Grandma Slump Takes Ukraine By Storm

Look at the global reach of my blog this week. (For the graphic, I dropped off all the countries after Germany who aren't keeping up. But they were United Kingdom (7), Malaysia (5), Romania (4), Sweden (3), United Arab Emirates (2), and Canada (2).

What's precisely wrong with Canada, I don't know. Don't they have the internet up there? 2, that's barely one per province. They have provinces up there. They're very provincial. I could go up and teach them a few proverbs, see if they could prove themselves, and dump a little provender on the ground, anything to provoke them. Wake up!

The United Arab Emirates, I'm not sure what that even is. Is that the name of a country? It sounds like a subdivision of a country or a sports team. I suppose they're very into oil. I remember my dad teaching me how to change oil in the car. Over there, it's probably a dime a gallon, so it doesn't cost much for the kids to have someone else do it.

Sweden. I like the Swedes. I knew some Swedes, they made a big deal of the fact that they still knew Swedish after all these years. There was this one old guy, 90-something, and his wife would tell me, "Pete's talking the Swede!" I couldn't understand a thing. And one day I found a bunch of Swedish books. Tried to sell them on eBay but no one wanted them. If only I'd had these three visitors back then!

Romania and Malaysia, I think they're doing very good at 4 and 5. Because the last time I consciously visited a Romanian or Malaysian site, I can't remember when it might've been.

The United Kingdom, they're tied with Germany at 7. I'm a little more disappointed with the UK, which is why I clipped them from the graphic. After all, we share the same language, and I've listened to music from England (the Beatles, Stones, probably others). They need to step it up and read my stuff, or, who knows, I might turn on them, too.

That brings us to the big boys. Russia and Ukraine. Look at that, 13 and 77 from the Ukraine all by itself! Obviously something happened, because I don't remember any spike like that from there before. The thing is, I'm just guessing, one of my posts must have been linked on one of their sites. I can't figure it out, but I've had a number of traffic sources that appear to be Russian gambling sites. And the traffic is all centered on one post of mine from 2009, "Sternness Meets Creampuffness."

I had to look the post over, because I forgot what it was about. It had to do with self-esteem and personal pride, bringing forth strength in your personality. I used wrestling/rasslin' imagery, with Sternness facing Creampuffness (psychological states) and beating the crap, or cream, out of Creampuffness. So my guess is, these Ukrainians are visiting gambling sites that have something to do with wrestling matches, and in there somewhere, this post got linked.

It's still a good message, so I hope they're lingering long enough to be encouraged. Bring forth the stronger sides of your personality, and, seriously, don't let Creampuffness get the upper hand.

Sternness Meets Creampuffness

There's a battle of titans today in my spirit.

Facing off is the sense of Sternness, with all his rock solid abs and determined look. If you strip down Sternness, he'll stand there without shame. It's all the same to him how he's dressed (but he of course doesn't like tights.)

Facing off, secondly, is Creampuffness, he of no definite shape but still recognizable. We weighs in at two ounces, most of that paunch. We wears something skimpy, with shame, and hangs over in all the wrong places. He also hates tights, which would crush his thighs.

But we're not calling the match before it begins, as the rules call for strict impartiality and respect between each of the combatants.

Sternness seems to forget the rules momentarily, strutting around the ring, flexing his arms and rubbing his thighs as a display. There's not a trace of doubt in his mind that he shall prevail, and, as a seasoned observer, I think he's probably right. Creampuffness holds back, his back pressed against the ropes, trying not to look intimidated. He's mild mannered anyway, whether through natural weakness or perhaps some kind of attitude he gets from meditation.

The referee tells them he doesn't want any dirty fighting, which is understandable.

And there they go!

Sternness moves in for some intimidating pokes, feeling out Creampuffness early. Cream is pushed back and winded early, but moves quickly out of the way when Stern makes a decisive jab. Cream's as light as a feather, but I don't see much offensive possibilities for him. Stern has that look in his eye -- his whole body -- that says he's got the upper hand.

This isn't going to be much of a fight. Cream has nowhere to run but is making a good effort to find somewhere. He's pulling in wherever he can, sucking in his gut, trying not to present such an easy target. But Stern's aim is deadly, his jabs well placed.

And there they go, crisscrossing the ring. Stern flung Cream toward the ropes and now they're each one going back and forth, and where they meet -- it's going to be -- Oh! Stern gave Cream the deadliest clothesline I've ever seen! Cream is staggered, stunned. His legs are wobbling....

Stern moves in for the kill, picking up Cream and crashing him to the canvas. Cream is stunned and finished, oozing life cream everywhere. And the ref moves in quickly to count it off -- 1, 2, 3 -- It's over, ding, ding, ding!

Sternness has defeated Creampuffness soundly! He's given him the thrashing of his life! It is nothing but annihilation!

My Steaming Tirade

Two days of sacred sword work and my usual exercises has me in an internal fury, in rage. I'm steaming mad at dirt.

Rage is a funny emotion because it's very focused. We talk about anger so often at arm's length. But there are dimensions to anger that you forget till they rise up fresh. I need to get some plastic tips for my swords because my wallpaper is turning out very ugly.

But it's good to be alive. And there's no big reason for concern, since this is just part of it. I know it could get to be too much, but I will work through in time.

At this point, there's enough channeled invective to melt lead. I'm kickin', struttin', talkin' trash everywhere I go. My dog is very sensitive to the sound of words and phrases, so I have to keep reassuring her she's "a good girl," and it's nothing against her. So I'm making nice to keep the dog happy. But when she's out of the room all bets are off.

Left to myself, I'm seething. Countless imprecations flow forth. I'm being specific and naming names. I've got it bad and that ain't good. I'm willing to lay it on the line. Every ounce of power I can muster is at the ready. There's a bubbling, sputtering mess of something that has everything below my chest in a state of agitation. Mentally, I'm at the wheel. I can see afar with crystal clarity. I'm ready to stomp.

Maybe by the time I'm ready to act some of it will have died off. But right now there's no loss of energy. It's Gog and Magog, baby. Wrestling versus Rasslin'.

You know it's wrestling if you do your job and go out for drinks. You know it's rasslin' if you drink and leak.

You know it's wrestling if you're unencumbered by grudges. You know it's rasslin' if you're unencumbered by arms.

In wrestling you win on points. In rasslin' if you're alive.

And to think I'm usually so mellow, so easy going. Stand back!

I've Reached A Decision

I've been messing with the psychological mechanics of speeding up and slowing down time most of the morning and so I didn't get around to writing this update until now. Which means I have to rush because the slowing down function isn't working right as of this minute. Or 10 minutes ago now.

Just know that, whatever the calendar says, and it's dead on in sync with everyone else's, by the time I get done here, even if it only takes minutes, I could very well be old and gray. Let me pause a minute and kick it. There. Against all odds, I believe I heard some slowing of the wheels.

What's all this about speeding up time? I'll get more into it as necessary, just to say now that I can't be content to wait and drag this crazy situation out. I need to have it resolved as quickly as possible. If I don't, there's going to be trouble with "friends" and "followers." As I found during the hiatus, they don't like things stretched out. They're into instant gratification. And, if Garrett Al is any indicator, gratification is exactly what they're after, whether mental (not in his case) or physical, as was his perverse desire. But enough about him.

I have reached a decision about the Grange Brotherhood, thinking back to the three options of a couple days ago. I came to this decision not lightly, but it's been a struggle unlike I've ever felt in my life. Because, think about it, the antecedents of this struggle go back generations. This is conspiracy theory stuff. Grandma and Grandpa had connections to the Brotherhood back when they were dating, probably. It could be they were moved around like chess pieces with the aim of bringing them together so they would eventually have my mom, who would eventually have me, who would eventually be sitting here as I sit today, either their Savior or the Antigranger they fear.

Think about my heroic dream yesterday, terrifying stuff. The Octopus creature versus the Snake headed man. I still can't get over the vision of that terrifying cobra hood. Cobras have the weirdest heads in nature. A few more years of evolutionary history and they'll be flying squirrels. Cobra parents always feel like they should trim back some of Junior's head but then their doctors tell them that's what brings the real pleasure later in life. So they fall for it every time, the child cobra goes to snake school, the other kids are always making fun of the cobra's hood. Like, "Don't whisper around him. He can hear you!" And "The slightest puff of wind and he'll sail away!" This is also why the cobra's hearing is notoriously bad. Every sound being accentuated, their ears wear out early on. So you see it in India, the owner has to play his flute right down in their basket to rouse them. You put a flute to my head the first thing in the morning, I'm going to bite you. But my hearing is also top notch.

Anyway, about the dream. There they were, in a death struggle. The Snake, I believe, wanted to wrestle. The Octopus wanted to rassle. Because snakes are used to writhing, wrestling comes naturally to them. Octopuses have the more chaotic atmosphere of the ocean as their natural habitat, so rassling comes more naturally to them. The Snake, though, being the subtlest of creatures, and very wise, was able to adapt to the Octopuses' moves. The little snake heads popped out and bit the Octopus very badly. Then I woke up.

But today I drifted off in my chair and saw the end of the dream. The Snake wins! By some very dexterious coiling, he had all eight Octopus legs pinned to the canvas. Later, the Octopus was seen -- time having been sped up -- old and gray in a nursing home, refusing to say much about it, but still signing autographs eight pictures at a time.

I am the Snake. I will prevail.

So my decision, the decision I have reached, based on this dream, is this: That not only will I join the Grange Brotherhood, one day* I will be the Grange Master who leads the whole organization!

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*"One day" could be as soon as tomorrow, thanks to the speeding up of time. But that really would be much too soon. I need some things to write about before we get there. So please be patient.

A Fitting Hiatus

My hiatus is continuing on, at least technically, until I can think of some way to bring it to a fitting conclusion. Just to end it abruptly like biting off a piece of licorice is not my style.

But I'm roused to the idea that the end needs to be very soon. I'm well rested and, I believe stoked to what the future may hold. At this point it's just a matter of thinking of a fitting time, some significant day, to pull the plug or stick in the knife and going about it in the safest way.

I'm trying to think back if I started my hiatus in a fitting way. Probably not. I was just overworked, stressed, and feeling put upon -- and I cried out, "I'm going on hiatus." It happened just like that. With not much malice aforethought. Then certain things about it took over. It made itself at home.

As we went on, it really came to life. At first I celebrated it, relished it, and I even fought for it. We had plenty of good times. But a few times, as I recall, we had some real difficulties, and our relationship alternated between wrestling and rasslin'. I wanted to wrestle with it, but it wanted to rassle with me. Then vice versa, which is only fitting. We had a hard time knowing who would be top dog, knowing that no one can be top dog forever. I remember taking a few two-by-fours to its head, and, yes, I took a shiv to the gut more than once! That's what rasslin' is all about.

Having all that time off really did something for my day. I was able to fit in all kinds of new and clever ways of killing time. I got some sleep. I took leisurely walks. I was up in my citadel looking out over a very tiny world. I saw a lot of former "friends" and "followers" from there, all about the size of ants, very fitting.

Then there were times when the whole thing seemed like a bad fit, like when I was stewing to get something done but my hiatus was always in my face insisting on its own way. I can confess it now, there were a couple times I left the light on in my citadel and sneaked out the back way, creeping noiselessly past my hiatus as it kept watch there as a vigilant sentry. What did I do on these outings? I went and did some work and got a few things done, frankly, but then inevitably I'd feel guilty, creep back past the sentry and back up to the citadel. Then I'd come down as thought nothing had happened.

For the most part all the pieces fit into place. We've lived together, shared together, fought together, and grown together. But, as so often happens, what was once a cute, newborn pet, became an unmanageable behemoth. And that's when you just need to step up and put it to sleep -- kill it -- if you dare. I'm typing this with my hiatus surrounding me in this room like a blob. There's barely room to fit me in. Part of it's snoring in the corner behind me and another part's in the other room taking a leak. A couple more weeks of growth like this and it'll simultaneously be outside flying a kite and inside working on its stamp collection.

Outwardly I chuckle. If I don't kill it it'll die soon anyway. Pituitary problems, heart disease, hiatal hernia. But inwardly I'm seething, having fits while I wait. If I took a knife to it, I might escape with one arm intact, I don't know. Joshua fit the battle of Jericho, of course. But this final battle with my hiatus might not be so easy.

It's somehow strangely fitting that I would be overrun by it. I asked for it. But how can I overcome it? I taught it everything I know about both wrestling and rasslin'.

This Clamorous Hiatus

I've got some things on my mind and I need to get them out as fast as possible. So often, perhaps you know how it is, you feel like you have something to say but then you stammer for the right words. Or you feel like you're an empty slate and words are stymied for a whole other reason.

I think of this in terms of a foreigner, who's able to speak his language 100 mph, but what he's saying I don't know. Then he gets to listen to me speak English, again, 100 mph, and he has no idea what I'm saying. The point being we have a lot to say, and the words we use to say it with are there whether we can think of them at the moment or not.

There'll be no unnecessary pausing today in what I have to say, no searching for the right word, no second guessing, no doubtful judgments; my friends, I'm going to spit it out and it shall remain spat!

The simple fact of the matter is that my hiatus is clamoring to cease. I'm feeling all the commotion, all the uncomfortable, persistent rancor that transpires in a head when my inmost thoughts are engaging in conflict with other more public aspects of my consciousness. It's like a battle royale, but more on that later.

It's funny, really, how I have insisted on this hiatus. Right from the start I was insistent and said "I am going on hiatus." That led to the whole tussle, which started out as horseplay but escalated into this battle royale, between myself and my so-called friends and followers. Even my family got in on the act, although I've been strict not to drag my family into the more public laying out of the conflict or situation. But the more they dug at me, picked, and scorned, the more I felt I was justified and right to not only take the hiatus but to rub their faces in it.

Much of the conflict has been well-documented, and it would've made a great book or newspaper article had investigative journalists found themselves at the scene. I have put forth my own side of the struggle, including some insinuations about the various individuals doing the majority of the picking. One, Garrett Al, was mentioned by name several times, much to his chagrin and at great cost, I'm assuming, to his reputation among both female and male acquaintances and possible partners.

Everything came to a clamorous head, then it all trailed off, and I have been left very much alone. No one outside my door, visitors to my blog have departed. Friends and family, even those I knew quite outside the purview of this blog and controversy, have sensed the spirit of estrangement even without knowing the particulars, and have kept to themselves. Even Grandma I've had to coax to the dinner table a time or two, but the promise of apricots and a nicely executed tickle under her chin usually brings her around.

All that said, and now that no one is clamoring for my hiatus to end, my own thoughts, engaged as I said in a battle royale, are clamoring for it. And these I must listen to! I'll repeat that, I must!

A battle royale is what? I could look it up. But I'm thinking it's a battle like Armageddon, it's so royal that it's royale. I don't know what that means exactly, but I'm thinking it means you bring out the good truncheons, for sure. Like the good china at Thanksgiving. The deadliest numchucks, nuclear cannons, the gnarliest battle axes you can muster, gold chains wrapped around your fist, and every spear's point whetted so sharp that it can only been seen under a microscope. And no one gets a tetanus shot before or after.

It's like the difference between wrestling and rasslin.' Wrestling is a battle for points. In rasslin' the point is to battle. In wrestling you take down your opponent, in rasslin' you take him out. In wrestling, you amble away under your own power. With rasslin' the ambulance has the power. And so on. Wrestling is executing quick moves. Rasslin' is executing your victim. In wrestling the ref's polite tap breaks all holds. But with rasslin' the jaws of life fails.

I don't know when it's going to happen, but this clamorous hiatus has to end soon. I'm hoping it'll be sooner rather than later. The day has to be auspicious. I must win this battle royale!

A Hiatus Is Strange

I'm on hiatus. I hope that's no secret.

Sometimes it's happy, sometimes it's sad. I never really know what to make of it. I've been thinking maybe I should've never gone on hiatus, because for quite a lot of it that's been all I can think of. Guarding my hiatus, keeping it real, making the most of it, trying to commemorate it in tangible ways so that someday I'll be able to look back on it more vividly.

You can tell it's really turned my world upside down. Before, I was just a normal workaday kind of guy. I came up with projects, or projects were given to me. I worked with the responsibilities that fall to the lives of most people. I tended the hours of the day, scheduling and accomplishing things. I tried to fit in some leisure time and treasured it.

I got involved in this blog, which took off in ways I didn't imagine. It attracted a lot of readers there for a while, with quite a few of them being very hungry for every scrap or morsel of wisdom and truth I was able to serve up. At first that was gratifying; I thought they were half kidding, to be honest with you, but I didn't let on; if it all turned out to be a joke, I thought, the joke would ultimately be on them. And if I had to I could show you from my private diaries where I noted some of my skepticism about the readers' sincerity.

Now looking back, it's apparent they weren't joking, because the interest in the blog became an interest in me personally, leading to me launching the private newsletter that was very popular, and then we had some real life visits, including highlights like tours of the half acre and house, meetings at the bedside of Grandma, going through the family photo albums, viewing my baptism certificate and my first clippings of hair as a baby, and on and on. The visits started off normal enough, but then they were camping on the half acre, seeking personal favors, and, in one rather unfortunate incident, with Garrett Al, the personal favors went more toward the favors of the flesh, if you know what I mean. Guns and knives were involved and finally the police subdued and took him away.

I don't know what exactly the breaking point was. But in there somewhere, in the stress of keeping it all going, I decided I'd finally had enough, and I called for this present hiatus.

But a hiatus is a very strange thing. It's almost like another of these artificial friends seeking personal favors! I hate to say it, but it's true. It's always there with its little hand out. It's staring at me like What are you going to do for me next? On the worst days, a hiatus is like school probation, study hall, or expulsion. It's like a ball and chain. It's like the difference between wrestling and rasslin'. You signed up for a pleasant minuet with a nun and you got kicked in the crotch by Big Bad Mama from the Gorgeous Ladies Of Wrestling (sic).

It's always strange when you have something you think you really love, then it turns out to have a hidden side, a terrible, devouring side. Like five minutes of pleasure, then a lifetime with an STD.

My Favorite Hiatus Memory

I'm always curious about people's favorite memories.

Like the memories we have of high school, like when we're at a class reunion. The years seem to melt away as the memories come rushing back. And actually the years in high school do melt away, because the five or six memories we have of high school compress it all down to about two days.

In high school, one of the few things I remember is jumping on the trampoline that time we weren't supposed to and getting busted by the teacher. I made a couple smart remarks about it and we walked away and walked somewhere, toward the west, now that I think back, and laughed about his consternation. Of course now as an adult I can see the problem, that if we would've gotten hurt, it would've been on the teacher's head, since he was the only responsible adult there at the time, etc.

But those memories are of the olden days. And it's not that great to get together with those chums of years ago and laugh it up over five or six memories. Then the rest of the time we're sitting there -- like 10 minutes later -- thinking, Now what? I blew my memory wad in 10 minutes. I don't know these people. They're old people. They have grandchildren. I'm not even married. I'm an idiotic bachelor still living at my grandparents' old rundown house.

I don't really think of myself as an idiot. That is, I try to put it out of my mind. And now that I'm thinking of it again, it's depressing. But today is not a day for depression! I'm up and at 'em. I'm alive and vital. I have enough healthy spleen to vent on any enemy who comes my way and seeks to depress me or oppress me or repress me. I don't need anyone to repress me. I can do fine at that myself. If you want to impress me, you're going to have to try harder. Because I hold myself to exacting standards and the rest of you aren't getting a pass either.

Anyway, what do I care? I can just tell the world the truth, that at the present moment I'm on hiatus. And that's true. I'm in a transitional phase between hard work and dedication -- overwork -- and possibly permanent retirement, although I still don't think it's going to come to that. Certainly I gave up the hard work part and have been taking it easy for the most part ever since. And time has been slipping by. And I'm not hungering to get back to it either, to the blog (maybe just a little), and none of the rest of it. It's a hiatus for me, sweet and simple.

Which leads me to wonder what your favorite memory is (so far) of my hiatus? And if you don't think you can narrow it down to only one, what a few of your favorite memories are. Until I hear from you, which I know might take some time, I'll share my favorite.

One of my favorite memories -- if it's not my absolute favorite, because I also have more than one -- is when I was thinking about "Wrestling and Rasslin' With My Hiatus." I was just thinking about this yesterday, and was wondering if I had another "wrestling and rasslin'" post in my system. But this time I was thinking in terms of wrestling or rasslin' animals and not just people.

Like it's wrestling if you wait till the alligator has his trunks on, but it's rasslin' if you attack him from behind on his way to the dressing room.

It's wrestling if you wait patiently while the ref calmly explains the rules to the alligator in growls he can understand. It's rasslin' if you nail the rules to his forehead.

It's wrestling if the alligator gets a breather between rounds. It's rasslin' if he's not breathing at all.

It's wrestling if you take the alligator out for a beer afterwards. It's rasslin' if he needs an IV drip to drink it.

It's wrestling if the alligator smiles and shows his teeth. It's rasslin' if he smiles and I give his teeth back to him.

You can probably see, if you really think about it, why the post on wrestling and rasslin' would be my favorite hiatus memory. They're both funny and true, creative and obvious.

A Hiatus On Top Of My Hiatus

It is the seventh day, so I must rest from my labors. That is, my labors of being on hiatus and defending it with every fiber of my being. I've been up, I've been down. I've had much strength -- at my peak I've been like Hercules. And I've experienced much weakness -- I felt like I had the backbone of a doily when my enemies came at me hardest. But what can you do? I fought back and got my second wind.

Resting from your labors is what should be done. You can work yourself into an early grave. Or you can say, Thus far and no farther!

You've probably seen some of the great rasslin' shows of the past. I know I have. You've got the guy standing there getting the tar beat out of him. The enemy is prevailing, doing these massive body chops. And the other guy stands there, wobbling. It seems like there must be an invisible rope holding him up because no man can stand so much torment.

But then the enemy takes one chop too many and it sparks a light of rebellion in the other guy. He becomes rigid, alert, and obviously about to begin a new, unexpected journey down the warpath. He's alive in his eyes, his shoulders are squared like iron, and he stomps with fury, with the worst fury a man can stomp with.

The first guy who had the offensive suddenly realizes I'm dead meat. So what's he do? He throws up his hands in a plaintive gesture of begging for mercy; he knows he can do no other. But we all know he was the last one to show mercy before, so he'll be the last one to receive it now. There will be no mercy.

His opponent has life running over the brim. Something perhaps in his muladhara has been struck, right in the sweet spot, like one of those strength things you pound at a carnival. And a beam of pure light and energy has ascended in a sensuous dance, twisting up the ida and pingala, all in a flash. And lights have gone off at the top, bells and sirens. The force of God has registered itself! No man can resist such force! It's at that moment that all mercy and pleas for the same are swept away in a tidal wave of the sternest wrath. Oh, this is going to be good!

The crowd at ringside senses it too, instantly, and they know the other guy will not live to see another morning. His children, if he has any, will ask their mother, if there is one, What happened to Daddy? if that's what he is. If they exist, and if they have an ounce of sense, they will soon realize, Daddy's not coming home, except perhaps in a body bag, with a toe tag describing the contents in the bag, because his face will have been beaten beyond any recognition and ability to identify. The gravedigger will insist on supernatural rituals of purification, lest the mourners call down judgment on themselves and him, not recognizing this was a righteous kill.

So there's the scene. The crowd at ringside takes a collective deep breath. Every eye has bugged out like a snow globe. The guy is begging for mercy, but the other guy stomps that stomp that is the last sound anyone in the area hears ... until they hear the most pulverizing cacaphony of echoing punches, gouges, bites, crowbar gongs, folding chair splats, thumb tack noises as he scatters them and gives the guy a full suplex right on them. Then he KOs the ref and borrows a can of lighter fluid, dousing the guy, who's passed out. He just happens to have a keg of gunpowder at ringside, so he hoists it in an instant and breaks it all over him. Then he strikes just one lighted match. Before he casts it down he looks around the arena, grinning, beseeching the crowd's continuing ovation.

Then there it is! The flame strikes! The guy's little beard disappear in a flash, as well as all body hair. In fact it was such a massive explosion, you couldn't even make out the beard and the body hair disappearing; that's just my conjecture. It was completely over with. Most of the crowd was killed, but not one survivor demanded his money back; it was that good of a show.

And so I have said, Thus far and no farther. I will continue this hiatus, and today, the seventh day, I will rest even from that.

Wrestling And Rasslin' With My Hiatus

Thank you for stopping by today. I'm amazed that you found this blog, because in the last month or so it's mostly been abandoned. When you've found yourself here you've found yourself in one of the loneliest backwashes of the internet, where there's a lot of forlorn birds standing one-legged on fence posts, looking bleak against a gray sky backdrop. One sits alone this morning, overlooking a mostly mossed in northern fork of a lake, and a lone carp does that whole thing of coming up and slowly gulping at the surface.

What's happened to make it like this -- this blog -- is that I made the decision a little over a month ago to go on hiatus. For various reasons, some of which I can't even recall -- it's been a real stew -- I felt that I needed the time off. I was heavily involved in the lives and personal clinging of some of my readers in real life. I was cranking out a newsletter for those who felt the severe hunger we get in our media-deprived world. And of course I was right here, day after day, endlessly on top of many issues. It turned out that I had some abilities to guide people spiritually and psychologically, so there for one beautiful moment in time I was cashing in on the whole self-help fad.

But for me, it turns out, the more I give, it's not necessarily the more I get. That drying, mostly abandoned lake is a picture I resonate with. The hopelessness, the fear of the future, the feeling that you're being sapped utterly and completely -- these are all feelings that make up the average day for me. And you know, below the surface of any lake dwells all kinds of bottom feeders and very funky troubles in the mud at the bottom. The bottom of a lake like this can have bubbling underwater heat pockets and it can happen that a hole will suddenly appear and suck down the lake's precious life water. You see that ... and you see a lone bird standing one-legged on a fence post ... and you know that life can be a real downer.

So I took the time off. That's the hiatus. Ya-ha. I say that facetiously. Because nothing about it has been quite right. I've been up, I've been down. I thought I'd made peace with it, that I'd come to grips with it, etc., only to realize that it's still an enormous struggle. A little while back I did a very good study on the difference between wrestling and rasslin'. Those thoughts keep coming back to me, with this strange conclusion: that I'm both wrestling and rasslin' with my hiatus. Both!

Wrestling is a gentleman's sport, sticking out your dainty finger as you minuet around the ring and eventually come to light grips and apologetically take the other guy down. Rasslin' is when you're a couple of braindead gladiators and you're sticking your finger in the other guy's eye -- what will fit of it -- and you're dull to human feelings as you despoil the other guy in a worthless heap.

Wrestling is being finicky about whether your toe brushed the out of bounds line and insisting that you be released via that technicality. Rasslin' is carrying the other guy to the line, crashing him down well beyond it, then picking him up and delivering him downward at 100 mph with his butt bearing the full impact of your positioned knee. Then killing the ref for good measure.

Wrestling is to shake hands with your opponent, or lightly bump knuckles, or touch foreheads, or give light shoulder taps, and afterward go out for a glass of milk and wish each other well for the evening. Rasslin' is to take the guy's hand off, nail it to a board, retrofit inside it the workings of one of those old Billy Bob fish plaques, then push the button and watch it flop around while singing "Take Me To The River." Meanwhile the other guy is sitting in a bar with a bloody stump plotting his revenge, which he hopes will include after the next match him nailing something else to a Billy Bob plaque of his own, specifically a center protuberance and two hanging sidekicks.

This's what my hiatus has become, both wrestling and rasslin'. The good and beautiful, wrestling. The bad and depicable -- but always more interesting -- rasslin'.

Wrestling Or Rasslin'?

What a struggle. I personally know what it felt like for the Titanic to go down. It broke in eight separate pieces and it wasn't pleasant. There's a similar titanic struggle, a dilemma playing out in my spirit. It's a combined show, three rings, death-defying, as painful as shingles.

I'm on the verge potentially of one of my greatest successes. Likewise I'm on the verge, probably, of one of my greatest failures. I'm so keyed up I feel like cussing. But I will refrain from that -- come what may -- because I don't like anything blue. Grandpa was the mad cusser of our family, F-bomb this, F-bomb that. But I vowed that I would keep my mouth pure and not traumatize my own grandchildren, if I ever had them, which it is starting to look like I won't.

No, instead of settling down with a good woman 35 years ago, I'm out here on my own, everything I got basically shrivelling up and worthless. I had such stupid ideas as a kid, like thinking I'd have to go downtown and stand on the street corner and ask women at random, "Would you marry me?" I don't know where I picked that up. Anyway, that's all past; I blew it. But past is sometimes prologue. And so here I sit, wrestling with the various demons of my soul. Or is it rasslin'?

Wrestling or rasslin'? Which is it? Wrestling is what they do in school. But rasslin' is what they do in the mud. You wrestle in a ring. You rassle in the slop, you rassle an alligator, you rassle when the stakes are to the death. Wrestling is a dainty sport. Rasslin' is two men or two women doing a take-down for all the marbles. Wrestling, you have rules and stick out your little finger to let the judge know you're refined. Rasslin', you put a finger in someone's eye with about a can full of mud. Wrestling is like a waltz or a minuet. Rasslin' is grinding it out like a cigarette butt. Wrestling's what they do in the Olympics, then have their urine test. In rasslin' the only test is survival.

Will Old Faithful blow? Will I look like the town's biggest fool. This is what I'm rasslin' with. Every day is torture, every night torment. My bed is swimming. I sweat through my clothes. I can barely hold myself together.