So We're All Wimps, Huh?

 

Part 13 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

When you’re in the rodeo you know you’re bad to the bone. Because taking to the back of any animal the size of a horse or bull — which goes double for any that are plain loco — you’re either corrupt where the rest of us are sensitive or brave where the rest of us are sensible. I don’t know how these guys get life insurance. If I sold life insurance for a livelihood I’d avoid rodeo folk!

But selling life insurance was never the path I took. And for sure it wasn’t the rodeo, although a little of both would’ve been profitable. If I sold myself a big policy, then went into the rodeo, my relatives would’ve cashed in big-time by now and they’d be especially thankful that I died so young. A big deal for me, just another statistic for the people that follow these things.

When it came to danger I was always a guy you could count out. Then as now I’d much rather sit on the sidelines and watch someone else risk his life than do it myself. Basically any “sport” I even thought of was too dangerous to try. The scrum of basketball in that tight little nucleus of guys battling for the ball, elbows flying, giving you another black-eye or being pounded from above on jumping for the ball. The deadliness of boxing, taking another walloping blow in the eye from a guy’s fist pummeling me and going down for the count. Or probably the worst sport, being high in the air strangling a guy or, worse, being strangled. Frightening graphic!

But when the professional rodeo performer surveys all that danger and violence, and then pronounces them losers or worse — shrinking violets, wilting daisies, or chicken livers — that takes a chunk out of your ego, I don’t care who you are or how used you are to a constant barrage of insults, put-downs, or smacks. For you’re in the presence of greatness, a macho man who sees no problem kicking you when you’re down. The kind of guy we all aspire to be without actually doing what it takes.

Still, and this is just my opinion, divinely inspired, I don’t care how tough you are, there’s something wrong about calling a gym full of kids a bunch of names, slurring them. Because, frankly, it’s beyond reason that everyone should aspire to the rodeo and thereby be left to a life of insults and taunts. Look at these kids. Does it look like they'd even have the basic competence to be in the rodeo? The kid strangling the other kid, maybe. He's got tenacity, with a bent toward doing anything to win.

Most of us actually are quite content to sit out rodeo-performing. But if you feel so invulnerable and have the sort of foolish daring-do that makes you crave danger, go for it. Put yourself in a position to be kicked to death! The rest of us, thank you very much, are comfortable with our decision to live a good long life, starting out as kids in normal sports, then dropping off when we’re in our late teens and living our lives in complete safety, with good enough memories of “safe” danger from when we were young.

Rodeos Still Rank #1

Part 3 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

All the worry we have with “Who’s Number 1?” and “Our team’s better than others!” is the Number 1 thing I hate. But you hear it everyday, so obviously people are totally into it. It’s really a case where one of two things has to be true: 1) Their pride’s run amok and needs to be channeled into an actual personal accomplishment, maybe basket weaving; 2) They don’t have any pride worthy of the name, making them cast about for something, anything to give themselves worth. The fact that they we tend to settle on teams geographically close to us shows that most of it's arbitrary.

I’ll just say that and move on. I dished the sociology on a roomful of guys once during the big game and they also arbitrarily grabbed me out of an entire crowd of people and had me dangling from a hook in the coat closet well past halftime. I don’t think it was compassion that got me rescued either but the nuisance I made due to my predicament. For even a wounded animal will loudly sound the alarm as long as it’s physically able, animals having the instinct to live. Once that instinct gives way they're prepared to die. Then there’s us with caffeine pills.

So when it comes to basketball (ball through hoop, ho-hum) or tennis (back and forth ad nauseam) or baseball (endless standing around) or football (a series of penalties with scant seconds of game play), these aren’t sports, they’re steps toward sports but can’t get out of their own way. The only true sport — also setting aside bowling for argument's sake — is the rodeo. I say that with gladness, because it indeed is great. And with sadness, because by now you’d think we'd come up with something else, anything, approaching it.

Naturally, I like to keep my posts positive, no knocking of others for mere knocking’s sake, and drive home the whole point in its full truthfulness, that everything else sucks bags compared to the only sport worthy of the name — any name! — and that’s rodeo.

Along with the greatness of the sport, there’s a whole culture as well, also worthy of the name. They carve out a place for everyone. You can show up at the rodeo and sit there with the cowboys, but try to stay out of their way so as not to interfere with the enjoyment of others. If Tex Smith over here has given you his autograph, please don’t be badgering him and the others for autographs for your dad, your Cousin Lou, or in memory of your deceased grandma as a thing to donate to the Salvation Army for auctioning off in the Christmas raffle. You might mean well but you’re completely in the way.

So stand back, smothering fan, and let the sport of rodeo breeeeeathe. If you’re so close and obsessive like that, can you not see that you’re killing the very thing you’re so excited about? If you’re that far-gone — over the moon in la la land or kookyville — we’d much rather you found a home in one of the inferior sports. Be a nuisance for football. The clock’s usually stopped so they have plenty of time to waste.

Racers Meet Their Maker

Part 7 of 31

The Found Another Body

I heard one day that there hasn’t been a racing fatality in so long, years, that they're shaking their fist at heaven, daring the Almighty to "Bring it on, Big Fella!" A disgusting sentiment. But because the safety features are so great, all the latest designs, and have stood the test of time, nothing can possibly go wrong. I’m glad that's the case in a way although of course most of us know that a little real life danger puts the edge in things. If nothing can ever go wrong — as much as we hope for people’s survival — it’s too cut and dried.

That’s not how it used to be, back when a man was a man and the Future Corpses of America always had their rooting section at the races. I used to go to the races as a kid and we only got popcorn money if someone got killed. But to be fair to our parents, we also got money for nickel candy if there was a major pileup and no one perished. And there were other levels of reward, like if the winner suddenly fell dead of a non-race-related problem, aneurysm, bleeding hickey, or lung cancer. One guy died of all three once and I spent the next year on my own in Hawaii, meeting beach girls and getting plenty of leis.

Those were great days, like the wild west of family outings. We went with other folks, relatives, and had a blast. My uncle and dad made sure we got out of there fast, pretending to be traffic guys. We scooted right out. There might be a 10-car pileup behind us, and, yes, an occasional fatality (never involving bleeding hickeys), but we got home quicker. The answer to your question is NO, we didn’t get anything if other motorists died. Maybe our ass kicked if we didn’t warn dad that someone was stuck under the tires and messing up his gas mileage.

Anyway, back to the races. There were always some professional drivers, and professional wanna-bes, high school kids, their dads, uncles, etc., always guys, and most of them had something to prove about their masculinity. I know if I were a high school kid driving I wouldn’t want my friends at school dumping on me because I had a light foot on the gas. You have to put your foot on the gas and go for every advantage. If they have the flag out, “Well, I didn’t see it till a couple minutes after!”

I’m glad I survived. The races I’m talking about had a crew that patched up the stands nearly every week. One side, the north end, was constantly collapsed, since that was the hairpin turn and you weren’t anybody till you skidded out and wrecked there. We definitely vied for seats near that section, because it does give you some extra bragging rights if the cars sail over you. That happened one night and the guy was crossing himself religiously as he sailed over. And good thing he did too, because he took out the women’s outhouse. The ladies would’ve skinned him alive had he survived.

Even now as I remember all these things — I’m hungry — wishing I had some of the popcorn we used to get. And the satisfaction of earning it the old fashioned way, one crazy accident after another.

Barbarian Bowl

Like a lot of guys, I've been watching a few football games during the holiday season. The big bowls are something of a national pastime. We're just doing nothing, so to pass the time we watch them. They’re interesting to us, and give college athletes something to do.

Of course to enjoy these games you have to be able to overlook your scruples. And I regret to say I’m just as guilty, not any better. But at least I have regrets. I need to work on that, make it a New Year’s resolution, that I will be more socially responsible. And principled. It pains me to say I’m not quite there yet.

The problem’s obvious to everyone who’s looked at it objectively, the whole issue of land resources, especially in light of the human tragedy of homelessness and so forth. In short, friends, we’re running out of room. There’s more population than room to warehouse or provide living space for everyone. And we haven’t made enough headway on prevention, like regulating the sexual habits of people of childbearing age.

As tough as it'd be, that’s where I'd start, because I think our ability to go cold turkey sexually is stronger than our willingness to give up sports. I’d actually recommend a two-pronged approach. Not playing football games and regulating sexual activity. Then if we make progress, it's a win-win. And if we don’t, we'll just have to bear down more and continue some serious work on the problem. What's the alternative, to shrug and say, "We give up"? That's no alternative. In that case, our reign as the dominant species on this planet is over. We will have sex and go whole hog with sports until we’re extinct, dead as cheap door-nails.

If we devote so much land to football fields, basketball courts, and golf courses, we’re confessing that our priorities are shortsighted, just the fun of the moment and the future be damned! We will play our way into the grave, and no doubt at some point even run out of grave space, a loss of cemeteries, because of so much real estate foolishly dedicated to sports.

Even now I’m watching a bowl game and shaking my head. 1) How can I be so much a part of the problem as to enjoy this disgusting display? And, 2) How can those people sit in those huge stadiums unaware or uncaring about the issue, that there's a stranglehold on our ability to use land responsibly. The football lawns look so well manicured, it’s ridiculous, while the people needing land for basic living are a mess. I drove by a yard right here in the Big City with so much illegal dumping, you’d think we'd simply given up, and it's true.

As for basketball courts also wasting land, strangely that's not as obvious. Because we’re stupidly used to the idea that buildings are different, essential. Setting aside the obvious fact that buildings have to be built somewhere, also taking land that is so desperately needed. But instead of getting a grip on ourselves and doing it right, we have lost our way. If we can't get a grip on ourselves, what hope do we have in the long run? Zero hope, that’s the only conclusion.

It’s been in the news that we might even be colonizing Mars very soon. I’m just hoping that when we get there we reflect on what we've done. If we've despoiled the Earth, can we at least learn the lesson for outer space? We don’t want the other planets to be misused, too. Right now, we must pass a law restricting the building of sports arenas, football fields, and golf courses in outer space. Keep our previous space resources for what's really needed, a place for everyone to live their lives with dignity.

DBKundalini Ass-kicking Service

Today's a big day for me! It's the one year anniversary of my business, DBKundalini Ass-kicking Service. I have to tell you, I was a little nervous when I started out. I had a number of friends who foresaw nothing but doom and gloom. They thought they were being cute when they said I'd be the one getting his ass kicked. Well, they were wrong. Business is good, I'm keeping busy.

It's frankly amazing the things that have happened in one little year. I have a few guys in town who simply enjoy having their ass kicked, hard. I do the best I can, although, to confess, I have a little arthritis in my kicking foot (I'm rightfooted). But I'm saved because mine's the only ass-kicking place in town. I do all I can to send them out with a smile on their face and a sore bottom in their pants.

I don't mind the arthritis so much when I'm making money, as you can well imagine. But I made a major mistake in this regard trying to gin up business. You know those discount cards civic groups sell? They list a business, then there's a freebie or discount. The pizza place gives a free order of break sticks with purchase of a pizza, the bowling alley gives a free half hour of bowling with the purchase of 5 pitchers of beer, and of course a hair salon offers a eye wax for a measly $5. Notice the common denominator there? They're buying something, unlike mine. In my ignorance I offered three free ass-kickings period. It's tough, since the average person with an ass is content with three kickings.

Still, life is good. To make up for that, I get lots of recommendations from doctors and lawyers. It turns out doctors are more frustrated with their patients than they let on. A guy drinks more than he should, for example, you'd think that'd be good for the doctor; he's going to need more care. But doctors look toward a more distant horizon, keeping the patient on the hook as long as he can. Early mortality (as in drunk driving) means lost money, especially when you consider the true bonanza they're look forward to, an average of 14 surgeries for every guy over 80. So they find "something wrong" with their ass and send them to me for $20 to $25 worth of kickings. I like that.

Lawyers are about as good, as they're usually acting on behalf of an aggrieved spouse. The guy's been cheating, the wife wants a divorce but wants the husband's weekly paycheck. She agrees to keep him, but only if he knows there's an endless stream of severe ass-kickings in his future if he misbehaves. The husband knows he has to submit, because it's cheaper occasionally denying her expenses while married than divorced. That leaves more money for his mistress. I don't care who wins or loses. I just take the money, kick his ass, and let it go.

One of the big surprises in the last year, something I didn't expect in my wildest dreams, has been a contract with the university for their losing sports teams. Basketball is entirely successful, but football is a total bust. Which is bad for the town but great for me! Because written into their scholarship is a nasty little agreement that at "the coach's discretion" they agree to "counseling, verbal or physical, as he shall choose, excluding the death penalty, of course, but including ass-kicking." This is amazing stuff. I have these huge guys who could kick my ass east, west, north, and south, if provoked, and there they are, lined up, getting their ass kicked by a wimp like me. Big bucks, too, university standards ... they pay five times the normal therapeutic rate! I just keep my fingers crossed, that they win enough to make the kickings seem beneficial but still lose enough to keep them necessary.

I've had to turn down a few clients. One thing I will not do is kick the asses of kids. Unless I'm personally and severely provoked, and even then I haven't been able to catch the little shits. Again, my arthritis, and, at the end of an average day my leg's dead tired. Which they know. I came home one day and these kids had picked every pussy willow off one of my pussy willow trees, and had them stacked up on my fish-cleaning table. I went limping toward them, moving my foot in a slow swing, and they dashed out of the yard quicker than snot. Still, like I said, I've turned down clients. Home school parents are often frustrated, and they're always calling me. "Junior's falling behind in his scores." I'm all like, "Then get him a different girlfriend ... I'm not kicking kids' asses!"

One whole year. And now, if my leg holds out, I'm going for two!

Washington and Lincoln Stand as One for Fired Coach

Usually we live in two separate camps:
The Washington Cherry Hatchets vs. The Lincoln Split Rails,

but not in these days of great trouble...

No more "Our Guy's #1 and Your Guy's 16!" Incredibly, Washington recently put aside the rancor and joined in common cause with Lincoln. They proclaimed, "Today both our guys are #1." Wow! This new sun arose just the other day, right in the bleakest part of the night, as the day first dawned, at the moment nature itself is at its darkest...

Both teams awoke to the same terrible news: "LINCOLN'S BASKETBALL COACH FIRED!" Who took his team to 17-5 last year, including a hard fought victory over those Washington bastards. It was the talk of the town. Gatorade flowed freely in public troughs.

But now everything changed, when, inexplicably, the new Athletic Director at Lincoln, Witt DeMann, instead of a relatively cheap testosterone injection, along with a shadowy cabal of gutless underling principals, including the head principal taking an underling role because his son was grievously overlooked for a letter man's jacket and the ceremonial kiss of the prettiest girl in town -- who is actually homeschooled and thereby assumed to be without the normal diseases -- sacked Coach Mikelson. The whole thing gets complicated, but that's the basic story. They fired him, for no actual stated reason, and said, "Case closed. Move along. Nothing here to see. There's no story."

Until an influential newspaper man, showing the power of the full court press, rallied parents, townspeople, the students of Washington, Lincoln, and this one pretty homeschooler, against the idiotic cabal and their flubber-chinned henchmen on the school board. Not exactly empty suits, if you catch my drift. But were you the head man of a tribe of cannibals, and having them for Thanksgiving, you might want to double check the overall ratio of fat to lean. And if you were from a brain-sucking tribe, lest you end up on the menu yourself, in revenge, you'd want at least to tap into the cranial cavity of one and extrapolate from there. Planning makes perfect.

Anyway, the newspaperman caught the Lincoln AD at his self-congratulatory best, lounging in leisure, who issued chiseled-in-granite comments like, "Under no circumstances whatsoever -- come hell, high water, or Washington victories the next one hundred seasons will I ever accept Lew Mikelson back as our coach." He further put off the newspaper man with a repeated, "There's no story here. Go on, little man, peddle your papers elsewhere!"

It was at this point the Washington team joined forces with their bitterest rival, Lincoln -- and their proud parents, especially those whose children are on the honor roll. The others, who can't be bothered with whether their sons excel -- I'm trying not to diss my own parents too much -- sat out the fray.

Well, it happened that the school board was going to meet that very afternoon. And they were sure surprised when the students, the parents, and a half dozen extras with pitchforks and torches, came into the room. Each stood and in a dignified way offered their considered support for Coach Mikelson. They shook hands congenially with board members. But nothing seemed to sway the board till -- What's this?! -- Till the door opened again, and there stood one scowling woman in a miniskirt, nice-looking, with her homeschooled daughter, yes, the same one. Mom marched with confidence and determination to the blackboard, and said, "I'd like to address this meeting of the---" We'll just cut to the chase...

It turned out she knew all the dirt on each of these dirtbags. Including Bobby Taylor, sitting there, who'd seven times asked her for a date! Mrs. Taylor's mouth dropped open, smelling of ice. The students, each with hidden romantic entanglements of their own, sensed a distinct shift, the tide turning. The school board, the feckless principals, and even AD DeMann, were jiggling their chins and huffing such retorts as, "Well, I never!" and "Be silent, curséd hag!" before immediately voting (without a second) on the motion that they rehire Coach Mikelson, give him double pay for the past week and his inconvenience, and censure their previous handiwork with malice aforethought and the strongest prejudice.

The students erupted in cheers. This meant now, of course, unless they physically catch Mikelson with the entire cheerleading squad and the homeschooled girl, and the homeschooling mother agrees, they can never, not ever, fire him again. He has them -- and especially AD DeMann -- firmly by the nuts today, tomorrow, and henceforth forever. "Squirm, you worm, DeMann! Now, let's talk about that raise." And, "It's been 10 minutes, DeMann, I feel another serious ass-kissing coming on."

The newspaper recounted the joyous event, the historic day when Washington, Lincoln, and the homeschool mother all came together and socked it to the whole bunch of 'em. But they were generous enough to leave out of it the scofflaws' names. An appearance of graciousness that probably has more to do with future access than anything else. "We were just channeling public sentiment, not burning our own bridges, harumph..."

As for the Washington and Lincoln students, it's back to Total All-Out War! No one owes anyone anything! Come Fall, you filthy bastards, it's back on! "Your boat's going down, Washington!" and "Lincoln, how'd you like that play?"

What If I Had to Save the Kitesurfer?

The other day in my endless peregrinations in life, a fifty cent word meaning travels, I found myself down at the lake. I had a full tank of gas, so I threw caution to the wind.

Speaking of wind, it was the windiest day the world has ever seen. At least where I was. I'm actually convinced that I was somehow led to the headwaters of wind, the treasury of wind not yet released.

But I wasn't the only one. There was another. A mysterious figure, whom, as far as I knew, was an immortal, possibly the overseer of the treasury, out testing his wares. I crouched behind a bush, although no doubt he saw me on one of his bold flights.

His method of flight, however, was one of worldly origins -- kitesurfing -- so I was able to relax on that account and return to my fully-exposed car. His truck was just up the hill a piece.

There I was, then, completely free to watch this fabulous spectacle, the daring young man on the flying board and kite. I was this close to losing myself in wonder, when -- in my mentality I quickly crashed to earth. I thought, trying to hide the resentment with a false smile: "He's so fit, so athletic, so carefree, at such peace and oneness with his equipment and the elements. And so strong in the arms -- a strength I've never known -- to withstand 45 mph winds driving and pulling him. Awesome! He flies like a bird, probably 40 feet in the air and sees the kite drop toward the water. What masterful coordination not to fall flat on his----- face, while pulling it to bring the kite above himself once again! A young man marvelous in every way! And solitary, with confidence that he can do anything and remain safe. Probably.

"Then here I sit, weak in the arms, a pain in my legs, a touch of despondency, and afraid of my own shadow. Hell," I thought, "When have I ever done anything? I used to go sledding, which was how to broke my arm. I also broke my leg in a teeter-totter incident. It's been all downhill since then. I might yet take up knitting -- these days the old gender standards are relaxed, especially as more and more men like me look for tried and true activities that won't overtax their failing bodies. Plus, the newer plastic knitting needles are invaluable for safety, I hear."

My self-pitying reverie was broken as the kitesurfer flew over my car, then cut an amazing turn and back-flip to return to the lake. The Wright brothers could've used him!

My reverie picked up again about that time. I started worrying, "He's out here by himself. Not another person in the area but me. What if he has trouble and needs rescued? If he's out there 100 feet, with these waves to boot, I wouldn't be able to swim that far. I tried one of those 12 foot endless wave pools and about drowned." I saw enough -- and definitely worried enough -- so I left.

My Olympic Experience: International Whittling Champion

Even to this day, after all these years, I can barely stand to watch the Olympics. It's a very bitter thing to see, although of course I congratulate all the athletes who made it, and especially those few who take medals for being the best in their sport. Just don't ask me to watch it ... at least for very long ... they might eliminate the ski-jump while someone's in midair!

I've probably mentioned all this before; it's one of the defining moments of my life, although, thankfully, it's receding now farther and farther into the past; mercifully, time has passed; there won't be much time left for me to dwell on it, the shame, the heartbreak, the bitter disappointment. Someday, hopefully soon, I'll pass from this dark world, only to dwell on the heights, in the light, with other great champions. On Mt. Olympus, or somewhere better.

If you've been able to forget me and my experiences as an almost-ran Olympian, then, frankly, I can only envy you; it's something I've never been able to put behind me. I still see them whispering at the grocery store: "There's the guy ... the Olympics guy ... thinking he was going to be the international champion of whittling ... only to have his Olympics dream whittled down to size ... actually whittled down to nothing!" There's always a few chuckles, probably uncontrollable laughter once I've left the premises. Some time I ought to set my phone on record and leave, then come back and see...

My family always told me not to be bitter: God never gives you anything too big to bear. Which was definitely true, although maybe not in the way they meant it. God never allowed me to bear an Olympics gold medal around my neck! That's for sure! Hell, when it all comes down to it, I wish I had at least a silver or a bronze. Is that too much to ask? I sometimes scream, shaking my fist at the heavens. Yes, He whittled my ego down to size, that's something. Whittle this! I scream, extending a massive middle finger---- You get the idea.

It all started when I was a kid. I had more time on my hands than I knew what to do with. And what I wanted to do with my hands they said wasn't good for me. So I didn't know what to do, until Grandpa got me a set of pocket knives. Several different sizes. All the way from a tiny one piecer, with several larger one piecers, all the way up to a larger three piece knife, with a blade so big you had to screw it together for the full length. Custom made.

Of course at first I was like any other newbie, cutting myself, missing the wood block all together. But with time and patience and great effort -- sometimes sweating blood in my labors -- I was able to whittle pretty damned good, and I actually was doing intricate little sculptures. I whittled so many ships in bottles, in the Who's Who of America in 1967 they said I was responsible for what would've been the third largest navy in the world, if they'd only been full size. But by the time I went full size, it took so long to whittle entire ships, I had to settle for achieving only the 45th largest navy in the world.

Naturally they thought I'd be a shoo-in for the '72 Olympics. My family was busy hosting benefit dinners for my Olympic expenses. And I did my part to make them memorable, whittling toothpick holders for each table and the toothpicks themselves. That's tough work, because whittling something so small, each toothpick had to be tested for durability, leading to some very sore and bloody gums on my part. I couldn't chew for a month; I could only chew broth, nothing more.

Anyway, as everyone knows, the Olympics giveth and the Olympics taketh away. New sports are added, and older sports, deemed passe and utterly worthless (those bastards), are eliminated. And that's what happened to me. The word came down from on high in the fall of 1970 that whittling would no longer be part of the Olympics in '72. Remember all that trouble at the '72 Olympics? Turned out I wasn't the only one pissed off.

Disaster! Playing Frisbee Golf With My Cap

I was at the church picnic on Sunday. So far, so good.

You figure you're out with the redeemed, everything's going to be paradisaical. So why did it turn out to be such an embarrassing disaster for me? I'm a nice guy. My sense of justice is crazy overboard, that's how just I am. I just don't believe in false weights and balances.

Lunch was fine, good potluck that didn't quit. Then it was time, after I got invited, for some of us guys to play Frisbee golf. The park's set up for it, with big goals scattered here and there, at the end of the various greens. My big problem was I didn't have a Frisbee, and there weren't any extras. Except, and this is only my suspicion, surely one of the guys had an extra in his trunk. He's got five kids. But how to prove it ... I can't.

Naturally, I tried to beg off. You farks have never noticed me before. Why do you want me to join you? Unless I'm their mission project -- which I hadn't heard of -- or they know I'm going to be at such a disadvantage, they can humiliate me and thereby feel better about themselves?

One guy suggested I use my cap, which sounded unreasonable, but he talked me into it. It has a bill you can hold, and if you give it a good toss, he said, anything could happen. On the other hand, I reasoned, it doesn't have the same sleekness of a Frisbee, or any of the other apparent qualities that might make it particularly efficacious as a flying thing. You can flip it up on the hat rack, beyond that it's best left on the table. Just looking at it, in terms of taking the place of a Frisbee, you see it's got a big hole where the head goes. Wouldn't it seem like the air's going to get up there and play havoc with it when airborne?

The same guy started making chicken noises, which of course was all it took for me to join the game. I'm actually up for anything, within reason, but looking back, I should've gone for something else and just ignored the chicken taunt. I would've done better with a rock, a big stick, a can filled with dirt. Of those three things, a rock would've been best, since it has weight and you can throw it straight with a big heft. But I went with his suggestion and just used my cap.

Right away I was behind. The other four guys took their turns. Some were deadly accurate, another average, and one wasn't good at all, the same guy who suggested I use my cap. Even he showed me up. My hat sailed along pretty good, as far as it could go. It just didn't have the same drive, no matter the force with which I flung it.

Two of the guys got their first goal in no time. The average guy took a little longer. The one who wasn't good at all made it a few tries after him. Then there was me, without exaggeration taking 10 shots for every one shot of the better guys. And it wasn't that I was veering off too much. For the most part, I was throwing it straight. But the floppiness, the lack of a sharp edge, the head hole, the weight, all these factors hampered me.

Due to some of these factors, by the time we got done with the first goal, I was 11 points behind. And there were still eight holes to go! The second hole was as bad or worse, because it was uphill. The first two guys were terrific, as before. The average guy kept his place. And the poor guy was just as bad, throwing it with next to no sense. Just couldn't get the hang of it. So how embarrassing for me to have to concede, he was still better than me, by far. The wind was coming down the hill, that very direction, making my hat catch it and sink. I was something like 30 shots behind. The weird thing was how the poorest player reveled in my misery.

OK, it was time for the third hole. This was not uphill or downhill, but across. The wind being unpredictable, some of my tosses were totally off. The game had proceeded apace, the great being great, the average guy being average, and the poor guy poor. Then me. Now, I'm not one to complain that much about my place in life, but I'm usually the average guy. It screwed up my sense of self as well as my confidence to be coming in last. And yet, because these are guys from my church, I couldn't cuss a blue streak, which likely would've helped. I didn't want to damage my carefully cultivated holier-than-thou image. The poor guy was really bugging me, though. The good guys acted nonchalant about it, probably hoping I'd quit so they wouldn't be wasting so much time.

That's the "voice" (which I imagined) that I went with. "Guys, I'm better than this, I really am. I just can't get any lift from my cap. I don't know what's wrong with it. Probably needs a new bill, or maybe the material in the headpiece is just too flimsy. I've had it for a long time, and I think it's lost its form. It's been stretched, it's well used." Indeed it is well used, my doctor having recommended a cap to help prevent skin cancer.

The guys who were great were cool with me dropping out, the average guy semi-cool, and the poor guy was royally pissed. "Come on, it's better not to start a game than to drop out in the middle. Didn't the Lord say, 'He who looks back is not fit for the kingdom of God?'" "Yeah," I said, wanting to tear into him worse, "But Bible scholars are divided on that verse having anything to do with Frisbee golf." He was cussing under his breath. With me dropping out, that meant he was in last place. His only hope to make any kind of respectable showing was for me to play with my hat.

You know what? He's the guy I suspect having an extra Frisbee.

NBA Justice - Live In Peace or Face Obliteration

I like NBA justice, very swift and certain. The replays don't lie. A muscle-headed jock says something, he can't unsay it. It's a quick suspension or thousands of dollars in fines, just like that!

I really haven't followed basketball at all till just recently. And even now I'm not diehard to the point that I know very many people, their careers, their records, etc. But now that I've dipped at least my toe into the clear waters of major league competition, over the last year or so, I'm starting to hear the news. Had you heard Michael Jordan retired? Me either!

Now, if a guy like Roy Hibbert, who I hadn't even heard of before a couple weeks ago, says something stupid and immediately gets a $75,000 fine, actually before I even heard of the fact that he made the remark(!), that's registering with me. Or if Chris "The Birdman" Andersen pushes a guy to the floor and proceeds as if nothing happened, then gets a suspension, I'm noticing. I've been listening to some of the commentary on the games, although I've usually got the sound down and my iPod on, and the guys are weighing whether the fines and suspensions are adequate to the various offenses. Only to a certain extent are they questioning whether the NBA should be able to go back and look at replays, then come up with charges beyond what the refs called. Essentially, they're OK with the system.

And I'm OK with it, too. That's the way it was when we were kids. If we had a pact and someone ratted out on us, it wasn't even a formalized process, you'd be immediately suspended from club activities. I'm happy to say, I was a pretty faithful club member. My clubs were The Bee Club and The Spy Club. I'm a little ashamed of the bee club, but I guess it had scientific value. We'd get a few bees in a jar, keep them till they were very worn out, then let them crawl on us. The fact that they never stung us was amazing to people. As for the Spy Club, we investigated things and thought we had an enemy club, although there were never any actual confrontations. We did a lot of sneaking around. In both clubs, as I've mentioned before, I was the baton twirler.

Clubs and teams -- sports leagues -- have it better than the normal justice system. Like the justice system in Kafka's "The Trial" has it better than the normal justice system. They're able to make their own rules, and no matter how inscrutable they are, you either abide by them or pay the price. With sports leagues, maybe they're somewhat scrutable; I'm only speaking in ignorance of their rules; it's hard to believe they're entirely arbitrary. If Roy Hibbert says something that is currently socially-unacceptable, though, it's different than if he would've said it several years ago. So there's a varying standard, no doubt. Whereas flagrantly pushing a guy to the floor would've always been frowned on.

It must be a big responsibility for those in charge. Because how do you decide precisely what the penalty's going to be? $75,000 is probably nothing to someone with tens of millions of dollars. But it's immediate cash flow, rather than something tied up, and maybe he needed it for daily expenses, dinners out. Suspending someone from a game where he might make a difference in the series, that's a pretty big penalty. But it had to be something like that. It'd be sad if basketball went full hockey.

I like the old movie "The Day the Earth Stood Still." We used to see it all the time as kids and it terrified me. Klaatu came to Earth and made it stand still to give us a message from the other planets. It seems they all formed a big league, the major league of planets, the National Planet Association, and put their own created robots in charge of the law. And now we have to adhere to the same law ... or else! Klaatu says, "It is no concern of ours how you run your own planet, but if you threaten to extend your violence, this Earth of yours will be reduced to a burned-out cinder. Your choice is simple: Join us and live in peace, or pursue your present course and face obliteration. We shall be waiting for your answer. The decision rests with you." So far we've done OK, having not found life. But I'm sure if we ever do find life out there, we'll ruin it.

Obliteration! Couldn't they just suspend the Earth's rotation around the Sun a few years? That way we'd behave ourselves and never grow old. 

Death -- Her Parachute Didn't Open

More tragedy to report. I'm really sorry if you think my blog has become a place of misery, suffering, and despair. But that's life. Into every life some rain must fall. As well as terror, anguish, and ultimately death. I'm just reporting the facts.

Part of my problem is, a while back I made the acquaintance of the physical aspect of Death (links below), at least as he is revealed in this sector of the world; whether the same literal being who sits at my kitchen table is simultaneously at work globally (and possibly universally), that's something I haven't gotten around to asking him when we're chitchatting.

We were sitting there having coffee -- I like it brewed in a French press; I find it has a more robust flavor -- when he suddenly remembered an appointment. As with other runs, I accompanied him, this time to the airport. The airport is about a mile southeast of my bedroom window -- I can see the white and green sweeping lights every night -- so it wasn't much of a drive.

Naturally, I asked what was up. He said we were going to watch a lady parachuting. I thought, Hmm, sounds interesting, a lady parachuting? Death read my thoughts and said, "Yep, pretty unusual, a lady parachuting." It blew my mind, of course, the very thought, the idea, but when you really stop and think about it I guess there's no real reason why the fairer sex shouldn't also be jumping out of planes. Still, obviously the mind boggles: How weird, a lady parachuting!

We got there and I saw the young lady parachutist getting in the plane. She turned and waved to those gathered around, a few friends of hers. And with that the plane took off. Pretty soon, out she came. I glanced over at Death and he was biding his time. The chute blossomed and her landing was picture perfect. The plane came in and away they went for a second plunge, also successful. Death thought nothing of it. It was only when she was boarding the plane the third time that he glanced at his watch and start paying attention.

OK, I knew what was going to happen, and so do you. It's always the third time. Honestly, you could probably live forever if you never did anything the third time. I've known more people in my life who've died when they weren't satisfied with two times. Smoking, drinking, carousing, gambling, getting tattoos, going to whorehouses, eating crackers in bed -- all the stuff low lifes do -- it's never harmful if you only do it twice. But when you cross that third threshold, that's when you're hooked and sped on your way to the grave.

The third time, out she comes, and of course something went dreadfully wrong with the chute. I held my breath momentarily, then released it; nothing I could do would do her any good. I might as well breathe as normal. You can really mess up your life not breathing. Which is stupid if it doesn't do anyone a bit of good, as in a case like this. But you do it instinctively. Just as there's a collective sigh of relief when a situation turns out well, so there's that gasp and holding it in in times of crisis. Be that as it may, I saw I wasn't going to be a bit of help to her...

We watched, and we watched, and we watched some more. Oh, how dreadful it all was, her seemingly perpetual and endless falling. Just a streaking figure, like a downward streaking meteor, or a lightning bolt in its downward motion, without the instantaneous striking. She seemed to be dwelling in a quiet repose, not flapping her arms at all or fighting it. I could only imagine what was going through her mind: I've lived a good life. I'm about to die, but I'll die doing what I wanted. I can see my whole life's story flashing before my eyes. I've broken impenetrable boundaries, being a lady 'chutist. I just should've stopped with two. No one with any intelligence does anything the third time. Damn the luck! Help me, Lord.

It went like that, minute after endless minute. Some guys ran to the hangar for an ambulance. Others were looking for some positive way to help, but mostly became flustered and ended up running into each other and falling down. I stood there stolidly, the wind blowing through my hair, a serious look on my face, my jaw locked in place. I wondered how it would look in a movie, my look of utter seriousness and contemplation. I'll bet very cool. I glanced at Death, who shook himself, limbering up.

Time passed, no doubt moving inexorably forward and yet seemingly frozen in place. I looked at the ground, then back up at the falling figure. She was getting closer, tantalizingly closer. I could see the worthless parachute's edges flapping over her back, probably some bargain brand ... another huge mistake. When you think of it, your life is worth the few extra dollars it takes to get a dependable chute. But there's never a guarantee, especially taking the third time rule into account. I looked again at Death. No consternation.

At the end, when the lady parachutist was getting about as close to the ground as you can, like five inches, you should've seen it: I saw Death zip to the spot like a bullet train, even faster, a blur.

Death Links:
Death -- I Now Pronounce You Dead
Out Drinking with Death
Death Goes to the Dentist with Me
Death -- When Your Number's Up
Walt's Suicide -- Death by Water
The Gaping Maw of Death (Woof! Woof!)
My Picnic With Death
The Chilling Hand of Death

March Madness -- Punish The Coaches

I'm a victim of March Madness this year! Watching basketball. Not all of it, but a bunch. I should say, the phrase March Madness is a trademark of the NCAA, as is March Mayhem, Final Four, and maybe the Big Dance, and who knows what all else.

And after I get this blog done, maybe Punish The Coach will be a trademark, too, because I believe it would be super popular.

The coach, as everyone knows, is the man in charge. He's the one who's taken a bunch of rough-cut know-nothing guys and introduced them to basketball. He's shown them the ball and explained to them what it is. They've learned the basics from his hands and lips, that it rolls, bounces, flies, and goes through circular things called hoops, then through net-like things called nets. After the basics, it's on to the advanced stuff, like the court, the various lines on the floor, and the rules of the game.

Having learned all that, it's time to form a team and chalk up some victories. The way I understand it, by the time they're allowed into the NCAA Tournament, they have proven themselves on the court in something called the regular season. It appears the criteria for admission is to win more games than they lose, then they apply another factor, the quality of their opposition. If they've got all their dunks in a row, they're in.

Now it's time to win or lose in the tournament. And lose they do! In fact, any rational survey of the situation has to conclude that they're nearly all losers. Only one team makes it through the tournament unscathed. The others have signed up more or less for a completely predictable loss. They're putting themselves through all the agony (which is up to 99% assured) for the rarest of chances that they'll win.

My proposal is, if they lose, as most of them must, we should let the coach experience some of the anguish. As the representative of the team, the head, he must submit to the worst rigors.

OK, we'll leave the last two teams, those in the championship game, aside for a moment. (The last losing coach will face his rigors just prior to the winning team getting their trophy). So this means we have 66 teams who have already lost. At halftime of the final game, we want to bring the 66 coaches out, and have them submit to punishment. Obviously they've done something very wrong that their teams haven't won, although, yes, it's assured that all but one will win.

We line them up by first out, with statistics of the game governing final placement. Then it's on to the festivities, dunk tanks, pie throwing, children pelting them with Nerf balls, and rotten tomatoes. It's a gentler form of what we see in mythology, in tribal societies who are concerned about fertility and crops, the death of the king. I can see that coaches would love to do it, because it might just work, swaying the gods to give them a more fruitful season next year.

All the nastiness out of the way, we have the same line-up, and we pass out the laurel wreathes. I'm very merciful, so I'm saying we add one to the Sweet 16 for purposes of this ritual, 16+1. The top 17 coaches get a bigger laurel wreath for their head, along with a kiss from the prettiest cheerleaders. Of the next two divisions (16 each), one gets slightly smaller laurel wreaths and a kiss from the more average cheerleaders, and the other gets even smaller laurel wreaths and a kiss from the below average cheerleaders.

The next-to-last division is only 15, to account for the 1 we added to the Sweet 16. They get a laurel sprig and a kiss from whoever's left. The last four teams of the 68 in last place, the coaches of the teams, get to sniff a laurel sprig, and look at whoever's left. Plus a kick in the ass.

Over And Back -- My Favorite Basketball Infraction

Like everyone else, I'm completely absorbed in the big basketball tournaments. I really appreciate sports on TV. It saves you all the headache of buying expensive tickets, fighting traffic, and wasting your time actually being there. I look at the people in the stands and wonder why they haven't discovered this.

Being here in the quiet of my home, I have a lot of time to reflect on the games. I put on my comfortable slippers, brew a hot cup of tea, and sit there relaxing. Then when my own teams come on, I scream, tear out my hair, and bite my nails to the quick. Truly the best of both worlds.

In my reflection, I pay attention to the rules. I don't know the rules 100%, even though I was briefly out for basketball in school. I was never a player on the team, but practiced with everyone else. But it's been a long time, and rules may have changed a bit.

One of the infractions I know is traveling. But I wonder why it's not OK to take a puny mini-step here and there but it is OK to run the distance from the key to the basket while driving. I keep trying to reconcile that one. I tell myself it must be legal, the refs know what they're doing.

Basketball is a rough sport, and you wouldn't think it would be. There's elbows flying, tripping over each other, and being whacked in the face. They've upped the penalties now with things like Flagrant 1 and Flagrant 2 fouls. The higher the number the worse the infraction. Depending on how much worse the injuries might go, they have plenty of numbers beyond 2 to use. Flagrant 10, intentional emasculation with malice.

My own personal favorite infraction is over and back. Not double-dribble or palming the ball. (Speaking of palming the ball, do they still have that? I don't see it.) I've just always liked the over and back. Once you've left the unfriendly confines of the opposing team's court, you can't go back. Does that make sense? Why would you want to be there in the first place? Where they could steal the ball and more easily score on you.

I like over and back so much, anytime a guy gets close to the line, I'm begging him to cross it. All it takes is a toe. And I get my way more times than you'd expect. But even so, in my opinion, there aren't enough over and backs.

I think the over and back rule is probably archaic, vestigial in basketball. Before they had a shot clock, let's say there wasn't an over and back rule, a team would have the entire court to hold the ball and stall. It was boring. Heck, it was bad enough as late as the '80s, before the shot clock, when they held the ball for 10 or 12 minutes in one court without taking a shot. It was a strategy, a very boring one.

Now, though, with the shot clock, there's no obvious reason why you'd want to linger in the back court. You have to make forward progress or you're finished.

Speaking of forward progress, this is where I get a little philosophical. I like the over and back infraction for that reason, too, because we're a forward-looking people. We don't believe in going over and back, and when you see someone get caught doing it, it cautions the rest of us, in life over and back isn't good.

Really, think about it. When immigrants came to the United States, they had to pull up roots. They spent their money and took the first ship for the New World. They couldn't go over and back. The ship went one direction. That's what the expression "You can't go home again" means; it's too damned far to swim!

And that's not all. We've  always had that western thrust. "Westward ho!" went the cry, as the caravans and wagons headed west. It literally wasn't till the early 1900s that anyone went east, partly because of avalanches in the passes and ambushers in the hills, but mostly because booze was cheap in the western saloons. But they also lived by principles. The old drunk parson gave them the Bible verse, "He who looks back, hic, is not worthy of me, hic."

Then there's the whole linear scheme of things, and that's tied in with our predominating fear of death. We advance, we don't recede. We know death is coming, then the judgment. So, no, over and back isn't for us.

It's different in other parts of the world. Have you ever watched a basketball game in India? They don't care about death, so it's totally different. About the only thing they do is over and back! They're centered in the court, then it's back and forth. No forward progress. Cyclical. They frequently have 0-0 overtimes, the tie only broken by a few token players brought in from the west, who in the end can't help themselves.

Washington Vs. Lincoln -- The Pregame Show

The Big Championship Game was already played, on Sunday, March 25, with Lincoln beating Washington. In the newspaper account of Wednesday, March 28, we learned the score, seeing that the Lincoln hardcourt boys had edged Washington in the cager classic, 56-54. Today, Monday, April 2, we're listening to the pregame show, which of course was recorded before the game but only now is presented, thanks to the miracle of tape delay.

The voices we hear are those of the various announcers, whose identities are not all that important. But they include Bud, Bud, Dick, and Ralph.

-- Both teams will be giving it all they got. They are well aware, you can be sure, that there's no tomorrow for either team. Today, right now, this very minute, is all they have. There's no more days to count. It all comes down to this, the present moment, the eternal now, if you will. If they don't leave it all, everything's they've got, on the floor today, and I mean today, it's not going to make one damned bit of difference tomorrow. You can take it to the bank, it's gonna happen...

-- I'm picking Washington, Ralph, and I'll tell you why. Washington was our first president, and any team that takes that name knows it has to fight like George himself to be Number One. There's no second place for a team called Washington!
-- But of course Washington has lost before, Bud. There's no team in America with an perfectly unbeaten record over the years. They've come in second before, clearly, as you well know, so it could happen again, but I believe I get your point.
-- Exactly, my point is not that they haven't lost before -- even they would admit the obvious truth, not being able to tell a lie. My point is they're going to give it all they've got, not just for the sake of the game, which is big in and of itself, but to bring honor to their name and Washington's primacy.
-- Agreed.

-- Lincoln's looking good this year. And you have to hand it to them, I think they're going to come out ready to play. And I believe with a lot of scrappiness and gettin' on it from the git-go. I can see them throwing Washington off their game. You know, Washington may have the primacy in terms of being the first president -- that's indisputable --, but Lincoln in poll after poll is people's favorite president, hands down. Get me?
--I do, Dick, I get you. It's like this: Washington, being first, never had to live up to someone else's reputation. But Lincoln, coming after, knew he had to be a scrappier president, and get on it from the git-go, if he was going to overtake the previous giant. He started a Civil War, for crying out loud, that's damned scrappy, if you ask me! But that's what he had to do! If you want to fill a giant's shoes, you gotta go for the glory. And I think that's exactly how Lincoln's going to play today.

--Who do I like? I like Zeke Denominator for Washington. He starts down low but divides the crowd and comes out on top. And they've got Kelvin Celsius, whose had the hot hand lately. He's a lot like Denominator. He gets down low and before you know it, rises high to the rim and has the other team sweating it out. And of course Lincoln has Phillip Nozzle. When they put him in and he's pumping shots, Lincoln's miles ahead. And their big man, Wilt Redwood, stands head and shoulders above 'em all, dropping the ball in for quick scores or giving cover to the rest of the team.
-- Don't forget Washington's Abe Lanky, Bud.
-- No, no, of course not!
-- It's a bad name for a Washington man, but it forces the big man to play that much harder, to show he's not a Lincoln plant. I can see him matching Redwood point for point.

-- Everything's set for a great championship. The setting, the rivalry, the atmosphere, it's all just right. We have the Washington Eagles, with their hatchets and cherry tree branches, and the Lincoln Panthers, pushing their angular faces forward with fake beards and tousled, nondescript haircuts. Someone's hopes die today, and course Lincoln's always watching their back. Will Washington remain standing to cross the river of victory? Or will Lincoln leave the building, not in a box, but by the power of their own two feet? Time will tell. The coming together of past, present, and future will tell the whole story. And we already know the outcome in part: One of these two great teams will go down in history for glory, and the other in shame.

Hardcourt Boys Play Cager Classic

A good-sized crowd was on hand in the Lincoln High gym Sunday to watch the Lincoln Panthers edge the Washington Eagles, 56-54. The two presidential clubs faced off in this year's cager championship.   

Enthusiasm was high as the hardcourt boys marched up and down the floor. The cagers of Washington took an early lead, in keeping with their namesake's primacy as president, but the lead shifted back and forth throughout the game.

Cager Wilt Redwood, Lincoln's big man, was their high scorer with a total of 16 points, by a happy coincidence tying their president's place in the list of U.S. chief executives. All the other Lincoln hardcourt boys put up points, with high-flying Hawk Sandpiper nearest Redwood in nested shots.   

For Washington, their big man, the unhappily-monikered Abe Lanky, was the highest scoring cager, adding 17 points. Fans breathed a great sigh of relief when the hardcourt boy sank a late free throw to put him one over 16.

The other Washington cagers did their best in the losing effort, in part sparked by the torrid play of Kelvin Celsius, playing at fever pace. Zeke Denominator often found the bottom of the net, but was called for numerous infractions and fouled out.

On the Lincoln side, Phillip Nozzle pumped in a quick four points, fueling a short spurt. 4 foot 9 Al Soran was the low man on the boards with a single free throw.   

The boisterous crowd was the sixth cager for each team. Tempers flared and the game was stopped three times to warn them against throwing hatchets and fake beards to the court.

Lincoln fans mocked Washington when their hardcourt boys lost the lead, holding up signs referring to the cherry tree, such as "Sharpen Your Axe!" and "The Tree Still Stands!"

But Washington fans gave as good as they got when the Lincoln cagers fell behind, their signs referring to the 16th president's arguably premature death, "It Only Takes One Shot!" and  "Sic Semper Panthers!"

All Is Forgiven When You're Dead

A local TV channel's weatherman committed suicide. True story. I hadn't personally ever heard of him, since I don't watch that channel, but of course I feel sad that something, whatever it might have been led him to do that.

I heard about it on one of the competitor channels, and they gave a nice presentation on him. Apparently he was something of a cut-up on air, since they had him flapping like a wild chicken, dressed in a Superman costume, and so forth. Perhaps not the most flattering images, but they meant well, that he was well known and respected for various antics.

OK, but I have some objections. If the people on the competing channel aren't watching the other guys' shows, how do they know about him? And how did they become so chummy all of a sudden, since it's usually a cut throat business. Even while they were praising the deceased weatherman they were still using slogans for themselves like, "The most accurate weather report," as if to say the competitors' weather sucked. Maybe that's what pushed him over the edge, everyone questioning his accuracy.

The whole thing has been on my mind, as you can tell. It reminds me of the old truth that once you're dead, everything's forgiven. You can kill a hundred people, but once they get done executing you in the electric chair, you're in for an honorable burial. No one comes around and kicks your body. At least in America. In Libya they probably do. Or Iran. I think it makes a certain amount of sense. After all, it is your body. Why not pulverize it if you were that bad?

The weatherman, of course, wasn't a bad guy. According to what they're saying. They didn't mention why he committed suicide. Maybe no one knows. But they are definitely promoing the various signs of suicidal behavior, that the rest of us might be vigilant in the face of similar behavior in our loved ones. So that's a positive.

When they started promoing the upcoming story of the dead weatherman, I figured it was going to be some old 80-90 year old retired weatherman who was beloved in the area. Because I believed they used the term "dearly loved" or "well loved." So I was expecting to see an old black and white picture of the first weatherman in the area. But then it turned out to be this young guy, 41, flapping like a chicken, and I thought, "Whoa." They used the word suicide and I was thinking that's unusual! Who's happier than a weatherman? No one! Maybe the sports guys, whose constant happiness lies in their superficial approach to life.

The Pink Professor -- The 14-Piece Pool Cue

I'm always interested in people getting along better and having good friendship. And my friend the Pink Professor also has that as one of his goals, which he's able to accomplish in his work at the Roadhog Roadhouse, a bikers bar and grill.

You might recall, sometime back my friend took on the Pink Professor role typical at bikers bars, though qualified men are still in high demand. What was different about him was how he just showed up one night and worked himself into the role, just by his good nature. He has the gifts it takes to soften the otherwise very rough and tough atmosphere of the place, and that's what they want.

The trust everyone has in him comes in very handy when there's some kind of eruption, when the more base, ruffian elements of their nature start creeping back in. At those times, there's no one who can moderate or referee like a Pink Professor figure. That's certainly the way it was at the Roadhouse when the guy with the 14-piece pool cue showed up...

Almost every man who plays pool there uses one of the house sticks. They're not looking for the added nuance or class of a custom stick. But there's a few who show up with a two-piece cue in a case, and they always think they're hot stuff. Just imagine what happens when a guy shows up with a 14-piecer!

Well, it happened. A guy, who we now know was named John, came in and started making a general nuisance of himself. He was screwing around with the bartender over how good the drinks were, snotting off to the waitresses about the promptness of their service, and even singing loudly along with the jukebox. But his worst offense came when he was challenged to a game by Dirk, then went out to his bike and brought in a case with 14 pieces of a cue stick in it.

Now, Dirk is a guy who needs everything predictable and normal or he more or less loses it. And get a few beers in him, he's liable to go ballistic. He was ticked off when John opened his case and started putting his cue together. It was going to take him forever. First, he seemed indecisive about which piece to start with, but after some deliberation decided to go with the tip end. Then he rethought it, that it'd be more natural to start with the heavy end, where you've got the heft well in hand.

He had the base piece, then got the next piece. He started screwing it in and it squeaked. So he unscrewed it and spat in the hole, then screwed it again. He looked satisfied and nodded at his own expertise on handling a decent stick. Dirk was standing there with the commoner's one-piece stick, feeling a little inferior. John took the third piece. The screw went in crooked, meaning he couldn't cinch it. He struggled to loosen it, then guided it carefully, a bead of sweat appearing on his brow. His hands also were perspiring, so he went to the bar and got a napkin. Then it was time for the fourth piece, the fifth, the sixth, and so forth. Each one presented its own challenge, but John knew just the remedy to finally solve each difficult problem.

Dirk was looking like he might crap his pants, he was that pissed. Halfway done, John paused, because when you get to the narrower pieces, they're more delicate. He wanted to check out each one before attempting to screw them together, so nothing would break. It was quite an operation, a couple requiring spit, then a safe cracker's touch. John was being very careful with the treads. He wanted them cinched in, but of course the instructions say not to over-tighten. He had a few more pieces to go, when Dirk threw up his hands in disgust and called the whole thing off. Both men were suddenly in each other's face and it was all they could do to pull them apart.

The next night, the whole story was told to the Pink Professor. Of course Dirk was there, but no one had any reason to expect John, a brand new guy, to show up again, when who walks in the door? The Pink Professor greeted him in a friendly way and offered to buy him a beer, before telling him he'd heard about the cue and would love to see it. John was taken aback with his friendliness, but naturally he'd love to show it off. From start to finish, the Pink Professor expressed appreciation for the intricate pool cue's pieces, its sheen, its workmanship, its expense, and even the solid construction of the plain black case.

Dirk was listening in and muttering, still sore and nursing his wounds. The Pink Professor called him closer and sort of acted like he didn't know the game had never actually happened the night before. He started complimenting Dirk for being the first man in the place to take on a man with a stick like that. How brave Dirk was! What a nice man Dirk was for welcoming and taking a new man under his wing! Dirk has real class! If we only had more like Dirk, what a fantastic world this would be! The Pink Professor laid it on thick. In a few minutes, John and Dirk were arguing in a friendly way which one would buy a beer first for the other. They were fast buddies, with John letting Dirk take the case around and show everyone.

John also had a compliment for Dirk, confessing that he'd taken so long putting the cue together because he was a little worried that Dirk was a pool shark. He complimented Dirk's look of confidence. He confessed he could've had it together in less than five minutes, which he and Dirk now set about together to accomplish. Before long, Dirk was taking down the information on the stick, where to order them, their selling points, etc. The night went on like that, with a few friendly games. Neither man turned out to be a pool shark. Both of them had their technical failings, but everyone was generous, saying it was the beer's fault.

The Somnambulant Biker

While I was eating my way to heaven, at the same bar and grill, they had their massive phalanx of big screen TVs tuned precisely to the channel with the bike race.

I looked up several times, mostly to see if I was under close observation, but also to keep track of the race. The bicyclists were gathered in a tight pack, with pretty much all of them going the same direction.

If you're in a bicycle race, there's some dangers; you don't want to be involved in a massive pileup. But there was one guy, and he's the guy I really had my eye on, who fell asleep numerous times in the race. Which is understandable to me, because just watching the race was making me sleepy. Not that it wasn't exciting; it was, but that kind of intense action and the riders in such a tight pack drained me emotionally and physically.

This guy, who they were calling the Somnambulant Biker, shares that psychological/physiological response with me. Frankly, I don't think he has any business being a bike racer if he can't overcome it. I know I would make a terrible bike racer. If I were in the middle of the pack -- this is the root of it -- I'd be so focused on that fact alone that it'd be hard for me to keep going the same speed as everyone else. It'd be like hypnotism; I'd be getting sleepy, very sleepy, then-- there I'd go, veering off. That's exactly what this guy did. Spinning out of control, he wiped out several competitors and came to a rest in a pile of hay bales.

But that wasn't the end for him. They got him up -- his team -- thanks to some smelling salts and got him going. I could read their lips, "You need to wake up, keep your focus," maybe the worst thing they could've said. Because it's not the focus that's off. It'd be better for him to lose his focus and thereby avert the hypnotic trap.

The next psychological challenge for him appeared to be the sharp turns. I can see that. You're going straight, then you have a hairpin turn, it does things to your thinking. If only it'd been more gradual, it'd give him time to adjust to the difference. Our minds aren't made to accept drastic changes, as seen in the biological explanation "ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny" -- things are meant to be gradual. But instead of accepting limits, we think we can circumvent nature, so for that reason it's so much easier to wipe out on sharp turns after long straightaways. And sure enough, the Somnambulant Biker fell asleep, and wiped out several more competitors before again coming to a rest on several bales of hay.

I was thinking, This guy ought to be disqualified, but of course I understood what he was going through. I looked down at another load of writhing mashed potatoes and almost fell asleep myself. So I was sympathetic, rooting for him when his team gave him another few whiffs of smelling salts. Then once again he was on his way.

It went on like that several other times. He had wiped out most of the field but was still going.

Then they were on the last lap and everything was going OK. He had to have retained quite a bit of smelling salts residue in his nasal passages, surely he could make it to the end. And yet the thought processes at work, driving him to sleep, were too much.

They were on the very last straightaway, just him and the last three competitors still in it. And I guess he got to thinking, I just might win. You know how that goes? It's an overwhelming thing to think you might come in first, because you're also thinking of all that could go wrong: It could be this, or this, or this -- the possibilities are endless. You keep thinking, thinking, thinking, worrying, stewing, and it builds on itself, it's mounting up, it's so intense, crazy intense, so bad that even on a straightaway you're not safe.

Actually, a straightaway might be the worst place to be, because you're also thinking how clear your thoughts should be, so you're going nuts thinking something is truly wrong with you. Then the closer you get, the worse it is. And so it was for the Somnambulant Biker. He was so lost in thought as they came down the final stretch, he completely blanked out, went completely black, veering back and forth, and knocking out the competition, only coming to an abrupt stop when he flipped over and crashed just an inch over the finish line.

Washington Wanted To Kill Lincoln

I'm writing about a nearby town, which, like lots of towns, has a Washington and a Lincoln school. My own town had a Washington and a Lincoln school, but both of them closed and have since been torn down. Which is probably a good thing, because things can really get out of hand. But whereas our Washington and Lincoln schools were both elementary, the two in this other town are high schools, and that's worse.

If you know the area, then you know I'm talking about the Washington Eagles and the Lincoln Panthers, two very proud rivals in sports. They're both always right on the verge of basketball and football championships, and if that ever happens ... I hate to think of it ... It probably depends if they're playing each other. Still, even if they're playing another town, the Washington kids wouldn't be rooting for Lincoln, nor Lincoln for Washington.

Like I said, they're huge rivals in sports. And things have gotten out of hand a time or two, meaning the rhetoric has gotten heated, and someone's going to get hurt one of these days, if they haven't already. I think the newspaper hushes up a lot of incidents because it can't afford to offend either side.

Anyway, there's been a lot of insults. But it wasn't until the Washington kids made up a sign for their pep rally that read, "Kill Lincoln" that the school boards got together and tried to bury the hatchet and demanded that all slogans be approved for good sportsmanship. But as far as I know they're far from stifling a lot of the deep hatred that is there on both sides. It's a very divided town.

Of course "Kill Lincoln" brings up the terrible memory of Lincoln actually being shot, and is in very bad taste. And since Washington died a natural death, the Lincoln kids couldn't retaliate in kind. But they tried doing something with the famous picture of Washington crossing the Delaware with a slogan of their own, "Sink Washington."

It's gotten very personal like that. The Lincoln students mocked Washington because of his supposed honesty, that he "can't tell a lie." And it makes a certain amount of sense that he would have lied if he thought he would get away with having chopped down the cherry tree. But his dad had only a limited number of honyocks in the neighborhood to suspect, so little Washington knew his goose was cooked.

The Washington students weren't much better. Picking up on their rivalry in town being like the Civil War, they started showing up at games pretending to own slaves. Since the Lincoln kids' greatest pride was their forebear freeing the slaves, this was the Washington kids taking that away.  Washington also made fun of Lincoln's lankiness and his need to try to hide his homeliness by wearing a beard. Lincoln of course had to respond, and did, by emphasizing Washington's wooden teeth.

Perhaps the strangest thing to come out of this bitter rivalry was the students' refusal to learn anything about their opponent's forebears. Lincoln's kids refused to memorize Washington's name, and vice versa, except to the extent that they needed to know them for various taunts.