Thursday, December 19, 2013
Adios
There are problems with my blog. Not the blog itself, which is pristine and impossible to even remotely duplicate. The problems are technical in nature. Since I am a technophobe, I'm going to avoid it for a while, to see if it goes away, like the common cold. I must say that BlogSpot, and the Almighty Google itself, are less than helpful to anyone who isn't computer literate, but I'm not complaining. I'm just bitching.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Peter Seamus O'Toole is Dead
Peter O'Toole was one of those guys you would have liked to have known. He was handsome, clever, talented, and drank too much. A man much like myself, I might say, if I were so immodest. Some day, the blogosphere will be reeling with the news that Wormstooth is dead. Don't cry, it's not happening any time soon, but it will happen. It's not healthy to dwell upon such things, and we are actually encouraged to never think about death. If you talk about it too much, people will start to look at you with ill-concealed concern. After all, why would you think about something that is at least as significant as your birth, and as inevitable as the coming and going of the tide?
I worked in a cemetery when I was young, and buried a few people. And, one time, many years later, I had to verify that someone who appeared to be dead, who was totally unresponsive, was indeed dead. Incredibly, it occurred to me to ask for a hand mirror, which I placed before the mouth and nose of the recently departed, to prove to his grieving widow that he was really gone. He was gone.
As you get older, you begin to realize that the finish line is a lot closer than you'd like it to be, but you also know that there's not much you can do about it, other than diet, exercise, dress too young for your age, dye your hair an unnatural color, and suck in your gut just before you look in a mirror that some day won't register any moisture from your lungs.
When I was a boy, my Uncle Howie's dog died. That night, it occurred to me that, some day, people I loved would die, and I cried myself to sleep.
I worked in a cemetery when I was young, and buried a few people. And, one time, many years later, I had to verify that someone who appeared to be dead, who was totally unresponsive, was indeed dead. Incredibly, it occurred to me to ask for a hand mirror, which I placed before the mouth and nose of the recently departed, to prove to his grieving widow that he was really gone. He was gone.
As you get older, you begin to realize that the finish line is a lot closer than you'd like it to be, but you also know that there's not much you can do about it, other than diet, exercise, dress too young for your age, dye your hair an unnatural color, and suck in your gut just before you look in a mirror that some day won't register any moisture from your lungs.
When I was a boy, my Uncle Howie's dog died. That night, it occurred to me that, some day, people I loved would die, and I cried myself to sleep.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Eating Cats
I just ate a dish of corned beef hash and fried eggs. Slathered in ketchup. I'm not supposed to consume much sodium, or cholesterol. Or alcohol, or sunshine. I have high blood pressure and skin cancer, but both are under control, so the literary world can breathe a sigh of relief. I plan to annoy people for many years to come, especially my doctors, some of whom I've already outlived. I can survive on pure stubbornness for the foreseeable future.
As I was enjoying my banquet, hot off the cast iron pan, and lubricated with cold beer, I wondered what this so-called "hash" really was. The producers say it consists of beef, rehydrated potatoes, sugar, and enough salt in various forms to dry up Lake Michigan. In today's world, in a "developed" country, one must have faith that what they tell you is true. In the old days, I would have made the hash myself, with my own butchered beef, home-grown potatoes, and salt bought or stolen from wherever people used to get salt. Today, it's far less complicated. You just have to have faith in your food, like you have to have faith in the dollar. Atheists laugh at people who have faith in God, in Jesus, in Muhammad, Krishna, and all the countless other objects of their devotions. Yet those same people have faith in our monetary system. They have faith that, when they drive seventy miles an hour on the highway, their vehicle won't fail miserably, fall apart, and result in a horrific jumble of metal and plastic that is the final punctuation mark of their lives. They believe in hash, and that their car won't turn them into it.
Years ago, I was lucky enough to travel in Italy for a few weeks. My wife speaks Italian, and strikes up a conversation with anyone who stops to listen. We were on a train, traveling across endless barren lands, between glorious cities. A friendly young woman spoke casually to us, advising us on the best places to see in her country. We were hippies, my wife in a pony tail and beads, me with a half-grown beard and bell-bottom jeans. She studied us with obvious, but not rude, curiosity. One of the bits of advice she gave us was, "If you visit Torino, when you order steak, make sure it's a big piece. Small pieces of meat may be cat." We didn't go to Torino, but the advice stuck with me all these years.
I don't know why, but that lovely hash I just enjoyed reminded me of that long train ride during that hot, dry summer afternoon in Italy, listening with rapt attention, breathing the arid air that came all the way from Ethiopia. Americans call Torino "Turin", for some reason. Anyway, if you go, avoid the chipped beef.
As I was enjoying my banquet, hot off the cast iron pan, and lubricated with cold beer, I wondered what this so-called "hash" really was. The producers say it consists of beef, rehydrated potatoes, sugar, and enough salt in various forms to dry up Lake Michigan. In today's world, in a "developed" country, one must have faith that what they tell you is true. In the old days, I would have made the hash myself, with my own butchered beef, home-grown potatoes, and salt bought or stolen from wherever people used to get salt. Today, it's far less complicated. You just have to have faith in your food, like you have to have faith in the dollar. Atheists laugh at people who have faith in God, in Jesus, in Muhammad, Krishna, and all the countless other objects of their devotions. Yet those same people have faith in our monetary system. They have faith that, when they drive seventy miles an hour on the highway, their vehicle won't fail miserably, fall apart, and result in a horrific jumble of metal and plastic that is the final punctuation mark of their lives. They believe in hash, and that their car won't turn them into it.
Years ago, I was lucky enough to travel in Italy for a few weeks. My wife speaks Italian, and strikes up a conversation with anyone who stops to listen. We were on a train, traveling across endless barren lands, between glorious cities. A friendly young woman spoke casually to us, advising us on the best places to see in her country. We were hippies, my wife in a pony tail and beads, me with a half-grown beard and bell-bottom jeans. She studied us with obvious, but not rude, curiosity. One of the bits of advice she gave us was, "If you visit Torino, when you order steak, make sure it's a big piece. Small pieces of meat may be cat." We didn't go to Torino, but the advice stuck with me all these years.
I don't know why, but that lovely hash I just enjoyed reminded me of that long train ride during that hot, dry summer afternoon in Italy, listening with rapt attention, breathing the arid air that came all the way from Ethiopia. Americans call Torino "Turin", for some reason. Anyway, if you go, avoid the chipped beef.
Friday, December 13, 2013
A Soldier Hiding in the Woods
Cold and darkly slips the creek,
to sleek the stones that love the ground,
as through the piny branches sound
the secret whisperings of the wind.
The moon swims in the water's shine.
The sky says nothing many times,
but dances just behind the pines,
and never laughs, but only grins.
One lonely heartbeat whimpers by,
at war with love, on wounded wings,
and deaf to simply quiet things
like loving stones and smiling wind.
Obviously insane little birds fly by,
and cry, "But why? But why?"
to sleek the stones that love the ground,
as through the piny branches sound
the secret whisperings of the wind.
The moon swims in the water's shine.
The sky says nothing many times,
but dances just behind the pines,
and never laughs, but only grins.
One lonely heartbeat whimpers by,
at war with love, on wounded wings,
and deaf to simply quiet things
like loving stones and smiling wind.
Obviously insane little birds fly by,
and cry, "But why? But why?"
How to Avoid Winning the Lottery
The Mega Millions lottery prize has reached about $400,000,000. After taxes, your lump sum payout would come to well over $200,000,000. The odds are approximately 278 bajillion to one. Seems fair to me, so I took the plunge.
I've read of people who won big lottery jackpots and promptly ruined their lives. They stopped hanging out with their real friends, because no one could afford to keep up with them. It's called an embarrassment of riches. If you walk into the local pub, everyone knows who you are, and there's a palpable expectation in the smelly, urine-tainted air that you will set up the bar all around for folks who never gave you the time of day. If you buy a Mercedes, they'll ask why you didn't buy a Ferrari.
You can't live in your old neighborhood, because everyone will resent your wealth, and assume that you're only staying there to flaunt your good fortune, to rub their noses in it. So you move away to the most expensive place you can find, where nobody talks to you because you are nouveau-riche, and obviously lack the type of class required for acceptance in the Country Club. You never liked golf anyway, but still.
What to do? You could buy an island and sit under a coconut tree all day. You could buy a yacht and sail around the seven seas, a man without a country. You've become a prisoner of your wealth, and worry all night long about kidnappers plotting to steal your loved ones and kill them unless you give the scoundrels all your money. It would serve them right if you gave them all of it. Then they could suffer just like you!
One poor guy actually committed suicide because he couldn't handle the burden of wealth. Others have spent the money so recklessly that they wound up with nothing, and even went bankrupt. I'm telling you all this out of a feeling of concern. It's easy to see how money can ruin your life, leaving you a poor, lonely wretch, a pathetic shell of what you once were.
Fortunately, (no pun intended), there's a surefire way to avoid the many pitfalls that go with extraordinary luck. Don't buy a ticket. I'm willing to bear the cross myself, in my own humble way. I'll let you know if it happens, as soon as I stop screaming with joy.
I've read of people who won big lottery jackpots and promptly ruined their lives. They stopped hanging out with their real friends, because no one could afford to keep up with them. It's called an embarrassment of riches. If you walk into the local pub, everyone knows who you are, and there's a palpable expectation in the smelly, urine-tainted air that you will set up the bar all around for folks who never gave you the time of day. If you buy a Mercedes, they'll ask why you didn't buy a Ferrari.
You can't live in your old neighborhood, because everyone will resent your wealth, and assume that you're only staying there to flaunt your good fortune, to rub their noses in it. So you move away to the most expensive place you can find, where nobody talks to you because you are nouveau-riche, and obviously lack the type of class required for acceptance in the Country Club. You never liked golf anyway, but still.
What to do? You could buy an island and sit under a coconut tree all day. You could buy a yacht and sail around the seven seas, a man without a country. You've become a prisoner of your wealth, and worry all night long about kidnappers plotting to steal your loved ones and kill them unless you give the scoundrels all your money. It would serve them right if you gave them all of it. Then they could suffer just like you!
One poor guy actually committed suicide because he couldn't handle the burden of wealth. Others have spent the money so recklessly that they wound up with nothing, and even went bankrupt. I'm telling you all this out of a feeling of concern. It's easy to see how money can ruin your life, leaving you a poor, lonely wretch, a pathetic shell of what you once were.
Fortunately, (no pun intended), there's a surefire way to avoid the many pitfalls that go with extraordinary luck. Don't buy a ticket. I'm willing to bear the cross myself, in my own humble way. I'll let you know if it happens, as soon as I stop screaming with joy.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Hola, Mexico!
I'm just wondering, who is reading this blog from Mexico. Yo hablo Espanol, poqueno. Pero, estan muchos anos quando yo esta en la esquela, y yo estoy un poco stupido!
Baby, It's Cold Outside
It's not technically winter yet, but here in New England it sure feels like it. The Sun goes down at about 4:30. Well, no, the Sun doesn't actually move at all. The pretty blue marble we call Earth is revolving and spinning around the Sun, and makes it appear that our warm and light-giving friend is saying goodbye. When we finish our daily spin, the good old shining Sun will be there for us, just like always.
Scientists, the magical wizards of the modern world, tell us that the spinning of our home planet cause our days and nights, while the revolution causes the seasons. We all know that, some time ago, the Church persecuted anyone who suggested that the Earth was not the center of the Universe. But, hey, it was an honest mistake. In those days, popes, priests, and bishops were in complete charge of all knowledge, and it was considered a horrifying madness to disagree with them. If you spoke against the wisdom of the protectors of the faith, you might even be, (dare I say it?), Possessed By The Devil!!!
Today, there are a lot of people who say the entire solar system was created in seven days, about seven thousand years ago. They don't believe scientists who say that, by carbon dating, they can tell that mankind alone is much older than that, to say nothing of dinosaurs that lived millions of years ago. Some even go so far as to say that these dinosaur bones have been planted by scientists as part of an elaborate hoax, designed to shake believers in the Bible.
I'll be perfectly honest with you. I know personally that God exists, and that the whole Universe loves all of us, no matter what kind of jerks we are. Don't ask me to clarify. It's none of your business. And that's my point. If you are sure that God exists, or if you feel the need to believe in God for your own peace of mind, just do it, man! Know it or believe it! Just don't think you need a book or a travelogue to guide you through life. Goodness is obvious. Evil sucks. Do you need proof of goodness? Just look out your window. The whole world and the sun and the moon and the stars are manifest goodness, if you just pay attention. Do you need proof of evil? Watch the news.
Scientists, the magical wizards of the modern world, tell us that the spinning of our home planet cause our days and nights, while the revolution causes the seasons. We all know that, some time ago, the Church persecuted anyone who suggested that the Earth was not the center of the Universe. But, hey, it was an honest mistake. In those days, popes, priests, and bishops were in complete charge of all knowledge, and it was considered a horrifying madness to disagree with them. If you spoke against the wisdom of the protectors of the faith, you might even be, (dare I say it?), Possessed By The Devil!!!
Today, there are a lot of people who say the entire solar system was created in seven days, about seven thousand years ago. They don't believe scientists who say that, by carbon dating, they can tell that mankind alone is much older than that, to say nothing of dinosaurs that lived millions of years ago. Some even go so far as to say that these dinosaur bones have been planted by scientists as part of an elaborate hoax, designed to shake believers in the Bible.
I'll be perfectly honest with you. I know personally that God exists, and that the whole Universe loves all of us, no matter what kind of jerks we are. Don't ask me to clarify. It's none of your business. And that's my point. If you are sure that God exists, or if you feel the need to believe in God for your own peace of mind, just do it, man! Know it or believe it! Just don't think you need a book or a travelogue to guide you through life. Goodness is obvious. Evil sucks. Do you need proof of goodness? Just look out your window. The whole world and the sun and the moon and the stars are manifest goodness, if you just pay attention. Do you need proof of evil? Watch the news.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Mandela
Nelson Mandela got a world-class sendoff today. More than one hundred world leaders gathered to pay homage. Mandela did 27 years in South African prisons because he objected to native South Africans, including himself, being relegated to second class beings, with no rights given to them by the ruling class, descendants of Dutchmen who heard of the country's rich natural resources and decided to hurry down there to take it for themselves.
Mandela first tried to change things by organizing protests. This was frowned upon. The Afrikaners, as the Dutchmen called themselves, had no interest in changing anything. They stole the country, fair and square, and that was that. After a while, Mandela decided they needed further persuasion. He resorted to violence, was arrested, and landed in the can for a good part of his life.
But a funny thing happened during his incarceration. He read books, he wrote letters, and he became a symbol of resistance to oppression all over the world. The system of Apartheid, which means this was all yours, but it's all mine now because I want it, was gradually exposed to the world for the fraud that it was. Artists refused to perform in the fabulous resorts in South Africa, and drummed up negative publicity to the point where Afrikaners finally gave up, let Mandela out of jail, and held democratic elections. Nelson Mandela was elected president of South Africa. But he didn't order the slaughter of his oppressors. He ordered full disclosure of what was done, and he ordered reconciliation. The true test of a man of peace is when he achieves power. He passed with flying colors.
Not surprisingly, the far right in America insists on calling him a communist and a terrorist, even though he renounced both beliefs while still in jail. The far right fears nothing more than a man of peace who speaks truth to the masses. No idea is more frightening to them than that people might see they can change the system through the power of truth. That's why Caesar knew he had to kill Jesus. You just can't have people walking around knowing that others only have power over you if you give it to them.
Any schoolyard bully can tell you that.
Mandela first tried to change things by organizing protests. This was frowned upon. The Afrikaners, as the Dutchmen called themselves, had no interest in changing anything. They stole the country, fair and square, and that was that. After a while, Mandela decided they needed further persuasion. He resorted to violence, was arrested, and landed in the can for a good part of his life.
But a funny thing happened during his incarceration. He read books, he wrote letters, and he became a symbol of resistance to oppression all over the world. The system of Apartheid, which means this was all yours, but it's all mine now because I want it, was gradually exposed to the world for the fraud that it was. Artists refused to perform in the fabulous resorts in South Africa, and drummed up negative publicity to the point where Afrikaners finally gave up, let Mandela out of jail, and held democratic elections. Nelson Mandela was elected president of South Africa. But he didn't order the slaughter of his oppressors. He ordered full disclosure of what was done, and he ordered reconciliation. The true test of a man of peace is when he achieves power. He passed with flying colors.
Not surprisingly, the far right in America insists on calling him a communist and a terrorist, even though he renounced both beliefs while still in jail. The far right fears nothing more than a man of peace who speaks truth to the masses. No idea is more frightening to them than that people might see they can change the system through the power of truth. That's why Caesar knew he had to kill Jesus. You just can't have people walking around knowing that others only have power over you if you give it to them.
Any schoolyard bully can tell you that.
Monday, December 09, 2013
The End Of Times
I have news of particular import. The world is about to end. This distressing news was given to me by a couple of very nice ladies who knocked on my door last week. They were quick to reassure me that, although Earth will be consumed by fire and damnation, I should not be too alarmed. Even though our bodies will be destroyed, to say nothing of our automobiles, houses, and Beatles memorabilia, we will not really die! We will rise heavenward in our pre-destruction state after the Rapture. This is when all the good folks who have subscribed to their publications rejoin our old friend, Jesus, in the clouds.
I envy people of faith. Not that I think they make any sense, but because they feel so secure in their mindset, secure in the knowledge that, if they only believe, their fondest wish will come true. They will never die. Not only that, but they will join all the loved ones they have lost, even their beloved pet turtle that they forgot to feed when they were kids.
We are all travelers through time. Here in the twenty-first century, in the Information Age, in the Era where all accumulated knowledge is literally at our fingertips, we still believe what we want to believe. To hell with the facts! Don't get me wrong. I'm not an atheist, a mystic, or a wise man. I'm not even really that smart. I'm just clever enough to know what I don't know, and that some things are just not knowable.
Here's a couple of free tips for you. Don't stand behind a flatulent camel. And don't listen to someone who tries to tell you they know the unknowable.
I envy people of faith. Not that I think they make any sense, but because they feel so secure in their mindset, secure in the knowledge that, if they only believe, their fondest wish will come true. They will never die. Not only that, but they will join all the loved ones they have lost, even their beloved pet turtle that they forgot to feed when they were kids.
We are all travelers through time. Here in the twenty-first century, in the Information Age, in the Era where all accumulated knowledge is literally at our fingertips, we still believe what we want to believe. To hell with the facts! Don't get me wrong. I'm not an atheist, a mystic, or a wise man. I'm not even really that smart. I'm just clever enough to know what I don't know, and that some things are just not knowable.
Here's a couple of free tips for you. Don't stand behind a flatulent camel. And don't listen to someone who tries to tell you they know the unknowable.
Sunday, December 08, 2013
Malaysia
This is an experiment. I'm titling this blog Malaysia to see if the computer trackers follow me even more if I mention the name of the nation they're based in. Malaysia! Quite frankly, it sounds like some sort of disease, something that you can cure with Pepto-Bismol, whatever that is. Malaysia! There, I've said it again. I don't know a single soul in Malaysia, and I don't even know what language they speak. Yes, people, I'm taunting malicious computers on the other side of the world. To be specific, they're in Malaysia! I'll keep you posted as to how this works out, unless, of course , they come to get me, in which case I'll be spirited away to Boston Harbor, wrapped in a canvas bundle, and shipped against my will to wherever Malaysia may be. I hope its nowhere near North Korea. Those guys are trapped in time, living two hundred years ago, with no idea what they're missing. Oh, my! Maybe I've pissed them off, too!
Saturday, December 07, 2013
Fleeting Fame
My readership has been growing by leaps and bounds, and now they have leaped out of bounds. If you're a blogger, you can check what country your readers come from, and how many times your blog is viewed. When my fan base began to grow exponentially, I figured it was time to see where they all came from. After all, you owe it to your rabid fans to at least acknowledge their existence. It's part of the heavy price we superstars pay for being in the galaxy that lesser folks can only observe in awestruck wonder.
After making my inquiries, I discovered that I had readers in Germany. Since I don't speak or write in fluent German, this puzzled me. Then I found that a large percentage of my followers were from Malaysia. Way more than from Germany. Upon further research, I saw that these weren't even people who were reading my posts. They're computer systems with names like vampirestat and secretsearch
that drive up your hits on your blog for whatever their own purposes are. Don't click on them or they'll take over your life, eat your lunch, and beat up your best friend, and stuff like that.
So, now I know what it feels like to be the girl that nobody dated in high school, who is asked to the Senior Prom by the handsome quarterback, goes out and buys a prom gown, and waits by the door as the hours slip by, until she finally realizes she was the victim of a cruel joke. What a jerk that quarterback was. She takes off the gown, throws it in the trash, and eats two quarts of fudge ripple ice cream.
Luckily for me, I don't write for a readership. I write to exercise my mind, and because in some twisted way, I enjoy it. Everyone should try writing. Psychiatrists say it's a good way to express things that linger in the cobwebs of the dungeons in your mind. If you do try it, I can guarantee you will at least have a strong fan base in Malaysia.
After making my inquiries, I discovered that I had readers in Germany. Since I don't speak or write in fluent German, this puzzled me. Then I found that a large percentage of my followers were from Malaysia. Way more than from Germany. Upon further research, I saw that these weren't even people who were reading my posts. They're computer systems with names like vampirestat and secretsearch
that drive up your hits on your blog for whatever their own purposes are. Don't click on them or they'll take over your life, eat your lunch, and beat up your best friend, and stuff like that.
So, now I know what it feels like to be the girl that nobody dated in high school, who is asked to the Senior Prom by the handsome quarterback, goes out and buys a prom gown, and waits by the door as the hours slip by, until she finally realizes she was the victim of a cruel joke. What a jerk that quarterback was. She takes off the gown, throws it in the trash, and eats two quarts of fudge ripple ice cream.
Luckily for me, I don't write for a readership. I write to exercise my mind, and because in some twisted way, I enjoy it. Everyone should try writing. Psychiatrists say it's a good way to express things that linger in the cobwebs of the dungeons in your mind. If you do try it, I can guarantee you will at least have a strong fan base in Malaysia.
Friday, December 06, 2013
Blame Game
I am one of the notorious Baby Boomers. There, I've said it, and it feels so good to confess! After World War Two, America was filled with exuberant optimism. The Nazis and the Fascists were defeated after epic battles all across the world. The war was so horrific, so huge, and so magnificent, it could have been written by J.R.R. Tolkien. The Forces of Good really defeated the forces of Evil!
A funny thing happened after the War. All the happiness, all the joy, began to show in a physical way nine months after the end of hostilities. A new generation was born, and in a very big way. Young brides were popping out babies all over America, one after another. Houses had to be built, cars had to be bought, food had to be produced, and America reconfigured her War machine into the strongest economy anyone had seen. Jobs were plentiful, at good wages, with pensions and health benefits thrown in. I was lucky enough to grow up in that time, thinking that my country was the greatest ever known, the Protector of the World. We believed the good guys always won, just like on TV.
Everything was new, and new was good. The politicians rode this tsunami of joy for years. The fact that certain formulas for covering the costs of all this fun were wrong, and just wouldn't work for the long run, were never mentioned, except by dismal economists with pen holders in their pockets. The party was slowly running out of punch, but no politician would hear it or say it. Baby Boomers built the Grand Economy and became the greatest consumers in history. That was their function, and they did it well.
Now, the bill for the party is coming due, and there's not enough in the cookie jar to pay for it. Who should be blamed? The Boomers, of course! It's their fault they were born all at once, and encouraged to spend, not save, because it made politicians and bankers and Corporate America look good every fiscal quarter. There's not enough money to pay for Social Security and other pensions because nobody would recognize the coming gloom during the brightness of the day. Boomers are blamed for America's crumbling infrastructure. Our highways and bridges are literally falling apart. The politicians of the next generation need a scapegoat and he is us.
Just for the record, it wasn't us that ran the party into the ground. It was the people who were supposed to be in charge who started wars without funding them, the people who saw the bridges fading and kicked the can down the road, the politicians who raided Social Security and union pensions for their own immediate benefit, knowing the bill would some day come due. These folks step quietly into the background, and wisely let the Boomers take the heat, just because they were there.
A funny thing happened after the War. All the happiness, all the joy, began to show in a physical way nine months after the end of hostilities. A new generation was born, and in a very big way. Young brides were popping out babies all over America, one after another. Houses had to be built, cars had to be bought, food had to be produced, and America reconfigured her War machine into the strongest economy anyone had seen. Jobs were plentiful, at good wages, with pensions and health benefits thrown in. I was lucky enough to grow up in that time, thinking that my country was the greatest ever known, the Protector of the World. We believed the good guys always won, just like on TV.
Everything was new, and new was good. The politicians rode this tsunami of joy for years. The fact that certain formulas for covering the costs of all this fun were wrong, and just wouldn't work for the long run, were never mentioned, except by dismal economists with pen holders in their pockets. The party was slowly running out of punch, but no politician would hear it or say it. Baby Boomers built the Grand Economy and became the greatest consumers in history. That was their function, and they did it well.
Now, the bill for the party is coming due, and there's not enough in the cookie jar to pay for it. Who should be blamed? The Boomers, of course! It's their fault they were born all at once, and encouraged to spend, not save, because it made politicians and bankers and Corporate America look good every fiscal quarter. There's not enough money to pay for Social Security and other pensions because nobody would recognize the coming gloom during the brightness of the day. Boomers are blamed for America's crumbling infrastructure. Our highways and bridges are literally falling apart. The politicians of the next generation need a scapegoat and he is us.
Just for the record, it wasn't us that ran the party into the ground. It was the people who were supposed to be in charge who started wars without funding them, the people who saw the bridges fading and kicked the can down the road, the politicians who raided Social Security and union pensions for their own immediate benefit, knowing the bill would some day come due. These folks step quietly into the background, and wisely let the Boomers take the heat, just because they were there.
Thursday, December 05, 2013
Medical Marijuana and the Nature of Evil
The Evil Weed is slowly becoming legal. This is how Satan makes his subtle inroads into our pristine lives! Next, they'll start letting homosexuals marry! Wait. What? That's already happening? And I didn't even know. That's the thing with evil. You don't even know it's there unless someone appoints himself to inform you! Some kinds of evil are obvious, like mass murder and gang rape. We don't need anyone to tell us that this is bad stuff. Things like that are so blatantly horrible that you know instinctively they are bad. You know that you should report such things, and scrupulously avoid the people who do this sort of stuff.
Other evils are harder to identify. You need folks who are well-read on the subject to keep you up to date. Otherwise, how would we know that if two people of the same sex decided to sleep together and, well, get together, that would immediately begin to tear apart the fabric of our society? I certainly had no idea, and I consider myself a pretty smart dude. Likewise, marijuana, the harmlessly named drug that, if smoked, will destroy your life, the lives of all around you, and eventually bring about the end of Western Civilization. I'm not making this up. It's been officially documented by the Federal Government since the 1920's, so it's obviously true.
I'm not going to say I've tried marijuana, or mention that I came of age in the sixties. Neither will I say that I used to light up first thing in the morning when my parents were away on vacation, put some Mozart on the stereo, and boil a couple of eggs for breakfast. That would be unseemly for a serious blogger such as myself. I'm just saying.
If you don't need the government or the church to tell you what to do, but are still looking for guidance, you can turn to the medical profession. They say that if you eat too much bacon, you will only live to the age of ninety-six and a half, instead of ninety-seven. Think how satisfying those last six months will be!
A negative person might point out that the medical profession used to use leeches to draw out the poison from a sick person's blood. They used to say that night air was poisonous, that cigarettes were OK, and that Thalidomide was good for pregnant women who were suffering from depression. I'm not a negative person, so I won't even bring those things up.
Other evils are harder to identify. You need folks who are well-read on the subject to keep you up to date. Otherwise, how would we know that if two people of the same sex decided to sleep together and, well, get together, that would immediately begin to tear apart the fabric of our society? I certainly had no idea, and I consider myself a pretty smart dude. Likewise, marijuana, the harmlessly named drug that, if smoked, will destroy your life, the lives of all around you, and eventually bring about the end of Western Civilization. I'm not making this up. It's been officially documented by the Federal Government since the 1920's, so it's obviously true.
I'm not going to say I've tried marijuana, or mention that I came of age in the sixties. Neither will I say that I used to light up first thing in the morning when my parents were away on vacation, put some Mozart on the stereo, and boil a couple of eggs for breakfast. That would be unseemly for a serious blogger such as myself. I'm just saying.
If you don't need the government or the church to tell you what to do, but are still looking for guidance, you can turn to the medical profession. They say that if you eat too much bacon, you will only live to the age of ninety-six and a half, instead of ninety-seven. Think how satisfying those last six months will be!
A negative person might point out that the medical profession used to use leeches to draw out the poison from a sick person's blood. They used to say that night air was poisonous, that cigarettes were OK, and that Thalidomide was good for pregnant women who were suffering from depression. I'm not a negative person, so I won't even bring those things up.
Wednesday, December 04, 2013
Bankruptcy and the Mafia
The city of Detroit has been allowed to file for protection from bankruptcy by a federal judge. This means the city can now tell its creditors that it is sorry, but will not pay debts that were negotiated in good faith. The news is of particular interest to thousands of retirees who worked for the city under the assumption that the pension they were promised would indeed arrive, after they had worked a lifetime for it.
Young people are being brainwashed into thinking that unions and pensions are evils to be avoided. Nobody bothers to tell them that pensions were part of legally negotiated contracts, and that pensions were often accepted in return for a lower hourly wage. Charlatans claim that unions ruined the auto industry in America, when the exact opposite is true. The American auto was the envy of the world, until foreign companies began to compete with machines made by people who worked all day for next to nothing. American management's response was to cheapen their products to the point where no sane person in America wanted to buy one. The result was catastrophic for the entire industry. Workers were told the only choice was to lower the American standard of living, to downsize their dreams, to realize that it no longer mattered if you worked hard and saved your money. You had to learn to work for a bowl of rice a day and be grateful for it. In other words, go back in time to the 1920's, when someone who went on strike would get his head bashed in by hired goons. The heartfelt dream of Corporate America.
Which brings us to the question, was Detroit mismanaged? Of course it was. All cities are, as are most companies. Organizations generally prosper in spite of management, as long as conditions are favorable. Detroit has been crumbling for decades. You can buy a house in Detroit for less than it would cost for a garage for your car in most other cities. Nobody wants to live there. The folks who were elected to run the city have been floundering and failing relentlessly, and bankruptcy comes as no surprise, except that it took so long. The retirees have no choice now but to hope they don't get torn up too badly.
In America, we have what is spookily referred to as "The Underworld". In the Underworld, you can buy drugs, hire prostitutes, and make bets on literally anything, as big a bet as you dare to make. I know personally of two guys whose fathers made such bad bets that they had to sell their homes to pay them off. On the street, everyone knows you have to "do the right thing". You have to pay your debts. I'm glad I wasn't in the room when those guys told their wives what they had done. There is no such thing as bankruptcy in the Underworld. Saying you can't pay the debt you owe is signing up for a one- way ride in a cement canoe. Which wouldn't be a bad thing for those who mismanaged the finances of Detroit. It would be the right thing.
Young people are being brainwashed into thinking that unions and pensions are evils to be avoided. Nobody bothers to tell them that pensions were part of legally negotiated contracts, and that pensions were often accepted in return for a lower hourly wage. Charlatans claim that unions ruined the auto industry in America, when the exact opposite is true. The American auto was the envy of the world, until foreign companies began to compete with machines made by people who worked all day for next to nothing. American management's response was to cheapen their products to the point where no sane person in America wanted to buy one. The result was catastrophic for the entire industry. Workers were told the only choice was to lower the American standard of living, to downsize their dreams, to realize that it no longer mattered if you worked hard and saved your money. You had to learn to work for a bowl of rice a day and be grateful for it. In other words, go back in time to the 1920's, when someone who went on strike would get his head bashed in by hired goons. The heartfelt dream of Corporate America.
Which brings us to the question, was Detroit mismanaged? Of course it was. All cities are, as are most companies. Organizations generally prosper in spite of management, as long as conditions are favorable. Detroit has been crumbling for decades. You can buy a house in Detroit for less than it would cost for a garage for your car in most other cities. Nobody wants to live there. The folks who were elected to run the city have been floundering and failing relentlessly, and bankruptcy comes as no surprise, except that it took so long. The retirees have no choice now but to hope they don't get torn up too badly.
In America, we have what is spookily referred to as "The Underworld". In the Underworld, you can buy drugs, hire prostitutes, and make bets on literally anything, as big a bet as you dare to make. I know personally of two guys whose fathers made such bad bets that they had to sell their homes to pay them off. On the street, everyone knows you have to "do the right thing". You have to pay your debts. I'm glad I wasn't in the room when those guys told their wives what they had done. There is no such thing as bankruptcy in the Underworld. Saying you can't pay the debt you owe is signing up for a one- way ride in a cement canoe. Which wouldn't be a bad thing for those who mismanaged the finances of Detroit. It would be the right thing.
Tuesday, December 03, 2013
Posers, Hosers, Indecent Exposers
Someone said, "Politics is the last refuge of the scoundrel". That's one of those sentences you'd love to claim for your own, isn't it? In eight words it captures and describes all the leaders, lawmakers, and promise breakers all over the world.
It's one of those strange quirks in human nature that positions of power attract the exact people who should never be allowed outdoors without a guardian. Another quirky habit we have is that, no matter how obvious a bumbling nincompoop a person is, we will stand in line on a rainy day to hand over the reins to him, her, or it, as the case may be. This is called our Right To Vote. It's a way to let the masses think they're in charge of their lives. Now and then, people notice that nothing really changes, unless it gets worse. But that's OK. We have our Right To Vote!
I have often considered taking over the known world. Believe me, I would be a great Emperor of All I Survey. I would be kind to most of you, and forgive your trespasses as you forgive mine. Fat chance of that, eh?
The first inviolable rule would be to eliminate the color pink. It serves no purpose, and makes me queasy. On a more positive note, there would be beer and wine in all public fountains, and it will only rain at night, when it sounds nice if you're in a warm dry place. All dogs will run free, and all cats will be on a leash or confined to house arrest. Any animal that enjoys torturing birds and mice before it kills them shows a clear psychosis.
My most obvious qualification to gain your vote is that I can lie so convincingly I even believe myself. Yesterday, I wrote of my comfortable old farmhouse, my fireplace, and my faithful hound, none of which are real. This morning, I woke up in my real house. It's ninety- seven years old, and has no fireplace or hound or log pile in it. It's heated by a cranky old furnace, once fueled by coal, then converted to oil, then to gas. It's situated on what once was a potato farm, but it's no farmhouse.
My grandson just arrived, so I must resume my campaign for your trust at a later date. I hear the steam hissing from the old radiator, a comforting sound on a raw December day.
It's one of those strange quirks in human nature that positions of power attract the exact people who should never be allowed outdoors without a guardian. Another quirky habit we have is that, no matter how obvious a bumbling nincompoop a person is, we will stand in line on a rainy day to hand over the reins to him, her, or it, as the case may be. This is called our Right To Vote. It's a way to let the masses think they're in charge of their lives. Now and then, people notice that nothing really changes, unless it gets worse. But that's OK. We have our Right To Vote!
I have often considered taking over the known world. Believe me, I would be a great Emperor of All I Survey. I would be kind to most of you, and forgive your trespasses as you forgive mine. Fat chance of that, eh?
The first inviolable rule would be to eliminate the color pink. It serves no purpose, and makes me queasy. On a more positive note, there would be beer and wine in all public fountains, and it will only rain at night, when it sounds nice if you're in a warm dry place. All dogs will run free, and all cats will be on a leash or confined to house arrest. Any animal that enjoys torturing birds and mice before it kills them shows a clear psychosis.
My most obvious qualification to gain your vote is that I can lie so convincingly I even believe myself. Yesterday, I wrote of my comfortable old farmhouse, my fireplace, and my faithful hound, none of which are real. This morning, I woke up in my real house. It's ninety- seven years old, and has no fireplace or hound or log pile in it. It's heated by a cranky old furnace, once fueled by coal, then converted to oil, then to gas. It's situated on what once was a potato farm, but it's no farmhouse.
My grandson just arrived, so I must resume my campaign for your trust at a later date. I hear the steam hissing from the old radiator, a comforting sound on a raw December day.
Monday, December 02, 2013
How to Spend a December Afternoon
The snow is falling heavier now, and the wind is whipping it against the window pane. It's a damp early December snow, and it melts almost as soon as it is thrown against the warm glass, but it's beginning to pile up in the corners of the old wooden frame that has withstood winter's assaults in this old farmhouse for almost two centuries. I should have scraped and painted the window, and the whole house for that matter, this past summer and fall, but that's how it goes when you get old. My New England breeding trains me to prepare for the coming seasons, and they all need preparations, believe me. But at my age, you begin to think that maybe things are not as urgent as they originally seemed. Thus, there are cracks in the paint of the window, and the old wood is exposed to the harshness of New England's nastiest and most unforgiving season.
There's no sense fretting about it now. I'm relaxing in my grandfather's rocking chair, trying to decide which book to start reading. I buy books in bunches, stack them in a corner shelf, and work my way through them at my leisure. I'm down to Stephen King's sequel to "The Shining" that recently came out, called "Dr. Sleep", or "A Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens, which came out quite a while ago. I've seen the movie versions, all of them at least once, but never read the book, and this seems like a good time to give it a try.
My dog is looking at his water bowl and back at me. This is how he controls his "master". Reluctantly, I rise up from my comfortable spot to walk across the room, away from the fireplace, with his bowl. He does not leave the hearth, just watches me with his big brown eyes as I progress down the hall to the cast iron hand pump that I watched my grandmother use when I was a little boy. The pump makes a sloppy "sachugg!" sound as it brings the ice cold water up from the ground, as clean and clear as a mountain stream. I bring it to the faithful hound, who waits for it with the patience of one who knows he is loved and will be this way forever.
Since I'm up, I figure it's a good time to place another log on the fire. I choose a good-looking piece of maple, as dry as an old bone, and tuck it gently between the remains of two oak logs that have kept my dog and me toasty warm for a good long while. My rocker awaits. The afternoon sun is fading, and I choose my book. "A Christmas Carol" will keep me company 'til suppertime.
There's no sense fretting about it now. I'm relaxing in my grandfather's rocking chair, trying to decide which book to start reading. I buy books in bunches, stack them in a corner shelf, and work my way through them at my leisure. I'm down to Stephen King's sequel to "The Shining" that recently came out, called "Dr. Sleep", or "A Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens, which came out quite a while ago. I've seen the movie versions, all of them at least once, but never read the book, and this seems like a good time to give it a try.
My dog is looking at his water bowl and back at me. This is how he controls his "master". Reluctantly, I rise up from my comfortable spot to walk across the room, away from the fireplace, with his bowl. He does not leave the hearth, just watches me with his big brown eyes as I progress down the hall to the cast iron hand pump that I watched my grandmother use when I was a little boy. The pump makes a sloppy "sachugg!" sound as it brings the ice cold water up from the ground, as clean and clear as a mountain stream. I bring it to the faithful hound, who waits for it with the patience of one who knows he is loved and will be this way forever.
Since I'm up, I figure it's a good time to place another log on the fire. I choose a good-looking piece of maple, as dry as an old bone, and tuck it gently between the remains of two oak logs that have kept my dog and me toasty warm for a good long while. My rocker awaits. The afternoon sun is fading, and I choose my book. "A Christmas Carol" will keep me company 'til suppertime.
Sunday, December 01, 2013
Body Parts
Have you ever wondered why we have two eyes, two ears, two kidneys, two arms and legs, but only one heart? Only one brain? The first mentioned organs are pretty much vital, especially since we were designed by nature to survive in the wild, so we were given spare parts. But you can't get very far without your brain, even though most of us don't use it as much as we should. You surely can't do much if your heart goes on the blink. That pretty much stops the game. We have only one liver, which cleans our blood, even if we abuse it with alcohol. It's called the LIVER for good reason. If you lose it, you stop LIVING.
Mickey Mantle was bumped up on the waiting list for a liver transplant, just because he was a great baseball player, amid a lot of controversy. He was legendary for his alcohol consumption, and famously said, "If I knew I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself." He died anyway.
Heart transplants are common today, like getting your oil changed. Organ transplants are prohibitively expensive, and nobody could pay for the procedure on their own, except for wealthy republicans. But that's another story.
My question of the day is why Mother Nature gave us two of some and only one of some others. In the natural world, things make sense in a brutal sort of way. Wolves cull the deer herd of the weak stragglers, thus leaving the healthy and swift to continue to breed and prosper. It's sensible. But giving us a single heart and a single brain makes no sense at all.
Sometimes we act like we have no heart, and sometimes like we have no brain, but we can't act at all unless we have them.
My grandfather had one eye. His brother gouged out the other one during a disagreement. My uncle John had a good part of his ear missing. It looked like it was removed by a cookie cutter, but was actually bitten off by a guy with very even teeth who had been ripped off by my uncle, a notorious thief. John was a great fighter, but not good at leaving things alone, or keeping his ears.
The point is, if Grampa and John had lost their hearts or brains, they would have died instantly. They were lucky enough to have spare parts. Having any vital organ as a single option only is a serious design flaw. Unfortunately, there is no known way to complain to the manufacturer.
Mickey Mantle was bumped up on the waiting list for a liver transplant, just because he was a great baseball player, amid a lot of controversy. He was legendary for his alcohol consumption, and famously said, "If I knew I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself." He died anyway.
Heart transplants are common today, like getting your oil changed. Organ transplants are prohibitively expensive, and nobody could pay for the procedure on their own, except for wealthy republicans. But that's another story.
My question of the day is why Mother Nature gave us two of some and only one of some others. In the natural world, things make sense in a brutal sort of way. Wolves cull the deer herd of the weak stragglers, thus leaving the healthy and swift to continue to breed and prosper. It's sensible. But giving us a single heart and a single brain makes no sense at all.
Sometimes we act like we have no heart, and sometimes like we have no brain, but we can't act at all unless we have them.
My grandfather had one eye. His brother gouged out the other one during a disagreement. My uncle John had a good part of his ear missing. It looked like it was removed by a cookie cutter, but was actually bitten off by a guy with very even teeth who had been ripped off by my uncle, a notorious thief. John was a great fighter, but not good at leaving things alone, or keeping his ears.
The point is, if Grampa and John had lost their hearts or brains, they would have died instantly. They were lucky enough to have spare parts. Having any vital organ as a single option only is a serious design flaw. Unfortunately, there is no known way to complain to the manufacturer.
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