On Capturing The Essence Of Future Lovers In Jars

Ummmmm! I do like those curves, you sweet thang! If you'd just step out of the shadows and come down off that mudflap where I might see you better, that'd be great ...I can tell you like to get down and dirty ... Just let me get one of these jars open and you can slip in and make yourself more comfortable.

My mind's been racing, and my heart, since coming up with a nice riff on Swami Masturbananda's teaching about air devotions with a person's essence after she or he has departed. You may remember, he sees where the maidens are, then after they're gone, he puts his tent on that spot, giving him very nice relations with their remaining energy.

I was writing about that, and thinking about that, and I came up with the idea of capturing their essence in jars, then taking it home for greater privacy, rather than thrusting and putting on a XXX show out in public. Plus, if you keep a whole pantry of jars, you could be set for a cold winter -- I don't know -- or if you just don't feel like going out. You might take down a jar of "Essence of Cool Redhead" and just stay home.

Of course this isn't exactly Swami Masturbananda's teaching, so it might not be infallible. Next time I see him I'll run it by him. And I know what will happen: If it's something he endorses, everyone will be doing it. As it is for now, though, it's up to me to try it or theorize about it or promote it. I don't really have any big reason to promote it, since I don't have any financial interest in the making or selling of jars. The only reason I might promote it would be to spread happiness among the general public, since I'm sure there's a lot of lonely hearts out there who wouldn't mind a date every night. Men and women, I'm thinking, although I've always had my doubts that women are by nature sexual creatures. In my experience, it seems like most of them would rather knit, crochet, or put on a mudpack, curlers, and go to bed early.

So if I do anything, like usual, it'll have to center in on the experience of men. And jarfuls of the essence of women, gathered or captured here or there, wherever a guy might reasonably do it without interference or trouble. I'm trying to think of where I was the other day, before I had this idea. There was a sweet young thang that went by. You'd probably like to have a whole case of her in jars. And label them, and carefully use up the supply, like 1000 year old wine, a sip every decade or so. You weren't there, but if you had been, you'd probably still be standing there canning essence! And there'd be no reason to boil it 'cause it was hot enough. Although boiling canned food is meant to get rid of bacteria, and I couldn't swear she wouldn't have some of that.

But labeling and stocking and all that, that's part of the theoretical work that I said someone would need to do. Because, frankly, I don't know how long someone's vibratory essence would stay fresh in a jar. Being theoretically very subtle, it could be that it'd evaporate or even go bad quickly. I know it's tricky to store mushrooms, just to name something that's physically present but is also evanescent in certain respects. You need to eat them about as soon as you find them. So, if we determine that a mason jar of essence can't be reliably kept, that'd have ramifications for a lot of this.

I'm going to keep thinking about it. And I'm going to use some of the jars we've got around the house before I buy actual canning jars. The trouble is they might not be as pure, since they've already had food in them. So I might get someone who tastes like peanut butter, or, worse, pickles. Here's a great idea, capture some essence in an old Tabasco bottle. Now that'd be spicy! Even if the bottles or jars are used, it's worth a try, just to get me started.

There's a few ladies who go by with their dogs every morning. So what I'll do, I'll be right around the corner and as soon as they're out of sight, I'll get over to the sidewalk and get what I can. And just hope when I'm pouring it out some lonely night it doesn't turn out that I got their dog mixed in with it. That'd be bad. Think of me in my bathrobe and suddenly a jar of dog essence is peeing on my leg!

What I might do is just leave a few jars around town, like where the cheerleaders hang out, and hope for the best. How, though, I'm going to know precisely what I've got, again, that's going to be a problem. Instead of cheerleaders, some of the football players might seep in, say, if the cheerleaders somehow get the essence of the players on them by the obvious exchange of energy that goes in that kind of symbiotic relationship. Then I'm pouring out a big jar of a sweet rah-rah girl and find myself gang tackled in my own bed! And the last thing I want is my backfield in motion...

So there's some complications to work out. But it definitely sounds like a good idea, at least in theory. You could have jars all over town, but unless they're carefully monitored, it could be disaster at every turn. I just need to have some way of examining the captured essence, otherwise there's no quality controls.

Air Devotions With Swami Masturbananda

What a terrific master! Swami Sri Masturbananda goes to any length to help his chelas (students) realize the divine consciousness.

His whole teaching is a simple one, that each of us has a place in the highest consciousness but we generally fail to realize it. It's technically wrong to call it a place of ecstasy per se, for it is the place where the joy of life simply is. It's our birthright, our existence-right. It's where we always are, but with delusion ... we often don't know it.

So far, so good. That's what most masters teach. But our master takes it one step further. The divine -- the source at the heart of life -- has been gracious, giving us the means to experience the ecstasy, the highest consciousness, in up to 10-12 second glimpses, bypassing possibly a million fruitless incarnations. The awareness is literally here and now!

How this works out for men, most of us chelas can describe the process very easily. How it works out for women, they have some means of doing it which is mostly a mystery to men. Because our experience has mostly been that they're prudes who by and large have shunned our advances. But what we see in the media is different, that they are indeed supposedly very libidinous and can barely be tamed. Presumably in these activities, if indeed there are activities, they are also occasionally glimpsing the presence and joy of the divine.

Whatever women's experiences actually are, of course we know they do us men a lot of good, being one of the two main sources of the mind-stuff at the heart of this devotional activity. We like the wiggle in their walk, and, for some, the giggle in their talk is very nice. And who hasn't glimpsed a group of women bicyclists passing by at times, with the seat perhaps a little high? Even something like this, originating more in a desire for aerodynamics than in fueling some third party's fantasies, can be a very gripping image, one to mentally file away for future reference.

One of Swami Masturbananda's interesting techniques, in my opinion best practiced with as much privacy as you can manage, is to share in the actual essence of the person when they're no longer (apparently) physically present. Are you catching his drift? Everything is energy, and to be where it has recently been concentrated is to share those vibrations. A good term for it would be air devotions. With the imagination, remembrance, and the actual vibrations, it may be second best in certain respects, but it's still pretty good.

What I can describe is what I saw with the master himself in India. A group of giggling maidens went up the side of the mountain to get some laundry that was drying. They where there wiggling and giggling for maybe 10 minutes, folding their underwear and stockings and things. They had the joy of life.

Then they left, and as soon as they did, Master led out a group of students, pitching his little tent right on the spot. In the illustration above, I've made a cutaway version so you can see that he's in there; in actual fact, no man can look upon him in his heat and live. He's there because their essence, in part, is still there. With a few devotional moves -- hips swiveling, pelvic thrusts, etc. -- his air devotions are completed. For the average student doing this, the tent might collapse. For the master, with his greater power, it usually blows up, dissolves, or spontaneously combusts.

Is there any harm or foul to the maidens? None that we know of, although, again, with his greater power, it's technically possible that he has heirs he hasn't yet met. But, hey, we're in a vast, wonderful, swirling creation, and things happen! For the rest of us, air devotions -- whether after a Christmas party or a walk in the park -- are going to have few extraneous results, except possible arrest for indecent exposure. We just have to hope that our society lives up to its great principles of religious freedom.

Addressing that last point, there might be some value in tweaking Masturbananda's techniques, such as carrying a jar with you in public, then capturing some of the essence and taking it home for greater privacy. And of course in that case -- as if I have to tell you! -- you wouldn't need to pack the tent. You wouldn't even need a tent in that case, since you'd be home with your normal bed or bathroom. I don't know, you might even keep jarfuls in a pantry so you're not always having to run out.

I Double The Rage, Beating Santa Fans

Victory! I found the way to pull this thing out of the fire ... I simply refused to take no for an answer...

They thought they were going to bully me into submission? They thought they were going to win the day with death threats and picketing outside my house? Well, maybe next time they'll think again! Because not only did I pull the thing out of the fire, I kicked ___ and took names! Leaving them to slink off, never to rise again!

That felt good ... And it showed the power of one man sufficiently enraged, with the lesson being, I guess, to tap into the power of your rage at just the right moment. Then when it's unleashed, to let it run rampant, taking no prisoners. Maybe it doesn't sound like a formula for success in the civic arena, where footsie and tabling motions is the usual order of the day. But it could be it's just not used enough; people are too reticent to get really mad, not knowing the secret.

I'm going to have to summarize the whole thing for those of you who've been too ___-lazy the last couple days to read my ___n' blog. The idea came to me that we really ought to do some editing on the beloved poem, "Twas The Night Before Christmas." There's several objectionable things in the poem, as it portrays Santa Claus in a way that's unhealthy and undesirable for our children. You could make a case that it encourages obesity, wearing fur, and smoking, just to name a few. I only raised an objection to the latter, merely seeking to remove the verse

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

Then, of course, I was met with protests, a quickly put together sideshow of the stupid American mob full of their usual insults and death threats, driven by the local media putting a false slant on the issue, making it an issue of "Crank vs. Beloved Poem," and even questioning my paternity. The positive difference my cause would make for children was neglected. Well, it came to a head last night in a big meeting of the community. An issue this big doesn't come along everyday, so everyone in town was there.

I was fearful on arriving and seeing the crowds, but then I was immediately encouraged when some of the people wanted my autograph. Seriously. I suddenly realized the value in being a major villain: Everyone secretly loves you! Jesse James, Al Capone, Adolph Hitler, the Khmer Rouge, the Soviet dictators, etc. Can it be just a coincidence that these guys are on the History channel all the time? And just the other day I saw a set of six shot glasses for sale with pictures of the Soviet dictators on them, seriously! I suddenly had the key...

Damn, this is something to work with! This is why the Republicans won the election! People love the bad guy! They just want to see someone blow everything up! They don't really care that I might be trying to save their children, that doesn't matter to them; they just want the bad guy to come in and make a mess.

Right there on the curb, I took some pantywaist's bullhorn from his hand and addressed the mob, telling them to shut the ___ up, that this stinking poem was going down. I shouted they could accept it peacefully or they could go to ___, it made no never mind to me. I next threw the bullhorn to the ground and stomped on it, prompting 10 more people to ask for my autograph.

The meeting was at the library, and it was packed out. And suddenly I had the key to life: Walk in there like you know what you're doing, stand there with your face set like flint, and periodically finger the panel and no one's going to give you any ___. It's all Jesus. It's all Jungian archetypes on display. No one can question mythology. Satan in Milton, cf. Stanley Fish, Surprised By Sin. It all proclaims the power of the villain!

There were several church/librarian ladies on the panel, and of course one of the town's milquetoast leaders as moderator. This poor schmuck is one of the town leaders just because everyone else is too lazy to do it and he likes the attention. My blood boils when I think of him. I've been in meetings he's lead before. He's so hopelessly officious, everything has to be cut and dry from a prior meeting in the backroom. But he shuffles papers and occasionally acts confused to give the illusion that the meeting's conclusions aren't foreordained.

Well, he wasn't expecting this: The place cleared out when I strode to the front and picked up his desk and held it over my head. I stood there and calmly outlined my position about the line in the poem being objectionable because of the bad example (smoking) it sets for our children and future generations. I talked for 15 minutes, the desk fully aloft. I explained that we could do this the easy way or the hard way, and that, frankly, it felt like I was in the mood for a little of both.

The crowd by now was putty in my hands. They knew a 200-pound desk being held high that whole time was an implied threat to the whole system, and that I was likely to do anything to get my way. I was negotiating from a position of strength. In a very calm way, I asked the crowd to push up against the wall, because I didn't want anyone to get hurt. Then in the big open space, I brought that SOBin' desk down, shattering it in a million pieces. I stomped through the debris, pointing my finger in their faces and screamed out a rant that is still echoing in the walls.

I went to the press corps and dressed them down. Then I turned my attention to those who'd really opposed me, the grade school teachers and librarians. I had these old marms and the few pantywaist "men" in that line of work in tears. They blubbered out an admission that they were guilty of shortsightedness. Finally, I pulled the moderator from his chair, getting him in a full nelson with my knee up against his back. I screamed, "Tell them! Tell them!" And he also blubbered out an admission, that he'd never run an honest meeting in his life.

That cinched my case. But I wasn't finished yet. I called for a mob to come together. And we all took the offenders from the room out into the parking lot, the teachers, librarians, the moderator, and the local press. I had a kid get the tar and feathers that I keep in my car. We stripped them all naked, tarred and feathered them, and literally ran them out of town on a rail. They were barely out of town when they were all struck and killed by a train.

Now no one dared oppose me. I led the mob to the east side of town, where we stood outside a notorious whorehouse. The mayor was roused from bed. With his pants and underwear still around his ankles, he signed an official proclamation, by fiat removing the offending verse from "Twas The Night Before Christmas." It's finally done! The children are saved from a life of smoking! And now Santa will live forever!

So, to the rest of you out there, beware when you recite this poem. Because I will be watching and I will be listening. And I will track you down. You don't want to see what I can do when I get really good and mad.

I'm Afraid Of Death Threats From Santa Fans

It's been a tough couple days around here. I've always known the American citizenry is a sleeping murderous giant, able to rise from its stupor if sufficiently aroused. It doesn't always take much, a few minor kicks to its psychic groin, like 9/11, a Facebook redesign, or the terrible Yogi Bear voice in the new movie. It really can be anything, if the media gets a hold of it and makes it the next biggest thing.

I've been involved in a few close calls, but so far there's always been other more vocal hotheads who step in and take the spotlight, meaning I've been able to remain in obscurity and not get any significant blame. But this time, it looks like they're trying to pin the whole rap on me and me alone. And as far as I can tell, if this is a matter for blame -- I think I deserve a medal -- then I guess this time I'll have to be it.

Thankfully for me, though, so far, it's only a local story, and I'm hoping that's the way it stays. I hope we can resolve this to my satisfaction without too much publicity. Or, I'd like to see some positive signs of progress, then have some other opportunistic guy step in to get the credit and thereby absorb the brunt of the blame as well.

It'd really be too much for me, let's say, to have CNN trucks and the whole media frenzy scene at my humble door. I really don't like criticism as it is ... I only read about half the mail I get on the blog ... I still have notes from my 2nd grade teacher my mom hasn't seen yet, that's how sensitive I am ... so to get it from strangers far and wide, spouting off, comparing me to the other great villains of history would be too much.

And maybe you noticed it before, that anytime some local guy makes the news, it's always accompanied by death threats? Meaning, I guess, that there's plenty of wackos out there who don't realize phone calls can be traced, email leaves a clear digital trail, and, even if you get me, they're doing wonderful things with forensics and you'll never get away with it. Still, in the heat of the moment, anything can happen. The police can't be everywhere. Unlike Sherwin-Williams, Dunkin Donuts doesn't cover the world. And they might be pro-Santa anyway.

They think I'm anti-Santa. That's the spin this thing has taken. That I'm opposed to Christmas, and they're even invoking God, saying God hates me. I know there's some group out there who's so close to God they have the authorized list of everyone He hates. If they get wind of this controversy, all hope will be lost. The bad news for me is that they're clearly attracted to any kind of nasty scuttlebutt.

I don't know how I could've made this any more obvious: I'm not against Santa Claus, tradition, Christmas, or God. All I wanted to do was call for some very minor tinkering with a poem, "Twas The Night Before Christmas," to take out one little reference to Santa smoking a pipe. Is that so huge?

I could almost understand the controversy if the protesters were pipe-smokers or big fans of the pipe. These fanatics really love the pipe and expect everyone else to as well. I'd say they're just babies who haven't given up the pacifier. And before they get upset, just let me say, I myself have smoked a pipe. A few times in the past. The terrible thing, in my opinion, about smoking a pipe is that you waste all day keeping it lit. There's something about a pipe, it can't keep the required mixture of fire and oxygen in its little bowl; it's self-snuffing, the most suicidal form of smoking.

But my cause, if that's what you want to call it, has a very small goal but with some very major benefits. If we can protect untold generations of children from this line in the poem,

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

just think of the positive difference that might come from that. Face it, those not yet born, but who definitely will be born, will also grow up hearing this poem. But the big difference is they won't know the difference if this line is missing. And, look, we're talking about a virtual infinity of new generations coming along. Let's just think of the next million generations; this poem is going to outlive us all, especially the ones who started smoking thanks to Santa's bad example. In that million generations, if we can stop just one child from smoking -- let's say he's a little guy a couple hundred thousand years from now -- wouldn't it be well worth it? I believe so.

When it happens, they'll interview him and he'll give all the credit to there being something about this poem that he can't put his finger on, but whatever it is, he'll say, he definitely felt no desire to start smoking. Crowds will erupt in glory, young women will name their children after me, and college freshmen will spend the whole day in their dorm, privately celebrating.

Of course, the trick is negotiating my way through the thicket at hand to the clearance ahead, from the darkness to the sunshine. And I'm looking for some other guy to step in to take the credit. Because, at least till Christmas is come and gone this year, I'm very afraid I'm going to be getting death threats from die hard Santa fans. Well, I've got to go. Sunrise is at hand, and that's about the time they always get up.

Battling "Twas The Night Before Christmas"

I've been involved in a pitched battle against the poem "Twas The Night Before Christmas." My goal is to see it removed from circulation, or barring that, to get it out of the reach of children.

Maybe you saw the article in the Daily News yesterday, "Local Man Objects To Beloved Poem." The way they slanted the story, it sounds like I'm some kind of crank. And I'm thinking the lack of public support I'm getting so far is mostly owed to that. It's only been a couple days and so far it's been a lonely battle.

Of course I think my objections to this "beloved poem" are entirely just. And anyway, isn't this supposed to be a land where we respect one another's right to "air grievances"? If I could just get a fair hearing without people prejudging who's right and who's wrong, then I'm sure I'd come out with the long end of the stick.

My basic objection to this "beloved poem" is the line that, I believe, glorifies smoking, presenting some very harmful imagery for our children to be reading or hearing:

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

Essentially, if they'd agree to excise that one little verse, I'd be happy. I mean, I see objectionable content throughout the poem, but I'm willing to pull back on some of the other things. It's just that I don't think smoking is healthy for children or other living things, like war. How many deaths do they attribute to smoking? I don't know, but I know it's a high number. And how many smokers were influenced to start smoking because of the bad example of a beloved character, Santa Claus, as portrayed in this poem? It has to be a lot!

Anyone looking at the poem can see the line doesn't really fit anyway. The line right before this one says, "And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow." How would you reconcile that with a guy having a stump of a pipe held tight in his teeth, with smoke encircling his head like a wreath?" Assuming this wasn't the first time he'd smoked, which would be ridiculous, his beard wouldn't be white as snow, but instead would be brown not only from the smoke but from spit from his mouth darkened by tobacco use. And with smoke encircling your head like a wreath, naturally that means discoloration of the beard, the teeth, and even the walls around you.

So if you take the objectionable line out, it would go from the part about the white beard to the part about his broad face and round belly. No one would even miss it! And yet there it sets, year after year, and even century after century. By the way, to note his round belly might contribute to obesity among our youth, but I'm willing to overlook that. I'm not even going to get into the other things I object to, since it would take away my focus. But start thinking about some of this language: "The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow..." It really could've been more family-friendly. I mean, I'm not Dobson, but some things are truly objectionable.

Really, I shouldn't be alone in this. I've heard how others have taken up the anti-smoking banner, and have even been successful in getting certain things shelved, like old cartoons where various characters are smoking. And I haven't heard anyone calling them cranks. It all depends on what you're against, what you feel like shelving. I even heard that Bob Barker somehow had the veto on old episodes of "The Price Is Right" where they gave away fur coats. They can't show those episodes now thanks to that! Because suddenly fur is on everyone's $#!+ list. Well, Bob Barker would surely object to this line from our "beloved poem":

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

Personally, I don't care about the issue of fur. Animals that are already dead don't need it anyway. And if we eat their meat, what's wrong with using their fur? You could argue that their meat is more essential to their survival than their fur, although I know both things are essential. But if you're missing your meat, you definitely don't need your fur. Plus, if even Santa Claus himself wears fur, there can't be anything too bad about it.

So please, give me a break. I'm only pitching in to do my part on something that most people would probably agree to anyway, if it weren't such a "beloved poem," a thing of tradition in question. That said, I don't deserve to be called a crank. And I don't deserve anyone's personal scorn. In fact, the lives I save may be those very people's children. Think about it, if I can keep one little child safe -- just one little child -- then it will be well worth the price of everyone's scorn.

The poem, I'll admit, is a great one. But it doesn't need this one objectionable stanza to be great. It would be better without it, in my opinion.

If you agree with me, and I'm hoping that there will be groundswell of support, of course, please start a petition in your area, and present it to the proper authorities, libraries, teachers, the Christmas Club at your bank, Santa's helpers at the mall, and others of your choosing.

The Pink Professor A Baton Twirler

You might remember an acquaintance of mine. I've written about him a few times. He's a guy they call the Pink Professor, and he really stands out at the Roadhog Roadhouse, a bikers' bar he frequents. You might think they bully him something fierce, but they don't. That was their inclination at first, but it turned out he was fairly quickly accepted and was completely incorporated into the Roadhog family.

He showed them by the strength and quality of his character that he was OK. And that doesn't just go for Pink Professor types, because everyone who's accepted into the Roadhog family has to prove the same thing. For all their rough exterior and seeming devil-may-care attitude, bikers are (not too deep down) people of great sensitivity, tradition, and quality. I know because I've been there too, and am getting close to them, and will probably also be accepted.

You can look up some of my other posts with the tag "Pink-Professor" to see some of the background there, and what it's like at the Roadhouse. Basically, the Pink Professor is a very open and caring and helpful person, stepping in even when the others might think they're too busy to help someone. I seem to remember writing about him teaching some new folks about playing pool. That's the kind of guy he is.

It does my heart a lot of good to see the way things go for him. Because I'm also a kind of bleeding heart, wanting the best in human relationships, regardless of the differences that might otherwise separate us. And some people really stand out, especially at first, before you get to know them, but then when you get to know them, they're people just like anyone else. It helps, I believe, if you wear your sensitivity on your sleeve, like the P.P. does, or like I do, for that matter.

The P.P. will console you if you're down. That's the kind of guy he is. Or he'll give you a playful slug on the arm and playfully scold you if he knows you can take it. I do that too, like with my dog Underbrush. I've got her trained to love -- to absolutely love -- playful scolding and playful threats such as, "I'm gonna get you!" and "You're meat, dead meat!" The P.P. might say to one of his trusted confidantes out there, "Your bike sucks." And whereas the guy would likely kick the crap out of anyone else who said that, to the P.P. he just mimics a slow motion slug to the face, with the P.P. backing up like he's mortally wounded! It's beautiful!

I was out at the Roadhog the other night. Just between you and me, I'm trying to gain acceptance into their circle as well. I want to ascend, you might say, at least to the plateau of being able to tell a biker, playfully of course, that his bike sucks. Then, who knows, maybe I'll be on the receiving end of a slow motion slug. I love doing that kind of stuff with those who know me best -- then "making up" with the darkest beer the bar serves, which usually turns out to be a super expensive bottle of Guinness. But it's just money and you only live once.

Anyway, I was out at the Roadhog the other night, sitting in a booth with the Pink Professor and I kept watching his hand, my watching not apparently noticed by him. He kept twitching and moving his fingers, apparently in rhythm to the music on the jukebox, but almost like he was practicing something, like he had a family-friendly activity in mind that had something to do with his hand. If it had been the other thing, I would've turned my head and given the guy his space. I mean, I've been around, I know what goes on. After all, I'm a disciple of the Indian guru Swami Masturbananda, so I'm not naive. But this hand movement wasn't that.

I thought (99%) that I recognized the gestures. So, after a while, I decided just to be bold and ask him what was going on. One reason, I know he loves it when people ask him what's going on. Because that gives him a chance to shine, to let his beautiful personality play itself out. He got a big grin on his face, almost a guilty grin, almost as if to say, "You caught me! You're too good!" I shrugged my shoulders, as if to say, "You're under constant surveillance, my friend. After all, you've got a reputation!" He shot back a steady look, looking right into my eyes and wouldn't break the stare, as if to say, "Are you sure you can keep up with me?" But I returned the stare, as if to say, "I'll do anything that you do!" Finally, he laughed and waved me off, as if to say, "I surrender," even waving a pretend white flag.

When the chuckles died down, he said, "You're wondering about the hand movements..." I nodded in agreement, for that was exactly what had caught my attention. I didn't let on that I already knew (99%). He said it went way back, to the time he was a kid, to the first group of roughnecks (some of the town boys) he hung out with. Of course they weren't really roughnecks, but that's how they fancied themselves. They'd walk around town looking tough. But they had a very youthful (future) Pink Professor to keep them softened up. ("Back then I wasn't a Pink Professor, just a regular pink kid.") And how would he do this? By pretending he was the group's baton twirler!

Whether it was a stick, a branch from a tree, or just a pretend baton, the group would be walking along and he would veer off into the passing lane and advance to the front, twirling his "baton." The boss of the group -- some kid, and his underlings -- would feel fairly embarrassed about it, but then, like the way it is with roughnecks everywhere, after a while they'd see it as a thing of pride to have their own baton twirler! I nodded in wonderment, for I too was the baton twirler in my own little circle of roughneck boys! And I told him so!

The P.P. reached his hand across the table and shook mine. We really had something in common. I don't know, maybe every little town had a dozen or so baton twirlers. But I was the only one I ever knew about at the time. I had an insulated life and we baton twirlers didn't communicate even from town to town. I just came up with it on my own, thinking, "We need a baton twirler." My best move was to throw the baton up (pretend) 100 feet in the air and wait for it to come down!

I asked the Pink Professor, "What do you think?," then I gestured around the room. This was one thing he hadn't tried -- to be the baton twirler among the Roadhog clientele. They might think it too childish. But I don't know ... maybe if you approached it right, and maybe just started twirling a pool cue for a few seconds over by the jukebox, then a couple minutes over by the bar, then five or 10 minutes over by the pool table, it wouldn't take long before they'd have him twirling something every night.

But the thing is, he doesn't actually know how to twirl a baton (and neither do I, alas, just the air baton). We pretended we were doing it so much, we never really learned how to do it. Speaking now just for myself, I never even owned a baton ... and it's one of the biggest regrets of my life.

Note: If you too were the baton twirling boy in your group of friends, please write about it in my comments.

Ecuador Equals Ecuador

There was a great story in the Daily News the other day about one of our local teachers, how she's come up with an ingenious way to teach math and geography together.

I know I personally love the idea, since I had trouble with both subjects when I was in class. But back then we just had teachers who were very strict, and they kept to the "old ways," that they thought were best. If we weren't sitting in the corner with a dunce cap, they were washing our mouth out with soap. In fact, to this day, I still find the taste of soap bad. Back then, and this is serious, I used to always hear one of my uncles calling ladies a battle-axe and I didn't really know what it meant. I actually thought it was a word sort of like Cadillacs and didn't know it referred to big ugly axes. Anyway, they shook me and only quit short of killing me.

Thankfully, today our kids have teachers who give a rat's a** about, you know, teaching. Back in the old days, all they could think of was their own narrow definition of propriety and enforcing it. My teachers were such hopeless wretches, the only thing they ever taught me was they were out to get children. Whether there were mandatory reporters in those days, I don't know. One thing I do know, I wouldn't want to be caught cleaning the blackboards after hours ... the filthy sadists. Is it any wonder I did so poorly? I was thinking more about survival than anything else. But somehow still I managed to reconcile a checkbook to the nearest $100, pass the driving test, and take out my own garbage with a minimum of assistance from anyone. To this day, when I accomplish something, I pump my fist and say, "I did it," while alternately fingering the ground toward any of my old teachers who have died and gone to hell.

Forgive my digression, please -- it's unnecessary -- I didn't mean to say any of that. This was meant solely as a post about how much better teachers are these days. As evidence, I present the teacher who was featured in the newspaper the other day. Darn it, I threw away the paper and don't remember her name. I only remember the thing she did, what they were featuring, her brainchild of combining math and geography, albeit at the present time only in a limited way.

We all know geography is the study of memorizing the countries of the world. There's less a need for it these days thanks to GPS. But, still, it helps to know by heart how to get to certain places, even if it means coming up with creative ways to make the information stick in our memory. And that's what this gal's come up with. Good looking lady, too, not like the old battle-axes they had when I was in school...

Anyway, I said her technique is presently very limited. She's either going to need to expand it or hope others do. It might take someone in the university to put his mind to this. But it's a great pedagogy, bar none. I know I love it. I can actually say, just reading about it makes the country "Ecuador" stick in my mind, and that's the only geographical word she's got so far. Ever since I read the article, I've known about Ecuador. And if you read the rest of my post, you're going to remember it too.

OK, here it is. What she's got so far is the theory that "Ecuador" and "equal" are similar words. So, to combine the two subjects, she's teaching the arithmetic tables and substituting equal with Ecuador. Such as, 5 + 3 Ecuador 8, 4 x 3 Ecuador 12, 21 - 5 Ecuador 16, and 10 / 5 Ecuador 2, and so on. It also works with harder problems, she carefully explained, going all the way up to numbers that are a lot bigger, which would be common sense. 4000 x 3 Ecuador 12000, 1 million + 2 million Ecuador a whole bunch, and so forth.

I can't think of other geographical terms she could teach by this method. Maybe you can help. I myself don't have a teaching degree. I was scared straight about teaching when I was in school. Now, of course, I know I shouldn't hold it against all teachers just because I had the bad apples. You've always got good and bad, and the two are not Ecuador.

Underbrush And The Toymaker

I went to the toy store the other day for Christmas shopping and was a little scared when I saw a big gorilla across the room. But it was a big stuffed gorilla with all her little babies. Then I also saw the other stuffed animals, beautiful ones, big tigers, lions, and all the other lesser animals.

Of course they had dogs, which were good looking too. But I looked all through them and didn't find one that looked like my dog Underbrush. It seems like they never have the various mixed breeds, which is too bad because it seems like there'd be a big market for all of us with them.

I immediately went to the counter to complain. The ladies at the counter claimed they had nothing to do with the limited selection, but I don't know, they looked pretty guilty. I asked who was responsible for this sad state of affairs, and they ended up blaming the toymaker. What toymaker? I demanded. Where is this toymaker?

Remarkably, they directed me to a local toymaker. I was really expecting a toymaker in China, someone who wouldn't be so easy to contact, but it actually turned out to be a toymaker right down the street, a guy working out of his garage.

I went to his workshop and found him very accessible, very interested in talking to me about the lack of stuffed animals like my dog. I flashed him the picture seen above and he backed up, he almost staggered against a wall of hammers and hooks. He clutched his heart and I was afraid we might lose him.

"What is the meaning of this?" He seemed angry. But it turned out he was simply stunned at Underbrush's beauty. Once that was cleared up, I asked if he could make me a stuffed animal version of her.

"I cannot do this dog justice!" he insisted. "I'm sorry -- such beauty!"

I thought maybe he was pulling my leg, really. I called him sir, out of respect, and told him I was flattered by his comments, but, really, you're a toymaker, surely not a judge of dogs and their beauty like at Eukanuba. You've made tigers, gorillas, and all the various breeds of dogs. Now suddenly you can't do this one? I asked if he could do something for me, maybe a representation, something made quickly out of yarn and baling twine at least.

"No! Not a representation! Not today, not ever! It would never do!" He was backing up like he might stagger into the hammers and hooks. I was afraid if he did that it might set off a terrible chain reaction like in the game Mousetrap, and eventually a marble slab (from his worktable) would fall and crush him. This was one dog he wasn't going to touch, whether it'd be baling twine or pipe-cleaners and toilet tissue.

"Please, please, please...." I tried to calm him, then I got tough: "This is ridiculous! Please use your talents to do something for us." I was a supplicant just as much as if I'd been wearing a robe and staring into the heavens with eyes like lights.

"No!" he insisted, "I care too much ... I shall do nothing!"

And that's how we left it. Meaning, all I have is the photograph ... and of course the actual dog.

Note: I thought I was going to lose Underbrush. The photo was taken the day it was arranged to put her to sleep at the vet's. She was hacking, hacking, hacking all the time, congestive heart failure. That was in June 2010. The vet did something, got some medicine for her, and waved a wand and spoke some magic words over her, and, believe it or not, she's still alive as of today, December 5, 2010. In the last few days she's been hacking some more. She no longer wears a halter or uses a leash, since these contribute to her problems when she strains for squirrels. And I don't feed her any more human food that has too much salt and other nasty ingredients. She's doing pretty well.

Mailboxes And Dogs' Heads

Two and a half years ago, I had a post on Old Cars and Dogs' Heads. I seem to remember I made a lot of good points on the similarities there. Well, today, finally, I'm back, this time on mailboxes and dogs' heads.

With some breeds of dogs, I just can't get over the lazy old shape of their heads. If there's really such thing as intelligent design, they were clearly designed with someone whose own head was stuck in the '40s. Or earlier. You figure, though, it's a head; it's going to have the basic design of most other heads, the eyes, mouth, nose, etc. But that still doesn't answer the question about the lazy drooping look, the curvature being just the way it is.

In the picture of the hound dog above, you might try to say it's the big floppy ears that give it that distinctive '40s look. But cover up the ears and you can see it's still there. In this case, the eyes don't help; they're adding to the dog's forlorn, lazy look. So what are we left with? A hopelessly old fashioned looking head, and, frankly, a body to match. They really do look like old cars, like I said a couple years ago.

In the case of cars, the styles change, although we've had that dopey looking PT Cruiser that was popular with some people, no one with any taste. Probably owners of old sleeping hound dogs. Fortunately, they've now quit making the PT Cruiser. My biggest hope is that all the remaining ones will be junked out very soon. Maybe dogs, if they were attuned to any of this, would hope the PT Cruiser would stay around, since it makes them less conspicuous.

The styles of cars, for the most part, have changed over the years. And you could say the same thing for mailboxes, although to a much lesser extent. I've seen all kinds of mailboxes, stylish ones, homemade ones, silly ones, novelty ones -- like a big fish -- and every conceivable design, really, both by the road and attached to people's houses. But despite a wide variety, the basic mailbox you see to this day is the same one they've had forever, the rounded, dumb looking thing that we're all familiar with. Like Dennis Quaid in "Vacation."

I think it's kind of amazing that this ugly design has held the field for so long. But none of the others has come close to displacing it. Just look at the thing. What could look dopier than that? But we can't get rid of it. People buy a new car every couple years, but they keep their mailbox forever. You drive through the rich part of town and you never see the same car twice, they've got lawn care guys always pulling up the old flowers and putting in new, and they reshingle their house twice a month on a fixed schedule. But the old mailbox will be there till they die and beyond.

Look at it. You tell me. Does that look like an old hound dog's head or not? It sure does! They can shine it up and spiff it up all they want, there's no masking its basic shape. Rounded, old fashioned, not only like a dog's head but also like one of those stupid hats stupid guys wear with the ear flaps.

Dogs can't help what shape their heads are, I understand that. God bless 'em. It doesn't really bother me all that much, because I know it's a natural shape, and God presumably doesn't make mistakes. But that's no excuse for these mailboxes dominating the market for centuries at a time. There's nothing divinely appointed about mailboxes, insofar as I know.

I'm keeping my eye out for newer and better mailboxes, and I hope I see some real soon. And I'm also keeping my eye out for these hound dogs and their weird shape. I hope I don't see very many of them because that would get old fast. But it wouldn't hurt me to see a few every once in a while so I can keep thinking of what else resembles them.

Let's Be Sunbeams For Masturbananda!

Swami Sri Masturbananda is a bright light in the firmament of masters, advanced beings, and avatars. And he gets brighter all the time. Because if he's wearing down, he stokes the inner fires and once again shines forth in glory. What a glorious master, who also calls us to be light in a dark world, beaming forth with the radiant energy that is in us!

For his chelas (students), it is a fantastic feeling to know that the master is looking out over us, happy to know we're following our devotions as he teaches. Maybe the rest of the sleepy village doesn't know what's going on, but to the master's eyes (and ours, to a lesser extent) there is a bright flash of light or even a beam as the highest consciousness is glimpsed in this heavenly work. He looks out and attracts the little beams unto himself on the mountain and helps channel them both up and down for the satisfaction of all.

We're so fortunate to be among his followers. Because, without naming names (the dreary know who they are), there are so many masters who have taken the same old dreary road of abnegation and asceticism, discouraging their followers to even lift a hand unless it's for the purposes of self-flagellation or to cinch up their hair underpants. Away with whips, the bad kind! Away with yak drawers! Swami Masturbananda calls us to lift a hand ... often and early... that we might drive away the clouds of morning and let the sun shine through!

The fact is, We're all light, star stuff. But our consciousness somehow gets stymied, or tricks itself into seeing darkness and even embracing it. To that extent we've fallen and original sin is real. But in the master's teachings, the original light is literally close at hand. Therein is the original bliss, the greatest bliss, present for each of us to know. Now, to a certain extent, the fullness of this realization is something that may take many of us millions of incarnations to reach. The difference in Swami Masturbananda's teaching is that we don't have to wait entirely, but we can glimpse the highest realms right now, for seconds at least, by following his way.

I was with the master a number of years ago in India. I remember his wonderful way of practicing the same basic techniques even though he is so much more consciously advanced than any of us. That means he is with us. And I remember his frequent retreats to the outhouse. We chelas would stand back at a safe distance -- it was a lot like the nuclear testing at Bikini atoll, goggles, the whole bit -- light would build up, you would see the wooden walls stretching out from the energy, and, finally, there was an explosion and the roof would blow off. It was all very intense.

Similarly intense are those times he's up the mountain. Devotees below notice the sudden appearance of daylight -- it seems like it's comes a little too early, then they realize what's going on. The look out their window and see the light, then the sun comes up a couple hours later. They smile and pull their blinds. For those who are not already spent, they redouble their efforts. And a small few, those who lift weights and have really big muscles, even triple theirs. I've heard of a few whose hand and arm turned to butter, they went so fast.

From the mountain, Swami Sri Masturbananda looks down and sees the smaller shafts of light building to a greater degree, and smiles. All is well on the mountain ... and in the valley.

Note: The picture has been altered only to enlarge Swami Masturbananda so we could see him. He's the same size as other men, most of the time.

What About Bob?

Overheard in a rural diner a few days ago, while I was trying to eat breakfast:

"I wonder how much longer Bob will be with us."

"In some ways it would be a blessing..."

"He's pulling out the IVs and everything else."

"They went to put him to bed and his diaper was full of blood."

"What?"

"They went to put him to bed and his diaper was full of blood."

We wish all the best to Bob, whoever he may be. But it sounds like things have advanced in such a terrible way that, as his friends say, it'd be a blessing...

I Got A Roto-Rooter Gift Certificate

How's this for timing? I got a Roto-Rooter gift certificate in the mail yesterday, two days after my first plumbing disaster in years. With this card I could've gotten $25 off, but now what? I don't see an expiration date.

I didn't actually go with Roto-Rooter the other night, but I might've if I'd had this card. Now I can only wait and hope I never need it.

I'm smiling at their greeting, after telling me I can get $25 off my next service, they say, "We look forward to serving you and your home again soon." How's that? That's like an ambulance driver saying we look forward to serving you soon. Have a heart attack. We can't wait for a catastrophe. That's the only time I call.

My Solidarity Group

I'm a proud member of a Solidarity Group. You may have heard of them; it's the latest thing, people in communities rallying together to offer support for one another.

We're always looking for people to stand in solidarity with and help: cancer victims, the grieving, injured veterans, people who've lost limbs, Republican halfwits, etc. The thing we're ultimately doing, whether physically or long-distance (emotionally), is crowding around them, offering words of support, commiseration, and even a group hug, if that's "safe" for them. Of course we want improvement in their lives.

Ironically -- and I hate to be a downer about it in public -- we do have some major disagreements among ourselves about who to stand with. There's a real disagreement right now about standing with Republican halfwits. Personally, I feel there's just too many of them, and, even though I'm an optimist by nature, I just don't think it'll do them any good. In fact, it might encourage them in their waywardness and ignorance and not lead them toward recovery or improvement. A lot of people are pessimistic about cancer victims, but at least you do occasionally hear of miracles with them.

But I'm also always one who wants to put disagreements to rest. And I'm willing to meet everyone halfway, even a halfwit. So, yes, if push comes to shove, and the group votes to take that path, I will stand in solidarity with them.

The other night we had an unusually scrappy meeting. Thanks to all the shouting, pushing, and the various leaders walking out, then walking back in ... plus the sound system going on the fritz with some loud feedback, at which point I was covering my ears, I didn't catch everything we voted on. This messed me up badly. The result of which was, I thought we were shaving heads to stand in solidarity with a local girl with cancer. But it turned out we were only supposed to bring cans of vegetables for the food pantry. So it looks like I'll be wearing a stocking hat all winter.

Your Basic Standard Twin Ice Machine

First, the bad news: I'm not going to be writing about ice machines everyday, as popular as I know that'd be. The idea appeals to me, too, but it'd be such a monumental task, all the traveling, the research, etc. It's a lot easier to just make a few incidental remarks about ice machines in general than it is to have to really know a lot about them, their specs, information on the manufacturers, the history of them, and so forth.

Still, if I'm going to be the kind of fanatic and expert on them that will get me a sure booking on the Travel Channel, it wouldn't hurt occasionally to look like I'm at least going through the motions. So I'll be doing a post every once in a while on the subject, and, just between you and me, I'll probably be inflating some of this stuff, like the number of ice machines I've actually visited. At first I was thinking I'd need to visit 12,000 of them to be a qualified expert. But now I'm thinking I can just count each one as 100, because there's so many of the same kind.

So guess what ... yesterday I visited 200 ice machines, and I have pictures from both of them! That's a lot of driving to get to 200 ice machines, believe me. You get out of the car, go over and check it out, get back in the car and rush off to the next one. And since you see them everywhere, every convenience store, every liquor store, and lots of grocery stores, there's a lot of stop and go driving. It's kind of boring really.

I got a pretty good picture of one of them, seen above. (Let me say, I'm referring to these as "ice machines," but that might be an inaccurate term. I really don't know what's going on inside. But they're more or less just big freezers storing ice that some guy put in them, aren't they? The machine part, if that's the right term, would just be the mechanical apparatus keeping the freezer working. But I'm going to keep calling them ice machines, since I've already started.)

The picture shows an ice machine model that seems to be pretty common, a double whammy, and I saw 200 of them just today alone, so that's an awesome statistic. All this time, having been a guy who hasn't paid attention to ice machines, I thought they were all single whammies, like the one they discovered on Mars a couple years back. Single whammies are what I seem to recall from when I was a kid. But, clearly, these days they're going for the double wides.

The big advantage, I'm guessing, to the double wides is that they can stock twice as much ice, meaning it won't run out until the delivery guy gets back, who now shows up only half as often. I was wondering today what they call the double wide machines -- I've been calling them double wides, double whammies, the twins, or just a double. When they break down, I was guessing they're probably called double trouble or terrible twins...

As is seen in the picture, the machine makes a nice presentation. The white color is very clean. This particular design goes way back, so it's built up a lot of goodwill among the buying public. Everyone knows this machine is going to have ice that you won't be ashamed to use. Again, personally I would prefer the single, since that's what I grew up with. The doubles have about twice the size of what I'd like to see. But I don't object to the double on any moral grounds, nor would I have any big objection to buying ice from one, if I bought ice, which I don't usually. I bought some for a picnic years ago, but that's it. Even so, I'd rather buy it from a single, but that's just me. I'm wondering if the demand is really that great, or could it be the ice man is simply greedy?

Be that as it may, at least it's not a triple or a quadruple, so we can be thankful it's only a double.

I'm glad I took the picture of this machine when I did. Because, you might not believe this, my phone went on the fritz soon afterward. For the last few months my camera has been adding a green, weird effect to all pictures. But a week or so ago it started working right again. Then today, a little while after I took the picture above of the first 100 machines, it quit working again.

Evening came and I was out, and I thought I may as well get another 100 under my belt, so I took this closeup of a machine. I wanted to just get the ICE part from the top as a closeup. It wasn't till I got home, then, that I noticed the camera had crapped out again. Those aren't the true colors of the sign. I didn't check it while I was there, because I was worried that the store manager might be wondering why a guy was taking pictures of his ice machine. That's what I thought about the first one I took, too. Since video cameras are extensively in use, there's videos of me taking pictures of ice machines 200 times today alone! After a while, you'd think they'll start wondering what's up with this guy? And maybe the police will set me down for some very earnest questioning.


AN ICE FANTASY:

While I was driving today looking at ice machines, I had a fantasy about some characters from the original Adventures of Superman show from the '50s.

In this fantasy scene, Herb Vigran is of course the boss and John Doucette is the underling, and they're breaking into someone's home to steal a bunch of jewels.

Herb Vigran, in his stern, hard voice says, "I wonder where they keep the ice." John Doucette, in his goofiest voice, replies, "Uh, I think they keep it in the freezer, boss." Herb: "Not that ice, Stupid!" John suddenly remembers why they're there and says, "Oh yeah, the ice!"