was essentially blinded to it. That's a weird thing about pride. It gets hold of you and it becomes your nature, it seems natural. But then you suddenly wake up and go "Whoa!" This isn't how it should be.

At least that's what I'm discovering. I'm in the process of discovering how deep it goes. It appears to go very deep, right where you dwell, to the most central part of your being. You start struttin' like a peacock, and everyone else is gagging. So you start thinking, "Bring in the buckets!"

That's a very vivid way of putting it, "Bring in the buckets! Summon the Bucket Brigade! Fill 'em up to the very brim, the buckets! And not just the buckets, but pots and pans, too, anything that serves to hold pride killer and contempt!" This is great stuff. And how about this? Cook it, too! Cook it! Put it on the fire! Crank up the heat! Get it good and boiling! This is going to burn, it's going to scald! Sounds terrible, really, but that's what I need!

I'm making it a public thing, the rigorous dousing I'm taking. It's right here in public, something that anyone with internet access can witness. Please link to this blog post. Let me be the guy who put it out there. I might be able to inspire others to pour contempt on their pride. I'll take the first step. The pride killer and contempt is boiling hot; please, turn it up some more!

Yes, I know this is going to hurt like bloody heck. Because I have all the pans totally boiling, so they're even starting to melt a little around the edges. The handles are piping hot. You'll need two potholders to get a grasp on them. And now here goes nothing...

My pride is getting the biggest scalding of its pathetic life! The cure demands my soul, my life, my all!