F*** STDs

A serendipitous happenstance of letters randomly coming together, I'd guess.

I'm One Pebble In A Vast Ocean

I guess I'm happy enough with reality. And if I'm not, it doesn't look like it matters. So I may as well be happy enough with it, even if I have to fake it.

But I'm not faking it, now that I think about it. I'm OK being one pebble in a vast ocean. That's the apparent reality, but according to what I'm also thinking, I'm also the vast ocean looking at the pebble.

There's no need to say, "So and so said that," because you can't improve on truth, so it's as much mine as it is his. Can openers, you can improve on. Garage door openers. The taste of dog food. Insulating houses. Making longer and better extension cords. Have at it, go for it.

But getting away from being the vastness ... that's all well and good ... there's still the daily realizations that you're a pebble in a vast ocean. I've got the four walls I've got and they're different than yours. Just looking around the room. Someone mass produced this keyboard but I've got the one I have. Others are plinking on their own but I'm plinking on this one. Others are writing their version of hogwash but -- modesty prevents me from saying what I'm writing.

I go could out in the back yard and see if the stars are out. They probably are, unless someone put them away. The sky's like a bunch of scattered toys that some tired kid forgot to put away, so if I trip over a star in the middle of the night, I'll burn my foot. Looking up and knowing that you can't really see them any clearer with a telescope gives you a humble thought. Except you are looking, and that should count for something.

Moldy Leftovers From Christmas

I've still got some of the Christmas tunes in mind. I'm trying to shake them, but it's hard.

One of the songs, which I love, that I can't get rid of is "Sleigh Ride." Even now I'm singing it in my head. "It'll nearly be like a picture print by Currier and Ives. These wonderful things are the things we remember all through our lives." It really is one of the more charming songs.

But one of the things I think of when I hear old songs is what became of the food mentioned. Because food doesn't keep. So in this song, they're passing around the coffee and the pumpkin pie, which in my way of thinking, since the song was written decades ago, has to be very old and moldy by now. The writer was looking at a fresh pie, but all I can picture is a moldy pie, or maybe a pie that's petrified and used as a doorstop in a barn.

My mother, out there somewhere, has an old apple that belonged to her great grandmother. It's in a case in her house. It's shriveled down and solidified itself. It's an apple mummy. If my great great grandmother had written a song about her apple, that's all she'd have left.

There's all kinds of old stuff that exists that shouldn't. This apple. Or leaves and flowers in books. And I've even had clumps of people's hair from 100 years ago that I've found in books. This stuff isn't moldy, thanks to being out of the air. It dried out so much, like the apple, that now it's impervious.

But the typical cup of coffee and pumpkin pie are going to be in bad shape by now, stale if nothing else. Because no one thinks to dehydrate them before long term storage. And to find a slice of pumpkin pie or cup of coffee pressed in a book is very rare.

One of the other Christmas songs, one I only heard six or seven times this year, is "Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree." It also has pumpkin pie in it: "Later we'll have some pumpkin pie and we'll do some caroling." It's the same problem. It may have been great when it was written, but that's some pie that's gone bad by now.

2010 Bad, 2011 Good

I'm barely hanging on, dreading that there's still one more day of this dreadful year. The only optimism I have is because I know everything will be better as soon as we hit that magic moment of midnight on January 1. It's a real turning point.

The first thing I'll look for in the morning is "2011" on the newspaper. That's what I've traditionally done, but now I usually look on the internet. That's how I know that it's really happened, that we've finally flipped over from misery to bliss.

When I was a kid, I got excited about seeing the old man with the scythe and the baby with the top hat. They put it on the front page of the paper back then practically every year. Back then, they dealt in old traditional images like that, the old man and the baby. I was always a little confused about how the baby became an old man in only one year, but in general I understood the symbolism. The old is dead -- good riddance -- the new has come.

To me, January 1 is the best day of the New Year. January 3 or 4 I usually think are kind of depressing, because the whole thing for the most part is over. Then when it's Jan. 9 you've lost track, and for all you know it might be the 8th or 10th. It's still the New Year but you're used to it. The only thing that used to mess us up was writing checks, putting the wrong year. But now that we do debit cards all the time, of course we don't even have to think about it.

I don't know if I want to do a "year in review" for the blog this year. I'm pretty sure I did one last year. Oh, what the heck, I'll do a short one:

I really can't remember what I was writing about at the beginning of 2010. I'll go look. Just glancing at a couple titles: January - Drive For Pride, when I was into lifestyle coaching. February - Vernon Hoff, Female Impersonator, that was just an anthology of clippings on a guy who left behind no extensive life story, none that I know of. March - I had a short series on collecting dog food labels. There's some real beauties there. April - I started my "Industrial Section" series that went on for 200 parts straight, so that takes us through May, June, July, August, September, and much of October. Of course that was a very major thing. October - The rest of October was spent floundering around, because the "Industrial Section" posts had worn such deep grooves in my brain. But then I introduced my blessed guru, Swami Masturbananda. November - I introduced the Pink Professor. Also I hit my 1000th post. December - I focused on Masturbananda and the Pink Professor. Toward the end, I essentially became the Pink Professor's boyfriend. But we're still working out the details of our relationship and don't have anything to announce yet.

Maybe 2010 wasn't so terrible, but it's nothing compared to what 2011 will be! Only one more day of a cloudy, terrible time.

Defending Myself With A Crowbar

At this point, I feel I'm not guaranteed a Happy New Year until I flush out the guy who trained the secret camera on me. Because there's no telling what else he might try. Maybe he's busy even now with some surveillance equipment that I haven't yet seen.

It was a bummer of a Christmas and now the aftermath has been very down as well. Because I've been busy, I haven't taken this lying down. In fact, I've had very little rest since I found the camera, as I've kept a lonely vigil at all hours hoping to catch the guy. And not just catch him, but whack him with my crowbar.

The other day I renounced violence, and having done so, I took my arsenal of guns to the pawn shop. I figured that move would come back to haunt me, I just didn't know it'd be so soon. Now I'm without the kind of defense that is a defense. All I've got is this crowbar, plus of course any other rudimentary weapons I might marshal, kitchen knives, wet towels, and rocks from the road. Wet towels? Yes, if he's naked, I'll snap him in the butt. That always hurts.

Needless to say, since it would've been the headline if I'd caught him, I haven't seen the guy. It makes me thing one of several things: Maybe the camera was rigged to transmit or upload the pictures back to him. Or maybe he simply reads my blog, which was my theory in the first place, and knows I've got possession of the camera. In which case I won't see him coming back for it. And now that he knows that I'm waiting with a crowbar, everything might be defused ... till next time.

But I have been watching and waiting, very patiently. There's a little side place on the porch, and it can be very dark in there. I've been hanging out there, waiting in the darkness, just me and my crowbar. I've done everything a man can reasonably do with a crowbar. I've had it over my shoulder, resting at my leg, over my lap, and I've lifted it a few times. It turned out to be a bunch of false alarms, including dogs that were cutting through the yard, and one little kid who was selling candy for school. I don't suppose I'll see him at my door again anytime soon. But there was an upside to it: He dropped a box of chocolate bars, so I've been eating them. Plus there's a $2 off coupon for Pizza Hut on each one.

But there hasn't been any sign of the guy looking for the camera. I was halfway expecting him to show up, such as in the guise of a cable guy, a telephone repairman, or even an Avon lady. The last one, I'd love to see, just to see how well he could pull it off. A little gender bending is a great thing, I believe. I wouldn't hold it against him, I want to say, except I would still want to beat the crap out of him, only for other reasons. First, I would demand that he tell me what his mission was, if he was working for anyone else, and if there were any good deals on perfume, especially the kind (Skin So Soft) that keeps mosquitoes away.

So I've passed some hours at my post. And I haven't been in hiding the whole time. I was taking swings at the air, trying to see what kind of whoosh I could get. And a few times I took batting practice with the crowbar and some dirt clods. It's great to see them explode when I hit them. I also hit some good sized gravel off the road, and a few of them sailed pretty far. But they're a lot harder to hit with a crowbar than, say, a baseball bar. Still, there's ways of getting better accuracy. I always have theories about that, mostly variations on positive thinking teachings. If you think you're going to hit it -- it's like letting the Force be your guide -- you have a better chance of doing so. You just don't want to think about it too much.

I came in to write this, and to warm my fingers. A crowbar is a great conductor of cold. The cold air hits it and goes right through it. It cools off faster than an aluminum can in the freezer, or just about that fast.

Where you at, dude? What did you want? What was the camera for? Were you trying to get some dirt on me? Come back over for a few minutes, please...

Someone Trained A Secret Camera On Me

I'm pretty sure it had to be someone who reads this blog, someone who is well aware of my comings and going, who trained a secret camera on me, which I have subsequently found and disabled.

I found it today, and I'm hoping it hasn't been there that long. Probably not, because I usually keep an eagle eye out for invasions of my privacy. I'm known for spending an extra long time kicking around for microphones and other surveillance equipment, lest anyone learn and document my secrets.

Of course I have enemies. No one in my position can hope to have everyone love him, though Lord knows I try. But I've done things, I've offended people, I've caused trouble for some of the authorities. Then there's the jealousy. When someone's on top, someone else wants to take his place.

But why now? That's a great question. It might be because it's the holidays, right when they think I might let down my guard. Or maybe it's just that it's the end of the year, and they've had this assignment and suddenly the calendar's against them and they've got to get it done. I can see that, because I myself hate to have to carry over old business to the new year.

What I actually think is going on is that they're looking for personal scandal. And I can guess what it's about, three guesses and the first two don't count, one of those deals. My post on "Body Language With The Pink Professor" was just a couple days ago. And I was a little coy about some of the possible goings-on between him and me, for very good reason. Because it's just the kind of scuttlebutt that can ruin a guy.

So what better way to try and bring me down than to turn to surveillance. Especially with a camera. It's economical, you don't have to pay someone to sit with it. You turn it on, you go to town for lunch, you come back and you've got pictures. What it might show, let's say if I was doing anything scandalous in its view, might be very damaging.

Have you seen those cameras they train on birds? They're insidious, because the birds don't realize it. You've got birds bathing, picking their feathers, eating, and even mating. But I'm not a bird ... I'm much smarter than that. And I'm not going to mate with the Pink Professor right out in the open, especially in view of their camera, if ever. Because that would be a roll of film that might very well end all hopes I have. It'd certainly end my viability in the short term, until the scandal died down.

OK, turning to the camera, I don't recognize the model. It's essentially a piece of plastic, and I don't see the usual markings of a camera, labels, an on-button, etc. Even the lens seems to be permanently encased in plastic, as though it's meant to be opened only by someone who knows its special secret. The back is completely open. I don't see any workings whatsoever. It's very weird.

In one of my photos, I've set some common household items next to it for scale, so you can get an idea of its dimensions. It's very small, a little smaller than other cameras I've seen. As to how it was supposed to function in the photographer's absence, that's another unknown, as there's no wires, no LEDs, no flash, no computer chips, no batteries, not even a solar panel to power it.

But, hey, I'm not alone in recognizing it clearly as a camera. I aimed it at two separate individuals, as an experiment, and they both thought it was a camera, one even going so far as to shield her face and say, "Don't take my picture!"

No one -- that is, no one I know -- likes to have their privacy invaded. They (and I) prefer to come and go undetected, unseen, and of course unrecorded. Whatever dirty business we might be up to when we get there, we'd prefer no one else found out about it. Let those goings-on be between us and our partner. Certain things are not meant for prying eyes and wagging tongues. And I for one don't appreciate anyone -- and I mean anyone -- trying to get pictures of it.

Thankfully, I've got possession of the camera now. And I plan on breaking it.

Note: I have a confidential word for the person who put this camera up: I believe I know who you are. I think I've got it narrowed down, your identity. So don't be surprised if there's a little 'turnabout is fair play' in your future! Just a friendly warning. But where and when I strike, that's going to be my own little secret.

Have A Merry Herman's Hermits Christmas

OK, My Sentimental Friend, I've been Bidin' My Time till Christmas got here so I could wish you all a Merry Herman's Hermits Christmas. Wouldn't that be Dandy? And I hope You Won't Be Leaving until I get it done.

The joy of Christmas has been the Story Of My Life, keeping me from being Little Boy Sad. If You're Thinking What I'm Thinking, you know Christmas is often sad for many people. To them, it's truly A Must To Avoid. Well, I Understand (Just How You Feel), but still I'll do it For Love, because I always believe things can always be Just A Little Bit Better.

I know the basic message of Christmas is meant to Make Me Happy, and you too, and that we truly live in a Wonderful World.

My Lady, the Virgin Mary, Just One Girl, heard the good news: Something Is Happening, with the word coming on Wings Of Love. At first, Joseph heard what she said and thought it was The End Of The World. He pictured her and some other guy as Silhouettes on the window, and said, "I Gotta Get Away!" But she pleaded, "I've Been Walkin' With My Angel," to which he replied, "Don't Try To Hurt Me."

Then finally he said, "OK, Tell Me Baby. Otherwise I Can Take Or Leave Your Loving." She defended herself, saying this was the Son of God who would be born, and now Joseph had to judge What Is Wrong, What Is Right. He told her he'd Dream On it that night. "I'll pray the Lord to Show Me Girl." Then he heard the word from on high, that Mary was indeed no Jezebel, and declared, "Now I Know Why."

Hold On, Listen People, the story gets better, please Wait For Me, Here I Come...

They went to the town of Bethlehem, to an inn. At first Joseph thought, "My Reservation's Been Confirmed," but as it turned out, this was no Holiday Inn. They tried to check in, but the innkeeper, The Man With The Cigar, told them there was no room, not Upstairs, Downstairs. He pointed to the exit, as if to say, "This Door Swings Both Ways."

Outside, they found a little stable at the end of Gaslite Street, barely fit for a Rattler (or even your Mother-In-Law), let alone the Son of God. Mary pondered these things in her heart, thinking, "I Wonder..." Joseph turned to the Big Man above, complaining, "Where Were You When I Needed You?," but suddenly he Got A Feeling that It's Alright Now.

Finally, Mary gave birth to her son, and patted his little head and said, "Oo-Ee-Baby ... All The Things I Do For You Baby ... You're The Most Beautiful Thing In My Life." Suddenly they saw a flash and looked up at the sky: Here Comes The Star! It's a thrilling story, isn't it? ... Can't You Feel My Heartbeat?

I hope you agree, that today, for us, Years May Come, Years May Go, but the whole world can still know that God's been Thinkin' Of You. Each one can have a Merry Herman's Hermits Christmas and make it a beautiful time to Take Love, Give Love. And each one can agree with everyone everywhere, and know, I'm Into Something Good.

Tonight, this Christmas, let it be just like that first night: There's A Kind Of Hush All Over The World. So Smile Please, because I'm wishing you a great Christmas! You Bet Yer Life I Do.

Body Language With The Pink Professor

Sometimes you just know it's right.

Every once in a while, if you're lucky -- maybe just once in your life -- you find you're completely in sync, sympatico, with another person. She or he gives you a look and you know what it means. Then you return the same look, or maybe you mix it up with an entirely different look, and the meaning again is clear.

I guess I really stumbled on to something back in September when I visited the Roadhouse bikers bar on a daring lark. Because I met someone that night who turned out to be very special to me. I really didn't go there to get lucky. Why would I? I refuse to touch anything if I don't know where it's been. But over the last few months, you know, with a little eye contact here, a pat on the shoulder there, a tender moment or two, a few huge belly laughs, a knowing glance across the room, a deepening trust, some parallels in our interests with enough divergences to keep it interesting, and even a bumping of heads a couple times, things have developed nicely.

In the meantime, I've learned the Pink Professor's given name, which I need to keep confidential for the time being. For all the things he's not paranoid about, of course there has to be something he is, and the internet is one of them. When I first met him, in fact, I needed to talk about him only in hypothetical terms because I didn't have the clearance to even declare him as an actual person. And I honored that. But things have advanced on for us ... now he knows my name and I know his!

He asked me if I wanted to come over to his place, which I knew would probably be desirable on multiple levels. We might have a couple drinks, sit on the couch, spend some time looking at books, watch Rachel Maddow, whom we both love, enjoy some crackers and cheese, listen to music, and talk. So I've been over a time or two, and he's super cool. We're getting closer all the time, which is a real joy to me. That was part of the whole thing about me renouncing violence the other day, something he encouraged.

Last night I was over at his place. And I tried something a little different when I got there. I immediately put my finger to my lips when he opened the door, and he got the message. That's how sympatico we are. Of course what I was trying to say was, 'Let's not say anything, OK? Let's just enjoy some peace and quiet.' He put his hands up, as if to say, 'I'm amenable to anything you suggest. It's cool with me.' I put my hand to my chest, indicating myself, and motioned toward the couch, which he understood. He directed me over and he took the easy chair on the other side of the coffee table.

The Pink Professor lifted his right hand and dropped it in an inquiring way, as if to ask, 'So what's going on?' I put both my hands up in the gesture that says, 'Quite a bit. I'm overwhelmed, you know, the holidays..." He smiled and made a sweeping gesture upwards, as if to say, "Santa Claus will be here before you know it and it'll all be over!" I wiped my forehead, as if to say, "I hope you're right!"

We sat and visited like that for a while. Then I picked up a pillow and hugged it tight to myself and closed my eyes. He must've read my mind, because when I opened my eyes, he was standing there and pointed to the couch. I touched the seat and he sat next to me. He patted my leg, then went to get the drinks and crackers and cheese and returned. I fed him a cracker ... and he reciprocated. Plus, we clinked glasses.

The Pink Professor and I had a nice quiet evening in. I leaned back on the couch, reached over and got the pillow, as if to say, 'We're in for the evening. I'm one old slipper and you're the other.' I opened one eye and looked at him, and opened my mouth, as if to say, 'Eh?' He laughed and nodded, as if to say, 'We're definitely two old slippers!'

To make a long story short, we didn't go to the Roadhouse, leaving them -- I don't know -- probably at their wits' end.

Merry Christmas To Random Names

I'm looking around for new ways to bless the lives of folks, since that's what I like to do at Christmas.

You've probably heard of me, even though I've never revealed, until now, what I'm known for. You remember hearing those stories every year about the anonymous guy who puts very valuable gold coins in the Salvation Army bucket? That's me. And I'll still be doing that, like always because I still get a thrill out of seeing the articles about me.

If they really wanted to catch me, they could. Surveillance video, DNA on the coins. But thankfully, so far no one has! 

But now I'm looking for other additional ways -- perhaps ways that aren't so expensive -- to be a blessing. Regular money's of course cheaper than gold. I could just drive along and throw money out the window. But if I did that, there'd be a crowd, the crowd would go ballistic, people would be shoving each other out of the way to get it, someone would be pushed in front of a car and killed. And, anyway, I've never liked the whole thing of handing out money to random people. It's appealing to something base in them. There's also articles about the guy who does that -- I know him -- and mostly he's just looking for someone to get hurt.

You have to be real careful about anything you do. Plus, if you want it to be an actual blessing, you have to look at it in context. By that I mean, if it's not money or it's not gold, it's anticlimactic, and no one really cares. Like if you hand out calendars ... everyone knows calendars are freebies everywhere, banks, barber shops, nursing homes. There's no glamor to them. So if I start handing out something less desirable than money, no one's going to appreciate it.

I've thought about it, and I'm thinking, what if I just wished Merry Christmas to random names. Meaning, names that are legitimate-sounding enough to actually be someone out there, but not names that are celebrity names. I do wish a Merry Christmas to Lady Gaga, whose actual name is (I'll look it up to get it right, even though I basically know it's something like Stephanie Germaniotta) Stefani Germanotta ... wow, I was darned close!

If I were to wish a Merry Christmas to celebrities ... you know what, I probably wouldn't get very far. I'm an old codger and I don't know the current breed of celebrities. There'd be Alex Trebek; I see him almost everyday. I think it's amazing how well Alex does at small talk on the show. He's never stumbling and bumbling, never tripping over his words, never saying anything inappropriate. Myself, I would look at some of the mousy people on there, and introduce them as today's sacrificial lamb, since you know they're not going to win. A couple days ago they had a guy on there who looked like the stereotypical lush at a wild party; if they'd put him in a bathrobe, you'd know him anywhere. I said he'd never make it, but he gave the champ a good run for the money and almost won.

To wish Merry Christmas to celebrities, I'm the age that I'd wish Paul and Ringo Merry Christmas ... they're favorites. I don't know of many other celebrities I really like that much, but there has to be some. I love Drew Carey ... Drew Carey has to be the nicest guy on TV. So a big Merry Christmas to him.

Now, getting to the random non-celebrity names, and I need to say I'm not good at making up names:

Merry Christmas to Nancy Grundy, Roscoe Jones, Ted Rath, Cyrus Paulson, Dan Griffin (there has to be a million of them), Adam Wagner, Priscilla Lopez, Wilma Theramin, Missy Critchett, Duff Dorfman, Walt Plantain, Quincy Cobb, and Linda Zuckerman.

I don't know anyone personally by any of those names. But Merry Christmas to each one and also to you. It's coming up. I hope you've been good, so Santa won't overlook you!

I've Renounced Violence

I'm renouncing violence. I have renounced violence. I really did. And I took a major step today to prove it.

What do I need a major arsenal for, exactly? Am I really a better person if I have a wall full of gun racks and guns? And if it has nothing to do with being a better person, am I really that much safer with all that firepower? In a certain sense, yes, because I could've blown a hole in the wall to keep you out. But then, looking at it more closely, no, because I myself could've been killed by a fearful society trying to protect itself.

I was always brought up with the dictate that we have to protect our own. Because there's always someone out to get what you have, and to get you. So we've loaded up on guns, making our own shells, etc. But when you live that way, you notice enemies around every corner, someone wanting to take away your way of life. Finally, our way of life becomes a matter of complete fear. With an itchy trigger finger that gets itchier all the time.

I've been talking some of this over recently with the Pink Professor. I would've gone with his logo but I accidentally messed up the file. That ticks me off. So I used the guns graphic and my raging bear, which I've used numerous times. It's just as well, because rage is a part of the life I've been protecting. Fear and rage. Being a threat to our neighbors, who need to be gotten before they get us.

Then today -- and like I said, the Pink Professor was instrumental in helping me sort through some of this -- I took a major step in renouncing violence. How? By taking my guns to the pawn shop and selling them, literally lock, stock, and barrel. It took my own car and my cousin Roto used his truck to get all of them there. He couldn't believe I was doing it, since he's worse than me, standing guard every evening with a cocked gun at the window.

I listened to the Pink Professor. Do you know how crazy that sounds to a guy like Roto? But the P.P. is my friend, so I wasn't ashamed to tell Roto, Those days are behind me ... all the guns, everything.

But I want to tell you, it was hard. Especially when I looked at the guns all packed up. Suddenly I wanted to call the whole thing off. Because I saw how real it was. But I kept the larger purpose in mind, that violence is not the answer. They say it's never the answer, which I don't really believe. But frankly, is it ever the answer for one single, lone guy? No, it only causes heartache and misery.

There was a story on the internet just this morning (12-21-2010) about a guy -- I think he was in South Korea [turns out it was Brazil] -- who got married with apparently nothing on his mind wrong. But then at the reception, he pulled out a gun and killed his bride, the best man, and himself. I'm going to confess, there was a time in my life when I would've said, "So? What's your point? Do you have a point, or do I have to grind one for you on your head?" But those days are past. Now I say, he should've renounced violence, sold his guns at the pawn shop, got counseling, confessed his sick fantasy to his bride-to-be, then married her, if she was crazy enough to still want him.

Getting back to me, do I think it's going to be easy for me not to have my arsenal? Well, I'm thinking some days will be better than others. Like if I'm not angry. But other days will probably be tough. Like if I see a dog pooping in my yard, or someone dumps a bunch of cats in the driveway, or I'm watching something unpleasant on TV. Did you hear about that guy shooting out his TV set because he didn't like "Dancing with the Stars"? That wasn't me, but it could've been, if I was stupid enough to watch shows like that, or Fox News.

To renounce violence. That's a pretty lofty thing for a guy to do, right? But it really happened! I actually took my guns to the pawn shop today and sold them. I had one more major pang of regret, and that's when I saw the pawn guy carrying them into the back room. I turned and looked at the ones he had one last time. And that's how it ended. They're at the pawn shop. So some other violent guy who hasn't renounced violence can buy them and maybe kill me in a fit of road rage.

You want to hear how peaceful I am? I even called the pawn shop and warned them I was coming, and asked them not to be freaked out when I came in with armloads of guns. They said, "Just so they're unloaded," which kind of pissed me off; I mean, I'm not stupid, loser! But I counted to 10, held my head, and, in one final outburst, shot the phone. It was one of the cheapies you get at Walmart, so no big deal.

Tonight, then, here I sit, virtually defenseless. I was looking out the window at a dark yard, imagining all kinds of forms and shadows over by the garage. I just hope it's no one. At this point, all I've got is God help me. And since God does help those who help themselves, I'll have no one else to blame but myself.

Pink Professors Needed -- Immediate Openings

A month ago I wrote about the need biker bars have for a Pink Professor-type of guy in their midst. I just reread my post, and I had to say 'Amen' to everything I wrote. It was way back in November, so I might've easily changed my mind, but I didn't.

The truth is, I think about the Pink Professor a lot ... I mean a lot. Of course I see him when I'm out at the Roadhouse. I walk in, and even though the guys are getting used to me, he always comes over and takes me under his wing. It lets the other guys know I'm all right despite any appearances to the contrary.

And another truth I may as well put out, just to be honest, is that I myself might take on the role of Pink Professor at one of the other competing biker bars. But what I want to do -- just to be on the safe side -- is hang out with the Pink Professor I know, even though he keeps encouraging me to do it. I actually believe I intuitively know the whole psychology of what's going on in the Pink Professor/bikers relationship -- I can grasp it in a flash, not meaning to brag -- but there's a side of me that's reticent to just launch out on my own. So I'm putting it off for a while, which I'm not proud of but that's just the way I feel right now.

OK, if I jumped in, that would almost cover our town. That'd get the majority of the biker bars, since there's only three. And frankly, I don't know what the third is doing. Maybe they have a Pink Professor; I have to confess some ignorance on this, being fairly new to the scene myself. I'd have a hard time just going there, even though I did that at the Roadhog Roadhouse the first time on a daring lark. Every eye was trained on me as I made my way to a table. Even guys who were chalking their pool cues took a break. One of the waitresses came over to take my order, and I was careful not to glance down at her cleavage, knowing that at any minute they might twist some handlebars around my neck.

That's when I met the Pink Professor. The above account of that night is different from the first time I gave it because I didn't have sufficient clearance at the time to talk about him except in the most hypothetical terms, and also because I'm not always that consistent in recalling the past. I'm a truthful person in many respects, but sometimes I too can blow it.

Anyway, I love the guy. He's there at the bar. He's good to new people who come in. He's good for the culture of the bar, because of new blood welcomed by him, and because of the softening influence he has on the existing clientele. And that's what I was getting into way back in November, how rough is distinguished by soft or nice, and how it's also softened up in a way that makes the bikers lovable in multiple ways. They are lovable, but let's face it, they also could kill you. A Pink Professor is literally a lifesaver!

Now, even though we've almost got my town covered, that doesn't mean your town is. Maybe it is, because of course our Pink Professor isn't the only one. But it's more likely that the biker bars in your town are still wanting for one. There's plenty of Pink Professors, I don't doubt that, whether they're in academia or just intelligent, softer guys sitting at home next to their bookcase. But they don't always know what's going on with bikers bars and the need they have. I'm just hoping this post will be read by a few of them, so they'll get busy at least looking at the opportunities.

I guess I could call this "The Pink Professor Project," for lack of a better name. I might write to colleges, particularly to humanities or music departments, something like that, to see if I can get up some interest and raise their consciousness about it. And of course I'll give them a word of warning. When they go out nosing around one of the bikers bars in their area, they'll have to ease into it. But if they're the Pink Professor type we're needing, they'll know all that by intuition. Hey, that's a message to me myself! I don't really need to be reticent, since if I'm the type, I'll know how to ease into a P.P. situation of my own ... I'll have to think about that!

It's my belief, and I share this with our Pink Professor, that we'll have better bikers bars if we have more Pink Professors. We're aiming for one at each. So if you think you've got what it takes, you don't need to write to me about it, there's no one to call, and no resumes are necessary. Just check out one of the bars in your area, ease in, and make inquiries. If they already have a P.P., he'll greet you and kindly let you know. If they don't, that's the place you can make your home.

Calling The Lady Lawyer

Miscellaneous crap today:

1) THE LADY LAWYER
"I need some legal advice and sexual release."
"I'm sorry, sir, my services don't extend that far."
"OK, skip the legal advice."

2) THE EMACIATION PROCLAMATION
"Why did Abraham Lincoln ask everyone not to eat?"
"Because he was making the Emaciation Proclamation."
"But it was the Emancipation Proclamation."
"OK, so why'd he ask everyone not to eat?"

3) BALLS
I'm so virile I have balls that haven't dropped yet.

4) ROTO ROOTER
The Roto Rooter guy just got married. He finally took the plunge.

5) TAR
Target -- where tar babies shop.

6) CRAP
I crapped so much my flush was 'To be continued.'

7) SALVATION ARMY POLE
Look at the butt on this thing!

Vibratory Essence: The One Who Died

I had troubles with this one. There's all kinds of troubles -- ethical issues that are beyond even my ability to full describe.

But I collected her vibratory essence (or energy) and brought it home and had it on my shelf. What was I going to do with it, except honor her by putting it to good use? I didn't want her to have lived and died in vain; that'd be a royal bummer. So with devotion to Swami Masturbananda, I would honor her...

It's a sad story. Because the fact of the matter is, that somehow unknown to me, the whole process of collecting her essence went horribly wrong. I had seen her sitting in the car in a blue shirt. I thought she was cute. So I sat the jar there next to the car -- then when I went back innocently to retrieve it, I was confronted with the horrifying sight seen in the photo. She was sapped of everything, and all that was left was a mass of indistinct white mush, human shaped, and of course a very nice blue shirt.

I didn't touch a thing at the scene. I just snapped the photo and got my jar and got the heck out of there. Of course she was later found, but so far the paper says there's no leads. I'm just trusting my readers not to mention any of this, and let me express my thanks for that in advance.

The police were reportedly "baffled" right away and threw up their hands. They have no idea what the white mush is, or they're not saying. It's all very baffling. The brought in a psychic. Apparently she discerned an unidentifiable "hot spot" where my jar had been, but beyond that even she's baffled and drawing a blank.

That's where everything stands now. And as long as all of us keep our mouths shut, there's won't be any trouble. And just to make sure none of you talk, remember, I know where you live and I have access to lots of mason jars.

But the bigger issue, what was really bugging me, was what to do with her vibratory essence. I gladly used the essence of the showgirl, essentially gotten in the same way. But she was alive when I last saw her. Since this other woman somehow died, it didn't seem like the same thing. But it wouldn't be a case of necrophilia, technically, because her essence was still very much alive. It's not like I'd be misusing a dead body or whatever the white mush is.

Anyway, whose fault was this? OK, I guess it's mine. Still, did she have to sit there forever? Wouldn't she have noticed she was turning to mush and call 911? Or maybe the essence was just sucked out so fast that she didn't have time. It's a terrible thought, that somehow I'm to blame.

So I've seen her jar on the shelf for the last few days. And I was thinking I needed to get her out of the way -- with the added sadness -- before I could go on and actually enjoy the others. I made my best effort. It seemed like her jar was more fully alive than any of the others. I reasoned, what could be the harm? I'm a lover, not a killer. This wasn't even a killing. I was as surprised as anyone.

Earlier tonight, then, I made a meal and had her jar set there. I showered as before. Then it was time for my devotions. The jar was there at the bed. And of course I was there, albeit in a ongoing depressed way, both mentally ... and physically. Detumescence was the order of the evening, impossible to fight.

It was no use. I needed to do the right thing. So I took her jar outside and unscrewed it, releasing whatever essence there was to the night air. I saw a small white ball of light, a little bigger than a golf ball float out. It floated around me for a few seconds, as if to say, "I forgive you." Then it was tentative in its movements, but it finally floated toward the road. I threw up my hands and cried out, but it was too late. A truck came racing around the corner and accidentally ran over her.

My Date With Her Vibratory Essence -- Not So Hot

I should've written this this morning. I was a lot more positive about it then, even though I was already pretty bummed. But you get a whole day to think about it and to see the remains of the evening, for me it's depressing.

I was psyched last night for my big date with the vibratory essence (energy) of one of the showgirls from the other night. I definitely went all out, setting the mood with a delicious meal of hamburger, canned spinach, and apricots. I had the gift of a blue bra to offer, which looks like it somehow shrunk from yesterday's picture.

We sat on the couch, me and the jar supposedly storing her essence, and watched TV briefly, until I was so overcome with lust that we made a quick trip to the bathroom, for my shower, then to the bedroom. The purpose in all this, remember, is not simply the satisfaction of lust. The purpose is to glimpse the highest consciousness in those climactic eight to 10 seconds that we're granted. I was thinking -- and this should be obvious -- that the vibratory essence of a showgirl would intensify the experience, and perhaps send me into some inner realm presently reserved for the angels. To me, that's possible, and since it's a religious opinion, no one can dispute it (successfully).

I turned the light down low, then I looked intently at the mason jar and I believed it (she) was looking back at me. Our eyes met -- that's my surmise -- then it was time to strip. I stripped, then unscrewed the jar, that her essence might roam freely, and perform its wanton will on me as it would. The little bra fell to the floor, and I never observed the essence wearing it. But I figured, We're naked, and this just saves me the time it'd take to unfasten those tiny little hooks.

I gazed into the jar from the top and besought her with longing eyes, that she'd emerge forth to take me, perhaps again and again. But there was nothing happening. I held the jar to my ear, but I heard nothing except a very light sound of the sea, like you hear in a shell. I peered in again and saw no movement, no fog, no vapor, no apparition, no movement of any kind, not a creature was stirring, not even, thankfully, a mouse.

But not being one to give up easily, I poured what I hoped was this sexy young thang's vital vibratory energy all over me, then, in the Swami Masturbananda tradition, it was a short journey from hither to thither. Finally, I rested from my labors. In those few seconds, eight to 10, I did glimpse something heavenly, something of the greater consciousness, but then it was over. And what I had laying there, cold up against my leg, was an empty jar, and about a foot away, a two piece gold lid.

This is where it gets depressing, because I went so fast from ecstasy to the pits of despair. Not only was it all over, but I suddenly allowed my thoughts on the jars and the vibratory essence to face hard reason. The thought was suddenly inescapable, that I was very much alone, and that the jar had been empty of vibratory energy all along. That, after I'd wasted good money on spinach, apricots, and the little bra...

So where does this leave me? I'll be working through my theories again, factoring in this important experience and what I've learned, trying to see what might be done to rescue the whole works. Because remember, I've still got 23 jars to go. And if they're all empty, I may have a fairly decent time 23 times in a row, but it won't be all I hoped for.