Guidance Counselor Judgment Day

No. 17 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

Are you up for Judgment Day? Morality and mortality. It's handier to keep your morality right in front of your pointy little nose than not. So I do, a persistent state of consciousness coupling it with a feeling of imminent mortality. Goodness is its own reward. Birds and fish probably feel the same thing as they're driven by the sun or tides, inexorable and feels just right.

My usual consciousness, like the average guy, is life goes along as normal. With ups and downs, yes, but consciousness always hitting the target in the same ways and places. Making life predictable, and except for extremes — the ever present danger of serial killers and being wiped out on the freeway — it keeps its predictability. On the serial killer front, though, we can all be buoyed by the great work they’re doing with DNA. Wait several decades and they'll be nailed as toddlers, thanks to ever better science and robo guidance counselors.

Before then I will have faced my Judgment Day, and that'll be a piece of cake, really, thanks to certain Sunday School doctrines I’m pinning my hopes on. It'd be all the same, really, if none of it panned out and instead there’s fountains of living water, and beauties by the score according to your innate preferences, magical bliss for eternity. With no sign of guidance counselors.

Say Amen if you agree, no Paradise should ever be crawling with evil sin-inducing serpents or these other scurvy dudes. We could start a movement, our own religion. A lot of people don’t believe in the literal devil, and that’s understandable. Evil is a matter of choices and every coin has a flip side, etc., which I don’t want to get into. But other people have had at least a brief run in with a guidance counselor, so their theology on ultimate things runs deeper.

The key thing I remember about mine is the sense of stern judgment he held against me. For things that weren’t really my fault, having had a series of seizures and so getting a deferment from taking the semester of boy’s wrestling. It’d be great to go back and find the statistics, how many kids caught the same break. It couldn't have been many, because week after week it was just me alone with him. No one else. It would’ve been nice to have at least one other kid to dull the blow of his disappointment. Because he saw implications for my distant future that were dire, and a lot of it has come true. Every pain I get — and I got mad one day a few years ago and kicked something heavy and my toe still tingles — might’ve been the future he foresaw.

As a Judge, had the personality for it. It might've come from his time in the service where they have exacting standards and allow little deviance from the requirements. The politically correct side of me says to honor his service, but the practical side of me hints that he might’ve had a happier disposition if he’d just dodged the draft and left the fighting to other less fortunate souls. Be all that as it may, fate brought us together. He had one battlefield, the front, then chose another battlefield, my life, messing up my one fortunate break...

Looking back, though, and I oftentimes have, it could’ve been fun wrestling boys. I obviously can’t go back now. But I probably would’ve lived through it. Now I could almost do it, be flipped by classmates, pinned, depantsed, whatever it takes, with pictures of me later showing up in the bathroom. And everyone's rumor, “The wilting flower act is just an act, the little perv has a hidden agenda...” No, that'd be horrible.

But as the guidance counselor and his staff of bewigged judges would no doubt rule: “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Condemned to be hanged by the neck until he’s dead, and leave him there just in case.”

What Guidance Counselors Die Of

No. 16 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

At this point, it has to be clear, whether or not you understand its nature, severity, etc., that something awful happened to me with a guidance counselor.

Yes, I'm a broken man. Wrung out like a sponge. Barely a drop to my name. Soon to seize up -- that'd be the ultimate ending -- eyes as big as saucers, mouthing but unable to utter my last vain complaint: "What ... happened ... to ... my ... life?" Nothing comes out clearly, but I motion to my neck, which everyone at first takes as senseless muscle/nerve activity, involuntary motions. But, no, there's a purpose. They find a locket and open it, never for a moment expecting Super Fly to launch himself into the air and fly off who knows where! Super Fly will destroy the world! Then they look to the locket one last time for a clue to this terror: It's a picture of a man, of the sons of men! Hands out as if in a wrestling pose! And a strange expression on his face as if to say, I'm here to do guidance counseling!

Hope that clarifies things. The guidance counselor caused me endless suffering, all because of a few seizures and me being excused from a semester of wrestling. Doesn't seem like much of an offense at this point, decades later. But at the time, you would’ve thought I was the one standing in the way of some great cause or hope. I don’t know what it could’ve been; the cure of cancer comes to mind. Or other dread diseases -- Dog breath and Italian breath present themselves --  that have given the world such tragedy and sadness.

My own thoughts on tragedies and diseases is, I hope they don’t get me. I’ve been in pretty good health since those days. No more seizures, which proves the wisdom of me skipping that semester of wrestling. Since then I’ve had the usual sickness, the flu a time or two. I’ve cut myself on nails or whatever, nothing too bad, and I’ve survived nicely. All the while, the guidance counselor, who was quite a bit older, himself did die. That’s true, he’s gone. So what’s that prove? He was older than me and was likely to die first? Or that his unrighteousness did him in? I can’t prove either one, so I'll just go with the one that has me at the center of the trouble. But my hands are up! It's not my fault, it's his!

Who knows what exactly did him in, heart attack, cancer, rickets, juvenile diabetes, plain cussedness, lymphoma, or something easier to spell, but it was something. I walk through cemeteries every once in a while and usually they don’t say what they died off. But we can guess, Whatever it was, it was something. So something’s what did the guidance counselor in, related to me or not. He might’ve died of a broken heart. Say everyone else took wrestling after me and no one stirred his enmity a second time, he might’ve just died of disappointment.

It’s true there are lots of terrible diseases that I wouldn’t want to have. But am I all for stamping them out? Not really, because 1) Doctors need to make a living, too; 2) We need a full slate of things to die from so everyone’s not dying of the same boring stuff. You might die of boredom itself but for interesting diseases.

Another great reason to keep on track with death is, You are going to have enemies, just like the guidance counselor was to me. If they’re going to die, it needs to be something they don’t necessarily understand. I don’t know if the guidance counselor thought of me right before his death. That would've been wild: "Father, forgive me for treating that kid like crap so long ago. I didn't know I'd die from it.” But a consoling voice comes from Heaven: "Don't worry, my son, even if that's what it was, I had lots of other stuff to choose from, like your time in Las Vegas."

Entering Guidance Counselor Swamp

 No. 3 of 30 - Guidance Counselor series

Anyway, the story of my sad decline from a normal student doing normal things to having to be with the guidance counselor weekly instead of wrestling started with a short series of seizures. Which, while I wouldn't wish them on anyone, actually were very interesting. Beyond Sunday School, they were my first taste that the surface life we take for granted is not all there is. There are experiences that go well beyond the norm -- brain or hormonal disturbances, if you could only tap into them.

Did I like the seizures? Absolutely not. But they were something of a turning point for me, and not all for good, then they went away. I haven’t had any since around 15 or 16 and quit taking the medicine when I was around 20. At times I’ve had the inkling that I could bring one on if I set my mind to it, but either I haven’t set my mind to it enough or it's a bad theory, because there haven’t been any.  Throw in great hallucinations and it'd still be interesting.

OK, the seizures happened. Then a while later there was a mandatory semester of wrestling for boys my age. I dreaded the thought of wrestling, then as it happened my mom wouldn't allow me to participate in it anyway because she was afraid it might induce more seizures. These days -- more modern times -- when a kid gets an exemption because of diet, allergies, other conditions, fear of crossing the road, it’s all highly respected. Their feelings — perhaps exceedingly delicate feelings — get tons of deference. Not then!

Back then, if you weren’t bleeding from a severed arm or leg, exemptions weren’t respected at all. You’re a slacker, you’ve put a lot of thought into it, in short, it was the same as draft dodging, which was always in the news. By the way, I signed up for the draft in a responsible way and checked the box that said I would not be a conscientious objector. Although, say I was drafted, I probably would've mentioned the seizures out of full disclosure and how I was kept out of wrestling, and it might’ve saved my life again.

But for me it wasn’t the anger of other servicemen or countrymen I had to face, but the plain unexplained disappointment of one stinking bastard guidance counselor. Why it was such a big deal to him is anyone's guess. But he made me feel very low for having the exemption, and extrapolated from that what the rest of my life would be, various handicaps, lack of values, penalties for willful shirking, etc. Did he point blank say all these things to my face? Many of the things he said I’ve forgotten, whether by actual forgetfulness since or a defense mechanism at the time.  The fact is, though, just to personalize it from his vantage point, he wanted to be the wrestling coach, and since I plainly avoided wrestling class, there was something deeper wrong with me.

That my friend is a swamp! I couldn’t have the good (a wrestling deferment), my shining star, without the bad, a swamp to slog through for a semester, with the presence of an unhelpful snake, the guidance counselor, clamped on my heels and driving me slowly at first, then more quickly as the poison coursed through my veins toward a personal and academic death, possibly.

What would be my escape from this swamp, this satanic serpent coiled around me and squeezing out my life force? In the movies, a hero comes to rescue Nervous Nell from the train bearing down on her tied-up body. For me there was 1) Suffer with it, 2) Hope the guidance counselor dies. Which he never did in those days, but he’s died since. So righteousness, even delayed eventually shows up when it's too late to do any good.

The real answer would've been to tell my mother and she would've made his life hell on earth. That's what I should've done.

He Took The Guidance Counselor Job

Part 1 of 30 - Guidance Counselor series

Welcome, Trauma Fans. Glad you’re here, hope you stick around and see what it was that Once Upon a Time upset me terribly, and even still today makes my blood boil or at least get warm.

My traumas won’t be as bad as some of you have suffered, I’ll just put that up front. So I don’t want to hear you saying, “That’s all you got!? I suffered X, Y, Z, and even now he’s still in the bedroom with a machete!” In your case, please don’t take time to reminisce, but call the proper authorities and get help. My thing isn’t nearly that bad.

Even though it’s not as bad, in my opinion it’s still bad. Because my thought is that adults, especially in the educational field, and particularly in the guidance counseling field, ought to be respectful of the kids they serve, and do their work with only positive interactions toward them. Do I get fed up with kids and their pesky problems? Of course, but I don't have very many interactions with kids. And I’m not a teacher and definitely not a guidance counselor.

OK, here’s the situation, a long time ago... At some point, the guidance counselor had gone into the military. I’m going to say he was in Korea, the war that was going on there. Then he got out and got a college education, apparently involving an education degree, likely with a sports minor. At some point he ended up in my hometown, applying for the job of wrestling coach. I will offer some surmises about wrestling coaches, but not here. When our anti-hero missed out on the coaching job, he accepted instead the guidance counselor position.

Flash forward however many years it would be and I show up at school. Then at home, over a course of weeks, I have a series of seizures. Next, back at school, the boys of my class were required to take a semester of wrestling, in P.E. (Physical Education class.) My mother thought the stress might provoke more seizures in me, so I was excused, only to be placed for that hour weekly with the guidance counselor. Who seriously thought I should be wrestling instead of sitting with him. At this point some of the details of my interactions with him have been mercifully forgotten, but that’s roughly it. He didn’t act like he liked me and I didn’t like him. He made me feel terrible about being there.

OK, on my graphic today why do I have the guidance counselor looking so sad that the wrestling job is gone? Not only because he didn’t get the job, but because I contend that wrestling coaches are in it primarily for other benefits, involving female fans. Which would make my guidance counselor a discouraged lover boy missing out on the extra goodies. See his problem?

And maybe he should’ve been the coach. He hid his disgust of me when anyone else was around, so he was good at keeping secrets. Perhaps he could’ve just as easily hidden his secret life with the ladies as coach. If only he had the opportunity! It’s funny how that was denied him. One can only hope he got his satisfaction somewhere else over the years, and was caught at it. But I never heard anything more about him after graduation.

Except to Google him and see that sometime since me being a kid he died. But please don’t feel sorry for him for that cause. Because everyone eventually dies, the good like me someday, and the bad like him way back when. He was older and statistically that’s when it most often happens, when you’re old. But sometimes when you’re young and stupid. Or young and through no fault of your own, you name the cause.

Body Parts From Heaven -- What Are You Missing?

Every reader of this blog knows that I am equipped with an enormous well-functioning brain. It's one of the things I'm proudest of, my ability to put my forefinger to my head, make a few clicking noises, and come out with the answer to any problem. My brain's usually a blessing, but sometimes a curse, like if people want problems solved but don't realize I have to live too and therefore don't come across with payment in addition to their expressed appreciation.

Not to belabor the point -- it's hard to be humble -- but God! Am I smart! Sometimes I wish I weren't so smart, because the ignorance I see around me is staggering. It might be that the only redemption for me is to stagger and fall on my head and hurt my brain. Then even though I'd probably still be twice as smart as everyone else, at least we'd be that much closer.

Now, getting to my point, my brain isn't really all my doing. I chose it in Heaven, you know, right before I was conceived. Because that's the way it works. We choose what we're going to take with us in that time. And there's a lot of laziness in Heaven, since there's very few challenges to keep us sharp. So future kids are putting it off, getting prepared, and they show up incomplete.

In Heaven they're saying, "Hurry up, get your body parts: Arms, legs, brains, hearts, kidneys, stomachs, etc., and all the various valves that go the parts, etc.," but these idiots answer back, "Yeah, yeah, get off my ass! I'll do it when I'm good and ready!" Then they doze off, many, unfortunately, just as their parents are finishing up, and the thing is done. And it's too late.

Me, on the other hand, I was ready weeks in advance. In fact, I can remember sitting on a lawn chair outside a storage unit with a gun on my heavenly lap, holding off looters. Being, however, smart enough not to let on the wonderful assembly of parts I had inside. A brain to beat the band, and all the rest. As soon as my parents were in the grips of passion -- I was timing it, having watched all the training movies -- I opened the unit and everything came into me, all in miniature form of course, and I was off.

Then later, a lot later, I'm in school. And there's kids missing an arm, missing a leg, having diabetes, having various heart valves, stints, or they're virtually brain dead. And all I could do was shake my head and wonder what happened. (You temporarily lose memory of what came before.)

I knew this one guy. True story. The guy was nothing but a misshapen head with a spinal column, that's it, and a covering of skin. No heart, no liver, no kidneys, etc. A head and tiny brain, the size of a pea, the spinal column, and a covering of skin. They said the only reason he was alive was sheer cussedness.

And here's the other part of the story, how I knew him so well. Because my growing brain was giving me headaches in my sophomore year, and because this guy was so extremely deformed, he and I were the only boys in the whole class to be excused from an otherwise-mandatory semester of wrestling. We simply sat there in the guidance counselor's office, me thinking vast thoughts and him with his cussedness.

I Try To Fix A Pro Wrestling Match

I had a bright idea that the Organization should get involved in the professional wrestling game, specifically, to fix the biggest match in this area in some time, coming up tomorrow, Polish champ Stanislaus Zbyszko vs. dried up Jack Taylor.

I told Tony -- Mr. Big -- my idea, and he was dubious we could pull it off. One, he's never heard of pro wrestling being fixed before; it's always on the up and up. Still, I had his blessing, if I could successfully arrange it. He said he'd put 50 Gs on the match with a Zbyszko fall. Because of course Zby's the overwhelming favorite.

We got ahold of Al Reynolds, the promoter. I heard him yawn on the phone, "Surrrre, come over, bring your boys, whatever..." Tony told me to take the only former pro wrestler in the Organization, Big Brute, to help out, who was also skeptical. In short, we made threats, we used the old strong arm technique, both usually effective as an opening gambit ... but not in the field of pro wrestling! Those guys would not bend!

So Tony and Brute were right. And I'm thinking, You mean to tell me pro wrestling's on the up and up? Why aren't there reports of matches in the daily news, sports journals, and almanacs? You're telling me those big garish belts are actually awarded to legitimate winners? I couldn't believe it!

I said I wanted Zbyszko and Jack Taylor to trade falls, then for Zby to take a powder in the 3rd and final fall. Geez, what money there'd be! Stanislaus is a future hall of famer, no one expects him to lose! Taylor's best days are far behind him. Why they even picked that half dead layabout, I'll never know. Not when guys like Earl Caddock and Ed "Strangler" Lewis of headlock fame were available! You tell me!

Anyway, I didn't want to take no for an answer. I pulled out my gun. Brute tried to calm me down. I went up on the ring, shot 40 shells in the mat, and said, "That could've been your head!" They weren't impressed.

I asked the wrestling boss if he had any pictures of his kids. He tossed me his wallet. I took out a big string of pictures, stuck them on a nail on the wall, and shot the shit out of them. These photographic memories of his children, once so recognizable you could pick out each one as a distinctive individual, were like New Year confetti. You couldn't tell which were girls and which boys. All traces of gender were gone, as were all traces of anything, except you could still see the original photos were in color, since the pile of resulting confetti was colorful, as confetti generally is. It didn't matter, he said, the integrity of the sport was too important.

You mean to tell me?.....

I still had one huge ace up my sleeve. Before arriving, some of the guys had abducted some of these guys' mothers. We led them in in chains. They were crying, etc. But everyone remained very calm. The mothers were assisted into the ring, and some of the other boys brought in a full arsenal of machine guns. We were going to get a deal or the mothers would die!

But now it was the mothers' turn to plead, which turned out badly. Instead of pleading for their lives, they pleaded for their sons to keep intact their honesty. "We will gladly die, please allow us to die! Just do not stain your honor or that of professional wrestling for any reason as selfish as keeping us alive. The sport must be Number 1, it must go on! We've lived a good life. We are ready to die." They laid it on thick, as you can tell.

Meaning, we eventually let the mothers go, and gave up. I couldn't believe the sport of pro wrestling was indeed a sport, so entirely above board and incorruptible. I thought it was a sham. But every word is true. It happened just like I said...

In the end, I was philosophical about it: Into every life a little rain must fall. At least I thought that was the end. Al Reynolds and some of his bruisers grabbed us and tossed us around the ring like rag dolls, supplying us a full and vicious pummeling for good measure, their feeling on the subject, not mine.

Grandma Slump Takes Ukraine By Storm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vigor Vivus -- I Command The World

It's quite a confession, to hear me confess that, yes, I have my moments of doubt and fear. Today, my friends -- yea, even today -- I was feeling at odds with life and its limits. I was looking down. And when I say I was looking down, I mean I was sitting in a chair, my legs sort of spread, and my head literally hung low. But, as it always goes, I can't look down very long without feeling self conscious about it. Then I start picturing how I must look, and whether it would make a compelling, soul-tugging photograph if a true artist (besides myself) were on the scene to document it.

You can see what's happening there. That's the beginning of awareness, the beginning of turning the thing around. I can't be down for a few minutes -- hours, tops -- without finding myself and my way up in an instant. As I sat stewing, then coming to this realization, two words came to my mind with an incredible force, and you probably know what those two words were: VIGOR VIVUS. I've written extensively about Vigor Vivus, as you can read at this link.

That's the way it works. The mind rises up and conquers. The heart overflows with Vigor Vivus, overcoming Rigor Mortis without mercy and sending it packing. Permit me, if you will -- it might do you some good -- to describe the physical sensation of Vigor Vivus taking my side, what happens mentally and spiritually. I envision the dynamism of the term itself, with the VVs almost flashing before my eyes, not up here in the immediate awareness, but somewhere deeper, a more essential center. Of course, there's nothing about the literal letters, but the spirit of the thing is obviously spells itself out in a way I'm familiar with.

It's the flash of memory that makes the difference, as well as the commitments I've made to myself and my philosophy. Past is prologue. If it's done me a ton of good in the past -- to overcome the despondent, dessicated, withered spirit of Rigor Mortis -- then I'm not about to turn my back on it now. That's my testimony and that's my trust. Life is too good for me to wither up and blow away. I shall not be despondent for long; the spirit's working overtime in me.

OK, so there I am, in the chair, envisioning the dynamism of the term itself, with the spirit of the thing rising up in me, and this becomes a process, a physical force, that builds on itself. The more you experience it, the more you must experience it, if you will just get out of your own way. Suddenly the hands clench. The eyes open wide.

It's like a professional wrestler when he's had enough being pounded. It thrills me to say it! Up till now, he's been in a scissors lock, the other guy's had him in a vise grip. Then the other guy has him in a sleeper hold and is busy rubbing his temples till they're raw. Then the other guy's pounding him with a folding chair. Finally, he's going for the motorcycle chain in his trunks, and this is going to be it, when our wrestler suddenly comes to. He flashes with the awareness of his true strength. He sees his predicament and quickly turns it around. He's up! He makes a few quick stomps around the ring, they alternate several crisscrosses in the ring, then there's a killer clothesline and a quick pin! His hands are over his head! He's victorious! The crowd goes wild!

The truth of the matter is this: I command the world through the spirit of Vigor Vivus, another term for the abundance of life that is at the heart of life itself. If you don't know it, try it. You, too, can command the world. The problem for so many of us is that we allow the spirit of Rigor Mortis -- death while we live -- to prevail. Because in general we don't know, so we can't prevail. We may think it's theoretically possible. If we were to pray, meditate, and whip ourselves till we were black and blue, maybe five years, 10 years, then we might be one inch closer to fulfillment...

No! The fulfillment is now, here and now. Through the power of this great philosophy, Vigor Vivus. Consider yourself alive today, now. Vigor Vivus is the opposite of Rigor Mortis, meaning life in abundance. The term describes life in its essential greatness, as life indeed.

Let the spirit of life rise up in you and you shall prevail. Turn from Rigor Mortis immediately, here and now, then never go back.

The Mincemeat Maker

I'm not a violent person but I feel like making mincemeat of someone. Or some thing, be it animal, vegetable, or mineral. A quick haymaker to the gut, then a bunch of piercing jabs, the old one-two, a little bit of chop-chop, a couple of suplexes, and you've got a pile of mincemeat. With maybe some pants on the floor where his feet used to be.

A picture that comes to me is an old professional wrestler, stomping around the ring, yelling for the dressing room for his enemy to come out, to stand before him. Then he grabs the microphone and they're face to face, while he yells and spits his way to a rumble, "I'm going to make mincemeat out of you!" The enemy can stand it no longer and looks to the crowd, always ready for blood. He turns his back and WHACK! ... there's a chop to his neck from behind. The Mincemeat Maker is at work, making mincemeat!

Probably no one knows this about me, but I'm a heck of a Wii Tennis player. I've risen to the highest level, having hit the magic 2399 mark, and doing so by making mincemeat of Elisa and Sarah. Still, they're pretty good, and sometimes it seems like they get better. But if I'm wide awake and alert, I get in some terrific shots and make mincemeat of them. Although, I'm going to be truthful, if I'm off my game, someone's trying to talk to me, someone's wanting something, then they're making mincemeat of me. But if anyone in real life distracts me like that, I get my revenge by making mincemeat of them. I hate to be distracted...

This is the law of the jungle, you're either making mincemeat or being made mincemeat out of. There doesn't seem to be any middle ground. The middle ground is where we put the mincemeat. A lot of people die in the course of a day. They're mincemeat. But the rest of us somehow stay alive. We're not mincemeat, yet, in that ultimate sense. So far I've done pretty well, I'm not mincemeat.

Still, you wake up, and bellow outside about making mincemeat of someone. Like I said at the top, I'm looking around, scouting the horizon, I want to make mincemeat of someone!

Percival A. Hashbrown

Here's my new character, which I won't be doing anything with except introducing him. And I'm in a hurry at that, because I have a dental appointment within the hour. But I'm taking these few minutes to mention him just in case there's some competitor out there who might try and beat me to the punch.

So let's be quick. He's Percival A. Hashbrown.

I thought of this guy yesterday while enjoying a McDonald's hashbrown. I think of things while eating these, like what these poor potatoes have been through on their journey to be an actual hashbrown. It doesn't take long to eat one, so their long journey doesn't end up with much of a payoff. And once gone, they seldom come back up. It's strictly out the other end ... in an unrecognizable form.

So there he is, Percival A. Hashbrown ... quite a name, huh? And quite a character, too, I might say. He spends his day next to a briefcase and a big black cow.

Ohhhh, you're quick! Of course all of us recognize the obvious allusions -- I know you do, referring of course to the famous wrestling manager of the '70s, Percival A. Friend. But just for the sake of future social archaeologists, who will have a constant eye on my blog archives one thousand years hence, as they try to reconstruct the broad outlines (and details) of the mid to late 20th century and early to mid 21st century, depending on how long I live .... For their sake I will sketch out my memories, and our common memories, of Percival A. Friend.

Percival actually has his own website, appropriately named PercivalAFriend. A few short years ago there was virtually no reference to him, so it's good to see that he's staking out his own piece of the history, again, for the benefit of social archaeologists.

As we all remember, Percival was a wrestling manager in the '70s, in my memory most famous for managing Black Angus. Hence, the black cow in Hashbrown's universe. Also, Percival A. Friend carried a briefcase, which you will also see in Hashbrown's universe. With the briefcase, either loaded with lots of very heavy personal papers or a brick, he was able to have an offensive weapon against other wrestlers and referees.

My most favorite (or standout) memory of PAF was when he "accidentally" (since there was no doubt a script) clunked Black Angus in the head with the briefcase, meaning that from that moment there was an untrussed rupture in their relationship. PAF was out of a job insofar as his most recent employer was concerned. Black Angus had a look of stunned disbelief, not aware, apparently, that accidents do happen. It awakened him to the truth that a danger to others might also be a danger to you, especially if you're in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Did I ever personally see Percival A. Friend? Yes, I did. Either once or twice. Definitely at least once. And if I could've gotten my hands on that briefcase, there might've been hell to pay. But this incident being at the time the present moment and not a past moment of memory in which anything might've happened meant I wasn't able to do it. Had I done that, they would've taken me out, or I might still be hanging from the rafters of that particular school gym, up there with the retired jerseys and numbers.

Did I ever lose track of Percival A. Friend in the meantime? Yes, I believe he dropped out of sight, at least my sight, since our interest in professional wrestling waxed and waned and eventually was extinguished. Now we simply have those pleasant memories of being young adults out for a pleasant evening of a ringful of guys apparently beating the crap out of each other. Oh, the names, Harley Race, Rufus R. Jones, Bob Geiger, etc. It was cool seeing them in real life, cool at that moment. AND ... Percival A. Friend.

Anyway, I need to go. I just wanted to get Percival A. Hashbrown's name out there, as well as make sure Friend's story was fully documented for the sake of the archaeologists, who -- what? -- otherwise would've had to depend on his personal website being well archived. And that's no good. You need the full force, the full faith and credit, of Google and their own personal archives -- i.e., Blogspot to make sure 1,000 years comes and everyone's not disappointed.

My dentist awaits! There he is, for the whole world to see, my new character (whom I will probably immediately forget) ... the Great .... Percival A. Hashbrown!

Total Trash Talking

(The idea for this post came to me before the recent call for civility that resulted after the Arizona congresswoman was shot. I thought about toning it down -- but really it's not that bad. And anyway, the Republicans are already back trash talking, so the rest of us are already playing catch up.)

Really all I wanted to say was that we need more trash talking. Not necessarily aimed at me, since I wouldn't care for it, but in the contexts where it's most entertaining. Like in sports. And a few other places.

Even now, once in a while I hear someone did some trash talking in sports. And, I'll confess, I don't really pay much attention. So if there's a lot more trash talking than I know about, I'll accept that. But there's been trash talking in sports before that even I've heard about.

It happens like this. There's a big game Sunday, and a player from the opposing team says something inflammatory, and now it's in the paper and the other team has it posted in their locker room. And now they're very upset, and they've vowed to get revenge against him. Maybe he insulted the coach, the quarterback, or the cheerleaders. And certain things you can't say, and certain things you can't let go once you've heard them.

We used to go to professional wrestling matches. By the way, I'm still looking for some authoritative stats from those days, but it looks like they didn't keep good records. For example, some of the world championships I witnessed personally, it looks like no one wrote them down. How that can be, I don't know. But anyway, I'm talking about trash talking, and they were very good at that. Extremely good, almost to the point that they didn't do much else. A wrestler would take the ring, get the microphone, then taunt someone backstage. And it was effective, too, because invariably he showed up for a terrific fight.

Why we have to suffer so much Mr. Nice Guy these days, it's boring. I love an inadvertent comment, then a grudge match. Because what's said can't be unsaid, and forgiveness is strictly out!

Speaking of forgiveness, of course that's the realm of religion. And you don't think of religion folks to be into trash talking, but once in a while they are. Any religious group I read about, I go for their "Statement of Beliefs." I did it just today. Some of the fringe groups, the independent fundamentalists, they do some trash talking in their statement of beliefs. You can tell they're combating everyone else who believes differently. Like with the devil. They put right in their statement, "We believe in a personal devil," etc., like that's really a statement that needs to be made by religious folk. Face it, if you put a positive statement about a devil in your statement of beliefs, you're claiming him as one of your own! LOL. But as long as there's modernists out there who know the devil's a bunch of hooey, there'll be a place for trash talking.

I'm very interested in the latest (idiotic) prediction of the "Rapture," which is now set for May 21, 2011, not too far off. The perpetrator of this latest prediction is the already-failed prophet/preacher Harold Camping, who also made a dated prediction for the '90s. Some people never learn! What precisely he's going to say on May 22 when this prediction fails, and of course it will, is anyone's guess. Maybe he'll say, "Oh, did I say 2011? I meant 2012." Or 2023, by which time he'd probably be dead of natural causes. Because I think he's fairly old.

I used to listen to this old quack on the radio ... in the '80s. The other day I read his Wikipedia page, and it heartened me to see he modified some of his hardcore Calvinist beliefs of those days. I'm surprised I hadn't heard about it until just the other day. But he was part of some denomination that had those beliefs, and, with a break from that, apparently he latched on to some other kind of "truth." Overall, though, I have to conclude he was a flake in those days and he's still a flake today. His prediction will fail, guaranteed. Then what?

But still, remember I want more trash talking. And making crazy predictions and sticking with them is the trashiest trash talking religion has to offer. Because you're putting it in everyone's face and, if they're really dumb, they might think you know what you're talking about. It takes a tiny bit of skill (not much really) to see there's always something arbitrary about the way they correlate verses and dates. Just insisting on literal interpretations for this stuff is itself an arbitrary, culturally-bound hermeneutic.

You do have to admire the dedication, though, to just dive in and be willing to be a public fool in only five short months. And I admire the trash talking, especially if the guy's willing to accept our trash talking in return. It's only five short months!

Politically, of course politically there's lots of trash talking. The Republicans are better at it than the Democrats. One thing, they don't really care about the truth, so they can say any and every little idiotic fantasy on their minds (cf. Limbaugh, Rep. Virginia Foxx, etc.). The Democrats have a tougher time, since they have some ethics about sticking to the facts. I also like the facts -- like what I said about pro wrestling records -- but I also want that in-your-face chewing out, with the Democrats able to chew with the best of them. Whether it'll ever happen, I've got my doubts.

Sternness Meets Creampuffness

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there they go!

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

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

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

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

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

My Steaming Tirade

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I've Reached A Decision

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am the Snake. I will prevail.

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

-------------------------

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

A Fitting Hiatus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This Clamorous Hiatus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Hiatus Is Strange

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Favorite Hiatus Memory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrestling And Rasslin' With My Hiatus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrestling Or Rasslin'?

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

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

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

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

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