I am of Arnold

Arnold Schwarzenegger invited us all to his cabin - more like a double-wide trailer - in the woods.

It was rather hill-pretty and green, like that stretch of interstate between Ft. Smith and Fayetteville in April, May, or even June. We tried slaughtering him when he turned into "The Predator," even though he looked nothing like that alien thing we're all used to from the governor-filled films. He came back to life.

We tried again, this time succeeding at least in gashing a perfect circle-hole through his toned abs. Soon the circle was filled through some divine, perhaps satanic, process of mending.

At the University of Arkansas, after wandering the lots where cars cannot park without sticky sticker faculty passes, I found all the students in the university were studying, by obligation, the ins and outs of this Austrian "Predator."

"I don't get it" a journalism major complained. "I'm a journalism major. Why do I have to know about The Predator?"

Back at the trailer a Reed Indeed practice is going on without me, perfect practice for a porch, at the end of which Arnold is particularly strong.

He teaches me the secret of mending and I realize, at last, that I am strong and I am Arnold.