• All things must come to an end–which admittedly is oftentimes sad and occasionally jolting–yet by definition, wherever there is an end there must also be a beginning. Remember that the next time you begin shedding pint-sized tears over some major life-changing event.  Learn to welcome change–To embrace change, to offer it a mammoth bearhug the next time you encounter it!–for the fundamental reason change is the lone constant in our long and oftentimes complicated lives.  Change will perpetually be there whether you choose to welcome it or not.  It ain’t ever gonna go away simply because we long for it to and because we want to satisfy our natural desire to live our lives on eternal rewind. Recognizing the omnipresence of change and learning to acknowledge it as your true and constant master will inarguably make life that much easier to live in the long run.

The Birth of a True Legend

By Joseph R. Blahnik (extensively edited by Frederick J. Blahnik)

 

“I have yet to be bored by someone paying me a compliment.”

 

—Otto Van Isch

 

Many, many years ago–during a different time and a different era–a youthful modern-day Paul Bunyan emerged from the rural backwoods of southeastern Minnesota and set the arm-wrestling world ablaze.  He came out of nowhere like a theretofore undiscovered comet, burned brilliantly for but a fleeting handful of years, and then faded away nearly as quickly while the decade of the 1960s slid silently past its halfway point.  Here is his self-told story, and this is how the whole legend and hyperbole surrounding the apocryphal Joe Blahnik first began:

 

Age has really taken a gargantuan toll on my strength and endurance as I’ve grown older, but just the other day I caught myself thinking back to the days when my mythical strength was actually something to boast about.  I wasn’t very old–still a boy actually–when Dad summoned me out of the house one day to assist him on repairing an unremembered piece of farm machinery.  I lumbered outside to see exactly what the Old Man wanted.

Specifically, he asked me to tighten the burr on a fairly large bolt.  Simple enough, you might say.

Yet even at a tender age, I obviously was not cognizant of my preternatural God-given power.  I tightened the burr……and tightened it some more…….and then tightened it a little bit more…….and finally gave it one last firm twist just for good measure…..

Oh, oh…….SHIIIIIIIT, Joe Blahnik, you heavily-muscled young bruiser, you……..you shouldn’t have doooooone that……..!!!

I apparently gave the burr one half-turn more than was necessary–and the overmatched bolt wound up snapping into two forlorn pieces.  Dad wasn’t very happy with my unintended show of strength that day and muttered disgustedly under his breath, “Boy, you just don’t know your own ineffable strength!!”

Okay, let’s flip the calendar forward a few years now……. 

During my teen-aged years we Blahnik children had our normal daily chores to do on our home farm, but in addition to those I was constantly in demand by our neighbors back by our Austin, Minnesota spread.  Over the summer months, helping a neighbor bale hay or straw was virtually a daily ritual.

One year I was called upon to assist a can milk hauler too; the poor schlump had somehow been injured and could no longer lift the one hundred pound milk cans that were the stock of his trade, so you can imagine the dire dilemma he faced.

Here’s how the logistics of the system worked in those days:  At each farm on our designated route, the cans that were completely full of milk had to be carried to the waiting truck from wherever the farmer cooled his primary source of revenue.  A surprising number of farmers back then cooled their milk in an icy-cold spring that bubbled out of the ground; those springs were invariably located at ground level, hence at the base of a hill.

After much practice and daily conditioning, I got to the point where I could routinely carry a one-hundred-pound can of milk in each hand……up a sometimes steep embankment…….and then swing each can with a single arm about three feet up into the air and into the bed of our waiting milk truck.

WOWSIE WOOZIE!!!!!!!!  

Looking back now, even I am amazed at that Samsonesque feat of raw strength!

Another year a guy who operated a portable feed mill near our farm had been injured on the job, so he asked me to ride along with him on his route.  My essential assignment with that job was to shovel corn into the grinding mill as expeditiously as possible, and you better believe that’s just what I did:  I’ve seen shit slide out of cholera sufferers slower than the ridiculously absurd rate at which I shoveled that fuckin’ corn!  Then there were the frequent telephone calls by neighbors requesting help to clean accumulated manure out of barn pens.  I well remember that sheep manure was probably packed the hardest of any livestock excrement and unfalteringly presented a formidable challenge to remove.

I further recollect a neighbor hiring me to throw dirt out of a basement one time.  Why throw dirt? you are probably rightfully asking at this juncture.

Well, the floor of this guy’s basement was originally just plain soil and it was thus obviously unfinished, but the resourceful man was first going to lower that “floor” down some distance as a prelude to pouring cement over it in order to create a nice, finished room with a higher ceiling.  I recall the fellow was utterly astounded at the fact I quite effortlessly threw soil out the open window with a massive scoop shovel that was typically used only for handling grain, rather than the much smaller, wimpier garden spade he was using.

In the back of my mind, I was scornfully thinking I should throw a dress on the effeminate impostor and go buy him a nice dainty purse and a glitzy pair of earrings to better suit his (lack of) masculinity!!

My Blahnik family moved to our new Spring Valley farm in the fall of 1962, when I was twenty years old and in my absolute physical prime.  By that time..…by that time you might say my cartoonishly muscled arms were in such sensational shape they probably should have been registered as lethal weapons down at the sheriff’s office in our county seat of Preston.  I have no doubt I could have wrestled a giant grizzly bear he-devil to a stalemate and thrown fifty-pound barbell plates around like they were plastic Frisbees. 

I didn’t just look like Adonis, Reader; I WAS Adonis reincarnated in flesh and blood!!!  Then again, the real Adonis might have been just a tad punier and less defined than Yours Truly and probably would have gotten down on his hands and knees to beg me for seduction techniques.

Glen VanGrevenhof and Jim Teske–new untamed friends I had made from the vicinity we moved to north of Spring Valley–and I made our rounds to the local “watering holes” quite often back then.  After we got a few drinks under our belts–Which never took very long, by the way….think five to ten minutes!–Glen would start getting loud and obnoxious and begin voicing his opinion about how strong I was, and he incessantly boasted how there was no one in that night’s establishment who could whip me in arm-wrestling.

In some of the more redneck saloons and dancehalls we regularly frequented, that challenge was tantamount to waving a bright red flag in front of an enraged Brahma bull’s nose.  Believe me, Glen’s boisterous bragging brought on some monumental arm-wrestling challenges for Yours Truly over the years!!!

I remember one time in particular when the three of us buddies were partying at the Pla-Mor Ballroom on the east side of Rochester one Friday night.  Sure enough, my trusty “trainer” and handler Glen VanGrevenhof once again had me matched up against some super strong guy for an arm-wrestling bout.  I am naturally left-handed for eating, writing, and throwing, but shoveling or any physical labor of that sort I instinctively do right-handed for whatever reason, and therefore my right arm is actually the stronger of the two.  There are far more natural right-handers than left-handers strutting around the bars, taverns, and debauched shitholes of southeastern Minnesota, thus it usually didn’t present much of a problem when I would offer my right arm as the preferred weapon with which to wage battle against those presumptuous, delusional assholes.

Anyway, I beat that aforementioned behemoth challenger at the Pla-Mor Ballroom quite easily right-handed, but then the persistent son-of-a-bitch wanted to see how tough I was left-handed.  That bout turned out to be a hard-fought, long-lasting test, but I’ll be damned if the muscular bastard didn’t flat-out beat me fair-and-square!!!

And to make matters infinitely worse and to rub my nose ignominiously in the dirt, the conceited jerk thereupon made no effort to disguise his extreme pleasure with regard to his conquest over the mythical and previously undefeated Joe Blahnik either.

Of course, this extraordinarily rare outcome didn’t set very well with my plumped-up psyche, so I almost immediately started preparing for a rematch with the insufferable braggart.  Accordingly, each and every night just before crawling into bed I would sit on the floor of my bedroom and arm-wrestle the leg of my bed with my left arm–straining just as hard as I could for as long as I could……

Yes…….every single fuckin’ night I would do this, Reader, as though someone had me by the crotch and was squeezin’ down on my crown jewels harder than a starving dog on a prized milkbone!!!

And then the next time Glen, Jim, and I were at the Pla-Mor Ballroom, it didn’t take us very long to hunt down that cocky buttfucker and for me to loudly challenge him to a rematch that the whole establishment could hear.

I’m sure—unless your IQ for whatever reason can be measured on the Richter Scale—you have already guessed the correct outcome to this story:  On the second occasion, I took full advantage of the new opportunity presented to me and whipped the smart aleck guy’s ass soundly–with BOTH of my prodigiously muscled arms, I might add!!

Another instance which really stands out in my memory was the night the three of us good compadres headed into the notoriously rough Grand Meadow Liquor Store.  We never even had time to venture away from the bar before Glen vociferously queried the bartender on duty regarding who was the best arm-wrestler present that night; he wanted to match their undisputed champion against me.  Red Hathaway was the bartender on duty that evening, and he indicated that either he or Reggie Benson was the toughest their joint could offer up.

And since Red was serving a regular shift as bartender and was therefore unavailable…..that left me pitted against the illustrious Reggie Benson for Highway 16 bragging rights!

A little background info is probably in order at this point, I think:

The Benson family was a great big tribe from rural Grand Meadow and its members were all extremely large individuals.  In fact, Duane Benson–Reggie’s brother–went on to become a stalwart football player who competed professionally in the National Football League, including in one of the earlier Super Bowls as a member of the Oakland Raiders when they were matched up against a Green Bay Packers juggernaut coached by the legendary Vince Lombardi–and Duane performed at the highest level of his profession for many years before finally calling it quits.

Reggie Benson was tall in stature too, but actually slimmer in physique than most of his hulking, lumbering brothers and sisters.

In any event, the two of us modern-day gladiators managed to find an empty booth in the crowded saloon and the much-anticipated arm-wrestling match commenced.  I struggled incredibly hard for fifteen or twenty minutes trying to secure any sort of an advantage over my grimacing adversary, but by that time my vast experience told me I was never going to be able to slam the determined guy’s arm down.

After coming to this sobering realization, I thereupon refocused my attention and concentrated solely on “locking up” my right arm.  I figured if I couldn’t actually beat my opponent, I wanted to make damned sure of the fact it’d be impossible for him to experience the immense satisfaction of defeating me!!

I think that classic, unprecedented arm-wrestling match dragged on for close to forty five minutes before Reggie and I both realized neither of us was willing to accept defeat.  Hence, we grudgingly traded nods of mutual admiration and called the contest a draw.

But when I subsequently stood up in the booth to go fetch a much-needed drink from the bar (I was way behind my friends by this point!), my right arm just dangled limply from its shoulder joint analogous to a wet dishrag.  In fact, it took quite some time before I was able to recover even a soupcon of feeling in that grossly traumatized extremity!!

 

As the years slipped by and the Sixties started to wane, so too did my brief but sensational arm-wrestling career.  I found myself challenging obvious pretenders less and less often as I discovered alternate, more refined ways to impress and ultimately seduce the opposite sex—Let’s be honest here:  Isn’t that every red-blooded male’s chief, unending goal?!–and I was thus perfectly content to sit back and let younger bucks vie for the esteemed title of “Top Dog in the Tavern” on most nights and pursuantly wake up the next morning—their upper bodies sore and mysteriously aching–with their right arms feeling like overboiled strands of Capellini pasta.

And today?

Well, Reader, today I am still the owner of enormous upper arms–twenty two-inch “guns” easily–but the herculean muscle mass of years past has been insidiously replaced with an entirely different substance.  I won’t divulge just what that other substance is, other than to say the word starts with an “F”, contains three letters, and rhymes with cat…….

 

 

“Sometimes we deny being worthy of praise, hoping to generate an argument we would be pleased to lose.”

 

—Cullen Hightower

• Everybody always assumes they are going to live a long and happy life and that they are not going to die until they are at least eighty seven years of age or older. But what if that is not the case.…..???  What if today is destined to be your final day on Earth…..or tomorrow…..or the day after that…..or sometime next week or next month?  Would that information shade your thinking just a little bit?  A trifle, even??  Well, we all know that some day will be our last one alive and given the fact we have absolutely no clue which day that might be or how far out in the future it lies, you should accordingly live EVERY day as though it was your last one, sucking every measure of energy and vitality and sustenance out of this small time capsule in a manner that would make a bloated leech proud.  Live each and every day as though it will be your final one, because—Most assuredly!—one of these upcoming days will in fact mark the occasion when the Grim Reaper sharpens his scythe and that horrid death bell tolls out loudly in honor of you.

• …..he thought yesterday must surely have been the worst day of his life—not another one even came close in terms of sheer repulsion, he knew that as an immutable fact—but then, while he continued sulking as he casually perused obituaries in the newspaper from the day before, he remembered that he was alive, that he had not suffered any fatal injuries throughout the previous sojourn’s misery, that he still stood in full command of his five God-given senses, and that he now had a brand-spanking-new day in front of him to confront head-on and ensnare and ultimately tackle and pin its shoulders to the turf.…..a day for going out and kicking some motherfuckin’ ass and for making a few amends and for repaying a handful of well-deserved debts from the prior day’s landmark fiasco…..

Puppy and Mr. Thunder

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

Puppy was positioned in the front yard at 5:45 sharp this morning, wishing The Missus good-bye as he always did

His furry, unkempt tail was wagging back and forth like a flag in the breeze and he was smiling the biggest doggy grin a youthful cur could ever conjure

Mr. Lightning was frolicking in the background on this particular morning also, intermittently lighting up the pretty dawn sky with zig-zaggy yellow ribbons

When suddenly–not to be outdone–his jealous companion, Mr. Thunder, cut loose with an ear-splitting clap, terrifying everyone and everything in its pathway and reverberating throughout every little nook and cranny on Earth’s cowering surface

Puppy froze in his tracks then akin to a dripping icicle following an overnight temperature plunge during the Rebirth Days of late January

His handsome young head yanked upwards during the ensuing instant and he stood transfixed in the middle of our yard–absolutely motionless–surveying the heavens above for the source of that bizarrely loud sound so he could growl and test out his pubescent bark on the outrageously noisy, brazen trespasser before driving it out of The Missus’s yard in a snarling, heroic flourish…….while his puzzled white noggin shifted back and forth……..back and forth……back and forth……as he continued gazing skyward in vain pursuit of the unseen malefactor

But, lo and behold, Mr. Thunder’s temper had already cooled considerably by this juncture, and there were to be no more ornery outbursts from the perennially grouchy guy this morning

Thus after several seconds of fruitless celestial investigating, Puppy gave up on looking for the boisterous intruder and turned his attention once again to The Missus, who was currently driving out of the yard in a cherry red car on her way to work

His tail resumed wagging excitedly analogous to that of a terrified tadpole being chased by a starving largemouth bass, and Puppy yipped enthusiastically in a friendly salute to his evanescent master

Mr. Thunder–Yes, he with the hair-trigger temper and big blabbering mouth–retired to his lair to shamelessly slumber for the remainder of the day, and Puppy retired inside the attached garage for a hearty breakfast and quick five-minute nap before anxiously resuming his non-stop quest to learn everything there is to know about the strange world he had somewhat recently been born into…..

• A donkey and a camel stopped to chat for a minute when they ran into each other on the street, but it turned out to be an utterly one-sided conversation. The donkey dominated the discussion—going on and on and on about this and that, this and that, this and that—all the while boasting non-stop about his prowess in just about every conceivable area on the spectrum that you could possibly imagine.  The camel eventually and, quite predictably, grew weary of this overdone bragging and finally worked up the courage to speak himself.  “Excuse me, Mr. Donkey, I don’t mean to be rude, but please permit me to be inordinately blunt with you.  You, my friend, are thoroughly obnoxious and comport yourself like the biggest jackass in the entire world!”  The donkey was obviously taken aback by this tactless accusation; ergo it took him several seconds to respond.  “REALLY?!?!  You must not ever have met my father then, my humpbacked “friend”.  He stands at least four hands taller than me at the shoulder!”

• Tell your story. After all, it belongs strictly to YOU.  No one else can relate it in exactly the same fashion as its creator.  Which is the RIGHT fashion, inasmuch as you gave life to the thing, so it answers to you and you alone.  Don’t let others sidetrack you with serial criticisms and snide comments.  There will always be naysayers in life—these negativity merchants are every bit as ubiquitous as mosquitoes on a muggy summer evening—but they don’t matter one scintilla in the big scheme of things.  They are no more relevant or consequential than ants at a picnic.  Irritating as hell, yes, but grossly irrelevant.  Tell your story in the exact manner it pops into your head, and then sleep easily at night.  This story is YOUR creation, YOUR baby, YOUR indentured servant…..and anyone who claims otherwise is a shameless usurper.  Forget about those obnoxious people!  They are nothing more than a pack of bumptious miscreants.  Nothing more than immaterial assholes.  Be true to yourself and your unique inspirations, and you’ll habitually do right by yourself and slumber well in the evenings.  Tell your story to its rightful conclusion, and pursuantly climax the thing with the requisite appropriate punctuation mark.  You are now done; the job is complete; the finish line has been reached.  You have honored your God-given abilities and done well.  Sleep trouble-free tonight, my friend, for you have definitely earned the right…..

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

By Dylan Thomas

 Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

 

 Brave Men (A Salute to Dylan Thomas)

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

Brave men fear nothing

Not even the end, as it unsecretively approaches

For they have fought epic battles and vanquished countless indomitable foes

Death is just another gladiator, just another spear bearer to confront in that ring of no return

Though, they implicitly understand, an enemy that cannot be bested irrespective of one’s past valor…..

 

So they face this grim adversary with a bounce in their step and a smile on their face

Fully knowing this battle will be their last

Doesn’t matter; their attitude remains the same throughout

Fight like the devil, and offer no quarter or compassion to your foe

And, at the end of the day, may the best man win…..

 

Dylan Thomas ranted on about raging against the dying of the light

But exactly what purpose does this serve?

The dying of the light will happen regardless of one’s rage or passive acceptance of said

To rage uncontrollably is to needlessly sacrifice those delicate servants that attend rationality

Brave men do not rage; they carefully consider their options and respond accordingly…..

 

Rage, rage against the dying light

Sounds good, but what of substance does this accomplish?

Brave men choose their battles wisely, drawing sabers only when they sense a chance for victory

The dying of the light is no such creature; it is as inevitable as tomorrow’s sunrise

Brave men recognize this truth and submit gracefully, albeit grudgingly, to cryptic forces greater than flesh and mortality.

 

Rage, rage against the dying light

Rage, rage against the dying light

Rage, rage against the dying light

But since when has rage added anything other than rancor to a frothing situation?

Brave men know this; ignorant men do not.

• “pride, principle, and purpose” When all is said and done and your final life script has been written and submitted for review, these are the only human character entities that truly matter.  Nothing else.  Nothing more nuanced or multi-layered or esoteric. Nothing hiding in the attic or in a secret crawl-space or somewhere unobvious—lost between the cracks.  Pride, principle, and purpose.  If you live your life constantly tethered to these three foundational paragons—using them and them alone as the buoys to guide your one-time odyssey across a vast, pitch black, uncharted body of water—you will never have anything to be ashamed of.  In the big, BIG scheme of things—the only scheme which ultimately matters, in other words—pride, principle, and purpose rule the day and define you as a person; nothing else even comes close.

Certitude

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

The two good friends were enjoying drinks after work at a local watering hole.

“So……how did your big date go last night?!”  Miriam’s eyes opened wide while she spoke and her lips curled up at the corners.  “Didya like the guy??”

Janelle was quick to reply.

“Yeah, I liked him…..”

“But then we both know the real question that matters here:  Did he like you?”

Miriam smirked slightly and rolled her eyes knowingly as she spoke.

“He’ll call me back…..”

Janelle’s response was as surprising for its certitude as it was for its instanteity.

“He will, huh?”

Miriam was surprised by the rapid reply, startled even, as only two lifelong friends who could swap horrific war stories on dating back and forth for hours on end might jadedly have come to expect.

“How can you be so certain, Janelle?  What is it about this guy that makes him different from all the other egotistical, asshole men we’ve dated in the past?”

Miriam—in her early thirties and no ingénue any more–well knew the vast majority of men out on the social circuit are looking for just one thing, and if they don’t get that thing on a first date—or at least a trail of bread crumbs indicating that such would soon be forthcoming—a second date was not a strong likelihood.  She also knew that her best friend Janelle was not the type of woman, for reasons of principle, to flippantly offer those types of benefits to someone she scarcely knew.

Janelle was unwavering in her response, though.

 “He’ll call me back soon, Miriam.  I know he will.”

Miriam became even more perplexed now, and her demeanor began to approach frustration—almost agitation.

“How can you be so sure of that, Janelle?  You know our sorry track record when it comes to men in the past!  It’s one thing for your first date to have gone smoothly—and I’m very happy to hear that it must have—but it’s quite another to sit there smugly and profess without doubt that this dream guy of yours will automatically call you back for a second date.”

Miriam stopped talking then to consider for a moment.

“Unless there’s something you’re not telling me…..”

Her eyes next exploded and her face dissolved into an unapologetic frown.

“Janelle, Janelle, Janelle…..don’t tell me that you gave everything away to this guy on your very first date!!!”  Miriam stared wide-eyed and accusatory with her mouth agape at her longtime friend.

Janelle was noncommittal.

“No, Miriam, I didn’t give ‘everything’ away to this guy last night.  In fact, I gave him next to nothing.  The only carnal thing he received from me was a few smooches as we sat on his sofa and a brief kiss on the lips as we said our farewells for the evening.  But he’ll be calling me back within the next week.  I can personally guarantee you that!”

Janelle’s cocksure smugness was annoying to her lifetime buddy.  This was a characteristic Miriam had never witnessed before in her best friend and co-worker.

“Okay, okay, I’ll admit that you’ve got me on this one, Janelle.  I am now firmly convinced that this new guy friend of yours will be calling you back soon, simply because I know you better than anyone else in the world and consequently know that you would never tell a lie or make something up purely to be dramatic.  But, dear girl, can you solve this riddle for me now once and for all by explaining how you can be so absolutely certain the new guy you went out on a date with last night and obviously like a lot will definitely call you back for a second date?  I’m just dying to hear the details, best friend!!!”  Miriam leaned over at the bar at this point and gawked straight into the face of her tavern mate.

Janelle drew a long sip on the Moscow Mule she was drinking, brushed some rogue strands of hair back from her face, and grinned mischievously before replying.

“How can I be so certain, Miriam?  Easy.  At the end of our date last night Jim invited me up to his apartment for a nightcap and, given the fact I liked this guy and trusted him implicitly, I of course accepted his offer with no plans to do anything other than a bit of kissing. “

Janelle stopped talking at this juncture to take another sip from her Moscow Mule while Miriam stared at her raptly, albeit impatiently.

“So anyway, the two of us were sitting on the sofa in Jim’s apartment—having a good time and making out a little bit—when I couldn’t help but notice that Jim had this humongous, fiendishly difficult 3000-piece jigsaw puzzle that was nearing completion laid out on a sheet of cardboard on his living room floor.  I already knew that I liked this guy quite a lot and wanted desperately to see him again so—Bingo!—a light flashed on in my brain right then and I hatched a devilish, can’t-miss plan.  When Jim got up to go use the bathroom a few minutes later, I casually stole one of the unfinished pieces from his jigsaw puzzle and hid it in my purse.”

Janelle paused one last time to draw the final remaining drops of alcohol from her vodka drink.  The look on her face was the bastard child of cleverness and certitude.

“Jim is gonna call me again within the next week, Miriam.  I have never been so certain of anything in my life…..”