Fudge

What a crazy week.  Shane, Carolyn's son, was visiting and the time flew by.  He's back home, in New York, now, and recuperating from proving a younger guy can outwork an old fart.  But, us old guys are a little wiser and the proof of that is it was MY backyard that was used as the proving grounds.   Thanks, Shane.  After he left, there was a void around this joint that could be filled only one way - by making about six pounds of Chocolate Fudge! 

There are a ton of recipes for making this treat from the Food of the Gods, and I am sure mine is the best.  When I got it, the first step involved mixing several ingredients.  I'm not gonna tell you how to do it 'cause then yours would be as good as mine.  I will, however, let you know that after making a couple of batches, I added a Preamble to the thing.  The first order of business on the revised instructions state "Start with an empty dishwasher."  Proper execution of the instructions requires the use of enough kitchen stuff as to almost completely fill the appliance.

Chocolate has been with us for about one thousand years.  It wasn't really chocolate back then, it was Cacao.  The earliest record of the bean comes from the Mayan Indians, who thought the Cacao tree indeed was of Divine origin.  The Latin form, "Cacao" is a Mayan word that really means "food of the Gods".  Of course, we modern folks can't get anything right so we corrupted that word to the present one, "cocoa".  The Mayans made a drink by mixing the Cacao beans with Maize and peppers that was allowed to ferment and then consumed during religious ceremonies. 

After the Mayans were rapted, the Aztecs continued man's love affair with this bean.  They couldn't cultivate the crop - they lived too high up the mountains - so it was a relative rarity in their culture and was highly treasured.  Slaves could be paid for with very small amounts of Cacao, and the Aztec emperors collected the beans as taxes.  They also drank fermented mixtures of it during ceremonies. 

Beans were much more highly valued than gold or silver, and when Cortez, the Spanish conqueror of the Aztecs, looked for treasure, he found the Emperor's vaults filled not with gold and silver, but with Cacao beans!   The Aztec word for them was "Xocolatl", which the Spaniards found difficult to pronounce.  The name was changed, and "chocolate" was born.  Sugar and vanilla were added to the Aztec concoction, and Cortez sent the first batch back to Spain.

Shortly after, the beans, instead of the liquid mixture, were dried and shipped back to Spain, where they were ground and sold in a powered form of chocolate.  In 1657 the first of many Chocolate Houses opened in England.  It took another hundred and fifty years, but eventually the Dutch figured out how to extract the bitter cocoa butter from the beans, and twenty years later, in 1847, chocolate, as we know it today, was produced. 

I thank the Good Lord I did not have to wait 1000 years for the batch I made today.  A quick trip to the store, an hour at the stove, and six pounds of the  "Food of the Gods" now rests on my kitchen counter.  Well, there's about five and three quarter pounds there now - Muffy must have been at work. 

Western civilization has improved some things.

Blogger Problems

Sorry, guys.  I'm having trouble with blogger today.  It seems I'm not worthy enough to post comments on my own blog, so I'm dealing with that issue today.  Knowing just how extremely skillful I am in all things computer related, I expect to be dealing with this until I'm in an old fogies home. 

I plan to work on this til I get tired and maybe write a new post tomorrow.  If someone has experienced this problem, please email me with appropriate fixes  forrest@bendbroadband.com  .  I try to post a comment, am told to sign in, and then sign in, and then sign in.................*$@&^ computers!

Work Out - Part 2

"So, Forrest," said my 45 year old son in law, "What ya got going today?  Put me to work!" 

Wasn't it wonderful to be 45 years old and full of energy?  There were so very many nails driven and screws set during that era of my life.  Ideas - Projects - Activity.  I'm sure most of the work has been demolished or remodeled beyond recognition by new owners, but it doesn't matter - what matters is that it was built.  By me.  I made a mockery of the Third Law of Thermodynamics everywhere I went.  I built.  These days it takes a rather healthy shove to get me started on a new project.  Shane was up to the task. 

"Well, Shane, I've been wanting to dig out the last two stumps so I can plant new trees," I told him.  "And, one of these days I plan to tear down that cross fence that divides the back yard.  I want to level the area where the last guy kept his dog and lay some sod." 

"Cool', he said, Where's your tools?"

"In the garage - your guess is as good as mine.  Try somewhere around the end of the workbench for the larger stuff - shovels and what not.  The smaller junk is on the bench or somewhere in an unmarked box.  Good luck."

Fifteen minutes later he emerged from the den of confusion carrying an armload of tools and started digging.  I watched for several minutes as he applied the shove of guilt.  I guess I applied that all by myself; I hate watching someone do my work while I'm kicking back with a cup of coffee.  Not quite awake, I fumbled with the sliding door, then stumbled over to where he was digging up the universe.  A black hole could not have kept up with the way he was annihilating matter in his path.  I'm just saying, the shovel was a blur.  Guess my coffee hadn't quite kicked in yet. 

Soon, both stumps had been pulled, the fence had been demolished and the pavers and rocks that defined a no longer needed path had disappeared.  I managed to wake up in time to help stack the excess lumber along the side of the house.  As the wax slowly melted from my eardrums - for you youngsters, that's a morning fact of life in an old guys life.....get used to the idea - I heard him ask, "What's next?" 

"Let's take a break while I think about it", I replied.  So I sat while my brain continued to spool up to speed, and drank deeply (and slowly) from my second cup of coffee while he fidgeted.   Finally, I felt I was in control of both my brain and mouth.  "Well, Carolyn picked out a couple of trees she likes when we went to the nursery the other day.  I guess we can run over and pick them up.  Then we can put them in the ground."

For the second time this morning he said,  "Cool.  Let's do it."  So we did.

I knew what was coming next from his mouth, as we finished all the work I had planned to keep me busy for the next couple of months, so I headed him off at the pass.  "Hey, I've got an idea.  Let's go see some of the town." 

Youth knows no limits.  I was hobbling, two bluish pills had passed from my mouth to my stomach.  "Cool", he said.  "Let's do it.  I'll help get Mom ready to go."


To Boomer:  Sorry, but blogger has decided  I am no longer worthy of commenting on my own blog!  I'll try to fix it.  Meanwhile,  I think I saw the guy you mentioned when I turned 60 and he adjusted gravity higher again.  I was waiting, gun in hand, for him the day I turned 65.  He's a pretty sneaky guy; he waited until time for my nap before rushing in to crank it up some more.  I hope you neutralize him before my 70th.  Can't stand much more!

Mother and Child Reunion

I woke up this morning and went straight to my desk.  After firing up my trusty, and soon to be replaced, 8 year old computer, I hit favorites and went to a decent flight tracker.  Sure enough, United 257 was in the air, bearing, among others, Carolyn's son in the general direction of central Oregon.

Everyone with a TV and electrical power is aware Mother Nature is totally upset with the way we're running things and She's letting us know who's boss.  Well, at least She's letting us know just who is in charge of the Midwest and Mississippi River Valley.  Since we in this household are blessed with the cursed TV and managed to pay the power bill last month, I am aware of the fury being unleashed in those parts and wanted to be sure Shane was in fact on the way. 

For some strange reason, which I suspect has a lot more to do with economics than of passenger comfort, United wanted to tempt nature, tick off all it's clients, and land it's littleliner in Chicago.  From there, everybody jumped into an Airbus 320 which needed to land in Portland, I guess to consult a map, before arriving here on it's way to somewhere else in a different direction.  You figure it out.  I'm tired.

Next, a quick peek at one of several thousand readily available weather maps got me worried.   There were tornado warnings, huge thunderstorms and generally miserable conditions forecast for Chicago, exactly the place United thought Carolyn's son needed to be. 

Somewhere between my ears came a vision of Shane shaped like a shinny metal ball.  He was trapped inside a pin ball machine, bouncing between posts on a map of the United States, and the flippers were miniature Airbus 320's.  The posts off which Shane was bouncing were labeled with the names of cities, and a nerdy looking guy with huge round glasses, wearing a United Airlines uniform, was operating the flippers and screaming at the top of his lungs, "Too much gas!  TOO much gas!"

Well, you guessed it.  Shane's connecting flight from ORD to PDX was delayed four hours while the weather passed.  Naturally he missed the next flight.  Only through the most intelligent of guile, was he able to secure a seat on a different craft to complete the journey.

Now, any pilot can figure out a better way to get from there to here.  All ya need to do is set the autopilot doohickey on the GPS to a heading of 284 degrees and fly for 1827 nautical miles.  Then you land the plane.  Any weatherman could have first looked at the forecast storms, the above route, and determined the plane would have flown well north of all the mess, no drinks would be spilled, and the time required to complete the trip would have fallen from 10 hours (not counting the delay and missed connection, which added another five hours) to 3 hours and 42 minutes.

Bean counters rule the world, and it's because nobody wants to pay for service.  We settle for crappy performance with our airlines, our hammers and our kids lead-paint coated toys.  We have to.  All the money's gone.

The best part of this whole story is the smile on Carolyn's face when her son walked through the door.  We arrived home from the airport in time for him to watch me try to fire up the BBQ for the first time this year.  Then, he was able to spend some time with his mother while I ran to the store for more propane.  Who the Devil opened the valve while it was in the moving van?   Such mysteries plague my life.

The rib eyes were fantastic, baked potatoes and broccoli rounded out the meal, and the Mother and Child Reunion was the highlight of this year so far.  I love to see her smile.

Half Human

Carolyn's oldest son is coming to visit with her tomorrow.  He lives with his family in the great lakes area of New York, so they see each other less often than they would like.  Carpentry, plumbing and roofing in residential construction kept him busy for years, but he had to change careers awhile back. 

Times are tough in that area, as they are almost everywhere, and he's had to adjust to a much lower paying job, maintaining the buildings and equipment of an assisted living facility instead.  He works harder and for many more hours than he did before, and he does it for less money.  About the only relief he's had lately is his family has gotten a little smaller.  His oldest daughter graduated high school and joined the Coast Guard.  One less mouth to feed, but before his forced career change, she had planned on college.   That's been delayed for her, but she has a stiff upper lip.  "After my enlistment," she says, "I'll be eligible for a college benefit."  I hope that's still true several years from now. 

He has not seen his Mother for the last several years, and the first meeting has me a little concerned.  He's aware of her condition, and they talk on the phone so he knows how the disease has affected her speech.  But, nothing can prepare him for what he is going to see when he steps into the terminal and she's there to greet him.  His memories of her four years ago are of a nimble dancer, quick on her feet and in her wit.

All that has changed, she can no longer walk on her own, can not focus her eyes, and has trouble with the most mundane of tasks.  I've been through "The First Sight" before - with her youngest son.  And even though he had been better prepared, and only 14 months had passed since their last visit, tears were the order of the day.   Tomorrow is going to be rough on him, and I feel sorry there is nothing I can do to ease the way for both of them. 

You see, I understand what it's like to live a thousand miles or more from a slowly dying parent.  It happened in my life just last year.  Torn is the word, that is what will happen to him.  He will be torn.  His family is in New York.  His family is in Oregon.  He needs to be in both places and can not be. 

We now travel all our lives, living first here, then there, looking for work, a better life - what have you.  This is a new way of life for our species.  We used to travel in search of a better life with our family and our tribe alongside us.  Family and friends were there for the entire journey, not just for a few years.  That no longer happens, and it's taken a toll on us as human beings and as a society. 

 We are no longer complete human beings, we're torn.  All of us, to one degree or another, and it's not a good thing at all.  It allows us to be mean to others because we no longer belong to a tribe.  We're individuals, and can do as we wish, not as we need to do to survive and maintain membership in the human community.  There's a whole book that can be written about this, but do me a favor.  Think about it a little on your own. 

Have we been torn to the point we're only half human?


 

Third Parties

My grandfather was a Democrat.  My father was a Republican.  Having never thought much about it one way or another, I registered as a Republican and cast my first vote in any Presidential election for Richard M. Nixon in 1968.  A guy needed to be 21 to vote back then, and I missed the '64 elections by a little bit.  About the only thing to learn from this is a guy in his twenties is not yet smart enough to vote.  That, I guess, makes it alright to let teenagers vote too.  Might as well enfranchise eight years olds.  They couldn't do much more harm than I did at the ripe old age of twenty-three. 

So, yeah, this whole mess is all my fault.  Had I not voted for him, Hubert Humphrey would have won, we would still be on the gold standard, and solar power would account for more than half of the electricity generated in this country.  No one would know the meaning of "Rat-Fink", Karl Rove (That's right - George Bush II's Karl was involved back in the Watergate years - we just can't seem to rid ourselves of roaches.) would not have seen the national spotlight for at least a while longer, and the office of the Presidency would not have been so tarnished in these modern times. 

My one vote, back in 1968, sent us on this bad trip, and I wish I could take it back.  A bunch of us do.  But, for the last twenty years I've tried to make up for that one vote, cast at a particularly brainless time in my life.  I have voted only for third party candidates in national elections since 1992.  Had I done that in '68, Pat Paulson would have gotten my vote and the world would be more like the Coke commercial. 

I worked hard to get Ross Perot on the ballot and then voted for him even after realizing he was a bit more than flaky.  How is it guys like him get to be billionaires?  My vote has gone to Ralph Nader several times, and I almost voted for Barr in the last election.  But, when I found myself gagging over the thought of any of the choices in 2008, I skipped the election.  It's the only one I've ever missed, and that's a real sorry state of affairs.  The best vote the last time around would have involved pulling my pants down in the middle of Wall Street and taking a large dump on the stairs in front of the NY stock exchange.  But, fat people should never pull their pants down in public.  It's disgusting. 

It's starting to look like that just may again be the best vote in the coming election.  But, November 2012 is a long, long time from now and there may be one or two surprises between now and then.  Yogi, or maybe Niels Bohr, said something along the lines of  "It's hard to make predictions, especially about the future."  and I agree.  Anyone who attempts to do so tempts fate, and runs the risk of making a fool of himself.  Well, it just so happens that I am not afraid of seeming foolish so I'm gonna go out on a limb. 

I Predict:  The reality of the 2012 election will have very little to do with the expectations we have of it in May 2011.  The likely candidates may not yet be on the scene, one of them may have the title "Colonel", and the outcome may not be constitutional. 

This nation, my friends, is completely schizophrenic.  If you happen to be laid off or retired and have some time, here's a little experiment you can perform in your own living room to see for yourself..  Watch Fox Business News, with the current weeks reporting on "Makers vs. Takers", for ten or fifteen minutes, and then switch to MSNBC.  The news on that network is about varying percentages (from the high 60%'s to the low 80%'s) of folks in various states who are opposed to "reforming Social Security and Medicare."  The anchors on that network are asking why the Repubs are dead set on committing suicide while the anchors on Fox are asking why we haven't already killed these "entitlements".  The divide between the two positions is monumental, and shows just how ruptured our society is.

We in this house have resolved the issue.  There is sufficient food and other items I consider essential to get us through a six month period within easy reach.  If needed, a vast store is available within a days travel time.   

My family considers me to be a little "touched" most of the time because of my thinking on this subject, so in no way should you act based upon our preparations.  It's OK to be a little quirky some of the time, but few folks are ready to be considered a little "off."  It so happens that my family is populated with very reasonable, left brained, Fox loving folks.  I display some of these traits some of the time, so it's OK with them for me to be quirky.  Every family needs someone over whom to shake their heads.

So, if you think an extra ton of rice, beans and sugar belong in your garage, always be ready to be the butt of a joke.  And, set aside enough for the family members who live nearby.

Leftneck

I'm a Leftneck, and darned proud of it!  Finally, after today's reading, I can describe my political viewpoint in one word!  That's no big deal to those of you who happen to be Dems or Repubs.  And even Inds and Libs have had one word that sorta describes their bias for quite a while. 

That is one luxury I have yearned for with all my being for the last twenty years.  A person will ask in in passing just how I view things in life, and it usually takes me half an hour to explain.  Now, when asked, I can proclaim "I'm a Leftneck" and let it go at that.

I know what you're gonna say.  "What the heck is a Leftneck?"  Well, there's a guy, Morris Berman, who has summed it up much better that I ever could.  http://morrisberman.blogspot.com/

Be happy for me; I now have a word that fits.

Update.  Morris has written much more since I posted the link to his site.  You now will have to enter the word "leftneck" in the search space at the upper left on his page to discover my political view.  What a treasure hunt!  Yes?

Work Out

There is no substitute for physical exhaustion - oops - I meant physical exertion when it comes to keeping an old, decrepit and overweight body like mine in good condition.  By good condition, I'm talking about the ability to get from the dining table to the bathroom and then to bed without too much outside help.  There's a good reason Mr. Universe is usually in his mid twenties or thirties; a guy my age has trouble bench pressing the weight of the paperwork needed to enter the contest.  I have totally given up winning the Mr. Universe title, and am diligently searching for a Mr. Buddha look-alike contest.  I'll enter and win that one.

Even though my muscles normally sag instead of bulge,  I still can depend upon them to perform well enough to cause my back to kill me.  It happens every time I use them.  That's why I'm trying to type this post while laying perfectly flat on my back, with several wonderful bluish pills spreading a soothing warmth throughout my innards. 

I've told you guys before about the two and a half Birch trees I feared had shriveled and died.  Well, the reality proved worse than the fear.  All three of them refused to acknowledge the Spring season.  Their branches were as barren this morning as they were in the middle of January.  The other Birch on our property is a poster child for Springtime.  It's newly sprouted leaves are greener than Ireland, and and are as numerous as Americans receiving food stamps.  It was time to act.  Something had to be done.

The something involved a chainsaw, shovel, 8' prybar and gloves.  The chainsaw came first, and it's a good thing it did.  The noise emanating from it's not so quiet muffler quickly produced a horde of interested supervisors, each with his own opinion of it's proper use.  Usually I pointed to the earmuffs I was wearing, trying the let the well wishers know that not only did I not give one hoot about their suggestions, I also could not hear them.

There was, however, one person who had a labor saving idea.  He asked what I planned to do with all the debris after the cuts were made and I was left standing waist deep in twigs, branches and trunks.  I told him I was gonna bag everything and haul it off to the dump.  He offered to cart it to his fire pit where it could be used as kindling and fire wood instead.  Soon as he told me he'd do the hauling AND the pruning, the deal was cut.  He hauled the dead branches away as fast as the inexpertly wielded saw could produce them.  A short time later, I faced only three stumps in the ground.

Now, came the shovel and prybar.  I tried that combination for several hours before giving up.  The twelve year old roots went all over the place, and there was no way I was gonna dig them out.  The chainsaw, still smoking, was laying on the patio.  "Roots are just pieces of wood that are underground," I thought to myself, "I'll bet that chainsaw can help with this."  So, I started cutting roots with the chainsaw. 

Now those of you who have actually used a chainsaw know it dulls rather rapidly, and if it comes into contact with dirt and rocks, it dulls at once.  Any operator worth his salt knows how to sharpen a chain with his trusty file and guide.  That's how I got one stump out of the ground.  Saw one root, sharpen the chain.  Saw another root, sharpen the chain.  After the roots around the trunk had been severed, the shovel and prybar worked.  The stump was loaded into the wheelbarrow and rolled to the neighbor's fire pit. 

Everything in my body hurts.  Even the discarded pieces of toenails I clipped last night, before all this happened, are in pain.  And, there are still two stumps left in the ground.  I'm thinking I'll just leave them there and plant some bushes instead.

Billy Chinook Lake

Today was warm and sunny with temps in the lower seventies and Carolyn was feeling pretty good.  In this household that combination spells ROAD TRIP!  It's been awhile since we have been able to get out of the house just to explore so I've been able to find a couple of new places nearby to visit.  One of those places is Lake Billie Chinook.  Google maps says the distance to the lake from our house is only 21.6 miles so it's within Carolyn's "feel sorta OK today" range.

We climbed into the Guzzler today, the Guzzler Deluxe is down to about half a tank and I'm waiting for the price of gas to drop before I fill it, and were on our way.  Our route took us north along Highway 97, over the Crooked River Gorge, where the river runs 300 feet below the bridge that spans it,  until we turned west in the little town of Culver.  From there it was a "follow the signs" exercise  till we reached the edge of a deep canyon.  The road then dropped steeply for the next three curve-filled miles and ended at a pretty day use picnic grounds with a ramp for launching boats. 

Past the picnic area was a Marina and restaurant with lots of dry dock storage facilities for boats ranging in size from daycruisers to 2000 square foot houseboats.  The signs advertised houseboat rentals, but only one boat was actually in the water and ready to go.  Still early in the season, I guess. 

The lake was formed when Pacific Power Company dammed the Deschutes River in 1964 at a place located where it would back up the Deschutes, Metolius and Crooked Rivers.  It was named after an Indian who scouted for John Fremont just before settlers using the Oregon Trail arrived in the area.  It's a tall dam, and strong enough to hold back the waters of these three rivers to a depth of over 400 feet in places.   

We explored the bottom of the canyon, with it's campground, Marina and docks, for a hour or so, and then began the climb out of the place on our way home.  At the very top, I noticed what appeared to be an informal dirt road leading to a place that overlooked the canyon at it's very edge. 

I turned in and, sure enough, there was room to pull over.  We got out of the Guzzler and peered over the edge.  The views were fantastic!  All three river canyons and the lake were displayed below us.  Why, in God's beautiful world, the government did not choose to transform this place into a for-real overlook is beyond me.  Some biggie MUST have noticed what many others before us saw.  It was easily the most fantastic vista of the day. 

The "overlook" was strewn with so many rocks that everyone in America could have taken one for a souvenir without creating a shortage.  From the recent indentations easily noticed in the soil, it appeared that many had.  So did we.  I grabbed a 60 or 70 pound rock, loaded it in the Guzzler, and we continued home.

Our piece of Billy Chinook now resides in a prominent corner of a front flowerbed that abuts the front walkway.  Every time we enter or exit our home it will be there to remind us of this wonderful day and the gorgeous view of that pristine lake, only 21.6 miles away.   

6:00PM 5-21-11

The Rapture is coming in a little less than three days.  I can barely wait that long.  But, I'm not real sure I want to be near a graveyard when it happens 'cause an earthquake is going to uncover all the dead bodies and only the good folks are s'posed to start climbing ladders to Heaven.  The rest of them, including wall street bankers who stink up the place while still alive and even after a shower, will be left to further rot in the open air.  Harold says that - not me     

It's OK with me if the world ends a little early - all the long ago raptured Central American Indians forecast it will happen on Dec 21 of next year anyway, and for sure I don't want to have to put up with another election campaign.  Much better if it happens this week.  But, I'm just not ready for only a Rapture on Saturday.  I definitely prefer it to be the end of the world.  Not that I'm a bad guy, I just might be one of the few who is taken up.  It's just that I don't want to chance it, and, I haven't yet sent a check to Harold Camping to cover the cost of the ticket. 

I totally missed his first predicted date, Sept 6, 1994, 'cause I was busy at the time.  It never dawned on me to check with him about such things.  Well, he was wrong back then but I can still hope he'll come through this time.  And, with our more modern computers generating better special effects, it'll be way more awesome to watch these days.  Better still, with the much superior Internet in place now, there's even a little money to be made from the event.  There's a guy in New Hampshire who's selling "Pet Insurance" to potential Rapturee's.  http://eternal-earthbound-pets.com/  He'll care for any pets that are left behind when the owners are carried away.  It's not a bad deal - for him or the True Believers.  He promises to care for the little fuzzballs for ten years after the event for only $135.00.  That won't even cover the cost of dog food, but I'm betting he'll do OK.

Well, I have to tell you my mind's resting a little easier since hearing of the coming apocalypse.  Before this morning I was worrying about the price of gas, lettuce and thick, juicy steaks.  Just how were we gonna be able to afford a vacation this year?  And, the darned election I don't want to go through again has already started.  Newt's in - Donald's out.  Idiots are throwing glitter at the candidates.  ALREADY!!! 

Yep.  That folded flier I found stuffed into my door when I opened it this morning completely eased my mind.  Only three more days of this BS to go. 

UPDATE:  I apologize to all you folks who googled 5-2-11 6:00PM. and wound up here by mistake.  I have had over six hundred hits on this post, and I'm sure none of you wanted to say hi. 

On the other hand, I'm not gonna change the title - it's too much fun watching how concerned people are about this.  My hat's off to you if in fact you make the trip, otherwise, I wish you well while suffering thorugh all this crap for many more years along with the rest of us. 

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Answers

There was a skit on the old "Tonight Show" where Johnnie Carson would give the answer to questions before Ed McMahon even asked them.  Johnnie, dressed as "Carnac the Magnificent," would hold the sealed envelope Ed had handed him to his forehead for a moment, and then give the answer, "Jerry Falwell." He'd then open the envelope and read the question "How does President Ford come downstairs?" 

Of course you had to know Gerald Ford was a bit clumsy and had to recognize Jerry Falwell's name to get the joke, but the routine was always good for several laughs.  My answer is "Johnnie Carson,"  to the question "Who's the best "Tonight Show" host?"  Answers were easier to come by back in the days Carson was hosting, much easier than they are now.

I believe the reason for that is the questions are harder these days.  Back in 1979 I knew the enemy was  Russia, my business was doing well enough to allow me to race cars and fly around the country in a little airplane,  America's future was bright, and it's citizens were the best educated, most industrious and cleverest people in the world.  Hard questions back then involved things like "Where do you want to go to dinner tonight?"  Today's easiest questions are more along the lines of "If I fix something soft, will you feel like eating it?"   The hard ones these days are REALLY hard.

Back in the day, never realizing just how easy the questions were, I used to have all the answers.  There are no mountains when you're thirty or forty years old.  It's all a vast expanse of level ground with the wind at your back.  The experience acquired during the first forty years and the still present energy of youth combine to make one almost invincible. 

Well, I no longer have all the answers.  Life is so much harder now than back then.  My Doctor set up an appointment with a proctologist for me today and I'm struggling with an answer to this really hard question.  Do I want to go through THAT again??? 

No amount of holding a sealed envelope to my forehead will give me an answer.

IOU

That didn't take long at all.  The US government officially exceeded the deficit set by law today so our boy Timmy the Toddler promptly announced he's gonna grab all the monies set aside to fund the pensions of our retired Federal Employees.  Now it's common knowledge we must continue to give the bankers and wheeler dealers tons of money every day so they can continue to pay their country club dues and bills for the overpriced gas that goes into their yachts.  It's also common knowledge retired folks can thrive by eating grass for breakfast and boiled leaves for dinner.  Obviously, defunding the pensions of the poor worker bee is the right thing to do.

Now hold on to your hats, folks, 'cause ol' Grampa Forrest has a better plan.  You see, we are a mighty and powerful nation.  We can continue to buy big boats on which the high placed and famous can party AND still feed the less fortunate.  Nothing is impossible in this great land of Oz, but first, a little background. 

A couple of years ago, a bunch of crooks managed to steal every last dime from every bank in America.  They took all the money and put it in their own bottomless pockets.  I've lost track of the money from there, but for sure it's all gone and all the banks are completely bankrupt.  Well, our Feckless Grovelers in DC couldn't allow them all to go broke at the same time,  especially in an election year, so they needed a plan to cover up the misdeeds.  The plan, of course, was devised by none other than the very smart crooks who stole the money, and implemented by their government lackeys.  First the US government fired up the computers and created enough phony money to purchase a ton of the bad loans held on the books of these broke banks.

Ben and Timmy basically PRINTED money out of thin air, gave it to the banks, and received worthless pieces of paper in the form of delinquent and defaulted mortgages in return.  You and I, boys and girls, as the taxpayers of this nation, own all this crap.  Yep, we're on the hook for it.  Even this was not enough to return the banks to solvency.  We've done a lot more to save the crooks who started the mess.

We taxpayers were called upon to loan the banks even more of our government's money at a quarter percent interest rate and then we PAID THEM a little over three percent to loan it back to us!  Not a bad way to make a living.  Next, our wonder children in the halls of congress changed a law requiring the banks to value properties upon which they held the mortgages at market value so they could value them at what was owed.  The results of this change allowed a house that sold for $400,000 three years ago, and which would sell for less than half that today, to still be valued at the old price on the bank's books.  Now, the banks could pretend all was well, and continue doing business as usual.  Sort of like closing your eyes when the tsunami is rushing at you.  It's OK to pretend all is well until you drown. 

Now, here's the plan.  If we can trade cold hard cash to bankers for worthless pieces of paper, why can't we do the same for everyone else?  I'll be happy to sign an IOU to the US government for, oh, let's say, five million dollars.  No, I'm in a generous mood.  Let's make it for ten million bucks.  I'll sign a personal note, so my heirs are not affected,  for the ten mil, pay 20%  interest so the government can claim it's making money, and agree to pay it all back in monthly installments starting in the year 2318.

That IOU should be among some of the most worthless pieces of paper on the planet.  For sure one or another government agency will be interested in depositing the ten mil in my bank account and taking the IOU.  Now, after the plan's been shown to work, let's include everyone in the country - let 'em all have ten million.  Except the illegal aliens - we'll only give them five mil or so.  All we have to do is print more money.  Problem solved.

In fact, we could also abolish the Federal Income Tax by using a little hidden feature of my plan.  Any tax owed by anyone at all can be covered just by writing an IOU, and we can print even more money to cover these new ones too. 

My plan makes just as much sense as stealing from the pension plans of Federal workers.  This nation is being run by crooks and clowns.  All that's missing are the red rubber balls on their noses.

Erosion

We had dinner with Carolyn's sister again tonight.  It's turning into a regular thing.  Dinner here on Saturday and there on Sunday.  There was a special treat this week - friends from Napa Valley were in town and joined us.  We left that beautiful place long ago, but Carolyn's sister and her husband stuck it out until 2006.  All three couples used to have dinner together back then and we've missed their company.  Tonight was like an old familiar chair.  Good friends are easy on the mind and body.

Rick and I had some time together while Richard was cooking and the wives were visiting.  We couldn't remember when we last saw each other but settled on seven years.  That's probably not right, but we both agree it's close enough, and that's all that matters between friends.  He's a little older than I, and the last several years have not been good ones for him at all.  He's had several bypass surgeries and eight stents placed since we last saw each other. 

He told me of watching his only daughter wither away and die from cancer.  A divorcee, she chose to live  with him for the last several months of her life.  One of her favorite places on this earth was his back yard patio.  On her last morning, she asked to go outside so he carried her there.  An hour or so later, as he was fixing her something to drink, he looked out the window and watched as she took her last breath. 

That happened over five years ago, but some left over tears came to his eyes as he finished telling me about it.  He told me he knew I would understand the pain of watching a loved one grow steadily weaker, until there just was no more, and said he talked to me of his loss because there are not many who do.  He was right.  I could feel the pressure building in the outer corners of my eyes as I listened to this old friend. 

When we hung out together, Rick was an outgoing, easygoing, and rather boisterous guy. If a firecracker went off under your bed shortly after you fell asleep, Rick most likely had something to do with it.  He loved to joke, play golf, and could shoot a mean game of pool.  He was a very capable manager, with over 350 souls reporting to him on the last day of his career.  He was good at all he did, and most everyone who knew him enjoyed his company. 

Today, Rick is more subdued.  Life, which has been so good to him, had finally come to collect the bills that are usually presented earlier on.  You see, Rick had loved, lived and given himself to others.  Had he been someone who stayed to himself, who only minded his business and had not loved, but instead had been a loner, there would have been no payment due.  The loss of a daughter could not have happened - she never would have been.  With no loved ones, and no love of life to keep him here, the first heart attack may have taken him.  People with no reason to stay seldom do. 

If we were to meet for the first time today, I would be cordial, but would not go out of my way to befriend him.  It's hard for me to say that, but if I were to honestly look into a mirror, I'd have to say the same of myself.  Time and gravity does that to folks.  Both things combine to wear people down.  Once, many, many, years ago a good buddy sent me a sorta Latin saying, "Nil Carborundum Illigitimi,"  along with the translation,  "Don't let the Bastards wear you down."  Well, the Bastards don't have to wear you down.  Time and gravity will do that without any help.

The challenge, I believe, is to not care about the power of these two forces.  But, it's really hard to watch a loved one die slowly.  And it's even harder to not let it wear you down.

Dust

"Forrest?  Can you dust the glass table?  Thanks."  This from my wife of so many years I can't much remember any other female ever even being in my life.  And, she is having real problems with her vision; problems that make it difficult for her to walk, and impossible to see anything on the floor in front of her.  How the Devil can she see dust from all the way across the room?

Personally, I think it has to do with genetics and the differences in the way males and females evolved.  Guys are unequipped when it comes to seeing dust.  This has little to do with our eyes.  I'm positive of this because it's easy for me to see a '57 T-Bird across six busy lanes of traffic in plenty of time, as it approaches at a combined speed of 130MPH, to note if it is one of the porthole models or not.  No, I think that guys are just more concerned with larger things in life than mere dust.

We much prefer to clean engine oil stains from the garage floor.  There's, like, a complete difference in having the neighbor down the street come by and see me sweeping a bunch of oil absorbing chemicals back and forth in the garage and having him catch me with a fuchsia feather duster clutched in my hands, waiving it back and forth over some knock-off designer coffee table.  And, the Good Lord knows, I'd rather have grease and oil stains on my jeans than a layer of dust.  Jeez - even a coat of mud and grass stains beats dust. 

I believe dust to be a sort of modern invention.  I think most of it came from somewhere around Arkansas and Oklahoma in the 1930's and we have been wasting much more time and energy removing it from the horizontal portions of our lives than it's worth ever since.  Gee, thanks, Tom Joad, you created this mess and then moved to Sunny, California.  I happen to know where that is, just north of Fresno, 'cause I lived nearby a long time ago.  Thanks a lot. 

I'm not real sure that's true, but I can find very little reference to dust on the Internet before those times.  Lack of information is, in fact, information in itself.  So, I'm still leaning toward believing the dust was all made in some sort of bowl in the 30's. I couldn't find a picture of the bowl - someone must have broken it before the camera could be located.  Times were tough back in the day.  Mostly all that pops up by searching the Internet before then is concerned with something about "dust to dust,"  and I'm thinking maybe that phrase got mixed up with the phrase "dawn to dusk" in one way or another.  It gets a little confusing, but I try my best.

In any case, dust was never the problem before the 30's that it is now, and for SURE that's because of the energy crisis.  You see, before heating oil and gas got so darned expensive, it was OK to have leaky houses and the dust just sort of blew through them.  In one wall and out the other.  The dust was only slowed on it's journey by our walls, and things were kept pretty clean in this manner for most of recorded history.  If you can show me even one picture of an American Indian using a feather duster to clean his tee-pee back in the 1880's I'll change my mind.   

Modern houses are the bane of mankind.  They simply refuse to let dust leave.  Any dust at all that finds it's way into our tightly wrapped and highly insulated homes these days is trapped inside.  The only way out is on the fuchsia, or electric orange, feathers of a duster that is banged on an exterior wall after having run over any number of interior flat surfaces. 

Just looking at the bunch of faux feathers makes me wonder who decides what color a feather duster should be.  I personally want to put the guy out of his misery.  Heaven knows from the colors he chose, he must suffer greatly, and needs to travel on.

There may be another cause of dust, but I'm really reaching here, so you might want to just skip the next couple of paragraphs. 

Easy credit and the subsequent explosion of consumer debt just might be what causes dust.  But, again it's gonna be hard to separate this one from other 1930's influences.  Back then, before dust was much of a problem, and before there was easy credit, people mostly could afford to buy only stuff they used everyday.  And, every time it was used, it was...Ta-Da...Dusted!  Yeah, that's right, by the hand that used it!

Today our homes are filled with stuff we use only occasionally.  You know, like the fondue pot you bought back in the seventies that has not felt hot oil for the last decade?  Or the dog treat holder that sings "Who let the dogs out." every time the lid is opened?  That was real cute the first fifty-seven times, but lately the treats are left in the bag on TOP of the stinkin' thing because listening to it sing even one more time will cause a serious case of brain damage.  We can afford to have all this new and un-needed stuff laying around our joints becasue of easy credit and it's mostly good only to provide additional surfaces that attract dust.

Well, the easy answer , for a guy, to the whole dusty business would be to toss all the unused stuff in the bag that goes to the Salvation Army store and let someone else dust it.  As the Marines say "Simpli fy."  Girls, on the other hand, have evolved to think completely differently about these weighty matters.  They seem to enjoy having all this dusty crap around. I happen to enjoy the girl with whom I live.

"Sure, sweetheart.  I'll go get the feather duster."

System Crash

Blogger was down for most of the day and night yesterday.  In a way, for me at least, that was a good thing 'cause I managed to get a little more sleep than usual.  Evenings around this joint usually begin with dinner followed by network (gag) and local news and weather.  Carolyn and I then try to catch up on anything we have not discussed earlier in the day.  That is getting harder and harder for us, as she is becoming quite difficult  to understand.  It's frustrating for both of us.

We then prepare Carolyn for bed and after she is asleep, I sit down at the computer.  I sometimes stay there until long after midnight because I find it difficult to sleep these days.  I seldom sleep for more than four hours before rambling around the house for an hour or two.  I'll then return to bed and sort of nap for another hour or so before giving up and starting another day.  Tired.  The new normal for most of us, I guess.  Most of my friends have the same complaint, although the description of their insomnia seem not quite as severe as mine. 

Anyway, I suspect someone in the IT department at "Blogger" managed to crash the whole system while trying to fix a bug - there had been a few minor outages previous to this one.  That's an interesting term, "bug."  Back in the day, real bugs did real damage to early computers and now when anything at all goes wrong, an army of IT types go insane trying to find the bug.  Back then, the tech would expose the innards of the machine, physically locate and remove the bug, button it back up and hope for the best. Virtual bugs are more difficult to spot than the ones encountered by the first generation of IT workers and the pest control guys of today, and now it seems to take much more than bug spray and a pair of tweezers to fix the problem.

I have been at war with the IT guys ever since they first lied to me.  That first lie was told in 1967, and I have never forgotten it nor forgiven them.  I was promised a four day work week if only I'd learn to change the paper punch tape when the blight on the counter started to beep, and trust the information it provided me.  Yeah, right.  Everybody knows how that has worked out forty-five years later.  Now IT equipment takes up most of the budget we used to spend on real people, and nothing ever works. 

I dreaded Monday morning the last couple of years of my career.  IT came in late every Friday, after we all had left for the week end, and "fixed" all the problems.  More often than not, by the time Monday rolled  into town, they had done their job and gone home to whatever cave was available.  We worker bees would sit at our desks, push the "on" button and wait.  There were lots of times we'd wait til the IT guys could be reached at home, dress, drive back to work, and turn on something they had left off.

As a pilot, I'm used to something we call "checklists."  I start at the top, work my way down the list, and by the time I'm ready to leave the ground, so is the airplane.  I've never taken off without starting the engine.  Why is it such a simple procedure is not used by IT guys?  I'm sure Plato or some other great intellect has thought about this and has the answer, but so far the body of work on this subject remains hidden far beyond my humble ability to locate it.

Seriously, computers have done a lot to improve individual productivity, but they have not helped at all with day to day job stress.  In fact, I believe they are a major cause of the increase in the health and mental problems that are being experienced these days.  There's less physical activity on the job, and the workplace is filled with more stressful positions than it was fifty years ago when I began my career.  I fault the revolution brought about by the universal usage of computers for this change. 

That said, still, I thank Blogger for this forum and for providing a place where I am able to scream my frustration with this subject and many others far more ably than Peter Finch could do by yelling out his window.  My screams are heard around the world, with regular readers from continents I have not even visited.  I'm amazed.  And, Blogger has provided this space, at my command ninety-nine percent of the time I wish to use it, for free.

This forum really is a miracle, unavailable at any price, before these times.

Music, Music, Music

"Ramblin' Rose." "Nature Boy." Visions of Nat "King" Cole.  He could sure sing a song, and that was all it took for him to sell millions of records when a million was a lot.  That was Hollywood and Capitol Records back in the day.  It didn't much matter what color you were, if you could sing, they let you make money for them.  And, he wasn't the only black singer during the "Happy Days."  The first few that come to mind are Fats Domino, Johnny Mathis, Chuck Berry and Sam Cooke.

All of us were askin' why "Mabelline" couldn't be true, but we never asked Roy Acuff or Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys, who could have told us.  They knew her as "Ida Red,"  and were happy when she settled in with Chuck.  Maybe if Chuck had been a crooner, like Sam Cooke, she'd have hung around a while longer.  Sam was a smoothie. 

"You-oo-oo-oo send me." Sam sure did.  He sent us all.  What with him and Fats singing from the dash board of our cars, most of us managed to find a thrill, either on "Blueberry Hill," or parked on the path beside the railroad tracks, hidden behind a wall of bamboo plants.   And Johnny Manthis?  Well, "Chances Are" he's still raising eyebrows in his home state of Texas after coming out of the closet.  His dad was a  "Handyman," which brings to mind another Black artist, Jimmy Jones.

Never heard of him, right?  Well, most folks my age know his music - his other hit was "Good Timin," but what he's really remembered for was his falsetto voice.  He popularized that style, and ALL of us know where that led in the sixties.  Frankie Vallie, with the Four Seasons had about ninety-eight thousand, five hundred and sixty-seven hits.  Lou Christie  had a couple and Barry Gibbs, of the Bee Gees, rode the style to another gazillion record sales.  All of them credit Jimmy J for the style, and influencing so many singers is not a bad thing to be remembered for.

There is a point to all this, and the point is Black musicians and their music have influenced American music, and therefore the way our youngsters look at the world,  for years.  They led the way in the twenties and thirties with the likes of Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong and Billie Holiday.  In my day, Motown showed us how it was done.  Today, things are a little different with black music, and I hope it changes soon.  In my day, "Precious Love", "Ain't no Mountain High Enough" and Aretha's "Respect,"  were about hope, love and healing.  If what we're hearing from our Black musicians today is leading us into the future, I'm very frightened.

You see, I tuned in to a "with it" station for a while today.  For the first time in my life I took notes of song titles that are getting air time these days and looked up the lyrics.  May God help us.

Monster in the House

There I was, sitting at the dining room table with an oscillating sprinkler in my hands.  Really, it was more like I was sitting there with an UNoscillating sprinkler in my hands.  It had somehow lost it's ability to move back and forth.  It worked fine in Los Alamos just last year, and I could see no reason for the change.  It just refused to function in Oregon.  Nothing was broken, and the control gizzy was set just where I liked it during a previous lifetime.

I was brought up by parents who themselves were raised during the depression years, and who learned to fix stuff - not just toss it 'cause it quit working.  They, mostly my Dad, taught me to be the same way.  If it's broken, fix it.  If it's not broken, leave it alone.  Well, I tell you I was stumped.  This one was not broken at all, it just didn't want to work.  Now if I were still a card carrying member of the Republican Party, this post would wander off in another direction and I'd rant a little about welfare queens. 

These days I happen to think the biggest welfare queens are actually CEO's of our largest corporations, so I'm not gonna go there.  Instead, I'm gonna tell you a little about my dog, Muffy, 'cause just about the time I was ready to bang my head against the table, in hopes that action would bring an answer to the problem of the balky sprinkler, he started barking from the deepest regions of his lungs at something in the master bedroom.  He was, ya know, REALLY upset about something.

Several weeks ago, Carolyn and I spent a rainy afternoon  listening to him and learning his accented version of doggie speak.  He has a sort of yelp if there is a cat he wants to chase, a deep growl if a dog encroaches on his territory - that kind of thing.  It was time well spent, as we now know exactly what he knows when he starts talking to us.  But, I'm sure there are a couple of words in doggie speak we did not learn that day because he was using one of them back in the bedroom.

Hoping to further break the sprinkler so I could justify the purchase of a new one, I dropped it on the table and headed to the other end of the house to see what all the commotion was about.  It sounded like he was a Seal exiting a Blackhawk - he was ready for war.  I turned the corner from the hallway into the bedroom and started to laugh.  Muffy was looking at a strange dog in Carolyn's full length mirror and trying to scare it away. 

Muffy is a genuine eight pound white fuzzball all American mutt, a defender of his homeland and champion protector of his owners.  Nothing scares him, he digs in the mud, crashes through rose bushes with delight and chases everything from butterflies to Dobermans. He hates being brushed and that's why his very long fuzzy hair wound up knotted so tightly it caused him to sit and scratch at it for twenty or so minutes every hour.  He also knows exactly what he looks like when he sees himself in Carolyn's mirror, and because he's such a guy dog, he seldom takes note of his appearance.

It has finally warmed up a little around here.  By that, I mean it no longer drops much below thirty degrees at night anymore.  For the last month or so, I have been promising Carolyn that soon as it got warmer, I'd take Muffy to the groomers and have him shaved so all the knots and tangles in his hair would not cause him to scratch so much .  They were clearly bothering the poor little guy.  Well, today was the day.  I loaded Muffy, mud, tangles and all, into the Guzzler Deluxe and dropped him off with orders to the groomer to shave him as closely as the middle class of this country has been shaved over the last couple of decades.

It didn't take her as long as it took the oligarchs and their bought and paid for politicians.  An hour later I went back and loaded what appeared to be a rather largish, big eared, white rat into the Guzzler Deluxe and headed home.  Oh yeah, the rat responded to the name "Muffy."   What a change. 

It was this change that had caused the mixed up animal to believe, as he casually passed by the mirror, we had been invaded by a strange dog, one that did not belong in our castle, and who needed to be barked at.  After recovering from my fit of laughter, I calmed him down, reassured him all was right with the world and returned to the cantankerous sprinkler.  Everything was good in Muffy's world, but I still had a lazy sprinkler in mine.

The Races

Lots of my friends look at me a little funny when I tell them I can't do ____________(fill in any fun activity you can  think of) with them today 'cause there's a NASCAR race happening at the same time.   They know I love to ____________, and normally would give up a day's pay to do it.  Well, maybe I better think of something else I'd be willing to forgo - a day's pay these days is not a whole bunch.  I'm retired.  How 'bout I'd give up a ride in the last space shuttle mission instead?

No, I'd probably ride the shuttle and miss Dale, Jr. doing something stupid like forgetting how to turn onto the pit road with only thirty laps to go, thereby costing himself a top five finish.  Yeah, I'm certain I'd do the shuttle thing as long as NASA promised to have me back in time for the next race.  Wouldn't want to miss two in a row.  Lots going on this year.  In fact, the races are getting to be a lot like a hockey game, only the pucks weigh 3450 pounds.  Maybe I'd give up chocolate fudge for a week - yeah, that's it.  I'd give up fudge.

Last week, Montoya, car 42, and Newman car 39, bumped into and ran over each other with more force than Eddie Shore applied to Ace Bailey in 1933.  I wasn't there for that match, but I did watch last weeks race, and was happy to see both drivers managed to stay away from each other this week.  But, rumor has it Newman punched Montoya during a "let's all get along" meeting with NASCAR officials earlier in the week.  I gotta tell you, that takes some BIG ones.  Right in front of God, the officials and all.  I'm cracking up!  To his credit, Montoya, fifty pounds lighter, is rumored to have said Newman punches "like a girl." 

This week it was between Harvick, car 29 and Busch (Kyle), car 18.  Both drivers were going about 175 miles an hour, clutching the steering wheel in much the way McSorley or Suter clutch their sticks.  All of a sudden, for no good reason, they started swinging their cars at each other.  Time and again the cars smashed together.  First the 29 ran into the rear of the 18.  Then the 18 came alongside the 29 and bashed into it's right side, sending it into Boyer's 33.  Boyer crashed, but the 29 and 18 managed to continue for several hundred more feet till the 18 turned and "hooked" the 29 and sent it spinning out of control. 

A couple of laps later, the race ended.  But the fight continued with Harvick blocking Busch's way home.  Harvick jumped out and ran back to Busch.  I'm just guessing here, but maybe he wanted to thank him for the new bruises.  Well, Busch is no gentleman.  He ran into Harvick's unmanned car, causing it to smash into a wall, while Harvick was thanking him.  Go figure.  Both of them were invited  into the NASCAR trailer a little later.  That's right, the same trailer in which Newman (maybe) punched Montoya earlier this week.  

Now, these little fracases have been going on for years with the good ol' boys, one of the most famous ones was at Daytona in 1979. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXbHQtZH8dE  If ya ask me, it's part of the gig.  Tell me, how would you feel after racing for 499 of 500 miles, adrenaline flowing, checkered flag in sight, and some yahoo puts a ding in the side of your ride.  And, the ding was applied with enough force to cause you to spin around and flip end for end a couple of times while slowing from almost 200 MPH?  I'm pretty sure I'd be REAL tempted to punch me out some lights.  As long as the punchee has his helmet on, about the worst that can happen is the puncher breaks his hand.  Which means he has to think about being a bad boy while sitting out the next couple of races because he can't grip the wheel.

See?  Taking a poke at the other guy is a self-policing behavior.  The officials should try to tone down deliberately crashing an opponent on the track, but what happens after the race is just a couple of good ol' boys havin' a little fun.  Let um be.  A good ol' Alabama boy myself, I enjoyed a scrap every now and again when I was in my twenties.  The fisticuffs taught me more manners than my parents ever did.

For sure, it's good for the ratings.  Will Harvick and Busch go at it next week?  How about Montoya and Newman?  Will Dale EVER quit shooting himself?  Tune in next week, it's the greatest motor sport in the world!

NASCAR is an acquired taste.  It takes time, experience and a whole LOT of knowledge on the part of the fan to really enjoy.  The average neophyte viewer has no clue what's going on.  He thinks it's all about a bunch of cars going 'round in circles til a checkered flag waves and some one is a million dollars richer.  That's not the case at all.  It's all about personalities.  It's about family, a lot of the guys had fathers, and grandfathers before them, who drove the cars around the same tracks.  Tradition, that's what it is, and a source of comfort in seeing something that was there in the past continue on in today's totally screwed up world.  Tradition.  Comfort.  Family.  Cars and Guys.  That's NASCAR, and it's right up there with apple pie and ice cream.

Shorn and Shaven

Well, boys and girls, have you seen the price of oil these days?  Less than a hundred bucks a barrel.  Yesterday it was over $110.00.  Gold dropped from an overnight high of $1577/oz. last Friday night to around $1475/oz. today.  And silver?  My coin dealer is banging his head against his desk right now.  Last Monday he spent two hours weighing sterling flatware, vases and other assorted items from a couple of little old ladies and then paid them 80% of the spot price of $43.80, or $35.04 per ounce.

 It's a good thing for him they came in on Monday, and not the Friday before.  The price then was over $49 per ounce, and the little old ladies left a bunch of it on his counter.  How do I know about this?  I walked into his shop the day after they left and he started complaining to me about things getting out of hand like they did in '82 when the Hunt brothers tried to corner the market.  (Yeah, I'm banging my head too.  I bought the dip before it DIPPED.)  I'm of the opinion the only thing today's action has in common with that period is the fall in price.  There's lots more going on this time around, small things like the collapse of our currency, and other countries trying to revalue their currencies more advantageously, but we shall see.

"Everybody who has been given a piece of silver sometime in their life is digging it out of the closet, cabinet or box and bringing it down here for me to buy."  He said.  "Now, I've got to box all this stuff up every day and ship it to the big boys so it can be melted and purified.  I just hope the price holds long enough for them to get it and pay me.  It's dropping like a rock."

His fear was justified.  As I write this, silver is worth  $34.66/oz.  I hope he overnighted that shipment, otherwise he's lost fifty cents per ounce plus the cost of shipping.  I hate to see a little guy lose money in the course of his business.  Especially when that loss is caused by a war between the VERY rich and the merely wealthy.  The leaders of our country would classify him "collateral damage" and express sorrow to his wife over his loss, but, they also would say to her, "Such is war."  The VERY rich and the merely wealthy wouldn't even bother to do that.  They're too busy picking out new yachts.

We, in this household, are kinda fortunate these days. We can sit around eating popcorn and watch as the richest 400 families rob the rest of the top 5% in the country.  You see, those families actually OWN the metal, and their lawyers long ago created pieces of paper, which represent future pieces of silver, that are traded back and forth among many of the other members of the top 5% in lieu of the metal.  These pieces of paper are for the most part highly leveraged options to buy or sell the metal, and every now and again the big boys create conditions whereby the owners of the paper lose their shirts. 

I'm betting that before it's all over, some important folks are gonna get burned by this mess.  They're doing OK for now, and they just may sneak out of an untenable position.  But, for the rest of us it just may be the final straw, the one that destroys this country's financial hold over the rest of the world.  For now, though, it's the best circus in town. 

Believe me, I'm no guru in these matters - if I were, I'd be part of the 5% now taking a haircut. The information on how this stuff works is easy to find, and if you're at all interested, go for it.  Otherwise, just know the movie started last Friday night, sit back and enjoy.  All of them have been robbing us, and it's fun to watch the wannabes get shorn.  Too bad they are not also being shaven as closely as we have been.

If you happen to hold an ounce or two of the actual metal, I wouldn't be very concerned about this war.  The guys getting killed are leveraged, not secure in their ownership.  They own pieces of paper, which soon may be useful for not much more than heating them in the winter, not metal.  The whole thing may blow up overnight one of these days and gold and silver may lose 90% of their current price, but if that happens, everything else will have blown up as well.  Their value will remain. 

Relative PM prices will come back - too much money is being printed for them not to.  In my estimation, the printing will continue in spite of all the jawboning about the end of QE2.   Our government owes too much money and they can't quit printing.  The rise in interest rates that will occur if they do stop the presses will bankrupt our government.  (Is it possible to be "more" bankrupt?)

One interesting part of all this is the price of gas.  I wonder if it'll come down to match current oil prices as quickly as it rose.  RBOB prices have fallen 31 cents a gallon since Friday.  I wonder if we'll see that change reflected at the pumps.  If it does come down some, fill up all the cars, cans, trucks, milk cartons and test tubes you happen to have laying around.  It won't last long.  As for me, I'm even gonna fill all my coffee mugs if I can figure a way to seal them.  That should last us a while.

BY THE WAY:  This post is in no way financial advise.  It was written by an idiot who has lost thousands of dollars over the course of a lifetime in the markets.  These days the markets are nothing more than a source of amusement for me, and I wrote about it at this time because of a visit with my coin dealer and because today was an especially amusing one.  I have no money invested in any market, and encourage anyone at all to shoot me in the head if I ever put even one of  my dollars in them.  I now invest in places where the rules are not written by and for the benefit of the 1%.  Small, weekly purchases of lottery tickets qualifies as an investment, doesn't it?  I'm pretty sure everyone becomes rich rather quickly that way, don't they?

A day in the Life Of

Another weird day today.  They seem to happen more and more often.  Carolyn fell getting out of the shower so the first order of business was a trip to Bigbox lumber for another grab bar.  They're starting to sprout  inside this joint like the spring flowers outside.  The troubling part is they are always a reaction to a fall.  I can't seem to place them where they're needed before the event.  No foresight - I'm used to that character flaw, it's why I no longer have any stock market holdings.  I've found more creative ways to invest, ones where the rules are not made by and for the benefit of the 1%.

Naturally, the Chinese screws used to install the bar were made of softer metal than the Phillips point on my drill/driver and after driving the first three about half way in, the heads melted.  So, out came the vise-grip pliers, an item I'm using way more often these days. Just before twisting my hand off my arm, the melted head screws were removed.  I went to Ace hardware and obtained stainless steel screws of the same size, which went into the wall with ease, although I altered not one bit my method of driving them.  Yes, folks, it was the CCC screws, not the technique I have perfected over a lifetime of driving screws.

After the trip and installation of the new devise, it was time for Carolyn's bone density scan.  Yeah, her Doctors are also worried about falls, and are looking to see just how her bones will hold up.  Had I been asked, I would have told them "Not very well - just look at data on bones of the class of females her age."  My prediction of her condition will come very close to that predicted by the scan, and is much cheaper.  Too bad they don't pay for astute advice. 

When we got back home, it was time to take my blood pressure reading on a cool little machine I was given the other day, for the third time.  One more reading to go be fore I can sleep tonight.  That little gem was provided to me because I flunked the BP test at my new Medicare doctors office the other day.  After taking the readings, I noticed his rapidly widening eyes and told him not to worry - I had run out of my BP and Cholesterol meds.  Everything should be hunky-dory if only he would prescribe more of the three meds missing from the bottles I handed to him. 

That was another way to save a little taxpayers money on Medicare, but it was met with resistance and an order to go see a tech, grab a machine and report back.  If my BP doesn't blow up something I need before the next appointment, it too will work out just fine. 'Course there is the little matter of an extra couple of Doctor visits and the machine that must be paid by the taxpayers.  Thanks, guys, I really didn't need it.

Next, it was time to cook dinner and rush out the door for Carolyn's new Bible study class.  Then, American Idol, Carolyn's bedtime and now, alone in front of the computer.  Just an average day in the life of a retired guy.  Sure glad I don't have a day job any more.  Too busy. 

Lawn Envy

I pulled a bunch of weeds from the flower bed in front of our home today.  That's something I'd never have done in New Mexico.  Anything at all that was green in that place was something I considered a treasure, and too valuable a life form to kill.  Here, in Oregon, anything in the flowerbed that produces blooms not suited to vases on the dinning table, or in the lawn area with leaves wider that the average blade of grass,  must be annihilated.  Tout de suite.

How is it my outlook regarding plant life was so easily altered?  I'm still the mostly kind, caring person I was last year, but now I'm a certified killer, trained in the use of a backpack sprayer.  Low, ground hugging, yellow blossoms in and along the edges of my lawn cringe and close up, in hopes of hiding their offensive color in a sea of deep green, trying to avoid the stream of Round Up and the sharp blade of my trusty garden trowel.  Even the unruly hedge bushes fear my passage. 

They know I just may duck into the garage and re-emerge with my electric trimmer and a coil of extension cord guaranteed to reach far beyond their location.  With a pull on the trigger, I am capable of maiming the branches that reach beyond their brothers, and forcing order and compliance with size and shape upon them.  I was even worse during the months of last winter. 

During those cold days, I patrolled with a lopper and saw,  terrorizing branches on the trees in our yard that pointed toward the ground instead of the sky.  That''s the best time of year to develop the art form of maiming and killing plants.  All the neighbors are warm in their houses, with the blinds and drapes closed against the winter chill, and can not see and report a person who is armed with sharp blades of varying size and function, running amok amongst the flora surrounding his home. 

By the time the neighbors noticed the order I had created during the winter months,  it was too late.  They realized just how powerful and cruel I am, and declined to press the issue.  Instead, I now find them showing the same obsessive cruelty around their domains.  I imagine it is in hopes of impressing me; it could never be because they also enjoy life in a home surrounded by a neat, orderly lawn.

Lawn envy at it's finest.  Each neighbor vying to have the most perfect lawn and flowerbeds.  It's also the best way in the world for a newbie to get to know the folks beside him.  All I need to do is compliment someone on his lush, green lawn and ask about the fertilizer he uses.  Within an hour we are well acquainted.

And, a neighborhood afflicted with lawn envy is so much easier on the eyes than one without the curse. 

Silly Putty

I listened to a sermon the other day, from a real preacher in a real church.  That's kinda unusual for me, but we drove by it a couple of weeks ago and Carolyn had been talking about it ever since.  I'm not sure we'll be back, that's up to her, but the guy said a couple of things that have floated around between my ears  awhile.

One was an analogy he used.  Something about silly putty in the hand of God.  He said to trust God, become silly putty in his hand and let him mold you.  I had never thought of myself as something to be molded, like silly putty, in anyone else's hand.  But you know what?  That's exactly what I have been all my life, and I continue to be that way.  This little insight has left me in a mess.

My parents, school teachers and yes, clergymen, took the silly putty that was me as a child, and molded me into what they thought I should be.  It happens to all of us, and life becomes a battle between what we are taught to be and who we want to be.  I am of the opinion who we want to be usually wins, but my Goodness, what a battle it is.  And, after thinking about it a little more, another question pops into my head. .  If "who we want to be" wins, how the devil can we know we weren't taught to be "who we want to be" by someone who molded us? 

Also, if God is doing the molding, just how is it He acts upon us?  By using the parents and teachers he chose for us?  It really doesn't matter where you are in the world nor what the prevailing religious beliefs are in that part of the world, it's a really interesting question, and at this time, I'm lost.  Can't figure it out.  If I'm lucky, it'll come to me one of these days.

The other thought he presented is summed up by an old Alfred E. Newman quote, "What, me worry?"  The preacher stated it as "do not fret," but Alfred's version is the same, and more easily understood.

We actually are our own worse enemies, and it all occurs between our very own ears.  Someone says something,  in an offhand way, that offends us.  Never mind the other person meant nothing by it, we are offended, and we did that to ourselves.  Someone else may have a differing point of view than ours.  Friendships are lost and wars are fought because of this one.  Tolerance and an open mind  are some of the easiest of virtues to acquire, but few are capable of even this first step.  This is my thought, not the preacher's.

 Or, something happens in our lives that troubles us.  My ears perked up as this thought flew from his mouth to my brain - Carolyn and I are troubled souls these days, me more than her.  His message was it does not matter, it is what it is.  Accept what is and continue the journey.

The message was so very, very, simple.  Life Happens.  Deal with it, and take the next breath.  And then the next one.  Don't let the facts of your life worry and confuse you.  Let God handle it for you.  Put the next foot down, one step ahead of the other.  He made it sound SO easy, and I wish it were.  There's a part of me that wants it to be that way, and I wish I could turn loose and just BE.

Long ago, in a golden state far away, it was possible for me to do this.  As long as I was the only one affected by my actions and no one else depended on me for support, it's was easy to just live in the moment and have not one care for the future, nor relive the past except for the good memories.  It seems that I must try harder, plan more, and do fewer crazy things when another person depends on the things I do.  Bipolar - that's me.  Do other guys feel this way?  Is this the reason we refer to ourselves as happy and carefree while single?  The Good Lord, whom we have been discussing, knows I've been happier with Carolyn by my side than at any other time in my life.  I have not been carefree.  That seems to be the challenge.

I was taught to plan for the future, to set aside a little for a rainy day, to care for my family.  I'm of mixed emotions about the way I have lived my life, all that was set aside could have been used to make Carolyn laugh a little more.  I worry that I have not been as good a partner as I could have been.   The "prudent" use of our treasure may have been better used by letting more of it slip through our fingers.  She always asked for so little, and is worth so much.  We'll not have the ability to use the "set aside" joy of the past in our future.

Is his message a cop out?  An excuse to take the easy way out and just let it all slide by?   Don't worry?  About anything?  Or is a carefree existence in fact a better way to live the only life we have?  Should we just let the future take care of itself, and not concern ourselves that we may starve in the streets in our old age?   

These are tough questions, and ones that have concerned the greatest minds of our Western Civilization throughout our history.  But only when the greatest minds had idle time.  Maybe, life is just too darned easy now.  Hard work and struggling just to eat used to kill us off at a very early age, and none of this was important to the majority of folks even one hundred years ago.  Actually, the majority of the folks in the world today do not have the time to worry about these things.  They are still starving.

We, who have all the comforts and the time, are all SO hard on ourselves, and it should be so simple.

If I Ruled the World

Well, we got 'em.  He's toast, bit the dust, the fat lady just sang.  Now what? 

This might sound a little crazy, but what's wrong with simply declaring victory and pulling ALL our troops in the region back home?  Right now, at this time, we have the only perfect opportunity to win this thing that will ever come down the road.  Let's just do it.

I know, why do I hate America so much?  Don't I know we have to continually drop bombs and blow up missiles all day, every day of the year?  Somebody, somewhere must die everyday in some far off place so our defense industry can survive.  Selling arms to everyone in the world just won't cut it for them, we're the only country capable of printing enough money to feed these guys.  Unless the good ol' US of A buys and explodes munitions at the rate of a couple of million bucks an hour,  our fat cat arms merchants will go belly up.

Already, we are being prepared to fight on til the last of our enemies is face down in the dust.  Everyone from the Prez to Andy Card has managed to find his way to a TV camera and said we must continue this good fight, and we're gonna hear much more of the same for the next month or so.  Ol' Ben was just the figurehead.  We've got to get every last mothers son in the Arab world just to be sure.  Oh - maybe after we've done that, maybe we should sterilize all the females of child bearing age.  Ya know, just to be sure.  (We may have missed one of those little Devils.)  It comes as no surprise, we can't just be happy winning.  We have to DESTROY these swarthy people.  It's God's will.  It must be, 'cause he's on our side. Allah is on the other side.  God is fighting Allah, and we are His worthy tools.  GIVE ME A BREAK.  Give us all a break. 

Let's just win this thing.  End it now before we manage to snatch defeat from the victory we won today.  It's all gonna be down hill from here, and we're gonna lose this war if we don't stop it now.