Pink Professor Couple Journeys Home

Of course I'm delirious with my good fortune to this point, having received back the missing piece of my soul, 7% of its total, lost in San Francisco in 1975. Then my delirium continued with my ecstatic reunion with The Pink Professor. To think we're back together again! ... My mind is totally blown! Then, as well, I've had the coolest, richest friend at my side, the billionaire! None of this could've happened without him, the financing alone would've staggered me. Cool dude! I'm about ready to explode if anything else cool happens; don't try me!

Everyone's looking at us -- me and Pink -- and wondering what's next? And how does the billionaire fit in this picture? Since, naturally, everyone thought that he and I would end up together; we've been joined at the hip all month, so that would've been a pretty good guess. Yeah, yeah, he's still in the picture -- I'll put all rumors to rest. He's still in the picture as a dear, dear friend. Who did for me so many things that blew my mind. The whole month's been a mind-blower!

I don't know what else I can say, though, without making everyone entirely jealous. Because I know, one guy's good news is a source of pain for everyone else. People would rather see you dead than think they themselves somehow missed out. How can this guy be so happy, while I sit here in my same old boring life, missing out on everything? I'm not going to ask for a show of hands, OK? Just know, I know that's how the world goes 'round. I've felt the daggers shooting my way since way back, like when the billionaire gave me the $2.1 billion. The cattiness I got, I shouldn't say anymore.

Let's face it, though, not everyone's going to live their lives in such a way as to please you. Still, I know, at some point I have to let this story subside into obscurity, because from your point of view, it's nothing but rubbing your face in it, if someone else is too fortunate. I get that, I took Psych 101. It's why you never hear much about the lives of billionaires. You may see in the paper that a billionaire donated money to a political candidate, but that's it. Where they live, what they do there, etc., the papers don't print that. They don't dare, or we'd cancel our subscription. The lives of quiet desperation we typically live, we don't want their good fortune to be an added burden.

With me, then -- in this story -- it was only adding insult to injury that barely anything went wrong. And that's what people want when they get their grubby paws on a story. A falling out, a sad ending, and for me, the hero, to slink away licking his wounds, to the general merriment of all, taking on myself the derision of my peers, one who aspired to heights above his abilities only to crash to earth according to the spirit of divine justice or karma. Since that didn't happen, What a trite story! I'm chuckling a little. A story like this can go that way, and for most of you that would've been satisfying. But what about me? Oh, I know, I committed the unforgivable sin of being so wealthy my success was guaranteed.

With that out of the way, allow me to continue---

We were so happy in San Francisco. The Pink Professor said goodbye to his underlings/students under the bridge. The billionaire spent close to $4 million tricking out The Pink Professor symbol on the blimp, adding my symbol to it, to portray my soul-completeness and the fact that we were wonderfully reunited, something to celebrate.

We headed for home, one of the world's first journeys of this sort where there was a crew of galley slaves and not a single man was lost. I was virtually certain a few of them at least would've gone AWOL in San Francisco, only to be found in a bathhouse. Am I right? I know if I were a galley slave reenactor and got a free ride to Frisco, I'd probably bale. The hell with diddling nothing but oars, am I right?

A little more happiness to lay on you: (If you're the extremely jealous type, don't read any further.) It's not in the picture, but the billionaire spent an additional $30 million, maybe $40 million, to rent 40 additional blimps (without galley slaves, which was cost-prohibitive) to accompany us as far as the Wyoming area. Also, he notified every biker bar between the coast and home to come out and wave at us. They know The Pink Professor; he's the sun, I'm the moon. And they definitely love him! So they're all out along our journey, throwing pretty petals high in the sky, a lovely sight.

I became so ecstatically happy, I had to go to my quarters, lie there and think, think, think about The Pink Professor, and thank my lucky stars, of which I saw quite a few.

The Slovenly Family

There was a slovenly woman who had a slovenly husband, and they lived in a house that was also slovenly. They had a slovenly dog, upset that there was very little to mess up.

They had three slovenly friends who often dropped by. One spat, one drooled, and one regurgitated.

The family's slovenly dog would carry out his food and drop it in the mess. The slovenly wife saw it all and burped, worth her weight in garbage. The slovenly husband listened to her burp and also managed an emission.

The slovenly husband often thought, "Why are we living like this, so slovenly?" He said to his slovenly wife, "We could do better. We're careful enough to keep our popsicles cold in the fridge, the wrappers could go in the can, not on the floor." But that passed.

The three slovenly friends came over, one spitting and one drooling. All eyes were on the third, who had a sudden look of queasiness. It couldn't be long now, and ... there it is, a recent bite regurgitated. The slovenly dog was happy.

The slovenly wife felt the need to burp and scratch. Being so slovenly, she scratched so much that when she wasn't scratching, she was burping. She dismissed her slovenly husband's question with a shrug, tossing a popsicle wrapper to the floor, burping and scratching as well. Bugs were afraid to land on her.

Their TV was always on, also a slovenly mess. The slovenly dog chewed the remote, so it was stuck on one channel. All its colors were drained, so the flickering picture was forever green. Once a green cartoon was clear, causing one friend to spit with happiness, the second to drool with joy, and the third to lose his lunch.

One day, the slovenly house, having lost its will to remain, collapsed around them. The slovenly family and friends sat in the open air, burping, scratching, spitting, drooling, and regurgitating. The dog ran to the bush and peed. A powerful wind stirred and blew the house clean of popsicle wrappers.

And there the slovenly family sits, to this day, hoping against hope for whatever.

My Wolf Lobo

FOR THE TEACHER -- This story will appeal to young readers because it conveys a sense of adventure and danger. However, if you notice any lingering fear on the part of your students, pleasure assure them that Lobo is a kind wolf, who would never in a thousand years hurt the bunny.

My Moments of Doubt

As we all know, life takes a lot of faith. You think there's rhyme and reason and purpose, and not that things are just random, haphazard, and lacking in meaning. It always nice to find a place of security like that, which has been the happy story of my life. It's good to dwell secure like this, like an infant, satisfied and content, never knowing anything else. I'm in bliss right now, even as we speak. See my eyes rolled back in my head? I'm dwelling on several planes at once, all blissful.

But once in a while, even I have to confess, I have my doubts. I shake myself, go for long walks, hit the reset button, the escape button, anything to get back on track. And it works, it really does work, as opposed, say, to the ESC button on your computer that never does anything. Then I'm happy again, and without these doubts, my eyes go back to their normal place, rolled back.

My life can serve as an example for you, and it can also serve as a cautionary tale, that you never have doubts.

One of the things that I doubt is that the Congress of the United States has the best interests of their country at heart. I see the gridlock, the sniping, the endless procedural wrangling, the posturing, the needless opposition to every apparently reasonable plan, and that's just the Republicans. Then they pass bills that don't make the slightest sense, and I just have to say, "I have my doubts! If this is your idea of the 'best interests' of our country, then you're cracked!" These doubts shake me.

One of the biggest doubts of my life, seriously, just happened a couple weeks ago. I was out with a friend, and having a pleasant time over coffee. It was so pleasant, I didn't think anything in all of God's creation could ruin it. Had cockroaches marched in spitting on the table, I'd still be content. It was comfortable. Then my friend told me something unbelievable, that pork and beans was on sale at the store for a nickel a can. I was like, "What?! That's impossible! You're cracked! I have my doubts about that!"

Try as we might, we could never get back to the pleasant time we'd been sharing. It was on my mind: I know pork and beans is always 69 to 99 cents a can, $4.99 at a convenience store, it can't be a nickel a can, it just can't be! But my friend was sitting there straight faced. I took a hasty sip of coffee and burnt my lip, then descended back into this pitiful reverie: At a nickel a can, I could stock up for the apocalypse, and still have money for ammo. But I'll get to the store and there'll be a line around the building. I told myself, It just can't be, no sir, I'm calling BS on this, I HAVE MY DOUBTS!"

Just then the waiter comes to our table, and my friend says, "That guy looks familiar," going on to suggest that he works as a waiter at another restaurant while simultaneously being not just a waiter here, the newest restaurant in town, but the owner. Now I'm wondering about my friend. No one would do that, would they? Own a restaurant, be a waiter there, and be a part-time waiter in a different restaurant?

I fleshed it out in my mind -- with the pork and beans occasionally crowding out the waiter story -- and came to the conclusion, Yes, it could happen. Think of it: He might be waiting at the other restaurant to get enough money to pay rent on this place, since it is a new restaurant. Still, wouldn't that really dissipate his energy, energy he could be putting into this restaurant to make it a success? That kind of splitting his time might just make this place fail faster. Bottom line: I have my doubts!

I'll spare you my other doubts, because I doubt you're all that interested.

The Three Trucks

In my travels today, I saw three trucks going up the interstate together. It made me think of this story:

The three truckers all worked for the same truck line. It was their job to get the company's goods from Point A to Point B. The boss himself sent them forth, giving them only two rules: 1) Do not go over the speed limit; and, 2) Stay together.

But as they drove, the first one started thinking: Being first, I have to set the pace, but it's almost impossible to go the speed limit 100% of the time. If anyone will be guilty of breaking the rule, obviously they'll blame me. So if that's what they're thinking, I may as well fully exceed the limit and dare the others to keep up. If they keep up, we're all guilty. And if they don't keep up, they'll be guilty of breaking the second rule. Plus, it might be to our benefit to get there early, showing our efficiency. Very brash, but he had them over a barrel.

The second one's thinking: He's speeding up and we're falling behind. He's going at least 10 miles over the limit. I shouldn't go that fast, and yet I can't fall behind. Does one of the boss' two rules take precedence over the other? Surely the more important rule would be not to break the law, and yet, perhaps the first driver knows what he's doing. If he gets there quicker, with more efficiency, maybe he'll be commended. And we'll be condemned because we weren't efficient, while breaking the other rule anyway. So he speeds up.

The third one brings up the rear. He thinks: What's this? Everyone's going way too fast, but I need to keep up. I have the advantage in that there's no one behind me to obey the law and report me. And neither of the guys in front can report me because they're breaking the rule themselves. The thing is, if we share the guilt, we will also share the consequences of our actions, if there are any. If we're asked about speeding, we can always lie. Whereas anything could happen if we're separated; violating the second rule might show us to be incompetent.

The third one's thoughts continue: It's obviously better to arrive together than for me to keep to the speed limit and break the second rule. Or is it? Maybe the boss has it fairly well timed out, and if we speed we'll get there too early. I believe it might be easier to explain falling behind than breaking the speed limit. What would've been the reason to stay together in the first place if it didn't have something to do with mutual accountability? So he slows down.

The second driver then notices the third truck falling behind and thinks it over: It could be there's something wrong with his truck. Meaning we're not together. Or it could be that he's had a sudden realization of the dangers of getting there too fast. He's probably mentally calculating the advantage he'll have over us as to why he fell behind. He'll have us dead to rights, accusing us of violating both rules, whereas he would've violated only one rule. Plus, if I fall behind and driver number one continues on, that will put me in good not only with the third driver but the boss when we're questioned. Because there's safety in numbers, two against one. The first guy will show up, having sped, along with our united accusation, and he'll be blamed for our falling behind, our conscience having overridden the rule. So the second truck slows down.

The first driver keeps going for a while, then notices no one's in the rear view mirror. Of course he knows how terrible it'll look if he shows up without them. So he slows down and completely turns around. He drives back, thinking it over: We've all violated both rules, but if we get back in the pack, we can talk it over and decide mum's the word. Then we can drive the speed limit and stay together, as we probably should have in the first place.

He gets back to the other two, who have pulled over to the side of the road. They're glad he shows up and explains the situation: We're all equally guilty, leaving out the part of him being the first to speed and leave them behind. The others agree: We'll be a lot better off if we don't point fingers, but if we simply go the speed limit and get there together.

Which turns out to be exactly what happened! The boss says, "You stuck to the speed limit and you stayed together. Excellent! I honestly didn't think you could do it." He gives them all huge raises and his three beautiful daughters' hands in marriage. Finally, years later, the boss dies and leaves the trucking company to his honorable sons-in-law, the happiest ending any story can ever have.

The Last Book No One Wanted

This is an ugly duckling story, of sorts, that I just thought of, however not involving true ugliness or even ducks. What ugliness even is, I wouldn't be able to answer. I know it when I see it, even though I realize, except for the sight of Republican politicians, there is really little objectively ugly.

But skipping ahead, it's a story about books. And how, as hard to believe as it is, every book in the library was checked out, with one lone exception, one lone book. Isn't that weird? Could it even happen? I find it hard to believe. And yet that's the story I'm telling.

It's weird to me based on vast experience. A book sale, let's say, is analogous to a library. I've been to many book sales, and the thought that every single book but one would be bought is ridiculous. They always have a ton of books remaining. At the very least, these titles remain: Teddy Bare, None Dare Call It Treason, Elbert Hubbard's Scrapbook, Jaws, and The South Beach Diet. When I think of books that remain, the little story of Vanna White's autobiography always comes to me. When they have as many left over as hers they have no choice but to grind them up and mercilessly recycle them.

Be that as it may, the story goes like this, and this could be based on a dream, I don't know:

The library looks completely normal. But I don't go there for a month. Then I finally return and find that only the last few books remain. Somehow, by some inscrutable process -- a town of voracious readers, let's say -- virtually everything's been checked out. The shelves are unburdened. It's like a drought. The librarians are sitting there, alternately happy and sad. Happy that people are reading, sad that virtually everything's going to come back at the same time.

When I arrive, I see the slim pickins and make like a bee to the flower to look at the remaining titles. There's a miscellaneous volume of a Japanese graphic novel, like Vol. 23, a couple of old mysteries, an oversize book on Mexican wrestlers (all wearing wild masks), Ozzy Osbourne's autobio, and Ross Douthat's Bad Religion. Then I'm off and come back in, and the only book remaining is Bad Religion. Even Vol. 23 is gone, which is weird, because, really, how many people have read the first 22 volumes?

It even makes the paper, that there's this one last book no one wants. And so it's like that. It's a complete drought, as I said before. The library is waxing and waning. It's like the walls are breathing, something like a sigh of relief while also emitting a sound of desperation, or something more like despair.

Now, no one wants to check out the last remaining book. Which is not a dig at Ross Douthat. I read about half of it, and even though I couldn't finish it, that doesn't mean there aren't plenty of people with a stronger constitution. I'm sensitive, I'll admit it. When other kids would be banging live carp against a concrete slab, even back then I was sympathetic to life, that it not suffer.

But this story has a happy ending. A kindly minister in the town, on the edge of retirement, with little to live for but Glory itself, and that coming soon, stops in and checks out the last embarrassed book. He did it with great mercy, for which he should be commended. The bookshelves were happy, especially the last bookshelf there, which was starting to get a complex, even though it was more an issue with the book than the shelf.

I saw it all happen, just as written. I went in and looked around. Not one book remained!

No One Knows He Was A Sergeant

No one knows he was a sergeant. Technically, of course, somebody knows he was, like his daughter, a couple guys he has coffee with, and the doctor at the veterans hospital. But most of us don't know he was. I'm maybe the one exception, and even I wasn't privy to this strange fact until I started asking him about his life.

Let me climb up on my soapbox for a bit. Indulge me that? Because I for one am sick and tired of nobody really caring about the life stories of other people. I mean it, I'm sick of it. Take my own life story. I know my own life story pretty well, but the people I run into -- church, in the community, in meetings, etc. -- don't care a thing about it. That's cool, leave me out. It's anyone! You see an old timer, like this guy -- I'm going to call him Walt, just to be on the safe side -- privacy concerns -- and basically nobody knows he was a sergeant!

He came over to do some work at my place. I had him fixing the window in the garage. Someone put a rock through it, one of the neighbor honyocks probably. So I called Walt, a handyman. OK, here's something you might not realize: Handymen like being handymen not so much for the money, but for the fact that it gets them out of the house and with others. They're always extroverts. So whenever I'm dealing with a handyman, I know there's the chance for some decent conversation. They like to talk about themselves, but hardly anyone wants to hear it. But if you open yourself, you'll find a nice guy. It's worth breaking the window yourself just to try it...

So Walt comes over. And I'm standing there chewing the fat with him, shooting the breeze, and I start probing into his life story. And he comes alive, telling me all kinds of things about his life, such as the little known fact that, indeed, he was a sergeant! I thought, Wow! An actual sergeant, just like on TV, on the old shows I used to watch, Sgt. Bilko, Sgt. Carter, and others. Walt has a background! He was a sergeant in Vietnam!

I'm like, "Where were you?" and he answered me with a bunch of places, like Vietnam vets always do, that I have no idea where they were, making my question kind of stupid in the first place. "What was it like?" Etc. When I start probing, it goes on and on. And you know what? Just like Brian Lamb on C-SPAN could tell you, people like to talk about themselves, if you're mildly interested.

Walt told me a hair-raising story no doubt true in every detail. That he was a sergeant in an office, and guys would come in stoned out of their minds; it was the '60s. Some of them were like potential mass-murderers. He feared for his life, to the extent that he taped or affixed in some way a gun to the underside of his desk. Some of these stoned guys would come in, start seeing crazy stars or whatever, and get crazy. He'd tell them with the greatest confidence in his voice, "Turn right around and march your ass out of here, or else." And they'd go.

But it all came to a head when this one "crazy sick bastard, stoned out of his gourd" (Walt's words) not only got threatening, but started to come over the desk. Walt reached down and blew the guy's crotch all to hell. Seriously! It didn't kill him, but he (the guy) wished it had! He lived, but was never the same. Really, Walt had no idea what happened to him. They flew the guy out and that was it. Walt had to give a deposition and was cleared. Presumably, though -- I don't know -- the guy might still be out there, a veteran without a crotch, who, once he got over being stoned, came back down and had to wonder what happened to it. That'd be my first concern. Walt said, "The craziest shit happens in the Army!"

We talked like that for quite a while, with Walt pausing once in a while from fixing my window. He was laughing, I was laughing, it was great. I learned lots of other stuff about his life, which I'm not going to go into.

After he left, I started thinking, that'd be very cool, to have a gun taped to the bottom of your desk. You can never be too safe.

The Legend Of Paul Boone

I've got kind of a heartwarming story today, of a true incident, something that actually happened and that I personally witnessed. This is true, I can't believe my good luck in just happening to be there when it all went down. But, who knows, maybe it was divine intervention, with me being right where God wanted me to be so I could witness this...

Well, I've thrown out enough clues, so you've probably already guessed what it was. Yes, that's it, I just happened to be at the public library, and just happened to be passing through the hall when they were doing the children's story hour! I was really in a hurry, and it's the weirdest coincidence that I overheard what I did, making me stop and linger just a little while.

I was passing by, like I said in a hurry, when I heard the story lady reading something about Paul Boone and Babe the Blue Ox. And I stopped dead in my tracks, because I couldn't believe it. That was always my most favorite story when I was a kid. And honestly I figured it was dead and gone as a story, since I know that kids are into so much more these days, with Pac Man, pogs, Pikachu, Pokemon, and Game Boys. I didn't think they still sat still long enough to hear the old stories!

But there they were, just like me all those years ago, looking up at the story lady, and I think she might've been the same one I listened to 50-some years ago, a little longer in the tooth, of course, but still fighting the good fight of reading books to little kids. So I lingered, I listened, and I heard her pleasant reading, only interrupted occasionally by a raspy smoker's cough, then the kids asking pertinent questions about where Paul got Babe, etc.

Good grief, it really took me back! Because, I actually can remember most of the details of Paul Boone's story, and how he had such big footprints that he created all the lakes in Minnesota! And how he had Babe the Blue Ox there as a kind of sidekick, or maybe a friend, a kemosabee, and someone to help carry their supplies.

I was going to go on for a while about Paul Boone, but, guess what, some of the details are eluding me. I thought I remembered them all. Let's see ... he had something to do with shoveling snow in Minnesota, I think, like in their very hard winters. Father Winter would be blowing from the North and Paul Boone would blow right back from the South, thereby keeping most of the snow out. Something like that.

Then there was the aforementioned ox, Babe the Blue Ox, who was blue because after Paul Boone stamped out all the lakes, he beheld his own image in the water so often and so long, that he became blue. Kind of a karmic thing, whereas he was normal color before the change. Then Paul Boone had to think, "Do I want a blue ox? Won't people point and stare?" He thought it over for an entire century -- the basic time-frame of legends being a lot longer than our own time -- and decided, Babe was cool even if he was blue.

OK, now I remember another detail. Paul Boone went through Minnesota with a big axe, the head of which was the size of a locomotive. He was able to cut down a fairly big forest in a few hours. He did that, providing lumber for the people settling the area. Which is probably why the people of Minnesota are so terribly lazy even to this day; they're always expecting someone else to show up and do their work for them.

I'm glad I passed through the library when I did. Because otherwise, you know, I wouldn't have heard what I heard when I heard it. I would've merely gone there and done whatever else it was I would've done.