Remember all those antfarm learning toys that first hit the scene around the mid fifties? The real name for those things is "formicarium" and there are a whole bunch more of them around the joint these days than there are Chevy two door hardtops from the same era. Talk about a cryin' shame - for sure it should have been the other way 'round. I think it's because ol' Uncle Milton has made about 20 million more of his stuff than GM did since he started.
And, I can't spell it the same way he does, with a space between the third and forth letter, cause Uncle Milton is not a nice man. He managed to trademark the way he spells antfarm and will vigorously sue any one foolish enough to talk about his product using the same language he uses. Just ask Scott Adams. He can tell you all about it. Actually, he already did.
After the Evil Uncle sued him, Scott asked the question "What else can you call a residence for ugly, vile little creatures?" or something close to that - I can't remember exactly - in his cartoon strip. The answer, of course, according to Dogbert, was "Law School."
I swear, every comic in the business can learn a thing or two from the Dilbert strip. Mostly I have a sense of humor black enough to cause a nun to run grab every warm body in the convent so all of them together can pray for my soul, but he cracks me up about eighty percent of the time I read his work. Pure Genius.
Anyway, I saw a school kid lugging one of the formicariums into his house after school today. And you guys know just how little it takes to set me off on a wild spree to wear out my fingertips on my brand new keyboard. That was plenty of stimulation.
The first order of business was a search through all my childhood pictures to see if I could find one of me dipping a flattened straw through a crack in the one I owned way back when in hopes of providing an escape route for the little critters trapped inside the glass. Yeah, I remember doing just that. I've always been a hero. Even to ants.
Of course there were no pictures; I'm sure my Mom would have yelped in horror at my act of kindness and then would have applied the camera to the side of my head in an attempt to instill a one step learning process that would prevent similar future attempts to help the weak.
I remember little of those days, probably because the of the bumps on my head. It took great effort to teach me anything back then, and it's impossible for me to learn anything now. But don't worry, it's OK - I claim to know everything already so I really don't need to learn anything else.
A psychoanalyst would be proud of the defense mechanisms I have constructed over the short span of my life time. Very proud. If any of you readers just happen to be in that business, give me a call. The book will sell a million and I only want half.
But, sadly, this post is 'sposed to be about ants and such so maybe I should get back to the topic. Sorry to stray so far, but I'm getting old and I'll try any thing I can think of to get rich before I die. It sure worked for Chris Costner Sizemore, again back in the 50's, when the Chevy's were really cool. She even got a movie deal out of it.
I remember the good old days to have been much better than they really were; I think it's a fairly common proclivity. And the memory I have of my very own antfarm is one of amazement at just how hard those little suckers worked. That's the way to do it, I thought - work hard and build something.
It turns out my poor little antfarm was just a pimple on what real ants could do. If ya have three minutes and want to see what those little devils are capable of accomplishing, take a look. Let me give you a warning first, though. You're gonna have to turn the volume ALL the way up to hear anything at all.
http://www.metacafe.com/watch/2381967/worlds_biggest_ant_hill_amazing/
So anyway, I have been an Ant for most of my life. Sure, there have been times I grew long legs and fiddled, but for the most part, an Ant. Thing is, I also learned something else during my youth. I read a book titled "Aesop's Fables" and there was a story in it about an ant. And about a grasshopper.
I've looked around now and see no reason to continue being an ant. I've put away the stores I need for Winter and now it's time to be a grasshopper. I know the world is a mess but there's little I can do to change it. I'll dance to Nero and his fiddle if there is nothing else. Music, Dago Red and cheese. Lots of cheese and every now and again, a pepper - Jalapeno is best.
Here's a start. ANT FARM!!! OK, Uncle Milton, I said it. Go ahead and sue!
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Autumn, then Winter
The Summer of 2011 ended a little less than a week ago. The autumnal equinox occurred this year on the 23rd of September but our summer lasted two days more than the folks who printed up all the calenders were willing to let us enjoy. It feels a little sneaky, in a good way, to cheat the calender - those extra two days before the start of this Autumn added some much needed summertime to our lives, lives already in an Autumn of their own.
Saturday, the 25th day of September, dawned with a clear sky and before the Sun set that day the temperature reached an all time record high for that date of 94 degrees. Certainly, a day like that qualifies as summer. But that night a cold wind blew; it's cold breath killed summertime, and Sunday dawned with dark clouds and the temperature reached only 64 degrees before starting to fall during the evening.
Some lives are like that - Autumn comes in a single day. Others slip easily from Summer to Autumn over a much longer time, and the slow change goes unnoticed until one day you look in the mirror and see you've aged.
Mine was the kind where Summer turned to Autumn in a heartbeat - one instant was Summer - the next instant was Fall. I picked up a little more than I should have one glorious day and something slipped in my lower back. Nothing has been the same since. I quit walking during lunch hours - my footsteps jarred my back. I stopped almost all exercise and soon weighed more than I did during my long Summer. I could no longer twist and turn as I did before, everything in my body became stiff.
Carolyn's change to Autumn was of the second kind. She easily coasted from forty to fifty and then to sixty - somewhere along the way her Summer turned to Fall, but an Indian Summer lingered in her life for much of that time. Like everything else she did in life, she aged with grace and style. And, with a quick and joyful smile.
This morning I walked from my door to the mail box and back. As I walked from the house I faced the East, where the Sun had been earlier in the morning, and the sky was bright blue with several puffy white clouds. The kind of sky you expect to see on a brisk Fall morning. But then when I turned back to the West on my way home, the sky was dark. Clouds - dark heavy ones - the kind that bring snow and ice to the still warm Earth, were gathering over the mountains that define the boundary between Western and Central Oregon.
Those clouds were the clouds of Winter, and I did not expect them to appear in our skies for another several months. But, there they were, knocking at our door and trying to turn the season to Winter long before we expected it. Long before it was due.
And again I though of the similarity between the seasons and our lives. Some of us transition quickly from Fall to Winter, others linger for a much longer time. Now, Carolyn and I have reversed our roles. She has started the journey towards those cold, dark Western clouds much sooner than I. She has quickly passed from Fall to Winter, and her Winter will be a short one. Much shorter than most.
The days are getting shorter now and this time of year thoughts turn to fireplaces and warm flames. To walks among leaves that have fallen to the ground and the crackling sound of footsteps, yours and your loved one beside you, as the leaves beneath your feet are crushed. One day it will happen to all of us. We realize this year is different.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XSXYu-3r1S8
I can only hope my much longer Winter will be spent as gracefully as her long and joy filled Autumn.
Saturday, the 25th day of September, dawned with a clear sky and before the Sun set that day the temperature reached an all time record high for that date of 94 degrees. Certainly, a day like that qualifies as summer. But that night a cold wind blew; it's cold breath killed summertime, and Sunday dawned with dark clouds and the temperature reached only 64 degrees before starting to fall during the evening.
Some lives are like that - Autumn comes in a single day. Others slip easily from Summer to Autumn over a much longer time, and the slow change goes unnoticed until one day you look in the mirror and see you've aged.
Mine was the kind where Summer turned to Autumn in a heartbeat - one instant was Summer - the next instant was Fall. I picked up a little more than I should have one glorious day and something slipped in my lower back. Nothing has been the same since. I quit walking during lunch hours - my footsteps jarred my back. I stopped almost all exercise and soon weighed more than I did during my long Summer. I could no longer twist and turn as I did before, everything in my body became stiff.
Carolyn's change to Autumn was of the second kind. She easily coasted from forty to fifty and then to sixty - somewhere along the way her Summer turned to Fall, but an Indian Summer lingered in her life for much of that time. Like everything else she did in life, she aged with grace and style. And, with a quick and joyful smile.
This morning I walked from my door to the mail box and back. As I walked from the house I faced the East, where the Sun had been earlier in the morning, and the sky was bright blue with several puffy white clouds. The kind of sky you expect to see on a brisk Fall morning. But then when I turned back to the West on my way home, the sky was dark. Clouds - dark heavy ones - the kind that bring snow and ice to the still warm Earth, were gathering over the mountains that define the boundary between Western and Central Oregon.
Those clouds were the clouds of Winter, and I did not expect them to appear in our skies for another several months. But, there they were, knocking at our door and trying to turn the season to Winter long before we expected it. Long before it was due.
And again I though of the similarity between the seasons and our lives. Some of us transition quickly from Fall to Winter, others linger for a much longer time. Now, Carolyn and I have reversed our roles. She has started the journey towards those cold, dark Western clouds much sooner than I. She has quickly passed from Fall to Winter, and her Winter will be a short one. Much shorter than most.
The days are getting shorter now and this time of year thoughts turn to fireplaces and warm flames. To walks among leaves that have fallen to the ground and the crackling sound of footsteps, yours and your loved one beside you, as the leaves beneath your feet are crushed. One day it will happen to all of us. We realize this year is different.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XSXYu-3r1S8
I can only hope my much longer Winter will be spent as gracefully as her long and joy filled Autumn.
Friday, September 23, 2011
A Wedding
Carolyn and I are going to a wedding this weekend. Two of our neighbors are gonna tie the knot. Events like this are a cause for celebration, when the bride and groom are old enough and wise enough to choose a compatible mate, and this is just the sort of thing that provides a reason for me to pause and consider the world I live in.
It made me think of Paul and Marlene, ancestors of mine - and yours also - who were the very first couple to really make a difference in our lives. They were very small, looked a whole lot like rats with long noses and lived sixty-five million years ago.
Others of their species were around at the time, but Paul and Marlene were special. Those two, of all the couples on the entire planet, managed to produce an unbroken line of DNA and genes that thrives in every one of the cells in our bodies to this very day. All the rest fell by the wayside, lost for all of time and history.
Working together they were able to dodge the feet and claws of the dinosaurs, their neighbors, all the way up until the day the comet fell into the Gulf of Mexico. Not only were they able to survive by looking out for each other and caring about their mate more than about their own safety, they managed to raise their offspring.
Luckily, they were deep in their den when the comet landed and blew away almost every living thing that was standing outside at the time, watching it fall. They and their youngsters were left to inherit the world. It's been a struggle ever since then - the strongest managed to survive the perils of their times, the weaklings fell by the wayside.
Just like Bill and Julie will be, Paul and Marlene were married to each other. Sixty-five million years ago it took the combined efforts of the pair of them to forage for food, raise their young and insure their genes, the ones that survive in our own bodies to this day, were passed from them to us. Just as it take a pair of humans, committed to each other, to survive the challenges we face every day in 2011.
Back then the world was a very dangerous place, filled with teeth and claws that in one unguarded moment could maim or kill in an instant. It's the same today but the teeth and claws have been replaced with words and contracts. Today is the same as it was back then - the monsters are still out there waiting to pounce and kill. The only difference is the monsters today are armed bandits or wear expensive suits and smile while shaking our hands, stealing all that's in our wallets, and assuring there will be a place for us on a Salvation Army cot. Maybe.
I wish luck to my neighbors, and hope for a long and successful union for them. It really does take two people to deal with this world. One to watch the front and left side, the other to watch the back and right. When one is down, the other will carry his mate. Two together will survive. A loner will perish. They are starting off on the right foot; they have known and respected each other for years, have dealt with the world as a team for quite a while, and are sure of the love they have for each other.
I look around and see so much loneliness and sorrow. People join and then split without a thought about the consequences of either action. Families are begun and then abandoned with no care for the troubled chldren of a broken union.
It is truly a wonder that two people can see this happening all around them and still have the courage and confidence to commit to each other. I rejoice for them and I'm sure their ancient ancestors, Paul and Marlene, join in the celebration. After all, they are the grandparents.
Please join me in wishing them well.
It made me think of Paul and Marlene, ancestors of mine - and yours also - who were the very first couple to really make a difference in our lives. They were very small, looked a whole lot like rats with long noses and lived sixty-five million years ago.
Others of their species were around at the time, but Paul and Marlene were special. Those two, of all the couples on the entire planet, managed to produce an unbroken line of DNA and genes that thrives in every one of the cells in our bodies to this very day. All the rest fell by the wayside, lost for all of time and history.
Working together they were able to dodge the feet and claws of the dinosaurs, their neighbors, all the way up until the day the comet fell into the Gulf of Mexico. Not only were they able to survive by looking out for each other and caring about their mate more than about their own safety, they managed to raise their offspring.
Luckily, they were deep in their den when the comet landed and blew away almost every living thing that was standing outside at the time, watching it fall. They and their youngsters were left to inherit the world. It's been a struggle ever since then - the strongest managed to survive the perils of their times, the weaklings fell by the wayside.
Just like Bill and Julie will be, Paul and Marlene were married to each other. Sixty-five million years ago it took the combined efforts of the pair of them to forage for food, raise their young and insure their genes, the ones that survive in our own bodies to this day, were passed from them to us. Just as it take a pair of humans, committed to each other, to survive the challenges we face every day in 2011.
Back then the world was a very dangerous place, filled with teeth and claws that in one unguarded moment could maim or kill in an instant. It's the same today but the teeth and claws have been replaced with words and contracts. Today is the same as it was back then - the monsters are still out there waiting to pounce and kill. The only difference is the monsters today are armed bandits or wear expensive suits and smile while shaking our hands, stealing all that's in our wallets, and assuring there will be a place for us on a Salvation Army cot. Maybe.
I wish luck to my neighbors, and hope for a long and successful union for them. It really does take two people to deal with this world. One to watch the front and left side, the other to watch the back and right. When one is down, the other will carry his mate. Two together will survive. A loner will perish. They are starting off on the right foot; they have known and respected each other for years, have dealt with the world as a team for quite a while, and are sure of the love they have for each other.
I look around and see so much loneliness and sorrow. People join and then split without a thought about the consequences of either action. Families are begun and then abandoned with no care for the troubled chldren of a broken union.
It is truly a wonder that two people can see this happening all around them and still have the courage and confidence to commit to each other. I rejoice for them and I'm sure their ancient ancestors, Paul and Marlene, join in the celebration. After all, they are the grandparents.
Please join me in wishing them well.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Fraidy Cats
I just can't keep up. Seems that everyday brings just one more thing to hide from. Now I have to dig some sort of a super deep hole in the ground, cap it with a 24 inch thick slab of concrete and make sure the access door is strong enough to withstand being bombarded by pieces of a huge satellite.
Holy Meteorite's From Outer Space! What's a guy s'posed to do? Long ago I broke my back working just expressly to escape worrying about stuff like this during my retirement years. Ya know, those Golden Years ya see advertised on the TV? Can someone, anyone, tell me just how the Dickens a guy with my back problems is gonna be able to dig a hole that deep before next Friday? I've worked hard enough I should not be bothered with this crap.
I'd enlist the aid of Paul Newman and George Kennedy but both of them are dead by now. If any of you are old enough to remember "Cool Hand Luke" ya know why I want them on my team. But, that's just one more reason the entire world is messed up - all the guys with the right experience are dead - or have bad backs. I'm tellin' ya, nobody can win these days.
The movie industry managed to put sound effects with a motion picture in late 1900, but it took another twenty-seven years for the synchronization and the sound itself to be good enough that people would actually pay real money to sit and watch a "talkie." Al Jolson stared in "The Jazz Singer" in October of 1927, and that's when most folks date the start of talking movies. 'Course now all you readers know most folks are off by 27 years - see how much smarter you are just because you manage to wade through all my gibberish?
I know, not much of a reward for all the effort you put in, but if you'll keep going, I'll add to your knowledge.
That movie used a "sound on disk" process that required both a roll of film, with the pictures, and a 33 1/3 RPM record, with the sound, to be played at the same time. A year later, in 1928, the process we use today, a sound track on the film itself, came into existence.
I told you all that so you can see that it took 28 years for the movie guys to figure out how to make a motion picture capable of making an audience do something other than laugh when they watched a movie. It took only nine more years for the biggies to realize how much money there was to be made by scaring the tar out of people who watched. In 1936 a church group produced a little movie called "Teach Your Children."
In 1937 that little movie was purchased by another bunch of people who gave it a new title, "Reefer Madness." Soon it was being shown in theaters across the country and scared a whole bunch of folks. Scared them enough that Hemp production was outlawed shortly thereafter.
Now I'm not gonna point any fingers, but maybe you can read between the lines. In 1936, Hemp was the most commonly used fibre in this country. It was used for ropes, clothes, food and even lamp oil. In 1937, the same year "Reefer Madness" started gaining traction, the DuPont Company patented nylon. I leave it to you to do some research and then use any crayon you wish to draw a conclusion.
But, where was I when I got so far off the track - oh yeah, meteorites from space. All that stuff above was just to let you see how easily and quickly entertainment can be turned into propaganda, and scary propaganda is the best kind. It keeps folks up at night and makes them spend money in hopes of protecting themselves and their families from any harm. Harm they feel will come their way because of some silly thing they've been told is gonna happen to them by any number of sellers of safety.
In 1937 it was cannabis, by the early 50's it had turned into "Duck and Cover" type films designed to scare the bejeezus out of little kids, and now, sixty years later, everybody is afraid of everything. The media has to find something new everyday to scare us. Hurricanes, floods, viruses, peanut butter, darn near anything at all. If it's bad enough, we'll have to buy something or other to save ourselves from it.
I believe the last peanut butter scare required a jelly vaccination or some such but maybe I'm wrong about that. I'm not real good at paying attention. But just listening, even without paying much attention, is almost enough to keep a guy like me in bed all day.
Except I have this really big belly and I'm rather proud of the success in life that implies. It takes a lot of expensive food to maintain my belly; it also means I must leave the safety of my bed on a daily basis to prepare the calories that keep it round.
So, here comes the important part. I'm not falling for all the stuff the government and all the big businesses want me to be scared about. Nope. They can aim all the propaganda at me they want and I'm not gonna buy it. Every talking head on the tube can look concerned and tell me about all the stuff that's gonna kill me stone cold dead and I'm not gonna flinch.
All rest of you guys can be Fraidy Cats if you chose but I'm just gonna go about my business. I really am too old to dig a deep hole, and have already lived a good life. It's like totally OK if I get vaporized by some sort of falling spaceship I helped pay for with my own tax dollars this coming Friday. Better to die that way than by the hand of some dufus with a gun who wants the seventy-eight cents I normally carry in my pockets. If a 67 pound piece of US tax dollars really does land on my head and causes this to be my last post, I'm sure most of you will be better off because of it.
I am afraid of one thing, though. I'm afraid we're gonna elect a President next year. Nothing scares me more than that.
Holy Meteorite's From Outer Space! What's a guy s'posed to do? Long ago I broke my back working just expressly to escape worrying about stuff like this during my retirement years. Ya know, those Golden Years ya see advertised on the TV? Can someone, anyone, tell me just how the Dickens a guy with my back problems is gonna be able to dig a hole that deep before next Friday? I've worked hard enough I should not be bothered with this crap.
I'd enlist the aid of Paul Newman and George Kennedy but both of them are dead by now. If any of you are old enough to remember "Cool Hand Luke" ya know why I want them on my team. But, that's just one more reason the entire world is messed up - all the guys with the right experience are dead - or have bad backs. I'm tellin' ya, nobody can win these days.
The movie industry managed to put sound effects with a motion picture in late 1900, but it took another twenty-seven years for the synchronization and the sound itself to be good enough that people would actually pay real money to sit and watch a "talkie." Al Jolson stared in "The Jazz Singer" in October of 1927, and that's when most folks date the start of talking movies. 'Course now all you readers know most folks are off by 27 years - see how much smarter you are just because you manage to wade through all my gibberish?
I know, not much of a reward for all the effort you put in, but if you'll keep going, I'll add to your knowledge.
That movie used a "sound on disk" process that required both a roll of film, with the pictures, and a 33 1/3 RPM record, with the sound, to be played at the same time. A year later, in 1928, the process we use today, a sound track on the film itself, came into existence.
I told you all that so you can see that it took 28 years for the movie guys to figure out how to make a motion picture capable of making an audience do something other than laugh when they watched a movie. It took only nine more years for the biggies to realize how much money there was to be made by scaring the tar out of people who watched. In 1936 a church group produced a little movie called "Teach Your Children."
In 1937 that little movie was purchased by another bunch of people who gave it a new title, "Reefer Madness." Soon it was being shown in theaters across the country and scared a whole bunch of folks. Scared them enough that Hemp production was outlawed shortly thereafter.
Now I'm not gonna point any fingers, but maybe you can read between the lines. In 1936, Hemp was the most commonly used fibre in this country. It was used for ropes, clothes, food and even lamp oil. In 1937, the same year "Reefer Madness" started gaining traction, the DuPont Company patented nylon. I leave it to you to do some research and then use any crayon you wish to draw a conclusion.
But, where was I when I got so far off the track - oh yeah, meteorites from space. All that stuff above was just to let you see how easily and quickly entertainment can be turned into propaganda, and scary propaganda is the best kind. It keeps folks up at night and makes them spend money in hopes of protecting themselves and their families from any harm. Harm they feel will come their way because of some silly thing they've been told is gonna happen to them by any number of sellers of safety.
In 1937 it was cannabis, by the early 50's it had turned into "Duck and Cover" type films designed to scare the bejeezus out of little kids, and now, sixty years later, everybody is afraid of everything. The media has to find something new everyday to scare us. Hurricanes, floods, viruses, peanut butter, darn near anything at all. If it's bad enough, we'll have to buy something or other to save ourselves from it.
I believe the last peanut butter scare required a jelly vaccination or some such but maybe I'm wrong about that. I'm not real good at paying attention. But just listening, even without paying much attention, is almost enough to keep a guy like me in bed all day.
Except I have this really big belly and I'm rather proud of the success in life that implies. It takes a lot of expensive food to maintain my belly; it also means I must leave the safety of my bed on a daily basis to prepare the calories that keep it round.
So, here comes the important part. I'm not falling for all the stuff the government and all the big businesses want me to be scared about. Nope. They can aim all the propaganda at me they want and I'm not gonna buy it. Every talking head on the tube can look concerned and tell me about all the stuff that's gonna kill me stone cold dead and I'm not gonna flinch.
All rest of you guys can be Fraidy Cats if you chose but I'm just gonna go about my business. I really am too old to dig a deep hole, and have already lived a good life. It's like totally OK if I get vaporized by some sort of falling spaceship I helped pay for with my own tax dollars this coming Friday. Better to die that way than by the hand of some dufus with a gun who wants the seventy-eight cents I normally carry in my pockets. If a 67 pound piece of US tax dollars really does land on my head and causes this to be my last post, I'm sure most of you will be better off because of it.
I am afraid of one thing, though. I'm afraid we're gonna elect a President next year. Nothing scares me more than that.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
How Long?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mW9TIKrxT18&feature=related
Looking back, this was almost the right question to ask in 1974. It wasn't just exactly the right question, but we can answer the one they posed.
My vote is since August 15,1971 when R. M. Nixon demolished Bretton Woods. That's quite a while, if you happen to be a human. It's been forty years, or about half a human lifetime, since Tricky Dick did away with the gold standard and our economic world started inflating it's way to nothingness.
I was a young man back then and my thoughts were of family, career and making a fortune in some sort of financial adventure. Back then I was not smart enough to realize civilization had just come to an end, but then again, neither did a lot of folks, most of whom were much smarter and more savvy than I.
At the time I was more interested in listening to a guy named Blaine who convinced me, and a bunch of other guys, to invest in a broken down TV station that operated out of Tacoma, WA.
The company he was pushing also had a bunch of cheap land in the area and his pitch boiled down to "Don't you think it makes a lot of sense - owning your own TV station to advertise your land?" It did make a bunch of sense to a 26 year old wet behind the ears kid who was busily involved conquering the known world. I had read about Alexander the Great and was sure I could do the bit in another year or two.
So I gave him everything we had and took out a loan to buy even more of the paper stock certificates he was handing out. He was gonna make all of us rich - remember? Well, Blaine, I do remember. It didn't happen - all that happened was the whole thing went belly up and I paid off the loan plus interest over the next five years.
All things considered, it was a cheap lesson as these things go. It was a lot of money back then - but not even as much as passes through this retired household in a good month these days. It turned out to be a really inexpensive education and I'm happy I paid for it back then. It saved me from learning about smiling faces and pretty paper later in life when it would have been harder to recover.
And, we did recover - from the TV/Land deal Blaine pitched to us while wearing a custom made Western cut suit. But not, it seems, from the thing ol' Tricky did to pay for Lyndon's war that same year. Even though only a few very educated men of the time realized what was going on, it's taken only forty years for that one act to destroy the value of our American dollar. It's hard for me to believe, but it takes less money than what slips through my fingers every nine or ten weeks today to pay cash for the house I bought that year.
It's true. We don't live all that much better now than we did then - not at all. We did not get rich, as I had planned to do, the dollar just is worth much less than it was back then. And worse, it now takes the income of two people to provide what one income used to provide.
Our politicians, in collusion with the bankers, have done this to us. Inflation, and the lack of wages keeping up with it's steady increase, has taken the heaviest possible toll on American workers. It, and the people who allow it for their own ends, have taken from us the most valuable commodity we own, our time. The time one parent used to spend raising children is now spent in the workplace just so the offspring can be fed and clothed. Because they take so much of our labor in the form of fees and taxes, the well connected and well heeled have caused our children to raise themselves.
The children have grown up dumb and mean. There is little respect for life itself among the poorest and least advantaged of them, and now they seem to have realized they can take what ever it is they want or need by force. All it takes is a large enough number of them and they can overwhelm the order in our society. It's happening all around us now in 7-11 markets and retail stores.
Soon enough, it will happen in the homes of the folks who have caused our society to crumble. The Lords of our nation will pay dearly for the toys they now enjoy.
I'm afraid we're going to enter a dark time in our history, and not just the history in our country, but around the entire world. We will be lucky if civilization survives.
This thing has been going on for forty years. And it may last another forty before it explodes. But, make no mistake - it will explode and, in my view, sooner than later. Forty years is a long time for a human, but not for a dark age.
The song at the start of this page asked "How long has this been going on." I think a better question is "How long can this keep going on?"
Looking back, this was almost the right question to ask in 1974. It wasn't just exactly the right question, but we can answer the one they posed.
My vote is since August 15,1971 when R. M. Nixon demolished Bretton Woods. That's quite a while, if you happen to be a human. It's been forty years, or about half a human lifetime, since Tricky Dick did away with the gold standard and our economic world started inflating it's way to nothingness.
I was a young man back then and my thoughts were of family, career and making a fortune in some sort of financial adventure. Back then I was not smart enough to realize civilization had just come to an end, but then again, neither did a lot of folks, most of whom were much smarter and more savvy than I.
At the time I was more interested in listening to a guy named Blaine who convinced me, and a bunch of other guys, to invest in a broken down TV station that operated out of Tacoma, WA.
The company he was pushing also had a bunch of cheap land in the area and his pitch boiled down to "Don't you think it makes a lot of sense - owning your own TV station to advertise your land?" It did make a bunch of sense to a 26 year old wet behind the ears kid who was busily involved conquering the known world. I had read about Alexander the Great and was sure I could do the bit in another year or two.
So I gave him everything we had and took out a loan to buy even more of the paper stock certificates he was handing out. He was gonna make all of us rich - remember? Well, Blaine, I do remember. It didn't happen - all that happened was the whole thing went belly up and I paid off the loan plus interest over the next five years.
All things considered, it was a cheap lesson as these things go. It was a lot of money back then - but not even as much as passes through this retired household in a good month these days. It turned out to be a really inexpensive education and I'm happy I paid for it back then. It saved me from learning about smiling faces and pretty paper later in life when it would have been harder to recover.
And, we did recover - from the TV/Land deal Blaine pitched to us while wearing a custom made Western cut suit. But not, it seems, from the thing ol' Tricky did to pay for Lyndon's war that same year. Even though only a few very educated men of the time realized what was going on, it's taken only forty years for that one act to destroy the value of our American dollar. It's hard for me to believe, but it takes less money than what slips through my fingers every nine or ten weeks today to pay cash for the house I bought that year.
It's true. We don't live all that much better now than we did then - not at all. We did not get rich, as I had planned to do, the dollar just is worth much less than it was back then. And worse, it now takes the income of two people to provide what one income used to provide.
Our politicians, in collusion with the bankers, have done this to us. Inflation, and the lack of wages keeping up with it's steady increase, has taken the heaviest possible toll on American workers. It, and the people who allow it for their own ends, have taken from us the most valuable commodity we own, our time. The time one parent used to spend raising children is now spent in the workplace just so the offspring can be fed and clothed. Because they take so much of our labor in the form of fees and taxes, the well connected and well heeled have caused our children to raise themselves.
The children have grown up dumb and mean. There is little respect for life itself among the poorest and least advantaged of them, and now they seem to have realized they can take what ever it is they want or need by force. All it takes is a large enough number of them and they can overwhelm the order in our society. It's happening all around us now in 7-11 markets and retail stores.
Soon enough, it will happen in the homes of the folks who have caused our society to crumble. The Lords of our nation will pay dearly for the toys they now enjoy.
I'm afraid we're going to enter a dark time in our history, and not just the history in our country, but around the entire world. We will be lucky if civilization survives.
This thing has been going on for forty years. And it may last another forty before it explodes. But, make no mistake - it will explode and, in my view, sooner than later. Forty years is a long time for a human, but not for a dark age.
The song at the start of this page asked "How long has this been going on." I think a better question is "How long can this keep going on?"
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
HAL in the Hallway
Used to be that when a thermostat started acting up ya just replaced the stinkin' thing. If it stopped making the A/C come on when it got hot in the house ya knew it was busted.
Well, not any more. Now you first have to figure out if the batteries are dead, if you fat-fingered one of the controls because you were sweating so profusely your vision was blurred while you were trying to make things cool enough that you quit sweating, or if the dang thing really is, in fact, broken.
Things started heating up in this joint today and for once it wasn't because my wife didn't like the way I make French toast. It was because the "Green" thermostat, the kind that allows one to pre-program several different settings at different times of the day and during differing days of the week in an effort to shave MAYBE 43 cents off the electric bill, started to behave like HAL in Arthur C. Clarke's 2001.
For absolutely no reason I can think of, it started to reset the temperature all by itself. We'd get hot enough that I'd go over to check it and sure enough, HAL wanted his house to be 82 degrees. I'd reset it to our comfortable 73 degrees and walk away. The A/C would come on and we would turn into happy campers. For about thirty minutes.
Then rinse and repeat - about eight times before I got mad enough to try to figure out what was wrong. "I'll fix you," I said, "New batteries! How ya like them apples?"
HAL ate the new apples, cores and all. He again reset his house to 82 degrees.
"Oh yeah? Well, HAL, I just found the instructions that are written on the inside of the cover that protects the batteries - I'm taking charge here. I'm gonna reprogram your innards to OUR liking." That's what I told him. HAL scoffed.
I'm sure the noise I heard was coming from deep inside the thermostat - HAL scoffing at me.. No, wait. That was Muffy scratching at the door, trying to escape the heat.
Just like a rat - Leaving us to our own devices while trying to control this $49.95 errant piece of modern wires and plastic. He wanted to watch from the shade of a convenient tree. I relented and let him out. Just because we had to suffer didn't mean he did too.
Besides, his paws on the sliding door reminded me of Johnnie Fregeau running his fingernails down the chalkboard just to upset our fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Brick. That really was her name.
I soon found the reason HAL was not afraid I'd remake him so he'd conform to my desires. The instructions were written in the smallest font , think "tiny", you've ever seen. No way could a pair of 66 year old eyes make out any of the words, save those two at top top which proudly stated "Programing Instructions" Not only are the Chinese, who made this piece of crap, small in stature, they have the ability to read really, really small printing.
No one else in the world (except my buddy, Boomer) can do that, and it's one of the reasons they're gonna rule the world. They know what the fine print says. It's how the lawyers took this country away from average folks like you and me and I'm gonna laugh the whole time the Chinamen are taking it away from them. Ha! I'm gonna be just like HAL - scoffing at the lawyers. I kinda like that thought.
I did what any guy with an IQ over 87 would do and found my handy magnifying glass. Then I had to find the flashlight 'cause there wasn't enough light to see the instructions when I looked through it.
I started to read the tiny letters, one at a time. Finally a bunch of them would turn into a word and I'd write that word down on a piece of paper. I wrote big enough that I could see what it said when it was all put together after I finished the one letter at a time thing. Well, after about twenty words were on the paper I realized programing the thing was gonna be impossible. I hadn't even gotten through all of the first step. It looked like there were another three or four lines of secret codes still to be deciphered. Enough of this.
Some folks doubt the existance of our Good Lord, but every now and again a miracle pops up in my life. And it makes me believe. Today's miracle happened; I located just the part I needed to find. A line that started with "To use the Manual Override" feature, first press the "Hold/Set" button until "Hold" appears on the display."
I continued the writethewordbigger technique I had now perfected and soon knew just how to tame HAL. I pressed this, held that, reset the temp. and leaned back. It had taken a whole afternoon, if ya count looking for the flashlight and magnifying glass, but I finally outsmarted this monster someone had attached to the wall in my hallway. And, you can bet the next time I go to the Lumberbox store I'm gonna pick up a cheapo NON programmable control so I can replace this one soon as HAL wakes up again.
Just call me Dave Bowman.
Well, not any more. Now you first have to figure out if the batteries are dead, if you fat-fingered one of the controls because you were sweating so profusely your vision was blurred while you were trying to make things cool enough that you quit sweating, or if the dang thing really is, in fact, broken.
Things started heating up in this joint today and for once it wasn't because my wife didn't like the way I make French toast. It was because the "Green" thermostat, the kind that allows one to pre-program several different settings at different times of the day and during differing days of the week in an effort to shave MAYBE 43 cents off the electric bill, started to behave like HAL in Arthur C. Clarke's 2001.
For absolutely no reason I can think of, it started to reset the temperature all by itself. We'd get hot enough that I'd go over to check it and sure enough, HAL wanted his house to be 82 degrees. I'd reset it to our comfortable 73 degrees and walk away. The A/C would come on and we would turn into happy campers. For about thirty minutes.
Then rinse and repeat - about eight times before I got mad enough to try to figure out what was wrong. "I'll fix you," I said, "New batteries! How ya like them apples?"
HAL ate the new apples, cores and all. He again reset his house to 82 degrees.
"Oh yeah? Well, HAL, I just found the instructions that are written on the inside of the cover that protects the batteries - I'm taking charge here. I'm gonna reprogram your innards to OUR liking." That's what I told him. HAL scoffed.
I'm sure the noise I heard was coming from deep inside the thermostat - HAL scoffing at me.. No, wait. That was Muffy scratching at the door, trying to escape the heat.
Just like a rat - Leaving us to our own devices while trying to control this $49.95 errant piece of modern wires and plastic. He wanted to watch from the shade of a convenient tree. I relented and let him out. Just because we had to suffer didn't mean he did too.
Besides, his paws on the sliding door reminded me of Johnnie Fregeau running his fingernails down the chalkboard just to upset our fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Brick. That really was her name.
I soon found the reason HAL was not afraid I'd remake him so he'd conform to my desires. The instructions were written in the smallest font , think "tiny", you've ever seen. No way could a pair of 66 year old eyes make out any of the words, save those two at top top which proudly stated "Programing Instructions" Not only are the Chinese, who made this piece of crap, small in stature, they have the ability to read really, really small printing.
No one else in the world (except my buddy, Boomer) can do that, and it's one of the reasons they're gonna rule the world. They know what the fine print says. It's how the lawyers took this country away from average folks like you and me and I'm gonna laugh the whole time the Chinamen are taking it away from them. Ha! I'm gonna be just like HAL - scoffing at the lawyers. I kinda like that thought.
I did what any guy with an IQ over 87 would do and found my handy magnifying glass. Then I had to find the flashlight 'cause there wasn't enough light to see the instructions when I looked through it.
I started to read the tiny letters, one at a time. Finally a bunch of them would turn into a word and I'd write that word down on a piece of paper. I wrote big enough that I could see what it said when it was all put together after I finished the one letter at a time thing. Well, after about twenty words were on the paper I realized programing the thing was gonna be impossible. I hadn't even gotten through all of the first step. It looked like there were another three or four lines of secret codes still to be deciphered. Enough of this.
Some folks doubt the existance of our Good Lord, but every now and again a miracle pops up in my life. And it makes me believe. Today's miracle happened; I located just the part I needed to find. A line that started with "To use the Manual Override" feature, first press the "Hold/Set" button until "Hold" appears on the display."
I continued the writethewordbigger technique I had now perfected and soon knew just how to tame HAL. I pressed this, held that, reset the temp. and leaned back. It had taken a whole afternoon, if ya count looking for the flashlight and magnifying glass, but I finally outsmarted this monster someone had attached to the wall in my hallway. And, you can bet the next time I go to the Lumberbox store I'm gonna pick up a cheapo NON programmable control so I can replace this one soon as HAL wakes up again.
Just call me Dave Bowman.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Barefootin'
It's been kinda warm around central Oregon the last several days. In fact, we set all time records for high temps yesterday and today, 94 degrees! Normal for this time of year is 79. So I guess there was a good reason for me to see a kid, maybe eight or nine years old, walk by our place without a shirt and with no shoes to protect his feet from mother earth.
He was barefootin'. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sUOXgL4rvYk
It's something I used to see all the time, fifty years ago, but not so much these days. Ya know, a kid actually running around outside and lookin' like he's having a good time? It blew me away 'cause I am a little confused about stuff like this. Was that kid actually being abused?
Well, for sure it's child abuse if you happen to believe some of the scientific studies, paid for with your tax dollars and designed to scare the bejeezus out of modern mothers, that our government prints up. The scientists all agree - running around in the sunshine the Good Lord provides everyday is without question gonna kill the poor child - skin cancer, don't ya know? http://www.medicinenet.com/script/main/art.asp?articlekey=43077 Or, maybe not. http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,157348,00.html There you have it, both ways and clear as mud.
Armed with this information, maybe you can see why I've been of two minds for the last several hours just because a kid I have never seen before walked by my window. Should I be a good citizen and call the cops to have his mother locked away for the next couple dozen years? Or should I recommend her for a Citizen of the Year Award for allowing her child to benefit from the healing rays of our very own star? It truly is a puzzle and because I'm an American, I want to do the right thing.
The more government and academic studies I read, the more confused I get. Not just about this kid, but about most studies the government commissions. Is coffee bad for you? http://ezinearticles.com/?Why-Coffee-is-Bad-For-Your-Health&id=3601380 Or good? http://articles.latimes.com/2011/apr/10/health/la-he-coffee-heart-disease-20110410
Did the kid need to have shoes on his feet? I read a study about that just a year or so ago. As I remember it - and understand that most of the time I'm totally confused - I think the study said a kid needs shoes.
Never mind - I just decided to do a little research on my own. Here's a picture of my younger brother and me that was taken 60 years or so ago. Notice neither of us have shirts, all four feet are in contact with the ground, and we're both smiling.
Further research involved a phone call to my brother. After several pertinent questions I determined:
1) He is in the same sorry condition as I. Older than any human has a right to be, overweight, but no sign of skin cancer.
2) Both his feet continue to reach the ground every time he stands up. The soles have not been worn off by many years of contact with the Earth, and there are no holes in either of them that he is able to detect. Exactly like mine.
Humm. It seems there was no apparent damage done because our mom allowed us to enjoy the Sun and Earth at an early age. But, just to be sure this was not an isolated incidence of our normal summer attire, I researched a little more, and found this.
Additional evidence of the way our Mom dressed us during the summer months - and from a year or so earlier - she must have dressed us this way for years. And yeah, I wish I still had those BuddyL cars. I bet they're worth a fortune. Here, too, we are shirtless and shoeless. I think I'm on to something. The results are in and my high powered, non-government sponsored study produced the following data.
1) It's OK to let kids dress like kids.
2) Dirt between the toes of the average kid is a good thing.
3) Most of the time ya can figure out if something is good for you or not all by yourself.
Now I know just what I need to do about the kid who walked by earlier. I need to nominate his Mom as Citizen of the Year. Too bad he's long gone and I can't find him or his mom.
Oh well..........
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Mail Boxes
There's been some talk on the news lately of problems with the US Postal Service. Some are blaming the mess on congress, others on Unions. Still others say it has to do with witches or elves, and I'm hoping a ton of these folks go to the polls next year.
We need a Dorothy Party candidate, one like Glinda, the Good Witch from the North, to pull us out of the mess the other parties have gotten us into. Heaven save us from the folks who have already declared they want to drive the bus. The only road they know is the one that leads to a cliff beyond which is a 100 year deep canyon. And all of them want us to go over that cliff at sixty miles an hour.
While I was busy growing up, living at home with my parents, my mother loved to paint. She'd spend hours at her easel with a brush in one hand and a pallet with two dozen different colors in the other. One day she produced a small, I'd guess eight by ten inches, painting of a mail box. To this day, I consider it to be the best she's ever created.
The mail box was located along side a red dirt road. There was a red dirt path that lead from the base of the post that supported the mailbox to a small wooden sided house with a covered porch that extended the full length of the building. Many chairs and a couple of swings were on the porch, and they overlooked the path with tall grasses on both sides...and the mailbox.
After a long day working in the hot, humid Alabama fields, fields so hot you started sweating just by looking at them, the folks would gather on that porch. There they would sit and wait for any kind of breeze, even a warm one, to help cool down from the days labor. The men would discuss the weather, the crops and what they needed to do the next day. The women had different topics, but theirs too centered mostly on what needed to be done to keep the family going.
Now there are some who would say the painting was of a southern cabin, and had nothing at all to do with the mailbox out in front. But they don't know the story. Even my Mom, who painted the picture, would tell you it's about the house. But, when asked about the painting, her words said something different.
The mailbox was planted long after the cabin and porch were built, and after the fields were cleared by men wielding only shovels and dynamite. And my Great Grandfather, who owned the cabin and the mailbox my Mother had painted from her most cherished of childhood memories, was proud of it.
Before the mail box was erected he and his wife would pick up what little mail that was addressed to them at the General Store in town. They only went to town once or twice a month, and they'd even miss some months. Not much mail back in those days; no credit card applications and advertisements trying to get you to buy the latest veg-a-matic.
Mostly when a letter came it was bad news; someone you hadn't seen for a while had died or your property taxes had been raised. Every once in a while something useful did manage to turn up, something like a Sears and Roebuck catalogue. Pretty useful stuff, back in the day.
My Great Granddad was a forward thinking man, when he had the time to consider such things, and was overjoyed when Rural Free Delivery came to the road that ran in front of his home. He was able to recognize progress when he saw it, and was happy. Happy for his family, who no longer had to wait for a trip to town to pick up the mail, happy for his community, who now could communicate with the outside world much more quickly, and happy for his country. Things were looking up.
With great pride he built the mail box in a shed behind his house, and he erected it with care beside that dirt road that ran in front. He carefully painted the address, R.Rt. 5 Box 11, on it, and every day Great Grandma would go to fetch any mail that was deposited inside. That all happened, according to my Mom, a little less than a hundred years ago.
I bought my first house in 1970. I paid 16,500 dollars for a three bedroom, two bath house in a very nice neighborhood between Burien, south of Seattle, and Tacoma, Washington. There was no need to look very closely, the mail box beside the door was easy to locate. Easy for me and for the mailman who brought the mail every day , except Sunday, and left it there for us. All we needed to do to get our mail was step out onto our covered porch and pull it from the box.
Mail service in this country had certainly improved since my Great Grandfathers time; we no longer needed to walk a dirt path to get it. For years this was the case, but then in the late 80's and early 90's things began to go downhill. The three bedroom, two bath home we purchased in 1991, for WELL over ten times the price of the first one, came with a cluster of mailboxes located at the corner of the block. We now walked a path, the sidewalk, much as my Great Grandfather did almost one hundred years ago, to get our mail.
It's been that way ever since. Sure, there are some of you who live in houses built before the 90's who have your mail delivered to your door, but for the rest of us...well let's just say we can see how things are going in this country.
What's happened in this greatest land in all the Universe? There's talk of cutting back mail delivery and even of no delivery at all. How have things gotten so messed up that even mail delivery in this great nation is in jeopardy?
My Great Grandfather, if he were here, would shake his head. Then he'd say, "The corn in the lower forty's ready. We need to get it in by the end of the week." He'd then advise all to get a good night's rest, say a few words thanking the Lord for the crop they were going to put in the crib during that week and go to bed.
He could take care of his own. Didn't need a bunch of fancy dressed lying snakes in DC with well coiffed hair to tell him what to do.
We need a Dorothy Party candidate, one like Glinda, the Good Witch from the North, to pull us out of the mess the other parties have gotten us into. Heaven save us from the folks who have already declared they want to drive the bus. The only road they know is the one that leads to a cliff beyond which is a 100 year deep canyon. And all of them want us to go over that cliff at sixty miles an hour.
While I was busy growing up, living at home with my parents, my mother loved to paint. She'd spend hours at her easel with a brush in one hand and a pallet with two dozen different colors in the other. One day she produced a small, I'd guess eight by ten inches, painting of a mail box. To this day, I consider it to be the best she's ever created.
The mail box was located along side a red dirt road. There was a red dirt path that lead from the base of the post that supported the mailbox to a small wooden sided house with a covered porch that extended the full length of the building. Many chairs and a couple of swings were on the porch, and they overlooked the path with tall grasses on both sides...and the mailbox.
After a long day working in the hot, humid Alabama fields, fields so hot you started sweating just by looking at them, the folks would gather on that porch. There they would sit and wait for any kind of breeze, even a warm one, to help cool down from the days labor. The men would discuss the weather, the crops and what they needed to do the next day. The women had different topics, but theirs too centered mostly on what needed to be done to keep the family going.
Now there are some who would say the painting was of a southern cabin, and had nothing at all to do with the mailbox out in front. But they don't know the story. Even my Mom, who painted the picture, would tell you it's about the house. But, when asked about the painting, her words said something different.
The mailbox was planted long after the cabin and porch were built, and after the fields were cleared by men wielding only shovels and dynamite. And my Great Grandfather, who owned the cabin and the mailbox my Mother had painted from her most cherished of childhood memories, was proud of it.
Before the mail box was erected he and his wife would pick up what little mail that was addressed to them at the General Store in town. They only went to town once or twice a month, and they'd even miss some months. Not much mail back in those days; no credit card applications and advertisements trying to get you to buy the latest veg-a-matic.
Mostly when a letter came it was bad news; someone you hadn't seen for a while had died or your property taxes had been raised. Every once in a while something useful did manage to turn up, something like a Sears and Roebuck catalogue. Pretty useful stuff, back in the day.
My Great Granddad was a forward thinking man, when he had the time to consider such things, and was overjoyed when Rural Free Delivery came to the road that ran in front of his home. He was able to recognize progress when he saw it, and was happy. Happy for his family, who no longer had to wait for a trip to town to pick up the mail, happy for his community, who now could communicate with the outside world much more quickly, and happy for his country. Things were looking up.
With great pride he built the mail box in a shed behind his house, and he erected it with care beside that dirt road that ran in front. He carefully painted the address, R.Rt. 5 Box 11, on it, and every day Great Grandma would go to fetch any mail that was deposited inside. That all happened, according to my Mom, a little less than a hundred years ago.
I bought my first house in 1970. I paid 16,500 dollars for a three bedroom, two bath house in a very nice neighborhood between Burien, south of Seattle, and Tacoma, Washington. There was no need to look very closely, the mail box beside the door was easy to locate. Easy for me and for the mailman who brought the mail every day , except Sunday, and left it there for us. All we needed to do to get our mail was step out onto our covered porch and pull it from the box.
Mail service in this country had certainly improved since my Great Grandfathers time; we no longer needed to walk a dirt path to get it. For years this was the case, but then in the late 80's and early 90's things began to go downhill. The three bedroom, two bath home we purchased in 1991, for WELL over ten times the price of the first one, came with a cluster of mailboxes located at the corner of the block. We now walked a path, the sidewalk, much as my Great Grandfather did almost one hundred years ago, to get our mail.
It's been that way ever since. Sure, there are some of you who live in houses built before the 90's who have your mail delivered to your door, but for the rest of us...well let's just say we can see how things are going in this country.
What's happened in this greatest land in all the Universe? There's talk of cutting back mail delivery and even of no delivery at all. How have things gotten so messed up that even mail delivery in this great nation is in jeopardy?
My Great Grandfather, if he were here, would shake his head. Then he'd say, "The corn in the lower forty's ready. We need to get it in by the end of the week." He'd then advise all to get a good night's rest, say a few words thanking the Lord for the crop they were going to put in the crib during that week and go to bed.
He could take care of his own. Didn't need a bunch of fancy dressed lying snakes in DC with well coiffed hair to tell him what to do.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Bar-B-Que
That's the American thing to do on Labor Day. BBQ. Vacation's over for many of the youngsters starting tomorrow morning and it's back to work for most of the rest of us. The fortunate ones of us who still have needed jobs, that is.
But this post is about BBQ, not jobs. We in this household managed to sort of BBQ today. After assembling and hanging the rain gutter parts I bought the other day, I still managed to find the time to fire up the ol' grill. Of course, there was not enough time to use it properly, all I did was steam a bunch of asparagus on it.
I broke the spears in half and tossed the ugly part. Then put the tips on a sheet of tin foil, added half a ton of butter, sprinkled Lemon Pepper over everything, and then sealed the foil. It then went on the upper tray on the BBQ for 20 minutes. Steamed asparagus - an epicurean delight.
Had I taken the same care with the rest of the meal I could claim to be a chef and make six or seven dollars an hour. But instead all I did was heat up some left over Lasagna in the microwave. It's a pity, but at least the kitchen didn't cause the whole house to overheat this afternoon, and that was the plan all along.
Just because I have no clue how to celebrate Labor Day, it doesn't mean my friends suffer the same lack of class. They know how to do it right.
All my old buddies in Los Alamos hung signs around town the first part of last week letting everybody know they were gonna give free airplane rides to kids between the ages of eight and seventeen. They all gathered at the airport today and gave rides to more than 90 kids this morning.
I used to participate in this free flight thing, in fact I was in charge of Chapter 691's program for many years. My first ride was free, and I tried to pay back the guy who gave it to me so many years ago by passing it on. That's me, several years ago, along with a first timer and my trusted wings, "The Bumble Bee." Black and yellow, get it? Part of the first ride includes a little knowledge, and here I was explaining how the various control surfaces worked before we departed.
We all belong to a nationwide group of pilots , the Experimental Aircraft Association, and since 1992 the group has given more than 1.6 million kids a ride. Honorary chairmen have included Gen. Chuck Yeager, Harrison Ford, and now "Sully" Sullenberger.
After they flew every kid who showed up, they all gathered at Jeff's hanger and fired up several BBQ's. That's the way it should be done. Several BBQ's, a ton of friends and family, and a good cause to boot. I'm bettting there were several gatherings that equalled this one today, but none that exceeded it.
Well done, guys. I'm also betting you inspired a future pilot or two today. And for sure the cow did not die in vain!
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Plugged Up
Or, How I Spent My Labor Day Weekend
Our friends from Napa stopped in to say hi on this glorious Pacific Northwest afternoon. Carolyn's sister accompanied them while her husband, Richard, went to work. That's a cause for celebration, Richard going to work, because his hours were cut from forty per week to just eight last Fall. Then he was furloughed. He's happy to be laboring this Labor Day, even though he now works only three days a week and has no benefits, and we're happy for him.
So, while Richard was busy following Louis Armstrong's advice, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-vx64fSAqhI , we were busy having fun. Until one of our guests needed to use our guest bathroom. That's when we discovered that sometime during the last couple of weeks it went on strike.
It's fitting, I guess, that we discovered this on Labor Day weekend 'cause that used to be the way folks demanded change in the workplace. They went on strike. It's how we got the 40 hour week, decent pay and benefits like retirement and health plans.
I know, most of you younger folks are thinking "Huh? Is he talking about here in America? Naw - he must mean Europe or Africa - some of those socialist, commie places where everybody talks funny, We don't got nothin' like that 'round here."
Well, we used to have those things right here in this town and in yours too 'cause our great grandaddies got beaten up and killed by goons and cops in the employ of the factory owners. After enough strikers were killed, the owners finally caved. It was that or go to jail for murder.
But that was before video games, wii and streaming netflix kept us so busy we don't have time to care about our working conditions. Oh well, I'm retired now so I don't give a rat's behind and under the tail anymore myself. You guys deal with it. I'm busy trying to make sure visitors to our humble castle can relieve themselves without worrying about where I hid the mop.
I'm old enough to know just exactly how to deal with a striking toilet - use the plunger. And I have a really handy, heavy duty one laying around this joint somewhere. Not one of those cheapo plastic handled Wal*Mess things. A real honest to goodness Ace hardware one, made in another corner of China than the cheap ones. OK, you caught me - mine's a cheap one too. Just a more expensive cheap one. I don't know where to look for a great one these days; all of them are the pits.
Seems like I don't know where to look to find my expensive cheap one either. I looked everywhere it should be to no avail. I even had help from Micky - he looked in the places it should not be. The truth is, I didn't get any help from Micky at all. He couldn't find it either, and that's no help. Just co-miserating.
So, we climbed into the Guzzler Deluxe and chugged down to the Lumberbox store to buy a new one. While I was there I also picked up a bunch of rain gutter pieces that I'll put together to prevent ice from forming on the sidewalk in front of our front door, but that's a different post. I'll get to it one of these days.
Brand new plunger in hand, we faced the white porcelain fixture and with a mighty shove, stared at it with hopes the water level would lower. It didn't. I plunged again and again but all that happened was a bunch of water that was not making a mess before I started was now causing the floor to be kinda shiny. Back to the Lumberbox for a grenade or two. This piece of crap cheapo plunger I was using was just making things worse.
We found just the Howitzer we needed. A cheapo handy-dandy toilet snake, made in China and shipped all the way to my local store, for only 19.97. That's pretty cheap for a cannon, I don't care where you were raised.
Home again, bazooka in hand, we started work. I pushed the snake down the hole in the bottom of the offending bowl and started twisting. It hung up on something or another but with a doubling of the force on the handle, it gave. Two turns later, I pulled the snake back towards me. The water level started to recede, slowly at first but then explosively.
How the Devil did a washcloth wind up in the toilet? My life is filled with such mysteries.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Playing Around
Today was Thursday. That, boys and girls, means I had four hours off duty while a volunteer watched, ready to take action, in case Carolyn began to fall. Or, if he was more than a step away, to pick her up from the floor.
The last several Thursday's I've shopped til I dropped, taken the mutt to the vet for his rabies shot and then to the police station for the new license, and caught up on car maintenance. The dreaded oil changes and such. Since I was raised in a good Protestant home, I learned early in life to do a good job.
I was taught to take care of my business in a timely, efficient manner, and to face the challenges life presents to all of us head on. I know that some may claim gale force winds are more easily dealt with by presenting one's side to the wind, rather than facing it squarely. Physics, aerodynamics and Bernoulli's law is on their side.
My own beliefs, though, leave me little option in this matter. I will stand with the wind in my face and deal with it. That's what good Protestants do, even though I have long since given up any hope of finding the bliss I'm looking for inside a building.
There's a reason for this, but it's a long, sad story with no redeeming humor. Sometimes it's just better to let the past remain a searing memory between my ears, and between the ears of the person who spewed the venom that caused me to find my own way to Heaven. A way that does not involve taking direction from another person or congregation of people.
So, just by being the good, efficient Protestant that I have been taught to be, there were not a whole lot of chores left. I realized there was very little I needed to accomplish today. For the first time in months, there was some free time in my life, and I knew just how to spend it. At the airport!
I drove over there and looked at all the closed and locked gates. I've never been an outsider at an airport, never in my life. In my youth they were always wide open, welcoming places. Fences and gates had nothing to do with those magical places until 9/11/01.
Before that date, an airport was the home to Gods who could climb into majestic machines and soar high above the earth. Gods who could play with the fabric of clouds, who could loop and roll and laugh at gravity: the same gravity that slowly weakens and ultimately kills all of us one day at a time. The Gods who hung out at the airport would defy that gravity while I was watching. Then they would return to earth and swagger from their craft with a triumphant look on their faces. And, all who dared to enter their domain were welcomed.
Soon, I joined their numbers and found them to be mere men. Only mortals, but mortals who knew there was more to life than left and right. They knew there was also up and down, and that makes all the difference in the world.
It's different today. Today I had to look for a hole in the fence. A hole I could sneak through to once again join their numbers. It took a while but finally I found that for which I was searching. "Learn To Fly" the sign read, so I pulled the Guzzler into a parking space and walked through the door.
"Hey, you guys rent planes by the hour here?" I asked. They said yes and gave me hourly rates for various models. "How 'bout an EAA chapter. Is there one around? I'm new in town."
An old geezer, probably five or six years younger than me, who was leaning back against a wall reading a "Sport Aviation" magazine perked up at that question. "I know something about that - there's a chapter up in Prineville and one in Bend. My name's Tom."
We talked for an hour or so, nothing consequential, just about airplanes and the price of fuel. The tales of derring-do will come in a couple more months. No body likes to brag of their exploits right off the bat, it's bad manners. As other guys walked through he introduced me. There were too many names to remember but I'll get to know them.
It was neat to find a kindred soul, but the time passed too quickly. I needed to get back home. So I said good bye and headed back.
I really enjoyed the time I had to myself; time I spent at the airport as I have done so often in my life. .
The last several Thursday's I've shopped til I dropped, taken the mutt to the vet for his rabies shot and then to the police station for the new license, and caught up on car maintenance. The dreaded oil changes and such. Since I was raised in a good Protestant home, I learned early in life to do a good job.
I was taught to take care of my business in a timely, efficient manner, and to face the challenges life presents to all of us head on. I know that some may claim gale force winds are more easily dealt with by presenting one's side to the wind, rather than facing it squarely. Physics, aerodynamics and Bernoulli's law is on their side.
My own beliefs, though, leave me little option in this matter. I will stand with the wind in my face and deal with it. That's what good Protestants do, even though I have long since given up any hope of finding the bliss I'm looking for inside a building.
There's a reason for this, but it's a long, sad story with no redeeming humor. Sometimes it's just better to let the past remain a searing memory between my ears, and between the ears of the person who spewed the venom that caused me to find my own way to Heaven. A way that does not involve taking direction from another person or congregation of people.
So, just by being the good, efficient Protestant that I have been taught to be, there were not a whole lot of chores left. I realized there was very little I needed to accomplish today. For the first time in months, there was some free time in my life, and I knew just how to spend it. At the airport!
I drove over there and looked at all the closed and locked gates. I've never been an outsider at an airport, never in my life. In my youth they were always wide open, welcoming places. Fences and gates had nothing to do with those magical places until 9/11/01.
Before that date, an airport was the home to Gods who could climb into majestic machines and soar high above the earth. Gods who could play with the fabric of clouds, who could loop and roll and laugh at gravity: the same gravity that slowly weakens and ultimately kills all of us one day at a time. The Gods who hung out at the airport would defy that gravity while I was watching. Then they would return to earth and swagger from their craft with a triumphant look on their faces. And, all who dared to enter their domain were welcomed.
Soon, I joined their numbers and found them to be mere men. Only mortals, but mortals who knew there was more to life than left and right. They knew there was also up and down, and that makes all the difference in the world.
It's different today. Today I had to look for a hole in the fence. A hole I could sneak through to once again join their numbers. It took a while but finally I found that for which I was searching. "Learn To Fly" the sign read, so I pulled the Guzzler into a parking space and walked through the door.
"Hey, you guys rent planes by the hour here?" I asked. They said yes and gave me hourly rates for various models. "How 'bout an EAA chapter. Is there one around? I'm new in town."
An old geezer, probably five or six years younger than me, who was leaning back against a wall reading a "Sport Aviation" magazine perked up at that question. "I know something about that - there's a chapter up in Prineville and one in Bend. My name's Tom."
We talked for an hour or so, nothing consequential, just about airplanes and the price of fuel. The tales of derring-do will come in a couple more months. No body likes to brag of their exploits right off the bat, it's bad manners. As other guys walked through he introduced me. There were too many names to remember but I'll get to know them.
It was neat to find a kindred soul, but the time passed too quickly. I needed to get back home. So I said good bye and headed back.
I really enjoyed the time I had to myself; time I spent at the airport as I have done so often in my life. .
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