Telegraphing Itches -- A Silent Disruption

I've been so into my theories of itches not scratched being alt consciousness portals, I haven't been thinking of anything else. But the most prevalent alt consciousness portal I seem to have opened is the one of being constantly distracted. The more psychically interesting ones have yielded precious little true gains. I saw a devil in a fleeting vision that merely taunted me, "You know you want to scratch! Submit to me and I will give you relief!" To which I yielded, no not for a second!

And so I turned back to the soothing balm of my group dynamics studies -- always thinking of how groups interact (my real life field) -- so, today, something on guerrilla group dynamics along with scratching, which I so long to do, and how itching is so distracting, and relating that to political action.

Disrupting meetings, services, and speeches has been done to death; we've all seen it. But typically it's all so crass, with only short-term benefits, if that's what you want to call it. For example, if you simply stand up and blurt out a counter opinion, there's no way it's going to do any good. You're going to be dragged kicking and screaming from the arena, and possibly tazed, and the crowd's going to be chanting "USA," and once you're gone he'll make funny remarks about you, so there you are.

It's always been my opinion that the key to a good disruption has to be done much more subtly -- like guerrilla group dynamics -- in such a way that those around you aren't even aware it's happening. And by more than one person, working as a team but apparently not even together. What you're trying to do is more distracting than disrupting, because the possibility of an embarrassing gaffe is worth its weight in gold. Remember Rick Perry's missing third point? I'll tell you exactly what I know about that: I know nothing! My lips are sealed! There's not a thing to tell!

All right, let's say we have a team of 7. They're in the audience, in the 3rd to 10th rows or so, and scattered here or there. They're not looking at each other, except for occasional glances. They have memorized a "set song," held in common, and trained themselves, practicing earlier, as to when "scratch points" will happen. As an example, you might recall the old song "What a Party" by Fats Domino. It's on YouTube or Spotify. Three times in the course of the song the background singers sing,

Big fat piano man, he sho' can wail away.
Big fat piano man, he sho' can play.

See where we're going with this? They have the regularity of music, and the predictability of music, but it's not noticeable to those around you because there's alternate sharing among the 7. You're mentally keeping time in your head, hitting the "scratch points" with occasional glances helping you stay on track. These points are shared by the 7. (Nothing needs to be exact.)

Speakers of course are looking to the audience in a random, more or less disinterested way. But they do notice what's going on, either consciously or unconsciously. Most male speakers consciously notice every pretty girl.* But they only notice the more extraneous phenomena -- someone coughing, rubbing his eyes, yawning, or scratching -- unconsciously. Unless there's something a little weird, and undefinable about it, nothing he can nail down. These audience members, they don't look like they're out to get me. In fact they look interested. If they were out to get me, they'd erupt like always, and everyone would drown them out with "USA!" That old bit.

So there they are, our 7, inwardly (and by occasional glances) working with Fats Domino, with an undistinguished scratching of the temple, the ear, the forehead, etc. With an increasing awareness on the part of the speaker that something's just not right ... but what? He glances at the pretty girls, still looking great. Then a guy with an itchy nose. I can see him breaking into a sweat at any point, but if he says anything about it, the papers will declare, "What a paranoid ass!" So what's he going to do, call out an anonymous audience member? Hardly. You're not doing anything with eye contact. He has no reason to be suspicious.

I know I'd hate to be the guy. This is something that'd give me vertigo. Expect that gaffe any second! This is something that also could reap great benefits in other arenas. Such as concerts, you might be able to finagle 18 or 20 encores out of them. The band's fingers are bleeding, the drummers arms are falling off, they're a mess! But you had a great time!

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*If you had, let's say, 3 pretty girls of the team scattered around, whose job it is to just sit pretty, that'd be great too. You can imagine the dissonance. He's noticing them every time he looks out, a positive. Then he's less consciously noticing the others scratching. The "pleasure vs pain" thing going on in his mind would be an interesting dynamic, perhaps so interesting as to be campaign-ending. By the way, I said "male speakers" notice pretty girls. This would also true for lots of female speakers, somewhere between 2% and 10% by nature, and the others for multiple reasons.

Note: It probably goes without saying, but you don't tell others what you're doing. The key thing is, You're like the 3 Musketeers, whose #1 rule was "Mum's the word on this whole Musketeer thing."

2nd Note: This is "For Entertainment Purposes Only." I don't actually advocate doing anything like this. Heavens forfend! Unless one of the pretty girls sits on my lap.

A Death in the Family -- Scarecrow

We just had another death in my family. They seem to be piling up, which I hate. I let the last few go, but finally I've had enough, OK? I don't precisely know any other way to stop it, so I'll just tell you what I'm going to do. Starting with this last one -- then in the future if there's any others -- I will be offing someone from popular culture. Kill my family, will you? Then suffer the consequences.

This time, I'm sorry to say but it's Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. Old Scarecrow's going away for a long long time -- forever -- like my loved ones, never to return. Again, sorry about this, and sorry if it makes you angry. If it does, at least you'll have some idea how I feel. And if you want to know the honest to God truth, I like Scarecrow. He was Dorothy's first partner on her way to Oz, and for a guy without a brain he did a pretty good job talking, singing, dancing, and fighting wicked witches.

But now it's been years since any of that. The gang's been split up and scattered for years. Dorothy's an old old woman in Topeka, barely making ends meet waiting tables at a diner. And the rest of the group has been out of touch with the others for years. I've had friends like that, then suddenly they're gone, no doubt forever pining to see me again, I'm imagining, if only they could.

Scarecrow, the same way Tiny Tim ended up, is in an old hotel in Des Moines. He stays inside a lot, so much that when people hear he died, they'll say they thought he was already dead. But he can barely move, being broken down, with no one to restuff him. Even that's the least of his worries; he's got total rot in his flimsy supports, brain damage, etc. His spark of life has a faint but persistent short circuit.

If anyone could help, it'd have to be Dorothy, who only answers if she happens to be next to the diner's public phone. Lion and Tin Man are probably in a home somewhere, Lion dribbling in his bib, and Tin Man rusted in the nodding position, more grey than silver.

All the hopes Scarecrow had, dreaming of everyone getting out on the road and doing their songs again, of course that's been out the window for ages. He used to have terrific regret about it, now it's just wistfulness and a dull pain; he wouldn't remember how it went anyway. Age can do that to a guy. I knew an old guy who used to tell me he forgot more than I ever knew, but in the end, as he declined, regrettably I overtook him in the knowing-forgetting differential.

Getting toward the end, Scarecrow heard a noise outside and his hopes rallied. A loud car coming by -- maybe it's them! He struggled to his one good elbow and looked outside, in time to see a young beauty queen in a convertible going by -- so young. She was on her way to be feted by the town, with her young male friends all looking up to her. He thought, That's how it was for us in the Emerald City ... losing his train of thought in a rasping coughing fit.

Memories are so much harder for Scarecrow to contemplate. They used to be like brain-food, who said or sang what, what all they had to do to attain the various boons from the Wizard. Those were the days. If only there were someone like that today, a Wizard, to renew this wasteland of post-modernity and his personal grief. He glances up at the calendar, unturned for decades, 1939, how long ago! No way to catch up now! He turns to the window and sees the grey sky. You'd think the old stuff would still be possible. Instead, everything is-- blank-- the possibilities fizzled.

And so now it's come to this. Pain everywhere, burdens beyond relief. A hardening of the straw tufts, complete calcification of the joints, brittle straw bugs, life ebbing away. He feels a strange mental spasm, some weird movement in his head. Did something erupt? An aneurysm? Wouldn't that be ironic, for a guy who wanted a brain? It hasn't been exactly smooth sailing for quite a while. Now and then consciousness emerges reliably, then veers off a dozen different directions. He senses things going to pot, a little here, a little there ... "That's me all over, and now, for me, it's all over."

As it turned out, no one checked on him. A couple weeks went by and the mailman noticed junk mail piling up in the box by his door. Then he thought he smelled the horrible odor of rotting straw from within. He called the Des Moines police, who carefully donned gas masks and bravely moved in to face the hideous scene.

Everything I Know I Learned in Motel Lobbies

You know how I'm always working to expand my knowledge, particularly having to do with the human race. It helps me keep my keen edge in understanding, which translates into bigger bucks in my field, the group dynamics racket. More and more I'm getting the recognition I deserve as the "King of Group Dynamics," which, you might easily guess, isn't automatic. You forever have to prove yourself more insightful than the next idiot.

Recently a sociology professor friend of mine -- himself scratching and clawing his way to the top, and hoping to stay there -- told me, "Everything I know I learned in motel lobbies." Of course I knew better than to take that literally. No doubt you can learn a lot in motel lobbies, but it has to be an exaggeration, right? Or did he mean it? He didn't learn anything somewhere else? I had to test it for myself.

So the other day I took up residence on one of the couches in a motel lobby. Right away I learned a thing or two about motel staff and their suspicions. These couches are sat on about five minutes a week, when some weary traveler is arriving to check in or after they've carried their bags back out. No one sits on them for hours at a time. But there I was, holding a newspaper, peering over and around it.

I was focused on their everyday demeanor. Motel staff, in addition to being suspicious, are passive/aggressive to the max. They checked on me a few times, trying to discern why I was there, all the while calling me "Sir" and going through various superficial bowing and scraping. Maybe I owned the whole chain, like on Undercover Boss. They didn't know. Their bowing and scraping would've been sufficient to afford them plausible deniability if they were accused of being rude to a guest.

Getting past that, I took in some people-watching, as I said, wanting to learn about the human race. One of the biggest reasons I didn't major in sociology myself was I'm no fan of scientific rigor; the dean said my admission paper showed I was too anecdotal. Hence this extraneous anecdote about the dean in an article on motel lobbies.

Editor's note: This is my normal cutoff length for a post, so I'm going long. If you haven't got time to read the whole thing, I advise that you only read the second half. It's more on-topic than the above.

My learnings in the motel lobby:

-- People live forever in the motel. I've been here for hours and there hasn't been one fatality. But the pool's still empty.

-- About 2/3 of the men here are with women not their wives. I have nothing to base this on except my nature is even more suspicious than that of the motel staff. There's no doubt in my mind that adultery's been rampant ever since they got rid of the paper registry book. But can infidelity be that high? Of course it can, if my hunch is right.

-- All types of men are here. Big men, little, long hair, short hair, greasers, regular guys, professional men, amateurs. But all the women are clean-looking and nice, indicating hanky panky, married couples tending to resemble one another.

-- People take full advantage of free continental breakfasts. But they're quite patient when they're waiting for the waffle griddle. At an early hour feeding frenzies just aren't cool. I know around 2 p.m. the same creatures will be red hot with road rage, which might be why the griddles aren't out afternoons.

-- People multitask. I've seen several guys walk by carrying four or five suitcases. Their own, and likely their illicit girlfriend's.

-- The average motel guest seems to plan well. With four suitcases, that's a no-brainer. That said, some marketing genius put in a vending machine for toothpaste at $4 an ounce tube. I haven't seen anyone using it, so I'd say it's losing money. I say sell it for a buck and make it up on volume.

-- I'm really noticing that motel staff over-thank and over-Sir and over-Ma'am the guests. They really are worried about Undercover Boss! Come on, staff, we're not convinced you're such extremely nice people. We know you're punching holes in the wall as soon as we leave. Then charging our card.

-- The Number 1 thing motels are suspicious of is non-guests sneaking in the pool. Probably mostly driven by insurance and liability issues. Then because they'd have to stay working long after their shift if someone drowned. From the inquests I've been part of, they're usually quite lengthy.

-- As an aside, I've learned that if you wear a light blue smock under your shirt, then switch, you can meet guests in the hall as they're departing and ask them to leave the door open for cleaning. Then you can shower and sleep for three or four hours before the actual cleaning folks get here.

-- Some guy just drowned, quite the commotion, a great time for me to sneak out of this room unseen.

And so I proved it true. I didn't know anything before. Like my friend, literally everything I know I learned in motel lobbies.

Savior with a Gun

In every world I've heard of there are Saviors. The key thing with conscious creatures is we quickly sink into semi-consciousness or worse, not knowing our true selves and place in the cosmos. Everything bad (speaking existentially) stems from that Original Sin, the Big Bad O. So Saviors pop up as needed.

This particular Savior, on one of the worlds, like all Saviors, is full of great wisdom. The big difference is he teaches wisdom at gunpoint. It's like this: He's born, he grows up, he buys a gun, he reveals himself, and he gathers disciples, later to be charged with taking his message to others. But they also lack wisdom, so there's a period of teaching, preparation for the future.

The first day, the Savior raises his gun and shoots it, telling his disciples to go find the bullet, what's left of it. Off they go for a job that could take hours and never pay off. The Savior's purpose in this, without saying another word, is to draw out their willingness. How will they handle the bigger job later without sharing his will?

The second day, as before, the Savior raises his gun and shoots it, sending them forth to find the bullet. Off they go! As said before, it's tough to find a shot bullet, or slug. Of course they know the general direction, but once you get out there, it's virtually impossible to find. His purpose is to teach patience, something most of us definitely need.

The third day, the fourth day, and the fifth day, the Savior raises his gun and shoots it, sending them forth to find the bullet. And each day they're off with this unenviable task, since it's really just more of the same. Monotonous, thankless, and probably disgusting. But he has an overall purpose. Those days he's teaching attention to detail, teamwork, and diligence. I can see how attention to detail would come in handy looking for an expended bullet. It'd be mixed in with dirt, rocks, and who knows what. But if you used teamwork, maybe a few of us would look over here and some over there. And diligence. You can't give up easily. Shrug off tiredness, let's find it!

The sixth and seventh days are much the same. The Savior raises his gun and shoots it, just as before, and directs them forth to find the bullet. Naturally, as you might readily guess, he's teaching them thoughtfulness and self-reflection. Thoughtfulness is one of the ways we absorb wisdom, and you'd need it after six days of looking for bullets. Self-reflection centers in on who we are and what we can become, things definitely needed for the task ahead. The task ahead will be even harder than looking for slugs.

The disciples, though, thinking it over, have heard of Saviors who do it other ways. Whereas theirs doesn't vary in the slightest. Shooting his gun and having them hop-to to find the bullet. They bring the matter to him, spelling it out, really complaining, "You shoot the gun and we look for the bullet, day after day after day..."

Inscrutably, in response, the Savior remains silent, picks up his gun and shoots it, this time twice, directing them forth to find the bullets. In silence he teaches them two things, obviously great wisdom: 1) Get used to it; and, 2) Be my guest ... When you're the Savior do it your own way.

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Coming up: Stories from the "Savior with a Gun Bible," and leading a class or seminar through our "Savior with a Gun" curriculum. For preparation, you will need our material and a gun. Please note, we advise a country setting with lots of land to which you have access. For those staying in town, you will need to make do with a rubber band or PCP pipe marshmallow gun. In an inner city environment, of course you have other options.

This Infernal Itching -- A Thorn in My Flesh

I'm loving this whole "itch-meditation" thing. Although, of course, after only a few days of it -- and with even the theoretical basis of it still so little known -- there's a long way to go. But as every journey (those on foot) begins with the first step, so too this one.

Forgive the philosophical sentiment, but that's what it's doing to me. The more I sit and stew in my own itches, forbearing scratching, the more I search for a deeper justification. One thing I hate, absolutely hate, is to launch out on something, only to find it was my own folly, then having to come slinking back with egg on my face. Like when I left home at 11, immediately got a thorn in my foot, and my parents had to take me to the ER. I seriously thought I could walk all the way north and make a go of it.

This, however, I hope is different. I'm no longer 11. I've been around, and I've probably made about every mistake I'm going to make. So I'll go by that certain knowledge, and with the stepping out on faith that's always been a part of my spiritual upbringing. I know the answers are out there, and if I can work up a previously undiscovered one and get my name on it, so much the better. I've certainly never heard of anyone doing with scratches and itches what I'm attempting.

All that said, again, I'm loving it. I've only scratched four or five times in the last day. Not out of the discomfort -- which admittedly has been immense -- but testing some stray theories on an occasional scratch being a type of reset button. The biggest bad news so far has been that my meditations aren't really leading anywhere except to this theoretical, philosophical work. So as far as "turning off my mind, relaxing and floating downstream," downstream hasn't even yet come into view.

The only visualizing I'm managing is to see the centers of itch spots as red, pulsing, nagging, terrible unrelenting bastards. Put this in your junior yogi notebook: Itches only intensify, they don't go away. And if they ever fade out on their own, it's only because three others have erupted and are much worse. I'm seriously thinking to add more scratching. It's amazing how scratching is such a relief. Nature's no dummy. The horse, the dog, and every other animal that scratches, they know something. As for elephants, they roll in mud and spray themselves. I'm totally familiar, personally, with how horses and dogs do it. But I've never rolled in mud and sprayed myself, which might be worth a try.

Or it could be that itches in meditation have to be entered without that relief. Like my soulmate Luke Skywalker, your consciousness goes cruising in, and no one thinks you can hit it, then you send a conscious charge down one persistent itch, and the whole thing blows up. Mere scratching's what everyone does, and it never gets us anywhere. Of course I'm a long ways from that.

I was watching some more science TV yesterday, and saw another show about black holes. Remember, in a previous post I likened itches as being possibly like black holes, with the rest of the aureole around the itch spot being like the rest of a galaxy? You can do all kinds of things if you get close enough to a black hole, in addition to being summarily killed. You can go back in time and be suddenly younger than everyone else. Which, if that's possible, maybe a little meditating on the spot might at least convey psychic insights. Who knows? It'd be wild to suddenly be younger than everyone else, but I can see it presenting problems when you show up at Social Security for your benefits and you look 11. Which is when I headed north and got the thorn.

Hmm, that thorn. It went in my foot. What if it just happened to hit one of these black hole points and that's why I'm like this? It's actually astounding that my foot hardly ever itches. The only constant place I get itches on my feet is between the toes, athlete's foot. Which I fought with tough-actin' Tinactin and had pretty good success at. I'm sure the thorn went in the mid section of my right foot, right where it never itches. I might have a foot with potential super powers. Am I Superfoot?

This is among the many things that need further exploration.

Rice -- Food of the Japanese Gods

When you write a blog like this, your credibility is constantly on the line. So research is key to cover your bases. With that in mind, then, in light of my topic, I googled the question, "Do they grow rice in Japan?" The answer came back a resounding YES, so I'm on safe ground.

I've been eating a lot of rice, so it's a topic of interest. And just today in the local paper, they wrote about cheap, healthy meals, and rice came up Number One in two out of three instances. I started eating it a couple weeks ago, mostly because I used to like it when I was a kid and was feeling nostalgic. It is quite delicious, so good you quickly forget the lack of variety and basic monotony in each spoonful.

The rice I'm eating is the cheapest brown rice I can find. I also like brown eggs, since they seem more holistic, although I eat the cheapest eggs I can find, which always turn out to be white. But brown rice is just as cheap. Unlike eggs, with rice there's a big variety. You can get Uncle Ben, Minute Rice, wild rice, funky mixed rice (at coops), and plain bagged. Those are just the western varieties. There's also the eastern varieties, which tend to come in convenient 300-pound tough-meshed bales.

Speaking of Uncle Ben, I'm reminded of the old phone prank, from back before they could easily trace your number: "Do you have Uncle Ben Rice in a box? Yes. Is it his wife?" You didn't see that coming, did you?

Notice how I said the eastern varieties of rice come in 300-pound bales? The biggest thing we think of when it comes to rice is how much of it orientals eat. I've actually visited orientals at their homes -- personal friendships. I've been to a couple graduations and one memorial service, where we lit candles for a recently deceased relative, who would expect ancestor worship from then on. On all occasions we had rice, including something they called Sticky Rice.

Do you know about Sticky Rice? No doubt it's good (I've eaten it), and good for you, except it's taken from the pot by each individual reaching in and pulling out what they can manage. They struggle to separate a piece from the main wad. If you're first in line, that's a fantastic system. If you're back in the nines and tens, and all the others have already reached their dirty fingers in and done their worst against the wad, it's less desirable.

My advice to orientals about Sticky Rice: Have the cook scoop it out on to a shallow pan, cut it in pieces, then stack the pieces neatly on a platter. Using plastic gloves. Then your gods might look on you with more favor. I know I certainly would. I might even pray for you and turn the tide of whatever misfortune's headed your way.

That's what I wanted to get to, and almost forgot, their gods, who gave them rice. "You are Japan! You shall be known for rice! I have spoken, I shall perform it, my perfect will!" one of their gods, or several in unison, vowed. But why their gods didn't reveal the best way to handle Sticky Rice after all these centuries, and are just now speaking the truth through me is a mystery. Apparently I was born for something, and now it's accomplished.

I know they might say something like this: "We too have lengthy histories, and have developed many immunities, perhaps different ones from yours. Our gods blessed us with these immunities, which admittedly required generations of the weakest among us to die. But, naturally, they would've died of something by now anyway, so it may as well have been dirty Sticky Rice. Our point being, Die happy."

OK, if that's the tact their gods took, who am I to question the inscrutable? Their gods were smart enough, let's assume, to bless them with billions of tons of rice, they're probably smart enough to work out a system of eating it. Certainly the folks aren't complaining about eating it. I also think it's very good, as I said before, but I wouldn't want it as my main dish everyday.

[Secret Journal] Scratching an Itch (or Not)

8:00 pm. Sunday - So many itches I cannot contain! -- I will bust! It's over! No, wait, stylistically I cannot start with the climax and give up. Must bear and forbear, must be patient. My impatience points to truth of pursuit, not falsity. Simply scratch as always, I have 61 years of ingrained habit, Lord Itch rules the temple.

8:10 pm. Sunday - The last 10 minutes have been a roller coaster ride, wooden, not safety-tested, really rattled my bones. Centered in non-itch new beginning, having scratched till I'm raw in places. Took BIC pen to right ear, smaller than finger, not recommended, certainly, but no one was looking. The things I do in the dark! Clean slate, blank slate, one little itch under eyes, then they creep in and subsume consciousness. I'm lost!

8:28 pm [day unspecified] - What's it been, 20 minutes? Rome wasn't built in 20 minutes, I guess. There's no reason to keep counseling patience, I already know that. This harping on patience is making me more impatient. Counsel mercy, which, apart from a possible first mention, is only truly mercy when it's not mentioned. OK, mercy for myself, still busy scratching. What I need is one decent concentrated itch spot, of my choosing, not a million popping up everywhere. What kind of universe is this, for pity's sake?

8:29 pm Sunday - Brief entry to say, the universe, the world is mercy -- pity, if you will -- I'm not separate. You can't think continental drift, tectonic movement, doesn't itch like hell. That's why we have earthquakes, the Logos rolling over to scratch. Merciful to itself. Giving credence to my theories.

11:00 pm Sunday - Must've dozed off. Dreamed I was on the ground floor of a massive itch, turned out to be a volcano. False alarm?

5:30 am Monday - Woke up scratching, might wear oven mitts today, hands up like a surgeon, reminding myself to break the cycle. That's it, I'm just unconscious through habit (cf. above, Lord Itch, Temple.) Who is this f'n Lord Itch? How did I come to serve him? Who's his consort? Is she worse, prodding him from behind? "Exact tribute from him, you worm!" she cries, calling the Lord a worm? Who is this massive B? Called Lady, probably. Lady Scratch? I guess that's it, men always want to scratch their itch, and Lord Itch just happened to fall for Lady Scratch, etc. "I got you under my skin." Making progress, this has a whole mythic basis!

6:30 am Monday - Finished coffee, my head a lot clearer, scratch that Lady Scratch stuff, unintentional pun, I swear. Scratch that, too ... Oops, did it again. Lady Scratch has now infected my vocabulary, my thought process. More coffee, gulping it down between these pen scratchings, no!!!! Must reclaim temple, especially new deity of my own choosing.

6:43 am Monday - Every developing world/cosmic view starts as experience, then mythologizes in upward ascent, making sense and also making palpable. All I've got so far is the itch point likened to black hole or nucleus, and conjecturing that entering (through consciousness) at that point might (likely?) be a different realm of consciousness. Not realm so much, bad word, too early for mythologizing itch point as kingdom.

7:03 am Monday - Thinking about blog today. Time to throw out some red meat. Maybe crumbs. Nose suddenly itching, think I see Heaven.

Itching = Alt Consciousness Portals?

It's tough not to scratch itches. I've spent my life doing it. I remember some really bad itches right in the middle of my back, then having to scratch them against a tree. And my mother always bringing up that's how horses do it. I didn't like her nagging -- I always bridled -- but she usually reared her head back laughing, so I couldn't actually neigh say it.

But who knows about itches? I know I've always heard there's certain itches that aren't meant to be scratched. Like infidelity, no matter the temptation. The idea in this temptation is that scratching the itch is positive. Maybe it feels positive in the heat of the moment. But we've seen so many who've scratched to their regret. I've heard several cry out in despair: "If only -- woe is me! -- I hadn't scratched that cute little itch!"

I've been thinking lately that maybe these itches -- actual, literal itches -- are meant as portals to other realms of consciousness, if only we could survive the test and not negate them in the very process of their revelation. Ever think of that?

It makes a certain amount of sense. You'd expect portals to be in definite spots, and other realms of consciousness, if they're anywhere, to be accessible through portals. If it were all nebulous and omnipresent -- which I'm not saying it's not -- you'd be falling over backwards into it. But what if we're meant to have a definite grasp on these things, and to visualize them like this: A circumference (the zone) going into the center (the nucleus), somewhat akin to a galaxy and its black hole. That's what I'm working with. I'm theorizing "It's All Happening" at that center, exactly the spot we negate when we succumb to scratching. O! the tricky ways of reality!

I would guess advanced yogis know all this, but they've kept their tongues, likely out of a cosmic sense of humor. They know these portal points are so easy to overlook, and it's funny to them, with our first inclination always being to immediately scratch away. Funny? Sad, really, with the higher realms right there. Good god, what all might we be missing? You know those little baby heads with wings, our almost-children in glory, so prominent in Catholic artwork circa 1860-1920? They had such a work ethic in those difficult years, they didn't have a lot of time to scratch ... maybe that's what they saw!

This is good stuff, and very likely true. But things only got worse in our time. With the coming of modern conveniences -- washers, driers, food processors, radios, TVs -- we're all sitting around, tuned in to every itch and with time on our hands to spare, as it were, so our fingers are busy, scratch scratch scratch. So whatever portals were common for the working man back then are closed to us today.

OK, we might ask, Why didn't the working man reveal more to us about these things, just flat out say it? Because working men back then were slow to speak, with not enough time, and they assumed everyone knew. Everyone breathes, right? You don't tell people, "Hey, I'm breathing!" Or it could've been they were afraid; they didn't want to end up in a mental hospital, which back then were very much a total beyotch.

But, oh how difficult it is to test out these ideas! Even when I feel like I'm tuning in, I still scratch, more or less unconsciously, simply out of habit. So many times I'm that close to getting there and looking around and I scratch. Isn't that weird? The positive to it is I'm still here to write this, but honestly I think I would've maintained consciousness well enough to both experience it and write about it. (Cf. working men, above; they lived to work tomorrow.) I'm not likely to just be overwhelmed to the point of riding a major itch to glory just like that.

My intuition is working overtime. This is all very immediate. I'm not scratching while typing, therefore the insights are flowing more freely. I've also got the consciousness to forebear, and in response the revelations are presenting themselves furiously. I can't keep up, and my nose itches in a massive nuisance way. Something's trying to hold me back, something wants me to scratch, something I have to resist -- you filthy devil! also called Old Scratch (!)-- until, I relent and scratch. "Just a little touch," I tell myself, until once again I die in an orgy of itch relief. But cosmic deflation...

Yet I shall not despair; I've always got another itch coming along shortly; that's the kind of grace I experience. Thinking back, last night was a terrible night sleeping. At one point, 3:30 a.m., I had an itch in the middle of my back. Maybe I was dreaming* of horses; I don't remember, or my mom. It was bad enough that I reached as far back as I could to get it. Now I think, "That could've been it!" Because when I'm in bed, I have all the time in the world to center myself in a spiritual reverie. An itch right on the spine is very likely the gateway to the essence of a particular chakra. Meaning, what is of the greatest discomfort to us would be the very portal to our absolute greatest comfort!

I can't go on. I must break. I must seek out the worst itching I can have! I'm sorry, this is too important.

*Night before last, in a dream, one of my cousins told me her middle name was Abner.

Sudden thought: Pet dander -- Anything there? It has to itch.
Note to self:  Book possibility, the It-ching, 64 different meanings of your itch.

A Psychotic vs. Romeo & Juliet

Editor's Note: I don't feel bad about writing this, if that's what you're thinking. What? Should I feel guilty? I'm sorry, I don't see it that way. Thank you for your kind indulgence. Editor out!

Have you ever been attracted to a girl, and say you become something of a couple, and then you're invited over to meet her parents? That happened to me once. I can still see (in my mind's eye) her father sitting in the corner, in an easy chair, reading the paper. He barely looked up at me, and whatever acknowledgement he gave of my presence was very much like a dismissing growl. Not a good experience. But at least I got out of there alive, unlike this other guy I heard of...

They had to reconstruct exactly what happened from the girl's sworn testimony. Because the boy didn't make it out. The father actually made it, but he was such a psychotic, his testimony would be worthless, sworn or not.

It was just like my situation, she took him home to meet her father. Mom apparently wasn't in the picture. As it happened, Dad was in the bathroom with the door open, right off the hallway, so she took the boy there. Dad was shaving with one of those Norelco-type electric jobs. You know the type? They're strictly no fuss, no muss...

Of course the father looked out the door askance at the boy, being sensitive to such things, meeting new people, possible boyfriends. I'd guess it'd have something to do with a house being a man's castle, but it's just as likely there was more of a personal revulsion, because, as we'll learn later, he was completely psychotic. Which can be a bad scene.

But it was the boy who started having a reaction to seeing the dad with the Norelco-like device. Which could've been a reaction based on something physical at the scene, like pheromones. I know that's common. It sounds like he sensed death. The girl said he whispered something about being worried, and she could see him sweating, like he was afraid the father might do something in despair, like cutting his wrists with the shaver.

I can only imagine what he was thinking: What chance will I have with her if I'm responsible for her father's death, him bleeding to death in a bathroom she'd never be able to use again in perfect peace? That's an entirely logical question to ask oneself. I know I wouldn't be comfortable under those circumstances, unless I really had to go.

The best thing the boy could do -- the only thing, really -- was treat her dad somewhat warily, lest he have an active psychosis thing going. It's obviously a bad combination when you have a sharp razor and an active psychosis. You'd have to think, He might fly around the room killing us all, not just himself but me and his daughter. It'd be Romeo and Juliet all over, a perfect one for one parallel.

Really, though, what is it with psychotics and weapons? They're not able to do one single other thing right in life -- cause and effect completely elude them. But there is one thing they're good at, weapons and complete destruction; that they're good at!

OK, this is where the girl's sworn testimony comes in. The boy handles the threatening situation based on something he saw on TV, where they brought in a guy's aged mother to talk him down. Going on the assumption that if the guy's psychotic, and not good at any cause and effect sequence apart from weapons, it would stand to reason that portraying his mother might do the trick.

So the boy whispers to the girl, "What's your paternal grandmother's first name? "Grandma?" "No, her actual name." "Wilma."

"Hello, sonny, I'm your old mother Wilma. I want you to listen to me and behave," and he goes on with that line of thinking, very simple and direct instructions or commands. The dad goes, "Mom, you've changed."

"No, no, sonny," the boyfriend said, "I'm the same old mother you've always loved. Back among the living and feeling better than ever."

Like that, then, he's calming the guy down more ... more ... ever more, and finally takes possession of the shaver. But suddenly the dad lunges for a knife behind the towels, comes at the boyfriend, and immediately kills his "mother." To me this is the ultimate proof of his psychosis, although some readers might surmise it was an Oedipal thing. I really wouldn't disagree, but it's that from a psychotic point of view.

And so it's true, they were Romeo and Juliet, paralleled. Shakespeare was right about so many things, including the biggest from Romeo and Juliet: Some families simply should not intermarry. Because there's bound to be trouble. The parallels are beyond spooky.

Washington and Lincoln Stand as One for Fired Coach

Usually we live in two separate camps:
The Washington Cherry Hatchets vs. The Lincoln Split Rails,

but not in these days of great trouble...

No more "Our Guy's #1 and Your Guy's 16!" Incredibly, Washington recently put aside the rancor and joined in common cause with Lincoln. They proclaimed, "Today both our guys are #1." Wow! This new sun arose just the other day, right in the bleakest part of the night, as the day first dawned, at the moment nature itself is at its darkest...

Both teams awoke to the same terrible news: "LINCOLN'S BASKETBALL COACH FIRED!" Who took his team to 17-5 last year, including a hard fought victory over those Washington bastards. It was the talk of the town. Gatorade flowed freely in public troughs.

But now everything changed, when, inexplicably, the new Athletic Director at Lincoln, Witt DeMann, instead of a relatively cheap testosterone injection, along with a shadowy cabal of gutless underling principals, including the head principal taking an underling role because his son was grievously overlooked for a letter man's jacket and the ceremonial kiss of the prettiest girl in town -- who is actually homeschooled and thereby assumed to be without the normal diseases -- sacked Coach Mikelson. The whole thing gets complicated, but that's the basic story. They fired him, for no actual stated reason, and said, "Case closed. Move along. Nothing here to see. There's no story."

Until an influential newspaper man, showing the power of the full court press, rallied parents, townspeople, the students of Washington, Lincoln, and this one pretty homeschooler, against the idiotic cabal and their flubber-chinned henchmen on the school board. Not exactly empty suits, if you catch my drift. But were you the head man of a tribe of cannibals, and having them for Thanksgiving, you might want to double check the overall ratio of fat to lean. And if you were from a brain-sucking tribe, lest you end up on the menu yourself, in revenge, you'd want at least to tap into the cranial cavity of one and extrapolate from there. Planning makes perfect.

Anyway, the newspaperman caught the Lincoln AD at his self-congratulatory best, lounging in leisure, who issued chiseled-in-granite comments like, "Under no circumstances whatsoever -- come hell, high water, or Washington victories the next one hundred seasons will I ever accept Lew Mikelson back as our coach." He further put off the newspaper man with a repeated, "There's no story here. Go on, little man, peddle your papers elsewhere!"

It was at this point the Washington team joined forces with their bitterest rival, Lincoln -- and their proud parents, especially those whose children are on the honor roll. The others, who can't be bothered with whether their sons excel -- I'm trying not to diss my own parents too much -- sat out the fray.

Well, it happened that the school board was going to meet that very afternoon. And they were sure surprised when the students, the parents, and a half dozen extras with pitchforks and torches, came into the room. Each stood and in a dignified way offered their considered support for Coach Mikelson. They shook hands congenially with board members. But nothing seemed to sway the board till -- What's this?! -- Till the door opened again, and there stood one scowling woman in a miniskirt, nice-looking, with her homeschooled daughter, yes, the same one. Mom marched with confidence and determination to the blackboard, and said, "I'd like to address this meeting of the---" We'll just cut to the chase...

It turned out she knew all the dirt on each of these dirtbags. Including Bobby Taylor, sitting there, who'd seven times asked her for a date! Mrs. Taylor's mouth dropped open, smelling of ice. The students, each with hidden romantic entanglements of their own, sensed a distinct shift, the tide turning. The school board, the feckless principals, and even AD DeMann, were jiggling their chins and huffing such retorts as, "Well, I never!" and "Be silent, curséd hag!" before immediately voting (without a second) on the motion that they rehire Coach Mikelson, give him double pay for the past week and his inconvenience, and censure their previous handiwork with malice aforethought and the strongest prejudice.

The students erupted in cheers. This meant now, of course, unless they physically catch Mikelson with the entire cheerleading squad and the homeschooled girl, and the homeschooling mother agrees, they can never, not ever, fire him again. He has them -- and especially AD DeMann -- firmly by the nuts today, tomorrow, and henceforth forever. "Squirm, you worm, DeMann! Now, let's talk about that raise." And, "It's been 10 minutes, DeMann, I feel another serious ass-kissing coming on."

The newspaper recounted the joyous event, the historic day when Washington, Lincoln, and the homeschool mother all came together and socked it to the whole bunch of 'em. But they were generous enough to leave out of it the scofflaws' names. An appearance of graciousness that probably has more to do with future access than anything else. "We were just channeling public sentiment, not burning our own bridges, harumph..."

As for the Washington and Lincoln students, it's back to Total All-Out War! No one owes anyone anything! Come Fall, you filthy bastards, it's back on! "Your boat's going down, Washington!" and "Lincoln, how'd you like that play?"

Check Out These Sexy Album Covers

I've been finding some pretty sexy album covers in my discovery of new and old music. This album of rare oldies but goodies has a definite goodie awaiting the discriminating music fan. I see a very nice looking old record, a little bigger than life-sized sharing a hot date with a true music lover. The fade-outs on her back and other more southerly regions are not welcome, but still are not entirely bad. It's one of those cases, like with optical illusions, where the eye fills in the blanks, then ... lingers ...

I'm not sure how famous Flow Tribe is, but I'm a lifelong fan, thanks to this sexy cover. Notice how risque it is: They're pregnant with a baby called Funk. How exactly they got pregnant, they being represented by the winged goddess on the cover, is anyone's guess. Perhaps divine hanky panky, but I like to picture it being done in the good old-fashioned way, with some mysterious guy, probably chunky, they met on tour. Up till then, they were strictly lounge music, with an unsatisfied hunger for flair. Then the guy approaches, and before you knew it, little baby Funk was in utero. Check out his umbilical cord, attached to headphones. Cool.

I've always loved this album cover by Del Shannon and the song "Little Town Flirt." This was a hugely sexy song in the early '60s. "You can get hurt, fooling around with that town flirt," thanks to her being involved "with every guy that goes by." Then there's the artwork. And I know I'm dating myself -- even going steady -- but to me this is what cute girls should still look like, the way they looked when I first noticed them. Yes, the old world ways are still the best! My cousins and I used to look at this album cover, then immediately go prowling the campground at the state park. Which was about the time I also discovered how suspicious and wary fathers could be.

Isn't this a great one? You think, "Yeah, I already have most of the one hit wonders on this album," then you take one look and say, "But I guess I could always use a back-up copy." The way she's sitting, I have to tell you, I remember some of the old teachings, and this wasn't what they taught. But still, sometimes music brings out the animal in you. Then with some satisfaction, you're wistful, daydreaming, and casually setting the record down as you contemplate. Some guy comes by and wonders, Why couldn't it have been a 45?

 

Speaking of 45s, what's those big gold blotches? Some kind of starburst thing, that, frankly, we could live without. Come on, I like to read record labels, being an old record collector from way back. But let's say something about the cover: Give me time, I'm thinking, I'm thinking! Wow! She's cute! One hand gloved, one hand not. I'd like to see her twisting the night away in one of those dance cages on Hullabaloo, at the Au-Go-Go!

Sorry, boys, if this last cover's a total downer for you. But in many ways this is the sexiest of all, because it was Hardrock Gunter, unbeknownst to you, who got your grandparents or great-grandparents going, and if it weren't for him, you might not be here! Honest to God truth!

Hardrock Gunter was doing the wild thing back when doing the wild thing could get you in lots of trouble. They had the vice squad, censuring preachers, beak-nosed teachers, and mom and dad at the door. And yet, there was Hardrock, blasting out that hot country swing, and turning a blind eye when the kids drifted off to ... who knows where?

What about birth control? Except for a bottle of Coke, there wasn't any. Ever wonder why Grandma and Grandpa had five or six kids? Notice the title, "I'll give 'em rhythm." Hardrock meant it two different ways, but, alas, only one way was actually reliable, the music! But a lot of kids took it on faith, and so, here you are today, generations later.

Hardrock Gunter and his rhythm stick, sexy as can be! Pull up a chair at the Hardrock cafe!

My Rant on Ants

Welcome to another rant on ants. Rants on ants are always the go-to essay for all great writers when they have nothing else to say. Because -- and this is where you nod -- we all have the same problem with the little buggers.

Emerson did a rant, as every yawning 8th grader can tell you, in his essay on Self-Reliance:

All men's prayers to be rid of ants are a disease of the will, making a disease of their creeds. You must do it yourself! But they say with those foolish Israelites, 'Let God smite this pestilence, lest we die trying. Heed thou, comfort any man of us, and we will receive thy help.' Everywhere I am hindered of my brother's despair for ants, because simply shutting his own door is no relief; to say otherwise is to believe fables, both against man's ability and of God's desire. Every mind may prove itself a mind of uncommon activity and power, with the innate cleverness to smite ants quite apart from Divinity!

Locke, Lavoisier, Hutton, Bentham, and Fourier, each one took up mental arms and successfully killed ants, for the most part. The system one chooses will be in proportion to the depth of the thought, and so the disposal of ants is within the reach of each pupil, if not for complacency. Exercising self-reliance, the pupil shares the delight of the learned in subordinating them to man's greater will, as a girl who has just learned botany enjoys seeing a new earth and new seasons thereby.

And yet how many will not learn, will not act! They do not yet perceive, that light, unsystematic, indomitable, will break into any cabin, even theirs. Let them chirp awhile and call it their own, until they're overrun with ants! Yet, if they are honest and do well, presently their problem, common to all, will die away and vanish, and the immortal light, all young and joyful, million-orbed, million-colored, will beam over the universe as on the first morning, before the first ant darkened this sod. 

And I believe it was De Quincey, in Confessions of an English Opium Eater, who observed:

If a man “whose talk is of ants” should become an opium-eater, the probability is that (if he is not too dull to dream at all) he will dream about ants.

Heh, that's a good advertisement for opium! I'd love to see some before and after pictures of opium-eaters! I'll bet they about scratch themselves to death in their sleep! Then they wake up, eat some more, go back to sleep and finish the job. All thanks to ants.

--BEGINNING OF MY ANT RANT: "Everything's Little, Everything's Big" --

I've been killing ants. I hate killing, but sometimes I just have to do it. Like when I'm overrun with them.

Thinking of ants, I observe that they seem to be very tribal. At least that's what I imagine about them. Queen ants, drones, sort of similar to bees. One of the weird things about ants is how much weight they can carry in relation to themselves. Like me trying to carry all the groceries in at once. That's why I choose plastic, although it's a killer on the hands.

That said, ants are also the ultimate punctual being, showing up at the butt crack of midnight the first day of spring. Somehow -- planned obsolescence -- the poison from last year expired yesterday and is ineffectual! Weird, because I know when I hit obsolescence it only made me bigger and better.

So that leaves me trying to kill them one by one, a hopeless task only presenting a tiny glimmer of hope by the certain knowledge that though they're numerous, they're not infinite. Were they infinite, I'd have to step up the pace of killing to keep up. Although, strictly, anything infinite necessarily tramples itself to death.

Falling short of that, it's up to me to kill them, even if it's against my conscience. I feel sad for the Queen, back in the nest, going, "WTF's going on with the drones? Either a revolt or some guy killed them." She has other worries too. The last few drones, seeing she offers no protection, might quickly evolve a patriarchal society, arming up for mutual protection. Leaving her to submit, accept a ceremonial role, and occasionally dress as a humble nurse to console the wounded in battle.

The thing that freaks me out about killing ants is how they must look under a microscope. Because I know if I had better eyes, they'd look immense and a horror. Then I'd see the true terror of the whole thing. I'm already thinking of it and feeling sick. This also goes for any truly microscopic being, but I have to say it's not sentimentality; I just prefer living and letting live, but, you know, you hate to be overrun. Too much mercy's a thankless thing.

Still, think of how big an ant is compared to a truly microscopic being. They're like a redwood! Now imagine the downside of that. Ants have to poop. Can you picture the droppings from something the size of a redwood all over your Formica counter? Not to mention the food on your counter, bananas, etc.

But here's the killer to the whole thing. Regardless of what we do, the future is wide open for ants and other vermin. Because, friends, I hate to break it to you, but I don't see the human species making it literally millions of years. But ants no doubt will...

Something like this is happening: We're macro but live in micro time. They're micro but live in macro time. We think we're "so bad" because our country's a little over 200 years old. Big deal. The creatures in macro time don't even think about celebrating till it's been a million years. So we destroy our environment, stupidly, because of this micro time thinking. But ants -- all they need is air, water, and whatever food happens to be handy, so macro time is theirs.

Someday, though---- Someday, long after we're gone, maybe they'll be like us. Maybe the little will become big, the size of dinosaurs, and demand too much from their environment. Until a meteor, the ultimate ant poison, comes blasting from the distant reaches of outer space, and finally gives them their comeuppance. And who knows? This is a great thought, who knows if it's one of our own space probes, arranged by our smartest scientists 100 million years in the past, that is the very thing to tilt that meteor toward earth! Isn't that great? That ants become complacent, being rid of us for 100 million years, and yet we still manage to kill them in the end.

Bait Wagon

NOTE: If you're a fan of the TruTV show "Bait Car," you'll like this. If you don't know the show, it features metro police luring people into stealing cars. The objective is to prevent car theft. It makes a certain amount of sense, if you cross your eyes and think about it really hard. You know they're going to steal it, the police are rooting for success, and finally ... "There they go! Shut it down!" ... They shut the car off by remote control and arrest the perps.

There's been a rash of wagon thefts recently in my town. It used to be you could take your kid to the park, take them to the restroom, and come back out to your wagon still there. Those days seem long gone, with the many crimes leading to parents being extremely mad, and kids upset they took so long in the bathroom.

It's been crazy. Everyone knows a kid who's lost a wagon, and everyone knows a parent who's mad at life-in-general and everyone in it. Gun sales are way up, as well as heavy artillery, mortars, bombs, and jet fighters. The biggest course at adult education is on assembling IEDs. Folks have even shown up at the police department threatening officers with death if they didn't put a stop to the thefts. And, as it turns out, they meant business.

That's where I come in. I've been working with the police, part-time, training officers in public relations, using some of the principles of group dynamics as well as other people skills. One day, I was just wrapping up a session on "You Need to Go Along to Get Along" -- on knowing when the passive side of passive-aggressiveness is indicated -- right when a parental militia burst in and took out two of our best men. When the excitement died down, I concluded, "This time aggression was indicated, but don't worry, you'll get the hang of it."

Another principle we're working on is "Digging Down to the Root of Any Dilemma." "Why treat the symptoms if the cancer's still there?" I asked rhetorically. "These senseless police killings won't stop till we address the real problem, the theft of these dam-- darned wagons." That's when I came up with the Bait Wagon program, modeled on the TV show. We would trick out normal wagons, pimp 'em up real "bad", so "bad" no self-respecting wagon thief could resist. Then put them in parks ... and wait.

But on our way with the very first wagon, we found ourselves fighting an entirely different parental militia, these ones coming in from the air. One officer -- Sgt. Smith -- said, "I've heard of helicopter parents, but this is ridiculous!" Those were his last words, as a mortar sped through the car window and impaled him. I helped the others drag the Bait Wagon to safety just as the car blew into a million pieces.

Fortunately, the park was near. With a wary eye, we quickly set up the Bait Wagon, leaving the handle right in plain sight, then hid in the bushes. It didn't take long till we had lots of browsers, lots of interest, little kids, parents, and a few juvies -- kids with tattoos. By now we were silently praying, moving our lips, "Somebody, please, take it for a spin!" At last a couple of good-time "bruthas" milled around it a bit too much, dicking with the handle and looking around. I checked the laminated profile guide Sgt. Smith bequeathed to Lt. Rutger and found them ... looking pretty close to these actual guys!

Almost immediately, true to form, the "bruthas" attached the handle to the mainframe and took off running down the hill, predictably picking up speed as they went. Likewise, we sped out from the bush. But our timing was unfortunate, as a parental militia just then came into sight on our rear flank and took position. We took incoming, with their first lucky shot taking off Rutger's leg, and the second the rest of him. I wasn't completely spared; shrapnel nicked the leather on one of my shoes, but it was on the back where it's not as noticeable.

But first things first! The "bruthas" were getting away with the Bait Wagon! I gave the order to the others: "Pull out!" (I actually didn't have any authority, but this is an old group dynamics trick I teach at my seminars: Anyone who "takes charge" is at least temporarily respected till folks have time to think it over. Most assume you know what you're doing.)

Now, each Bait Wagon is equipped with a remote-controlled brake to lock both back wheels tight. I ran back to Lt. Rutger and snatched the controls from his holster. Then we approached the befuddled "bruthas" -- now on the sidewalk, almost to the grocery store, struggling to make the wagon go. I gave the order and we rushed in from three directions, which would've been four had we avoided that last casualty.

Anyway, it turned out these were the guys behind all the recent wagon thefts. We think. We never actually found all the wagons, and they didn't have time to confess. But, you know, the laminated profile sheet and all ... it stands to reason. "Bruthas." It's a human tragedy.

But the real tragedy in this whole stinking affair was our failure to get this news out to the parents in time. All of a sudden, three jets came over the horizon in formation, strafing the whole scene for miles around, killing not only the remaining officers, but the "bruthas," and quite a number of innocent bystanders, including a white guy unrelated to this case running by with a different hot wagon. As for me, I barely managed to survive, not being hit but halfway scared out of my everlovin' wits.

Having nothing more to do -- my job was done -- I continued on to the grocery store, filled the wagon with a few essentials and went home. Saved a little gas -- did my best to save the planet -- and got in some exercise.

Hellbent for Leather or Swaying toward Lavender

I've never been an absolutist, that you have to be either Hellbent for Leather or Swaying toward Lavender exclusively. I hear some of them saying that and I just have to laugh. Instead, my conviction has always been, sometimes you may be one, sometimes the other, and sometimes, although it's rarer, you can be both at the same time!

In holding this opinion, of course I know I'm in the minority. Making me -- obviously -- more a Swaying toward Lavender guy than a Hellbent for Leather, but watch out -- I'm frequently Hellbent for Leather, so it's not like you can put me in a box and keep me there!

In my defense, I've always been that way no matter what method you use to describe personality types, and I'm not likely to change now. I just happen to think folks are more well-rounded (or varying) than many of us can believe. Although, as you might expect, it's those who are predominantly Hellbent for Leather who tend to keep the more absolutist points of view. Leaving us predominantly Swaying toward Lavender types as the ones holding up the banner of "To Each His Own ... Depending."

How do I feel about the absolutist types? In my more Swaying toward Lavender moods, naturally I completely understand. But in my more Hellbent for Leather moods, I'd frankly like to take a leather strap to their hide and beat them to a bloody pulp, or to a better understanding, whichever comes first. Lest anyone be concerned by my statement, know this, my Swaying toward Lavender nature keeps me from acting on it. Unlike the definite Hellbent for Leather types, who frequently lack all restraint. The prisons are full of them.

It's one of the interesting things about personalities, how we got that way. Maybe we were born that way, or maybe it's our social environment. Take me again, as an example. A lot of the folks in my family were Hellbent for Leathers through and through. Grandpa had that Hellbent for Leather thing through and through. But he was a country boy, raised in tough times, having to struggle through World War I, the Depression, and digging outhouse holes for a living. The crowd he ran with was the same, Hellbent for Leathers, so that was that.

Grandma softened him up somewhat -- being a city girl with sisters and so a definite Swaying toward Lavender. That affected my mother, also a Swaying toward Lavender. But Mom was a mix, and that's partly how I got the mix -- as well as a conflicted personality. It's like this: Mom was 60-40 Swaying toward Lavender, Dad was 62-36-2 Hellbent for Leather, the 2 being undecided. Dad was great, but it was that 2, small as it sounds, that was the wildcard. That damned 2's sent me into a tizzy more than once! Particularly when my Swaying toward Lavender is waxing, my last bit of waning Hellbent for Leather is sometimes too much for me to take; I hit that tiny patch of paternal indecision on the downswing and the slick spot puts me on my ass.

Please, though, I don't want you feeling sorry for me. Because I had only two parents and a happy home. There's lots of people who don't share my good fortune. And unless they've managed some real personal diligence -- and this advantage is obviously more for the Hellbent for Leathers -- they can be so overcome it's ridiculous. That's the tragic side of Swaying toward Lavender; it can so easily get out of whack.

Let's say they have a father out of the home, an ex-stepfather and a current stepfather. And let's say the fathers were, respectively, strong-STL, strong-HFL, and strong-STL. That's a bad combination but all too common. In her shopping for men, Mom needed to find a moderate-STL or moderate-HFL for her last hookup. But sometimes, when lust is at its hottest, she won't be thinking clearly, particularly if she's reacting to one of the first two men; so instead of splitting the difference (picking a moderate) she foolishly doubles down on one extreme. At which point it's too late.

It's the kids I feel sorry for, not the mom. As for her, my Swaying toward Lavender nature says, "Fine, live and let live," if it's not someone I have to intervene for, like a relative. As long as it's someone out there, someone I don't have to help, someone who has to stew in her own juices and suffer on her own, anonymous to me personally, even if she ends up a total wreck on the human highway, then I reiterate, "Fine, live and let live." But I can see myself really heating up if it's someone I might have to rescue. I can see myself getting very hot under the collar, my muscles suddenly bulging out, then I Leather Out, and preemptively intervene even to the point of force. That's Grandpa and Dad in me -- the killer trump being Dad's little 2 -- Grandma and Mom remain in complete occlusion till they cycle back around.

But all that's hypothetical today! Today, friends, I'm happy as can be. I'm writing this, I'm almost done. Then I'm off to meet friends uptown -- all Swaying toward Lavenders -- where we're going to celebrate together, it being Crouton Appreciation Day.