Pink Professor Fails To Be Found

A forlorner passel of professors than these guys I've never seen, tasked with finding The Pink Professor but returning home today with, unfortunately, bad news. No matter where they looked, he wasn't there. No one remembered seeing him in the various states they went through. An obvious question would be, How did you cover the entire country in one day and take that as a real effort? But I only asked them about the places they looked.

I was perhaps a little sterner than I should have been, putting my questions to them with abruptness. "Did you try the mountains? Did you try the valleys? The large cities, the small towns? Bars, churches, grottoes, fens, forests, granges, museums, parks, moors, deserts, garage sales, colleges, libraries, dives, monasteries, warehouses, bomb shelters, the bottom floor, the top floor, basements, rooftops, jails, nooks, crannies, and -- perish the thought! -- cemeteries?"

Yes, yes, yes, yes... they had tried all those places. One prof even thought of seeking him in chat rooms, and while he found no sign of The Pink Professor, for the next six months he has dates. So, from his point of view, my expenditures weren't a complete waste, just so someone's there to pay the medic after he's knifed or worse. Still, I'm glad he checked the chat rooms. Perhaps Pink had fallen so low as to seek comfort there. Just the thought of it brings tears to my eyes.

I was very morose through the afternoon yesterday, then certainly through the night. I tried to listen to music, but interpreted every song in terms of myself and The Pink Professor, and bawled like a baby.  Including an old song sung by the Kingston Trio, "I Bawled," which goes, "And I bawled, I bawled, I bawled, I bawled, mon you should've heard me bawl!" But worst of all was Andrew Bird's "Armchairs:" "I dreamed you were a cosmonaut of the space between our chairs, and I was a cartographer of the tangles in your hair." That's our relationship. Which tangles ... I may ... never again see... Then "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" came on and I was gone.

But enough about me and that wreckage. I had to renew my confidence. I prayed, and in response the image of The Old Philosopher, Eddie Lawrence came to me [he's on Spotify], from his unrecorded song, "The Billionaire Philosopher":

"Is that what's got ya down, Moopsie? Well, you raise your head up high, and you get out of that bed, and you go forth with renewed confidence, and you will show the world! You'll show the world! That nothing can bring you down, and nobody can deny you your dear professor friend, as long as you got [BANG BANG] Billionaire Power!"

Hell's bells, why was I down? Didn't the billionaire tell me, Money is power, achievement itself? He's demonstrated it enough times, and yet there I sat, thinking myself into the pits, writhing and twisting myself out of shape in poverty. It's ridiculous!

So this morning, that's why I could "show the world," when the professors came in with their sad sack story, telling me where they'd been, and that the Pink Professor was in none of those places. All I can say now is, We've eliminated where he's NOT. If I don't find him today, there's always tomorrow. And if I can't come up with a good idea, the billionaire's sure to know something. He'll hire better people, professors with a single brain cell to rub between them, instead of these local guys, good for the work, perhaps, of an intro course, or some idiot's job like sorting books, but not so good for a transcontinental manhunt, no matter what affinity they may share with The Pink Professor based on themselves being dedicated, albeit lacking, scholars.

A few days ago, I learned an important lesson, when the billionaire taught me that I indeed was a billionaire. And billionaires, while they can grieve as others, are smart enough to know they mustn't wallow. What's the use, when you have that much money? As a poor man, sure, I could never find The Pink Professor, and, believe me, I'd already checked out a few of those chat rooms. Not that I expected him there, but I did expect some of those guys to know of him and be lusting for him. I allow that; you can look, just don't touch.

Now that I have money, I swear, I'm going to have his unremitting pink shield vulcanized, made to emit powerful volts. Bringing pleasure and healing to himself and me, as we intuit its underlying power and know its subtle magic. But swift destruction to all adulterers, and those making even the slightest trespass. I invoke the spirit of Jamake Highwater's Mythology of Transgression.

No sir, this is one billionaire, speaking of myself, and polishing an apple on my vest, who refuses to waste away and watch his life wither on the vine. There's too much going on inside me-- to speak of something other than material wealth. That's where I keep the meat of the goodie, moxie on the ball.

As to what the Pink Professor may be up to? Maybe he mistakenly thinks I'm the kind of guy to carry a grudge. He surely doesn't. Maybe he thinks he was in the wrong and so is terribly embarrassed. I know neither of us was really wrong, and he surely knows that, too. Or maybe he has some other reason for being gone. Time will tell, and when I find him, I'll know.

Friends, I feel it in my bones, I've already pictured the happy consummation of this struggle, this search, in my mind. So let it be written, so let it be done. Roger Wilco and out. This bastard's goin' down! Tora, Tora, Tora! 54-40 or fight! Millions for tribute, not a cent for charity. Once I was lost, now I am found. Just as I am, though tossed about with many a conflict, many a doubt, fightings and fears within, without, my loving Pink Professor, my darling, I come, I come.