Alas In Paranoialand

Paranoia

Part 1 of 30

Alas, I've died and gone to the land where paranoia reigns supreme, everyday one pitfall after another. I’ve ventured these parts before, the sights and the whole spectacle. But really, I'm likely not really dead, but this is my sad lot in life. It happens a lot, these universal shoves into the mud, the bony cosmological knee to the metaphorical crotch, a seemingly beautiful conch at my ear but no reassuring sound of the sea. Just a far off voice from the past -- traveling light years to arrive and just in time to say, “Your party's not available. Hang up and try again later, loser.”

I slam the phone to the table and the murmuring voice goes dead. The vastness of space then reminds me, I'm a slug. So how’s that for luck? It sums up my life experiences, sour from day one. And now I’m out of trust, out of hope, my optimism's shot, and I am, above all, paranoid. A strain of paranoia for every occasion. From “Woe is me” to “What’s a guy gotta do to catch a break?” Plus, it might sound trivial and I should leave it out, but I'm also out of Pepsi.

I hesitate to go on -- I have big plans for the blog but I'm reluctant. And yet, when there's grief for one, there’s joy for the rest. I could help so many other people just by plummeting through all the usual supports and landing with a thud. Just my luck, the role of the redeemer. All this time with the huge grief and now you're cheered up. The same thing used to happen to me. I'd hear of someone with a terrible life and I'd thank my lucky stars it wasn't me. I'd even get giddy, call a few friends, they'd come over and we'd jump on the bed and throw bags of confetti into the air. When we were real happy we'd open the bags.

But, please, don't worry about me. Whatever you might've done for me, that time is long past. Please, not one pathetic syllable. But there are other worthless sufferers out there moaning and groaning, turning over in their bed, falling out occasionally, crying like babies, shrieking at their window, raising a ruckus and driving everyone crazy. Possibly say a little prayer for them. I'm still able to talk in sentences, so I'm actually doing pretty well. My blog helps me. Ten years ago a reader told me "Attaboy" about something, my good spelling. So when I'm real down I find his friendly word and reread it. I also emit forth a cleansing shriek now and then. Let me see if I'm in good voice: "Shriek!" I bet they heard that across the street!

Anyway, what's a constant 24/7 paranoia really like? First, possibly to shake up your assumptions, it’s not sooo terrible. It’s not great, but there are worse things. This is mostly mental, which is still painful. But no one’s twisting my arm behind my back, no one’s depriving me of meals, and despite the constant fears, no one's broken down the front door and made off with my TV. It helps that I pay for security, an alarm. But I do have the paranoia that it might be false security, just an empty box that'll do nothing in my time of need.

Come by this month and I’ll let you know if things get any better. Spoiler alert: I already know you won't show up. Who would? But maybe by the end of the month I’ll somehow be magically reconciled to life even with this horrendous burden. It's hard to picture. This ain't flag football, it ain't beanbag. It's real life with real life consequences, one cruddy thing after another. And I’m very aware of what I’m up against. I know how life turns out, in wretched bloody shambles, the main beam of the house crushing me.

Oh well. As Aunt Alice used to say, “Cheers dears!”

Big City, Twilight State

The Big City

Part 18 of 28

Let’s establish a hypothetical situation. You’ve read this far enduring my many pleas for caution; I’m on my knees, listen to me now. Be cautious not to make the same mistakes I made and move to the Big City. My situation was very specific, I didn’t do anything rashly. The city fathers of my little town wanted me out. They led me to the city limits by gunpoint. They were vigilant, blocking every path back. Grandma’s house went down the drain after a few years of bad income and brutal weather. She herself was deceased, old and dead, her eyes wouldn’t open, her heart was shot. It barely worked when she was alive, imagine the rot after her passing...

Yes, it’s true -- setting aside her carcass -- weather can really take a toll on a house. You start thinking, How can I ever overcome these terrible conditions and feel better? What can I do to change my pathetic circumstances? A guy could, of course, learn building skills. Which is hard and not as foolproof as they think. Or I could've changed my outlook on things, mind over matter. No matter how things rot away to nothing, it doesn't have to affect you quite as much. My path was to train my mind to go into what is called The Twilight State. Crossing your eyes, locking your arms at the chest, nodding quickly, and briefly holding your breath. Goodbye cruel world, hello Twilight State!

However -- and this is important, the basic key to failure -- not everyone takes to alt consciousness quite as easily. And the techniques, like most secret techniques, come with strict rules about sharing them. That's an ironclad thing a guy vows to uphold. I took that vow. But, you know, what the hell… They didn't give me a choice, so to hell with them.

I will say, though, that everything here is “For Entertainment Purposes Only,” and any materializing and de-materializing that may happen around or to you is at your own risk. If you become a vapor and evaporate before your time, I cannot be held responsible. This is precisely the point where a friend of mine, Maha Raymond, gave up the ghost in the Himalayas and became an immortal. To give you some idea of such an achievement, it’s like winning a third place ribbon when showing cattle. It’s huge.

And with that, with only two more days of semi-strenuous practice -- grunting is encouraged -- you may encounter the deadliest, most dangerous passages. If that happens, the directions are essentially, “Feel your way.” Anyone incapable of feeling their way is immediately terminated, which is always hard for loved ones. The few who manage to feel their way -- and I saw a family of 12 halfwits make it so don’t tell me it can’t be done -- are deemed immortal with all the advantages pertaining thereunto, including gold merit badges up the yin yang and a ceremonial kiss from the only blonde in them thar hills.

But remember this truth: Mountains aren’t just there, they grow incrementally through extremely slow tectonic movement. Similarly, we advance quickly to the heights, by leaps and bounds, so be patient, stick with it because it’s definitely worth it. Breathe in, breathe out, let it happen. And there you have it, the Twilight State is now yours, and now you can spend the rest of your life mastering it.

For mastery, your purpose must be righteous. Your purpose cannot be to enter the Twilight State willy-nilly or for trivial purposes. If it’s not something righteous and something massive -- a purpose for the ages -- then most of your hopes, however sincere, will be for naught. You seriously need a righteous purpose. One such purpose, completely good, is merely because you moved to the Big City and need something more to help you cope. You’ve heard of the devil? The devil is a metaphor for Big City life, so it takes something bigger and bigger yet to transcend such an obstacle. Try your damnedest, on your word of honor, and see how it goes.

Bow To Big City Dictates

 

The Big City

Part 16 of 28

Once again, the Big City takes us to a dark place. At least it's kind of dark, the shadows creeping everywhere. The barest light is sooner or later extinguished, with what little bit of light that remains flickering with promise, but the promise is next to nothing, then it’s gone. Everything is fairly dark, with moneyed interests and the way they’re forever greasing each other's palms, winking, signalling the separation of groups into those on top and the rest of us. The supposed new day begins, then it’s immediately dark, and that’s all the light we see.

How everything goes to hell like this -- which is my go-to sociological theory no matter where I live -- is a thing both to rue and celebrate, though darkly. Certainly ruing it is warranted, because the response to every injustice ought to be a stand against it. But because this response is never welcome with the powers-that-be, it’s tough to sustain, and is usually met in one of two ways: 1) A passive/aggressive affirming of their stance, then quietly tabling it once you’ve been sidelined; and, 2) An overt rejection, threats, mental/physical harassment, browbeating, criticism both to your face and subversive, or strangulation, or telling you the so-called parable of the Good and Bad Eggs, how the Good Egg sits unmolested in the refrigerator till it’s eventually retired to the dumpster, whereas the Bad Egg is immediately killed and eaten, although not digested but brought again to public shame with heaving and hacking, and all of it with severe prejudice. Ho hum.

But, my friends -- and my expertise in Big City sociology is more or less something I picked up on the fly with minimal experience; I’m a fast learner -- they can’t hide the truth forever. From the great unwashed masses, yes, they can hide it in a sense. Those unwashed masses are happy to live their pathetic unwashed lives constricted like this. It’s the old line about bread and circuses, keep them sedated, docile, and distracted -- mentally stymied, socially sidelined, forever in the vain pursuit of being Top Dog or what have you. Step by step, then -- and there’s lots of baby steps here -- they're finally kept in their place only apparently by force. Once inured, they maintain their station at the bottom rung by a sort of sleepy forgetfulness, knowing next to nothing of their lives. What an objective person would see as constriction, they see as freedom.

Just going over the more cheerful aspects as I have, I also see it as a negative thing. Which is only made worse by our own complicity, failing to keep our minds fresh and free, basically what’s common in the small town setting. There are, however, in the small town the Big City wanna-bes. Cheerful on the outside, but conniving behind the scenes, they want to emulate the Big City, and bit by bit to exercise power toward that end. Example: “Let’s build a spouting fountain in the park!” The unusual unwashed masses think that “sounds good.” In the interest of time, I’ll leave out some of the social progression here. But a couple months later you’ve got your precious fountain, then suddenly the town is the Fourth Reich and in deep. They may as well have moved to the Big City when they had the chance and forgotten the middle man!

It's all so typical, I almost regret boring you with the same old run-of-the-mill details. But the Big City is an octopus with its tentacles around the so-called Master’s legs. And the Master and the others are sooner or later, inevitably, dragged down to their demise.

Your Destiny Catching Up

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 4 of 30

This might not entirely apply to you today, if you’re not old in body, mind, or spirit. I’m definitely getting that way, becoming creakier, unpleasantly stiff, in a lamentable condition, and just plain pooped out. If you're like me or worse, your destiny might be considered in the past tense, meant specifically for you but it’s already happening. If that’s how it is -- judge for yourself -- when you look up the track you might see the rear end of the caboose. I can see it and it's getting smaller all the time. But as long as we're still breathing, there’s always the Home for the Aged.

Speaking for myself, I try to rejuvenate myself by a rigorous discipline of nursing old regrets. Running over them endlessly in my mind. “Everything I did last year and the year before that and the year before that turned out all wrong, and all the years before that… If Destiny is a thing of promise for each of us, for me the best is yet to come.” But then I think, “I am old in body, old in mind, and old in spirit, regardless of what mind games I play to deny the truth. Should I just quit?” I wonder. Then I have to think, “No, let Destiny catch me, it's six of one, half dozen of another, life costs the same if you try or if you give up, may as well press on. And maybe Destiny's working on bigger losers, so I'm safe.”

So I'm forever trying, trying, trying, and even with such challenges I still manage to get out ahead of myself. And suddenly I’ve got it goin’ on again, everything’s hunky dory, it’s all gravy, I have my dessert and meal, to be eaten in any order I choose, etc. Destiny’s good if you know the mind games! What I need now, in fact, is for it to catch back up to me just to offer some challenge, because today at least I'm way ahead, not lagging, not dragging. C’mon, Destiny, try to keep up!

But like all things in life, if there’s a real need for balance it'll happen. Destiny might've had a brain fart and lost sight of me, an oversight. And let's say nothing’s really lost to Destiny. Not you, or you over there, or you in the university library stinking the place up, googling, “Free showers near me.” Destiny wants you to have a shower, along with everyone else along that whole wall or bank of computers. Just keep searching, or perhaps ask the librarian; she looks very tidy, having the inside track on soap and water and the combination thereof.

But back to Destiny. With the idea that you strayed a little farther ahead of it than it expected and now here it comes, catching up. I’m not sure it stops. I have seen it go whizzing by. Like with the train, the engineer gets a head of steam up and he or she doesn’t want to stop. But since this is all symbolic, you can forego the usual cautions about literal trains and jump on as it passes. Then try real hard to keep up, on board wherever Destiny takes you, because psychological splits in Destiny double the pain.

The Trouble With Swag

Part 7 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Forgive me if I’m a little clinical on this post. I’ve done some work over the years in the field of challenges and accomplishments, not so much with setting goals and fulfilling them but the personal ramifications of having accomplished the task. Primarily what it means in terms of pride, self-image, comparing yourself to others, and boasting.

So when I find evidence of Mam and Pap, and especially their underlings, puffed up with pride not only for what they’ve done in terms of the rodeo but the social markers of recognition for their several accomplishments — in this case, blue ribbons — I’m interested. I suppose most people who are recognized for an accomplishment can barely forego a moment of pride. What is more interesting are the ones who accumulate those tokens of recognition and see that as a greater accomplishment than the actual accomplishments themselves.

It’s one of those unconscious, subversive traps — depending on your psychology, no doubt, with parenting issues, whether you still peed your pants in your 40s, etc. — that so many of us, well-balanced and happy but not necessarily insightful as to what drives us individually, fall into. Of course it’s part of the Human Comedy, and I can be as ridiculous as the next guy, and for that reason alone it’s part of the fun. You go to someone’s house and they have bowling trophies over the course of a successful pursuit of the hobby over the decades. It’s hard not to think, “You poor deluded fool,” even while smiling two-faced, praising him for such a great game in 1965 with the evidence of the memorable victory still front row center.

Traveling rodeos of course are not a competitive thing in tournaments and contests that pass out trophies or ribbons. They’re a capitalistic enterprise that, beyond the normal interpersonal fun they have, are in it for the money. They get their money, and if they’re in management, they reinvest in the rodeo. If they’re employees they save a little, send a little to parents and kids. If they’ve crossed the line somewhere they pay off whomever’s on their case. And life goes on. But getting to the rodeo in a permanent capacity, most of the talent has gotten blue ribbons and other recognition. And to a lot of people that swag means something.

The fact that it has this whole fictitious side is what interests me. Because it’s hard to go back and contextualize the scene when you won the swag. Were you up against real talent or was it you and four halfwits? The records aren’t great on these things. You performed feats of strength. Was one of your competitors Superman? Or just a couple of PE dropout squirrels? You won honors in a cake-baking contest. How do we know you didn’t pay of the judges? So many questions, potentially meaningless.

In conclusion, your swag — be it blue ribbon, red ribbon, trophies, or a Billy Bass fish flopping back and forth on wooden plaque — ain’t worth squat. Like they say in the old religious classic, The Old Rugged Cross, “Till my trophies at last I lay down.” Or equally profound, Billy Bass himself, don’t hang him on the wall when he’s clearing saying, “Take me to the river, put me in the water.”

----
I’m submitting this post to an academic/humor blog site to see how it fares in the competition. (The biggest competition I get are guys still stuck on Polish jokes.) I promise that any swag I get I'll put on a fence post and let a friend with a high-powered rifle blow it to bits.

My Personal Cheerleader

 

Part 26 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

With the strong emblem of self-esteem on my side (yesterday) and my self-esteem growing at a rapid pace, I want to consolidate my gains. Because if you haven’t got self-esteem, it’s hard to get. And once you get it you know the difference; you don’t want to lose it immediately. Any and all encouragement -- mostly of an inner origin -- is welcome and also does you an amazing amount of good.

You can consider your own best cheerleader! That’s certainly what I think anyway, the way it works. No one else knows your depths or heights. You alone know it, and need to get in there and stoke the fires, hold the fort, open things or keep things on lock-down, it all depends. Having some internal cheerleaders, imagined or with the faces, and more lasciviously, the great bodies of cheerleaders you’ve known in the past, helps greatly. (Except for Cindy Lou, my own memory of cheerleaders is vague and unusable, so I'm always thinking of a one-member squad.)

In terms of self-esteem, having it or losing it, things like Cindy Lou can be a good crutch, useful as that for a while but in the long run just another hindrance. The more quickly you veer from concrete cheerleaders into conceptual replacements, the better. I like masked images myself, because I might get tired of Cindy Lou's face. But like those old time African masks that tribal leaders used to wear, it's always interesting. Say your head is yea wide, yea tall, the average head size. The masks I’m recalling are about four times bigger than the head. And shaped more or less like a shield. Huge eyes, painted features, orangeish, brownish, maybe some yellow thatch design, and may as well throw in a small goatee on the point below the chin.

The whole communal scene would be good for me, which in my experience is best viewed in its stereotypical form. Scenes beyond the stereotype have too many moving parts to keep conjuring actual scenes on the fly, plus you’re worrying, “Is it stereotype? Is it not stereotype?” And obviously you’ve created for yourself a whole new raft of problems. This is true for all of life. Stick to the stereotype and you can’t go too far wrong. Stereotypes were set in place for a reason, because on the average they’re true. And we’re not looking for particulars, we’re not looking for lifelike portraits, we’re not looking for something to bolster some imaginary person’s ego. We’re looking for the life-giving assistance we need for our own self-esteem.

Fragile self-esteem has its own worries, there’s no dispute about that. Bring in, then, the stereotype, use it however you need to to raise your self-esteem. It could even be -- and this is advanced stuff, beware -- that ultimately you will pile all these help aids into a bit imaginary pile and make a soaring bonfire of it, standing back and out of the way so as not to get burnt yourself. When that moment comes for, be bold, be courageous and do it. Just, please, don’t do it prematurely. Because I’ve seen a lot of people live to regret it. “All my African masks (or whatever) are gone up in smoke and now I’m lost!” Be bold, yes, but also beware!

This post is dedicated to Cindy Lou, who married a real jerk.

Kicking Doubt, Taking Names

Part 25 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

I was so touched by the Parable of the Giraffe -- it’s a giraffe whose qualities and spirit reminded me of an allegory -- that I couldn’t stop thinking of it. And I don't usually like gory stuff. This time I focused my mind on it, basically involuntarily, to the point I was feeling ill. I can never quite manage to turn my mind off, then it goes into Code Red, all circuits overloading, and I either have to suffer it or search the house for knock-out drops.

Anyway, none of that unpleasantness today -- I’m not an addict, I can stop any time -- the giraffe touched me for good. And gave me at long last the courage to consult with a particular organization whose focus is on Self-Esteem. One big reason I like it is they feature the eagle prominently in their literature, one of my favorite birds. Consider the eagle, if you will. It’s so majestic that entire countries adopt it as their symbol! The eagle’s got it going on. With its magnificent size and strength, it can raid every other bird’s nest and make off with the goods and no one can stop it!

This is true. When you’ve messed with an eagle the first time, you’ve messed with an eagle the last time. Because it’s going to be on you like a ton of bricks. And that’ll be the last time you mess with an eagle, not to put too fine a point on it. I myself, for all my other failings, have strictly avoided messing with eagles. Other kids messed with them and were pecked to death. But I was raised right, hearing, “You don’t wanna be pecked to death do you?” It seemed like the answer about had to be no, so that’s what I learned to say.

Anyway, the organization, the way I picture it, has several dozen buildings full of counselors, guides, secretaries, spokespeople, accountants, and guys who travel the country bucking up guys with fragile self-esteem when they’re down. The main thing about them, I fear, is that they’ve got it down to such a science that if you don’t immediately respond to their demands to have self-esteem they’ll drop you. And even if you’ve paid the membership fees faithfully, they can still neglect you if you’re too demanding. Fortunately I always know how to moderate myself so I’m not too demanding. But the huge unknown in doing that is you don’t know objectively how demanding everyone else is. So there’s no definite target to hit. You could be minimally demanding and still be relatively very demanding. Then they drop you.

But that worry's for another day. Today we’re celebrating their fine work -- helping to buck us up in our self-esteem to the extent that we need it, within reason. And it's really to the organization’s benefit to be somewhat generous, because we could all quit en masse and jump in the river, getting what we and they deserve. Then where would they be? But since it’s all so obscure -- one member never knowing what the other members are doing -- they're aware we can’t organize in an effective way. Actually it's in the fine print that we shouldn't even try.

But I’m happy. As long as these unknown counselors are “Kicking Doubt & Taking Names” it’s good enough for me!

Ugly Or Fairly Not So Bad

 

Part 13 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

I haven’t yet attempted a definition of self-esteem, since the obvious assumption is we already know what it is. Simple. The whole thing makes me groan because defining things is one of the hardest things to get right. But it's always easier to attain if you at least give it a shot, with a quick disclaimer that it might not be airtight, wholly accurate, or satisfactory to all. The last point is obvious, because you couldn’t please everyone with mother’s milk, let alone definitions. But, crap, no one's going to do it for me...

Self-esteem is the subjective estimation of yourself, your personal sense of quality or lack thereof. For the extremes in the literature see I’m Shit by Sad N. Lonely and The Best A Man Can Get by Ray Zoar Blade. Both Lonely and Blade clearly take opposite paths. And as far as I'm concerned Blade just shaves the surface in his outlook while Lonely’s in a class by himself, meticulously accurate and exhaustive in his torment, which resonates with me as seen in each of my own torturous blog posts. But while I lean toward Lonely’s point of view, sharing his withdrawn/desiccated vibe, I’m still completely interested in Blade’s cutting style, actually to the point of adoration, yet suspecting it’s a boasting cover, giving us finally in the end two men with the same experience. Lonely as a wannabe, Blade a neverwas.

But, obviously, self-esteem is a thing you don’t have to read about or have expertise in to have real live-wire, exposed-nerve experiences with. For your life is exposed. You touch here, you’re shocked then swept up as a cinder. You touch there and you've bought the farm, depending if you’re at an auction sale or on your deathbed. For self-esteem is a combination of things, the good, the bad, the worse, the worse yet, the ultimate worse, then we're in negative territory. It can kill you, which potentially brings pain, suffering, shock, misery, heartbreak, despondency, torment and even braggadocio (cf. Lonely and Blade, et al. Reportedly, Sad N. Lonely howls at the moon even on nights when it's not out.)

My own problems with fragile self-esteem (and this is what you paid $100 to hear) were well known throughout my childhood. A quick review of my school pictures shows a child with his head down and eyes averted year after year. I was down, as we now know, but back then they blamed it on two things, being shy and very afraid someone in the immediately vicinity was going to steal my shoes. Well, shoes is now something I can take or leave. Yes, I was shy, and I was afraid. But I went through eight pairs of shoes in one week, so you tell me. Then factor in everything that every bashful, self-loathing person goes through; it all contributes to fragile self-esteem.

My illustration above, lifted without attribution from a scholarly periodical -- screw ‘em! -- shows the extremes of fragile self-esteem, one's beloved periodically seen as a wraith, a monster, terrible, and sickening, but then just as quickly can be seen as fairly not so bad and even kind of cute. How these things happen, we chalk it up to the strange extremes of self-esteem, alas, all wrapped up in one not-so-tidy fragile package.

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.

Marie's Temper, Thar She Blows

Part 16 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

It’s a constant wonder to me — I’m fascinated that I’ve lived so long — that you can die from nearly everything. I read the death news everyday and think, "Yeah, that could happen," meaning to myself. But one of the few things you can’t die from is holding your breath till you turn blue. One of our early fears. Because, as experience tells us, we always choose to breathe. Whether it’s choosing, that’s probably the wrong word; there’s some impetus toward breathing that takes over. And as far as I know, you can't even turn blue willfully. We’re built with an inborn awareness that breathing's good.

Something we certainly can do (and do do) is engage in persistently bad behavior and eventually die from it. For me the biggest problem is worry. I worry about everything and will probably die from it. But at least I'll be able to say I worried about it so much I saw it coming. A murderer leaps out from the bushes and kills you to steal your watch, I didn’t see that coming. But I've actually worried about it even though I don't have a watch. (The guy would settle for other stuff.) Anyway, I'm guilty of worrying too much about worrying too much. And if you pile up a string of worries about what you’re worried about you can see why it could be fatal.

This lady, Marie, the power that was overwhelmingly subtracting from her lifespan was a terrible temper. It’s fine with me that she’s dead, although I would've never said that to her face. Her temper was so terrible, she’d bite your head off if she heard such a thing. So what a relief now to say out loud, "Marie’s dead, and she brought it on herself!" Not suicide, of course, except the slow motion kind that a lot of us commit. Like me from worry. There are coping mechanisms that help, though, mostly reminding yourself that things always seem to work out, whatever the problem.

But with her temper, I don’t think there were coping mechanisms. Having a temper from hell is a thing you apparently have to accept, no refusals. It's ingrained. Picked up, probably, in childhood. The kid who stamps her feet and cries about every disappointment. That's the sort of thing you need to deal with at the time. Although I don’t know how. Reasoning with people with temper (or proto-temper) is often futile.

In childhood psychology, though, I’d guessing you would take away some of the disappointment by granting her wishes selectively. So she'd grow up knowing every wish fulfilled isn't how life works. And that to react with a bad, steaming bad temper is not helpful or appropriate.

But it's not my place today to conduct a full post-mortem on Marie. I’m sure the undertaker was up to his hips in worthless temper dripping out of her, but that’s a science too unpleasant to describe. We’ll just take our place on the other side of the curtain and say — temper or no temper — Marie is now dead, whatever the cause of death on the report, probably listed as a merely physical and not psychological thing, maybe brain implosion. A collapse of the head, now the size of a pea. Like a mine shaft shrinking inward from forceful molecular packing.

It certainly cleared the air for the rest of us. Now we can breathe freely instead of facing Marie's terrible wrath for every little thing. And that’s a good thing, coming not a moment too soon!

You May Have Psychotic Tendencies

No. 26 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Something most of us share is a great hope for the future. I believe there's a correlation between hoping for things and getting them, even if it's nothing more than an occasional coincidence. You certainly see it at the personal level. You tell your mom you hope for a dartboard at Christmas and there's a pretty good chance you'll get one. Unless you have a bad history with darts as some families have. If you ever threw a dart and killed a brother, ask for something else.

In the Psycho Squad business we’re always hoping to pin down the things that accompany psychological eruptions. It’d be great if we could predict when they're going to happen, who the parties are, and where they are. With there possibly being a few drawbacks. You'd still have to let it happen before you jumped in. If we had the stun gun ready and jumped the gun, right there's a lawsuit. And if you've ever seen a certified psycho with a certified lawyer, they want so much money they're both psychos. Let me underscore this point: Even if it’s statistically likely someone's going to go completely nuts and kill half the state, wait! Maybe put up some netting at the ceiling, that's it; you could save a few lives without being an accomplice.

And after reflection, I'm thinking it's not smart to predict things too accurately for other reasons. If I showed up at someone's place to treat them preemptively, after a while they’d think it was me that was making them sick. Business would drop off, I’d miss out on meals and get hungry. And I wouldn’t be able to afford the few meds I take. I’d start acting out, getting crazier and crazier, and pretty soon a different Psycho Squad would take me in and predict all my future eruptions.

So it's the element of surprise that keeps me in the green. Making me resolve, “Even if I know who’s going to act out, I will do nothing about it in advance." In fact, I might just wait till all hope is lost before responding. Then drive five miles out of my way before turning around, so the exacerbated consequences will yield more profits. Soon society will be so bad off that my work will be publicly subsidized, with greater and greater profits. However (and this is a good point), I can't purposely fail too much, because then the competition would overtake me. Plus, if I was always late and they were always early, that'd hurt my self image; I've always been proud of my punctuality.

Anyway, I started working up a few psychological tests (see above), but I think I'll junk them now. We need to keep psychological stuff, and certainly the world of psychoses, a little quieter. We really don't want competition. I won't even explain the graphic, because, honestly, that one graphic is the key to everything. If the competition had the barest inkling of the arcane implications of those five graphics and five captions, that'd be it! So I will leave it posted only briefly, a few minutes, OK? And, please, no one make copies of it. Even now I'm going to print off a copy and immediately burn it. Must -- keep -- everything -- secret.

Coming On Hot To Cold Doris

Part 22 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Everyone in the Psycho Squad biz knows the 72-year war, presently the average lifespan of our species, a long time to have psychotic problems. But to the person with it — who knows? — it might fly by in a flash. They don’t know. They're just lurching from one crisis to another, more or less oblivious: It's someone else's problem.

So, for me, yes, I have plenty to do. But I also have 72 years, a good chunk of time. I can afford to kick back a few minutes, take a snack — coffee, tea, or me — the work will still be waiting when I get done. I pulled into one of those all night eats joints where the food’s hot and maybe the waitresses. Me and romance, though, not always a good combo. The Psycho Squad stuff doesn't go away: If there's a problem, you act on it now, no time to wait, no time like the present.

That was the scene I met at this all night place. With a waitress I’d tangled with before, but not in the way I’d like. 'Your thicket or mine, let's tangle... We're both stoved up and hot, instant on, a bad way to be when there's no feast to be had.' Reminds me of the old Westinghouse we used to cook with: Don’t turn it on till it’s time, the thing sparks into action right now. That’s what sparked in me when I saw Doris -- "Doris," her beautiful name tripped off her tag to the tip of my tongue, a goddess conjuring as if by magic coffee, sausage, and more sausage. I thought, "No need to check the state of play, I'm a man." But I warned myself, "Easy, boy, down! Stay cool till we're invited!"

Yeah, but these damned joints will break your heart every time. It's the same old story. There’s not an innocent bird in the place. I scoured the scene. Every one of them's been around the block so many times they’ve carved ruts. Street savvy. They know their way around a guy. They should, they’ve met enough creeps to last a lifetime. Once they had the git-up and go, now they’ve turned the corner. And bedded down in the paddock and taken their oats.

That's right, a few years in the waitress biz is all it takes. And who can blame 'em? Ridden hard, put away wet one too many times. And I bet she's got a dozen cross-eyed brats in foster homes up and down the tri-state corridor. Little bastards maybe showing up wanting her tip money, the old guilt trip. Yeah, I could see it in her eyes. No wild oats for her. Just looking for the straightaway home. That’s good for the jockey in her mind, not what's in my jockeys. I mentioned instant on, this was instant off.

But I laughed it off and gave her a wink as if to say, "You old kidder!" But she was impossible to break with the Night Shift Syndrome. I sat there then quiet like, simmering, trying to ignore her. A little more cream for my coffee? And she kept up a brisk pace, playing the mind game of making me drink as fast as possible and get the hell out. But psycho tricks are always on my side; the game had shifted, and in this game I had her right where I wanted her: She’s gonna give me coffee refills from now till doomsday! I would not be forced out...

So I sat there three hours — it was a grudge match and I had nothing better to do. When, damn it to hell, there had to be a Psycho Squad call about 5 in the morning! Some twerp with a God complex dangling from the water tower. And He was holding two hostages, possibly the Son and Spirit, with rusty nails held to both their throats. Huh? I couldn't stew over theology, I had to ascend and get going.

Just then, seeing my dilemma, Doris backed against the counter and started playing with herself, mocking me. I laid it on her real square, the bad news in one painful body slam: “Save it, baby, the coffee was cold, but hotter than you...”

Sky High, Beyond All Limits

Part 11 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

It’s great for my outlook to see how much good the Psycho Squad actually does. I'm guessing 99% of the progress in society — specific acts of graciousness, the general sense of goodness, and outright love — is a result of our important work. Whatever else the species accomplishes after a lot of false starts and bluster results from the sheer benevolence of life. Remember this, life hates a loser.

But I have to be humble. Because I’m sure others could make the case that there's factors they also can selfishly latch on to, giving them at least the appearance of bragging rights. And instead of just immediately throwing up my hands and crying, “Give me a break!”, I zip my lip. Go through the motions of being agreeable. Just remember, Progress has a million fathers and there’s always a lot of 'Gimme gimme gimme' when they’re dishing out the credit. And all the while the truth is obvious, like a slap in the face, the Psycho Squad is the very heart of success.

That’s certainly how I see it in my town. This town had a sense of unnameable dread, foreboding, and future shock until I got my first ambulance. They couldn’t tie their kids down and make them behave. They'd gnaw through the ropes like cotton candy. You couldn’t walk down an alley without a gang of monsters springing up like nightmares to take you on. And unless you were literally carrying a nuclear device you didn’t have a chance. I saw a generation of normal people bite the dust. And on windy days they still blow by.

But the Psycho Squad did establish itself, and we set a few ground rules for evildoers: Submit to goodness, yield before it’s too late, or find yourself under our thumb! Because we put the word out, “Make my day! We’d simply love to take you out! Mess with us, we’ll mess with you, bad, big time bad!” And various other threats. The truth of it can be told now that we’ve prevailed. But we were scared out of our minds and could’ve been beaten easily. But we took the pose of gunslingers, that confident bow legged stance, and for the true killer move we purposely left our zippers down. The universal sign for “We got it!” and “Argue with this!”

It’s funny how that hit people. We were known for it. And for years we literally kept our zippers down as part of a Psycho Squad’s trademark. Then slowly, as we became known for other aspects of the work, we spiffed ourselves up. Kept the zippers neatly up unless, of course, other things were going on. Then it’s appropriate to send the signal, ‘It’s right here, virtually in sight, if you have anything on your mind besides the movie.' Those old challenges were settled.

Still, what a lot of work it was. The Psycho Squad took on so much action in our town we had even the most dangerous cases. Now look at us, “Sky High, Beyond All Limits,” successful in stratospheric terms, striding over the world as though we belong there, as though we own it, dwarfing everything in sight, with our zippers proudly up. And helping others keep their sanity as well.

Of course -- then or now -- these things don't just happen. We're on the scene, always on call. Because we know life is a thing of delicate balance. We never forget it. People go whack all the time. We had one guy, I called him Easy On, Easy Off, not much of a switch. His brain was atrophied beyond recognition. Doctors ordered brain scans and it had all the properties of macaroni and cheese. Sticky, hard to keep warm. They brought us in to counsel him. I took him out in a field and spelled it out for him in a way I can’t repeat, trade secret. He immediately got with the program! And my gun wasn't even loaded.

There was a lady, too. Hate to leave anyone out. She wasn't happy with her old dependable red car. Even when it got her everywhere she needed to go. So we worked with her in two ways, direct patient care and behind the scenes. The guy who runs the junk yard loaned me the same model of car, but one completely demolished. We switched her car for this one. You can guess her terror. She came out, had a meltdown and went into a coma for a week. They fed her intravenously the whole time. Then we put the old car back in place, and when she woke up she was so happy she drove away and no one ever saw her again. That's a happy ending.

Stanley -- The Spirit of Evil

Part 4 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Cases involving people yielding themselves to evil —  body and spirit — are among the saddest to me. But that’s just because they always seem to go the same way, down the tubes morally and socially. But I’m resolved not to talk politics.

Is it wrong to hate evil? I’ve always hated evil. I got it from the Lone Ranger. He was a do-gooder in a world that seemed to have about 12 people. Himself, Tonto, and a few others. The others were evenly divided into two camps, the good townspeople/ranchers and the evil people out to cheat them because of the railroads, claims of gold or water rights. If it hadn't been for this same boring story week after week, I might’ve never learned morality.

And with me in the work of the Psycho Squad there’s always evildoers. Saddam Hussein wanna-bes, apparently, without land to conquer or nations to terrorize. They take their half out of the middle, acting goofy around people, breaking in, trespassing, often getting their jollies under the influence of something strong, booze or narcotics, so they’re only about half there, but it’s the half that’s entirely bad, the worst part. I'd love to run a full-page ad. A big picture of me surrounded with a description of my morality and how I got there. Then some earnest rage tearing people a new one, ripping them up one side and down the other, but ending with a positive plea, "Get with the program, you half-wits!"

In a typical day, the police often call me. It happens more often than I like, because my favorite cases don't involve evil but are just guys who forgot to take their meds and are acting out. I can get those straightened out right away. They go from shackles to home right away and adapt themselves quickly to normal. Five minutes of billing and I'm done. It’s the people who are objectively evil even when times are good that get me down. And someone — do-gooders unaware of my preferences — will call the Psycho Squad. We take down the information, then kick it around. “Does it sound dangerous? Is there someone else we can pawn it off on? Shouldn't we leave a guy that bad for the police? Take ‘em in, throw away the key? It’s not Stanley, is it? Tell me it’s not Stanley! Anyone but Stanley!”

You can almost spell Satan with Stanley if you bought another vowel. But Stanley must not know how to spell, because this loony bin reject half the time thinks he IS the Dark Lord. It’s a sad case. Looming large with his inflated ego. Which is essentially what Satan is, good boy gone bad, left the family and by inflation lacks the smarts to go back. I’m almost of the mind to quit feeding Stanley's ego, because there might not be much left. But if I could get him in a clear mind and explain to him the mythological elements of what he's doing — that he's a base idiot with a Big Idea personified — then he'd have some worries. With the spark of realization and a brick to the head, he might be normal.

This is an issue Hollywood could clear up. Every time they show one of these (ho-hum) Satan programs, run the disclaimer, “The following show is fiction. If you fall for it, the Psycho Squad will get you! They are bad ass and when they're done you will wish you were in hell!”

No One Likes The North Wind

Part 3 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

These are the cases the Psycho Squad gets. They say beggars can't be choosers, even though I'm not quite there. It's just when it comes time to pay the bills it's nice to know someone has a problem worthy of the name. "Don't come any closer!" Joe bellows. I put my hands up in the fake surrender gesture, "Whoa, big fella, let's not get huffy. Take a breath -- that's good -- now let it out." Which might've been the wrong thing to say. He blew me across the parking lot.

I know how it sounds -- unbelievable -- but these are the ways a man's mind goes when an evil wind's blowing. Being a mortal man isn't enough for some. He's so whack he thinks he's the North Wind. But I don't have time to judge, especially with that breath. A rancid mix of whisky and Italian breath. Not only were two kids in personal danger, but I had a larger population in the Big City to think about and a toxic cloud.

With long experience, of course I knew the guy. One, that’s a fake beard. And the cape, apparently meant to recall the dark clouds associated with fierce winds, couldn't obscure his features. I’ve dealt with him before. One thing right away, he’s not a pervert, just a poor misunderstood soul. Given that knowledge, a violent response was out. It'd have to be psychological. Take his persona at face value and address him from there. He wants to be the wind, he has to realize even the wind takes a breather, comes and goes, stirs and subsides. It called for a little hypnotic repetition, Breathe in, breathe out. Everything's getting calmer and calmer, there's barely a stirring of even the slightest breeze. Calm and pleasant, getting stiller all the time. Until... peace...

Next the team rushed in, subdued and restrained him fast as ABC 1-2-3, and cleared the scene. Innocent bystanders relieved, the victims returned to mom and dad, leaving us to stand there stoically. "You went a little wacko, huh?" A quick visit to the clinic, get his meds straightened out, restrict him from watching TV weather, as well as the all-important billing process, and he'd be on his way.

But as simple and clear-cut as that is, he still got huffy. “How dare you accuse me of—?” I stopped him right there. “No one accused you of anything.” Then I got strictly clinical: "This craziness may’ve been kosher in the days of Robin Hood, men in tights dropping from the trees, but it doesn’t fly now! All it takes to spoil the charm of life for everyone is one weird clod like you!” What could he do with those condemning words but hang his head in shame...

The fact is the Psycho Squad's clientele is so varied with strange ideas up the wazoo that nothing can be easily dismissed. You learn to suspect the worst, then assume whatever conditions led him to his present behavior would ultimately thwart him. They always go overboard. Say he really is the North Wind. His blowing days are done for now.

The Great Colossus

Part 26 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

At this point in my life I suddenly knew how the Statue of Liberty feels, not just once in a while but everyday of her fascinating life, similar to Martin Luther, “Here I stand, I can do no other.” Which was an incredible insight for Luther, because when he lived the Statue of Liberty was still nothing but a gigantic French puzzle. People dreamt of it, “Will this thing ever be pieced together and floated to America on barges?”

When you put it that way, I guess I shouldn't have worried so much about the guidance counselor and my life. It sounds like things were fairly well, or most definitely, set in stone, foreordained, and going to happen more or less as much as any other alternative. Heavy stuff, I know, but my super brain, fit only for a Colossus, or split in pieces and shared by several brainless men, can think such things (1) and recognize them when they eventually come to pass (2).

The guidance counselor, then, knowing the school year was ending and that he'd soon be rid of me, was in helpful mode. “What can we do to cobble together a reasonable cover story for your educational pursuit thus far, resembling as it does the Wild Mouse ride at the carnival, a rip roaring scary ride, fraught with bumps and bruises, but in the end still on track?” I thought, “Now you’re talking my language. The end is set from the beginning, but just getting there is half the fun.”

“Something like that,” he deadpanned in his usual sour tone. As much as saying, “What do you know?” With a side of “I’m also guidance counselor for the best and brightest of this school. Let me get you on track, Mouse, so I’ll be able to deny whatever bad eventually happens.” A real Judas Iscariot moment if you ask in hindsight. But it’s true, life is about sinking or swimming. Dying in the embers or rising from the ash heap and taking your place. Does anyone really doubt that a guy like me — with loving parents — would rise to take my place with the immortals? Hearing none, the motion's carried.

Just looking at my Colossus pose is enough to put me on top of the world, even today, so long after the events of the past, fraught yet with bad memories, but with the evidence of whatever wrongdoing was done either long forgotten, lost, or being eaten by mice in the educational headquarters and their hidden files. The beauty of the whole thing now is, despite the guidance counselor’s many fevered insults about me, none of it matters anymore.

Plus, I could go to a hypnotist right now and still be put in a trance and forever be centered on the image of me as the Great Colossus, striding over a dominion vast in scale. This Colossus wouldn’t be a bit funny. Not a bit, for in my mind, with the hypnotist’s help, I would stride around the city knowing, certain that I am the champion of the world! Be nice to me or that could happen.

It really gave me a funny feeling to think, “Here I am, every bit as good as the guidance counselor, and destined to surpass him in every way. And I guess I have in certain ways. I’m still alive and he’s dead. And I know where his cremains are buried. And I’m not yet cremains myself, but like I mentioned before, I’m still alive. Not to rub it in too deeply, alive unlike him, who is dead.

But he was alive that day -- damn the luck -- and that’s what always matters about the past.

I'm Perfectly Normal

 

No. 12 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

This isn’t a good day. I’m feeling mucho funky about myself. Usually everything's great and I have the world’s best self image, perpetually, depending on which parts of the world we’re talking about. But not today.

And, yes, this cross on my back -- this guidance counselor series -- is bringing out the best and the worst in me, depending on how it hits me at any given moment. Some days I’m on top of the world; there were a couple fleeting moments yesterday. Then other times I’m sinking somewhat, but still bobbling along like the red red robin. Other times, unfortunately, like today, I’m a wild-eyed mad man, in one of my budget barn Elvis costumes, wild-eyed as I said, bad complexion, and eyes going crazy wild, wielding a sword and swishing it madly through the air, cutting everything in sight!

Call it what it is, some sort of dissociative dysfunction, I think, crabgrass of the brain. I’m having a hard time scooping out memories of the guidance counselor and dumping them before the public. And most of you have been sympathetic and encouraging, don’t get me wrong. But there’s a small group — like always — that comes down on the side of the guidance counselor... The guy could’ve flayed and panbroiled me and these buzzards would see no problem at all: "Don’t question your betters!" Their twisted myopic view is guidance counselors can do no wrong! Let's flip 'em off!

Dredging up any detail of the past for me has karma the size of the Titanic. If I'm thinking of some innocent thing, like us kids threatening a Nude-In in high school, I would associate it now in a negative way. Instead of the great joy it was. Certainly, then, something as tumultuous and negatively memorable as the guidance counselor making me his personal punching bag, all while keeping it psychological and therefore hard to prove, has a hurtful side.

One of my doctors thinks my flailing about with the sword is healthy and one strenuously disagrees. So with one doctor, I’m sitting there with it proudly. With the other I’m a little more reticent, because I hate being judged, as I know this guy is no doubt thinking in his mind, “This dude’s squirrelly. His stupid sword. His stupid guidance counselor issues. How insipid. Let’s move on, pal. Give me a break. Pay the bill and make another appointment.”

And I don’t have the slightest clue how dismissive he is of me and my ever-present traumas. Giving me, unbeknownst to him, yet another grievance that someday if I live long enough I’ll also be working through.

Credo: Strip 'Em Down

No. 9 of 30 - Guidance Counselor series

I don’t know if people hear the same things we used to hear, more or less on a daily basis, that you’re a cog, a gear, or screw somewhere in the ultimate works of society. The days I’m recalling were well before they encouraged big aspirations in every kid. Essentially they helped you focus on your little place as a responsible nut or bolt in the overall works.

I say I don’t know, but on reflection, it appears certain, at least on the surface, that a lot of that has gone by the wayside. In the post-WWII period it was one way, settling into your position, whether by social planning, a divine purpose, or just your natural responsiveness to the obvious underlying drive. The same thought went into the cookie cutter houses they came up with, in haste, in getting society back on a peacetime footing.

Not to be too sociological, there seems to be a natural progression from the helter skelter scene of wartime to fitting into definite channels for peacetime. But they never actually said any of this. So if you’re a kid, you think they’re just against you personally. When it’s really only a macro sense of things and getting you situated in your little slot. And anyone who doesn’t fit precisely, now now now, is like a spare part to be cast aside.

And I suppose, naturally, some of those drives went into giving us a generation of guidance counselors straight from the bowels of hell. There they were, fermenting in the bowels of hell -- like other bowels but smellier -- not even fully aware themselves of the infernal basis of their hellish drives, every bit the same cogs in an unforgiving machine that they expected us to be, working it point by point, sending you up the chute of happiness or driving you down down down like the worm you were. Or pond scum, which to me is nastier than worms. And we grew up afraid of pond scum, not knowing we shared certain sociological qualities with those denizens of the shallow.

So here we have the guidance counselors of that day, assembling in rigid lines, themselves parts in the system, and being sent like demons to their bitter work, marking the quick and privileged for their destiny, then the rest of us to a dim purgatory of fruitless existence. Without even the mercy we might grant worms, the mercy we show when we poke air-holes in their little cup or container.

Is it too harsh to suggest that the Guidance Counselor Credo was “Strip ‘em down, sell them into servitude, etc.”? It’s right up there with Death Row, of course, with the 13 last steps to the gallows and a priest muttering words of comfort, more or less for himself, before they release the trapdoor. It’s a terrible credo, yes, but 100% accurate. And if the guidance counselor worked overtime, the percentage went up several additional points.

Please, Coach, Let's Make Love

Part 2 of 30 - Guidance Counselor series
(Fiction)

I wish I knew how the ladies ever got the idea that wrestling coaches are hot. That’s been one of the socio-psychological questions of my life, along with the question of cottage cheese being edible. When I heard it about wrestling coaches, I said in disgust, “Ewww, yuck.” But I later learned to love cottage cheese.

For about a week in the ‘70s, I lived in a town with two high schools and one university. As part of a research project I had volunteers (minimum stipend) following wrestling coaches. Note: It’s hard to do, because so often they’re behind doors where their activities are unseen. It is at these times most often, we surmised, that they’re having illicit affairs. Hence, there’s nothing to be seen except the partner arriving or departing, with nothing conclusively proving that they were there for bed sport.

I got only minimal credit until I found and used information from a wrestling almanac, briefly in print but quickly confiscated, with two pages of enlightening statistics on wrestling coaches, their affairs, how far their mates were willing to go on the mats, etc. Unfortunately, late one night a gang of wrestling coaches broke in where I worked and stole the almanac and the research. That was before we had hard drives or I would’ve had 100 copies in 100 different email accounts, at the very least.

So what we’re left with is what I can remember and hearsay. Both of which I consider admissible. In short, the wrestling coach has to have a big libido. I hesitate to give the full rationale for that. Except it has something to do with men grappling men and a certain split (awareness/denial) in the average wrestling coach's mind over that of what they're really doing. Libido action is required for admitting and excluding.

Beyond being merely interesting in wrestling terms, the study touched generally on how narrowly the mind can focus and fully function with awareness while not excluding but not fully recognizing simultaneous denial. Good stuff. As for me, I was happy I had the seizures, because I immediately saw the whole scene in its stark all together without studies.

Why the guidance counselor ever wanted to be a wrestling coach, I don’t know. I’m driven to the idea that he was looking for action, but maybe not. I'm sure there are wrestling coaches in it truly for the wrestling, not because they like to see boys in jockstraps and loose shorts roll around to pin each other, while jockeying for better vantage points. I'd hate to get the wrestling industry on me by making false insinuations, so I know there's good guys, with some bad. And with the bad, varying levels of hanky panky going on. And I’m not saying on whose part. How's that, a padded room, a den of iniquity.

In general, I was never alone with the guidance counselor beyond ordinary school offices, hallway, gym, etc. Much to my relief, and I can’t speak for him, but he was generally in a bad mood and not looking for action from me. No matter what you may think of the guidance counselor, and perhaps it was my own sense of industry, I managed to survive that semester without losing my virginity to a coach, counselor, or non-student.

I Gotta Be Me

No. 22 of 31 - Thermometer series

I believe there's a saying like this, “The measure of man is man himself.” Or maybe it goes, “Who knows the measure of a man more than himself?” There’s a saying something like that involving “the measure of a man” and “himself.” They used to measure me, so anything's possible, but that was just for shoes, pants, and shirts. They never measured the soul, although, I guess to be fair, I did go to Sunday School. So there's a lot of wondering about yourself and various jabs at answers.

So am I OK? I feel like I've put the pieces together, even drastically, with my own insights together with modern psychology and can not only say “I’m OK, You’re OK” but, invoking Tony the Tiger, “I’m Grrrreat, You’re Grrrrreat!” I say some version of that, and whether I believe it, that’s a different story. I definitely believe we as the subject are too close to the subject to objectively know whereof we speak in evaluating the self. But what other perspective can we have, especially when we restrict ourselves with a mechanical approach and a more or less superficial frame of reference? So called objectivity

It might sound trite to say it, but it’s likely true, we have to transcend somehow from within, seeing ourselves as more than skin, bone, guts, with a watchman on top of a spine. I can be very ethereal in thought. But not as much as I want to get, like in the Transfiguration. That’d be great. Say you’re sitting there, you’re transfigured, but while you’re sitting there, you’re also able to be in the kitchen, or over at the coffee shop, taking in refreshments. You run home or text to see how things are going in your chair. You’re so ethereal and so wonderfully transfigured that you’re able to text back that you’re doing fine. With the weirdest part being that you only have one phone but are somehow able to text back and forth while apart!

OK, let me draw a few at least superficial lessons from this as it applies to the thermometer drive. Which is weird, because the thermometer drive is the most important thing in my life at the present moment. Look at me sitting here typing this in a fever, while I’m across town having coffee. But I’m not in a coffee shop, no no no. I’m at a park, standing there waiting for the dew to dry so I can sit on the bench, while another manifestation of my consciousness is making the coffee in a French press pot and preparing to rush it to the park. As I sit here I was only momentarily disturbed as that I grabbed the keys from the table next to me. I hope they have a great day and that I accomplish a lot.

To drive the point completely home, or completely to the space between here and the park, or completely at the park — wherever I actually am — I gotta be me! I gotta be me! What else could I be? Something to see or maybe not. Just a bunch of ethereal spirits, eternal playthings in league with all that is, driving me completely bonkers, the more they’re busy playing around when there’s actual work here on earth to be done.

I have plenty of compatriots helping with the blog. The men’s organization, always pointing at me, going “You da man.” And the ladies aid, a more practical group of gals I’ve never seen. How the men ever happened to marry these particular women, I’ll never know. Maybe someday -- say I live till the 10th anniversary or 20th of this present-day blog drive, and we’re reliving old times -- they’ll tell me the full story: “Where did I meet Missy? I couldn’t tell you this 20 years ago, but she was a complete doll.”

Hit that thermometer! Things are going great! I'm not in the doldrums, just a reflective moment. I'm right here with you-all, bobbing like a cork, staying visible and doing well. We need you in this drive because it's taking off any minute now. Success is within our reach! We are our own success! Let me hear a rip-roaring Amen!