OK. Now where were we? Fought with the mutt, started with the wrong box, mouse fell on floor so no need to further check contents of correct starting box, needed an adapter, needed a new keyboard - what have I forgotten? Never mind - I'm too old to care. If ya need to catch up, go back a page and read the first part of this story, Genius.
Whatever it was that happened in the house that night did not mean the end of the world. The Sun came up in the East, way too early in the morning, as it has a nasty habit of doing during the summer months. Three hours or so later we also rose. Me in the South and Carolyn in the North. That way we don't climb all over Muffy, who has a really ugly habit of waiting til we fall asleep before he jumps up on the bed between us. Maybe one morning I should also rise in the North. But, I'm afraid even a white fluffy dog will make a mess if a guy with a tummy shaped like Buddha rolls over it. Don't really want to find out 'cause I hate cleaning up messes.
Speaking of cleaning up messes, that was the first thing out of Carolyn's mouth soon as she walked into the living room. "Oh my God! There's boxes and trash everywhere! What were you doing in here last night?" After reminding her I was very busy cleaning all the boxes off the small couch, as she had so ardently suggested, she replied. "Well, I didn't mean for you to scramble the whole living room. Jeez - it was better when they were all on the couch." A guy just has no chance of winning these days. I told her I'd fix it. I'm good at that.
I started to clean up the mess and that's when I found the keyboard that came with the new computer. Ya know, the one that I thought was not included so I went to Radio Shack, phoned the Geeks, and then traveled ANOTHER 42.3 miles to buy a new one? It was included. Ol' eagle eyes had not seen it in the box.
Well, ya really can't blame me. I am sixty-six years old, wear glasses, and have stumbled through my whole life without seeing where I am headed. How the devil am I supposed to see something as small as a 19 inch long keyboard? It's just not my fault. Darn Chinamen - they hide the suckers in a fourteen pound wad of folded cardboard designed specifically to conceal keyboards. I should sue.
Now I had a super cool adapter and a keyboard, both of which I needed to return..........some other day. I'm busy right now. I cleaned up my mess from the night before and started anew to complete the original task - getting rid of the boxes on the couch. No way was I ever gonna think of this project as hooking up the new computer and Blu-ray. I don't know how to do that. I continued getting rid of the boxes on the couch by taking the recently purchased keyboard and adapter, along with the receipts, out to the Guzzler.
Then I hooked up the keyboard that came with the computer, pushed on the hidden on/off switch and waited. Soon the set up menu appeared and this time, I made it all the way through. The new computer worked! But, it has a new version of Windows, so I'm gonna have to deal with that. Again, some other day - I'm busy right now. Now, I was able to start on the router. At last I could read the instructions on the CD.
The router was child's play. Too bad I'm not a child. It took a while. After following all the instructions to the dirty end, I had no idea if it was working or not. There was no way to check until I hooked up the Blu-ray.
I unboxed it and CAREFULLY checked every ounce of packing for tiny pieces, plugged it in, loaded batteries in the remote and pushed the button. Nothing happened. Sometimes, a plug is controlled by a wall switch so I replaced the Blu-ray plug with one from a lamp. When I turned the lamp on, it was just like in Genesis - there was light. No problem with the switch, the Blu-ray was DOA. There was no reset button, no way to check to see if the remote was kaput, it was just totally busted.
"No big deal," I thought to myself, " I need to return a bunch of stuff anyway." I continued to clean off the couch by repacking the Blu-ray and tossing it into the Guzzler with the rest. That couch was looking pretty good; Carolyn just might not divorce me this week. Twenty-one and two tenths miles later I was at the store with a bunch of broken and unneeded junk.
They gave me some sort of exchange slip, "Good for anything in the store." I sauntered over to where I knew they kept their stash of Blu-rays (I had discovered the pile only the day before) and found.......an empty shelf. They had sold out of the device I had come to love.
Not just "heck with it," but "HELL with it! I want my money back, and I'm not leaving til you give it to me." They believed me and gave it back. As an afterthought, I let them know I was gonna go to Costco to get a new one. There. I sure told them!
So, back in the Guzzler and a little over six miles later I was where I should have gone to buy the stuff anyway. I went to the first place only because I had no idea what I was doing, and thought they were experts. Ha! They didn't know what I needed either. Bet it had nothing at all to do with the fact I had no idea what I needed and could not tell them. Not my fault - that's my story and.............you know.
I bought the new Blu-ray, eight pounds of bacon, four pounds of butter and a box of Cheese Goldfish for the same amount of money the experts wanted just for a broken DVD player. Back at the house, I plugged it in, followed the instructions, and invited the neighbors over to watch a movie.
Next time Carolyn tells me to clean the couch I'm gonna call some professionals. Ya know, the ones with the steam cleaning vacuums and such? They'd probably do a better job.
I still know nothing about hooking up IT stuff. It's way beyond me.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Genius
That's me. An absolute genius of the first rank. The kind of stupendously smart person with whom one comes in contact only once in a lifetime. If one happens to be fortunate. Meeting more than one like me will make ya want to commit the foulest form of suicide. I inadvertently torture most folks.
I watched my first "Streaming DVD" on the new Blu-ray last night! And, I did it all by myself! No, not watched all by myself, hooked it up by myself. Well, Muffy helped a little, but not much. I offered him meaningful work, but he declined. By himself he determined the most important function he could perform was to keep the instructions from blowing away in gale force winds. If ever a gale force wind blows inside our home, Muffy will be on the job, all four feet right in the middle of the huge six color folding instructions. He was on duty last night, and will gladly perform beyond all reasonable expectations in the future. He's that kind of mutt.
Knowing Carolyn would be upset if I were to use blunt force to keep his paws from covering step three, I tried using subterfuge instead. First, I grabbed his chew toy, dangled and shook it in front of his pug face, and then tossed it across the room. In the blink of an eye he was after it. In the blink of my other eye, he was back in the middle of step four, only this time he was laying down, and had his toy with him to help cover more steps.
Next, I tried to bribe him with food. He wolfed it down and returned to his station. I've been outsmarted by this shrimp of a mutt several times, but this time was different. I was DETERMINED to win this battle. And, I knew just how to do it. Thumbtacks! I tacked the instructions to the wall. The dog is almost as smart as I, and quickly realized he couldn't lay down on a wall. He gave up and walked of in a huff. Good help is getting harder and harder to find. Maybe I should try using bunny rabbits to assist me in the future.
The Router, which was the first box I opened, was a breeze. There was only one wire and a really cool looking curved box containing the arc of the covenant, or some other equally magic assortment of holy devices, and a CD explaining how to hook it up. Well, all that stuff went right back in the box. My old, broken down computer no longer recognizes a CD when it is inserted into either tray. There was no way I could see what was on the CD.
Instead, I started by unboxing (yeah - that's a word - I say so) the new computer. That seemed a sensible place to start, 'specially since I needed it to read the instructions on the CD, and it would go a long way toward reducing the pile of boxed crap that, according to my wife, needed to disappear. I, myself, had started to grow fond of the pile. But, she rules when it comes to interior decorating. Can't imagine why she prefers a bland, empty couch to a pile of junk. It looked fine to me.
I pulled the tower out of the box, and the mouse dropped a couple of inches to the thickly padded new carpet. Sweet! I didn't have to look through all the custom designed, cut and folded cardboard that protected the contents of the box. I carefully unplugged the old computer, one wire at a time, and moved it to the other side of my office. Then, I plugged everything back together. There are files and stuff I'm sure I'll need soon, so my old friend steadfastly waits on a small table across from my desk, secure in the knowledge it will again serve it's ungrateful master.
The monitor and printer and mouse were mated to the tower with ease, but my ancient keyboard, which I needed to use because the tower did not have a new one, had some sort of plug that did not fit into any orifice. So, a trip to the local Radio Shack was in order. I explained my problem, as best I could, to the Vulcan behind the counter. He did not understand my problem, so I gave permission for him to use the Vulcan mind meld with the provision he not turn it into a mind melt. "Ah-ha," he exclaimed, "You need a PS2 to USB adapter." He sold one to me.
Once back inside the house, my Leatherman made short work of the protective plastic cover containing the futuristic item and I plugged that sucker in. Every thing now fit and it was time to fire it up. After looking twenty minutes for some sort of button that when depressed would cause the lights to, uh, light up, I called the "Geek Squad." In pidgin English (none of those guys knows how to speak American English) he managed to convey the fact that Compaq hides the on/off button in a depressed area on the right side of the thing. Who would ever think to look there? I thanked him, hung up the phone and pressed the button. Lights everywhere!
Following the on screen instructions, I pushed this, checked that and then came to the part that required the use of the keyboard to enter information. I typed and nothing happened. At all. Another twenty minute call to the Geeks. This time I was asked just how old was the keyboard I was using? There was a girlish giggle on the other end of the line, and I was told it was way too old to be recognized by my wonderful new computer. What the heck is that all about? A brand new tire fits a seventy year old car every day of the week.
Modern Marvels my a--. Somebody should complain. So, back to the store in Bend, a 42.3 mile round trip - yes, Martha, I kept track on the odometer, for a new keyboard that fits my computer.
By this time it was getting late. I conducted the nightly ritual we complete each night with the end result of Carolyn laying in bed for the night. Then I looked at the keyboard, the computer, all the boxes and wires and crap that had no intention of allowing me to connect to the Internet. I said heck with it - I'll finish in the morning.
This is getting a little longer than even I had imagined it would, and I'm only half way through the tale. So, I'm saying to heck with this post and I'll finish it in the morning. See? I know when it's time to quit.
I watched my first "Streaming DVD" on the new Blu-ray last night! And, I did it all by myself! No, not watched all by myself, hooked it up by myself. Well, Muffy helped a little, but not much. I offered him meaningful work, but he declined. By himself he determined the most important function he could perform was to keep the instructions from blowing away in gale force winds. If ever a gale force wind blows inside our home, Muffy will be on the job, all four feet right in the middle of the huge six color folding instructions. He was on duty last night, and will gladly perform beyond all reasonable expectations in the future. He's that kind of mutt.
Knowing Carolyn would be upset if I were to use blunt force to keep his paws from covering step three, I tried using subterfuge instead. First, I grabbed his chew toy, dangled and shook it in front of his pug face, and then tossed it across the room. In the blink of an eye he was after it. In the blink of my other eye, he was back in the middle of step four, only this time he was laying down, and had his toy with him to help cover more steps.
Next, I tried to bribe him with food. He wolfed it down and returned to his station. I've been outsmarted by this shrimp of a mutt several times, but this time was different. I was DETERMINED to win this battle. And, I knew just how to do it. Thumbtacks! I tacked the instructions to the wall. The dog is almost as smart as I, and quickly realized he couldn't lay down on a wall. He gave up and walked of in a huff. Good help is getting harder and harder to find. Maybe I should try using bunny rabbits to assist me in the future.
The Router, which was the first box I opened, was a breeze. There was only one wire and a really cool looking curved box containing the arc of the covenant, or some other equally magic assortment of holy devices, and a CD explaining how to hook it up. Well, all that stuff went right back in the box. My old, broken down computer no longer recognizes a CD when it is inserted into either tray. There was no way I could see what was on the CD.
Instead, I started by unboxing (yeah - that's a word - I say so) the new computer. That seemed a sensible place to start, 'specially since I needed it to read the instructions on the CD, and it would go a long way toward reducing the pile of boxed crap that, according to my wife, needed to disappear. I, myself, had started to grow fond of the pile. But, she rules when it comes to interior decorating. Can't imagine why she prefers a bland, empty couch to a pile of junk. It looked fine to me.
I pulled the tower out of the box, and the mouse dropped a couple of inches to the thickly padded new carpet. Sweet! I didn't have to look through all the custom designed, cut and folded cardboard that protected the contents of the box. I carefully unplugged the old computer, one wire at a time, and moved it to the other side of my office. Then, I plugged everything back together. There are files and stuff I'm sure I'll need soon, so my old friend steadfastly waits on a small table across from my desk, secure in the knowledge it will again serve it's ungrateful master.
The monitor and printer and mouse were mated to the tower with ease, but my ancient keyboard, which I needed to use because the tower did not have a new one, had some sort of plug that did not fit into any orifice. So, a trip to the local Radio Shack was in order. I explained my problem, as best I could, to the Vulcan behind the counter. He did not understand my problem, so I gave permission for him to use the Vulcan mind meld with the provision he not turn it into a mind melt. "Ah-ha," he exclaimed, "You need a PS2 to USB adapter." He sold one to me.
Once back inside the house, my Leatherman made short work of the protective plastic cover containing the futuristic item and I plugged that sucker in. Every thing now fit and it was time to fire it up. After looking twenty minutes for some sort of button that when depressed would cause the lights to, uh, light up, I called the "Geek Squad." In pidgin English (none of those guys knows how to speak American English) he managed to convey the fact that Compaq hides the on/off button in a depressed area on the right side of the thing. Who would ever think to look there? I thanked him, hung up the phone and pressed the button. Lights everywhere!
Following the on screen instructions, I pushed this, checked that and then came to the part that required the use of the keyboard to enter information. I typed and nothing happened. At all. Another twenty minute call to the Geeks. This time I was asked just how old was the keyboard I was using? There was a girlish giggle on the other end of the line, and I was told it was way too old to be recognized by my wonderful new computer. What the heck is that all about? A brand new tire fits a seventy year old car every day of the week.
Modern Marvels my a--. Somebody should complain. So, back to the store in Bend, a 42.3 mile round trip - yes, Martha, I kept track on the odometer, for a new keyboard that fits my computer.
By this time it was getting late. I conducted the nightly ritual we complete each night with the end result of Carolyn laying in bed for the night. Then I looked at the keyboard, the computer, all the boxes and wires and crap that had no intention of allowing me to connect to the Internet. I said heck with it - I'll finish in the morning.
This is getting a little longer than even I had imagined it would, and I'm only half way through the tale. So, I'm saying to heck with this post and I'll finish it in the morning. See? I know when it's time to quit.
I'm back
We had an emergency around this joint the other day which required me to leave very suddenly. It was important that I got on my way as quickly as possible, which meant I needed to leave Carolyn on her own for twenty minutes or so before her sister could take over her care. After calling to make sure help for her was on the way, I departed.
A neighbor noticed my haste, and came running, asking if there was anything he could do to help. With no time to explain, I called over my shoulder, "Carolyn's sister is on her way." Late the following day, when I was able to return home, I found that five of our good neighbors had pitched in.
Carolyn did not have to spend even one minute unattended and both she and her sister were treated to a home cooked dinner, prepared in a neighbor's kitchen, while I was gone.
I have spoken before of people I have known in the Pacific Northwest while living south of Seattle during an earlier period of my life. I told of their kindness, generosity, and of my amazement at the effort they were willing to expend helping their neighbors. I have also spoken of the people in our present neighborhood. I have found them to be pleasant, intelligent and helpful to us, newcomers that we are. Until last Thursday morning, I did not realize just how fortunate we are to have found this home.
Carolyn and I live in a place filled with kind, considerate and generous folks. They are willing to help, and will disrupt their lives in an instant to lend a hand to a neighbor in need. I wish everyone in the world could experience a life among friends, as we enjoy; it's good for the soul.
To all who accompany Carolyn and I on this journey I say "Thanks". To all who were there Thursday morning I say, "Many thanks, you saved the day."
A neighbor noticed my haste, and came running, asking if there was anything he could do to help. With no time to explain, I called over my shoulder, "Carolyn's sister is on her way." Late the following day, when I was able to return home, I found that five of our good neighbors had pitched in.
Carolyn did not have to spend even one minute unattended and both she and her sister were treated to a home cooked dinner, prepared in a neighbor's kitchen, while I was gone.
I have spoken before of people I have known in the Pacific Northwest while living south of Seattle during an earlier period of my life. I told of their kindness, generosity, and of my amazement at the effort they were willing to expend helping their neighbors. I have also spoken of the people in our present neighborhood. I have found them to be pleasant, intelligent and helpful to us, newcomers that we are. Until last Thursday morning, I did not realize just how fortunate we are to have found this home.
Carolyn and I live in a place filled with kind, considerate and generous folks. They are willing to help, and will disrupt their lives in an instant to lend a hand to a neighbor in need. I wish everyone in the world could experience a life among friends, as we enjoy; it's good for the soul.
To all who accompany Carolyn and I on this journey I say "Thanks". To all who were there Thursday morning I say, "Many thanks, you saved the day."
Thursday, July 28, 2011
New Gear
Well, I finally did it. We went to Best Buy and bought a bunch of stuff. A new computer, a Blu-Ray, cables, router, monitor and God only knows what else. Now all the stuff is sitting in boxes out of harms way on the small couch in our living room.
One of these days, my helper and I will figure out how to hook up all this junk. That's my helper, Muffy, sitting next to all the boxes. It's easy to tell, from the puzzled look on his face, he's already tried to read the instruction manual that came with the router.
I told him to start with that item 'cause I've used a router for most of my adult life. In fact, I have a great Craftsman Router in my garage which I last used when making an oak shelf to put on the bathroom wall, which we used to hold a bunch of pill bottles. It worked great.
I mentioned this to the salesman when he told me I needed a new router so I could get "streaming movies" on my TV, three rooms and four walls away from the office where my computer is located, but he just got a puzzled look on his face - much like Muffy. He said I still needed to buy a new one. Must be he wants me to have one hooked up to something or other in the boxes and still have one available in the garage. Since I'm a totally wealthy guy (not), I guess it's OK to have two of them - I have eleven hammers, ya know, and that's a fact I've discussed before. Guess I'll just have to show both of them, the salesman and Muffy, how to insert the bit and tear into a piece of wood. Us old guys have been around the block a couple of times.
After I've shown everyone how to use the router, I'm gonna depend on Muffy to demonstrate the correct way to hook up the computer. I'm not looking forward to that chore and I'll tell you why. It's because I have not one clue which wire goes where. Last time I bought a computer I was still a working stiff and knew a couple of IT types who were forty years younger, made more money than I ever dreamed of doing at their age, and who were more than willing to help a crotchety old geezer get with it. Those kids were great, and since Muffy is the youngster in this house these days, the job has fallen on his shoulders - all four of them.
Between us, I suspect we'll have it up and working in about thirty days or so. Then, there's the Blu-Ray to deal with. I have some experience with Stingrays, mostly vintage 1963, so maybe I can draw on that. As long as it has a key and four speed transmission, I'll do just fine.
The sales guy told me it was a breeze. Just plug in some sort of cable - he had a special name for it, but that name slips my mind now, and follow the instructions on the screen. I'm a little confused about that 'cause the only screen on the Stingray was the oil screen, and it was pretty hard to get to. Had to unbolt the pan.
Hey! I just remembered! I think he said it was a HEMI cable. Maybe that's why the whole set up cost less than a thousand bucks. Stingrays came with Chevy engines in them and a Hemi is a Chrysler. Only way those cars are worth anything at all is if the engine and body numbers match. Now that I think about it, I probably paid too much.
I'm gonna get this done. I've thought about it a while, and with all my experience with woodworking tools and automobiles, I probably have just exactly what it takes to do this thing. JR, I'm gonna make you proud!
What can possibly go wrong?
I told him to start with that item 'cause I've used a router for most of my adult life. In fact, I have a great Craftsman Router in my garage which I last used when making an oak shelf to put on the bathroom wall, which we used to hold a bunch of pill bottles. It worked great.
I mentioned this to the salesman when he told me I needed a new router so I could get "streaming movies" on my TV, three rooms and four walls away from the office where my computer is located, but he just got a puzzled look on his face - much like Muffy. He said I still needed to buy a new one. Must be he wants me to have one hooked up to something or other in the boxes and still have one available in the garage. Since I'm a totally wealthy guy (not), I guess it's OK to have two of them - I have eleven hammers, ya know, and that's a fact I've discussed before. Guess I'll just have to show both of them, the salesman and Muffy, how to insert the bit and tear into a piece of wood. Us old guys have been around the block a couple of times.
After I've shown everyone how to use the router, I'm gonna depend on Muffy to demonstrate the correct way to hook up the computer. I'm not looking forward to that chore and I'll tell you why. It's because I have not one clue which wire goes where. Last time I bought a computer I was still a working stiff and knew a couple of IT types who were forty years younger, made more money than I ever dreamed of doing at their age, and who were more than willing to help a crotchety old geezer get with it. Those kids were great, and since Muffy is the youngster in this house these days, the job has fallen on his shoulders - all four of them.
Between us, I suspect we'll have it up and working in about thirty days or so. Then, there's the Blu-Ray to deal with. I have some experience with Stingrays, mostly vintage 1963, so maybe I can draw on that. As long as it has a key and four speed transmission, I'll do just fine.
The sales guy told me it was a breeze. Just plug in some sort of cable - he had a special name for it, but that name slips my mind now, and follow the instructions on the screen. I'm a little confused about that 'cause the only screen on the Stingray was the oil screen, and it was pretty hard to get to. Had to unbolt the pan.
Hey! I just remembered! I think he said it was a HEMI cable. Maybe that's why the whole set up cost less than a thousand bucks. Stingrays came with Chevy engines in them and a Hemi is a Chrysler. Only way those cars are worth anything at all is if the engine and body numbers match. Now that I think about it, I probably paid too much.
I'm gonna get this done. I've thought about it a while, and with all my experience with woodworking tools and automobiles, I probably have just exactly what it takes to do this thing. JR, I'm gonna make you proud!
What can possibly go wrong?
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Who Needs This Bunch
A friend and I had a conversation today about what's really happening in DC. He pretty much agrees the whole show is merely theater designed to kill the juice on the third rail. In the real world, the third rail of a track is the one that carries the electricity required to run an electric train. Touch it and you die.
For many decades that's what Social Security has been called, the "Third Rail" in politics. Tip O'Neill, Speaker of the House at the time, first coined that phrase in the early 80's, during the time Ronald Reagan, David Stockman and Alan Greenspan "fixed" Social Security. After several failed attempts to change it's provisions, these three folks finally managed to get a measure passed in 1985. It cost the Republican Party control of the House in 1986, when angry voters "threw the bums out" because of the changes.
Politicians of both parties are pretty cunning guys, and the Republicans - now with the active assistance of a few Democrats in the house and the Big Guy in the oval office, knowing there was more work to be done "fixing" Soc. Security, realized they'd need to change tactics if they were ever to succeed in doing away with this very popular government retirement insurance program. They have spent the last twenty-five years slowly redefining the terms, and shaping public perceptions with conservative owned media.
Today, Social Security is no longer an old age pension insurance plan, it's an "Entitlement." Even after convincing the populace of the switch in name and tagging the word with negative connotations, it still proved to be a highly charged issue. Attacking "Entitlements" was still a great way to get voted out of office.
What we are seeing now is a further refinement of the effort to destroy the only two programs designed to help most people after their bodies have been worn out by toil. The politicians say they are not getting rid of these programs, instead they claim they're "fixing the deficit" and they're even doing that obliquely - they're debating "raising the debt ceiling." Don't believe them for even a millisecond. http://www.cbpp.org/cms/index.cfm?fa=view&id=3548
Twenty-five years of changing definitions and obscuring the debate has culminated in the argument we are witnessing today. And, all of it is completely irrelevant. My friend asked that instead of railing at the unhearing Gods, and shrieking out in anger, could I just please give him what I thought was a decent solution so he could determine it's merits? That stopped me for a minute. Of course I knew what I'd do if I were in charge, but I had never taken the time to state my answer to the problem. He was right. I have been so busy yelling about the idiots, everyone must believe that I run with the same animals, just a different tribe.
OK - here we go. My solution. First, something must be done quickly about the debt ceiling. (Even the Speaker of the House agrees with this http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2011-05-15/obama-says-debt-default-may-unravel-global-financial-system.html ) In the past, that issue has stood on it's own, without ties to any other issues. That's what we need to do now. Get rid of the other issues and raise the limit. If doing that is so far beyond political reality as to be impossible, there is a separate way to deal with the ceiling. Right now, we owe ourselves 1.6 trillion dollars. Much like taking money out of your own savings account to buy a new car, and then telling yourself that you must replace it, our government has accounts just like that. We would say we owe ourselves what came out of the savings account, and need to replace it. Our government says it owes itself 1.6 trillion dollars in this sense. Just stop telling ourselves we owe ourselves this money and the debt ceiling issue goes away. http://www.ronpaul.com/2011-07-11/ron-paul-rescind-americas-ficticious-1-6-trillion-debt-to-the-federal-reserve/
Next, do ABSOLUTELY nothing. Period. Nada, nil, stop. Current laws on the books call for the tax breaks given under the Bush administration to expire. We have already decided to pull our troops out of Iraq and Afghanistan. These two things, along with several other items covered by laws already enacted, will bring our budget back in balance. http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/ezra-klein/post/we-have-a-congress-problem-not-a-deficit-problem-in-one-graph/2011/05/19/AGVOXgtH_blog.html Please note the blue band, which represents our deficit, at the bottom of the graph.
All we are watching on the TV is the purest of nonsense, designed to do nothing more than confuse and distract the American public while our benefits are being stolen from us and while taxes are being lowered on the wealthiest among us. http://blogs.forbes.com/robertlenzner/2011/07/25/the-400-richest-americans-pay-an-18-tax-rate/?partner=yahoofeed
Let's pass a clean debt ceiling increase and then declare an indefinite recess of congress. We have plenty of laws now, and all they do while in session is spend money and argue. They can meet again if we need them sometime in the future.
For many decades that's what Social Security has been called, the "Third Rail" in politics. Tip O'Neill, Speaker of the House at the time, first coined that phrase in the early 80's, during the time Ronald Reagan, David Stockman and Alan Greenspan "fixed" Social Security. After several failed attempts to change it's provisions, these three folks finally managed to get a measure passed in 1985. It cost the Republican Party control of the House in 1986, when angry voters "threw the bums out" because of the changes.
Politicians of both parties are pretty cunning guys, and the Republicans - now with the active assistance of a few Democrats in the house and the Big Guy in the oval office, knowing there was more work to be done "fixing" Soc. Security, realized they'd need to change tactics if they were ever to succeed in doing away with this very popular government retirement insurance program. They have spent the last twenty-five years slowly redefining the terms, and shaping public perceptions with conservative owned media.
Today, Social Security is no longer an old age pension insurance plan, it's an "Entitlement." Even after convincing the populace of the switch in name and tagging the word with negative connotations, it still proved to be a highly charged issue. Attacking "Entitlements" was still a great way to get voted out of office.
What we are seeing now is a further refinement of the effort to destroy the only two programs designed to help most people after their bodies have been worn out by toil. The politicians say they are not getting rid of these programs, instead they claim they're "fixing the deficit" and they're even doing that obliquely - they're debating "raising the debt ceiling." Don't believe them for even a millisecond. http://www.cbpp.org/cms/index.cfm?fa=view&id=3548
Twenty-five years of changing definitions and obscuring the debate has culminated in the argument we are witnessing today. And, all of it is completely irrelevant. My friend asked that instead of railing at the unhearing Gods, and shrieking out in anger, could I just please give him what I thought was a decent solution so he could determine it's merits? That stopped me for a minute. Of course I knew what I'd do if I were in charge, but I had never taken the time to state my answer to the problem. He was right. I have been so busy yelling about the idiots, everyone must believe that I run with the same animals, just a different tribe.
OK - here we go. My solution. First, something must be done quickly about the debt ceiling. (Even the Speaker of the House agrees with this http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2011-05-15/obama-says-debt-default-may-unravel-global-financial-system.html ) In the past, that issue has stood on it's own, without ties to any other issues. That's what we need to do now. Get rid of the other issues and raise the limit. If doing that is so far beyond political reality as to be impossible, there is a separate way to deal with the ceiling. Right now, we owe ourselves 1.6 trillion dollars. Much like taking money out of your own savings account to buy a new car, and then telling yourself that you must replace it, our government has accounts just like that. We would say we owe ourselves what came out of the savings account, and need to replace it. Our government says it owes itself 1.6 trillion dollars in this sense. Just stop telling ourselves we owe ourselves this money and the debt ceiling issue goes away. http://www.ronpaul.com/2011-07-11/ron-paul-rescind-americas-ficticious-1-6-trillion-debt-to-the-federal-reserve/
Next, do ABSOLUTELY nothing. Period. Nada, nil, stop. Current laws on the books call for the tax breaks given under the Bush administration to expire. We have already decided to pull our troops out of Iraq and Afghanistan. These two things, along with several other items covered by laws already enacted, will bring our budget back in balance. http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/ezra-klein/post/we-have-a-congress-problem-not-a-deficit-problem-in-one-graph/2011/05/19/AGVOXgtH_blog.html Please note the blue band, which represents our deficit, at the bottom of the graph.
All we are watching on the TV is the purest of nonsense, designed to do nothing more than confuse and distract the American public while our benefits are being stolen from us and while taxes are being lowered on the wealthiest among us. http://blogs.forbes.com/robertlenzner/2011/07/25/the-400-richest-americans-pay-an-18-tax-rate/?partner=yahoofeed
Let's pass a clean debt ceiling increase and then declare an indefinite recess of congress. We have plenty of laws now, and all they do while in session is spend money and argue. They can meet again if we need them sometime in the future.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Back in the Day
Today's news included an item about three souls who ventured into a prohibited place in Yosemite Park and managed to go over Vernal Falls. I'm betting it's the last time any of those three will ignore well placed signs advising a halt to forward progress. Or any other sign. Darwinism at work. That sounds harsh, but if you've ever seen the place they were, in person, you'd understand my lack of compassion.
I have seen the place, and this news reminded me of a day long ago, when I was there. Really, it was long, LONG, ago when two exceptionaly fit seventeen year olds had nothing to do one day. Danny and I had been in the park for several days doing nothing more than working on our tans at Stoneman's Beach, by the river, or at Eyeball Beach in Camp Curry.
Stoneman's is on the Merced River at, naturally enough, Stoneman Bridge. Everybody on the planet can google "Stoneman Bridge" and find it with ease. Try googling "Eyeball Beach". Only the initiated will know where that is. Don't worry folks, I'm about to make you experts in the field of Yosemite Locations circa 1960. I'm gonna tell you where it is.
Camp Curry was a middle class city of cabin tents that visitors rented by the day or week while they stayed in the Park. I say it's middle class because all the yahoos, like Danny and I, would pitch Coleman tents, or just throw a bedspread, corners pegged to the ground, over a line strung between two trees, in one of several campgrounds. Rich people would stay at Yosemite Lodge, in wooden cabins. The WEALTHY would stay in the Ahwahnee Lodge, a five star hotel. The tent cabins in Camp Curry was where everyone else stayed.
Danny and I were much more comfortable attempting to woo middle class girls, so when we tired of Stoneman's Beach, we'd head to Camp Curry to see what was happening there. Curry had several restaurants, a gift shop and a post office and lounge. The post office and lounge area was directly across a pine needle strewn walkway, maybe two hundred feet wide, from the restaurant and gift shop. That walkway, my friends, was eyeball beach. We would sit on the steps leading to the Post Office and watch as the young ladies walked by. Usually, several would be bored enough to stop and talk with us. All the guys knew where eyeball beach was, and visited regularly. It used to be fun being a teenager.
One day, we both tired of doing the same thing every day, so we cast about looking to do something different. Something we had never done before. It was right in front of us. Half Dome.
I had heard about a trail, one that went up the backside of the sheer face for years, but knew nothing about it. I asked Danny if he'd like to help figure out how to climb it.
We stopped running when we reached the cables. In 1962, there was only one set of cables, now there are two. This picture shows maybe fifty people climbing up to the top of the mountain, that little line of black dots in the picture to the right. And yes, it's steeper than it looks. A whole lot steeper. Each dot is a climber, and I assure you that was not the case back in 1962. Danny and I had the place all to ourselves. There were no others going up, no one else at the top, and no one to trip over, climbing, as we were coming down. This picture shows just exactly why I have not been inside the park in over twenty years. I consider it the place I grew into a man, but my home turf has become overrun by strangers with whom I have nothing in common.
They do not understand the beauty, actively work to destroy that beauty by tossing litter from one end of the valley to the other, steal any camping gear left in the open, and create so much noise and confusion that no one within the confines of the twenty one square miles can appreciate what they are seeing. Not only do they disregard the litter laws, they ignore signs designed to keep them alive. My home has been ruined by uncaring people. It's a shame.
We climbed the cables, Danny and I, and at the top we crawled on our bellies to the very edge where we could see Mirror Lake, almost a mile straight down below us. It took real courage to crawl to that edge; I never before realized I was frightened by heights. Funny that, by this time in my life I was already a pilot, and had never before been affected by being a mile or more off the ground. This time I had no wings to protect me.
We rested for ten or fifteen minutes, and then turned back and started down the mountain. Again, we ran the whole way. The wind was at our backs, our legs were powerful and filled with youth; our lungs unaffected by cigarettes and smog. We were strong in those days.
Sixteen miles? Climb almost a mile? Sure! Why not, it's only one o'clock in the afternoon. If we start now, we'll be back way before dark. An old man remembers how it feels to be invincible. Back in the day.
I have seen the place, and this news reminded me of a day long ago, when I was there. Really, it was long, LONG, ago when two exceptionaly fit seventeen year olds had nothing to do one day. Danny and I had been in the park for several days doing nothing more than working on our tans at Stoneman's Beach, by the river, or at Eyeball Beach in Camp Curry.
Stoneman's is on the Merced River at, naturally enough, Stoneman Bridge. Everybody on the planet can google "Stoneman Bridge" and find it with ease. Try googling "Eyeball Beach". Only the initiated will know where that is. Don't worry folks, I'm about to make you experts in the field of Yosemite Locations circa 1960. I'm gonna tell you where it is.
Camp Curry was a middle class city of cabin tents that visitors rented by the day or week while they stayed in the Park. I say it's middle class because all the yahoos, like Danny and I, would pitch Coleman tents, or just throw a bedspread, corners pegged to the ground, over a line strung between two trees, in one of several campgrounds. Rich people would stay at Yosemite Lodge, in wooden cabins. The WEALTHY would stay in the Ahwahnee Lodge, a five star hotel. The tent cabins in Camp Curry was where everyone else stayed.
Danny and I were much more comfortable attempting to woo middle class girls, so when we tired of Stoneman's Beach, we'd head to Camp Curry to see what was happening there. Curry had several restaurants, a gift shop and a post office and lounge. The post office and lounge area was directly across a pine needle strewn walkway, maybe two hundred feet wide, from the restaurant and gift shop. That walkway, my friends, was eyeball beach. We would sit on the steps leading to the Post Office and watch as the young ladies walked by. Usually, several would be bored enough to stop and talk with us. All the guys knew where eyeball beach was, and visited regularly. It used to be fun being a teenager.
One day, we both tired of doing the same thing every day, so we cast about looking to do something different. Something we had never done before. It was right in front of us. Half Dome.
I had heard about a trail, one that went up the backside of the sheer face for years, but knew nothing about it. I asked Danny if he'd like to help figure out how to climb it. Wow! Something to do! Not only did he say yes, he jumped at the idea. "Let's do it!"
We went to Park Headquarters and talked with a Ranger. He told us to start at Happy Isles. "Take the trail to Vernal Falls, and then go on up to Half Dome, past Nevada Falls. The signs are all there. By the way, it's 8 miles up there and 8 miles back. Are you up for that distance?"
We sure were. Off we went. We jogged the entire way to Vernal, crossed the creek where we should, not where the three hapless swimmers at the beginning of this tale tried and failed, and then, after crossing Nevada Falls, encountered the biggest, meanest mosquitoes I've ever seen. They were all over us. Instead of jogging, we ran the next four miles.
They do not understand the beauty, actively work to destroy that beauty by tossing litter from one end of the valley to the other, steal any camping gear left in the open, and create so much noise and confusion that no one within the confines of the twenty one square miles can appreciate what they are seeing. Not only do they disregard the litter laws, they ignore signs designed to keep them alive. My home has been ruined by uncaring people. It's a shame.
We climbed the cables, Danny and I, and at the top we crawled on our bellies to the very edge where we could see Mirror Lake, almost a mile straight down below us. It took real courage to crawl to that edge; I never before realized I was frightened by heights. Funny that, by this time in my life I was already a pilot, and had never before been affected by being a mile or more off the ground. This time I had no wings to protect me.
We rested for ten or fifteen minutes, and then turned back and started down the mountain. Again, we ran the whole way. The wind was at our backs, our legs were powerful and filled with youth; our lungs unaffected by cigarettes and smog. We were strong in those days.
Sixteen miles? Climb almost a mile? Sure! Why not, it's only one o'clock in the afternoon. If we start now, we'll be back way before dark. An old man remembers how it feels to be invincible. Back in the day.
Jail Time
Dereliction of Duty. Disgusting. Traitors, all of them. This country will drown in red ink caused by rising interest rates on our public debt.
The children in DC are incapable of agreeing on even the texture of the grains of sand in the sandbox that is their workstation. I say we toss every last mothers son and daughter in jail. Let them argue with each other while wearing prison stripes and eating prison chow until they can decide on a course of action. They are holding us hostage, I say it's time to turn the tables.
I'm betting we'll have a new debt ceiling in short order if they meet in a prison cafeteria to fuss with each other, and a new budget ON TIME if after leaving the cafeteria they are made to return to their cells for the night. This nation and it's people are at risk. Meanwhile the detestable, corrupt, lying sacks are trying their best to curry favor with only special narrow interest groups who contribute to campaigns.
Boys and girls, we're getting the screwing of a lifetime. This is not a battle over raising the debt ceiling, it's a war to see who pays for the bail outs that were given to the bankers. I'm gonna go out on a really short limb here and tell you what's gonna be.
They will raise the debt ceiling. The way cost of living increases in Social Security is figured will be changed - the increases will fall further behind reality. Medicare will be gutted. There will be tax "reform" that results in fewer taxes on the wealthy and corporations. All this by 2013.
They got the bail out and now we, the loser working people in America, will be required to pay it back. Where in the Dickens is a dictator when ya need one? That, I'm afraid, is where this ends.
Hope at least some of you were smart enough to buy an ounce or two of gold a while back. It jumped over twenty dollars an ounce at the open of the Asian Markets. Just wish I could afford some - being retired, all I can afford is enough booze to keep me unconscious.
The children in DC are incapable of agreeing on even the texture of the grains of sand in the sandbox that is their workstation. I say we toss every last mothers son and daughter in jail. Let them argue with each other while wearing prison stripes and eating prison chow until they can decide on a course of action. They are holding us hostage, I say it's time to turn the tables.
I'm betting we'll have a new debt ceiling in short order if they meet in a prison cafeteria to fuss with each other, and a new budget ON TIME if after leaving the cafeteria they are made to return to their cells for the night. This nation and it's people are at risk. Meanwhile the detestable, corrupt, lying sacks are trying their best to curry favor with only special narrow interest groups who contribute to campaigns.
Boys and girls, we're getting the screwing of a lifetime. This is not a battle over raising the debt ceiling, it's a war to see who pays for the bail outs that were given to the bankers. I'm gonna go out on a really short limb here and tell you what's gonna be.
They will raise the debt ceiling. The way cost of living increases in Social Security is figured will be changed - the increases will fall further behind reality. Medicare will be gutted. There will be tax "reform" that results in fewer taxes on the wealthy and corporations. All this by 2013.
They got the bail out and now we, the loser working people in America, will be required to pay it back. Where in the Dickens is a dictator when ya need one? That, I'm afraid, is where this ends.
Hope at least some of you were smart enough to buy an ounce or two of gold a while back. It jumped over twenty dollars an ounce at the open of the Asian Markets. Just wish I could afford some - being retired, all I can afford is enough booze to keep me unconscious.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Gone.
Lucy Scanlan, Carolyn's mother, passed from this earth at 10:41 Pacific Daylight Time this morning with family by her side. It was an easy death, one deep breath followed by a long pause, and then a shallow one. Then there were no more. She was 102 years, 1 month and 12 days old.
Her life started before WWI, she was 20 years old when the depression occurred, and lived to meet her great great grandchildren. At the time of her birth, men had just learned to fly. She watched as we walked on the moon, and then as the final flight of an American manned spacecraft ended. On her ninetieth birthday, she herself piloted an airplane. The changes in her world did nothing to affect her meticulous manners and natural charm. She was a lady, one who was a pleasure to be around.
Carolyn will adjust to her passing, we all do. But, today was very hard for her and her sister. Wish them well, they both are missing their greatest friend and confidante. The world is a much quieter place today, the laughter of the three of them together is gone.
It will never be heard again.
Her life started before WWI, she was 20 years old when the depression occurred, and lived to meet her great great grandchildren. At the time of her birth, men had just learned to fly. She watched as we walked on the moon, and then as the final flight of an American manned spacecraft ended. On her ninetieth birthday, she herself piloted an airplane. The changes in her world did nothing to affect her meticulous manners and natural charm. She was a lady, one who was a pleasure to be around.
Carolyn will adjust to her passing, we all do. But, today was very hard for her and her sister. Wish them well, they both are missing their greatest friend and confidante. The world is a much quieter place today, the laughter of the three of them together is gone.
It will never be heard again.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Debt Ceiling
http://www.reuters.com/article/2011/07/20/us-usa-debt-fed-idUSTRE76J6IT20110720
What's the big deal with the debt ceiling? Can't 'ol Uncle Ben just print up a few trillion more?
A couple of years ago he busted a gut cranking the printin' press so all the bankers would have enough to pay themselves huge bonuses. Most people don't know this, but here's how it happened. Ben would pretend to be working really hard, long after quitting time. Soon as all the other Fed workers in the building would go home for the day, Ben would sneak down to the basement and fire up the presses.
Once he had a twelve foot high stack of ten thousand dollar bills he'd pull out his cell phone. "Hey Lloyd....I got a little sumpin' for ya."
"Great, Ben. The jet needs some maintenance by the end of the month, and the boat's a little low on fuel. I'll sent Gary right over to pick up the present............ Oh yeah, don't let me forget - there'll be a spot for you over here soon as you finish in that basement."
Well, I'm not totally sure of the mechanics, it may have happened a little differently, but I am sure Goldman Sucks got more billions from our treasury than we did. All of us put together. One thing we did get was the tab. That's why we're so far in the hole now. And, that's why all the conmen - OOPS - I meant congressmen - want to take away our health care and "fix" our Social Security.
It's OK for Ben to print up a bunch of money for Lloyd and all his buddies, but when you and I need to buy groceries we're told by our very own President "I can't guarantee there will be money for Social Security checks."
Mr. President, I have an idea. Send ol' Ben back down to the basement. Don't pay him overtime, he already gets plenty. If nothing else, have Hank Paulson pony up the two hundred million worth of taxes he avoided paying by taking the job at treasury before Timid Timmy came along. That should cover a bunch of SS checks.
What a bunch of jerks. I don't want to go to jail so I'll stop.
What's the big deal with the debt ceiling? Can't 'ol Uncle Ben just print up a few trillion more?
A couple of years ago he busted a gut cranking the printin' press so all the bankers would have enough to pay themselves huge bonuses. Most people don't know this, but here's how it happened. Ben would pretend to be working really hard, long after quitting time. Soon as all the other Fed workers in the building would go home for the day, Ben would sneak down to the basement and fire up the presses.
Once he had a twelve foot high stack of ten thousand dollar bills he'd pull out his cell phone. "Hey Lloyd....I got a little sumpin' for ya."
"Great, Ben. The jet needs some maintenance by the end of the month, and the boat's a little low on fuel. I'll sent Gary right over to pick up the present............ Oh yeah, don't let me forget - there'll be a spot for you over here soon as you finish in that basement."
Well, I'm not totally sure of the mechanics, it may have happened a little differently, but I am sure Goldman Sucks got more billions from our treasury than we did. All of us put together. One thing we did get was the tab. That's why we're so far in the hole now. And, that's why all the conmen - OOPS - I meant congressmen - want to take away our health care and "fix" our Social Security.
It's OK for Ben to print up a bunch of money for Lloyd and all his buddies, but when you and I need to buy groceries we're told by our very own President "I can't guarantee there will be money for Social Security checks."
Mr. President, I have an idea. Send ol' Ben back down to the basement. Don't pay him overtime, he already gets plenty. If nothing else, have Hank Paulson pony up the two hundred million worth of taxes he avoided paying by taking the job at treasury before Timid Timmy came along. That should cover a bunch of SS checks.
What a bunch of jerks. I don't want to go to jail so I'll stop.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Wet Vacation
The other day a buddy of mine mentioned he had an offer on his house. If his counter worked, he was gonna sell the thing and move to San Antonio, TX. I turned around and RAN for the Ibuprofen bottle to cure the immediate headache caused from the mere mention of that town. Why is that? It's because we were in the general vicinity, taking in the sights including the Riverwalk, Alamo, and other interesting places for the better part of a week, and suffered through a vacation filled with the worst water woes on record. I'll tell you about it, but first a little background information is in order.
Carolyn's Mom used to spend the cool summer months found at an elevation of 7200 feet in the Jemez Mountains of New Mexico with us. To make her three month long stays a little more comfortable, we bought an inexpensive 29 foot long travel trailer so she would have a place all to herself, with a kitchen she could fill with as many crumbs as she wished without upsetting her daughter, and where she could crank up the volume on the TV loud enough for her impaired ears without forcing me to retire to the hanger at the airport. We bought the longest, biggest model we could find that would fit comfortably in our drive.
At the time, I drove a half ton GMC Suburban, and Carolyn had a Q-45. The trailer was much too heavy for either of the vehicles, even if we could have somehow been able to hook them together. But, we only had to move the dang thing twice a year, once from the storage lot to our drive, and then once again to return it. The Suburban could handle that with ease.
In fact, it handled it with such ease, I was lulled into thinking my half ton vehicle was capable of towing it around on a camping vacation. So, one bright summer day, a gorgeous electric blue New Mexico day without a cloud in the sky for a hundred miles, we hooked the trailer to the back of the Suburban and headed out to Texas. We were going to see that place, and, by Golly, we were going to do it in style.
Our first stop was made while still in New Mexico because we had left after working all day and could only get as far as Fort Sumner. I am a pilot, and because during an earlier period in my life I had traveled extensively with a very small tear drop trailer, I knew it was alright to pull into any small local airport and set up for the night. Every body does it. So, we pulled into the airport, lowered the jacks, and started to fix dinner.
The first sign of the water woes to follow came when I flipped the switch that turns on the water pump. It worked, I could hear the pump run as it tried to pressurize the lines. It ran. And it ran. And it ran some more. Suspecting some sort of problem after it had not shut itself off, I turned it off. Then I walked out the door and started a walk around the outside of our mobile hotel, looking for evidence of a leak. Of course I found it. Actually, I slipped in it. Water was dripping everywhere, and most of it was coming from the area close to the vent for the water heater.
Being, for the most part, an unflappable guy, I opened the water heater cover, pulled off the removable access cover, and saw that the three gallon water heater tank was leaking water as fast as it could through a three inch long fracture along one side of it. Next, I shut the valves that isolate the heater from the rest of the water system, buttoned every thing up, and went inside to give Carolyn the bad news. "No shower tonight, sweetheart. The heater's leaking. Maybe we can stop at my sister's place in San Angelo tomorrow and grab one there."
Next morning the Sun rose, and so did we. But, before we could comtinue on our jovial way, we had to argue with a Much Too Serious Air Force Lieutenant who thought we must be some sort of commie spies out to sabotage the weather reporting capability of the United States Air Force. I had forgotten this was 2002, a little less than a year after 9/11, and there was an Air Force balloon weather reporting station located on the Ft. Sumner airport. Folks were very sensitive about what goes on at airports back then; they still are today. This pompous representative of our USAF, who was old enough only to be my grandchild, actually threatened to "call the Airport Manager and report you."
With as serious a face as I could muster at the time, I replied "Oh no! Please not that! Can't you just shoot us instead?" He stormed off and about twenty minutes later a real grown up arrived on the scene. He introduced himself as the airport manager, told us the Air Force was a major tenant on the airport, and let us know they were unhappy we were there. I told him we had just stopped for the night, as had been my custom for years, and apologized to him for not having sense enough to realize things had changed since 9/11.
Knowing that such informal camping had been allowed to fellow pilots for a little over a century, he asked how much longer we needed before we could be on our way. I told him my wife was putting on her face, and asked for an additional thirty minutes. He wished us luck and offered to unruffle the good Lieutenant's feathers. All in all, he was a pretty decent guy who really wished he could have been enjoying his morning coffee. Several weeks later, I flew in with a bunch of guys just to legally share a cup with him. Unlike crazy campers, pilots who arrive at the airport in a for real airplane are always welcome. Even after 9/11.
We made it to my sisters house that day and showered. Refreshed, we visited for a while and then continued on to our intended destination of Kerrville. I wanted to visit the Mooney aircraft facilities there, and had heard the camping along the Guadalupe River, which runs through the place, was the best. Sure enough, I was not misinformed. We set up our trailer right by the edge of a really beautiful river, in a RV park with hot showers, (our heater was broken, remember?) and I started to cook dinner.
Soon as I hooked up to the water supply, every one of the faucets started leaking. Turns out the town water supply is located about four miles up a mountain and the water pressure at river elevation is somewhere in the vicinity of 100 pounds per square inch. No way would any of my ancient, seldom used, faucets hold back that kind of pressure. All the washers in the faucets needed to be replaced with new ones. If you're keeping track, that's woe # two, three, four, five and six.
So, that first night was spent at the local Wal*Mart, where I bought new washers, and then I played with wrenches and pliers, replacing the old ones. Some vacation this was turning out to be. I was secretly starting to hate anything at all to do with water. Except that beautiful river. You really should see it. Spend some time in Kerrville and walk along it for several hours. You won't regret a minute of it - as long as you are camping in a tent without running water.
The next day was a lot of fun. We saw the sights, looked for property, in case we decided to retire there, and returned to our RV. Ya know, the one with faucets that no longer leaked? Just before we were ready to retire for the night, it started to rain. Then it started to hail. After that, it HAILED. Big, Texas thunderstorm sized hail, an inch and a half in diameter. In case you're wondering, that's the size that goes right through the three cheap plastic skylights on the roof of our RV. And, in case you're STILL keeping track, that's woe # seven, eight and nine.
One of the skylights was above the shower, so it caused no real problem. The water from the melting hailstones just drained into the holding tank. But the other two - one in the kitchen and the other in the bedroom above the bed - those two were a real concern. Don't know about you, but I hate sleeping in a bed with a couple of inches of melting hailstones on it. We went to a nice, dry, hotel room for the night.
After a while, even the most unflappable of guys starts to flap. I'd had it. Three days of a nine day vacation had passed. That meant we still needed to enjoy another six days of water in every place it was not welcome. By now you guys know me well enough to have guessed that was the point where I chickened out and called an end to all the fun. Wet tails between our legs, we headed back to my sisters place. She provided clean towels, fed us, dried our wet clothing, and showed us to a dry bed.
The next morning, we were told the pool was out of commission - the pump was leaking water in the pump house every time it was turned on and her husband had been too busy at work to repair it. Yep. Water woe # ten. The woes followed every where I went. I know water is needed for life to exist, but by now I was starting to look for alternatives. There must be something else we can use to sustain life. Where was Eddie when I needed him? Surely, the world's best chemist could have found a "solution" to my problem. I fixed the pump.
We managed to find Luckenbach and spent a day waiting for Willie, Waylon and the Boys to show, but they never did. We also took in some of the other great places in the area. After a couple of days, we hooked up our RV; the bed was now dry, and headed home. We stopped for the night at Sumner Lake. Usually, I stop at any small local airport when I'm on the.............forget it.
The next morning I emptied the fresh water and holding tanks in the RV dump pit there. No need to lug eight hundred pounds of water up a 6000 foot change in elevation. That's when I found out the water tap there didn't work, and there was no way to rinse our holding tank. All the icky stuff left in the tank would dry right where it was. Now, instead of too much water where it wasn't needed, there was not enough where it was needed. Oh well, it was easy to forget woe # eleven and we continued home.
That vacation cost us a bundle. We had to buy a new water heater, skylights, and a bunch of washers for the trailer. After hauling the way too heavy, for a half ton vehicle, trailer back up the mountain to Los Alamos, we needed a new transmission in the Suburban. We averaged eight miles per gallon downhill on the way to Texas, and six MPG on the way back up.
I learned a lesson. Compared to roughing it in an RV, five star hotels are cheap And, there's a lot to be said for maid service. If my friend does manage to close the deal and move, I think I'll stay in one when I visit.
And, I'll come prepared with a brand new bottle of headache pills just in case.
Carolyn's Mom used to spend the cool summer months found at an elevation of 7200 feet in the Jemez Mountains of New Mexico with us. To make her three month long stays a little more comfortable, we bought an inexpensive 29 foot long travel trailer so she would have a place all to herself, with a kitchen she could fill with as many crumbs as she wished without upsetting her daughter, and where she could crank up the volume on the TV loud enough for her impaired ears without forcing me to retire to the hanger at the airport. We bought the longest, biggest model we could find that would fit comfortably in our drive.
At the time, I drove a half ton GMC Suburban, and Carolyn had a Q-45. The trailer was much too heavy for either of the vehicles, even if we could have somehow been able to hook them together. But, we only had to move the dang thing twice a year, once from the storage lot to our drive, and then once again to return it. The Suburban could handle that with ease.
In fact, it handled it with such ease, I was lulled into thinking my half ton vehicle was capable of towing it around on a camping vacation. So, one bright summer day, a gorgeous electric blue New Mexico day without a cloud in the sky for a hundred miles, we hooked the trailer to the back of the Suburban and headed out to Texas. We were going to see that place, and, by Golly, we were going to do it in style.
Our first stop was made while still in New Mexico because we had left after working all day and could only get as far as Fort Sumner. I am a pilot, and because during an earlier period in my life I had traveled extensively with a very small tear drop trailer, I knew it was alright to pull into any small local airport and set up for the night. Every body does it. So, we pulled into the airport, lowered the jacks, and started to fix dinner.
The first sign of the water woes to follow came when I flipped the switch that turns on the water pump. It worked, I could hear the pump run as it tried to pressurize the lines. It ran. And it ran. And it ran some more. Suspecting some sort of problem after it had not shut itself off, I turned it off. Then I walked out the door and started a walk around the outside of our mobile hotel, looking for evidence of a leak. Of course I found it. Actually, I slipped in it. Water was dripping everywhere, and most of it was coming from the area close to the vent for the water heater.
Being, for the most part, an unflappable guy, I opened the water heater cover, pulled off the removable access cover, and saw that the three gallon water heater tank was leaking water as fast as it could through a three inch long fracture along one side of it. Next, I shut the valves that isolate the heater from the rest of the water system, buttoned every thing up, and went inside to give Carolyn the bad news. "No shower tonight, sweetheart. The heater's leaking. Maybe we can stop at my sister's place in San Angelo tomorrow and grab one there."
Next morning the Sun rose, and so did we. But, before we could comtinue on our jovial way, we had to argue with a Much Too Serious Air Force Lieutenant who thought we must be some sort of commie spies out to sabotage the weather reporting capability of the United States Air Force. I had forgotten this was 2002, a little less than a year after 9/11, and there was an Air Force balloon weather reporting station located on the Ft. Sumner airport. Folks were very sensitive about what goes on at airports back then; they still are today. This pompous representative of our USAF, who was old enough only to be my grandchild, actually threatened to "call the Airport Manager and report you."
With as serious a face as I could muster at the time, I replied "Oh no! Please not that! Can't you just shoot us instead?" He stormed off and about twenty minutes later a real grown up arrived on the scene. He introduced himself as the airport manager, told us the Air Force was a major tenant on the airport, and let us know they were unhappy we were there. I told him we had just stopped for the night, as had been my custom for years, and apologized to him for not having sense enough to realize things had changed since 9/11.
Knowing that such informal camping had been allowed to fellow pilots for a little over a century, he asked how much longer we needed before we could be on our way. I told him my wife was putting on her face, and asked for an additional thirty minutes. He wished us luck and offered to unruffle the good Lieutenant's feathers. All in all, he was a pretty decent guy who really wished he could have been enjoying his morning coffee. Several weeks later, I flew in with a bunch of guys just to legally share a cup with him. Unlike crazy campers, pilots who arrive at the airport in a for real airplane are always welcome. Even after 9/11.
We made it to my sisters house that day and showered. Refreshed, we visited for a while and then continued on to our intended destination of Kerrville. I wanted to visit the Mooney aircraft facilities there, and had heard the camping along the Guadalupe River, which runs through the place, was the best. Sure enough, I was not misinformed. We set up our trailer right by the edge of a really beautiful river, in a RV park with hot showers, (our heater was broken, remember?) and I started to cook dinner.
Soon as I hooked up to the water supply, every one of the faucets started leaking. Turns out the town water supply is located about four miles up a mountain and the water pressure at river elevation is somewhere in the vicinity of 100 pounds per square inch. No way would any of my ancient, seldom used, faucets hold back that kind of pressure. All the washers in the faucets needed to be replaced with new ones. If you're keeping track, that's woe # two, three, four, five and six.
So, that first night was spent at the local Wal*Mart, where I bought new washers, and then I played with wrenches and pliers, replacing the old ones. Some vacation this was turning out to be. I was secretly starting to hate anything at all to do with water. Except that beautiful river. You really should see it. Spend some time in Kerrville and walk along it for several hours. You won't regret a minute of it - as long as you are camping in a tent without running water.
The next day was a lot of fun. We saw the sights, looked for property, in case we decided to retire there, and returned to our RV. Ya know, the one with faucets that no longer leaked? Just before we were ready to retire for the night, it started to rain. Then it started to hail. After that, it HAILED. Big, Texas thunderstorm sized hail, an inch and a half in diameter. In case you're wondering, that's the size that goes right through the three cheap plastic skylights on the roof of our RV. And, in case you're STILL keeping track, that's woe # seven, eight and nine.
One of the skylights was above the shower, so it caused no real problem. The water from the melting hailstones just drained into the holding tank. But the other two - one in the kitchen and the other in the bedroom above the bed - those two were a real concern. Don't know about you, but I hate sleeping in a bed with a couple of inches of melting hailstones on it. We went to a nice, dry, hotel room for the night.
After a while, even the most unflappable of guys starts to flap. I'd had it. Three days of a nine day vacation had passed. That meant we still needed to enjoy another six days of water in every place it was not welcome. By now you guys know me well enough to have guessed that was the point where I chickened out and called an end to all the fun. Wet tails between our legs, we headed back to my sisters place. She provided clean towels, fed us, dried our wet clothing, and showed us to a dry bed.
The next morning, we were told the pool was out of commission - the pump was leaking water in the pump house every time it was turned on and her husband had been too busy at work to repair it. Yep. Water woe # ten. The woes followed every where I went. I know water is needed for life to exist, but by now I was starting to look for alternatives. There must be something else we can use to sustain life. Where was Eddie when I needed him? Surely, the world's best chemist could have found a "solution" to my problem. I fixed the pump.
We managed to find Luckenbach and spent a day waiting for Willie, Waylon and the Boys to show, but they never did. We also took in some of the other great places in the area. After a couple of days, we hooked up our RV; the bed was now dry, and headed home. We stopped for the night at Sumner Lake. Usually, I stop at any small local airport when I'm on the.............forget it.
The next morning I emptied the fresh water and holding tanks in the RV dump pit there. No need to lug eight hundred pounds of water up a 6000 foot change in elevation. That's when I found out the water tap there didn't work, and there was no way to rinse our holding tank. All the icky stuff left in the tank would dry right where it was. Now, instead of too much water where it wasn't needed, there was not enough where it was needed. Oh well, it was easy to forget woe # eleven and we continued home.
That vacation cost us a bundle. We had to buy a new water heater, skylights, and a bunch of washers for the trailer. After hauling the way too heavy, for a half ton vehicle, trailer back up the mountain to Los Alamos, we needed a new transmission in the Suburban. We averaged eight miles per gallon downhill on the way to Texas, and six MPG on the way back up.
I learned a lesson. Compared to roughing it in an RV, five star hotels are cheap And, there's a lot to be said for maid service. If my friend does manage to close the deal and move, I think I'll stay in one when I visit.
And, I'll come prepared with a brand new bottle of headache pills just in case.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Visiting Mom
It's a really good thing we have a couple of fairly new cars, the Guzzler and the Guzzler Deluxe. That gives us a total of eight factory new tires we can wear out on our almost daily forty mile trip to Carolyn's sister's house. We've been spending a lot of time there with Carolyn's mother. She's enrolled in a hospice program, and Carolyn wants to be with her as much as possible.
The drive and visits are taking a toll on Carolyn - she's not in the best of condition these days, but she continues with them. Now, when her mom tires and naps for an hour or so in the middle of their talks, Carolyn also retires. "Their talks" really is not an accurate description , Carolyn can barely be understood by a person with normal hearing, and Mom, even with a cheap Canadian government provided hearing aid, is darn near deaf. But they sit close to each other, move their lips and touch.
It's a wonderful thing to watch, sad, but at the same time reassuring. This is the way things were meant to be. A loving daughter helping to comfort a dying mother. I'm not real sure how often that sort of thing still happens. Nursing homes are in business because offspring are too busy to care. Alone and left to fend for themselves in a "state inspected and certified" facility is where a large percentage of folks will spend their last days. Not so in Mom's case. Both daughters are involved, as are both son in laws. It's a family affair.
Just last year my family went through this ordeal so I know what is being faced. Last year, I was the busy one while my father was dying. My two brothers, one of whom was retired after being laid off a littler earlier than he wanted to quit, and the other who was laid off a LOT earlier than he had planned, were able to help our mother with Dad's care. Fortunately, I was able to pull out the car seats to make a bed upon which Carolyn could rest while we traveled to be with him during his last week on earth.
He knew all three of his sons were there, caring for him, during his final days, and I think his passing was easier because of that knowledge. The last conversation he had before going into a coma from which he never awoke was with his only daughter, and she told him she was on her way home. He died in peace, sure the love he gave the family he raised was returned.
Carolyn and I both want her mom to be assured of the same love as she breathes her last, and we will be there when it happens. But, until then, we will put aside all the other things in our lives that keep us busy, and put her first. Even though it requires Carolyn be lifted into bed each night because she no longer has the strength to climb into it after the tiring travel and time away from her home, she wants to be at her mother's side for as much as possible.
It's one of a thousand reasons I married her - in her mind the comfort of a loved one comes first. She asks little for herself.
The drive and visits are taking a toll on Carolyn - she's not in the best of condition these days, but she continues with them. Now, when her mom tires and naps for an hour or so in the middle of their talks, Carolyn also retires. "Their talks" really is not an accurate description , Carolyn can barely be understood by a person with normal hearing, and Mom, even with a cheap Canadian government provided hearing aid, is darn near deaf. But they sit close to each other, move their lips and touch.
It's a wonderful thing to watch, sad, but at the same time reassuring. This is the way things were meant to be. A loving daughter helping to comfort a dying mother. I'm not real sure how often that sort of thing still happens. Nursing homes are in business because offspring are too busy to care. Alone and left to fend for themselves in a "state inspected and certified" facility is where a large percentage of folks will spend their last days. Not so in Mom's case. Both daughters are involved, as are both son in laws. It's a family affair.
Just last year my family went through this ordeal so I know what is being faced. Last year, I was the busy one while my father was dying. My two brothers, one of whom was retired after being laid off a littler earlier than he wanted to quit, and the other who was laid off a LOT earlier than he had planned, were able to help our mother with Dad's care. Fortunately, I was able to pull out the car seats to make a bed upon which Carolyn could rest while we traveled to be with him during his last week on earth.
He knew all three of his sons were there, caring for him, during his final days, and I think his passing was easier because of that knowledge. The last conversation he had before going into a coma from which he never awoke was with his only daughter, and she told him she was on her way home. He died in peace, sure the love he gave the family he raised was returned.
Carolyn and I both want her mom to be assured of the same love as she breathes her last, and we will be there when it happens. But, until then, we will put aside all the other things in our lives that keep us busy, and put her first. Even though it requires Carolyn be lifted into bed each night because she no longer has the strength to climb into it after the tiring travel and time away from her home, she wants to be at her mother's side for as much as possible.
It's one of a thousand reasons I married her - in her mind the comfort of a loved one comes first. She asks little for herself.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Inevitable progress
I got this in my mail box today, and it was the first chuckle I've had in several trying days. There is little that sets me free from stress and worrying about things over which I have no control more than a rant about the newest in tech toys. In fact, I enjoyed it so much I thought I'd pass the conversation along to you folks.
Friend to me: "I thought you would enjoy -- or at least understand -- my technical crisis. I hate change; have a cheap cell phone that I use rarely; and was only able to adjust to a new computer 2 years ago because my son-in-law (at the time) arranged for an IT company in Phoenix to take care of everything. I also bought an HDTV, have four remotes, and my stomach clinches every time I turn it on -- fearing that if there's a problem, I have no clue how to fix it.
One of the constants in my life is the arrival of the little red and white Netflix envelopes in my mailbox. They provide me with movies and series (without commercials) and all sorts of interesting things to watch on DVDs. Now Netflix is going to evolve into "streaming" DVDs -- whatever the hell that means. I have no clue what I have to do to adapt to this unfortunate change that some view as "inevitable progress."
Me to Friend: "That's wonderful news! I much prefer to discuss new tech brain twisters than the coming, and in my opinion, unavoidable, economic collapse of this nation. You and I are, at least in this one area, twins. Probably not identical twins, something to do with x and y chromosomes. But, I also hate anything new that comes with either a plug or batteries. And lately, some teen aged wunderkinds have started putting tiny solar arrays on the screwiest stuff in an effort to further confuse me. Friend to me: "I thought you would enjoy -- or at least understand -- my technical crisis. I hate change; have a cheap cell phone that I use rarely; and was only able to adjust to a new computer 2 years ago because my son-in-law (at the time) arranged for an IT company in Phoenix to take care of everything. I also bought an HDTV, have four remotes, and my stomach clinches every time I turn it on -- fearing that if there's a problem, I have no clue how to fix it.
One of the constants in my life is the arrival of the little red and white Netflix envelopes in my mailbox. They provide me with movies and series (without commercials) and all sorts of interesting things to watch on DVDs. Now Netflix is going to evolve into "streaming" DVDs -- whatever the hell that means. I have no clue what I have to do to adapt to this unfortunate change that some view as "inevitable progress."
I've learned to get even with them by not buying the stuff, and just wish I could convince everyone else on the planet we have no need whatsoever for stuff like electric shoe horns. But, I'm afraid some smart SOB will actually invent one of those and become a gazillionaire by doing so.
All the early adapters will want to be the first on the block to have all the vertebrae in their backs fused just so they can demonstrate how wonderful the device is. Just think - shoes can be put on and taken off with ease, and a bendable back, or alternately, arms as long as those attached to Michael Phelps shoulders, are no longer necessary for the task.
My loathing of new gizmos varies with the cube of the number of menus or knobs and switches the item sports. And, I, like you were two years ago, am sorely in need of a new computer. Along with this need comes a fear. The fear is everything I've done in my life for the last eight years will vanish when I unplug this rock solid old friend and fire up a newer version.
This fear was related to a buddy last year when it first became apparent my Gateway would shortly have to be tossed into the trash can outside my Doorway. He gave me some sort of thingy, he called it a "thumb drive", along with instructions on it's use . He claims the half ounce miniature piece of plastic can store everything on my present 40 pound collection of chips and wires. We'll see. It better, otherwise I'll for sure wind up in jail when I can not explain the basis of my last eight years of tax returns. Maybe I'll just have to keep this old one with me just in case.
They were able to find all kinds of stuff on Casey Anthony's computer, so maybe the IRS guys can find all the info they need to allow me to continue walking the streets among normal people on my eight year old piece of junk. In fact, I think I'll just put it into yet another box and store it on a shelf in the garage along with all the other unknown, but very important, stuff I keep out there.
You mentioned "Netflix". This may sound a little strange, but it will perfectly illustrate my fear of venturing into unknown territory. I have no means of playing a movie in my entire house. You see, our DVD player, the one who's many features eluded me for it's entire life, was broken during the move and we tossed it. I know we REALLY need a BluRay, and have asked a friend for advise on the perfect brand and model. Even though I'm armed to my forehead with facts he provided, I'm afraid to walk into the store.
It's a little known fact, but the salespeople in electronic stores are aliens. Pod people. They have human bodies, but they belong to another species. And, most of them speak Trektalk, not English. It's infectious, and I can not afford to become ill. As it is, most folks have a hard enough time understanding me now.
I totally understand your state of mind, dealing with new toys, and will say a prayer for you. It just might help. In any case, there is a sympathetic shoulder in Redmond, Oregon upon which you can cry.
"Inevitable progress" is code for "Drive the old fogies nuts." Only youngsters and old wannabes use the term.
Heck with transistors and chips. Give me a good ol' genuine too-hot-to-hold vacuum tube. I'll take the good ol' days anytime."
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Dumber by the Gadget
Americans are not much concerned by self inflicted brain damage. This novel, probably controversial and maybe heretical thought occurred to me as I steered the Guzzler Deluxe down the road towards yet another of our seemingly endless Doctor appointments. One of the benefits of getting old is being able to leave the house almost everyday on an expedition to a new Doctor's office. It's a great way to get to know the town a little better, and provides idle time which allows idle thoughts to occupy your mind.
The act of driving a car is, for the most part, a boring job. Push this pedal to go, that one to stop. Mostly driving is about looking for objects outside the car, and deciding if it would be more fun to hit the object or to avoid it. Personally, I prefer to hit small things and avoid larger ones. It's a matter of convenience, and of expense. Running over small things does not cause loss of the use of the vehicle, and therefore there is no associated expense of regaining that use. And, there's a lot of fun to be had bouncing over small objects. I smile much more if I'm bouncing along than I do when the road is boringly smooth. Aiming the tires at, and flattening, a discarded soup can is a thrill, I tell you, and I'll do it every time I get the chance.
For all you other thrill seekers, I'll award bonus thrill points if you manage only one thump while running over the soup can. Mostly there's a thump-thump, but expert drivers will be able to produce only one thump per can. Try it- you'll like it! But, if traveling at any speed above ten miles per hour while trying to collect these bonus points, be sure to have full insurance coverage and a current, fully paid policy in effect.
So anyway, as I was driving along looking for cheap thrills today, I noticed a bunch of folks were talking on their cell phones as they passed me. I used to pass five cars for every one that passed mine, but sadly that ratio is reversed these days. Getting my foot from the gas pedal to the brake takes more time than it used to, and I question my immortality more often than I did in my youth. It's enough to make me drive in the slow lane.
Well, I was dumbfounded. Now all you guys know I don't carry a cell phone - I consider it a leash and besides, if I want some ten dollar an hour guy with a headset over his ears, who gets a paycheck from our Uncle Sam, to know where I am 24 hours a day, he can darn well knock on my door and ask. I may or may not tell him, depending on the size of his gun.
What left me dumbfounded was not the fact they carried a cell phone, but the fact it was actually being used for something other than a camera or a watch. I heard just the other day the stinkin' things are actually modern versions of Flash Gordon's ray guns and they can cook your brains. Well, maybe they can cook your brains. But, ya know, for twenty or thirty years the government studies found only that "Cigarette Smoking May Be Harmful To Your Health." There's one heck of a lobby for the cigarette industry that was able to keep the sorry information that the things would actually kill you from being broadcast far and wide. I'm guessing there is one heck of a lobby for the cell phone industry that these days is keeping the sorry........you figure it out.
"Sure", you say, "he hates cell phones so he's just tryin' to scare the livin' daylights out of me so I'll quit using mine." You may be right. I do hate the things and wish they'd all just be thrown in some lake, hopefully one without any fish because I'm bettin' the phones will cook the fish too. But, cell phones or not, there's other evidence Americans are busy turning their brains to mush on purpose.
How else can all the rehab places be explained? Every town with a population of over 50,000 has at least one hidden somewhere in the middle of a middle class subdivision (after a lengthy fight by the surrounding homeowners) and needs another one. Those things are all the result of popping pills or strong drink, placed inside a body by the person to whom it belongs.
And, a lot of those pills were legally obtained. It seems that's another way we're turning our minds to mush. It takes a bunch of pills to get us through the day. And no wonder - too many cell phones - and other electronic distractions. They keep jarring us to attention and we need some rest.
When all the oil runs out, and it will, I'm betting there will be at least one positive result. We won't need so many pills to calm us. Maybe, there's some hope that because of that event we'll all get a little smarter. Our brains will clear and we'll actually use them to survive, as we once did, and not merely to cope with the distracting gadgets in our modern world.
The act of driving a car is, for the most part, a boring job. Push this pedal to go, that one to stop. Mostly driving is about looking for objects outside the car, and deciding if it would be more fun to hit the object or to avoid it. Personally, I prefer to hit small things and avoid larger ones. It's a matter of convenience, and of expense. Running over small things does not cause loss of the use of the vehicle, and therefore there is no associated expense of regaining that use. And, there's a lot of fun to be had bouncing over small objects. I smile much more if I'm bouncing along than I do when the road is boringly smooth. Aiming the tires at, and flattening, a discarded soup can is a thrill, I tell you, and I'll do it every time I get the chance.
For all you other thrill seekers, I'll award bonus thrill points if you manage only one thump while running over the soup can. Mostly there's a thump-thump, but expert drivers will be able to produce only one thump per can. Try it- you'll like it! But, if traveling at any speed above ten miles per hour while trying to collect these bonus points, be sure to have full insurance coverage and a current, fully paid policy in effect.
So anyway, as I was driving along looking for cheap thrills today, I noticed a bunch of folks were talking on their cell phones as they passed me. I used to pass five cars for every one that passed mine, but sadly that ratio is reversed these days. Getting my foot from the gas pedal to the brake takes more time than it used to, and I question my immortality more often than I did in my youth. It's enough to make me drive in the slow lane.
Well, I was dumbfounded. Now all you guys know I don't carry a cell phone - I consider it a leash and besides, if I want some ten dollar an hour guy with a headset over his ears, who gets a paycheck from our Uncle Sam, to know where I am 24 hours a day, he can darn well knock on my door and ask. I may or may not tell him, depending on the size of his gun.
What left me dumbfounded was not the fact they carried a cell phone, but the fact it was actually being used for something other than a camera or a watch. I heard just the other day the stinkin' things are actually modern versions of Flash Gordon's ray guns and they can cook your brains. Well, maybe they can cook your brains. But, ya know, for twenty or thirty years the government studies found only that "Cigarette Smoking May Be Harmful To Your Health." There's one heck of a lobby for the cigarette industry that was able to keep the sorry information that the things would actually kill you from being broadcast far and wide. I'm guessing there is one heck of a lobby for the cell phone industry that these days is keeping the sorry........you figure it out.
"Sure", you say, "he hates cell phones so he's just tryin' to scare the livin' daylights out of me so I'll quit using mine." You may be right. I do hate the things and wish they'd all just be thrown in some lake, hopefully one without any fish because I'm bettin' the phones will cook the fish too. But, cell phones or not, there's other evidence Americans are busy turning their brains to mush on purpose.
How else can all the rehab places be explained? Every town with a population of over 50,000 has at least one hidden somewhere in the middle of a middle class subdivision (after a lengthy fight by the surrounding homeowners) and needs another one. Those things are all the result of popping pills or strong drink, placed inside a body by the person to whom it belongs.
And, a lot of those pills were legally obtained. It seems that's another way we're turning our minds to mush. It takes a bunch of pills to get us through the day. And no wonder - too many cell phones - and other electronic distractions. They keep jarring us to attention and we need some rest.
When all the oil runs out, and it will, I'm betting there will be at least one positive result. We won't need so many pills to calm us. Maybe, there's some hope that because of that event we'll all get a little smarter. Our brains will clear and we'll actually use them to survive, as we once did, and not merely to cope with the distracting gadgets in our modern world.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Does Anybody Know?
A buddy told me of a guy he used to run around with this afternoon. They finally found him - he'd been missing for a little more than two months.
Three years ago this man, who's body was identified last week from the dental work in his teeth, had a wife, a family, two houses and a good paying job. His two kids were doing well in college and his future was both bright and secure. First thing he lost his was his job.
Joe was OK for the first year, savings and unemployment - and drastic cuts in lifestyle - allowed him to keep both kids in school another year and one of them graduated. He kept in touch with most of his acquaintances and all of his friends that first year, and often joked about knowing what retirement was all about. His cobra plan at work was expensive, but he managed to pay for it. My friend knows this because by the end of that first year, he had started to complain about the cost.
He said he was gonna have to drop the coverage because the guy who rented their second house had lost HIS job and moved out. He now had two house payments each month, but it was gonna be OK - he was putting both houses on the market and for sure one or the other would sell. Neither did, and by the end of the second year without a job, both of his houses were gone. The bank would not allow short sales, and he owed more than they were worth. The boat, snowmobiles and jet skis were also long gone. And now, so was the unemployment check.
His wife, who was almost twenty years younger, was the next to go. It was his second marrige to end in disaster. She had had enough of a loser, to hear him tell it, and she just left. My friend did not know where she had gone, Joe didn't say. He learned of this development when he last saw Joe, a little over four months back.
According to the newspaper, the police were notified he was missing when his new landlord knocked on the door to his room while trying to collect back rent. All his stuff was there, but no Joe. I have no idea how long nor how thoroughly the cops searched; my friend got a call from them asking if he had any idea where Joe was so they must have spent some effort looking, but didn't find a thing.
Hikers found and reported the remains a couple of weeks ago beside a stream in the mountains a little southeast of Phoenix. There was no car, no camping gear, no fishing stuff. He was just there by himself, alone beside the stream. There was nothing there with which to identify him, so it took awhile before the notice appeared in the paper. There was no funeral, just an item in the paper stating the remains that had been found were his.
He had worked hard all his life, raised two families and educated all his children. He made his own way, in this hard land we call America, for sixty years. He took care of his own, minded his business, never caused any problems and put smiles on the faces of his friends for years.
How is it a man like this, who played by the rules all his life, was left by everyone to die alone. Penniless, broken, deserted. My friend wanted to know the answer.
I told him I just don't know.
Three years ago this man, who's body was identified last week from the dental work in his teeth, had a wife, a family, two houses and a good paying job. His two kids were doing well in college and his future was both bright and secure. First thing he lost his was his job.
Joe was OK for the first year, savings and unemployment - and drastic cuts in lifestyle - allowed him to keep both kids in school another year and one of them graduated. He kept in touch with most of his acquaintances and all of his friends that first year, and often joked about knowing what retirement was all about. His cobra plan at work was expensive, but he managed to pay for it. My friend knows this because by the end of that first year, he had started to complain about the cost.
He said he was gonna have to drop the coverage because the guy who rented their second house had lost HIS job and moved out. He now had two house payments each month, but it was gonna be OK - he was putting both houses on the market and for sure one or the other would sell. Neither did, and by the end of the second year without a job, both of his houses were gone. The bank would not allow short sales, and he owed more than they were worth. The boat, snowmobiles and jet skis were also long gone. And now, so was the unemployment check.
His wife, who was almost twenty years younger, was the next to go. It was his second marrige to end in disaster. She had had enough of a loser, to hear him tell it, and she just left. My friend did not know where she had gone, Joe didn't say. He learned of this development when he last saw Joe, a little over four months back.
According to the newspaper, the police were notified he was missing when his new landlord knocked on the door to his room while trying to collect back rent. All his stuff was there, but no Joe. I have no idea how long nor how thoroughly the cops searched; my friend got a call from them asking if he had any idea where Joe was so they must have spent some effort looking, but didn't find a thing.
Hikers found and reported the remains a couple of weeks ago beside a stream in the mountains a little southeast of Phoenix. There was no car, no camping gear, no fishing stuff. He was just there by himself, alone beside the stream. There was nothing there with which to identify him, so it took awhile before the notice appeared in the paper. There was no funeral, just an item in the paper stating the remains that had been found were his.
He had worked hard all his life, raised two families and educated all his children. He made his own way, in this hard land we call America, for sixty years. He took care of his own, minded his business, never caused any problems and put smiles on the faces of his friends for years.
How is it a man like this, who played by the rules all his life, was left by everyone to die alone. Penniless, broken, deserted. My friend wanted to know the answer.
I told him I just don't know.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Stumblin' Through
Every now and again I think about me, yeah, ME, being the "older generation". Ya know, that scares me. When I was a kid growing up, there were always old guys around who knew the ropes. Whenever I had a question, some older guy was around who had done that, been there, and knew how.
Well, these days all the older guys are hard of hearing. And, even after shouting the question fourteen times, until it is understood, it's real easy to see from the answers they give that even more of the gray matter has disappeared from between their ears than has vanished from that same space in my head. That means, fellow travelers, My Time Has Come. I'm 'sposed to be the old guy who has all the answers.
The only problem with this is I haven't yet read all the questions. No way am I prepared to take the test. If you ask me how to build a functioning sewing machine cabinet from a pile of wood - I'm the MAN. But, ask me how the hell to replace the children in Washington DC who run this nation with responsible adults and I haven't a clue.
Ask me how to plant and harvest row crops. I can help with that. Ask me how to keep a crook from becoming the President of a Too Big To Fail investment bank and I'll say "Uh...Uh. I donno." I'll say that after you've asked fourteen times; first I'll pretend to be hard of hearing like the old folks in my own life.
From everything I've been able to see and learn, it's all BS. All of it. The only thing that matters is that you can get up in the morning, and that you have a very special someone with whom to share the new day. And, that you do a good job of the tasks you are given on this day, the one you have now. I've gotten old enough to realize we're all stumblin' through this life we have. Doin' the best we can.
And, it doesn't matter one bit if we're stumblin' through as a bank teller or President of these here United States of the USA. We're all just stumblin' through. That, my friend, is even more scary than realizing I'm the old guy.
Nobody, not the guy on the corner with the sign advertising he'll work for food, not even the President of this vast nation nor all his men, has a stinkin' clue.
Well, these days all the older guys are hard of hearing. And, even after shouting the question fourteen times, until it is understood, it's real easy to see from the answers they give that even more of the gray matter has disappeared from between their ears than has vanished from that same space in my head. That means, fellow travelers, My Time Has Come. I'm 'sposed to be the old guy who has all the answers.
The only problem with this is I haven't yet read all the questions. No way am I prepared to take the test. If you ask me how to build a functioning sewing machine cabinet from a pile of wood - I'm the MAN. But, ask me how the hell to replace the children in Washington DC who run this nation with responsible adults and I haven't a clue.
Ask me how to plant and harvest row crops. I can help with that. Ask me how to keep a crook from becoming the President of a Too Big To Fail investment bank and I'll say "Uh...Uh. I donno." I'll say that after you've asked fourteen times; first I'll pretend to be hard of hearing like the old folks in my own life.
From everything I've been able to see and learn, it's all BS. All of it. The only thing that matters is that you can get up in the morning, and that you have a very special someone with whom to share the new day. And, that you do a good job of the tasks you are given on this day, the one you have now. I've gotten old enough to realize we're all stumblin' through this life we have. Doin' the best we can.
And, it doesn't matter one bit if we're stumblin' through as a bank teller or President of these here United States of the USA. We're all just stumblin' through. That, my friend, is even more scary than realizing I'm the old guy.
Nobody, not the guy on the corner with the sign advertising he'll work for food, not even the President of this vast nation nor all his men, has a stinkin' clue.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
One of these Days
"To the moon, Alice. To the moon." Ol' Jackie Gleason would say to his wife while brandishing a closed fist in the air above his head. "To the moon." Fifteen minutes after that he'd be apologizing to her for the latest outlandish mistake he had made. The poor guy; he should have stuck to driving the bus.
Five or six years later, John Kennedy was saying that to all of us. "To the moon, America. To the moon - by the end of this decade." And ya know what? We did it! Well, we can't do it any more. Last night I saw a shot of Jim Lovell in the crowd at the DC 4th of July celebration. That picture of him reminded me of the ads from the 90's featuring Iron Eyes Cody with a tear in his eye as the trash is thrown from a moving car.
We've trashed our space program, and I'm certain Jim has shed a tear or two because of that. One more flight, and the shuttle's gone. Don't worry, we're replacing it with .... uh, let's see..........I know! An Englishman with a great big smile and a pile of money to match! He and Burt Rutan can handle the space program. The American government has way more important stuff with which to deal. Like........uh.......I know! Fixing the budget. Yeah - that's it. Washington's gonna fix the budget.
They're gonna "reform" (repeat after me, reform equals gut) Social Security and Medicare. Then call themselves heroes.
But, first they're gonna fight over it and call everybody names till the whole nation is so tired of hearing about it we'll willingly allow the top 1% of the people to jet on down the road and ride Richard and Bert's E Ticket to space at $200,000 a pop. Just so they can go to parties and tell their friends about it.
"Fer God's sake, I jus' wish them a-holes 'ud just shut the hell up. Let me have a beer in peace. It's a hun' red an' two degrees outside, and I've been workin' all day. Martha, put the TV on the Simpson's. I'm tired of these big wigs spoutin' crap"
Forty years ago we were walking around on the moon - and today? The US government can put people on the space station, a mere couple of hundred miles away, only one more time. After that we have to thumb a ride from the Russians. I thought we won the space race.
One of these days, I guess I'm gonna have to wise up.. There's a bunch of stuff I must learn to deal with. We lost the space race. We lost the wars - every one of them since WWII. We lost the lead. We lost the economy. We lost our decency. We lost our integrity. We lost our way.
It seems Paul Simon had more insight than anyone else in our times. Almost forty-five years ago it was he who first realized we had gone astray and asked, "Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? A nation turns it's lonely eyes to you. "
Five or six years later, John Kennedy was saying that to all of us. "To the moon, America. To the moon - by the end of this decade." And ya know what? We did it! Well, we can't do it any more. Last night I saw a shot of Jim Lovell in the crowd at the DC 4th of July celebration. That picture of him reminded me of the ads from the 90's featuring Iron Eyes Cody with a tear in his eye as the trash is thrown from a moving car.
We've trashed our space program, and I'm certain Jim has shed a tear or two because of that. One more flight, and the shuttle's gone. Don't worry, we're replacing it with .... uh, let's see..........I know! An Englishman with a great big smile and a pile of money to match! He and Burt Rutan can handle the space program. The American government has way more important stuff with which to deal. Like........uh.......I know! Fixing the budget. Yeah - that's it. Washington's gonna fix the budget.
They're gonna "reform" (repeat after me, reform equals gut) Social Security and Medicare. Then call themselves heroes.
But, first they're gonna fight over it and call everybody names till the whole nation is so tired of hearing about it we'll willingly allow the top 1% of the people to jet on down the road and ride Richard and Bert's E Ticket to space at $200,000 a pop. Just so they can go to parties and tell their friends about it.
"Fer God's sake, I jus' wish them a-holes 'ud just shut the hell up. Let me have a beer in peace. It's a hun' red an' two degrees outside, and I've been workin' all day. Martha, put the TV on the Simpson's. I'm tired of these big wigs spoutin' crap"
Forty years ago we were walking around on the moon - and today? The US government can put people on the space station, a mere couple of hundred miles away, only one more time. After that we have to thumb a ride from the Russians. I thought we won the space race.
One of these days, I guess I'm gonna have to wise up.. There's a bunch of stuff I must learn to deal with. We lost the space race. We lost the wars - every one of them since WWII. We lost the lead. We lost the economy. We lost our decency. We lost our integrity. We lost our way.
It seems Paul Simon had more insight than anyone else in our times. Almost forty-five years ago it was he who first realized we had gone astray and asked, "Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? A nation turns it's lonely eyes to you. "
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Three Thinkers
John Locke. David Hume. George Berkeley.
Put these names in your "to be researched and read" file. Reading their works is an essential part of being an American.
Every other blogger in the universe will have something to say about the American Declaration of Independence and Revolution today and tomorrow, and that's a good thing. We should be proud of what the founders of this nation brought to the planet - an entirely new way to govern a nation. The Declaration of Independence, Constitution, and Bill of Rights, the documents they produced and which defined a novel way to run a government, were a turning point in the political arena of mankind.
I'm gonna pull an end run, and instead of talking about the birth of our nation, I'm gonna go back a couple of years before that event and mention men who were dead, one for over seven decades, before it happened.
The ideas our founders put to paper were not original - they were refined versions of the thinking of the men I listed at the start of this post. If you want to know what America can be - what it was meant to be - read what these three giants of intellect had to say. It won't take a long time, they all believed in brevity.
It will, however, take a while to understand them. As citizens and voters, all of us would be well served by the reading of their ideas. No politician should be allowed to be seated in any office without reading their works AND demonstrating understanding of what they had to say.
Oops. I forgot - politicians talk - they don't know how to read. And, there's a concert and BBQ tonight - tomorrow we're gonna be hung over. Oh well, maybe we'll have some free time next week.
Put these names in your "to be researched and read" file. Reading their works is an essential part of being an American.
Every other blogger in the universe will have something to say about the American Declaration of Independence and Revolution today and tomorrow, and that's a good thing. We should be proud of what the founders of this nation brought to the planet - an entirely new way to govern a nation. The Declaration of Independence, Constitution, and Bill of Rights, the documents they produced and which defined a novel way to run a government, were a turning point in the political arena of mankind.
I'm gonna pull an end run, and instead of talking about the birth of our nation, I'm gonna go back a couple of years before that event and mention men who were dead, one for over seven decades, before it happened.
The ideas our founders put to paper were not original - they were refined versions of the thinking of the men I listed at the start of this post. If you want to know what America can be - what it was meant to be - read what these three giants of intellect had to say. It won't take a long time, they all believed in brevity.
It will, however, take a while to understand them. As citizens and voters, all of us would be well served by the reading of their ideas. No politician should be allowed to be seated in any office without reading their works AND demonstrating understanding of what they had to say.
Oops. I forgot - politicians talk - they don't know how to read. And, there's a concert and BBQ tonight - tomorrow we're gonna be hung over. Oh well, maybe we'll have some free time next week.
Doggie DNA
Ya know, there are some things happening in this country that make me wonder. No, actually they make me want to turn off my computer and View No More. I'm not real sure of how any of this actually happened, but here's a likely scenario.
One morning, I believe it was in late June or early July, the year is unimportant to the tale, the Apartment Manager walked out her door to pick up the paper. She loved reading on her veranda in the cool mornings, it gave her an hour or so to herself before starting the daily chores.
Her paper, which she insisted be left on her porch, was instead in the south half of her front lawn, nearer the sidewalk than her door. "Must be a substitute carrier", she thought to herself, "my regular paperboy knows it needs to be on my porch EVERY day or he'll not get the 50 cent tip from me at the end of the month."
Now you and I know 50 cents will still buy a doughnut somewhere in Sierra Leone, if you're willing to dodge a stray bullet or two as you savor it's flavor, but it won't even buy a Baby Ruth candy bar in America these days. So, I'm sure you'll be as happy as I was to learn this selfish and stingy Grande Dame stepped in a freshly deposited pile of dog poop on her way to fetch the paper. Yep. Sank in almost to her ankle, and ruined her brand new slippers.
Ordinarily I'd say something like "Serves her right." and move on with my life. That's what I should have done this time too, because by sticking around, I was exposed to The Rest Of The Story. You old timers will recognize the title of Paul Harvey's long running broadcast. If you're too young to remember, I'm sorry for you. He was that good.
Well, remember she was THE Manager? The rest of the story is that later that month an order was issued from her office to all the tenants, who owned pets, requiring said pets to submit samples of their DNA. No more would pets be able to go unpunished for mornings alone. Owners would be required to either accompany pets and clean up after their morning rituals or pay a heavy fine.
I have no idea how you happen to look in the morning, before breakfast and before brushing both your hair and teeth, but I do know how I look. It's not a pleasant sight. In fact, I scare my dog in the mornings. He is unable to perform his ritual in my presence. He can only work alone.
If I can scare my dog, who depends on me for love and food, try to imagine the effect my appearance will have on you, being unencumbered by these attachments. Well, unless you happen to be Sandra Dee in her prime, I'm betting that dressed in a robe and slippers, you'd have the same effect on me. Folks our age just shouldn't be seen following our pets around early in the morning, in just our robes and slippers. No one within viewing distance will have a nice day, and it's just a really mean thing to do to someone at the start of their day. Might as well join the GOP and vote to take away Medicare.
When I read the story about tracing a dog's pile with the use of DNA obtained from samples of the dog's present to mother earth, my mind went into overload. Just how on God's green earth can we afford to waste good money DNA typing dog poop? Get real. People, this is just plain dumb.
If ya can't be responsible with your pet, don't get a pet. But it's still a funny story, at least it appeals to my whacked out sense of humor.
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/02/us/02dogs.html?_r=1&ref=us
One morning, I believe it was in late June or early July, the year is unimportant to the tale, the Apartment Manager walked out her door to pick up the paper. She loved reading on her veranda in the cool mornings, it gave her an hour or so to herself before starting the daily chores.
Her paper, which she insisted be left on her porch, was instead in the south half of her front lawn, nearer the sidewalk than her door. "Must be a substitute carrier", she thought to herself, "my regular paperboy knows it needs to be on my porch EVERY day or he'll not get the 50 cent tip from me at the end of the month."
Now you and I know 50 cents will still buy a doughnut somewhere in Sierra Leone, if you're willing to dodge a stray bullet or two as you savor it's flavor, but it won't even buy a Baby Ruth candy bar in America these days. So, I'm sure you'll be as happy as I was to learn this selfish and stingy Grande Dame stepped in a freshly deposited pile of dog poop on her way to fetch the paper. Yep. Sank in almost to her ankle, and ruined her brand new slippers.
Ordinarily I'd say something like "Serves her right." and move on with my life. That's what I should have done this time too, because by sticking around, I was exposed to The Rest Of The Story. You old timers will recognize the title of Paul Harvey's long running broadcast. If you're too young to remember, I'm sorry for you. He was that good.
Well, remember she was THE Manager? The rest of the story is that later that month an order was issued from her office to all the tenants, who owned pets, requiring said pets to submit samples of their DNA. No more would pets be able to go unpunished for mornings alone. Owners would be required to either accompany pets and clean up after their morning rituals or pay a heavy fine.
I have no idea how you happen to look in the morning, before breakfast and before brushing both your hair and teeth, but I do know how I look. It's not a pleasant sight. In fact, I scare my dog in the mornings. He is unable to perform his ritual in my presence. He can only work alone.
If I can scare my dog, who depends on me for love and food, try to imagine the effect my appearance will have on you, being unencumbered by these attachments. Well, unless you happen to be Sandra Dee in her prime, I'm betting that dressed in a robe and slippers, you'd have the same effect on me. Folks our age just shouldn't be seen following our pets around early in the morning, in just our robes and slippers. No one within viewing distance will have a nice day, and it's just a really mean thing to do to someone at the start of their day. Might as well join the GOP and vote to take away Medicare.
When I read the story about tracing a dog's pile with the use of DNA obtained from samples of the dog's present to mother earth, my mind went into overload. Just how on God's green earth can we afford to waste good money DNA typing dog poop? Get real. People, this is just plain dumb.
If ya can't be responsible with your pet, don't get a pet. But it's still a funny story, at least it appeals to my whacked out sense of humor.
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/02/us/02dogs.html?_r=1&ref=us
Friday, July 1, 2011
Slowing Down
It's becoming more difficult as time passes to find the opportunity to sit at my computer and write. More and more, my mind is occupied with other demands in my life.
I am not able to devote the energy to this blog that I was able to do when I started it. I still want to write every now and again, but future posts will be further apart, and their spacing will be determined by the time I have to spend here. For those of you who have stopped by daily, thanks.
And, please check back every once in a while. I apologise, but there are other facets in the current situation that require more of my attention.
I am not able to devote the energy to this blog that I was able to do when I started it. I still want to write every now and again, but future posts will be further apart, and their spacing will be determined by the time I have to spend here. For those of you who have stopped by daily, thanks.
And, please check back every once in a while. I apologise, but there are other facets in the current situation that require more of my attention.
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