Local Man Takes Hiatus

If you want to take the temperature of the nation, start with me. I am the local man, who just so happens to write his own blog. I'm as average as they come. I'm grassroots, rank and file, salt of the earth, and local.

Sometimes I know I seem to flatter myself that I'm above the average station. That I'm thinking thoughts mortals aren't generally privy to. That still could be. But when it comes to official demographics, socio-educatio kinds of stuff, stats, consumptive patterns, all of that, I'm very very typical.

I'm true to type as the local man. I consume what is necessary in the course of a day. About a half a pound of bacon, a few cups of coffee, other food and beverages, utilities, a roll of regular toilet tissue, and a few public services. I maintain a solid existence as a breathing, pulsating individual, intent on keeping his life going whether it seems vain or not.

When threatened I fight back. I avoid pain to the best of my ability. I try not to be taken by surprise, whether by criminals, crooks, perverts, terrorists, or unexpected medical expenses. I self diagnose to the best of my ability and seldom cry Wolf to my doctor. I keep him happy by exercising twice a month whether I need it or not.

You would think someone so typical would make the news occasionally. But it seems to be just the opposite that happens. The local man is overlooked in favor of the more eccentric, imbalanced individual, or the sick who suddenly fly off the handle. That being said, when I take a hiatus, it doesn't make the news.

I can tell about it at my blog, which I write without any outside help or assistance. All the ideas and content here are of my own doing. I use my imagination to the best of my ability. And I shun prefabricated ideas that may be suggested at "blog idea" sites. The day I use an idea that someone else has secondhand will be the day that I go into mandatory permanent retirement.

My hiatus will continue. Let there be no misunderstanding about that. But when I come back -- assuming I do -- I will continue on as the local man who has works only from his own ideas. I believe in that as a principle and no one will be able to talk me out of it.

I seek not vainglory or vain glory!

UPDATE ON UNRELATED SUBJECT:

CHEYENNE, Wyo. — Two seasonal Yellowstone National Park concession workers have been fired after a live webcam caught them urinating into the Old Faithful geyser.

Way to go, brothers -- or maybe brother and sister -- I've done this myself. It's a very satisfying experience and leaves pleasant memories, especially after the scalding heals.

As you may recall, back in March I actually owned Old Faithful for a short time. It was an interesting time, which can be found in the March archives.

LATER UPDATE:

Those guys who peed in Old Faithful, they're really "in hot water" now, huh? Huh? Huh? Give it to me.

Left Behind By Hiatus

The world is spinning on its merry way. And time marches on. While I sit here in my hiatus, watching it make its way farther out of sight.

At one point I was right there in the saddle, keeping up, sometimes setting the pace, calling the shots, and writing my own ticket. Life was a banquet and I was at the head table. I called to "Garçon" to bring another round of drinks as I made rather merry with my friends. I was swinging with the best of them, boy. All the best clubs, discotheques, blog rolls.

I guess I didn't know what I had till it was gone. Which is always a lesson worth learning. If only I could grasp the lesson before suffering the consequences. My father had the same trouble, which was how he became a monk in the first place. It's a little something I like to call "not looking before you leap." Or not looking far enough ahead to know it's going to be a disaster. Because once you've renounced everything, it's hard to get it back. You're left scratching like a blind bantam hen.

He got some of it back, leading of course to his marriage to my mother and my birth seven months later. But he had to leave behind a bunch of stuff in California, probably because the other monks needed to know they weren't supposed to be doing those kinds of things. I'm thinking he didn't look before he leapt, but maybe he did. It's one thing to put it out there, it's another to put it in their face and make them grin and bear it. At least in the short term. I don't think he got the last laugh exactly.

But enough about ancient history. I've got my own grief today. Caused by taking this hiatus. Which seemed like a good thing at the time. Until now when I look around and see how much I left behind, and the fact that life is leaving me behind more and more as we speak. It's all going away. I'm left here alone.

If I were outside -- which I'm not -- the rain would be streaming down my face, washing away my tears. You know what? I think I'll do that. It's still raining pretty good. I'll go outside, stand in the rain, and shake my fist in proud defiance. And shout words of derision in their general direction. You never know. Maybe I'm looking at this all wrong. There's a certain value in being the only one left. I may rise again!

Stolen Moments Of Hiatus

Why am I even here? It's ridiculous to have these precious moments of my hiatus stolen from me, and right under my nose while I watch. But I keep right on a'givin' and everyone else keeps right on a'takin'.

I will allow it for these few moments, but, please, I must get back quickly to my reverie. Anyway, today might be a good time to allow myself the chance to climb up on the soap box and spout off a little on certain personal issues. Something like this, as to what the future may hold.

I'll hasten to say that I don't see the hiatus coming to a complete end. Permanent retirement seems like the most obvious option to take at this time. But I'm still not there. Officially, the hiatus goes on with the possibility that it will end. Were permanent retirement to happen -- just saying -- the hiatus would have a more definite status or stability. It would be subsumed by permanent retirement, making the usage of distinct terminology to describe my activities -- hiatus or permanent retirement -- moot. I pledge that if I take the step toward permanent retirement that I will also permanently retire all talk of a hiatus per se.

I would guess that permanent retirement would mean no more updates here. Just like my present hiatus ought to, technically, mean no updates. But it's more likely now, such as my status is, for updates, because the situation needs to be stated and its details made clear. To take a hiatus and not to say so is to give people the impression that I'm in permanent retirement. And since a hiatus by nature is not an ending, although it can evolve into that, periodic updates are only reasonable. My own willingness to make regular updates speaks to my attention to detail, always wanting to be upfront about my intentions.

But I go both ways on that. One, I do want to be upfront about my intentions. Then there's the other side; I resent the moments that are essentially stolen from me in order to do so. Because when I'm on hiatus I want that to stand for something. I want people to back off and give me some space. Standing too close or being up in someone's face is rude. Everyone wants their private space, a chance to withdraw once in a while. And I'm no different.

When I Hear The Word "Hiatus"

Every time I hear the word "hiatus," if it's in the next 10 minutes or anytime in the future, I will think of all I've accomplished here.

I took this hiatus and essentially declared independence from those who would clamor after me, those who would make demands on my time, and those who expect much while giving little in return.

Not that I expected anything in return. What I do in life is a labor of love, that's well known. I see a challenge, a target, and I bend my head down like a bull and charge full bore into it. Out of love, which is just how my mind works, in concert with my heart. I'm all heart and all head.

But a month or so ago I was drowning here. I was going down for the third time and no one would throw me a rope or inner tube. I was sinking without the slightest bit of support. I looked to you to help me but you stood there, oblivious to my plight.

It was then that I had to reach down and find something in myself, and I saved myself. I said, Enough! I made one of the firmest decisions of my entire life when I saw that despair, and knew that there and then I had to take a hiatus. It was a matter of me going down for the last time. And that moment was the moment of truth.

I don't know exactly how I did it. But I do know why. Because it wouldn't get done otherwise. No one came to assist! As far as you were concerned, Let him drown. Maybe he'll bob around out there like a cork in a very pleasant way before eventually ingesting enough water to kill any man.

It's true. In a figurative way, I felt my lungs filling up with moisture. My breathing became shallow and nearly stopped all together. I felt a kind of bombasia in my mind, glistening up and enlightening all my senses, and I knew in my last seconds of sentience, I'm overwhelmed, yes, but I still have it in me to save myself. The swirling sensation in my mind was like a kaleidoscope with many special effects added to it. Some were beautiful. I could have drifted off looking at them, except for my natural fighting spirit that came to the fore.

At that second, all at once, I tightly clutched my fists. (This is figurative, not literal, but picture it.) I looked up toward the surface and could just see the sun as a small, hazy, and indistinct flicker. But I went straight up toward it like a Titan rocket and launched myself six feet out of the water if it was an inch. Then I swam to shore. In fact I was at the shore the second I aimed myself toward it.

It was then that my last ounce of energy was completely spent. I crawled on the beach and gasped for air. And I swore in thoughts, not words, that without any further ado I must take a break, a hiatus. I must. I'll repeat that: I said, I must. When that happens you know your fate has been determined, there's no turning back, no alternate course that may be charted.

So my hiatus was begun.

Friends, no matter the great resentment I've stirred in many of you, and I've heard enough to know you're simmering, I feel it necessary to continue my hiatus. So it was, so it shall be.

The Rubble My Hiatus Has Left

Everything's desolate. Old ladies are screaming. Old men have given up their pills. Young men have little hope for the future. Young women have dropped their compacts and fled. It's like that one famous Picasso painting, "Generica." So named for the generic havoc that was caused when people had no hope, like when war consumed them. You see their bitter struggle, how they turned on each other and were at each other's throat.

If I knew anything about painting I could definitely give a blank canvas a run for its money. The canvas would see me coming and meet me halfway. I'd go to the art store to get supplies and people would fall to their knees to commission something from me. I would be signing my autograph to blank canvases and simply selling those. Because I have the art up here, in my mind. But, alas, I don't have any actual artistic ability down here with my hands.

One big reason for my artistic limitations has to be the fact that I'm way too self-conscious. I know what would happen if I looked at a blank canvas. It'd be just like this, I'd be thinking I don't want to imitate, I don't to paint cliches, I don't want to do what they expect, I just want it to be real. But exactly what that is ... yes, I have the ideas up here ... I wouldn't be able to paint because my hands wouldn't coordinate with my mind when I picked up a brush or a pencil.

Really, though, I do have enough masterpieces stored away in my brain, up here, that I have to triple bolt my door at night just to keep art thieves from stealing me. Then they'd have me on sale at Sotheby's -- and because I would have to waste so much time everyday trying to explain why I'm so valuable, I know I'd get bored and very frustrated.

I think there's a lot of inspiration in desolation like war. I like to drive by poor neighborhoods, like a block away from where we live, just to be inspired. And you know that I'm something of a Skidrow aficionado. I'm a connoisseur of condemnation. If I see a kid wandering through the rubble, it puts me in an artistic frame of mind.

You know how some people hate those commericals for the Christian League Of Helping Poor Children in other countries. You've got the big well-fed guy from the United States walking through a slum. And you think, couldn't this guy at least have lost some weight before he filmed this commercial? And you know he's staying in a fancy trailer or hotel somewhere. But there he is crying big tears for their plight. I like those commercials, especially if we could get rid of the American guy. And I'm sitting there with my hands framing the scene, as though I'm about the paint another masterpiece. Because squalor is a great subject for art.

Well, squalor ... rubble ... desolation ... that's what my hiatus has wrought for me. There have been good times. Walking around the half acre, having the sun smile on me, all that. The days off. The occasional root beer float. Dreaming of bigger and better things, like going to the store and seeing what food they're giving away samples of today. All those things take time, and having a hiatus from the blog and my newsletter has given me the time.

But like I said, it's left behind a lot of desolation. I've lost everyone who ever came to this blog. They've deserted me for other Grandma imitators, and possibly news sites. And certainly the internet hasn't been the same since they introduced pornography to the general public. The day they did that my traffic dropped like a rock. And I never got that traffic back either. But I'm strict on one subject, I will not run any blue content here ... not for any reason. If you're a pervert looking to get your jollies off from something twisted you think I might say, then please, I'm begging you, leave this site right now!

So I don't know what will be next. Maybe I'll use some of my hiatus time to get some art supplies and try again. I wonder how big a canvas I should start with. It can't be any bigger than the door. I don't want to leave it out overnight and have thieves take it half finished. Maybe I'll get some of that fluorescent chalk and a black light and make some art that has deer's eyes glowing in the dark. That's very artistic. Or I'll tell you another, some glowing white chalk on a waterfall, as though it's beamed there from moonbeams. Extremely nice.

The Hiatus Clock Is Broken

Grandpa used to always say that a broken clock was right twice a day. I said, "What? How can something broken ever be right?" And he pointed out that when a clock is broken the hands are still pointing to a particular time. Say the clock broke when it was 9:40. The hands are going to keep pointing to 9:40. Then on any given day when it is actually 9:40, as it is in the morning and again in the evening, the broken clock will appear to be showing the time. But it's not strictly true that a broken clock has to be right twice a day. Because you could be sneaky, and just before 9:40 you could pull the hands off. Then it'd be broken and never right.

Grandpa certainly knew about broken clocks though. It was funny about the cars we had back when he was around. They always had broken clocks in them. You'd drive a '57 Chevy or a '62 Chevy off the dealer's lot and immediately the clock spring would go BOINNNG and that was it for the clock. I think Detroit had a contract with the county home full of halfwits somewhere to make clocks. The body may have been by Fisher, but the clocks were by Morons. But at least they were still right twice a day, whatever actual use that really is.

Anyway, to this day, I'm always interested when the old car show come to town. I'll be down at the park looking at them. Sometimes the owners think I must be some kind of expert, the way I'm peering inside like I'm really focused. But I tell them, I'm just trying to figure out if the clock in this old car still works. Because I've never seen one that worked. Immediately I know, if it works, that it has to be a replacement.

Well, friends, I've been "driving" this '09 Hiatus for quite a while now. And guess what, the clock must be broken because I've lost track of how long it's been. Must be over two weeks, maybe a month, I really don't know. When I pulled it off the dealer's lot, I didn't know if it'd be a day -- I figured it'd be more than a day, I guess. But as far as I knew it'd be over with in a few days. At that time I still had "friends" and "followers" on the blog and subscribing to my newsletter. And I was pulling in a fairly decent income simply from Google Ads.

But since then, I let the days drift by, I didn't put forth much effort, and everyone basically went away. Where they went, I'm not sure. But there are some competitor blogs I know about -- Grandma Swisher has one -- and they're off adhering and aligning themselves to those imitators. But you know the whole "Grandma" fad started right here at Grandma Slump. But because of my hiatus, as far as everyone's concerned, I've given up, gone by the wayside. They've written me off. It's like I'm AWOL, but this is my business, right? Am I right? Am I really under some obligation to keep everyone else happy?

I don't mind losing a little money if I really do need the time off. Yes, some days I regret the fact that we can't afford the luxuries we had before. That does hurt. Some of the expensive paintings we bought, I had to sell -- at a loss -- just to pay the bills. A lot of my bling I had to pawn. But most of it was just weighing me down and not really doing the trick anyway, because girls kept passing by the house without stopping. It must not really be that appealing, as far as they're concerned, to see a 50+ year-old balding man with his shirt unbuttoned all the way and 75 pounds of bling reflecting everywhere, waving a cane and trying to get them to pull over.

So, that's it. The hiatus clock is broken. Maybe it's already been a year. I don't know. But this is one clock I don't care about. If I sit here and vegetate for the next 15 years or until I die, it's all the same to me. You don't care that I've been putting forth a great effort on the internet or with the newsletter? I don't care either. I still have my back issues. I can reread them myself and enjoy whatever wisdom I was the writer of there for a while. Sometimes I sit and reread my stuff and just shake my head ... Did I really write this great stuff?

From Hiatus To Eternity

Oh, I can't tell you how great the temptation is to simply pack it in. Brother, I'm this close to just saying the heck with it and making my hiatus a permanent retirement.

What do I need this for? My so called "friends" and "followers" are nowhere to be found. They're long gone. And frankly I don't even care. If they couldn't bear with me through a little thick -- as in thick and thin -- this brief hiatus, then I don't need or want them around when things get thin again.

But maybe things will never get thin again. Not if I give in to this aching, nagging, persisting, insisting temptation to, as I said, pack it in permanently. I'm this close, very very close, right on the edge, the verge, the precipice of saying That's it, that's all she wrote, bye bye, don't write and, especially, don't visit.

And the day I say Bye bye for good, you shouldn't expect to see me again. When I ride off in the sunset, I don't come back. At that time, at that point I have nothing left to give. Either because I've given all I can give or because I refuse to give any more. I can be very stubborn like that. You don't want to know. You don't want to push me.

Retirement looks great to me, I have to say. Nothing to do all day but sit around. Maybe grill a slab of meat, shoot some clay pigeons, take a walk down by the old millstream and watch fishermen cuss out their snags and fart on their bait for good luck. Plus, retirees get a special license plate and, I'm not sure but I think they get a handicap sticker for their car. That doesn't really make any sense though. I'll check that. I don't know where I got that idea ... I'll nix it.

Everyday for a retiree is blue skies as far as the eye can see. On a clear day, a retiree rises and looks around. And what he sees astounds him. Because he can literally see forever and ever. If you know anything about the infinity of space that poets tell us about, you know that you don't suddenly reach the end. That's what these precious ones can behold all day, all because they've quit their job, packed it in, reached the end of the road, and now have nothing more important to do than to be looking up at the endless skies. And occasionally having a root beer float.

That sounds great right about now! Just great. And I'm this close to going for it. Can't get any closer without going over the edge. If anything happens to push me over the edge, this is the absolute last word you'll hear from me. I'm sorry but that's just how it has to be. I said "If." Because if not, I'll be back tomorrow.

What If I Took A Hiatus And No One Cared?

I suppose that would be the ultimate feeling of liberation. That I work my way back from notorious fame to blessed obscurity. So that I'm able to step out on a morning and fling a dead mouse to the road without paparazzi and hangers-on worrying whether it was a 10 or just a nine.

There aren't really any paparazzi of course. Just a little joke on my part. I guess that means something, that through it all, in everything I've suffered through here I'm able to laugh again. A chuckle anyway. Who knows? Maybe I'll get everything back and will be able to chuckle everyday. I can almost see myself. Let's say I get everything back. Then I'm smiling, chuckling, laughing.

Just as I stood in the middle of the half acre in proud, fist-shaking defiance, it could happen that I could stand there and laugh myself silly. Picture it with me, if you will. The rain is streaming down. I'm looking toward the west at the deadly lightning. I'm laughing up a storm. Finally I collapse to my knees, laughing, oblivious to everything around, knowing that nothing means anything. I'm just completely lost in this body shaking, lightning-defying laughter.

I think I've got quite a ways to go to get to that. I've never done it in my life yet, to tell the truth. And I have a hard time seeing why I'd do it now precisely. But there's something of liberation, the sense of being totally cut free in it that sounds appealing on the surface. But then what? See, that's always my hang up. So I'm standing there, collapsed, totally laughing. What? Do I just stay there wallowing in the mud? What happens when the laughter stops? Do I keep fake laughing all night? Do I fall asleep laughing? I'm going to wake up sooner or later with mud caked on my face. Maybe I'll drown first. Or do I stop mid-storm, go inside and get dried off, sit in the chair and read movie magazines? Grandma goes, "What you been doin'?" And I'm all muddy faced, going, "Oh, nothin'." That seems like a let down.

Nothing about it sounds right. But I should wait till something remotely like that happens to worry about it.

I've taken the hiatus, that's a fact. And just like laughing in the rain, I wonder what to do with it next? It's true that people did care for a while, but they're all gone. All I have to that phase of my life are the memories. The blog "followers" -- Judases each one -- all left. They kissed me off faster than a boy with his portly aunt with the small whiskers. All my "friends" are off on a tangent somewhere, I don't know. I hope they get stuck in quicksand. If there are any quagmires like that near where they live. Life would be so much better if quicksand had a mind of its own.

Children Of The Hiatus

The hiatus goes on. I'm sure glad I took it. Being possibly interminable, it's given me tons of time for reflection, memories, and to shoot the breeze with myself. There's been ups and downs, of course. I've not only tasted the blessed sunshine but also the normal bile of life that is so familiar to everyone, especially those who die young.

Certainly I'm not burdened with visitors much anymore. That frees up my senses and lets me catch my breath. The real life visits that I encouraged there for a while with "friends" and "followers" from the blog and the newsletter never amounted to much. It was all just awkward standing around or someone trying to pick my brain, or, worse than that, lust and perversion. To be fair, in the area of perversion it was just the one guy who really went off the beam, Garrett Al, who then spent the night in jail, then came back around ... I just want to forget it. It was a mess.

When I started this whole thing I didn't realize I was a Pied Piper kind of guy with the ability to attract the lonely, the dispossessed, the feeble-minded. I showed up on the internet the same way everyone else did, oblivious to the reach it has. But it didn't take long before I opened my eyes. The way I see it now is that there's the potential for everyone in the world to check in.

So let's say I say something about Paul McCartney, which I'm not ... he might read it and show up at my door demanding satisfaction or seeking an audience with me. Or political leaders, who you definitely can't trust. You know, you say something bad about George W. Bush -- and I know this by personal experience -- he has one of his goons pay you visit, brass knuckles, waterboard and all. He's like a poor man's Bill O'Reilly. Without a doubt Bush is a criminal ... oops.

So I try to steer clear of a lot of specificity when it comes to lowlifes like Bush -- or even making comments on other famous people -- the great, the near-great, the infamous, or the has beens. Not that I wouldn't want to meet them, I guess, but I'm afraid I'd do to them exactly what my own real life visitors, people from this blog and the newsletter, did to me. Stand there, shift from one foot to the other, ask them stupid questions, and generally just act awkward.

Let's take Paul McCartney as an example. I'd love to meet him, sure. But then I think Why? What am I going to say, "Oh, Paul -- may I call you Paul? -- I've enjoyed your work for quite a number of years. I really liked the Beatles, ever since I was a kid." OK, I've said exactly nothing he hasn't heard a million times before. He'd hate me. But just trying to say something that no one else has said wouldn't be the answer either. Because what does he care? He's probably sick of talking about the Beatles and would just rather get away from people (fans) like me. I know the feeling.

The actual solution to all of this is simply not to meet him or anyone else. Except people in the normal course of your day. The check out lady at the store, teachers in college classes, etc. Even then, they don't really want you trailing them around, admiring their work, giving them phony compliments, asking them nosy questions, all that. Who could like that? You have your life to live.

So ... "friends" and "followers" ... I'm enjoying my hiatus ... immensely. And I don't miss you. You followed the wrong Pied Piper this time. Not that there's a right one, since the first one led the children into the river. So it's a little mixed up.

It was my error, I'll admit it. I mistakenly led you to think you could follow me. But I wasn't up for it then, and I'm not up for it now. Consider this your official abandonment notice. You're officially cut off. You must either go back to your homes or proceed on your merry way toward some other mentor, hero, role model, special friend, or involuntary lover.

A Beautiful Hiatus Sunrise

I had to go out today and fling another mouse to the road. I'm usually thinking, Brr, the morning's cold even when it's a nice day. Get it over with. But today I had my jacket on and was carrying him by the tail, and got out there, and suddenly I felt a special peace with the world. It was a beautiful thing. So I quickly tossed the mouse and decided to stay out and enjoy it.

There's a place midway between the house and one of the corner posts (the half acre is T shaped, so it'd be the center of the T if you moved the up and down piece of the T to the left a little bit). If you got that, I would've been midway between the house and junction in the T, which, by the way, is not strictly proportional to the actual half acre. (I should have been a surveyor. I'm describing what we call the half acre, the non-yard portion of the property. There is the yard with the house, so if you included that it'd be more like an upside down L).

I was at this place midway there -- you have it in mind -- looking east, and I beheld the most beautiful sunrise. It gave me a very simple feeling, hard to describe. If you ever see the simple styles of clothing, the colors, the hair, and the stances of the people in old photos from 1972, it was that feeling. The feeling that you get when you see a Peter Max sunrise, if he ever painted one. You know that the totality of the piece is right before you, speaking of something metaphysical yet simple enough to grasp quickly and thoroughly with your instincts. I wish I had a camera, because I could've gotten some good shots. The shining, the glinting, the sun was smiling on me.

That's a great feeling, to know the sun is smiling on you. I don't get that very often, but when I do it's intense. I wonder how the sun even notices me. I believe it has some kind of GPS thing it looks at and can focus in on you like that. Ha ha. I'm definitely taking it as heaven's blessing on my present course, the hiatus I'm taking. Sometimes I second guess myself, but today was not one of those times. Today started off with an unpleasant task, to dispose of another foul rodent. But thanks to that mouse's timing, to die precisely this morning when I needed it most, it led me to behold this heavenly vista in such a way that I was affirmed. I felt alive, happy, and free.

I stood there for a while soaking it in. Then I was thinking, I could run and get the camera. I could look at the picture all day and think back, Too bad it's over with. But at least there's a picture of it. But as it turned out, it turned out not to be. No picture. Just my memory. A big old memory stew up there, all mixed in with every other memory, some good, some bad.

The Hiatus Gunslinger

I've got a very itchy keyboard finger today.

I'm staring down an imaginary muzzle, my eyes very intent, taking dead aim at every purposeful person in my path. Notice I said purposeful. I've seen enough westerns to know that any gunslinger who stands on Main Street pays no attention to old men dashing out to pull children back in their house or ladies hurrying home with their hats. You might have the old undertaker standing over by his door, but he's OK too. It's only the hombre that comes strolling out with purpose, looking intent, just asking for it who's going to get it.

There'll be no self-berating today. I'm all stewed up. Nothing new about that. But today all my wrath is outwardly focused. Toward those purposeful hombres who say I shouldn't have taken a hiatus, that I shouldn't have prolonged my hiatus, that I either ought to be here or simply go away -- no muss, no fuss -- and every other variation there may be on the subject of my hiatus and what I should or should not have done or should or should not do now.

Well, the time for talk is over, that's a given. Now it's time to meet one's maker. I wonder about some of my enemies here if they were made at all. Maybe they were formed, you know what I mean? Like something that exits the back gate. Patties. Pies. Piles.

A guy just went by my house with his black dog, Extra Crispy, and Extra Crispy dropped one of my enemies (a representation). You remember the old creation story about the god who threw dollops of mud behind him and those became man. That's what I'm talking about. Extra Crispy arches his back toward the same purpose. They teach that in Instinct School. He has a look of quiet intensity. He may not make many decisions on his own, but this is still one that can't be performed by others on his behalf. He knows when he needs to go and when it can be pronounced done.

As to my enemies -- self-pronounced, because I am as harmless as a feather; I'd do anything for you, just ask. I greet with a smile, no scowl, no scorn. As to my enemies, whether they are made or formed, they must meet their maker. Because I am standing in the street -- just itching to reach. It's high noon. There's a light sweat at my temples. My hat keeps the sun out of my eyes. Someone's got some western music playing softly on their boom box. My fingers are rubbing themselves, hovering just over my holster.

I've got my legs spread a little. I'm slightly bowlegged anyway, going way back to when I was a baby and Grandpa set me on sawhorses. Those tiny pelvic bones had a way of remembering. But it was OK with my Mom because it made it that much easier to get my diapers on. So I'm waddling along. And anytime we played crawdad soccer in gym I was a natural. When the other kids would see my legs spread and my feet at an angle hurrying across the gym floor, they knew they didn't stand a chance. The only way to slow me down was to tie my hands, and even then I could still drag the upper half of my body at the same speed the other kids were going normally.

Anyway, my legs are spread a little. I'm waiting for my enemies to appear. You don't like my hiatus, huh? You think I should either get on with it or drop out all together, huh? You're calling me out? We'll see about that. I'm calling you out! Come out and show me what you got. It better be something or I'll drop you like Extra Crispy's latest thud. Waiting, waiting ... anticipating.

Until -- this is a mental picture -- Garrett Al, whose name always reminds me of Geritol, steps out of the Skidrow saloon. Typical. The man is drunk with lust. He's tipsy. He's over the legal limit. And that's why every man, woman, and child has a restraining order against him. He doesn't know anything about taking me on. But let him try. I could drop to my crawdad stance and be wrapped around his legs before he knew what happened, but I'll play fair ... this time.

We might have a conversation. "Great day to die, Al." And it would go on like that ... until, finally, he would be lying in the middle of the road. But then, after everyone has given gifts to one another in celebration, after a couple of days, Garrett Al rises from the dead and vanishes from sight.

My Hiatus At A Dead End

I am looking square in the face at vanity. Theme rooms at motels is not going to cut it for me forever. At a certain point it's just more of the same. Take a theme, put miscellaneous items related to that around the room, work up a big piece of artwork, and you've got it.

All the while the staff is busy laughing at me. I think that would be true. Did you catch the guy staying in the "Day at the Beach" room? He checked in, went to his room, came out once to get a limbo stick and ice, then was back in his room the rest of the night. How pathetic to think that the motel is in this simply for the money, cashing in on people's fantasies. Can't afford a ticket to Africa? Don't have the time to travel to Tahiti? Don't worry, we have a room with some plastic palm trees and a few cannibal nose bones.

You show up at a theme motel and they're rubbing their hands together -- another victim in our clutches. That's about what you are. A victim to their greed, to a corporate owner somewhere who hears cash registers ringing every time you have a fantasy. Of course they keep it all quite G-rated. But were they to spice it up blue, that'd be just more victimization for you. Except you'd be sneaking in and slithering out.

I should have stayed home, frankly, and put up some beach towels on the wall and soaked my feet while watching the Travel channel. One, I could've gone more places and, two, I'd still be home saving money. I simply hate everything that makes me seem pathetic, being just another shill for the corporations, cashing in on people's desire for fun.

I've been to one of those family amusement parks before. What a sham. It's the same thing as a theme motel. You think they have an old town from 1910 or something -- the Town Square. But take another look. The upstairs windows are all painted black. And all they're selling in the "quaint shoppes" is just junk from wholesale toy and trinket catalogs. Those old buildings are replicas only. There's nothing up there. Someone shows up at night to sweep up, to lock up the park, and to laugh that you were gullible enough to show up. It gives me a headache to think it's not real.

As to my hiatus, that's the dead end it's at. Fake plants, fake tiki, paintings on walls, plastic palms, two bit dives spruced up to pass as theme motels. Theme motels are my new arch enemy. I started seeing through them the first time I caught myself faking an "Ahh." Or looking at the theme as stated as the beginning and end of what that theme could be. The only way you can convince yourself it's real, after realizing it's not, is to be sedated, drugged, or with a date. Being alone at a theme motel is just asking for realization ... that all is vanity.

You may as well check out. I've checked out. I'm back home. Sitting here alone -- typing this cry from the pit of my heart -- wondering what to do next. Where do I turn? I'm a sitting duck. I'm everyone's victim. I desperately need a hiatus, a real one. But how to take it. I'm flummoxed at every turn. I thought I'd lose myself in a theme motel. But really I found myself, and now I need to decide what to do with myself ... it's crazy ... I can see so much.

Beach Blanket Hiatus

Now here's a theme motel room I'm up for, a lot better than the history of dentistry room, although that was quite interesting. This one is called "A Day on the Beach," with the subtitle of "Life's A Beach." They probably have that on T-shirts too, making it an interesting slogan.

I checked in and there was a vacancy in the beach room, which I promptly took. What do you say to someone heading for the beach? Don't forget the sunscreen. But since this is inside, with no grow lights, I won't be needing any. I'm simply inside, to enjoy the walls and decorations around the room.

One big wall over by the bed is a vast beach scene with the ocean looming all the way to the distance. It is indeed a beautiful sunny day on the scene, with gulls, children building sandcastles, and a playful couple off to the right batting a beach ball back and forth. He's definitely built, with bulging biceps and a smart look, plus the obviously too skimpy bathing suit. Do they call them trunks anymore? The woman is my kind of gal, curvy and with an attitude. She has a definite look about her, that she's ready to play ... and play they do, with the ball just leaving her hand. I'll check in with them later.

The room is keenly decorated, giving me the impression that I'm part of the action and excitement. What's this on the desk? Seashells in with some light green netting. What a surprise! Plus there's numerous smaller framed pieces of watercolor artwork, all of beach, seashore scenes. It's like I'm there, and that's a lot of fun for me. This hiatus has been just what the doctor ordered ... or maybe I could say in this case, the lifeguard. When they blow their whistle you have to listen. They have the power to arrest you -- a little known fact -- and have been regularly carrying firearms since 9/11.

Oh, this is wild. I was just in the bathroom and instead of regular towels they have big beach towels. That is insane, but a welcome touch that really carries the theme through to its absolute extreme. I'll be checking in at the desk to see if they have a limbo stick, so that I can personally add to the theme and also have a little fun before I hit the sack.

I'm looking over at my happy couple. She's quite a looker. They're made for each other, with his big body and her very trim, svelte physique. That's an interesting bikini she sports! It's a two-piece. Once again I check in with their game of batting the beach ball. It's still just leaving her hand. And she has that look, like she thinks she might actually win. He's intent, too, but he might be the kind of guy who loses on purpose.

It might be worth it. That's a funny thought. Let her think she beat him fair and square. Because someday -- if this was real life -- their game would be over ... and it'd be time to be framed on the beach with a big fat moon and glistening sea in the background. He wouldn't mind whispering a few sweet nothings, then each would lose him- or herself in a prolonged, intense kiss.

My Hiatus Roadshow At The Dentist's

Having time off to explore with my hiatus has really been something. Today off on another motel excursion, taking a bite out of time.

I found another great theme room motel and today I'll be staying in a room with a most curious theme, that of dental history. The room is made up like a dentist's office except of course it has a bed.

It's a great theme, dentist offices through history and the modern office. I might have to reread McTeague, because there's some mentions of this book. He was a dentist with a big huge tooth for a sign. Some great dental comedy was provided by the Three Stooges and Laurel and Hardy. I think Moe, just to take an example, had more teeth accidentally pulled in his career than the typical mouth even sports! And not little baby teeth either, but big ones, with roots like aspens.

There was all kinds of "painless" dentistry advertised around 1905 or 1895. Which ... I'll bet! Since it was still painful when I was a kid and that was since 1905. They probably used a mallet to whack you in the head, like Moe. Or some kind of anesthesia that carried weird side effects, like complete blood poisoning.

Back then the old doc was up the stairs, across from an apartment with immigrants, a mother and children crying all day. The husband was out selling cod to passersby. The children's cries muffled the patients' screams and various noises of the dentist's pickax.

Later, the electrical drill added a lot to the dentist's efficiency, but mankind's anxiety level sped up to match. You hear one of those drilling on a dry tooth, unable to dodge a nerve, and you see or smell the smoke rising, you know you'd leave in terror if they didn't have you strapped down. The way it is, if you can pass out simply by willpower you're a lot better off.

This is some room, boy, with a plush dentist chair that they must have gotten at the Dental Surplus Store. Some doc went out of business. Maybe got a divorce and his wife was an equal partner. She was mad and wanted to drive him out of business so he wouldn't remain rich. He didn't fight because he knew it'd all come out in public. The affairs he carried on with the assistants and patients. So he lost his practice and then his chair. Little sinks, little faucets, little mirrors. Everything we've known and loved over the years.

Laying on the bed I look up at the posters the dentist likes to keep your mind occupied with. Including movie posters, Olympic gymnasts, and woodland scenes. The old campfire is smoldering while a bear picks through the cooler.