A Plumbing Disaster Last Night

When I go to the basement to do laundry, one thing I don't want to find is standing water on the floor. But, darn it, that's what happened last night.

I walk through a darker part of the room to get to the light switch, and I'm not used to hear sloshing under my feet in the process. So I immediately had a very bad feeling about things when it happened. Right away I knew the night was shot as far as discretionary time went -- time for relaxing.

These things have to be taken care of right now.

I called my Cousin Roto to see if he had any favorite plumbers. His dad was one of the original Roto-Rooter guys in the area, and Roto was obviously named after his work, so, of course, who better to ask? His dad is dead, so there's no getting him. And Roto isn't doing it anymore. But he makes pretty good recommendations, so he told me who he'd call. It turns out now there's about a dozen different "Rooter" companies, so the Roto-Rooter company, when they went to trademark the name, somehow let the "Rooter" part of the name get away. Unless it's a generic word, like "Cola" in Coca-Cola.

I was looking at the names -- and thinking about the ones I didn't see, like if I wanted to be a plumber. Like how come there's not a "Presto Rooter"? But I Googled it and there is a Presto Rooter somewhere. What would be another one? "Rooster Rooter"? That sounds absurd. But I Googled it and there is a Rooster Rooter, in California. Oh my gosh. How about "Mighty Rooter"? You know what -- there's a Mighty Rooter out there too! So it looks like the hardest part about coming up with your own Rooter company might be getting a name. What are the chances that "Super Rooter" is taken? Pretty good, let me see: Yes, there is! Probably about the only ones not taken would be "Wimpy Rooter" or something weak like that. I don't see any. But there's a septic tank service on Wimpy Road in Georgia and a Wimpy's Backhoe Service in Florida.

Anyway, the guy from the Rooter company Roto suggested -- and to be fair, Roto said they're all equally good, at least in theory, since it's a snake thing and a one way pipe -- showed up pretty quickly for a Saturday night. He squeezed in back there in the little space we have and put together his big old snake, letting it do its work, at 400 rpm. He got done and I asked when it was going to go 400 rpm and he said it already had, so that was a big surprise to me. Meaning I'm going to need another clog to see it better... I'll wait.

We had a good conversation, a friendly time. I could see the crack of his ass while he was squeezed in back there sitting. It made me think of a Saturday Night Live skit from decades ago. But I kept looking away, for my own comfort and sanity. All told, though, we had certain things in common, etc., and I was super friendly. I'm always super friendly -- that's just my way. But it pays to be extra super friendly when you've got a guy with your house's plumbing in his hands. And speaking of hands, we had such a friendly time we wanted to shake hands, but since he had sewage on his hands we didn't.

Cold Turkey Leftovers

I was listening to John Lennon's song "Cold Turkey" today: "Cold turkey has got me on the run..."

Today of course is the day for cold turkey, the day after Thanksgiving. But I didn't have any, maybe for the first time ever. Some of the family was over, and I had the foresight to send all the leftovers home with them, thinking how much I hate them, the leftovers, not the family.

It'd be better than nothing if I didn't have any other food. But there's something about turkey that makes it ultra dry as soon as it's been cooked. It's very disgusting stuff.

But I've got a few leftovers today, bits and pieces, snippets of ideas, and stray ideas that I want to get rid of:
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I'm looking for a diner with the lady in white or pink serving hot roast beef sandwiches with mashed potatoes and gravy and happy to see you. I think it's a dying breed, like __________ (whatever).
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Church of the Embittered Shepherd -- "Some wolf bastard stole my sheep!" -- "The end of your search for an embittered church."
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Concrete Football League -- All games played on cement fields for real bone-crunching action. 8 hour games because of constant injuries.
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Doodletron illustrations. Colorful backgrounds with doodles overlaid.
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Overheard on 11/14/2010, a guy on the phone: "Oh man, I just did the front page like an hour ago." Must have been some big news!
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Driving on college campus: Didn't see anyone carrying or waving pennants. Saw lots of gadgets, and a few Gidgets on phones.
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What color was the wood? Wood-colored.
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The worst part about going blind, not being able to see.
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Turkeys these days are nothing like the ones I had when I was a kid. Back then, each of the kids got a wishbone from the old bird, so they were happy.
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Have I ever seen a cute ear? No. Nicely proportioned? Yes, most often known by not being too big.
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The process of dying is tough, but it looks like you get used to death right away.
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Facial hair grows overnight, meaning Santa sleeps a lot!
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Man speaks with forked tongue spooning with daughter, must get knife.
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The heart, of course, is susceptible to heartburn.
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I've Got An Itch Right Here

I'm bugged about itching and scratching. There's way too much of it.

There's a big difference between sleeping and being awake. I hardly ever itch when I'm asleep. It's like at funerals I've been to, the difference between being alive and dead. Others are scratching, but the dead are content.

Just thinking about itching makes me itch, and I've heard others say that too. I have some thoughts about localized and universalized phenomena. When it comes to itching, for me it's localized. There doesn't seem to be a general field of itching. I don't feel other people's itch. Still, just like yawning, if I saw others scratching like crazy, I'd probably start itching too.

One itch I've had for years is itching in the ears. That's very annoying. The ears have a nasty construction, being open yet you're not supposed to mess with them. But how can you not? It looks weird to be scratching your ears in public, but we don't associate them with erogenous zones, so no one thinks anything more about you scratching than how weird it looks. The appearance of an ear itch, for me, is immediate. There's no arc to its appearance. It's just there ... 100 mph.

Then we all know about scalp itch. I haven't got much more to say about it, except it's well addressed by consumer products. I'm thinking about shampoos.

Then, more embarrassing, there's the region where everyone's action takes place. Why that would be itching all the time, I could make some guesses. For one, there's too many folds and creases, and too much rubbing together. Nothing's really nailed down in a permanent place. It might be left, right, center, up, down, big, little, tight, or loose. Then with some exertion, you get perspiration, and it all interacts in a negative way. And it builds on itself, with perspiration accumulating in the surrounding garments, and next, dirt, various leakages and minor soiling from an inability to meticulously clean oneself.

All the nasty regions are so concentrated in that one area, in my opinion, there's no better place in the universe where the conditions are so right for the spontaneous generation of new strains of harmful bacteria. We try to blame it on African monkeys, but I'm not so sure. If you have an itch, you need to get it checked out. And if you happen to scratch, please clean under your fingernails before you shake my hand. The only positive thing about crotch itch is you can reach it in an emergency. The same thing goes for the ear.

The itch that has the worst placement is in the middle of the back. Normal length arms aren't long enough to reach it. So you're left seeking out a pasta stirrer, or getting someone to help you (left, right, up down), or buying a professional backscratcher. For me, the downside to a backscratcher is that it makes it itch again within seconds. So it's best not to scratch your back too well, just touch it enough to take care of the immediate problem. Touch a tree but don't rub too hard.

Time doesn't allow me to get to all the other itches, like the bottom of the foot, the top of the foot, and the tip of the nose. The tip of the nose itch is the worst of these, unless you're dealing with a foot fungus on the others. Because the itch you get on the nose is always some little bacteria that needs to be killed.

It's strange, speaking of bacteria, why we don't get itches in our internal organs. But thank God we don't, because they'd be really tough to scratch.

P.S. -- Happy Thanksgiving!

The Real Happy Meal

It's soon almost going to be that wonderful day, when family gathers from far and near to eat the stuffing out of the turkey. Of course I'm talking about the holiday known as Thanksgiving, commemorating the time that the pilgrims first did it.

We're more blessed in that we have more modern conveniences than they had. We go to the store to get the turkey that a slaughterhouse has killed rather than having to pursue one through the forest, making a bunch of turkey noises with a turkey call. Actually, I knew a guy who hunted his own turkeys, and the way he described it, you have to sit there very quietly because a turkey has very sensitive hearing and is easily alerted to danger.

The pilgrims -- they had it their way. That's what they were used to and they didn't know any difference. It's weird for us to try to imagine life without a refrigerator or freezer, but at least they had the advantage of never knowing any difference. So it looks like, once again, ignorance is bliss. But put one of us out there, nothing but a blunderbuss and no idea how to use it, and we'd show up at home with nothing and the kids would be sitting there hungry.

Fortunately, we've made progress since those earlier, darker days, of which I don't know much more than that. They were used to a lot more hardship that I'm frankly glad isn't typical for the general American populace. They had a lot of family and fellow travelers dropping dead on the boats just to get here, so how any of them kept their happiness ... it's beyond me. They were coming here for religious reasons, right? So they must've done a lot of meditation to keep up their spirits. And maybe they were visited by a hedgerow of warring pilgrim angels so that at least a remnant might survive. That'd be something to be thankful for.

Anyway, the family gathers for this important day of chowing down. Everybody brings something, maybe a cranberry salad, a basket of buns, a pie. And we pool it all together on one big table -- sometimes a second table for the kids -- and we realize that we've all got it pretty good. Still, you have to think of the hardship those other folks went through -- the pilgrims, the death -- and realize it could happen to any one of us. After all, we look around the table and we can picture the faces that aren't there from bygone years... We're all going to die.

Do I really mind the facts of mortality that much? No, I really don't. I'm not crazy about the idea -- don't get me wrong. But what can you do? Nothing. I actually use the facts of mortality to try to stretch out my lifespan. Like this, I don't engage in dangerous behaviors: criminal activity, risky friendships, interpersonal relationships with people when I don't know where they've been and what they've been doing with it, which includes everyone. My basic philosophy is: Be happy with a normal life, with a serious substratum, admittedly, of Sit quietly until you die.

We do that at Thanksgiving, everyone sitting there, thinking the same thing. All those people who used to sit around this table aren't here anymore. Could I be next? Lord, is it I? (The kids' table isn't like that ... they're very happy.)

I see the general run of kids playing at McDonald's when I'm there. They've turned the restaurant into a playground, and it's very loud in certain sections. There was a crowd one day, so I was sitting right next to the playground entrance, which turned out to be a terrible place to eat. It made me think, we ought to make a pact with the parents that they wouldn't allow their kids to go to the McDonald's playground because the rest of us want to eat in peace. If we could just persuade kids that they need to sit quietly till they die, the world would be a nicer place.

But, no, there they are, with their little Happy Meals, taking a few bites, then running off to the playground. They definitely don't have the pilgrim spirit. In 1600, they would've been dead the first day!

Thanksgiving, whether these little hellions know it or not, that's the real happy meal. So sit there quietly and eat it!

Dale And His Dog

I got the unhappy word yesterday that a dog died in the neighborhood, Dale's dog.

It was a matter of having to put him to sleep, which doesn't take away the sadness even though it was elective to some extent. Dale did it, and it broke his heart, of course, but the dog was in severe discomfort. He was old and completely under the weather.

We've all had troubles with pets. It's a trade off, the love they give and get with the fact that they live extraordinarily short lives. But at least dogs fall midway on the spectrum, not as long-lived as horses or cats but beating gerbils, hamsters, mice, and sea monkeys by a country mile.

We're going to miss Dale's dog. For all these years, it's been, "There's Dale again and that dog." We look out and see them pass, or maybe we don't, since it's been a constant sight several times a day for virtually ever. We started taking it for granted, but ... now ...

I watched them pass the last time ... it's been a week anyway.

They were basically one. Where one went, so went the other. You might say, it was Dale and two left legs or two right. Or it was the dog and six legs. The dog loved him and he loved him too. If the dog ever looked for a reason to bite Dale, he never found one. If Dale needed a fur to pet, the dog was always there. And if the dog needed a hide relatively free from fur to get close to, Dale was always there.

Sympatico. That's what Dale and his dog were, in every decent way known to man.

As Good As I'm Ever Going To Be (1000)

Yes! I have finally achieved something that's always eluded the rest of my family, 1000 posts on my blog!

Isn't that great? But, you know what? I'm still going to put my pants on one leg at a time, I'm still going to empty the mousetrap by myself, and I'm still going to have breakfast like a normal person; I won't be hiring a cook.

I said this achievement was something that eluded my family, and that's true. As much as Grandpa did in his life -- serving in World War I, guiding his family through the Great Depression, sending off three sons to World War II -- he didn't even have a blog, let alone hack out 1000 posts. He died in the late 1970s.

And it's the same story for the others. Either they died before everyone got computers, or they were too old and begrizzled and already in nursing homes, or they weren't cognizant for some other reason of the value of sharing their opinions with a vast audience of complete strangers. Whatever the reason -- and it could be that I have cousins out there with assumed aliases writing up a storm, I just don't know -- they held back, leaving the field open to me. Then I flew under the radar with quite a bit of stealth, and here I am today!

But we all know, blogging isn't just something you do so you can brag about it as it somehow relates to your dead relatives from bygone generations. That's of course a big part of it, but it's not the whole story. If you're like me, whatever generation you're living in, you have a compulsion. Even if I were living in the days of the cavemen, and computers were hard to come by, I'd still be blogging by whatever name it went by. Like in the Flintstones. I'd have a typewriter with a couple of big birds pecking out the letters on a huge slab of rock. We'd set them by the side of the road, and passersby would stop and say, "Look, he's got 1000 rocks ... It's prehistoric!"

You get a compulsion, a few ideas, and you do it, that's all. If I'd've been in the world wars, I can see myself dissing the Axis powers in my posts. I might've shamed Hitler into surrender. Or if it was some other period in history -- just name one -- I can see myself, maybe with a big quill pen (a feather two foot long) and a bottle of ink, scribbling out something. Being around bottles of ink would be messy, of course. Remember hearing about Martin Luther throwing a bottle of ink at the devil? But if that's all you had, you wouldn't know any difference. (What I really miss from childhood are those little plastic ink cartridges we put in our pens. That was some smooth writing, although, again, they were messy.)

The problem with 1000 -- and I've been thinking about this for a couple weeks, so forgive me if I get a little teary-eyed -- is that it could be my best years are behind me. And the past has stretched out so far that it's not prologue anymore. It seems natural, doesn't it? Eventually the past isn't going to be prologue, eventually it's going to be epilogue. I might be bumping up against my natural ceiling here, folks. This might be about it. Maybe I was crackin' good at one time -- when I was young and hepped up on hormones. But now, it could be I'm getting too old to cut the mustard, as Grandma always said.

When you're old, of course you can still do a few things in life, at least go through the motions. I know I go through the motions quite a bit and it seems like the frequency's picking up. You get a mental block that stays around a little too long. You're dawdling on the sidewalk, even tottering, and all the neighborhood kids pass you by with their happy games. You find yourself window-shopping for caskets and checking out the sales. Triple X entertainment doesn't hold any thrills anymore. I'll be sitting there with a cup of coffee, lose myself in a revery, and 'wake up' and my coffee's cold. That's a terrible feeling -- Where was I? But it makes me feel a little better knowing cold coffee's now in style.

I'm going to try to continue on. It seems like if I'm conscious of the idea that this is as good as I'm ever going to be, that's still a positive enough mindset to work with. If somehow I can turn that into actual optimism, without being blind to the facts, then somehow I'll be able to keep going. Maybe someday they'll make a "Pluggers" cartoon about me, if I ever start dressing in heavy flannel and one of those dorky hats.

Why My Blog Doesn't Get That Much Traffic

I've been doing this -- writing this blog -- for a long time. Like other things in my life, I've stuck it out when others didn't think I had much to give. And as far as I'm concerned, I believe I have something to show for it, even if it's only something I enjoy by myself.

Yes, welcome to the tough slog of the blog, where, if you're good, you can labor in the trenches, fight it out in the fields, and even take the fight to the enemy in the skies over India, and the crowds of the world are off looking at something else. Usually sludge. They're drawn to it, as documented in the illustration. (That's supposed to be sludge, even though it looks like an upside down phallic Cheeto.)

Anyway, here I sit -- the years behind me, the years before me, at my 999th post -- wondering where all the people are. In my earlier reveries, I pictured that I'd be featured in the Daily News by now, "Local Man Writes Own Blog." But those days came and went, along with the madding crowd. The last I saw of them, they were going over a hill toward the horizon, more or less fingering me.

Looking back, I guess I can pretty well pinpoint when the decline started. I took a hiatus of a few months, I think it was in the first half of 2009. That's when everything went downhill. But for a while there, wow, it was great. I was able to reshingle the house with the money I made from Google Ads! I had a ton of followers! But now I haven't heard from them for a while. I had the blog, I had a printed newsletter on the side, and I was even sponsoring some real life visits with readers, etc. It was a wild time.

I'll look back ... Here's a link where I was feeling a little brought down by the way my readers abandoned me. That was a sad post, "The Hiatus Persecution Complex," in which I wrote:

Of course all of this only stiffened my resistance to calls that I end my hiatus. It's the oldest truth in the book: "The persistence of resistance is equal to the insistence of existence." It's quite literally an existential crisis when you see it in those terms: The enemies insist on the existence of my blog, probably my newsletter, probably the real life meetings. But when they insist, I resist, and therefore my hiatus persists. And not only that, but whenever words rhyme so well and tell the actual truth of the matter, you can't help thinking there's some divine inspiration at play.

Divine inspiration at play! Ah yes, maybe there was divine inspiration, but you know, sometimes the divine leads his loved one through the wilderness, taking away his hat, coat, tie, and leaves him for dead without bread and water. I can look back and attest, It hasn't been easy. Leading me to ask, Where are the readers? Where are the stinking readers!?

I know they're out there. I know my blog is accessible all over the world. I myself have gone to random places and typed it in. It comes up every time. And I've seen where the few readers I have come from. There's a few in South Korea, India, Australia, and a bunch of other little countries. There's even a few in Russia! That's wild. I was brought up with the idea that Russians are barely human like us. Until I was 15, I never slept in my bed, I slept under it, thanks to the Russians. And now I have a handful of them reading my blog! Still, it's just a handful, not enough to bring down communism, so what's the use?

Friends, I'm left with more questions than answers on what exactly the problem is. But I've come up with a list of things to help rationalize for myself what's going on, why my blog doesn't get that much traffic:

-- I refuse to cater to the fashions of the day. People are very fashion-conscious. If you're not "with it" they're not "with you."

-- I keep it strictly clean, nothing blue allowed. Any mention of orifices and protuberances is strictly verboten. I'm the Fuhrer when it comes to smut talk. Naturally, there's little reward in this policy.

-- I keep my temper in check, not lashing out at my enemies. On the internet, there's little tolerance for this policy, because virtually everything that becomes popular is filled with invective. Especially religious discussions.

-- I always take the high road, using well-reasoned arguments and rational diatribes.

-- I'm not going for cheap belly laughs or anything rude. People like rude behavior, especially with the anonymity the internet brings. Nice guys finish last.

-- I've refused to buckle to the fashions of the day, loud trashy gossip and celebrity recipes.

-- I'm abiding by ever increasingly severe values while others have given up all moorings at the altar of relativism, usually with their legs spread apart and a change maker on their hips.

-- I've got a bad location, far from the blogging meccas of the coasts.

-- I've suffered from bad publicity. My publicist was a shyster and ran off with the money I gave him, what was left over from the reshingling.

-- Dark forces seem to be conspiring against me, whether out of spite or jealousy. Why would they be jealous? Probably because I'm able to consistently write quality posts whereas the others are left to plagiarize each other's works or they write like blind monkeys at broken typewriters.

-- Then there's a lot of people who act like they're too good for me. Which is odd because I have the same feeling about them. They couldn't scrape dog crap off my shoe in a way that I'd appreciate.

-- Finally, there's the vast subset of internet users -- 90% or more -- who never advance past their homepage. They're stuck toggling between their homepage and Solitaire. That's how stupid they are, so of course they're not going to find my blog.

So today I'm wishing a happy anniversary to myself -- 999 going on 1,000 -- and giving a tip of the hat to all the other blogs of the world, which, in my opinion, emit nothing but raw sewage. It's ridiculous.

Clash Of The Titans -- Masturbananda Vs. Wadd

This is the record of an event that happened recently. It tells of the clash between titans, who also happen to be dread enemies. (To be fair, Swami Sri Masturbananda judges no man to be his enemy, but he's willing to put up his dukes if attacked. As for Pastor Wadd, he has lots of enemies and loves them all, but is willing to strike first if he feels he can advance righteousness.)

Swami Masturbananda is of course pro-generative faculties, Pastor Wadd anti. He's anti-generative faculties to the extent that he feels they're being misused, as in a loveless or selfish non-procreative way.

Each man stewed in his respective quarters in such a way that each was "het up" with their own particular mix of energies. Masturbananda found his power in the divine consciousness, reaching near his bag of tricks for a handful of awareness, and in the process, blew off the roofs of five consecutive outhouses, arranged in a kind of Stonehenge way. Wadd retired to his quarters with the book, and in intense, sweaty meditation over the written word, sweaty in part because of the tight hair underpants he'd recently had woven by an old yak farmer's wife. He looked up at the brim of his black hat and saw the lights of home, where God dwells.

The next step in the process was to channel into their system the energies of their respective devotees. For Masturbananda's part, he brought in the stored up virtue of his chelas (students) that had been released through their devotions. Not a single one could blow the roof off an outhouse, that was true, or even really budge from its moorings a ceiling fan, but Masturbananda knew their hearts, that they were good. He drew in his breath, and along with the power of his students' devotions, pulled it up the interior of his spine to the Sahashrara, the crown of creation (and more).

As to Pastor Wadd, being a sexual addiction counselor, sexual addiction being loosely defined as anything stimulative of the generative faculties except in limited instances of the procreative drive, as in a conscious decision not to allow the human species to become extinct, he reached out mentally and channeled his counselees' many repressed energies, coupled with the grimness of their regrets.

Then they came together over the skies of India, ascending each one to a place of prominence in the heavens.

Wadd began the proceedings, sending powerful volts toward Masturbananda's crotch. But the swami, even in the face of such power, had no difficulty because his chakras defended him, with a loud metallic slamming lockdown noise being audible from the ground.

Masturbananda, striking second, sent powerful volts of his own toward the sun's swag drop, with huge fireballs descending, meant to fry Wadd's brain. In response, Wadd pulled out a big mirror and, upon reflection, staggered Masturbananda. The swami, feeling himself weakened from the top of his head to a region near the navel, and from the feet up to his groin, thrust his hips and sent super volts toward Wadd's own crotch. The thrusting alone brought Masturbananda renewed energy, but the volts took away Wadd's power, burning a hole in his black pants; the smell of burnt yak fur filled the air. He apparently wasn't cognizant enough of that area of his body to defend it.

Masturbananda pulled back on the power, having made his point, and being merciful. Wadd's condition wasn't good, but perhaps he learned something. All his sensations from the neck down were neutralized, to make the point that he had emphasized the head and neglected the rest of the body. Of course Wadd could never get it. He thrashed around in midair, shaking his head, denying culpability, and covering the exposed area. With that, the pastor retreated, hoping to save himself and perhaps fight another day. We saw him disappearing over the horizon somewhere.

Swami Sri Masturbananda descended to his chelas' delight, teaching them later in a grand symposium to continue the techniques, and let no man tell you different!

Bikers Bars Need A Pink Professor

It's one of those counterintuitive facts of life, like 'Which line is the longest' in optical illusions, that every bikers bar needs a Pink Professor among their clientele.

I say they "need" a Pink Professor, but of course that doesn't mean they actually have one. They can stumble along apparently in a very nice way and have a reasonably nice business. They'll have bikers in and bikers out, with a kind of malaise that is barely discernible but nonetheless is very much there. They'll appear to be enjoying themselves and yet there'll always be the nagging sense that something's missing.

It's my contention that actual Pink Professors are tough to come by. Not tough to come by in that there's very few of them. But tough to come by in that they're not always drawn to bikers bars. They're very smart individuals -- that is true -- but it usually escapes them that a bikers bar needs them and would welcome them if they were to show up. I feel fairly proud, I have to say, that I know about this. I didn't always know about it, of course. But I had the opportunity of meeting the fellow in our town who's called the Pink Professor. And I know of his place at one of the local bikers bars. And I'm guessing about the rest -- call it human nature -- that other bikers bars, whether they know it or not, need their own Pink Professor.

The Pink Professor I know himself didn't know about his intrinsic place in the bikers bar ecology until it happened. He showed up, they gave him a hard time, but he stuck it out, gaining their trust, adding to their appreciation of their group, etc., etc., and now he's there to stay. (When I first wrote about the P.P., I wrote about him in a hypothetical way, because he hadn't given me the green light to discuss his actual business. Since then, he's allowed me to open the closet door and reveal some of the things of his life. I love the guy.)

The whole thing about it being counterintuitive ... it wouldn't have been my first thought. That they gave him a hard time, I could put a check mark by that; that I'd get. We don't immediately accept it that rough will accept nice, since it seems like rough will only accept rough. But it's kind of like in Ike and Tina Turner's version of "Proud Mary," where they do the first half nice and they do the last half rough. The Pink Professor indeed is a nice guy, and, remarkably, he fits right in!

One theory about this is that rough has no way to distinguish itself if there's not a nicer or softer counterpart. It needs the contrast by which to more clearly define itself. Then I'd add to that, to nudge it along a bit, that there's a soft spot in the heart of every biker. They're a band of brothers, after all, and you don't get that simply with rock solid roughness. The softness necessary is self evident. So, whether it's with a brother, one of your own kind, or with one who draws a greater contrast, they're very open to all people. It's just that a Pink Professor is so obviously a different personality type that we think at first that they can't mix.

In fact, they like him a lot! And he likes them a lot, too! It's a beautiful thing, giving us all hope that, given enough time and effort, all hostilities might cease between peoples, of different countries and persuasions. The Hatfields and McCoys, the Israelis and Palestinians, Republicans and Democrats, Freepers and Sane People. If they can do it somehow on their own, more power to them! If it takes a Pink Professor type of individual in their midst, then so be it.

The actual Pink Professor, the one I know, is well aware of the way he fits in at the bikers bar, and he relishes his role. But for him, it's all sincerity. When he shows up on an evening, he's not thinking of his role in an analytical way. He's always thinking of it in terms of the real relationships he has, and the fact that he, as a patron of the bar, also wants to have a good time. So he's not looking for any favors or any breaks. As far as he presents himself, he's simply one of the guys at the bar. Nothing different about him. Just one of the boys.

That's true, and we would never take that away from him for a minute. We love him too much. But we can stand back and see there's a whole other dimension to his place in that setting. He is the Pink Professor, indispensable to that bikers bar's vibe and rich camaraderie. Worth his weight in gold!

Cold Case -- The Following Incident (1970)

COLD CASE -- THE TRIVIAL STUFF

I have another case that has presented itself, and I'm proudly including it in my Cold Case file, something to look at and perhaps solve.

Right up front, I need to stress that the evidence is slim on this one. We don't know the make or model of the vehicle involved, nor do we know the exact date, nor do we have the slightest clue as to who was driving it.

I don't usually ask for help from the public, because I'm usually able to put together a pretty strong investigation with very few clues, but in this case I'm making an exception. Please -- and let me stress that, please, if you have any information as to the identity and whereabouts of the driver in this incidence, let me know. If I can get those particulars, I'm sure it will put me pretty far ahead as to tying up any of the other loose ends.

I'm pretty sure this incident happened in 1970, and it seems like it was the fall. That means it's getting away from us somewhat, and will continue to do so the more time passes unless we can get the facts nailed down. At this point, again, not knowing the identities, etc., it could very well be that those involved are deceased, etc. But I feel it's an important enough matter that I can't let something like that stop me. It's driven me crazy all these years -- decades -- and I'd like to finally be able to put it to rest. A special note to my surviving relatives: If I should die before this is solved, please pick up the scent and follow the trail; the answers have to be out there somewhere.

The incident, the facts as I recall them are:

I was driving a car and had a female passenger, a high school friend. We were driving around the town here, when it suddenly became clear that we were being followed. It was another car, if memory serves, and it had several people in it, estimated between three and six. A driver was in the driver's seat, driving. It appeared that he was male. We proceeded on our way, not being able to ID anyone. We drove up and down several streets. They followed us maybe 20 minutes. Then I drove her to her home and we pulled in the alley/driveway and parked next to her house. The vehicle behind us continued on, speeding up the road to the north. I don't remember the make or model.

Admittedly, this isn't much to go on. And the pursuit for facts is hampered by the reality that they didn't have video cameras on every building and post back then. And even if there had been a videotape, it's likely someone would have lost it by now. Because I had videotapes in the '90s and '00s that I can't find now, mostly because they've been thrown away or donated to Goodwill. And we're talking about 1970, when video would've been on open reels, wasn't readily accessible, and in fact wasn't used for videotaping random cars, especially at night. Did I mention it was night?

The thing that's driven me crazy all these years is, Who were these guys? What did they want? With the relevance being, 1) To satisfy my curiosity, and, 2) To know if they're harassing other people yet today.

But how am I to solve the case without something to go on? That's a huge issue. Still, I'm not ready to give up!

I'm thinking my best bet might be to return to the neighborhood where the girl lived and to look around for tire marks matching 1970 and earlier model tires. If I can put together a list of tires available, then get a list from tire dealers as to who they sold tires to at the time, I might be able to narrow it down. Of course then I will have to contact everyone living from the high school, as to the model of tires they had back then. Factoring in that most people don't keep this kind of information on the tip of their tongue, I'll also ask them if they were the ones following us that night.

Like I said, that's my best bet. But there's surely other evidence still out there. I believe that everything is recorded somewhere in the Akashic and Karmic records, the difficult trick being to gain access to them. Barring that, I don't know what I'll do. Although there could be some benefit in going to the police department and asking them if they knew of any habitual followers in 1970. That would probably yield something. And I could also interview any survivors, people who lived on the streets we drove down ... but I don't remember what they were precisely. I could contact the girl passenger as well, but she didn't know at the time who the guys were, or so she said.

Lastly, and I don't know why I didn't mention this first, I could have myself hypnotized, because maybe from my subconscious I could help make a sketch of the shadowy driver, then match it up with yearbook photos.

Anyway, they don't call them cold cases for nothing. And this one is getting colder all the time. My job -- my passion -- is to make sure it's solved before it's unsolvable.

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My other cold cases are:
Cold Case -- The Trivial Stuff
Cold Case -- Errors In Books
Cold Case -- Details On "The Grandpa Case"
Cold Case -- The Two Brothers
Cold Case -- Did The Major Industrialists Hide The Flight Plan?
For those who are writing in about these cases, where the investigations stand, alas, there isn't any new evidence yet.

The Deflowering Of Swami Masturbananda

I love the teachings of Swami Sri Masturbananda. He's so laid back and free. Everything about his way is airy and light. There is such a big difference between the master, and, say, a teacher like Pastor Wadd, whose constant battle-cry is "Abstinence!" to the point of self-castration. One finds the highest consciousness in our nature, the other says to deny nature and somehow you'll gain your reward.

I've been cleaning up around the back yard, fallen leaves, other things that have blown off the trees, twigs, etc., and some of the flowers that have withered up and died with fall. Seeing a big basket of crunchy chrysanthemums makes me think of Sri Masturbananda's teachings on the cyclical nature of things, and what we can do about it.

There's all these flowers -- the lilies of the field and wildflowers of all kinds out on the hills, unnoticed by any. But they have their day in the sun. And if someone comes along to pick them, that's just as well, too! They'll repopulate the place -- the others -- to make up for their plucked comrades. The bees are standing guard to make sure it gets accomplished. With the deflowering comes more flowering in its place!

I can see the eternal spirit of Masturbananda in every field of posies. He's the true bloom in a field of weeds. If we were to imagine weeds as a bad thing for a moment, and of course they're not, they might represent the more ascetic masters (and I'm charitable enough even to include Pastor Wadd in that number), who keep their business nice and tidy, but also ultimately withered and shriveled. I know there's some karma I'm accruing by speaking this way of them, but I'll work it out later.

Instead, Sri Masturbananda leads us to pick the flowers on the field, to pick and to pull. How beautiful it is, going with the fullness of his teaching, to pick the one you'll pull, then pull the one you pick. It's like the old song, with a few variations: "If you can't be with the one you'd pick, honey, pull the one you're with." Or something like that! Although pulling the one you're with isn't really part of the master's teachings insofar as I know, because they can pull their own.

What's the value of any of this? Just this, that in those five to 10 seconds of ecstasy we have the glimpses of the divine consciousness that ultimately will be our constant state. Whether it takes a million years or a million incarnations to reach makes no difference. Our creator has given us the means of glimpsing the glory here and now, and our master, Swami Sri Masturbananda, puts it within easy reach of every man. (Women have a parallel means of glory, but you'd have to ask them exactly how it works.)

Flowering and deflowering, the way of true life! Blessings from the master ... and of course to him!

The Pink Professor -- The Biological Impetus

It's mid-November and love's in the air at the Roadhog Roadhouse, the bikers bar frequented by The Pink Professor.

The fact that it's mid-November has nothing to do with it, of course, since there's always a little something going on indicative of the ways of Cupid, the winged fairy of fornication, at the Roadhog.

And none among the patronage of the bar notices and appreciates it quite like The Pink Professor, as he settles in and enjoys an imported beer. Because there's no one else quite like him there, so appreciative of life, on the one hand, and on the other, so quick to put it all in some larger context.

Things get underway every night around dinner time. They're open through the day for the occasional customer, but things really get revved up when the day is passing toward night. The Pink Professor checks in through the day, maybe dropping off the morning paper for the staff. It's still good, even though he might've cut out an article or two, maybe a recipe or cartoon.

Then he checks back at night, at no particular time, which is really a sign of something. It's a sign that he belongs there, because he doesn't have to check in at a particular time. Everyone's expecting him, but whenever he gets there ... that's when he gets there. He no longer has to prove himself, like might happen if he were still in process of going for acceptance but not serious enough about it to show up at the same time each night.

Anyway, love is always in bloom at the Roadhog. The waitresses have their pick of the clientele. There's several couples from the neighborhood in there to play pool and spoon and perhaps shop around. There's ladies night, which the ladies and the guys appreciate, and so forth. It all works together; you get enough folks showing up, and enough drinks, and things happen without having to explain it.

The Pink Professor is parked on a wooden chair by the southernmost pool table, casually sitting on it with the back of the chair as the front. Some tough guys are playing a game. And he's a part of the conversation on the ways of love, because there's always some kind of talk about how "easy" someone is, or how "hot," or whether someone's breaking up, "dumping," "ditching," "giving the old heave ho," etc.

The conversation goes on, then the group hears a knowing chuckle, so they look down at a very delighted Pink Professor. They want to know what he's laughing at, and he says he's not really laughing at anything, just laughing with something. Because, he explains, what he's thinking about is "the biological impetus" always at work in their midst. He explains a little of what he means and how it's ever been and shall always be.

The biological impetus is a term for the congeries of conscious and unconscious desires and drives ever present in the behaviors of mating habits and rituals. The impetus goes back to the beginning, when time itself was young. And it's with us today, regardless of style and the superficial shifting of culture.

He stretches their credulity a little farther, explaining that that's why pornography is so boring: Not enough variety, unless you're part of the action. The impetus isn't to watch other people's boring body parts go through their motions, but to be part of it. When the action's happening with us, it's all quite interesting. Even the smallest protozoa is interested, hanging out in its equivalent of a bikers bar looking to get lucky. And the guy just getting off work at the car fix-it place up the road, sneaking in for what he might find, is no different.

The Pink Professor glances over at the bar, where Waitress Exhibit A is doing an "innocent" tushy wag not going unnoticed by the guy standing at the jukebox. In an instant, the Pink Professor has connected the dots, knowing how it will later end ... He muses over a snippet of T.S. Eliot's "The Wasteland":

Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)

It's not that funny, of course, but the Pink Professor smiles nonetheless, a wistful, forlorn smile that remarkably combines a strange look of deep concern and bemused blitheness. And you really have to have an understanding face to do that. One of the first mates of the Roadhog sees this strange look, that usually accompanies a bout of diarrhea, and asks if anything's wrong. "No, Tony," he says as he tries to shake the poetry out of his system, "I'm fine. Thank you for asking." Kind to the end!

It's an old old story, very old yet new as tomorrow's clipped up newspaper, the things we do for love and the drives that make it happen.

The Last Time I Checked

The phrase "The Last Time I Checked" is one I don't like. It's like George W. Bush, completely disgusting to me. Or dog waste or freezer burnt meat or outdated milk. All four of which, the last time I checked, were things I didn't like. And should I check again, as I've had to recently in the case of Bush, I'm sure my opinion wouldn't have changed since the last time I checked.

I just checked my archives and it looks like I've never used the phrase before today. The last time I checked was just a few minutes ago. I may have used it in conversation -- like in some moment of contention and tiredness, but I don't remember it. Actually, the last time I checked, I'm usually wide awake if any contention happens, out of an instinctual desire for survival.

We all want to keep tabs on things. And with all the "last time I checked" talk I hear on the internet, we're keeping things checked out pretty well. To be constantly checking things means constant vigilance. It's probably Wikipedia's fault. I know every time someone dies, I immediately go to Wiki to see if someone's put in their death date yet, and someone always has. We can't wait 10 years for the encyclopedia to get updated, like we used to. You can go to Goodwill and get one of our old encyclopedias where JFK is still president. And the last time I checked Wiki, he's been dead for a number of years. So maybe that's why everyone's so mean today, too much checking; no one has time for anything else.

You have to be really vigilant to maintain such vigilance. We're checking once, then twice, then again. Like Santa Claus: "He's checking it once, checking it twice, going to find out who's naught and nice." And the last time he checked, I was nice.

I checked with a Google search on this phrase last night. It had 11,000,000 hits. I checked again this morning. It had 11,300,000 hits! So roughly another 300,000 people since last night did more checking and wrote about it on the internet. Imagine all the millions who checked things and didn't make it public. But 300,000? The last time I checked, 300,000 was a bunch! In one night!

Where did this phrase come from? I didn't hear it in the '50s, the '60s, the '70s, the '80s ... although, who knows, the last time I checked, I don't have a photographic memory. Plus, in the '50s I was a baby and a toddler and a bigger kid. I had other people doing my checking for me. In fact, they were checking me. "The last time I checked, he was dry."

A few weeks ago we had the "The Rent Is Too Damned High" party candidate for New York governor. And he kept saying that in the debate. Maybe next time I'll start the "The Last Time I Checked" party. That'd be a great catchphrase. I'm in the debate, and finally it comes around to me, and whatever the issue, I'm saying, "The last time I checked, taxes were too damned high" or too damned low, whichever they happen to be at the time.

Then if I get into a fight with one of the other candidates, of course I'll have a killer line. "The last time I checked, you were a bastard, and I see you haven't changed!"

And of course, if there's some issue about me getting equal time, I'll say, "The last time I checked, my opponent's time expired five minutes before he quit talking, which the last time I checked was a violation of the rules that we agreed on." Then I'll go on to make several points on other things I'd recently checked on.

Enough of this. The day's getting on. And the last time I checked, I've got a busy day today. Need to go.

Small Us, Big Everything Else

My old friend Michio Kaku was on TV again last night, his usual place, the Science Channel. He and I were in school together. He was the dumbest kid in class. I don't know how he got so smart since then, unless he just decided to apply himself. So it might be true, what they say about applying yourself. I wonder if it'd work for me after all these years.

I'm just kidding, of course, since I am a giant brain. That's what they used to call me, anyway. Whether I actually know anything -- heart knowledge -- or whether it's all just head knowledge, that's another question. I think I know quite a bit. I watch Jeopardy almost everyday, and usually can get 10-12 of the answers right. Double Jeopardy's always my downfall.

Michio was talking about the universe -- what else? In this case he was talking about black holes, which I'm coming to appreciate more and more all the time. I never really knew what a black hole was -- still don't, but I'm learning more about them all the time. For one, they say there's a black hole at the center of every galaxy. I hear something like that and I start thinking of something mind-blowing. All this time I thought they were just random, maybe theoretical things out there somewhere, not at the center of everything.

So, to review, I don't know that much, because I never applied myself. That, and possibly that in combination with the fact that my potential is not all it might've been. But I'm brainy enough to know that my perspective on the universe depends on me being here -- so that's something. Take me out of the equation and everything would keep going as it always has -- or maybe it'd collapse.

Another science show was also on galaxies and communicating with advanced civilizations possibly out there. The stuff of SETI and armchair scientists using their own PCs to scan for radio signals from distant sources. The host, a scientist, was more than a little skeptical that any of this can do any good. The biggest problem, the vastness of the distances. He said we keep hearing that our radio/TV signals have been beamed into space for close to 100 years, like that's anything. But the galaxies he's talking about out there won't be able to receive our signals for another 900 years! Meaning it's a little early to be expecting a reply when they've still got nine centuries to make sure their sets are adjusted!

So are we small? He held up a piece of dust and that was the Earth. Then the vastness all around him was everything else. It gave me a humbling perspective on some of the tasks that I need to do around here, including raking the leaves. As though, perhaps, maybe, it doesn't make that much difference. Except in the sense that it makes a difference to me, and the neighbors also appreciate it.

We're left with the distances being vast. But they've always been so. And we haven't felt insignificant all this time. So it's our decision to keep on like we've been keeping on. The fact that I'm about to have 1,000 blog posts on this blog is still a major event in world and galactic history. I will blow a party horn when the magical day arrives.

None of us needs to feel so small that we don't matter. Let's turn this thing around: The Earth may be a tiny place. There may be incredible vastness all around us. And so forth and so on. But at this point a lot of that stuff out there isn't habitable. Just look how smart we were. Look how we beat the odds and happened to be born on a planet that is habitable! I could've picked a world that wouldn't sustain life, but I didn't. And my parents didn't either. They picked Earth. I come from a really smart family!