- Fed raises rates, leaves markets guessing on future -- If the Fed would have left the rates alone, apparently the markets (whoever they are) would know the future.
- Floodwaters begin to recede after mass evacuations -- Because the other way around would just make us look silly.
- NBC news ups commitment to investigative journalism -- This should help all of the sites that depend on their news feed. In fact, NBC's advice to these other media outlets is: We've upped our quality - now up yours.
- Rapper jailed on traffic charges -- It must be a slow day for drugs and guns.
- Gibson says goodbye to "Good Morning, America" -- I didn't even know Mel got up that early.
- Nelson Mandela to defend De Beers -- Bill Clinton to defend De Scotch
- Embezzler busted for posing as Brad Pitt -- Apparently he was caught when he was acting strangely. It seems he voiced an opinion without checking with Angelina first.
- Libby Lawyer Wants Delay in CIA Leak Trial -- I thought Tom quit. Why don't they just leave him alone?
- Feds say they got tough with insurers -- I guess our rates are going up again.
- Microsoft pushes back Office 2007 release -- I actually read this one. It seems Office 2007 won't be available until late 2006, instead of October 2006. Of course it will take until 2009 before they have a functioning version.
Friday, June 30, 2006
It's News to Me
If you read just the headlines, you'll know enough to pretend you are informed. After a quick perusal of yesterday's headlines I learned the following things: (The headlines are real, the comments are... real too, I guess.)
Thursday, June 29, 2006
They Can't Fool Me
Two days ago I did a blog about alien abductions and... probing. Yesterday I did a blog about not being able to come up with an idea for the day before and it almost ended with an alien abduction.
I don't remember writing either of those accounts. In fact I don't remember the last 48 hours. If this were a Monday I wouldn't think anything of it. But it's Thursday! And I don't know where I've been.
I've re-read my last two blogs and they sort of sound like me. I mean, the wit and sophistication are certainly there, but something was missing. Some indefinable quality that normally sets me apart from other great writers. My... essence. It was like watching Sir Richard Burton doing Sir Laurence Olivier doing William Shakespeare. It was all genius -- but slightly off.
I phoned my wife at work and, not wanting to alarm her, I played it cool. I slyly asked some surgically probing questions about the last two days. "Maybe you were abducted." she opined. No help there, I thought.
"Could you take the empty vodka bottles to the dumpster?" she asked. "Yeah, yeah." I said and hung up.
I found a bank deposit receipt, date-stamped yesterday at 1:15 PM. So I rushed to the bank to ask my favorite teller if I was there yesterday. She asked to see some ID. No help there.
On my way back I stopped by a rolling log cabin/lunch wagon, set up in a local gas station parking lot, to get some bar-b-que chicken. The girl inside said, "Hi there, you're becoming a regular! How'd you like the ribs yesterday?" I backed up in confusion and horror. I've never eaten at this lunch wagon in my life! Things began to whirl and I heard a buzzing in my head. It was growing louder. I was so... confused.
As I drove away from the chicken joint I noticed, with shock, the bar-b-que sauce on the back of my shirt sleeves. Until now I had mistaken it for blood. What the hell was going on?
I have a theory. I think I was abducted by aliens two days ago. In order to cover their tracks they erased all of my memories and implanted false memories in my wife, the bank teller, the bar-b-que girl and everyone else who may have encountered me. They also counterfeited the bank receipt, emptied several of my vodka bottles, made a pitiful attempt to capture my genius by faking two of my blogs (even writing about alien abductions to further discredit me if I should talk) and smeared bar-b-que sauce on my shirt sleeves. Then they returned me as if nothing had happened.
But they can't fool me. I know! The threat is real and we must get the message out. "Every one of you listening to my voice. Tell the world. Tell this to everybody wherever they are. Watch the skies. Everywhere. Keep looking. Keep watching the skies."
I don't remember writing either of those accounts. In fact I don't remember the last 48 hours. If this were a Monday I wouldn't think anything of it. But it's Thursday! And I don't know where I've been.
I've re-read my last two blogs and they sort of sound like me. I mean, the wit and sophistication are certainly there, but something was missing. Some indefinable quality that normally sets me apart from other great writers. My... essence. It was like watching Sir Richard Burton doing Sir Laurence Olivier doing William Shakespeare. It was all genius -- but slightly off.
I phoned my wife at work and, not wanting to alarm her, I played it cool. I slyly asked some surgically probing questions about the last two days. "Maybe you were abducted." she opined. No help there, I thought.
"Could you take the empty vodka bottles to the dumpster?" she asked. "Yeah, yeah." I said and hung up.
I found a bank deposit receipt, date-stamped yesterday at 1:15 PM. So I rushed to the bank to ask my favorite teller if I was there yesterday. She asked to see some ID. No help there.
On my way back I stopped by a rolling log cabin/lunch wagon, set up in a local gas station parking lot, to get some bar-b-que chicken. The girl inside said, "Hi there, you're becoming a regular! How'd you like the ribs yesterday?" I backed up in confusion and horror. I've never eaten at this lunch wagon in my life! Things began to whirl and I heard a buzzing in my head. It was growing louder. I was so... confused.
As I drove away from the chicken joint I noticed, with shock, the bar-b-que sauce on the back of my shirt sleeves. Until now I had mistaken it for blood. What the hell was going on?
I have a theory. I think I was abducted by aliens two days ago. In order to cover their tracks they erased all of my memories and implanted false memories in my wife, the bank teller, the bar-b-que girl and everyone else who may have encountered me. They also counterfeited the bank receipt, emptied several of my vodka bottles, made a pitiful attempt to capture my genius by faking two of my blogs (even writing about alien abductions to further discredit me if I should talk) and smeared bar-b-que sauce on my shirt sleeves. Then they returned me as if nothing had happened.
But they can't fool me. I know! The threat is real and we must get the message out. "Every one of you listening to my voice. Tell the world. Tell this to everybody wherever they are. Watch the skies. Everywhere. Keep looking. Keep watching the skies."
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
O Muse, Where Art Thou?
I have a confession to make. I wrote yesterday's blog by the seat of my pants. I sat down, mind blank, fingers poised and... Nothing happened. Usually I hear a heavenly choir, or one of the voices in my head begins to act up, or I hear the nickle drop in the jukebox and the record starts to spin.
So I just sat here. Waiting for inspiration. I listened to the wind chime on the back deck. I heard crickets chirp. I could detect the wind whistling across the dirt street as the tumbleweed blew and bounced against the horse trough and then between the horse's legs, causing him to jump and dance sideways...
See! I almost just had it there. That 's how it always goes. I don't know where it comes from. It just does. But yesterday -- nothing happened. I was blank. How could I come up empty after 94 days in a row? I can't let this happen! I can't let both of my fans down like this. Come ON! Think of something!
I got up and walked to the deck. It was still early in the morning, the wind really was blowing, and it was raining, now. I walked out into it, my arms wide, the big drops of cold rain beating against my bare chest and upraised face. I looked skyward for inspiration. "C'mon, gimme a sign." I thought.
As if on cue, the grey storm clouds began to grow brighter, yet the storm did not abate. I became mesmerized by the shifting light show in the dirty sky. At first it pulsed with a restrained radiance, then it grew in intensity and weight(?). Is weight the right word? Then I became aware of a terrible white noise that overtook the sound of the wind and the storm and the now distant wind chimes. And as I stared into the ever whitening sky, drenched by the freezing rain, arms reaching skyward...
Nah. I've still got nothin'. Maybe I'll have one tomorrow.
So I just sat here. Waiting for inspiration. I listened to the wind chime on the back deck. I heard crickets chirp. I could detect the wind whistling across the dirt street as the tumbleweed blew and bounced against the horse trough and then between the horse's legs, causing him to jump and dance sideways...
See! I almost just had it there. That 's how it always goes. I don't know where it comes from. It just does. But yesterday -- nothing happened. I was blank. How could I come up empty after 94 days in a row? I can't let this happen! I can't let both of my fans down like this. Come ON! Think of something!
I got up and walked to the deck. It was still early in the morning, the wind really was blowing, and it was raining, now. I walked out into it, my arms wide, the big drops of cold rain beating against my bare chest and upraised face. I looked skyward for inspiration. "C'mon, gimme a sign." I thought.
As if on cue, the grey storm clouds began to grow brighter, yet the storm did not abate. I became mesmerized by the shifting light show in the dirty sky. At first it pulsed with a restrained radiance, then it grew in intensity and weight(?). Is weight the right word? Then I became aware of a terrible white noise that overtook the sound of the wind and the storm and the now distant wind chimes. And as I stared into the ever whitening sky, drenched by the freezing rain, arms reaching skyward...
Nah. I've still got nothin'. Maybe I'll have one tomorrow.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Alien Probing
I have been thinking about alien abductions and the so-called probe. The first thing I'd like to say is that I do not believe we are alone in the universe. That thought, alone, has 4,379 permutations. But enough about me.
Coincidentally, I had to fix the car the other day and I began thinking about mixed drinks. I had one over the weekend called a 57 Chevy. It is made with Vodka, Southern Comfort, Grand Marnier and pineapple juice as needed. I thought the "as needed" part was pretty funny.
Now, as far as the aliens go (which I figure is no more than 15 light year if Einstein was right about relativity and they ever want to see their families again), you've gotta wonder about the probe.
On our world (Earth) we started with a very rudimentary space program designed to put a manned cross between a Volkswagen and a salt shaker on the moon. And succeeded. Then we said, "This would be easier if all of our stuff was smaller." So micro computers, and velcro and tang were all born because of the space program. In fact, we got so good at making things small (and saw the commercial applications for it) that now only our astronauts occasionally raise a stiff one to Mars. Sometimes they have a drink, too.
In fact, we have made such giant leaps in technology that if we went to Zarxthrithurezbrit (their Earth) our probe would be totally non-invasive. With our imaging technology, we would have a blueprint of their alien innards in 40 minutes, tops. All they would have to do is remove all their metal objects, lie perfectly still, choose their music genre and get a prescription for vallium in case they are claustrophobic. Ba-da-bing! In and out.
So, I'm thinking, if the aliens are more advanced than we are (they are the ones conducting the probes), then why do the brain-wiped abductees "remember" the probe part? Is the alien medical technology behind that of ours? Do they have socialized medicine on Zarxthrithurezbrit? Where's my screw driver? (That cracks me up, too. The drink recipe probably calls for orange juice "as needed".)
My final conclusion was that the aliens that are close encountering us are not the NASA types from Zarxthrithurezbrit, but are more like college kids out hot-rodding where mom and dad can't see. And the wiped memories and the probes are probably alien roofies and raw footage for an Earth Girls Gone Wild video.
"As needed"... that's a riot.
Coincidentally, I had to fix the car the other day and I began thinking about mixed drinks. I had one over the weekend called a 57 Chevy. It is made with Vodka, Southern Comfort, Grand Marnier and pineapple juice as needed. I thought the "as needed" part was pretty funny.
Now, as far as the aliens go (which I figure is no more than 15 light year if Einstein was right about relativity and they ever want to see their families again), you've gotta wonder about the probe.
On our world (Earth) we started with a very rudimentary space program designed to put a manned cross between a Volkswagen and a salt shaker on the moon. And succeeded. Then we said, "This would be easier if all of our stuff was smaller." So micro computers, and velcro and tang were all born because of the space program. In fact, we got so good at making things small (and saw the commercial applications for it) that now only our astronauts occasionally raise a stiff one to Mars. Sometimes they have a drink, too.
In fact, we have made such giant leaps in technology that if we went to Zarxthrithurezbrit (their Earth) our probe would be totally non-invasive. With our imaging technology, we would have a blueprint of their alien innards in 40 minutes, tops. All they would have to do is remove all their metal objects, lie perfectly still, choose their music genre and get a prescription for vallium in case they are claustrophobic. Ba-da-bing! In and out.
So, I'm thinking, if the aliens are more advanced than we are (they are the ones conducting the probes), then why do the brain-wiped abductees "remember" the probe part? Is the alien medical technology behind that of ours? Do they have socialized medicine on Zarxthrithurezbrit? Where's my screw driver? (That cracks me up, too. The drink recipe probably calls for orange juice "as needed".)
My final conclusion was that the aliens that are close encountering us are not the NASA types from Zarxthrithurezbrit, but are more like college kids out hot-rodding where mom and dad can't see. And the wiped memories and the probes are probably alien roofies and raw footage for an Earth Girls Gone Wild video.
"As needed"... that's a riot.
Monday, June 26, 2006
The Ambiguity Zone
I am a law abiding citizen. AFAYK (as far as you know). And even though I may not agree with every law, I will talk to death your right to die for them. Or something like that.
My few brief encounters with the police have mostly been, "Yes, sir" and, "No, sir" encounters. Every now and then I might offer a weak, "That's not mine!" or "Those are a little tight" comments. But, by and large, they haven't figured out who I am, yet. So that's a good thing.
I have had occasion to drive the Pennsylvania Turnpike recently and we are well into construction season. Which means there are three miles of construction for every five miles of road. There is no way to make any time. The speed limit goes from 65mph to 40mph and back constantly. But the thing I find the most annoying is the Ambiguity Zone.
The law is that you travel at the speed of the last posted speed limit sign.
The law is that the double blinking lights will indicate if there is active construction ahead.
The law is that fines are doubled in construction areas.
On holidays and bad weather days these road construction areas are closed down. The cones moving the traffic to one lane are removed. The double blinking lights are turned off and covers are put over the reduced speed limit signs. We should be good to go.
But what happens instead is that ONE of the reduced speed limit signs remains uncovered. All the rest are covered throughout the entire work zone. Yet the law is that you travel at the speed of the last posted speed limit sign. It leaves you to wonder, did someone forget to cover that sign? Did the wind blow the cover off of that sign? Is this a trap?
Or one of the double blinking lights remains on -- unblinking, The law is that the double blinking lights will indicate if there is active construction ahead. And because of the doubled fines and the body in your trunk you are motivated to do the right thing. But what is the right thing? Is there something wrong with the light? All the rest of the construction is closed down. Is this a trap?
Other drivers have a problem with this too. Some of them slow down to 55mph. Some of them go down to 40mph. Some of them whiz by like you are standing still. Nobody knows what they are supposed to do. Do we travel the last posted speed with wide open roads and everyone else whizzing by? Does one unblinking light indicate anything? Does anyone else smell that?
And there are fines for traveling too slow, as well. Although I'm not sure what the penalty should be for traveling too slow through a construction zone. It seems like the activity ought to serve as it's own punishment.
What makes all of this worse is that it does not happen occasionally. It is closer to 80% of the time. So, does that mean construction is closed but they still want us to go slower? Does it mean the people in charge of the signs are incompetent? Does somebody in PennDOT have a sadistic sense of humor. Or, are the cops responsible for the Ambiguity Zone so that they can stop anybody any time they want to? If they can claim that anybody, at any given moment, is going too fast or too slow, we are nothing more than sitting ducks.
So until summer construction is over, I will be traveling the back roads for a while. The scenery is nicer, the woods are closer to the road and it is easier to travel with your windows down. And one more thing. If you are ever hitchhiking through the Ambiguity Zone -- do not get into a red Cherokee.
My few brief encounters with the police have mostly been, "Yes, sir" and, "No, sir" encounters. Every now and then I might offer a weak, "That's not mine!" or "Those are a little tight" comments. But, by and large, they haven't figured out who I am, yet. So that's a good thing.
I have had occasion to drive the Pennsylvania Turnpike recently and we are well into construction season. Which means there are three miles of construction for every five miles of road. There is no way to make any time. The speed limit goes from 65mph to 40mph and back constantly. But the thing I find the most annoying is the Ambiguity Zone.
The law is that you travel at the speed of the last posted speed limit sign.
The law is that the double blinking lights will indicate if there is active construction ahead.
The law is that fines are doubled in construction areas.
On holidays and bad weather days these road construction areas are closed down. The cones moving the traffic to one lane are removed. The double blinking lights are turned off and covers are put over the reduced speed limit signs. We should be good to go.
But what happens instead is that ONE of the reduced speed limit signs remains uncovered. All the rest are covered throughout the entire work zone. Yet the law is that you travel at the speed of the last posted speed limit sign. It leaves you to wonder, did someone forget to cover that sign? Did the wind blow the cover off of that sign? Is this a trap?
Or one of the double blinking lights remains on -- unblinking, The law is that the double blinking lights will indicate if there is active construction ahead. And because of the doubled fines and the body in your trunk you are motivated to do the right thing. But what is the right thing? Is there something wrong with the light? All the rest of the construction is closed down. Is this a trap?
Other drivers have a problem with this too. Some of them slow down to 55mph. Some of them go down to 40mph. Some of them whiz by like you are standing still. Nobody knows what they are supposed to do. Do we travel the last posted speed with wide open roads and everyone else whizzing by? Does one unblinking light indicate anything? Does anyone else smell that?
And there are fines for traveling too slow, as well. Although I'm not sure what the penalty should be for traveling too slow through a construction zone. It seems like the activity ought to serve as it's own punishment.
What makes all of this worse is that it does not happen occasionally. It is closer to 80% of the time. So, does that mean construction is closed but they still want us to go slower? Does it mean the people in charge of the signs are incompetent? Does somebody in PennDOT have a sadistic sense of humor. Or, are the cops responsible for the Ambiguity Zone so that they can stop anybody any time they want to? If they can claim that anybody, at any given moment, is going too fast or too slow, we are nothing more than sitting ducks.
So until summer construction is over, I will be traveling the back roads for a while. The scenery is nicer, the woods are closer to the road and it is easier to travel with your windows down. And one more thing. If you are ever hitchhiking through the Ambiguity Zone -- do not get into a red Cherokee.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
My Mailman's Penis
Being retired and living in a seasonal resort that is closed seven months a year I tend to punctuate my days by certain activities. I get up at 6:30 to write my blog every day. By 9:00 I am exercising and lunch is usually a big deal. It's usually a salad but it is another milestone in an otherwise empty day. Which brings me to the mail.
We have a bank of mail boxes just outside the gate of the resort. Weather permitting, it is really cool walking out there naked to get my mail. It is close enough to the front gate to lend an air of legitimacy to being there naked but it feels really naughty. I usually check the mail at 1:30 PM.
Late last fall I noticed that I was not getting any mail on Thursdays. I noticed it because of my isolated life punctuated by major events like waking up and lunch. Twice is a coincidence and three times is a pattern.
Now, let me say this: we always get mail. We are stable citizens with bills and correspondence and the usual amount of junk mail. Sure, there are days when we don't get any mail, but it is unusual. Certainly not the norm. So when we stopped getting mail on Thursdays, by the third week I took notice. By the eighth week there was no fucking way.
As you can probably guess, I have a theory. I think my mailman is having an affair and I think Thursdays are the day they get together. Obviously he is doing something to blow off my section of his route that day. (By the way, we get a lot of mail on Fridays.) I doubt he is at a book club at Barnes and Noble on Thursdays and he probably isn't taking scuba diving lessons. He could be an international spy but I doubt Dr. No would be hatching a world threatening plot every Thursday. I also thought he could be adopting a cat from the ASPCA but lamas classes only last three weeks.
All that leaves is dirty, nasty sex with some guy's wife. And Thursday is just far enough into the week for her poor schmuck of a husband to have relaxed again. So that's my theory.
My best friend works for the Post Office, so I asked him if there was anything in the internal workings of the postal service that might account for not getting mail on Thursdays. He said, "No." and that I should check with the local office about the problem.
My problem is that if my theory is correct I don't want to be responsible for ruining his fun. Thursday mail is not that important to me. But if he is just blowing it off to sit down by the lake to feed the ducks or is just having sex with his own wife, his ass should be grass. So I don't know what to do. Do I try to preserve the integrity of the U.S. Postal System or do I honor the sanctity of Guy Stuff.
I have also noticed that about once a month I do get my mail on Thursday. I figure that that is the week SHE is on her period. So it all fits together.
So far I have done nothing. But my curiosity is killing me. I won't say I am obsessed with it, but my sex life has improved thinking about it.
I am writing this on a Sunday morning. We did not get any mail yesterday, too. All I can think is that her husband must be traveling on a business trip or maybe his Mom died.
We have a bank of mail boxes just outside the gate of the resort. Weather permitting, it is really cool walking out there naked to get my mail. It is close enough to the front gate to lend an air of legitimacy to being there naked but it feels really naughty. I usually check the mail at 1:30 PM.
Late last fall I noticed that I was not getting any mail on Thursdays. I noticed it because of my isolated life punctuated by major events like waking up and lunch. Twice is a coincidence and three times is a pattern.
Now, let me say this: we always get mail. We are stable citizens with bills and correspondence and the usual amount of junk mail. Sure, there are days when we don't get any mail, but it is unusual. Certainly not the norm. So when we stopped getting mail on Thursdays, by the third week I took notice. By the eighth week there was no fucking way.
As you can probably guess, I have a theory. I think my mailman is having an affair and I think Thursdays are the day they get together. Obviously he is doing something to blow off my section of his route that day. (By the way, we get a lot of mail on Fridays.) I doubt he is at a book club at Barnes and Noble on Thursdays and he probably isn't taking scuba diving lessons. He could be an international spy but I doubt Dr. No would be hatching a world threatening plot every Thursday. I also thought he could be adopting a cat from the ASPCA but lamas classes only last three weeks.
All that leaves is dirty, nasty sex with some guy's wife. And Thursday is just far enough into the week for her poor schmuck of a husband to have relaxed again. So that's my theory.
My best friend works for the Post Office, so I asked him if there was anything in the internal workings of the postal service that might account for not getting mail on Thursdays. He said, "No." and that I should check with the local office about the problem.
My problem is that if my theory is correct I don't want to be responsible for ruining his fun. Thursday mail is not that important to me. But if he is just blowing it off to sit down by the lake to feed the ducks or is just having sex with his own wife, his ass should be grass. So I don't know what to do. Do I try to preserve the integrity of the U.S. Postal System or do I honor the sanctity of Guy Stuff.
I have also noticed that about once a month I do get my mail on Thursday. I figure that that is the week SHE is on her period. So it all fits together.
So far I have done nothing. But my curiosity is killing me. I won't say I am obsessed with it, but my sex life has improved thinking about it.
I am writing this on a Sunday morning. We did not get any mail yesterday, too. All I can think is that her husband must be traveling on a business trip or maybe his Mom died.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Teenie, Tiny Flowers
I was talking with my son the other day and I was trying to reassure him that I was thriving on retirement. At one point the conversation turned introspective.
I told him about some flowers I had noticed in our graveled parking area. Even though we have gravel, there are also weed-like creatures living there. The ones I noticed have teenie , tiny, little red flowers. The flowers are smaller than a pencil's eraser. They are a very brilliant red and have bright yellow pestles(?) in their centers.
If you did not happen to be looking down at just the right moment you would completely miss them. But once you've seen them, you realize that they are everywhere. And they are so perfect and delicate and beautiful that they will completely mesmerize you.
I told him that I never took the time before I retired to notice these kind of exquisite details in life. And that I am so grateful, now that I have the time, to actually see them.
There was silence on the other end of the phone line and finally my son said, "Dad, you have really got to get a job or a hobby or something."
I told him about some flowers I had noticed in our graveled parking area. Even though we have gravel, there are also weed-like creatures living there. The ones I noticed have teenie , tiny, little red flowers. The flowers are smaller than a pencil's eraser. They are a very brilliant red and have bright yellow pestles(?) in their centers.
If you did not happen to be looking down at just the right moment you would completely miss them. But once you've seen them, you realize that they are everywhere. And they are so perfect and delicate and beautiful that they will completely mesmerize you.
I told him that I never took the time before I retired to notice these kind of exquisite details in life. And that I am so grateful, now that I have the time, to actually see them.
There was silence on the other end of the phone line and finally my son said, "Dad, you have really got to get a job or a hobby or something."
Friday, June 23, 2006
Microsoft Robots
I read in the paper yesterday that Microsoft is teaming with Carnegie Mellon University to make robots more available to people and businesses. They want to create robots that can be controlled by various types of software and the internet.
These are the people who brought us Windows Me.
Speaking under conditions of anonymity, somebody told me that "these are basically sophisticated domestic appliances. But, like the rest of the computerized world -- they don't do Windows."
"We plan for them to be able to carry out a broad range of servile functions. They will have an Hispanic operating system and will understand very few English commands. Our biggest fear is unlicensed copies of the software installed in cheap clones. We don't think America is ready for that many unregistered workers."
"It is our hope that they will be able to cook, do the laundry, shop, drive, do the yard work, and change diapers and condoms with equal facility. Some people have claimed a racist agenda in this project but I assure you the Democrats will never be able to get the vote for these devices."
"We are also aware that other vendors will become interested in marketing their own robots, so we are cleverly loading these babies with unnecessary and gratuitous functions in order to cover all the bases. Our copyrights will require that these other vendors pay us licensing fees and to make them load our operating system on their robots."
"Additionally, we have decided to pre-load a complete suite of spyware and, since these robots will operate in domestic settings, we should have a lot of personal information to sell to the highest bidder. We will also pre-program sluggish behavior and random shut downs, making virus attackers feel redundant and silly. We've thought of everything."
"But just in case the robots stop responding altogether, we've installed a set of ctrl-alt-del buttons on their foreheads. We think it is funnier to make people press three buttons simultaneously when any moron could have installed one reset button."
I asked him about some science fiction books I read years ago about robots going berserk and did they have a contingency plan for that.
"Of course," he replied. "If you ever need to shut the robot off, all you have to do is hit the START button."
These are the people who brought us Windows Me.
Speaking under conditions of anonymity, somebody told me that "these are basically sophisticated domestic appliances. But, like the rest of the computerized world -- they don't do Windows."
"We plan for them to be able to carry out a broad range of servile functions. They will have an Hispanic operating system and will understand very few English commands. Our biggest fear is unlicensed copies of the software installed in cheap clones. We don't think America is ready for that many unregistered workers."
"It is our hope that they will be able to cook, do the laundry, shop, drive, do the yard work, and change diapers and condoms with equal facility. Some people have claimed a racist agenda in this project but I assure you the Democrats will never be able to get the vote for these devices."
"We are also aware that other vendors will become interested in marketing their own robots, so we are cleverly loading these babies with unnecessary and gratuitous functions in order to cover all the bases. Our copyrights will require that these other vendors pay us licensing fees and to make them load our operating system on their robots."
"Additionally, we have decided to pre-load a complete suite of spyware and, since these robots will operate in domestic settings, we should have a lot of personal information to sell to the highest bidder. We will also pre-program sluggish behavior and random shut downs, making virus attackers feel redundant and silly. We've thought of everything."
"But just in case the robots stop responding altogether, we've installed a set of ctrl-alt-del buttons on their foreheads. We think it is funnier to make people press three buttons simultaneously when any moron could have installed one reset button."
I asked him about some science fiction books I read years ago about robots going berserk and did they have a contingency plan for that.
"Of course," he replied. "If you ever need to shut the robot off, all you have to do is hit the START button."
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Mistaken Identity
I remember traveling in an airport one time and being mistaken for a policeman. Well, that's not entirely accurate. You don't actually travel in an airport. Airports are where you wait to travel. Sort of like the turnpike, during construction season, is where you wait to drive. Foreward progress is possible but you have to break a few laws to do it.
So I'm in the airport, dressed for business, waiting to fly to yet another city. Also, I am a people watcher. I usually sit or stand slightly away from the group I am supposed to be mindlessly amassed with, and try to guess their back stories.
Sometimes it's easy. Like the newly weds, traveling to honeymoon at some exotic venue. Her new father-in-law is paying for the trip, having just made a killing selling defective toilets to a chain of retirement homes in the Bible-belt.
Or the nerdy looking guy on the cell phone who just invented a teleportation device that will make the trucking industry obsolete, creating a new category of gun toting, belt buckle wearing, country music listening, homeless people.
I know what you are thinking. How can you be so specific? a) There are many minute details that the average person sees but seldom observes and 3) I never let a single detail get past me.
Take that average looking man and woman over there. She is wearing faded jeans, one knee is slightly more worn than the other. She has a callus on the inside of her left index finger. And her hair, though well groomed, is obviously a quick rinse dye-job. When the man walks, his left toe turns slightly in and drags as he takes a step. He is wearing a very expensive suit but it is well worn and at least a decade old. They are trying to appear not to know one another but he occasionally looks directly past her at the large clock over her right shoulder. She pretends not to notice.
As a self trained observer, it is obvious to me that these two are desperate fugitives. The female just escaped from a secret government facility that warehouses all of the pre-cogs and t-k's who have been rounded up over the years. It is located in the hills outside of Atlanta and is simply known as The Institute. After she overpowered the guards with a powerful mind blast, her friend, who sadly realized at the last moment, that he could never really leave The Institute, psi-fried the security system in a shower of sparks, allowing her to slip into the night. The man she is traveling with is a suspect in the brutal slayings of 37 prostitutes in Salt Lake City. They hooked up over a cup of coffee in a diner near Decatur. Johnny Mathis was playing on the juke.
It is really quite elementary if you know what to look for.
So, I'm standing there, minding my own business, when this seventeen year old model/corporate CEO of a diamond mining conglomerate approaches me and asks if I am a policeman. I said I wasn't and she moved on.
Can you imagine someone mistaking me for a cop? I mean, what are people thinking?
So I'm in the airport, dressed for business, waiting to fly to yet another city. Also, I am a people watcher. I usually sit or stand slightly away from the group I am supposed to be mindlessly amassed with, and try to guess their back stories.
Sometimes it's easy. Like the newly weds, traveling to honeymoon at some exotic venue. Her new father-in-law is paying for the trip, having just made a killing selling defective toilets to a chain of retirement homes in the Bible-belt.
Or the nerdy looking guy on the cell phone who just invented a teleportation device that will make the trucking industry obsolete, creating a new category of gun toting, belt buckle wearing, country music listening, homeless people.
I know what you are thinking. How can you be so specific? a) There are many minute details that the average person sees but seldom observes and 3) I never let a single detail get past me.
Take that average looking man and woman over there. She is wearing faded jeans, one knee is slightly more worn than the other. She has a callus on the inside of her left index finger. And her hair, though well groomed, is obviously a quick rinse dye-job. When the man walks, his left toe turns slightly in and drags as he takes a step. He is wearing a very expensive suit but it is well worn and at least a decade old. They are trying to appear not to know one another but he occasionally looks directly past her at the large clock over her right shoulder. She pretends not to notice.
As a self trained observer, it is obvious to me that these two are desperate fugitives. The female just escaped from a secret government facility that warehouses all of the pre-cogs and t-k's who have been rounded up over the years. It is located in the hills outside of Atlanta and is simply known as The Institute. After she overpowered the guards with a powerful mind blast, her friend, who sadly realized at the last moment, that he could never really leave The Institute, psi-fried the security system in a shower of sparks, allowing her to slip into the night. The man she is traveling with is a suspect in the brutal slayings of 37 prostitutes in Salt Lake City. They hooked up over a cup of coffee in a diner near Decatur. Johnny Mathis was playing on the juke.
It is really quite elementary if you know what to look for.
So, I'm standing there, minding my own business, when this seventeen year old model/corporate CEO of a diamond mining conglomerate approaches me and asks if I am a policeman. I said I wasn't and she moved on.
Can you imagine someone mistaking me for a cop? I mean, what are people thinking?
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Better Than Sex
I have heard many people claim that some things are better than sex. And I am often puzzled by what they could mean by this.
"Oh man, this hamburger is better than sex!"
"Wow, taste this cake! It's better than sex."
"Driving that car is better than sex!"
You get the idea. Personally I think these people are either exaggerating or they aren't that into sex. Maybe they've never had great sex. I mean, I have had some really, really good cake but c'mon. Better than sex?
Although I'm not one of those people who claim there is no such thing as bad sex. I mean, I see the expressions on their faces. I've just never experienced it myself.
That's why I usually carry a cupcake in my pocket. Just in case.
"Oh man, this hamburger is better than sex!"
"Wow, taste this cake! It's better than sex."
"Driving that car is better than sex!"
You get the idea. Personally I think these people are either exaggerating or they aren't that into sex. Maybe they've never had great sex. I mean, I have had some really, really good cake but c'mon. Better than sex?
Although I'm not one of those people who claim there is no such thing as bad sex. I mean, I see the expressions on their faces. I've just never experienced it myself.
That's why I usually carry a cupcake in my pocket. Just in case.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Coffee, Tea or Ruin your Life?
"Hi, welcome to Delta Air Lines... Oh, it's you. Didn't you used to work here?"
In an all too familiar move, Delta Airlines will ask the bankruptcy court in New York to terminate it's pilots' pension plan. They claim the move is necessary to emerge from it's nine month old bankruptcy reorganization. They claim funding the pension plan would cost them $1 billion in the near future. They say they still hope to save pension plans for other active employees and are planning for a new long distance, luxury flight service.
Do you know what's really cool about all of that? I didn't know I could pack that much bullshit into one paragraph.
There are so many things WRONG with this story. It makes as much sense as a Tom Cruise interview.
First off, they are trying to balance their books on the backs of the people they no longer need. They obviously feel no sense of moral obligation to these people. And if their word means nothing, then why should their current employees or the bankruptcy courts believe anything else they say?
They made contractual and ethical promises to the pilots when they needed them. And if the pilots' pensions were part of a negotiated compensation package, this move is nothing more than a unilateral, retroactive pay cut. And the courts are going along with it.
Delta is crying that if they keep paying the pilots' pensions, it will cost them another $1 billion soon. HOW? If they had a legally operated, properly managed pension plan (as mandated by law), the money should be there for the retired pilots and untouchable by anybody for any other purpose. Every week, the employee contributes his share, the company contributes their share, the fund grows in interest and is available when needed. That money was not there to buy gas and tires for the planes.
Instead of being in court asking to screw their faithful employees, Delta should be there answering to mismanagement of pension funds and fraud. If they are so incompetent that they can't manage a pension fund why should they be given another chance to run an airline?
Now they are telling everyone, "Trust us. We know we did a really, really, really bad job in the past, but we were young and immature. We've learned from our mistakes and promise not to do it again."
Then, just because the rest of us are so incredibly stupid, we are supposed to be distracted by their shiny new long-distance, luxury flights. I'd say the courts should be up in the air on this one. If Delta cannot meet their obligations to their past employees, they should just go away. Sell what's left of their half-assed company and at least try to meet their obligations.
No more peanuts, my ass!
In an all too familiar move, Delta Airlines will ask the bankruptcy court in New York to terminate it's pilots' pension plan. They claim the move is necessary to emerge from it's nine month old bankruptcy reorganization. They claim funding the pension plan would cost them $1 billion in the near future. They say they still hope to save pension plans for other active employees and are planning for a new long distance, luxury flight service.
Do you know what's really cool about all of that? I didn't know I could pack that much bullshit into one paragraph.
There are so many things WRONG with this story. It makes as much sense as a Tom Cruise interview.
First off, they are trying to balance their books on the backs of the people they no longer need. They obviously feel no sense of moral obligation to these people. And if their word means nothing, then why should their current employees or the bankruptcy courts believe anything else they say?
They made contractual and ethical promises to the pilots when they needed them. And if the pilots' pensions were part of a negotiated compensation package, this move is nothing more than a unilateral, retroactive pay cut. And the courts are going along with it.
Delta is crying that if they keep paying the pilots' pensions, it will cost them another $1 billion soon. HOW? If they had a legally operated, properly managed pension plan (as mandated by law), the money should be there for the retired pilots and untouchable by anybody for any other purpose. Every week, the employee contributes his share, the company contributes their share, the fund grows in interest and is available when needed. That money was not there to buy gas and tires for the planes.
Instead of being in court asking to screw their faithful employees, Delta should be there answering to mismanagement of pension funds and fraud. If they are so incompetent that they can't manage a pension fund why should they be given another chance to run an airline?
Now they are telling everyone, "Trust us. We know we did a really, really, really bad job in the past, but we were young and immature. We've learned from our mistakes and promise not to do it again."
Then, just because the rest of us are so incredibly stupid, we are supposed to be distracted by their shiny new long-distance, luxury flights. I'd say the courts should be up in the air on this one. If Delta cannot meet their obligations to their past employees, they should just go away. Sell what's left of their half-assed company and at least try to meet their obligations.
No more peanuts, my ass!
Monday, June 19, 2006
The 50% Rule.
I'm not sure if anyone else has noticed this but it's one of those oddball details that jumps out at me. Whenever we have a party we have to invite twice as many people as we actually feel like entertaining.
We have known this for some time now but we get complacent and cocky every now and then. And then you have the whole bubble group thing to think about. Here's how it works.
Let's say we want to have a party with twenty people attending. I keep a list of three or four hundred of my closest friends in my computer. So my wife and I will start going down the list to see who would be a good mix of people and personalities. (I mean, we can't have all duck wranglers because they like to turn the heat off in the hot tub and float lilly pads.) But experience has told us that on any given day, kids, cars and dead relatives will chew into the party list, so if we want that twenty, we have to invite forty.
The real trick is to try to guess which half will actually make it. This is because my wife asks people to bring some kind of food. You know, like cheese and crackers or champagne and caviar. (The cheese and crackers people usually show up more often.) So if we do it wrong we could end up with a bunch of constipated duck wranglers. Not a pretty sight at a nudist resort.
And, as it is with so many other things, just the opposite is true. For small group parties, everyone shows up. How many times did we decide to have steaks on the deck for six people (including us) and I'm suddenly cooking for ten. Where do you even get delmonico helper? So the conversation usually sounds like, "Mmmm, this is really good steak! How's your hot dog?"
Once we finally realized that Murphy was fucking with us, we began over-inviting for the big parties and under-inviting for the smaller ones. And it all worked out. This, of course , is where the complacent cockiness comes in play. As well as the bubble group.
Every time you think you have finally figured out how life works, the tiki gremlins stick you in the ankle with one of their little knives. We religiously follow the 50% rule for big parties and we always keep four extra steaks on hand for the smaller ones. But the bubble group are right in between. I estimate that ten guests is right on the bubble between the two groups. Just small enough for everyone to show up, yet large enough that the champagne and caviar guy's mother's cat could be having car trouble again.
The only reason I am mentioning any of this is that I spent last night in the emergency room having cheese scraped out of my colon, again. And, today, I have to fix the heater in my new duck pond.
We have known this for some time now but we get complacent and cocky every now and then. And then you have the whole bubble group thing to think about. Here's how it works.
Let's say we want to have a party with twenty people attending. I keep a list of three or four hundred of my closest friends in my computer. So my wife and I will start going down the list to see who would be a good mix of people and personalities. (I mean, we can't have all duck wranglers because they like to turn the heat off in the hot tub and float lilly pads.) But experience has told us that on any given day, kids, cars and dead relatives will chew into the party list, so if we want that twenty, we have to invite forty.
The real trick is to try to guess which half will actually make it. This is because my wife asks people to bring some kind of food. You know, like cheese and crackers or champagne and caviar. (The cheese and crackers people usually show up more often.) So if we do it wrong we could end up with a bunch of constipated duck wranglers. Not a pretty sight at a nudist resort.
And, as it is with so many other things, just the opposite is true. For small group parties, everyone shows up. How many times did we decide to have steaks on the deck for six people (including us) and I'm suddenly cooking for ten. Where do you even get delmonico helper? So the conversation usually sounds like, "Mmmm, this is really good steak! How's your hot dog?"
Once we finally realized that Murphy was fucking with us, we began over-inviting for the big parties and under-inviting for the smaller ones. And it all worked out. This, of course , is where the complacent cockiness comes in play. As well as the bubble group.
Every time you think you have finally figured out how life works, the tiki gremlins stick you in the ankle with one of their little knives. We religiously follow the 50% rule for big parties and we always keep four extra steaks on hand for the smaller ones. But the bubble group are right in between. I estimate that ten guests is right on the bubble between the two groups. Just small enough for everyone to show up, yet large enough that the champagne and caviar guy's mother's cat could be having car trouble again.
The only reason I am mentioning any of this is that I spent last night in the emergency room having cheese scraped out of my colon, again. And, today, I have to fix the heater in my new duck pond.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Low Tech Writing
I was thinking about the technology of writing recently. Many years ago a writer would have written this blog on a bit of paper, with a pencil, sitting under a tree.
Very low tech. Being a writer used to be about fnding your muse. All of the writer's energy went into creativity. The means of recording that expression was so basic that it was seldom even considered.
Today, a writer has many choices. He can still write upon paper with a pencil but eventually he has to transfer it to a computer to actually do anything with it. So most writers usually write directly to computer.
Which leaves us with many choices. First, we have a choice of computers. Do we go desk top or lap top? Do we go dial up or high speed, such as cable internet? Do we go hard wired or wireless? Do we go windows or Mac?
Unfortunately, by the time we make all of these decisions, which either basically anchors us to a desk or gives us the freedom to write untethered (but still within 150feet of the router) we have expended so much energy on the means of writing that we may have lost our muse.
For the non-writers who are reading this, our muse is that little voice inside our head that tells us what to write. Sometimes we have friendly muses and write nice little ditties about gardening and stuff. Sometimes our muse moonlights as a serial killer. Mine used to be a stand up comic in a little known section of Hell. He has a wicked sense of humor -- so blame him.
But technology and creative writing have seemingly gone down different paths. I am in the early stages of writing a novel and have literally spent two months reviewing software. Shouldn't I have spent that time writing?
So I have decided to throw off the shackles of technology and am dictating this blog to my wife, who is writing it on a scrap of paper as we sit by the pool. She will eventually transfer it to the internet via a computer but I don't care. Today I am low tech.
Very low tech. Being a writer used to be about fnding your muse. All of the writer's energy went into creativity. The means of recording that expression was so basic that it was seldom even considered.
Today, a writer has many choices. He can still write upon paper with a pencil but eventually he has to transfer it to a computer to actually do anything with it. So most writers usually write directly to computer.
Which leaves us with many choices. First, we have a choice of computers. Do we go desk top or lap top? Do we go dial up or high speed, such as cable internet? Do we go hard wired or wireless? Do we go windows or Mac?
Unfortunately, by the time we make all of these decisions, which either basically anchors us to a desk or gives us the freedom to write untethered (but still within 150feet of the router) we have expended so much energy on the means of writing that we may have lost our muse.
For the non-writers who are reading this, our muse is that little voice inside our head that tells us what to write. Sometimes we have friendly muses and write nice little ditties about gardening and stuff. Sometimes our muse moonlights as a serial killer. Mine used to be a stand up comic in a little known section of Hell. He has a wicked sense of humor -- so blame him.
But technology and creative writing have seemingly gone down different paths. I am in the early stages of writing a novel and have literally spent two months reviewing software. Shouldn't I have spent that time writing?
So I have decided to throw off the shackles of technology and am dictating this blog to my wife, who is writing it on a scrap of paper as we sit by the pool. She will eventually transfer it to the internet via a computer but I don't care. Today I am low tech.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
What is the Worst Thing That Can Happen?
I have a friend who was considering changing jobs and he asked me for some advice. The poor, sorry son of a bitch. So I played along, like I had something useful to contribute.
I told him that whenever I had any big, potentially life changing decisions to make, I would always ask myself, "What is the worst thing that can happen?" My personal answer to this mostly rhetorical question usually involves aliens or quantum shifts in the fabric of the space/time continuum. Like most people who don't have my kind of imagination, my friend took the question seriously.
He was thinking about leaving a sales career that intruded on his weekends here at the nudist resort. To my way of thinking, the job had to go. I mean, if it wasn't for priorities how would we be any different than animals. (Other than opposable thumbs, a spoken language, tools, society, and a sense of humor.) Am I right?
So, for his own good, I planted the seed of ambiguity. I asked a rhetorical question with enough self-serving answers to justify anything he wanted to do. And if it turns out badly, all I did was ask a question. I never really gave him any solid advice.
I see this as a win-win-win-win situation. He is obviously dissatisfied with the old job if he is considering a new one. He is intrigued by the present offer of the new job. He will have weekends free for Sunny Rest. And he thinks I gave him some good advice.
So he seriously asked himself, "What is the worst thing that can happen?" It turns out his old boss would be willing to take him back any time. He would not lose anything on that end. And at a worse case, the new job would be an adventure for a while that would free up his weekends during the summer.
Anyway, my friend took the job. He is happy as can be. I'm getting free drinks and people are under the mistaken impression that I am wise. Not bad for a smart ass. But then again, what was the worst thing that could have happened?
I told him that whenever I had any big, potentially life changing decisions to make, I would always ask myself, "What is the worst thing that can happen?" My personal answer to this mostly rhetorical question usually involves aliens or quantum shifts in the fabric of the space/time continuum. Like most people who don't have my kind of imagination, my friend took the question seriously.
He was thinking about leaving a sales career that intruded on his weekends here at the nudist resort. To my way of thinking, the job had to go. I mean, if it wasn't for priorities how would we be any different than animals. (Other than opposable thumbs, a spoken language, tools, society, and a sense of humor.) Am I right?
So, for his own good, I planted the seed of ambiguity. I asked a rhetorical question with enough self-serving answers to justify anything he wanted to do. And if it turns out badly, all I did was ask a question. I never really gave him any solid advice.
I see this as a win-win-win-win situation. He is obviously dissatisfied with the old job if he is considering a new one. He is intrigued by the present offer of the new job. He will have weekends free for Sunny Rest. And he thinks I gave him some good advice.
So he seriously asked himself, "What is the worst thing that can happen?" It turns out his old boss would be willing to take him back any time. He would not lose anything on that end. And at a worse case, the new job would be an adventure for a while that would free up his weekends during the summer.
Anyway, my friend took the job. He is happy as can be. I'm getting free drinks and people are under the mistaken impression that I am wise. Not bad for a smart ass. But then again, what was the worst thing that could have happened?
Friday, June 16, 2006
Deja Vu All Over Again
Where does deja vu come from? We have all had the strong sense that certain events in our lives have happened before. Sometimes it is a social grouping or a conversation that sets it off. Sometimes a sequence of minor events occur that seem inevitable. It is almost like acting out a memory.
I have a theory, based upon my own personal experience.
The first thing you need to know, is that I have a very vivid dream life. I have very complex, hyper-realistic dreams with fully realized actions and events. Occasionally, I have the fantastic type of dream where I can fly or I am being chased by monsters. But, for the most part, it is as if I am living another life within my dreams.
The second thing you need to know, is that I remember my dreams. This point is key to our larger discussion. My memory of dreams is almost complete. I can awaken from a dream and it will stay with me all day. I can remember minute details as if they really happened.
Most people I talk to say they do not remember their dreams. In fact, I would say, the vast majority of people don't. And this might hold the key to deja vu.
I believe, based upon my own experience, that deja vu comes from precognative dreams. That, somehow, we are able, while dreaming, to see snippets of the future. Most of the time, people forget their dreams and have the deja vu moment, never knowing where it came from.
I believe this because I remember the dream while I am having the deja vu moment. So much so that I can often recite the next thing a person will say or to point out the next action that will occur. I used to amaze my wife with this trick, but she is used to it by now.
And I think deja vu is a mystery to most people because the vast majority of people simply do not remember their dreams.
So, what has been your experience?
Do you remember your dreams? If so, have you had a similar experience to mine? Do you remember having dreamt the deja vu moment?
Or do you have a different sense or theory as to it's origins?
If you are in the group that doesn't remember your dreams, have you ever had any sense of where deja vu comes from?
Medical science claims that there are vast areas of the brain that are seemingly unused. For some of us these areas are vaster than others. For those around us -- we remain the mystery.
I have a theory, based upon my own personal experience.
The first thing you need to know, is that I have a very vivid dream life. I have very complex, hyper-realistic dreams with fully realized actions and events. Occasionally, I have the fantastic type of dream where I can fly or I am being chased by monsters. But, for the most part, it is as if I am living another life within my dreams.
The second thing you need to know, is that I remember my dreams. This point is key to our larger discussion. My memory of dreams is almost complete. I can awaken from a dream and it will stay with me all day. I can remember minute details as if they really happened.
Most people I talk to say they do not remember their dreams. In fact, I would say, the vast majority of people don't. And this might hold the key to deja vu.
I believe, based upon my own experience, that deja vu comes from precognative dreams. That, somehow, we are able, while dreaming, to see snippets of the future. Most of the time, people forget their dreams and have the deja vu moment, never knowing where it came from.
I believe this because I remember the dream while I am having the deja vu moment. So much so that I can often recite the next thing a person will say or to point out the next action that will occur. I used to amaze my wife with this trick, but she is used to it by now.
And I think deja vu is a mystery to most people because the vast majority of people simply do not remember their dreams.
So, what has been your experience?
Do you remember your dreams? If so, have you had a similar experience to mine? Do you remember having dreamt the deja vu moment?
Or do you have a different sense or theory as to it's origins?
If you are in the group that doesn't remember your dreams, have you ever had any sense of where deja vu comes from?
Medical science claims that there are vast areas of the brain that are seemingly unused. For some of us these areas are vaster than others. For those around us -- we remain the mystery.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
The Waiting Game
I feel like I have spent a disproportionate part of my life waiting. I remember, when I was in high school, waiting on my front porch for a friend to pick me up to go to a party. This was before cell phones and I had no way to get in touch with him. I must have waited three hours before I gave it up. The next day, he told me he forgot he was supposed to come and get me and that I missed a good party.
When I was even younger, My mother used to send me down to the corner bar to fetch my dad home for supper. He would always buy me a Coke and a bag of peanuts and have a few more beers with his buddies. I never liked the place and I knew that my mother would be mad if we took too log getting back, I was anxious and squirmed the whole time, waiting on my father. It was a tremendous burden for a little boy.
I remember in high school, sitting in the cafeteria waiting for school to start. Then sitting in class waiting for school to be over. I remember boring jobs and waiting for the day to end. And, as a child, the endless wait leading up to Christmas. I've waited in the zig-zag lines at Disney and I've waited in lobbies on customers. I've waited on catalog orders to be delivered and on pretty women to say yes. And I've spent hours on hold waiting on computer tech support.
While I was thinking back on all of this, I discovered something about my self and I wonder if it is true about you, as well.
My very first memory; my first moment of clarity, is of me waiting. I must have been four or five years old at the time. We lived in Rocky River, a suburb of Cleveland, in a large frame house where my father rented the upper apartment. An older couple lived downstairs. Next to the house was a gravel driveway then a broad grassy side yard. I remember lilac trees, the air was heavy with their scent. And I was playing in the lower branches of a fairly young maple tree. The sun was low in the sky, turning it a dusty red, and I kept looking down the driveway towards the quiet street. Waiting.
I don't know who or what I was waiting for, but that is my very first memory. And I began to wonder if there is any psychological or life altering connection between how people view life and their earliest memories? Or is it the other way around?
What I do know is that, in my memory, I was by my self and waiting on something. And throughout my life, I have always viewed myself as a loner. An outsider. And waiting for something to happen. This may be typical or may define my personal perspective. I don't know.
So, in the interest of better understanding, I'd like to hear from you. What is your earliest or first memory and has it in any way shaped you? Or was it just a random memory with no significance? You can respond by using the comment link below.
If I get enough responses I'll share the results in a future blog. Thanks for reading.
When I was even younger, My mother used to send me down to the corner bar to fetch my dad home for supper. He would always buy me a Coke and a bag of peanuts and have a few more beers with his buddies. I never liked the place and I knew that my mother would be mad if we took too log getting back, I was anxious and squirmed the whole time, waiting on my father. It was a tremendous burden for a little boy.
I remember in high school, sitting in the cafeteria waiting for school to start. Then sitting in class waiting for school to be over. I remember boring jobs and waiting for the day to end. And, as a child, the endless wait leading up to Christmas. I've waited in the zig-zag lines at Disney and I've waited in lobbies on customers. I've waited on catalog orders to be delivered and on pretty women to say yes. And I've spent hours on hold waiting on computer tech support.
While I was thinking back on all of this, I discovered something about my self and I wonder if it is true about you, as well.
My very first memory; my first moment of clarity, is of me waiting. I must have been four or five years old at the time. We lived in Rocky River, a suburb of Cleveland, in a large frame house where my father rented the upper apartment. An older couple lived downstairs. Next to the house was a gravel driveway then a broad grassy side yard. I remember lilac trees, the air was heavy with their scent. And I was playing in the lower branches of a fairly young maple tree. The sun was low in the sky, turning it a dusty red, and I kept looking down the driveway towards the quiet street. Waiting.
I don't know who or what I was waiting for, but that is my very first memory. And I began to wonder if there is any psychological or life altering connection between how people view life and their earliest memories? Or is it the other way around?
What I do know is that, in my memory, I was by my self and waiting on something. And throughout my life, I have always viewed myself as a loner. An outsider. And waiting for something to happen. This may be typical or may define my personal perspective. I don't know.
So, in the interest of better understanding, I'd like to hear from you. What is your earliest or first memory and has it in any way shaped you? Or was it just a random memory with no significance? You can respond by using the comment link below.
If I get enough responses I'll share the results in a future blog. Thanks for reading.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
The Retirement Myth
I always said I would have plenty to do when I retired. But this is ridiculous!
Part of my problem is organization. I think I have too much of it. Back when I was gainfully employed I had the same problem. While my coworkers were out golfing or having dinner with their families or generally relaxing, I would be at my desk writing reports or preparing for tomorrow's work. I had a job where you could skate by at 20-30 hours a week. I never learned how to skate.
Now that I have "all the time in the world" I still need more. And it's kind of ironic because I have always been a firm believer in "work smarter, not harder". I figured if you could get organized in the beginning then the job would be easier down the road. Do all the heavy lifting up front. And for the most part, this seems to work out.
But my problem is I tend to over-prepare. My workshop has to be cleaned up from the last job and prepared for the next one. If I build anything I usually draw up diagrams and make a list of materials (on hand and needed to buy). Then there is the trip to Lowes to get the needed materials. Then I go over my plans again, lay all my tools out, and jump in. My projects usually turn out pretty well, with few hitches or mis-steps. However, my "planning and preparing" usually takes twice as long as the actual job.
Also, let me tell you, there is no such thing as "maintenance free". Entropy destroys that notion. From the day you buy, build or fix something it is aging, fading, rusting and wearing out.
Living in the Poconos, we have a short, five month, season for the resort. During this time I try to do as little as possible. I like to hang out at the pool and generally be accessible for the variety of mischief that goes on around here. At least that's the plan.
But I write my blog every morning, exercise, shower, take out the garbage, police the deck for yesterday's debris (empties, ashtrays, etc.) and look for anything needing repaired. I usually try to read a couple of books a week. Also, weekly, I maintenance the hot tub, cut the grass, weed whack, check the batteries in the golf cart, oil and gas in the ATV, inspect the cars for problems, sweep the driveway, pull weeds, etc. And these are my summer, light schedule, chores.
In the off season I tackle the bigger projects. Things like painting the garage, staining the deck, cleaning the gutters, planting shrubs, trimming trees and indoor remodeling and painting projects. In addition to everything from the previous list.
In the mean time, we have a busy social life and I am supposed to be writing "the great American novel".
So I'm beginning to not believe in this whole retirement myth. If anything, I'm busier than ever. But I do have a nice place to live, a beautiful wife and good friends to share it with, and "all the time in the world" to take care of it.
Now, if I could just get organized.
Part of my problem is organization. I think I have too much of it. Back when I was gainfully employed I had the same problem. While my coworkers were out golfing or having dinner with their families or generally relaxing, I would be at my desk writing reports or preparing for tomorrow's work. I had a job where you could skate by at 20-30 hours a week. I never learned how to skate.
Now that I have "all the time in the world" I still need more. And it's kind of ironic because I have always been a firm believer in "work smarter, not harder". I figured if you could get organized in the beginning then the job would be easier down the road. Do all the heavy lifting up front. And for the most part, this seems to work out.
But my problem is I tend to over-prepare. My workshop has to be cleaned up from the last job and prepared for the next one. If I build anything I usually draw up diagrams and make a list of materials (on hand and needed to buy). Then there is the trip to Lowes to get the needed materials. Then I go over my plans again, lay all my tools out, and jump in. My projects usually turn out pretty well, with few hitches or mis-steps. However, my "planning and preparing" usually takes twice as long as the actual job.
Also, let me tell you, there is no such thing as "maintenance free". Entropy destroys that notion. From the day you buy, build or fix something it is aging, fading, rusting and wearing out.
Living in the Poconos, we have a short, five month, season for the resort. During this time I try to do as little as possible. I like to hang out at the pool and generally be accessible for the variety of mischief that goes on around here. At least that's the plan.
But I write my blog every morning, exercise, shower, take out the garbage, police the deck for yesterday's debris (empties, ashtrays, etc.) and look for anything needing repaired. I usually try to read a couple of books a week. Also, weekly, I maintenance the hot tub, cut the grass, weed whack, check the batteries in the golf cart, oil and gas in the ATV, inspect the cars for problems, sweep the driveway, pull weeds, etc. And these are my summer, light schedule, chores.
In the off season I tackle the bigger projects. Things like painting the garage, staining the deck, cleaning the gutters, planting shrubs, trimming trees and indoor remodeling and painting projects. In addition to everything from the previous list.
In the mean time, we have a busy social life and I am supposed to be writing "the great American novel".
So I'm beginning to not believe in this whole retirement myth. If anything, I'm busier than ever. But I do have a nice place to live, a beautiful wife and good friends to share it with, and "all the time in the world" to take care of it.
Now, if I could just get organized.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Good Noose from Gitmo
Back on June 2nd I did a blog on some captured terrorists who went on a hunger strike at the U.S. naval base at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. I suggested that it was a no win situation for us.
If they succeed in dying through their hunger strike, we are blamed by the international community for their deaths. If we force them to eat, then we are considered cruel for imposing our will on them. If we give in, we are shown to be weak and open ourselves to other forms of coercive behavior.
I went on to recommend that we fiegn indifference to their hunger strikes. Make them realize that their deaths, while in captivity, would be meaningless due to the lack of collateral damage. No bombs -- no glory. That kind of thing.
On Saturday, three prisoners were found dead from suicide. They hung themselves with bedsheets. This was followed by immediate calls to close the prison.
So, are these tremendously courageous individuals who are willing to die for their convictions? Do they have the political savvy to understand the repercussions of their actions?
I DON'T THINK SO.
These cretins are just bright enough to be meat puppets with detonators. You never saw Bin-Ladin or Zarqawi driving car bombs to work, did you? THESE MAGGOTS HAVE BEEN BRAIN WASHED INTO BELIEVING THEIR DEATHS WOULD HAVE MEANING. They are so weak willed and pathetic that another (slightly smarter) sand rat was able to convince them that death is their best option.
Now they sit in prison, all psyched up and nowhere to die. They are obsessed with their own death. They have been so convinced of the necessity of it that they can't step back from the edge. If they cannot blow themselves and countless others up while on the outside, then they must die by their own hand on the inside.
Which gives them probably one of the dumbest exit lines in history: "If I cannot die for the glory of Allah, then I do not want to live!"
If they succeed in dying through their hunger strike, we are blamed by the international community for their deaths. If we force them to eat, then we are considered cruel for imposing our will on them. If we give in, we are shown to be weak and open ourselves to other forms of coercive behavior.
I went on to recommend that we fiegn indifference to their hunger strikes. Make them realize that their deaths, while in captivity, would be meaningless due to the lack of collateral damage. No bombs -- no glory. That kind of thing.
On Saturday, three prisoners were found dead from suicide. They hung themselves with bedsheets. This was followed by immediate calls to close the prison.
So, are these tremendously courageous individuals who are willing to die for their convictions? Do they have the political savvy to understand the repercussions of their actions?
I DON'T THINK SO.
These cretins are just bright enough to be meat puppets with detonators. You never saw Bin-Ladin or Zarqawi driving car bombs to work, did you? THESE MAGGOTS HAVE BEEN BRAIN WASHED INTO BELIEVING THEIR DEATHS WOULD HAVE MEANING. They are so weak willed and pathetic that another (slightly smarter) sand rat was able to convince them that death is their best option.
Now they sit in prison, all psyched up and nowhere to die. They are obsessed with their own death. They have been so convinced of the necessity of it that they can't step back from the edge. If they cannot blow themselves and countless others up while on the outside, then they must die by their own hand on the inside.
Which gives them probably one of the dumbest exit lines in history: "If I cannot die for the glory of Allah, then I do not want to live!"
Monday, June 12, 2006
Reality vs. Perception
I can't believe how many times the reality vs. perception theme has popped up in my life over the past few weeks. Well, actually, I can believe it. Unless, of course, it just seems like a lot.
I have a friend who says that our understanding of the true spiritual world is only clouded by our perceptions of who we perceive ourselves to be and what we perceive our relationships with others to be. That once we tear away the veil of these perceptions we will see our true relationships with God, the universe and man. Pretty heavy stuff. But definitely food for thought.
One of my recent blogs entitled The Supposition Press has kindled a lot of debate between some of my readers as to the nature of perception. The issue at hand was, can a journalist be unbiased?
One point of view says that everything we say and do (and report upon) is flavored by our perceptions, biases and prejudices. The other side claims that a rational impartiality, merely seeking to inform, can remain unaffected by bias and that facts are facts.
I started the debate by proposing that when hard facts are unavailable, the press is willing to ask suppositional questions in order to stir the debate. The purpose either being to raise awareness to promote an agenda (revealing a bias) or to sell more papers. I do not believe all journalists exhibit a strong bias. But even a claim of rational impartiality can be biased because who we are determines what we consider to be rational.
When I was a tech rep in the printing industry I constantly had to explain to my company that even if our product was perfect, if the customer perceived he was having a problem with it -- we had a problem. In this case, the customer's perceptions were his reality and affected our reality.
And perceptions can come in many flavors and degrees ranging from hatred of certain things or people, to prejudices based upon our upbringing and social background, biases reflecting our interests, passions and intellectual pursuits, to something as simple as our opinions. But all of these factors serve to alter our perceptions, causing us to view different realities. Thus, facts are not always facts.
One man sees a flag draped coffin and his eyes well up with tears of pride and patriotism, while another sees it as a symbol of waste and incompetence.
I am reminded of the parable of the three blind men encountering an elephant for the first time and they are each asked to describe it. The man by the tail says an elephant is like a rope. The man by the trunk says an elephant is like a small tree. The man by the body says an elephant is like a wall. They were all right. They were all sincere. They were all wrong.
Maybe my friend is right and we need to tear away the veil of our perceptions. But until then, if we can just admit that our view of the world may be partially based upon our preconceptions, there may be hope. Or at least the perception of hope.
I have a friend who says that our understanding of the true spiritual world is only clouded by our perceptions of who we perceive ourselves to be and what we perceive our relationships with others to be. That once we tear away the veil of these perceptions we will see our true relationships with God, the universe and man. Pretty heavy stuff. But definitely food for thought.
One of my recent blogs entitled The Supposition Press has kindled a lot of debate between some of my readers as to the nature of perception. The issue at hand was, can a journalist be unbiased?
One point of view says that everything we say and do (and report upon) is flavored by our perceptions, biases and prejudices. The other side claims that a rational impartiality, merely seeking to inform, can remain unaffected by bias and that facts are facts.
I started the debate by proposing that when hard facts are unavailable, the press is willing to ask suppositional questions in order to stir the debate. The purpose either being to raise awareness to promote an agenda (revealing a bias) or to sell more papers. I do not believe all journalists exhibit a strong bias. But even a claim of rational impartiality can be biased because who we are determines what we consider to be rational.
When I was a tech rep in the printing industry I constantly had to explain to my company that even if our product was perfect, if the customer perceived he was having a problem with it -- we had a problem. In this case, the customer's perceptions were his reality and affected our reality.
And perceptions can come in many flavors and degrees ranging from hatred of certain things or people, to prejudices based upon our upbringing and social background, biases reflecting our interests, passions and intellectual pursuits, to something as simple as our opinions. But all of these factors serve to alter our perceptions, causing us to view different realities. Thus, facts are not always facts.
One man sees a flag draped coffin and his eyes well up with tears of pride and patriotism, while another sees it as a symbol of waste and incompetence.
I am reminded of the parable of the three blind men encountering an elephant for the first time and they are each asked to describe it. The man by the tail says an elephant is like a rope. The man by the trunk says an elephant is like a small tree. The man by the body says an elephant is like a wall. They were all right. They were all sincere. They were all wrong.
Maybe my friend is right and we need to tear away the veil of our perceptions. But until then, if we can just admit that our view of the world may be partially based upon our preconceptions, there may be hope. Or at least the perception of hope.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Career Nite
We had a Career Nite theme at our Saturday night dance, last night. This was something that we've known about for quite a while so, naturally, I waited until Friday to decide on my costume.
What you need to understand about our dances is that, being a nudist resort, it is O.K. and typical for the guests attire to range from corporate casual to nude. And every variation in between. Most of the men prefer shorts and Hawaiian shirts and the women wear either some sexy disco-wear or lingerie. So in a sense, every week in a costume party.
I had a decision to make. What to wear? Being retired from corporate sales gave me two possibilities. I didn't want to do the salesman thing because it would involve too many clothes. And, besides, I turned in my greedy bastard face when I left.
But how do you do the retired thing? Since it was Friday, already, and I didn't have time to get to Florida or Arizona for research, I took a quick ride over to McDonald's and Walmart. Lots of retired people work there. However, it seems I retired much younger than most of those people and I probably couldn't afford the wardrobe. None of my pants can reach halfway to my armpits and I'm afraid doubleknit would chafe there, anyway. Orthopedic shoes seem like they would be expensive. And I never liked having my top shirt button done up.
That didn't leave me with many possibilities. Basically, in the summer time, I am a beach bum in the Pocono mountains. What do they wear? Swim trunks and hiking boots? I could dress as a writer but where do I get leather elbow patches for my Hawaiian shirts at this late date?
Then somebody told me we can dress up as any career. It didn't have to be my own. I could make fun of someone else's career choice! It was out of character for me but I decided to give it a shot.
My first thought was to wear what I always wear (shorts and Hawaiian shirt) but to carry a golf club. I could be a Wednesday afternoon doctor.
I could go naked and be a professional nudist. But then I have to give up my amateur status and probably have to join a union or something.
So I finally decided what to wear. My wife went as a sexy cop. She wore black hot pants, knee high black boots with spiked heels, a patent leather jacket and cop hat, badge, cuffs, etc. She looked great. There were plenty of hookers and strippers and pimps. Some of them even came in costume. We had enough variety to do a revival of the Village People. It looked like the cantina scene from Star Wars.
And me? I wore shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. And a white lab coat with a stethoscope draped over my shoulders. I had a nametag that said LOVE DOCTOR and I was telling everyone I was the Head Groinacologist at the local Vagitarium. And that my colleagues called me The Human Tongue Depressor. It was good for a laugh or three.
I guess I learned two things from this experience. First, it's O.K. to wait until the last minute for inspiration as long as your wife already has you covered. And, at the end of the day, I still don't know what I want to be if I grow up.
What you need to understand about our dances is that, being a nudist resort, it is O.K. and typical for the guests attire to range from corporate casual to nude. And every variation in between. Most of the men prefer shorts and Hawaiian shirts and the women wear either some sexy disco-wear or lingerie. So in a sense, every week in a costume party.
I had a decision to make. What to wear? Being retired from corporate sales gave me two possibilities. I didn't want to do the salesman thing because it would involve too many clothes. And, besides, I turned in my greedy bastard face when I left.
But how do you do the retired thing? Since it was Friday, already, and I didn't have time to get to Florida or Arizona for research, I took a quick ride over to McDonald's and Walmart. Lots of retired people work there. However, it seems I retired much younger than most of those people and I probably couldn't afford the wardrobe. None of my pants can reach halfway to my armpits and I'm afraid doubleknit would chafe there, anyway. Orthopedic shoes seem like they would be expensive. And I never liked having my top shirt button done up.
That didn't leave me with many possibilities. Basically, in the summer time, I am a beach bum in the Pocono mountains. What do they wear? Swim trunks and hiking boots? I could dress as a writer but where do I get leather elbow patches for my Hawaiian shirts at this late date?
Then somebody told me we can dress up as any career. It didn't have to be my own. I could make fun of someone else's career choice! It was out of character for me but I decided to give it a shot.
My first thought was to wear what I always wear (shorts and Hawaiian shirt) but to carry a golf club. I could be a Wednesday afternoon doctor.
I could go naked and be a professional nudist. But then I have to give up my amateur status and probably have to join a union or something.
So I finally decided what to wear. My wife went as a sexy cop. She wore black hot pants, knee high black boots with spiked heels, a patent leather jacket and cop hat, badge, cuffs, etc. She looked great. There were plenty of hookers and strippers and pimps. Some of them even came in costume. We had enough variety to do a revival of the Village People. It looked like the cantina scene from Star Wars.
And me? I wore shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. And a white lab coat with a stethoscope draped over my shoulders. I had a nametag that said LOVE DOCTOR and I was telling everyone I was the Head Groinacologist at the local Vagitarium. And that my colleagues called me The Human Tongue Depressor. It was good for a laugh or three.
I guess I learned two things from this experience. First, it's O.K. to wait until the last minute for inspiration as long as your wife already has you covered. And, at the end of the day, I still don't know what I want to be if I grow up.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Choices
I was thinking, we all make random choices every day:
What should I be doing as soon as I make my coffee? -------------------------- Writing
Should I have (a) yogurt or (b) toast for breakfast? ------------------------------ a
How often should I exercise? -------------------------------------------------------- daily
Should I work on my blog or my novel first? -------------------------------------- blog
Do I use the crab meat from the can or the foil pouch on my salad at lunch? -- can
To be or not to be? -------------------------------------------------------------------- be
Should I take the (a) ATV or the (b) golfcart to the pool? ----------------------- a
I have two 10's with an Ace/King showing, do I challenge or fold? -------- challenge
Am I coming or going? ------------------------------------------------------------- coming
When I hang this picture, should I move it up or down? ------------------------- up
Would the steak be better with garlic salt or without? -------------------------- with
Would I rather write original humor or tell someone else's joke?----------- original
Do I prefer material or pleather for my new recliner? ----------------------- material
Should I go to the can or try to hold it a little longer? --------------------------- can
Do I use be, Be, or BE? --------------------------------------------------------------- be
Are my sideburns crooked or even? ------------------------------------------------ even
Is it tougher or easier to write in the morning? -------------------------------- tougher
And sometimes our choices, though seemingly unrelated, tell a bigger story.
What should I be doing as soon as I make my coffee? -------------------------- Writing
Should I have (a) yogurt or (b) toast for breakfast? ------------------------------ a
How often should I exercise? -------------------------------------------------------- daily
Should I work on my blog or my novel first? -------------------------------------- blog
Do I use the crab meat from the can or the foil pouch on my salad at lunch? -- can
To be or not to be? -------------------------------------------------------------------- be
Should I take the (a) ATV or the (b) golfcart to the pool? ----------------------- a
I have two 10's with an Ace/King showing, do I challenge or fold? -------- challenge
Am I coming or going? ------------------------------------------------------------- coming
When I hang this picture, should I move it up or down? ------------------------- up
Would the steak be better with garlic salt or without? -------------------------- with
Would I rather write original humor or tell someone else's joke?----------- original
Do I prefer material or pleather for my new recliner? ----------------------- material
Should I go to the can or try to hold it a little longer? --------------------------- can
Do I use be, Be, or BE? --------------------------------------------------------------- be
Are my sideburns crooked or even? ------------------------------------------------ even
Is it tougher or easier to write in the morning? -------------------------------- tougher
And sometimes our choices, though seemingly unrelated, tell a bigger story.
Friday, June 09, 2006
The Supposition Press
Global warming might affect Hawaii area -- HONOLULU, June 8 (UPI) -- …many Northwestern Hawaiian Islands might be submerged by 2100 because of global warming…
Is that an inflammatory headline? How do you disprove an unproven premise? Does the lack of physical evidence disprove the premise? Or does it add to the seriousness of the supposition? Isn't there enough real news happening to keep the Supposition Press busy?
There is a disturbing trend in news reporting, recently. Supposition.
Will gas prices double?
Will the polar icecaps melt?
Will there be race riots if ( _________ ) is acquitted?
And the beauty of the Supposition Press is that nothing needs to be verified. No one can be sued for libel. There are no sources to protect. And any crank with an agenda can be cited as an expert. All of the rules of fair play and decency are out the window. It does not matter if the supposition is faulty or if panic ensues. The questions were asked and awareness was raised.
In the hands of an agenda driven press, this can be a devastating tool. Let's say, hypothetically (wink, wink, nudge, nudge), that the media is trying to discredit the Administration. Rather than doing the correct and the more difficult thing of reporting the actual facts as unbiased journalists should, the Supposition Press poses a series of what if scenarios.
Will the housing bubble burst?
Will Wall Street react badly to certain developments?
Will we be ready if a tsunami hits the west coast?
All designed to chip away at the public's confidence and trust and all of them unanswerable questions driven by wishful thinking. Their hope being that by raising awareness they will shift public opinion on the basis of mere supposition.
The facts are no longer relevant. They openly talk about the spin and talking points. In the creation of The Big Lie, Joseph Goebbels said that if you told a lie often enough, people would eventually believe it. There are actually people, right now in America, who do not believe terrorist hijacked planes on September 11, 2001 and attacked The World Trade Center and the Pentagon. They would rather believe in a government conspiracy.
Sometimes it seems as if the press is taking side bets.
"I'll bet you 20 bucks I can get the price of gas up by .05 by Friday."
"$50 says I can make the market drop a hundred points in the same time."
Journalism used to be, by nature, rather heartless. Impersonal. Dispassionate. Nothing of the Journalist ever got into the story. Election results, kidnappings, executions and bake sales all had to be reported with the same impartiality. Who, what, where, when, why and how were the by-words.
So I fear for this nation. We are faced with a new tyranny from an unexpected source in the form of a press that is no longer free. In a misguided effort to inject their feelings into their stories they have becomes slaves to the gods of their agenda. They can no longer distinguish between their desired reality and the true facts. They have moved beyond the unpleasantness of being heartless and have embraced the unintended consequence of having lost their journalistic soul.
Is that an inflammatory headline? How do you disprove an unproven premise? Does the lack of physical evidence disprove the premise? Or does it add to the seriousness of the supposition? Isn't there enough real news happening to keep the Supposition Press busy?
There is a disturbing trend in news reporting, recently. Supposition.
Will gas prices double?
Will the polar icecaps melt?
Will there be race riots if ( _________ ) is acquitted?
And the beauty of the Supposition Press is that nothing needs to be verified. No one can be sued for libel. There are no sources to protect. And any crank with an agenda can be cited as an expert. All of the rules of fair play and decency are out the window. It does not matter if the supposition is faulty or if panic ensues. The questions were asked and awareness was raised.
In the hands of an agenda driven press, this can be a devastating tool. Let's say, hypothetically (wink, wink, nudge, nudge), that the media is trying to discredit the Administration. Rather than doing the correct and the more difficult thing of reporting the actual facts as unbiased journalists should, the Supposition Press poses a series of what if scenarios.
Will the housing bubble burst?
Will Wall Street react badly to certain developments?
Will we be ready if a tsunami hits the west coast?
All designed to chip away at the public's confidence and trust and all of them unanswerable questions driven by wishful thinking. Their hope being that by raising awareness they will shift public opinion on the basis of mere supposition.
The facts are no longer relevant. They openly talk about the spin and talking points. In the creation of The Big Lie, Joseph Goebbels said that if you told a lie often enough, people would eventually believe it. There are actually people, right now in America, who do not believe terrorist hijacked planes on September 11, 2001 and attacked The World Trade Center and the Pentagon. They would rather believe in a government conspiracy.
Sometimes it seems as if the press is taking side bets.
"I'll bet you 20 bucks I can get the price of gas up by .05 by Friday."
"$50 says I can make the market drop a hundred points in the same time."
Journalism used to be, by nature, rather heartless. Impersonal. Dispassionate. Nothing of the Journalist ever got into the story. Election results, kidnappings, executions and bake sales all had to be reported with the same impartiality. Who, what, where, when, why and how were the by-words.
So I fear for this nation. We are faced with a new tyranny from an unexpected source in the form of a press that is no longer free. In a misguided effort to inject their feelings into their stories they have becomes slaves to the gods of their agenda. They can no longer distinguish between their desired reality and the true facts. They have moved beyond the unpleasantness of being heartless and have embraced the unintended consequence of having lost their journalistic soul.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Writers Write, Right?
I have always thought that one of Life's Immutable Rules should be that people do what they want to do. To me, this meant that most of the reasons people cite for NOT doing things are usually just excuses.
When I was growing up, my mother never drove a car. She didn't need to. She was a housewife that lived within several blocks of the grocery store, the bakery, the drug store, the church and the bar that my dad hung out in. Anywhere else and my dad always drove. She always claimed that she would "be too nervous to drive." But there came a day when she finally decided it was time to learn. And she did fine.
As a young observer, I came to realize that she could have learned to drive any time she wanted to. She just didn't want to badly enough. When she did -- she made it happen.
On a similar note, I have always wanted to be a writer. And I guess for a while I was. When I was in high school and my early twenties I wrote short stories and poetry constantly. I took journalism and writing courses and pictured myself as a famous author some day.
But a funny thing happened on my way to fame. It didn't happen.
Oh, at the time, I had plenty of excuses disguised as reasons:
And, sure, every now and then I would brush the dust off an old file and pretend I was a writer again. Sometimes I'd even write something new. I actually got a few things published. And I would talk about writing. I would get story ideas. I'd write holiday jingles or make up jokes. I would read voraciously and critique the writing. I'd always say, "I know I can write. If I could just get a good run at it, but I have too many interuptions. "
So I'd put the files back in the box again, shove it back in the corner again and get busy with life again. And I would beat myself up about it. I had a notecard pinned to the corkboard behind my desk that said, "If a man has a dream and does nothing about it, it's either not much of a dream or he's not much of a man." It served as a constant rebuke to the writer in me.
Since then I have retired (at age 51), we've made a lot of changes in our lifestyle, I took a deep breath -- and began to write. I have the time, now. And a dicipline that I never had before. This is a daily blog and no small effort goes into it. But for the first time in almost thirty years I can look you straight in the eye and say, "I am a writer!"
But it hasn't come without a price. The price is in admitting that I was wrong. Not all reasons are merely excuses in disguise. Yes, people do what they want to do, but that doesn't diminish The Dream if the detour is worthy. I would choose the necessity of loving and raising and providing for my family every time. So, at the time, I guess I didn't want to be a writer badly enough. Yet, I did do what I wanted to do.
As for the worthiness of The Man? I'm willing to let those who follow decide that. I'm done beating myself up. I've got better things to do. Writers write, right?
When I was growing up, my mother never drove a car. She didn't need to. She was a housewife that lived within several blocks of the grocery store, the bakery, the drug store, the church and the bar that my dad hung out in. Anywhere else and my dad always drove. She always claimed that she would "be too nervous to drive." But there came a day when she finally decided it was time to learn. And she did fine.
As a young observer, I came to realize that she could have learned to drive any time she wanted to. She just didn't want to badly enough. When she did -- she made it happen.
On a similar note, I have always wanted to be a writer. And I guess for a while I was. When I was in high school and my early twenties I wrote short stories and poetry constantly. I took journalism and writing courses and pictured myself as a famous author some day.
But a funny thing happened on my way to fame. It didn't happen.
Oh, at the time, I had plenty of excuses disguised as reasons:
- I got married when I was twenty.
- I had to work to support my wife and I.
- I was too tired to write after work.
- After a while we had children to raise.
- I got into management and my workload doubled.
- I moved into sales and I was on the road three or four nights a week.
And, sure, every now and then I would brush the dust off an old file and pretend I was a writer again. Sometimes I'd even write something new. I actually got a few things published. And I would talk about writing. I would get story ideas. I'd write holiday jingles or make up jokes. I would read voraciously and critique the writing. I'd always say, "I know I can write. If I could just get a good run at it, but I have too many interuptions. "
So I'd put the files back in the box again, shove it back in the corner again and get busy with life again. And I would beat myself up about it. I had a notecard pinned to the corkboard behind my desk that said, "If a man has a dream and does nothing about it, it's either not much of a dream or he's not much of a man." It served as a constant rebuke to the writer in me.
Since then I have retired (at age 51), we've made a lot of changes in our lifestyle, I took a deep breath -- and began to write. I have the time, now. And a dicipline that I never had before. This is a daily blog and no small effort goes into it. But for the first time in almost thirty years I can look you straight in the eye and say, "I am a writer!"
But it hasn't come without a price. The price is in admitting that I was wrong. Not all reasons are merely excuses in disguise. Yes, people do what they want to do, but that doesn't diminish The Dream if the detour is worthy. I would choose the necessity of loving and raising and providing for my family every time. So, at the time, I guess I didn't want to be a writer badly enough. Yet, I did do what I wanted to do.
As for the worthiness of The Man? I'm willing to let those who follow decide that. I'm done beating myself up. I've got better things to do. Writers write, right?
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Guy Stuff at the Mall
I went to the mall with my wife the other day. She had some shopping to do and I was just wandering around, doing guy stuff. I found myself standing outside the big window of a sporting goods store looking at bowling balls, exercise equipment and miniature trampolines. I wasn't really looking for anything special; it just seemed like a more masculine place to hang out than Wilson's Leather.
There was a crowd gathered around a large open area near the cash registers and I meandered inside to see what was going on.
What I saw were several large, gray exercise mats and two young women in skintight, pink workout clothes doing an energetic jazzercise routine to the beat of some techno tune. The crowd was responding enthusiastically and the girls were playing to the crowd. They were quite effective.
As I watched I became aware of two things. First, I had such a strong erection I had to put my hand in my pocket to help disguise the bulge in my shorts. Second, most of the other men in the audience had one hand in their collective pockets. A few young jocks apparently didn't give a damn and made no attempt to hide their desire.
After about fifteen minutes, I limped off in moral outrage and disgust.
Unfortunately, my embarrassment about my erection kept fueling it's potency. And it was virtually impossible to hide my discomfort in the thin jogging shorts I was wearing. And the more I thought about it, the worse it got.
Then I noticed the lady in the next aisle over looking rather oddly in my direction. I had been trying to look casual and I was holding a spool of 90 pound fishing line, pretending I had a purpose other than hiding. Someone had opened the packaging on several spools and while I was trying to avoid her gaze, I spun around too quickly and they snagged together, clattering off the shelves and bouncing around my legs.
I bent to try to catch or retrieve the bouncing, unrolling spools of line; turning a couple of more times in my haste. Somehow, my legs became entangled in the line and in the confusion my hand was no longer covering my embarrassment and it pushed tightly against the thin material.
There was no way to salvage my dignity. But being a guy I tried. Casually, I picked up a fishing pole in my left hand and ran my right hand thoughtfully along the shelf. As I did so, I felt a sudden, sharp prick in my index finger. A fishing hook. I immediately put my finger to my mouth to sooth the pain and felt another sharp prick in my lower lip. When I tried to pull my hand away from my mouth the pain knifed through both finger and lip and I found my hand was stuck there.
"What the Hell!" I mumbled through my fingers in panic. I began whirling around like a dervish, not knowing which way to turn or what to do next. I noticed the lady in the next aisle give me another very hard look and scurry off in pursuit of a more peaceful shopping experience. I had other things to worry about.
"Can I help you?" A voice said behind me and I kind of hop-turned to see the speaker. She was a pretty redhead, wearing one of the store's logo shirts. Behind her, apparently drawn by the noise, were the two jazzercise girls and most of their audience. "Damn, Mister, What'd you do to yourself?"
She leaned closer for what I thought was a better look. I didn't notice how pale she was. She wasn't leaning. And she kept on going. At the last moment she tried to grab at me but only got hold of my jogging shorts.
When I looked down I noticed the blood for the first time. It seemed like the entire front of my t-shirt was drenched in it. From what I could see of my arm and stuck hand, they were also. I still held the fishing pole in my left hand. I couldn't move my legs because of the fishing line and the hapless clerk had her arms encircling my ankles, my shorts resting on the tops of my shoes. My manhood was waving in the wind.
This was the moment my wife chose to return. She stared at me for a second and said, "Let me guess. You're doing guy stuff, right?
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
The Whole Truth...
For a variety of reasons, I retired three years ago at age 51. The reason I give people depends upon the circumstances and context of the conversation. This doesn't mean I lie about it. It just means I rarely tell the entire story.
I had career, health, social and financial issues that led to my decision. So, if I am talking with someone with an awareness of health issues, I might mention how my health contributed to my early retirement. If we are having a discussion about the lack of ethics in the business or corporate world, I may cite those factors for leaving. These and the other factors are all true -- they just may not all be relevant to the current conversation. And I doubt that many people would want to hear my tale in it's entirety, anyway.
The reason I mention this is because it occurred to me that most of life is like this. Unless you are ordering dinner, most questions cannot be answered with a simple yes or no. Life is more complicated than that. And few answers incorporate everything we know, think, feel or suspect about an issue. We are more complicated than that.
So when we are watching the nightly news, and we hear an inflammatory sound bite, it usually doesn't mean any more than someone taking your picture while you are sneezing. That's not what you really look like. And the sound bite seldom reflects anything more than the reporter's personal bias on that particular issue.
How many times have you had an argument with someone and both of you were convinced you were RIGHT and that the other person was a JERK? Then, when you both calmed down enough to actually talk with each other, one of you ends up saying, "Oh, I didn't realize all of that." And the spat was over.
This idea is responsible for the epigram Walk a Mile in My Shoes. Because if we took the time to metaphorically do that, we would have far less arguments and misunderstandings. But we live in a world that has become increasingly shallow. People seldom want to hear the entire answer -- no more than we are inclined to give one.
As a result, we may never get to know who people really are. Or even care. Listening has become a dying art. Which saddens me because I have a lot of stories to tell.
I had career, health, social and financial issues that led to my decision. So, if I am talking with someone with an awareness of health issues, I might mention how my health contributed to my early retirement. If we are having a discussion about the lack of ethics in the business or corporate world, I may cite those factors for leaving. These and the other factors are all true -- they just may not all be relevant to the current conversation. And I doubt that many people would want to hear my tale in it's entirety, anyway.
The reason I mention this is because it occurred to me that most of life is like this. Unless you are ordering dinner, most questions cannot be answered with a simple yes or no. Life is more complicated than that. And few answers incorporate everything we know, think, feel or suspect about an issue. We are more complicated than that.
So when we are watching the nightly news, and we hear an inflammatory sound bite, it usually doesn't mean any more than someone taking your picture while you are sneezing. That's not what you really look like. And the sound bite seldom reflects anything more than the reporter's personal bias on that particular issue.
How many times have you had an argument with someone and both of you were convinced you were RIGHT and that the other person was a JERK? Then, when you both calmed down enough to actually talk with each other, one of you ends up saying, "Oh, I didn't realize all of that." And the spat was over.
This idea is responsible for the epigram Walk a Mile in My Shoes. Because if we took the time to metaphorically do that, we would have far less arguments and misunderstandings. But we live in a world that has become increasingly shallow. People seldom want to hear the entire answer -- no more than we are inclined to give one.
As a result, we may never get to know who people really are. Or even care. Listening has become a dying art. Which saddens me because I have a lot of stories to tell.
Monday, June 05, 2006
The Gold Standard
I've never really thought I had the BEST stuff. You see, I have always been a hard working, middle class kind of guy and we always bought what we could afford and financed the rest. But I have always appreciated the finer things in life. Even if they were just slightly out of my grasp. Cars, vacations, good music, techno-toys, beautiful women. Robin Leach talking about them. You know what I mean.
But, recently, I have had a shift in my thinking. As I look around me, I do believe I'm beginning to have a few of the best things that life has to offer. (Note: Best, in my mind, is not necessarily the most expensive. Best, as a subjective concept, means that which I compare everything else to.)
As I was growing up, via my father's influence, I always thought the only car or truck to own was a Chevy. I usually drove a junker. Later in life I usually had a new company car every two years and would buy the most recent one for my wife to drive. So we always had two late model, four-door sedans in the garage.
But I always thought how cool it would be to drive a Jeep Wrangler. I grew up seeing Jeeps in war movies and TV shows, and when SUV's became popular a while back I would look at them and say, "They're nice... but they aren't a Jeep." We are now driving a Jeep Wrangler and a Cherokee.
Like everyone else, I have always enjoyed vacations. For a lot of years I enjoyed the concept of vacations. Oh, I got time off every year. We just couldn't afford to go anywhere. What with the payments on all of my mediocre stuff, it just wasn't in the cards. Later on, we would find quiet get-a-ways, that were quite pleasant, and fit our budget.
But I always thought that resort vacations would be the best. Places where you spend your days sitting in the sun, drinking tropical drinks. Conversing with friends and strangers alike. And your evenings allow you to wander from one casual deck party to the next. Music filling the air, the breeze carrying the scent of Bar-B-Que and flowers. We now live year round at a nudist resort in the Poconos.
I have always liked to listen to good music. My musical tastes are very eclectic so I've always had a lot of albums and later CD's. I had the big stereo rack systems and boom boxes at various times. One of my fondest memories was cruising along, picking up an oldies super-station out of Cleveland, all the windows down in my heap-of-the-moment, my arm around my girl-of-the-moment. The stars were bright, the air was warm, the evening was young. Later on, commercial radio buried us with... well, commercials. It made it harder to capture the moment.
So the rack systems and albums didn't make music too portable. 8-tracks, cassettes and CD's helped but I had stuff to carry around. MP3 is OK but rather selfish and commercial radio buries you with... well, commercials. I've now subscribed to commercial-free Sirius Satellite Radio. We have every kind of music to choose from, a player in each of the vehicles and the house and I use bluetooth wireless speakers for music on the deck.
I am self-taught on the computer. My first computer was an Adam Computer that had a memory tape instead of a hard drive and ran on BASIC language. My first real PC was a clone. I read every computer book I could find, bought and tested software, installed and upgraded components, tinkered under the hood, and spent a small fortune, a little at a time, on never-quite-the-best computers. I jumped on the internet as soon as it was available, starting with BBS list sites and FTP downloads. And basically, kept up.
But the platforms and operating systems were quirky, the software buggy, and the error messages common. Along came the viruses, and spyware and trojan horses and doomsday bugs and unnecessary upgrades, all being controlled by a paranoid megalomaniac. And every now and then I'd peek over the fence at Apple. I'd hear rumors of stable operating systems, no viruses or spyware, plug-and-play that... well, plugs and plays. I am writing this on my new MacBook Pro. And all the rumors are TRUE!
That only leaves the beautiful women. And to tell you the truth, with my wife, I kinda hit that one out of the park a long time ago. Talk about your gold standard.
But, recently, I have had a shift in my thinking. As I look around me, I do believe I'm beginning to have a few of the best things that life has to offer. (Note: Best, in my mind, is not necessarily the most expensive. Best, as a subjective concept, means that which I compare everything else to.)
As I was growing up, via my father's influence, I always thought the only car or truck to own was a Chevy. I usually drove a junker. Later in life I usually had a new company car every two years and would buy the most recent one for my wife to drive. So we always had two late model, four-door sedans in the garage.
But I always thought how cool it would be to drive a Jeep Wrangler. I grew up seeing Jeeps in war movies and TV shows, and when SUV's became popular a while back I would look at them and say, "They're nice... but they aren't a Jeep." We are now driving a Jeep Wrangler and a Cherokee.
Like everyone else, I have always enjoyed vacations. For a lot of years I enjoyed the concept of vacations. Oh, I got time off every year. We just couldn't afford to go anywhere. What with the payments on all of my mediocre stuff, it just wasn't in the cards. Later on, we would find quiet get-a-ways, that were quite pleasant, and fit our budget.
But I always thought that resort vacations would be the best. Places where you spend your days sitting in the sun, drinking tropical drinks. Conversing with friends and strangers alike. And your evenings allow you to wander from one casual deck party to the next. Music filling the air, the breeze carrying the scent of Bar-B-Que and flowers. We now live year round at a nudist resort in the Poconos.
I have always liked to listen to good music. My musical tastes are very eclectic so I've always had a lot of albums and later CD's. I had the big stereo rack systems and boom boxes at various times. One of my fondest memories was cruising along, picking up an oldies super-station out of Cleveland, all the windows down in my heap-of-the-moment, my arm around my girl-of-the-moment. The stars were bright, the air was warm, the evening was young. Later on, commercial radio buried us with... well, commercials. It made it harder to capture the moment.
So the rack systems and albums didn't make music too portable. 8-tracks, cassettes and CD's helped but I had stuff to carry around. MP3 is OK but rather selfish and commercial radio buries you with... well, commercials. I've now subscribed to commercial-free Sirius Satellite Radio. We have every kind of music to choose from, a player in each of the vehicles and the house and I use bluetooth wireless speakers for music on the deck.
I am self-taught on the computer. My first computer was an Adam Computer that had a memory tape instead of a hard drive and ran on BASIC language. My first real PC was a clone. I read every computer book I could find, bought and tested software, installed and upgraded components, tinkered under the hood, and spent a small fortune, a little at a time, on never-quite-the-best computers. I jumped on the internet as soon as it was available, starting with BBS list sites and FTP downloads. And basically, kept up.
But the platforms and operating systems were quirky, the software buggy, and the error messages common. Along came the viruses, and spyware and trojan horses and doomsday bugs and unnecessary upgrades, all being controlled by a paranoid megalomaniac. And every now and then I'd peek over the fence at Apple. I'd hear rumors of stable operating systems, no viruses or spyware, plug-and-play that... well, plugs and plays. I am writing this on my new MacBook Pro. And all the rumors are TRUE!
That only leaves the beautiful women. And to tell you the truth, with my wife, I kinda hit that one out of the park a long time ago. Talk about your gold standard.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Today's Weather Has Been Cancelled
I am sitting here, watching it rain on my new deck. It is Sunday morning and the weather forecast calls for partly sunny skies and 20% chance of rain.
Yesterday, there was a 90% chance of rain -- so we went to a movie. Everyone who didn't watch the forecast went to the pool and hung out in the sun all day.
We were planning a big party a few weeks back. About a week and a half out, we started getting phone calls and emails wondering if we were going to reschedule the party. When we asked why we would do that, everyone said the 10 day forecast was showing 80% chance of rain and cool temperatures for that day. We didn't cancel and it turned out to be 75 degrees and sunny (maybe a little windy).
As you can well imagine, living at a resort, the weather is a hot topic. What I find interesting is that NO ONE ever actually gets mad at the weather man. They just shrug their shoulders and say, "you can't do anything about the weather, can you?" Of which I am well aware, but this world's history is drenched in the blood of hapless messengers. Why do weathermen get a pass?
I have a theory. Most of the weathermen you see on TV look like they could be former party clowns. Or if she's female, her tight sweaters distract you from what she is saying. Either way, I think weathermen (weatherpeople? weatherpersons? weatherbabettes?) are hired because they are found to have no credibility during their interview. If no one takes them seriously in the first place -- who will get upset when they turn out to be wrong?
Besides, you can't do anything about the weather, can you?
Yesterday, there was a 90% chance of rain -- so we went to a movie. Everyone who didn't watch the forecast went to the pool and hung out in the sun all day.
We were planning a big party a few weeks back. About a week and a half out, we started getting phone calls and emails wondering if we were going to reschedule the party. When we asked why we would do that, everyone said the 10 day forecast was showing 80% chance of rain and cool temperatures for that day. We didn't cancel and it turned out to be 75 degrees and sunny (maybe a little windy).
As you can well imagine, living at a resort, the weather is a hot topic. What I find interesting is that NO ONE ever actually gets mad at the weather man. They just shrug their shoulders and say, "you can't do anything about the weather, can you?" Of which I am well aware, but this world's history is drenched in the blood of hapless messengers. Why do weathermen get a pass?
I have a theory. Most of the weathermen you see on TV look like they could be former party clowns. Or if she's female, her tight sweaters distract you from what she is saying. Either way, I think weathermen (weatherpeople? weatherpersons? weatherbabettes?) are hired because they are found to have no credibility during their interview. If no one takes them seriously in the first place -- who will get upset when they turn out to be wrong?
Besides, you can't do anything about the weather, can you?
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Summer Reading
Well, we are well into summer and my reading list is shaping up. People ask me how I can read when I live at a nudist resort and I've always thought that was like asking me how I could eat or breathe because I live here.
Reading and writing and thinking about things are so much a part of who I am that I think I would go nuts(er) if I had to stop. Now, that doesn't mean that I have more than one eye on the book (I have my right one trained for that), or that it doesn't take me a couple of extra days to finish a book -- but I am still drawn to good books like a moth to a flame. Good conversation has that affect on me, too.
We have people from all cross-sections of life here. Literally. Doctors and lawyers, auto mechanics, policemen and firemen, teachers, bookkeepers, telephone operators, nurses, retired military, and truck drivers. Just to mention a few. And I have different kinds of conversations with every one of them; ranging from professional and technical to humorous to political and religious to highly personal.
One of the sub-groupings of these people are my literary friends. I know. Again, you are thinking, "You live at a nudist resort and spend your days reading and talking about books?" This is the point where you want to slap me up side of the head and say, "Focus!"
Trust me, after a while, it's all about the people and not their skin. I mean, how many times can I marvel at the juxtaposition of naked twenty-somethings and sixty-somethings freely socializing? (They'd probably never even talk to each other outside of here.) Or if my ass is going to sag like that in a few years? Or what an interesting place for a tattoo. Eventually, it's about people and personalities and friendships.
So, yes, it is perfectly normal to be able to live at a nudist resort and have literary friends and discussions. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Oh, I almost forgot. Check out some of these books this summer:
Reading and writing and thinking about things are so much a part of who I am that I think I would go nuts(er) if I had to stop. Now, that doesn't mean that I have more than one eye on the book (I have my right one trained for that), or that it doesn't take me a couple of extra days to finish a book -- but I am still drawn to good books like a moth to a flame. Good conversation has that affect on me, too.
We have people from all cross-sections of life here. Literally. Doctors and lawyers, auto mechanics, policemen and firemen, teachers, bookkeepers, telephone operators, nurses, retired military, and truck drivers. Just to mention a few. And I have different kinds of conversations with every one of them; ranging from professional and technical to humorous to political and religious to highly personal.
One of the sub-groupings of these people are my literary friends. I know. Again, you are thinking, "You live at a nudist resort and spend your days reading and talking about books?" This is the point where you want to slap me up side of the head and say, "Focus!"
Trust me, after a while, it's all about the people and not their skin. I mean, how many times can I marvel at the juxtaposition of naked twenty-somethings and sixty-somethings freely socializing? (They'd probably never even talk to each other outside of here.) Or if my ass is going to sag like that in a few years? Or what an interesting place for a tattoo. Eventually, it's about people and personalities and friendships.
So, yes, it is perfectly normal to be able to live at a nudist resort and have literary friends and discussions. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Oh, I almost forgot. Check out some of these books this summer:
- The Hard Way by Lee Child
- The Cold Moon by Jeffery Deaver
- The Book of the Dead by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child
- Death Watch by John Sandford
- anything by Cormac McCarthy
- anything by James Carlos Blake
- Thunder of Time by James F. David
- Lemons Never Lie by Richard Stark
- Pegasus Descending by James Lee Burke
- White Sister by Stephen J. Cannell
- The Afghan Campaign by Steven Pressfield
- The Burning by Bentley Little
- anything by William Faulkner
- anything by Joe Lansdale
- anything by Jim Thompson
Friday, June 02, 2006
Hunger Strike at Gitmo
I read in the paper a couple of days ago that seventy-five captured terrorists at the U.S. naval base at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba were on a hunger strike to promote one of their half-assed political/religious agendas. Their theory being, that somehow we will be perceived, by the world, as being responsible for their deaths - if they don't eat.
My first thought was, "If we're going to be blamed anyway, wouldn't it be faster to just poison them?"
Actually, I've never understood the theory of a hunger strike. It always struck me as the same thing as a little kid holding his breath until he got his way. Most parents see this as an ineffective threat. Now, I realize a dedicated hunger striker could actually die, but isn't that their choice? If we provide them with the food and they refuse to eat it, how can we be blamed?
Shouldn't the conversation go something like this:
"YOU! American pig. I have demands! I refuse to eat this nutritious food that has been prepared according to my religious and dietary needs until you bow to my will!"
"O.K."
"Good! Because... O.K.? What do you mean - O.K.?"
"What I mean is, "Don't eat if you don't want to." Are we done here? I feel like a donut and some coffee. Can I get you anything? Oh wait. You said you're NOT eating."
"Stop!"
"What now?"
"Do you not want to hear my demands?"
"No. I'm good."
"But you have to listen!"
"You know, I was thinking. There are a couple of fat terrorists in the next cell block that would probably want those goat thingies. You done with these?"
"But... I have demands! I am willing to die for them!"
"Look Mohammed... Dude... whatever. Out in the real world you were willing to blow yourself up and take as many people with you as possible for whatever it is that you guys are pissed off about. Now your ass is in prison and you're still making demands and threatening to kill yourself. Starvation seems a little slow, if you ask me. But honestly? Nobody cares."
"But why do you not care if I die for my cause?"
"Because, in here, there's less collateral damage."
My first thought was, "If we're going to be blamed anyway, wouldn't it be faster to just poison them?"
Actually, I've never understood the theory of a hunger strike. It always struck me as the same thing as a little kid holding his breath until he got his way. Most parents see this as an ineffective threat. Now, I realize a dedicated hunger striker could actually die, but isn't that their choice? If we provide them with the food and they refuse to eat it, how can we be blamed?
Shouldn't the conversation go something like this:
"YOU! American pig. I have demands! I refuse to eat this nutritious food that has been prepared according to my religious and dietary needs until you bow to my will!"
"O.K."
"Good! Because... O.K.? What do you mean - O.K.?"
"What I mean is, "Don't eat if you don't want to." Are we done here? I feel like a donut and some coffee. Can I get you anything? Oh wait. You said you're NOT eating."
"Stop!"
"What now?"
"Do you not want to hear my demands?"
"No. I'm good."
"But you have to listen!"
"You know, I was thinking. There are a couple of fat terrorists in the next cell block that would probably want those goat thingies. You done with these?"
"But... I have demands! I am willing to die for them!"
"Look Mohammed... Dude... whatever. Out in the real world you were willing to blow yourself up and take as many people with you as possible for whatever it is that you guys are pissed off about. Now your ass is in prison and you're still making demands and threatening to kill yourself. Starvation seems a little slow, if you ask me. But honestly? Nobody cares."
"But why do you not care if I die for my cause?"
"Because, in here, there's less collateral damage."
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Transitions
There sure are a lot of changes going on right now:
My hair needs cut -- again.
The grass needs cut -- again.
I hope I don't get confused and use the weed whacker on my sideburns -- again.
Character actor Paul Gleason died recently.
Last night I saw him in a dreadful, dreadful movie called Abominable.
Irony or sarcasm -- you decide.
Tony Danza ended an unspectacular run as a talk show host.
Unless, of course, you are into spectacularly awkward moments.
Now he can get back to dazzling us with his acting skills.
As much as I have liked dealing with viruses, worms, spyware and my screen locking down on me --
I got a MacBook Pro this week.
Bill Gates can kiss my ass.
It is summertime here at the nudist resort.
All the tan lines are fading.
And pineapples just made the neighborhood's endangered species list.
A slew of female celebrities recently gave birth.
Now we can watch them raise their spoiled little monsters --
While they act like THEY are the first people to ever raise children.
USA Today is doing a series on global warming.
Apparently the temperature is rising or something.
But I wonder how bad it can be -- it's not called global hottening.
So that's it for today.
I'm going to the pool to try and deal with all these changes.
The last one out -- turn out the lights.
My hair needs cut -- again.
The grass needs cut -- again.
I hope I don't get confused and use the weed whacker on my sideburns -- again.
Character actor Paul Gleason died recently.
Last night I saw him in a dreadful, dreadful movie called Abominable.
Irony or sarcasm -- you decide.
Tony Danza ended an unspectacular run as a talk show host.
Unless, of course, you are into spectacularly awkward moments.
Now he can get back to dazzling us with his acting skills.
As much as I have liked dealing with viruses, worms, spyware and my screen locking down on me --
I got a MacBook Pro this week.
Bill Gates can kiss my ass.
It is summertime here at the nudist resort.
All the tan lines are fading.
And pineapples just made the neighborhood's endangered species list.
A slew of female celebrities recently gave birth.
Now we can watch them raise their spoiled little monsters --
While they act like THEY are the first people to ever raise children.
USA Today is doing a series on global warming.
Apparently the temperature is rising or something.
But I wonder how bad it can be -- it's not called global hottening.
So that's it for today.
I'm going to the pool to try and deal with all these changes.
The last one out -- turn out the lights.
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