One Heck of a Holiday

Here is a true statement: "One Heck of a Holiday" is a series of words that really have no certain meaning, absent the input that would come from either hearing it said in person, so you could judge the tone you heard and the images you took in of the utterer as the words were spoken.

It's not the words, it's the presentation.

And then you can't always trust the presentation.

This is why "Friends" are important. We trust friends to use easy words, with clear cut presentations,and we extend the same courtesies in return. If you've got someone in your life who is trying to pass as a "friend" but you can't always trust what he or she says or does, then that person is not a friend.

The more friends you make, the less effort you have to put into your daily communications, and thus your stress level is way below the norm. But you won't be "rich", whatever that really, really means, unless you're counting chips. Define 'rich' for me and you've defined yourself, as well.

Good night and don't drink and drive. Don't even putt.

Slouching towards 2007

I've never run to greet a new year.

If you could elevate yourself to a position a couple of AU's above the plane of the elliptic of the Earth's orbit around the sun, you would be in a position to mark the sidereal year. If you'd never been on the Earth, you wouldn't know about our solar year. And you'd have absolutely no idea what "Happy New Year" meant.

But 99.99999% of humans don't know what a sidereal year is, and don't care. Which is perfectly fine. And so I obliquely expose one of my biggest challenges, to get close enough to humanity to engage with it. But anyone having a modicum of common sense would ask, "Hey, Mr. Bananas, why should you? What's humanity ever done for you?" This isn't a quiz, and no, it won't be on the final exam.


Here's an aside of no particular interest: One of my sons drew a portrait of me. I'm taking it to the office next week, where I will scan it and then upload it to my blog. Once it goes up, I will strictly enforce the "No Autographs/No Paparazzi" rule. You've been warned. So there.

What Did you Get Jesus for his Birthday?

While you may think this an impertinent question (and of course it is!), it still does have some merit, if only to point out to all my Christian homies that Jesus is the reason for the season. It also serves to, again, point out the role that 'advertising' has in our culture. There wouldn't be "Happy Holidays!" without advertising.

I'd tell you what I got Jesus for His birthday, but He reads my blog and I don't want to spoil the surprise. If you do mention here what you got Him, use an alias, so He doesn't know it's you.

Speaking of advertising, religion has been advertising a lot longer than national cultures have even been aware of advertising. Americans like to think that we invented advertising. And we certainly did a lot to perfect and popularize it's use. We're the one who invented "FREE!!" when everyone knows that there is no such thing... Advertising only really works when you have "sheep" to advertise to. So perhaps our early national leadership in advertising had to do with the number of prosperous sheep our culture was creating. And now China and India are on a path to overtake us in this creation of sheep with disposable income. If only those markets are opened up to us!

Happy Birthday, Jesus!

Remember that song, "My Dingaling"?

Well, this song would be nothing like it...

I like to think I'm solid and secure about who I am, but I may be kidding myself. I would love to be this grounded, this secure, able to display My Dung and not feel the least bit uncomfortable about it. After all, it's a very natural process. You probably have your own dung, too!

Americans used to be a simple, good hearted people... Salt of the Earth, as the saying goes. But I think we've lost touch with our elemental humanity.

I bet you'll never see a My Dung store in any upscale mall. More's the pity...

the 40 Million Dollar Man

We've all seen stories like the one I glanced at on Drudge. Some stockbrorker executive is getting a $40,000,000 bonus. He's being "suitably" rewarded for his efforts over the course of 2006. Certainly he didn't award it to himself. So either the bonus was written into his employment contract, or his bosses, the Boss Heirarchy, looked at the figures he put up and said, "Wow, he made us SOOOO much money that we need to let him know we really appreciate it!"

Either way, it means the 40 Million Dollar Man made a heck of, a big HECK of a lot of money for his company.

So now he's going to retire and live very comfortably the rest of his life, right?

The Name Game...

Banana fanana fo fanana... Jim Croce, "I got a name"

There are very rarely people who don't have names. One of my sons and his wife could not agree on a name for their new baby for a day. So for roughly 24 hours that kid didn't have a full name. On the records for that brief period the kid was just Baby Bananas.

Are there any cultures or countries where babies are routinely born and not given names? Probably not. But who knows...

How long do you think it's been since a human being went through life without a name? How many humans went all their lives answering to "Hey, you!"? I doubt it made any difference in their lives. Think about how many generations of humans there have been in the roughly 180,000 years homo sapiens have existed. When did 'talking' become something normal? Wouldn't the first names have been nouns used to identify familiar objects? Do I have a great-great to the Nth power great grandfather named Clod, whose sister was named Ashes? Who invented the name Jane? Or Bob? Or Kim, or Chan or Ali, etc., etc.?

There is a school of religious thought that propounds that all of us are offspring of a God, with that Jesus guy, whose birthday approaches, being a brother of ours. Do you think that this heavenly father gave us names as we were 'born' or created or jury-rigged, or whatever He did back before the foundation of the world? If He did, did He keep a record, or does He just have all our names memorized? And will He one day tell us what our first, and the really important name, is? Will each name be as pretty as the next, or will I get stuck with something that rhymes with something funny? Is my real name Horace? Are numbers or symbols involved? Which brings up a point... When He's just hanging out with His homies, what language does He speak? Maybe it's latin, but I'm guessing it isn't.

Wouldn't it be Great if Self-Mortification Worked?

I missed all the Lupe Parties here in SoCal yesterday. I feel bad about it. And luckily, there's something I can do about it. I can wear sack cloth and ashes for an hour or so and thus make it up to her.

"Her" is Lupe. December 12th is her day. Her full name is La Virgen de Guadalupe, but those closest to her call her Lupe. I first learned about her when I was "traveling" in Mexico for a Church which shall remain nameless. I was using an alias, a totally phony name, so as to protect the innocent. Back then I would only answer to the name, Elder Bananas.

So the first year that I was there on Dec. 12, I happened to be carousing in Mexico City with another guy named Elder. It was his second Dec. 12th and he knew where the action was. So we took a cab out to this cathedral and got some decent grandstand seats and bet on the races. The contestants on whose performances we were wagering matchsticks were penitent Lupe-ites who were on the last leg of a miles long journey from the starting line to the cathedral. And they were traveling the many miles on hands and knees. So the object was to pick out two penitents and then bet on which one would reach a certain point before the other.

The game for the Lupe-ites was to gain forgiveness by this particular painful display of devotion. Lupe would see the pain you were in and intercede with her Boss to get x number of sins expiated. Not a bad deal when you think about it. I wish we'd had digital cameras back then. I only had one roll of film with me and I didn't really get any great shots.

Any way, you Lupe-ites out there, I hope you had a fine Lupe Day yesterday.

Time for the "Best Of" Awards!

Brought to you by the First Day of the Rest of your Life, now on sale at Kohl's.


Best President to listen to no one while keeping his fingers crossed that God would make everything work out okay: Abraham Lincoln. (Sorry, that was a trick question that relied on you thinking that I meant "Best Of..." for things that happened this year.) During the first half of the Civil War, the NY Times/CNN Polls consistently showed that over 63% of the Free State civilians wanted Abe to cancel the war and pull out of the South. This doesn't really compare with the Iraq quaqmire, but it does go to show that the American People can be short sided. After all, what could possibly happen if the Mid-East is given over to Fundamentalist Al-Wackos who would rather see you and your kids lying dead in your drive way than subscribe to Penthouse magazine.

Best Mono-manical Woman to want to run the country: Cindy Sheehan. Yeah, you thought I was going to say Hillary Clinton. But I think more than power, she'd rather have money. And who can fault her for that? But Cindy, now there's a true fruitcake who could give the Al-Wack 'freedom fighters' lessons in spite & venom.

Best Price Gouge calmly swallowed by a Consuming Public: The sale of electrical power. You thought I was going to say gasoline, right? But that's just the market place doing what market places do, find the highest level the public will pay. But when it comes to electrical power, the purveyors are just out and out incinerating the public and then hosing off the ashes and picking up the lose change that was in our pockets. The 'potential' to create electrical power is everywhere: wind, rivers, the tides, the sun, thermal sources, renewable consumables and fusion. We should be phasing out the old sources, like coal, natural gas, oil and nuclear fission. Electricty out to be less than 5% of the typical family's budget. But we just sit back and let ourselves be ripped.

Best Celebrity Vagina: The votes are still being counted. As a sidebar, and not that I'm at all interested, but how come no wanna be male stars are getting their piggly-wigglies photographed? Where's the justice?

Best Reason to Live: this one is a tie amongst many, many reasons. My own personal favorite: How will Michael Jackson die? And will it be an open-casket funeral?

What's a couple of your favorite reasons for staying alive?

Amateurs v. Professionals

Amateurs vastly outnumber Professionals. It is said that there is a vast divide between the competent amateur and the competent professional. My personal testimony supports this. I shoot better golf scores than 90% of the world's golfers, making me a competent amateur, but there isn't a single top 1000 PGA golfer who couldn't kick my roly-poly amateur butt. As good an example as there is of what I'm talking about.

Now here's the question: Am I an amateur human being or a professional human being?

More importantly, are you?

From Those Wonderful People Who Gave Us Pearl Harbor!!

This was the title of a book written by a (brief) advertising genius. It was written back in the late 60s, I believe. Back then the title had more 'bite' than it does today. 40 years ago Japanese cars weren't all the rage and people didn't commit various forms of mayhem for Play Station 3s.

Any store that takes delivery of any PS3 todays will sell out immediately. And neither the store clerks nor the buyers will entertain ironic thoughts as one forks over cash or credit card and the other takes or accepts. Just another day in paradise.

List any white hot concern you've got today and in 50 years people will yawn at its mention. We're not 50 years from the fall of Saigon, but for people who didn't go through it, it's a yawner. And for those of us piloting those last choppers, straining to gain altitude with our over-loaded Huey's, we even have a hard time remembering who we were back then, much less the events themselves.

Just as the world reinvents itself and what matters to it, so do we, and what matters to us.

Swear to god, I once had a girlfriend who I found out was born full term, six months after her parents were married! (Cue clashing major chords, fortissimo!) It meant her parents had SINNED! (raise clashing major chords a half tone and increase volume!) Apparently I was quite the little sin nazi back then.

Now my boys are dealing with girls born of lesbian parents. Wedlock, what's that? And maybe my grandsons will be dealing with young women who were fertilized in-vitro and carried to term in donor wombs removed from cadavers and artificially maintained. It's do-able!

The Birth Certificates of the future will have to provide more room for suitable explanations and details. It's going to play holy hell with the Mormon Church's genealogical forms.

Anyway, as one who was alive (barely) during WWII, let me urge you to take the opportunity today to shove potatoes into the tail pipes of any handy Lexuses/Lexi.

Just Because I Don't Care Doesn't Mean I Don't Understand!

I credit the above very trenchant comment (and universal Truth) to Homer Simpson. (It's probably happened already: Some Ph.D. candidate getting his degree with a dissertatin based on The Simpson's impact on America. Aye Caramba, The Simpson's has probably impacted our language & literature!)

Being a normal, testosterone-driven male, I don't feel any outrage about the war in Iraq. Sure, intellectually I can perceive that it's a rather huge waste of time, talent and resources, but when's the last time you visited an inner city school? There's probably more good coming out of Iraq, per unit/value than from inner city schools.

It's very easy for various seemingly like-minded, same-culture people to have variously different reactions to the same stimuli/stimulus. Imagine all the people you work with and play with and are related to being in a big theatre together, looking at a blank screen. Suddenly there is a projection of a large, detailed photograph of two men kissing. How many people will react exactly like I would? Like you would? See what I'm getting at? And these are people you pretty much get along with, your fellow 'culturalists.'

Take this process into account when you want to start talking about coffins coming back from Iraq, or some other 'horrible' aspect of the war. And remember, just because I don't care, doesn't mean I don't some idea of how you feel.

All I have to do is imagine how I'd feel if I heard that golf courses were going to be closed so that affordable housing could be built on them. I'd be devastated!! My wife would make a pretend frown and then when I challenged her on her sincerety, she'd say, "Hey, just because I don't care doesn't mean I don't understand.

(The opposite of this is hearing that all all cemetaries over 150 acres were being turned into golf courses. That would really perk me up while she would start writing indignant letters to the editor.)

An Open Post to Hillary Clinton

This from a news story:

"Clinton, who easily won re-election to (her) second term on Nov. 7, 'is reaching out to her colleagues in the New York delegation and asking for their advice and counsel and their support if she decides to make a run,' a top adviser, Howard Wolfson, told The Associated Press.

"He noted that Clinton had said she would begin actively considering a run after the election. 'That process has begun,' Wolfson said. He said he did not know when she might make a decision or set up an exploratory committee."

Dear Mrs. Clinton:

I don't know you personally. Probably we'd get along fine if we were stranded on the proverbial deserted island. As long as we didn't discuss politics...

The notion of you running for President has been part of the American cultural imperative since at least 2000. Even your fiercest detractors have to acknowledge that your star has been ascending in the national political firmament; you have become a force to be reckoned with.

And now the moment is at hand when you may declare yourself and all the "what if'ing" will be over.

Personally I want you to wind up the Democratic nominee. I'm a non-religious Republican, meaning all I want for America are an increasingly smaller government, fewer and lower taxes, the right to bear (concealed) weapons and the absolute separation of church and state. With you as a candidate the chances for the Republican nominee winning are increased. If we barely squeaked by against Mr. Privileged Personality in '04, I think we could keep the White House by a comfortable margin in 2008.

One of the dependable characteristics of self-important people is their inability to accurately interpret their place in the world. You are a too far left. In your mind you're the most sensible person you know. You just can't see that you're going to scare enough Democratic Centrists so that they'll either not vote or they'll vote Republican. On top of that you're going to galvanize every single segment of the Republican party to pull together like they've never pulled together before.

Mrs. Clinton, you may be the only chance the Republican Party has in 2008. So you go, girl.

Respectfully,

Bertram Bananas, LLC

Sample Christmas Cards, if I were in charge . . .

Today's post was suggested by yesterday's arrival of the season's first Christmas Card. I didn't recognize the return address. And since it didn't include one of those oft-maligned "Our Family Bring-You-Up To Date" letter, opening the card offered no further enlightenment. So I asked my wife. She informed who it was from. She's such a fountain of arcane knowledge.

Now then... What if I were in charge of the Christmas card list? I'd send out cards like this:

"Well, Christmas is here again. It's nuts at the Post Office. But I slouched on down to buy stamps. One of which is was on the envelope you just opened. When you start to add up the time and expense involved in sending you this card (which constitutes the one and only moment I'll think of you and that annoying kid of yours in 2006) you have to wonder what's happened to common sense in our culture. Ho ho ho. With remote, detached affection, Bert."

"Thanks for being such a nice person. I see you every day at the office and you already know I like you. I'll probably be saying 'Merry Christmas' to you at least five times before Christmas Day gets here... Which begs the question: Why send you this card? Hell if I know. Stupid knee-jerk reaction to supposed Cultural imperatives, I guess. Logic certainly isn't involved. Anyway, Merry Christmas. Your friend, Bert."

"Hey. How's it going? We had some great times together in college. We were as close to inseparable as two humans can be without being conjoined. Hard to believe that was a mere 16 years ago. It's just as hard to believe that I haven't seen you since our ten year reunion. Could you tell that I hated your wife? What were you thinking? knowing you like I do, you won't ever admit what a mistake that was. But just remember, Pam and I are here for you if you ever see the light. Try to have a good Christmas. Your once best friend, Bertie."

"I try not to dwell on how long you've been a canker on the butt of my life. Sometimes when I see you I want to heave. But because you occupy the position you do and I occupy the position I do, I can't let you know that. And so I take this Happy Holiday season to send you this personal note of fear and loathing. I would take it as a personal favor from God if your compassion genes were activated and you became something other than a remorseless human being. Otherwise, I hope you get cancer for Christmas. Loath, an anonymous vassal."

See how easy it is? Got one to contribute? Of course this attitude is probably more a 'guy' thing, so my faithful readers may not be in tune with this post... And it is women who are in charge of culture.

Welcome To December

December can be a cruel month.

Late one December, when our kids were little, my wife developed a very bad case of the flu. She came down with it like around the 18th. She didn't get back on her feet until after New Years. We had no Christmas. At least not as she defines Christmas.

I bought some toys for the boys, who were both under 10, and I bought myself a golf sweater and some golf balls, so the boys and I enjoyed Christmas morning was just fine. Then we had Swanson's Turkey pot pies for Christmas dinner, while my wife was busy heaving-up watered down Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup. I kept the Christmas Carols playing loudly on the CD player so the boys and I wouldn't be distracted by the sounds that accompany virtuoso heaving.

The boys, now 21 & 17, and I barely remember that Christmas, and when we do think about it (which is every Christmas when my wife talks about it over Christmas Dinner) we don't have any negative thoughts about it. For us the Christmases sort of just run together, all blurry when we look into the past. If there was anything notable about it, it was that we were very much at peace; my wife wasn't enforcing any schedules or agendas.

Some of our Christmases have been spectacularly materialistic. Some less so. It's been very neat being nuculear (hee hee!) family. But no matter your circumstances, the lower you can keep your expectations, the more you'll probably enjoy a particular event. Men are probably better at this than women.

Two Things You Can't Win At: Tattoos & Jewelry.

I don't have a tattoo and I don't wear jewelry. So I'm "tied" in this competition. Tied with every other person running around wearing no jewelry and sporting no tattoos. No one can beat me, with less than zero of either. So I never waste any time comparing my lack of either with others who lack both. We just nod at each other and move along.

I'm reminded of this fact every valentine's day and every x-mas season. No one is advertising on TV for tattoos, but jewelry gets a big play this time of year and at valentine's day. Basically the idea that is promoted is that if you buy a woman a diamond, or diamonds, it will enhance the quality of life of all concerned.

But people who wear jewelry, including piercings, (and people who get tattoos) all have to wonder how what they're sporting stacks up against what other people are sporting. "What is my (__fill_in_blank__) saying about me?" Or, "Does my (__fill_in_blank__) make me look 'better' than everyone else?"

Why jewelry still sells is beyond me. Jewelry is the past. Electronics is the future. Jewelry only does one thing: it hangs on a person and says, "Look, money has been spent to make you look at me." Same for tattoos.

If memory serves me correctly, a 'decent' engagement ring, one with a big enough stone so that the poor woman can hold her head high in polite society, costs around $3,000. So does the biggest, baddest Quad-core Mac Pro. If you are a guy, and the woman you want to marry would rather have the diamond on her ring over a quad-core Mac Pro in the study, you need to start the search over again. And if you're a woman and there's a guy who wants you to share his life with him, and je wants to put a ring on your finger over giving you your own Quad-core Mac Pro, keep looking, woman.

The Future for Reporters & Editors -- an Earnest Inquiry

I know I'm not exceptional in this regard, but in my heyday, I read two newspapers a day, cover to cover. I would read the Times at breakfast (once so intently that I failed to notice that the Jack in the Box I was at was being robbed) and then the Herald-Examiner at lunch. The Herald Examiner went out of existence about 15 years ago. I immediately stopped reading it when they stopped publishing it. See? I was right there on the cutting edge.

The Times... Circulation is shrinking. In this case, for two reasons. The internet has to be hurting all papers. Why pay money to sit and wait for a paper that went to press at midnight, and you're reading the stories seven or eight hours later, when you could spend that reading time on the internet, getting the absolute up to date story? That's one reason... The other reason is that Conservatives, with the internet available, could stop inflicting the Times Liberal bias on themselves, and still stay up to date on the news.

I called and stopped our subscription to the Times in mid-2004 when they ran a front page story about an Iowa farmer who had voted the Republican ticket since turning 18, but now was not going to vote for Bush in Nov. of 2004. Front page! Were there ever any stories about disaffected Democrats on the front page? On any page? Nope.

So I dropped them on account of Bias. I don't know what the excuse was for the other 30% of their readership.

So, to get to my point:l people want information. We want to know what happened. We don't mind opinions about the "why" of what happened. But they should be honest opinions, based on fact, not hope, or biased conjecture.

And in the age we live in now, newspapers and weekly publications, even when they try to be unbiased, are not the first sources we first think of.

I once subscribed to Time and to Sports Illustrated. Now why would I waste the time or the money for either? Many of us have favorite websites where we go, after we get the facts, to find out what the conjecture is about each set of facts. Very few of us are 'trend-setters,' but more and more of us are doing a lot more 'following' than we've ever done before.

So now if you're a reporter, or an editor, where would you want to work? Do journalism school students still think that the NY Times is the ultimate?

If "news" is a commodity, where do you want to be in the commodity cycle? Where it's mined? Where it's processed? Where it's delivered? Where it's recycled? If you're in it for the money, which part of the commodity cycle gives you the biggest bang for per unit of invested time or money?

How will the investigator-types fit into the system? Will they free-lance or will they hire out to the biggest, baddest vertical 'news' consortium? And the spin artists... Will news commodity organizations need them? Need to pay for them? They're going to be so many of them willing to work for free...

And news recycling... There is a market for that, you know. Just ask VH1.

Are we just too stubborn to give up on printed newspapers and magazine?

Forget B.C. & A.D. ... All Hail B.C.P. & A.C.P.

I read a lot. To hold down the costs (since I am too lazy to use the library) I stop at thrift stores as I'm out and about. (I've driven my first million miles and am working n my second million.) So I buy both paperback and hard-back books. At least 10 a month.

And here's one of the ways I look at literature: Before Cell Phones and After Cell Phones.

Cell phones really did a number on how we interact; they increased our ability/opportunities to connect with people. And did you know that the cell tower you use to make a call or answer a call is logged each time you use your phone? That's a fact of life that really impacts illegal activity. I've heard of insurance companies accessing this kind of information to prove that their policyholders weren't where they said they were when, for example, the insured vehicle was allegedly stolen.

And along with cell phones we can lump in the internet as a technological sibling, in terms of the impact each on us. So B.C.P. & A.C.P also includes the internet.

How different would your favorite BCP book be if it were written today? It bugs me that the Harry Potter series ignores cell phones and the internet...

America, the Two-Faced . . .

Don't get me Wrong; I like America!

As with any Human Institution, there are always going to be things wrong with America. The 'wrong' that I'm going to briefly harangue you about is a pretty serious problem. It's not as bad as the drug problem, and gangs, and the Marching Morons situation, but it is worthy of mention. Even though... Well, even though.

I was pointed towards this post by the Hand of Almighty Coincidence, which in this instance took the form of a post on a friend's blog. It was about a 'touching' obituary. Which concluded thusly:

"... In lieu of flowers, the family request that you love one another, forgive each other and always do what is good and pleasing in the eyes of God."

I certainly have to quarrel with that sentiment. It's a WONDERFUL sentiment!

But this is America. America the Beautiful would not exist if we all followed that sentiment. Because Capitalism (the foundation for getting at what is best in men) could not exist if such sentiments ruled our interactions.

Capitalism has some fundamental corner-stones: Buy low, sell high. All that the market will bear. Bury the competition. Etc., etc. And yet we are a country that has declared itself a Christian Nation, with all the baggage this heaps upon our aleady strained backs and shoulders. And so many of us exist as two-faced entities, doing our best to make a buck, while at odd moments of the day and week, making some kind of effort to Do Unto Others as You Would Have Them Do Unto You. Which I always thought was an aphorism best suited for sexual relations. But I digress...

There is no answer, no cure for this dichotomy. We are stuck with it and with the havoc it causes. We are America the Beautiful; Shop Early, Shop Often, what we can't afford we can always finance, and God Bless Us One and All.

Whaddaya Mean, what are my politics?

Or, if you don't have enough greed in your heart, politics doesn't make any sense...

I've had some email from people regarding the recent elections. Having no ides what they were talking about, I checked out some old stories on Drudge and caught up with what's been going on in the United States, politically speaking.

Distilling the stories, I determined that it was out with the old, in with the new. Hardly startling, to someone like me who has been there, returned there, went back a third time, and all three times, "done that.' Like many older farts, I'm proud of this section of me resume: Done That.

Anyway, to do politics well you have to either have the greed gene or the bossy gene. The really great politicians have both. And good, successful politicians have the strength necessary to weave lies. Lying is a stamina sport. Sprint-liars simply can't go the distance. Long, slow lying is what stays the course. But both take energy. I just don't have the energy to spare.

Along with husbanding my strength by not bothering to lie (except ss a form of entertainment!) I also save tons of energy by not denigrating my opponents. Not that I actually have any. But if I did, why waste the time and energy to find out their weaknesses and then make fun of them? Would I want someone to do that to me?

So... we need government and governing. And there's no way we can stop either of them from happening. But we should try...

Offering an Opinion about Gender Differences . . .

This is a joke from the internet. But there is a VERY LARGE TRUTH around which the humor is woven


For the past ten years a secret store that sells new husbands has been operating in New York City. Women can purchase a husband at this store.

At the entrance to the store, the prospective buyer must sign a release, indicating she has read the rules of the store and will abide by them, and keep secret the outcome of her shopping trip. Here are the rules:

1. You may visit this store ONLY ONCE!
2. There are six floors and the value of the products increase as the shopper ascends.
3. The shopper may choose any item from a particular floor, or may choose to go up to the next floor, but cannot go back down except to exit the building.

Here is an account of the typical visit by a typical woman:

On the first floor the sign on the door reads: Floor 1 - These men have jobs.

The second floor sign reads: Floor 2 - These men have jobs and love kids.

The third floor sign reads: Floor 3 - These men have jobs, love kids, and are extremely good looking.

Naturally the shopper, sensing a trend, skips each floor and now hastens up to the fourth floor and where the sign reads: Floor 4 - These men have jobs, love kids, are drop-dead good looking and help with housework.

Excitedly she heads up to the fifth floor. Here the sign reads: Floor 5 - These men have jobs, love kids, are drop-dead good looking, help with housework, and have a strong romantic streak.

Of course the shopper is tempted, but she goes up to the sixth floor, where the sign reads:

Floor 6 - You are visitor 31,456,012 to this floor. There are no men on this floor. This floor exists solely as proof that women are impossible to please. Thank you for shopping at the Husband Store.

Naturally The Husband Store makes no money for the owners. So to cover all their expenses, they opened another store, the Wife Store. It is near the Husband Store. And it, too, has six floors and the exact same rules.

The prospective buyer, after signing in, is greeted with this sign on the door to the first floor: Floor 1 - These women are very good looking and love sex.

Many men go right in the door and make their purchase. For the more discerning make, who goes up to the second floor, the sign reads: Floor 2 - These women are good looking, love sex and have money.

No man has ever gone past the second floor.

Basket Crosse or LaBaskette Balle?

Or, Bert Bananas Sorts Things Out

You heard it here first, folks. After the theft of my idea of a National Dodge Ball Federation, I sat down and had a long talk with myself. Despite the theft of that idea and the loss of tens, and perhaps even hundreds of dollars, I was able to come to grips with the notion that money isn't everything. Compared with oxygen, money runs a poor second place. So I forgave the thieves...

And now that I've come up with an even greater sensation, I realize that giving it away for freeway is the best way to go. It worked for me in high school and college, so why not now? Take it (me), I'm yours.

It was a natural and I think you'll agree. Men love violence. Okay, not all men, but most men. And lots of women love violence; maybe not a majority of them, but enough...

So we combine the artistry of basketball with the thuggery of lacrosse. We suit the player up with light armor, give them big lacrosse sticks, sized up to handle a basketball, raise the baskets higher and toss up a jump ball. You couldn't actually have referees on the game floor, but they could be on the sidelines, ready to help clear the dead and severely wounded. It would open up the game to men under 6' tall, since with the basket raised, size won't have quite the premium it does in basket ball. Speed, nimbleness, the ability to absorb punishment, these are the qualities that will count. And I swear on Thor's Hammer, the crowds will love the violence.

Oh, please, please... no thanks are necessary. I'm just doing my part for Evolution.

I'm Not Jewish, but I am Circumcised

I grew up very sheltered. I was about 10 years old before I learned about Black people. And I swear on my grandfathers' (both of them) peyos that I didn't know diddly about Jews or Judaism until I read Leon Uris' "Exodus." Prior to that I knew Jews only in the biblical sense. Well, no, not in the 'biblical sense' but from the mention of them in the bible. After "Exodus" I went on to read all Leon Uris' other Jewish works. And then Herman Wouk. (Herbie Bookbinder, let's go get a beer! Asher Lev, where are you?)

In summation, for a goy, I know a lot more about Jews and Judaism than most goyim. And part of loving Jews is loving their humor. Here is a remake of a classic...

The year is 2012 and the United States of America has just elected the first woman President. And it's a double whammy: She's also the first Jewish president, Susan Goldfarb.

President-Elect Goldfarb calls up her mother right after election results are confirmed and says, "So, Mom, I assume you will be coming to my inauguration?"

Mom whines into the phone, "I don't think so. It's a ten-hour drive, your father isn't as young as he used to be, and my gout is acting up again."

President-Elect Goldfarb responds with, "Don't worry about it Mom, I'll send a limousine to the house, it'll take you to the airport where Air Force One will pick you up. After the festivities, we'll fly you back and the limo will be there to take you home. Easy as pie, Mom."

But mom isn't giving in that easy. "I don't know, Susan, dear. Everybody will be all fancy-schmantzy, what on earth would I wear?"

"Oh Mom" replies Susan, "I'll make sure you have a wonderful gown, custom-made for you by the best designer in New York."

"Oh, but Honey," Mom complains, "you know I can't eat those rich foods you and your friends like to eat."

The President-Elect is ready for that one, "Don't worry Mom. The entire affair is going to be handled by the best caterer in New York, kosher all the way. C'mon Mom, I really want you to be there."

So Mom reluctantly agrees and on January 21, 2013 President-Elect Susan Goldfarb is sworn in as President of the United States of America. In the front row sits the new president's mother, who leans over to a senator sitting next to her. "You see that woman over there with her hand on the Bible, becoming President of the United States?"

The Senator whispers back, "Yes, of course.

Says Mom proudly, "Her brother is a doctor!"

A Post Wherein Bananas Repeats Important Truths Learned from a Forwarded Email !

Or, Things my Mother Never Taught Me . . .
(I made up 2½ of these. Can you figure out which one I tinkered with and which two I made up?)

99 % of lawyers give the rest a bad name.

½ the people you know are below average.

Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm.

On the other hand, you have different fingers...

The early bird may get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese in the trap.

Change is inevitable, except from vending machines.

Culture is evolution's way of keeping us in the herd.

If you believe in telekinesis, raise my hand.

Hard work pays off in the future. Laziness pays off now.

Every one has a photographic memory. Most of us just don't have enough film.

If you get scared half to death twice, you die.

Beer is evolution's version of Johnnie Applesperm.

Cheating to get ahead in life is like making your horn louder to compensate for bad brakes.

Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what happened.

Light travels faster than sound. That's why some people appear bright until you hear them.

Let us Talk of Fools and Their Money

Weep for People with Questionable Taste

I snapped this photo at Costco this afternoon. I had to wait to get this pic while a husband and wife struggled to get a set of these fine Xmas performers into their shopping cart. It's not for nothing that Costco has huge carts.

After they get this abomination home and plugged in, how many times will they listen to the song or songs in this group's repertoire before just the sight of it makes them want to puke?

The winter solstice holidays have become almost sacred to us; we've become almost slavish in our devotion to Good Cheer. But shouldn't their be
a limit?

Even if you have money to squander what does owning this group do for Good Cheer?

Hiring the Socially Somewhat-Handicapped

It's an axiom of business that when you hold down costs, you increase profits. In my pursuit of the American Dream, I came up with an approach to this lofty goal that does me credit, financially as well as Socially and Morally. (Mo Rally?)

If you can't read the sign at the left of the photo, it says Camp
David Gonzalez. This is a juvenile detention center, run by the Los Angeles County Probation Department. They house non-violent juveniles here. Kids who've run away, kids with truancy problems who refuse to go to school, kids who break laws but not bones, that kind of thing.

In an effort to help the kids, the County asked for bids from employers who would teach the kids a trade. I volunteered my curb painting business and I went to the camp to pitch the business to the Probation Officers and the kids. I waxed eloquently about the joys of being outside on bright, sunny days, meeting people and getting them to agree to having their curbs painted and then doing the actual painting. I explained how they'd have to learn about all the different paints we offer, the different font stencils and the logo stencils they have have next to the number, for a nominal extra cost. I suggested that the kids could learn valuable social skills. But I may have lost them when I made a joke, which in retrospect I can see was not all that wise to have mentioned. All I did was laughingly remark that being in middle class and affluent neighborhoods would give them a chance to 'case the joint' if they wanted to pad their incomes. Some of the kids laughed, but none of the Probation Officers did.

They said they'd get back to me, but now that I've thought about it, they probably won't. The bastards... They were going to let me pay the kids $2.00 an hour. You can't imagine how much I could have made with a crew of JD's working for me.

DABT?

All the Entertainment the Traffic will Bear

Or, keeping busy during a traffic jam or jelly

I was caught in horrible traffic yesterday. Stuck, unmoving, for literally minutes! Many of them!! It was awful !! At least I'd heard about it and left early enough so that I got to where I was going in time. Being on time is VERY important when you have paid in advance for a tee time.

Anyway, I was stuck behind this bright yellow Mustang. I had plenty of time to study this woman. She made it easy to want to study her. She was on the phone a lot. She gesticulated a lot while on the phone. Her unhappiness at the traffic situation was evident through her gesticulations.

And she chewed gum. She chewed with a vigor, with evident enthusiasm, with gusto. She was totally a chewing gum champ, or champette. Remember when Calvin went a chewing gum rant, Lecturing Hobbs on the intricacies of chewing gum and subcribing to Chewing Gum Monthly, and Gum Chewing Quarterly? I bet this woman still subscribes... I've never thought about it before, but what if gum chewing ability and oral sex ability have a causal relationship?

Please take this opportunity to reflect on the fact that people see you in your car, and that they can snap a quick photo of you if they're of a mind. You've been warned...

Smoke on your Pipe and put That In...

The above is from West Side Story, but this is really about Flower Drum Song

In the early 60s Flower Drum Song, with Jack Soo, ran for years at the Thunderbird Hotel in Las Vegas. Twice a night, dinner show and midnight show.

I saw the show, all the way through, at least 200 times. Really I did.

I would like to think that this explains something about me. But I'm relatively certain that it doesn't.

How many of you saw Flower Drum Song at the Thunderbird Hotel back in the early 60s?

Enigmatic Days Shorten til Equinox

Sorry about this title, but it's the Proper Signal . . .

But what this is really about is me. I've been getting a boatload of email -- love-mail & hate-mail -- as sharply divided as love & hate are divided, like when a fat person eats a banana-split. That's a very love - hate equation.

Half the boatload (port side) wants me to stop being so seriously sarcastic while the other side (starboard, they be) says my silly sarcasm pleases them to orgasm, whatever that means.

So I thought I'd tell a story, to see if that distracts the haters enough to take their pointin' fingers off'n they triggers. (That's quasi-Black talk. Which I am currently favoring because I just finished L.A. Rex, which besides being an interesting read is apparently going to be a movie, which frankly scares me. It reads like a primer for OTW Criminal Activity. OTW is Other Than White.)

Back to my story. It's about what I do for a living. It's been my "career" since 1981, when I got my first business license. I started of as a solo operation, doing it all myself. I was management and labor, all wrapped up in a cute little fur ball of industrial activism. I was a West Coast Horatio Alger. (a joke: Horatio Alger Hiss ... [that was the whole joke...]) I was making decent money, wasn't answering to anyone but representatives of various taxation organizations, and just generally living the American Dream. Plus I was getting laid a lot. Oh, wait, that's redundant.

And so it's all continued and I'm in my 25th year of operation. I'm paying more taxes, but on the upside, the "getting laid" is the best it's ever been.

What I do for a living has been part and parcel of my developing sarcasm. I know humans for what they really are: Human. If more people understood this concept, that we're just human, the world would be exactly the way it is now. (You didn't see that one coming, did you?) It won't ever change because part of being human is to try to be special. (What else explains tattoos & piercings?) No matter how well you understand that we are all mere humans, you can't stop yourself from thinking yourself better than a significant segment of the population. And it's always easy to find someone who validates your view, because you ARE better than that person.

So those of you who find me tiresome, at least I make you feel better about yourself. And for those of you who "admire" me, I like to think it means you're open to liking people, even when they can't do anything for you. If there is any hope for Humanity, it's that the latter group, my group, will one day beat our plows into swords and kill all the M-F'ers who can't or won't get along. Yeah, yeah, I know, then we'll be 'them,' because there will be a small, but active segment who won't beat the swords back into plows... Happens every time.

Oh, yeah, what I do for a living. I paint addresses on sidewalk curbs. I still go out and do some of the work myself, but I have an office, three office workers and crews out all over SoCal doing this work. And with the recent building boom, we can't keep up with the demand. And because we're in people's neighborhoods, we see them acting they way they do when they're not 'on stage.' It's very informative work. If'n you be in SoCal, an' you need yo address painted on yo curb, jingle me a holler an' I be by. I be in da Yellow Paginas.

Death as a Criterion for Voting

Or, Is Hypocrisy Fatal?

Being against "Death" is a silly abstract, when you're talking about a death that doesn't involve yourself or a loved one. So from this perspective, all the wailing about the deaths in Iraq is silly, if it's not you who died, or someone you loved.

What has brought me to this declaration is the remarkable turnaround of a local talk radio host who has in the past week turned rabidly anti-Bush and anti-war-in-Iraq. After 9/11 he was all for kicking the crap out of all the rag-heads. Now he's crying in his beer about how 'dumb' the war is, how dumb Bush is, etc., etc. All this is certainly possible, but I don't like the about-face.

I just don't think that 100 deaths a month in Iraq is a little deal, much less a big deal.

How many people died this past week in alcohol-related accidents? How many homicides occurred in American big cities? And did you ever stop to contemplate how many humans will expire in the next hundred years? Take the time to do some simple math. When you break this down to a daily figure for every single day for the next 100 years, you'll have an idea of what I'm driving at.

Humans die. It's one thing we have never had a problem doing. Compared to our past, we're frankly not doing near the job we used to do of it.

So sure, bewail that a Republican President is sending members of the armed service, often less then perfectly equipped, to their deaths. But be honest. it's not the deaths that are bugging you. If 'death' really bugged you, you couldn't function in life, what with the ability of modern communications to heap deaths on your doorstep. And how many make-believe deaths will you view this coming week?

I can't defend the current status of Bush's attempt to keep America safe. And I don't know enough to say it's a waste of time. But when it comes to wasting human life... Hey, if you were so against wasting human life, why are you wasting YOUR life reading blogs!

Not a Very Sarcastic Post in its Intent

With Advance Apologies to Grammie . . .

While this may be the first time you've seen this idea in print, I know that I am not the first person to have harbored this thought. It may have application in other facets of Life Itsownself. The thought first formed itself in my mind during some prior pre-election furor:

IF YOU REALLY, REALLY WANT TO BE ELECTED TO A POLITICAL OFFICE, THE FACT THAT YOU WANT THAT OFFICE IMMEDIATELY DISQUALIFIES YOU FROM HOLDING THAT OFFICE.

Simple, huh? Political parties would have to find qualified individual who DIDN'T want to run for the office. It could be done. Appeals could be made to patriotism, to the person's vanity, to his pride. The qualified person would have to be convinced to give up his chosen way of life for X-number of years, to serve one term and then he could return to the private sector, having done his duty.

There are good people out there, with no skeletons in their closets, very capable of running a city, a state, and yes, even this country. You probably know some such people. Heck, you may even BE such a person.

But The Vested Interests would never allow it. Political offices have become too good a living for the eager beavers who "serve" us now and they'd be loathe to the N'th degree to give up the lifestyle of the Rich & Famous that politics has become.

But don't hesitate to take this to heart, and don't hesitate, the next time you find your hand being pumped by some eager office-seeker to ask him, "Hey, do you really want this office?" And when he or she answers, "Yes," you look him or her straight in the eye and tell him or her that his/her answer automatically disqualifies him or her from holding that office. If enough of us start saying that, we'll end up being rounded up and put into concentration camps.

Some day the devisiveness of political contests will make enough of us ashamed and a group of bloggers will lead us out of the wilderness and into a promised land of (____Fill in your own blank____).

Mi Casa is not Su Casa

Or, When in Rome, Drive Faster.

I took this about a month ago. I understand enough Spanish to figure out that this was a rolling ad by an insurance agency to make a bit more money. I asked my agent about it and he told me that the company I'm with would not issue an insurance policy to someone without a license. I was curious and called the number and found out which insurance company would. It's a national company and maybe I should have pursued the matter and called some Vice President of Politically Correct Outside the Box Earnings to hear the spin that allowed them to write these policies, but I didn't.

In my state the people who don't have licenses, and who would still want insurance policies, fall into basically two categories: illegal aliens and undocumented immigrants, depending on your point of view. As such they join an even bigger crowd, People for the Ethical Treatment of Themselves. (And they get to describe just what that treatment is.) People for the Ethical Treatment of Themselves is very much in favor of getting things that the rest of us have to work for. Of course, I could always just drop out and become a member or People for the Ethical Treatment of Themselves.

But I'm not going to. And hey, I'm not bitter. I'm too busy doing two things: Enjoying my life and dreaming of commiting violence on other people.

What's your excuse for not joining People for the Ethical Treatment of Themselves?

Katie Couric... Failure or Woman Failure?

And there is a Difference...

Here's a headline, still bloody from having been ripped and torn, without anaesthetic from the Drudge Report:

" S.O.S. COURIC: CBS 'EVENING NEWS' PLUNGES TO 7TH PLACE IN TIMESLOT IN LOS ANGELES ON WEDNESDAY NIGHT; BEHIND 'FRIENDS' RERUN, 'KING OF QUEENS', 'MILLIONAIRE'... 1.1 RATING/2 SHARE LOWEST SINCE TAKING CHAIR..."

Because Ms. Couric and I do not share political and lifestyle choices I have never been a fan. I did not like watching or hearing her back in the days when she was a Today Show fixture. The causes she backed and her obvious political bent were not what I was a fan of. And yet she prospered. Or so it seemed.

And now, if the reports are true, CBS Evening News is not prospering. The Today Show, despite my distaste for Katie, prospered. I hadn't watched a network evening news in decades, so my vote was crucial; in essence, I wasn't even voting.

So why is Katie losing viewers? Does the fact that she is a woman make a difference? Is it Katie, the person, or Katie the woman? And why isn't Oprah helping her?

Halloween & Candy

Or, What's it Like to be Named Candace?

The photo at the left continually cracks me up. I like dogs and I have a sister-in-law who has one of these scruffy little whatever they are dogs. That look ...!

Once a year, for about a 20 day period, I eat candy. Which is why I wonder why people would name a daughter Candace or Candy? Why?

Then twice within five weeks I'll eat jellied cranberry sauce. YUM! That's it for the year, just twice... Ritual and tradition.

Anyway, step back a bit and see if you can figure out how it came to be that we celebrate a specific day of the year by violating well established nutritional & dental health laws.

Cultures & Showing Off

as captured in Drive by Photography

I took these yesterday. One in an area heavily Hispanic and the other in an area
that is heavily Asian. I tried to eat at a restaurant in the Hispanic area, but could not get served, and then was fawned over
at a restaurant in the Asian area. (That was very weird. It was a Korean restaurant where I ate Japanese food, while listening to Mexican music coming from the kitchen...)

I noticed these two celebrations. The Hispanics in the top photo are at a public park to take wedding day photos. The men are wearing Pachuco suits and hats (see Google images if you're curiosity is piqued). This is expense exuberance. There will be precious few occasions for them to wear these suits again. And they are in a public park to take these photos because the hall they could afford to rent isn't pretty. These are (a very educated guess) humble working people who are going all out (or as far out as they can go) to make this a very special day.

The second photo shows Koreans doing the same. Those are Ferraris lined up at the right, in orange and yellow. There's more money tied up in one of those cars than all the Hispanics in the top photo will see in the next ten years. Such exuberance.

Any guess as to who's happier? Content? Appreciative?

Nah, I don't know either.

If this little jaunt into communication theory helps just ONE person...

I hope that person gives me a lot of money.

Sophomore year in collich(sic) I took Communications 201. I am very sure that most people who took it treated it like non-psysh majors treated Psychology 101. Some of the classes were interesting, but there was no need to really know it, because it's just theories n' stuff...

Communication is getting ideas, thoughts, dreams, knowledge, fears, hopes, emotions, warning, threats, etc. from one human to another. Because it's mostly very easy and so based on context, we don't really feel the need to learn what communication really consists of. I open my mouth, words come out and five minutes later I get my Ciabatta Breakfast sandwich. Ergo, communicating is simple! Yes, but only when it's about things that don't matter.

About the context thing... If I point a gun at you and snarl, "Give me all your money," you pretty much have gotten exactly the point I wanted you to get. If I point a bag of ripe tomatoes at you and snarl, "Give me all your money," you're in communication limbo. You don't know what I'm trying to tell you. Context and setting... If you're in Macy's and a voice from 200 yards away yells "4!" you are not going to react the same way you would if you were in the middle of a golf course and heard "4!" See? Context and setting.

When the boundaries of your contextual engagement are blurry, or too faint to see, this is when you have to learn 'communication, the science thereof.' And if you have the time and the patience, it's not hard. Motivation helps, too.

Today's lesson is about a basic units of communication: Words. Admit it, you use them!

It is probable that 'words' are not what you think they are. Most people think of words as containers, and conceive of communication as the exchange of containers between parties. We often consider the other party to be at fault when he or she doesn't 'understand' what we're trying to say. We think to ourselves, "Geez, I handed over the containers, why doesn't he get it!!" But there was no 'exchange.'

Take this example:

Mom: "Lori, I think you and Jeff should cool it."

Lori: "mmmmm" (But inside, she's saying, "I hate you! I love Jeff! I'm not leaving him!" and then she tells Jeff what Mom said and they elope, she gets pregnant and dies during a back-room abortion that Jess convinced her to get.)

All because there was no communication. Mom handed a container labeled "cool it" to Lori. But Lori didn't take that container and look into, as Mom was assuming. Nope, what Lori did was look at the label and then go to her storage shelves and pull down her "cool it" container. Its content was significantly different from the container Mom had offered. In Mom's container "cool it" meant turn the fire down a little, take it easy. You can see what's coming. In Lori's container, "cool it" meant stop entirely.

So when you're in a situation where complete communication is a important, think about the fact that your definition of a word may not be the same as the other party's definition of that word. The solution is paraphrasing. Ask the person to repeat back to you, using different words, just what it is he or she thinks you just said. This can save a relationship, a project, a job, a life.... oh, the possibilities are endless!

300,000,000 People living in America

Or, How Many Roads Must a Man Walk Down...

According to some group that has a Mission (or maybe just an Axe to grind), on 10-17-06, at 7:43 a.m., EDT, the 300,000,000th living American will enter this world. The group offering this "fact" also tells us that this 300,000,000th living American will be born in Los Angeles, of Hispanic parents. Making it a 50-50 shot that he or she will be born of illegal alien parents.

Which makes not a whit of difference: We'll be 300,000,000 strong.

China & India probably have 7 times this amount. The EU has about double. I'm not taking the time to find out about Africa, South America and those parts of the east that aren't China and India.

In other words, we're vastly outnumbered. But you sure wouldn't know it, would you?

Are we to be admired or pitied? How will this all play out on our plasma TVs?

Remedial Technology Update

Or, If I know this, you should, too

Google is reinventing computing. Coming from the world of AOL, Gmail was like a gift from the gods. Almost 3 gigs of storage... If you open a couple of accounts, and have the patience, you can back up all your data files, all your photo files and all your music files. That's assumng you're not my sons, with their total of 95 gigs of downloaded songs. They do love BT. I don't even know what BT stands for, but they do love it. Gmail is free... Free!

My first computer was an Osborne 1. Then I got an Osborne Executive. Then a KayPro. There was software that allowed me to interchange a floppy disk I created on one of the Osbornes with the KayPro, and vice-versa. Then came the PC. I never did buy an actual IBM PC, just the clones. Then came the costliest computer purchase I ever made, $2,800 for a PC AT. It was 10 megahertz of blazing speed. We were cutting edge! I was drunk on the power!

But I expect that I'm getting the same look from you right now that I get from our two youngest boys. They could care less. BFD... Or as Yoda would say, Impressed they are not.

Anyway, back to Google. Sitting just under the top tool bar, at the left, on the Gmail main page it says Docs & Spreadsheets. It's a hyperlink. Click on that and after you confirm your name, you see this:

Welcome to Google Docs & Spreadsheets!

With Google Docs & Spreadsheets, you can:

• Use our online editor to format documents, spell-check and more.
• Upload Word documents, OpenOffice, RTF, HTML or text.
• Download documents to your desktop as Word, PDF and more.
• View your documents' revision history and roll back to any version.

Plus, since its online, you can:

• Invite others to share your documents by e-mail address.
• Edit documents online with whomever you choose.
• Publish documents online to the world, or to just who you choose.
• Post your documents to your blog.

This blog is also now part of my Gmail account package. I no longer log in via blogger.com, but through Gmail.

Anyway, if you have EVER wanted to write and keep your writing handy (and current) Google has now offered you something not to be missed. What you write is stored online, not on your computer. You can access your documents from any internet-connected computer. I suppose that in theory you could access it via a web-browser enabled phone, but don't quote me on that.

The shared editing thing is astounding. My wife and I share a spreadsheet where we keep a monthly track of income and spending. We can even access it at the same time, me from the office, or on the road at a Kinko's, and her at home. And we can be on our cell phones (family plan, of course) and discuss the budget. (Okay, discuss might not be the right word. More, me weeping uncontrollably as she enters expenditures...)

When you're inputting data to any file, it makes saves like every ten seconds. You can't lose data! Your Sony laptop could burst into flames, and then explode, as you sit there at the airport and you wn't have lost any data! Your crotchital hair maybe, but not your data.

So that's my technological update. If you don't have Gmail, you're really missing something pretty slick, because it's a gateway (but not a Gateway) into a world that I've watched develop and am very happy to be part of. If only I'd bought the stock. But of coure had I bought Google, it would have immediately gone into the tank. So in a sense, Google owes me, big time. Or they used to. Now they've paid me back.

Moving Along Quickly Now...

Or, What a Pisser was Pavlov's Dog.

Dr. Ivan "Winkie" Pavlov was trained as a chemist. His famous experiment was more about the chemistry of digestion than it was about conditioned reflexes.

And here's something that most stories about Winkie and his dogs leave out: If after 'conditioning' the dogs, you stopped presenting food when you rang the bell, the dogs would quickly stop salivating at the sound of the bell. In other words, the conditioned reflex was temporary.

You're befuddled. Not about the fact that of course the dogs, after a series of bells without food, would stop salivating... Nope, what you're befuddled about is the point of me telling your this.

Because you're just as conditioned as those dogs! Yep, when it comes to reading blogs, you are. Probably with any reading. You have been conditioned. And you did it yourself, with a little help from the culture that nutured you. Your conditioned reflex is that when you choose something to read, it is ALWAYS with the expectation that there is a 'point' to what you are reading. You generally make an assumption when you chose something to read that it will "do" something for you, it will 'appeal' to some need you have.

Have you decided what my point is?

Me, either.

This Really Happened!

Or, why don't I have the slightest bit of shame?

This just happened. At the exact instant I discovered what had happened, it wasn't funny. But since nothing really unfortunate happened, it very quickly became pretty darn hilarious, when viewed through the filters of my joy-tilted brain-brew.

I pissed myself. Quite by accident, but still, piss is piss. As piss, it's just a yellow stream, somewhat benign. But when you label it "urine," it quickly passes from a fairly innocuous liquid to a smelly, very ill-favored liquid. So while I pissed myself, the problem came when it turned into urine on my clothing. Yes, clothing.

Obviously you've recognized that the potty seen above is somehow involved in this pisser of a story. Here's how...

I was carrying equipment when I got to this very high-class mens room in a high rise building in a downtown location. So I didn't want to squeeze into the 'normal' restroom stall. Instead I took the 'handicap' stall. I didn't cut the line; there were no handicapped men waiting to use it so I felt not the slightest bit of guilt.

And then as I was sitting to business, I got a phone call. A friend was calling about golf. So my initial efforts as I sat there were placed on autonomic control while the higher centers of my cerebral cortex dealt with weekend golf plans. I sincerely believe that under 'normal' conditions nothing would have happened.

But see that two or three inch gap between the toilet seat and the porcelain bowl? This became the crux of my problem.

With my shorts (Yes, shorts. Eat your hearts out, suit wearers.) were down around my ankles, the pressures-that-be saw to it that the stream of urine that my body relieved itself of, undirected as it was by my otherwise occupied voluntary nervous system, passed through that gap and gravity took it from there.

I wasn't aware of any of this until I was ready to reassemble the façade of fabric that hides the real me from public view.

My shorts were sopping wet. My tennis shoes were liberally coated. A sense that an enormous wrong had been done overwhelmed me. But in very short order I was laughing at myself.

I was early for my appointment, I had a suitable change of clothing in my vehicle (I am now wearing golf slacks and sock-less soft-spike golf shoes on which, thankfully, the soft spikes have been worn down so no one here in this Kinkos can really tell they're golf shoes). I was only a few minutes late for my appointment. After the appointment, thinking about what a silly story this is, I returned to the scene of the grime and took this photo.

So... if my story can save one person from suffering this fate, then my paving this unfortunate road in the wilderness will not have been vain.

And now I'm thinking I might be in line for a Nobel Piss Prize. (Yeah, I'm groaning, too...)

Google Earth

Be glad you're not here for me to take you on a tour of my life.

I downloaded Google Earth a while back. I use it at work. I have this snazzy 'snapshot' program so I can turn Google Earth satellite photos into pretty nice .jpgs.

I've been 'collecting' snapshoots of places I've lived. I'm making a sort of 'wall of shame' out of these prints... All the places I've lived where I let the grass go wild, the shrubbery go wild, the neighbors go wild, my kids go wild... I suppose you could say that in my case 'life' is what happens when you're busy watching television.

Today I noticed that there are new photos being used. When I first got Google Earth, my work place hadn't been refurbished. Now the new satellite photo shows my car and the office manager's car parked in their spots. I view this as a form of immortality.

What have you found interesting on Google Earth?

UnImpreachability

Or, What I said to the Religious Messengers

Two ernest members of a religious group, whose name I'll keep off the record, but whose initials are JW, came to the door today.

I interrupted their opening spiel with a question, "What do you clowns know about Laztheism?" Both my countenance and my tone dripped 3/4's scorn, 2/5's loathing and 3/16's opprobium.

The female member (I'm glad it wasn't the male member, because that makes for awkward phrasing...) bit. "What's Lazyeism?"

"It's not Lazyeism, Sister. It's Laztheism. As in Lazy Theism. And it's a short hand, indicating that Laztheists don't expend any energy considering Theism; we don't think about god or gods, either to worship or deny the existence thereof. Religion isn't a solution, it's just a problem." I had more to say but the male member (there, I said it...) counter-interrupted me.

"Slow down, Sailor!" he said. "Who are you to question the need for religion? If we didn't need it, it wouldn't exist...!"

"Oh yeah?" I counter-counter-interrupted. "Lots of things exist that have no proven need, value or benefit and not only do they exist, but they blossom!"

"Ha!" he said. "Name one! Go ahead, I dare you!"

Smiling a slight curvy lipped semi-sneer I accepted his challenge. I hesitated, to heighten the tension, and then whispered, "Blogging..."

Their jaws dropped. They mader furtive glances at each other and then the male member (how am I getting away with this rampant pornography?) lead the retreat.

Laztheism 1, Organized Religion 0, but it's still early in the game.

Brain Brews

Or, You are how you Think.

It may just be a convenience to suppose that how your brain operates is a function of the DNA instructions that built it. Which is another way of saying that people at both extremes of any behavior continuum didn't really chose to be there. Like us gay people, who simply can't help being gay. (As in happy...) People tell me that I have a delightful personality, to which I modestly respond that it's just my brain brew.

This is all well and good for those of us comfortably in the middle of the continuum. Think of it as a bell curve; the majority of us are in the middle. Thus we are "normal."

Problems arise at both ends of the continuum. Saints and sinners make many of us "normal" people uncomfortable. I think most of our politicians come from the extremes. Okay, from one extreme...

I've met kids whom you could tell were headed for the sinner extreme and while carefully avoiding getting involved, I've wondered if something could be done for them, like messing with their brain brew. But who would be in charge of such decisions? It couldn't be a "normal" person, could it?

Eating your heart out through your digestive system...

I wish the photograph could carry the scent and the flavor...

My wife is a great cook. At least in the sense of making the kitchen a magical place. Can you say, "Yum"?

The dish above is a dessert called Fruit Pizza. (It deserves the capitals.) The crust is sugar cookie dough and then where the tomato sauce would go there's this heavenly cream that must have illegal drugs in it. I like to shave off some of the creamy frosting, put it in a plastic bag and then huff it. When I do this I don't have to take my insulin shots.

Then she adds the fresh fruit. There was fresh fruit left over and when everyone else had had their fill, I snatched the cookie sheet, set the dog to guarding the bedroom door and sat there and scarfed up the leftovers. (As if there would ever BE any leftovers!)

After I took the photo, I began eating the pieces. I sliced up the banana and spooned on extra pieces of fruit on each bite that I took. What would Karl Marx have thought of Fruit Pizza?

CAR BLOGGING! BLOGGETTES!

An Idea whose Time has Come !!

Certainly the American Culture, and those foreign cultures who mimic us, have become very comfortable with individual "sharing" of personal information and emotion.

By "sharing," I mean that we don't mind expressing ourselves for the benefit of those who observe us. We do so vocally, along with the clothes we wear, and with our cars and the way we modify or decorate our cars. And with our blogs...

You're not going to believe this, but back before you were born, the only bumper stickers that exited were extolling National Parks. Now bumper stickers have become an important mode of communication, or at least of expression.

So the next step will be (ought to be) an area on the rear of the car that will display a message that can be changed, as desired, from a keyboard by the driver's seat. Safety concerns dictate that the keyboard system be disabled while the car is in gear. But anytime you get the transmission in park, you can change your message.

So if you're really cool, and want your coolness appreciated, every day before you leave for work you'd have to come up with a 'bloggette' for your car's display. The mind boggles at the thought of the American motoring public communicating with other motorists via snippets of conversation on the rear of their cars . . .

Wanted: Adult Supervision

Or, calling Child Protective Services home for a while

If you were a California Highway Patrol Officer, would you wonder where the driver was? Or if there even was a driver?

According to the Rialto, CA weekly newspaper, The Rialto Weekly Trombone, when this vehicle was finally pulled over, the driver was discovered to be an 11 year old girl who was looking for her mother. The details were still unclear at press time, but some basic facts were known: there were two marijuana water bongs in the back seat, the little girl said her mother called her and told her to bring the bogs to the motel where the family had recently stayed for almost a year, and the registered owner of the vehicle denied knowing anything about how his vehicle came to be in the hands of the 11 year old. Child Protective Service has the child in protective custody as authorities seek her mother, whom according to the child is named Gladys.

Authorities would like anyone with information to call the Rialto branch of Macy's Department Store.

Living Longer is a Science

Or, There ain't nothing like Old Age to make you want to die...

I'm not complaining, because after all, it is the natural order, but do you know how much money and assets are tied up by people over the age of 70 who don't know how to have a genuinely good time? Or maybe they do, but their old age and their fears keep them from doing so.

I'm certainly not a Socialist. I just want to see the old geezers spend like drunken sailors on their first shore leave in a year. Don't give it away to a bunch of spoiled, unappreciative relatives, don't give to charities that exist just to give slackers a pay check and don't let government death taxes contribute to the bloat that is our national government. Just get out and spend it on having fun and making people laugh.

Then when the money runs out, die. You're going to die no matter what. Make yourself memorable for the laughter you caused, not for the "good deeds" you did with your money. If you're over 50 and people are "solemn" at your funeral, you didn't live your life the way that we all wanted you to live it.

When my money is gone, I'm going to hike out into the desert and let the coyotes recycle me. Screw the funeral industry.

By the way, it could be as soon as next Wednesday...

(j/k I've got enough to party on 'til at least 2013, unless the cost of living goes up...)

What are our Team Colors?

And What about the Cheerleaders?

There are very few people in this world who are actually fans of Humanity.

Think of Humanity as a team in a competitive sport. That's what I mean about fans. As a team, Humanity has detractors galore, but very few active fans. Nobody I know has season tickets. The sport involved is "Existence." Eventually we'll get a game going with another team. That's when the fans will come out of the woodwork.

I am amused by this thought: Imagine you are an intelligence, but not Human. You own a planet. Say you use this planet to grow a particular food stuff, something you and those like you really, really like. But you wake up one morning and are greeted with the news that Humans have landed on your planet. What are Humans you ask? You do some research and learn ALL about us. Naturally you are aghast! So you call in the exterminators. If you're really diligent, you track the infestation back to its nest and try to remove the threat from the Universe. What could make more sense? Well, I can see that subjectively we Humans wouldn't agree. But it's just a subjective point of view. There really is a valid point to making sure that Humanity never gets the chance to infest the Universe.

But just as there is an objective point of view that says no one should ever be a fan of the Chicago Cubs, it means nothing to those nut-cases who are Cubs fans. And so it is with me; Humans are no good for the Universe, but I'd like us to get out there and populate it.

But like any fan, I would like to see my team's chances improved by cutting unproductive players and recruiting and promoting players who can help the team. Which is another POV operation. Who would you cut from the team? Should there be some minimum standards for being able to stay on the team?

A-1 to D-4: How do You Rate?

Or, When People Listen to you, What are they Hearing?

I'm reading a very enjoyable spy thriller. A very basic explanation of the book would be that it's about retired CIA operatives (now well into their late-60s and 70s) who undertake an international operation for personal reasons, but which has grave national, and international, ramifications. But enough about my life...

This post is about the something I learned in the book, about the way in which the CIA used to (and perhaps still does) classify incoming information. We all have that problem, don't we?

The letters, A thru D, stand for the category of the person delivering the information, "A" being somone almost always trustworthy. "B" and "C" are people descending moral fiber and then we get to "D", someone who is never trustworthy.

Then the numbers 1 thru 4 stand for the degree of credibility of the message itself, "1" being very likely true, down to "4", information very likely untrue.

When we're little children, just about any adult who takes the time to talk to us is "A-1", we pretty much believe every adult is trustworty and every message we get to be the truth. You can see where this has gotten us. Too bad CIA doesn't stand for Children's Intelligence Agency, because if ever there is a time in our lives when we need to know how to handle incoming information, it's when we're kids.

Can you imagine if there were someone whispering in a kid's ear about the information the kid is getting? Someone objective, I mean...

As kids, we give A-1 ratings to the stories of Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, etc., etc., etc. And these are from people we believe love us!

But you have to be careful. No system is perfect. Because information society has labeled A-1, meaning the messenger is reliable and the information probably the truth, has turned out to be worse than bogus. Like when my first wife told me women tire of sex... I actually started to believe her!!

And information labeled D-4 by society, meaning the messanger is a known total liar and the message most likley intrue, has turned out to be a golden truth. Like when my first ex-wife told me her married sister had the hots for me. This seemingly blatant untruth from someone I couldn't trust turned out to be true!!

So while no system is perfect you have to at least have a system in order to have exceptions to the order of your system. Or else you have labels left over!

The sooner we learn to filter incoming information, the more likely we are to put our lives in good order. It's really a shame that there is no way to be certain about some truths, or untruths, until after you've made a committment. But that's a subject for another post.

(And yes, not mentioning Religion in this post almost killed me.)

The Eyes Have it

Or, Sisyphus Don't Got Nuttin' on Me...

I have an obsession when it comes to usage of the literary conceit that "eyes are the window on the soul." I understand the concept behind the sentiment, that there is a need to believe that that there are shortcuts to learning what lurks in the hearts of men (and women).

But I would like to believe that a majority of the world recognizes that the human eyeball, singly or in pairs, does not reveal anything about the person in whose orbital socket(s) it, or they, reside.

I will grant that given sufficient opportunity we can learn to judge a person's gross state of mind by examining the set, the play, of the many muscles that populate the human face. We learn what frowns, furrows, dimples, smiles, etc. tend to mean. But the eyeballs, as eyeballs, give away nothing about emotions or states of mind, because they are inanimate.

I don't believe my little homily will do away with the trite and untrue phrases that populate popular literature, but if one person who upon reading this takes the time to recognize the laziness that permeates the writings of the hacks who use these phrases, I will be content.

Why did the lazy ass authors write this crap?: "His eyes flashed with anger!" "Her eyes gleamed as she gazed adoringly at him." "He saw the sadness in her eyes." "Her eyes sparkled as the laughter bubbled from somewhere close to her circulatory pump." "You could see the resentment in his eyes."

The eyes don't do a darn thing but sit there in our faces. Oh sure, their owner can roll them, drop them shyly, move them askance, and even cross them. But that's pretty much it. Everything else credited to the eyes as revealers of state or mind has to do with muscular control of facial muscles, including the muscles that control the eyelids.

And please, will the one person upon whom the light dawns that literature is full of hacks and frauds please let me know of this dawning? Thank you.

I FIRST THOUGHT OF THIS YEARS AGO !!!

A Tip of the Hat to Nibbles for Reminding Me....

I used to fantasize about starting a ranch in, say, Montana, and moving in with a coven of witches and raising prize children. And it wasn't about the mindless sex! No way! I'm a heck of a father, always available on the golf course to talk to my kids on the ol' cell phone. They're very good about working with the fact that I have to put down the phone every so often to make a shot.

But here's my main point: Conception Parties*, with Conception Presents* for the male in the Mommie/Baby equation. You know, Mom + Dad = Baby.

Our society has evolved to a point where the contribution of the male is treated de minimis. I would like to contribute to a reversal of the situation. Which brings me back to The Conception Party*.

As with so many human rites, it's the symbolism that's important. So here's how it works:

When a couple want to have a baby, they take steps to see to it that an egg is quickened. One way or another. (So see? This is all inclusive; gay couples can hold these parties, too.) Once an egg or two is quickened, and the quickening confirmed, the party is planned. The date is picked, the caterer called, the invitations sent out. The theme? A baby has been conceived: All hail the conceptor! This is HIS moment! After this party all the attention will shift to the conceptee, but for this one night, it's all about the man, the penis and the sperm. We got a Major Theme and mini-themes up the wazoo!

The Conception Party* starts at the appointed hour. For the first few hours it's just a regular party, with eating, drinking and dancing. Nothing is said about the reason for the party. Then a couple of hours into the party, the ritual begins. The man is cued to start the show. He starts hitting on his woman, telling her how much she turns him on, how fecund he imagines her to be. She plays her part, declaiming her willingness to receive his seed. Audience participation, of a vocal nature, is encouraged.

Finally the man announces, in whatever style he finds comfortable, that he can no longer resist his urges. He gathers up his woman and carries her into a bedroom. Much hilarity among the guests. They sing ritual songs about breeding, about positions, about the thrust and parry of making a baby.

In the bedroom the couple sits and calmly plays a couple of hands of gin rummy. She occasionally screams as if scaling the heights or orgiastic delight. Then carefully making a disarray of her clothing, she exits the bedroom first. She staggers out, begins to swoon and is caught by the girls who were her bridesmaids. They carry her to a large, comfortable chair where she spends the rest of the evening as if she were an aged dowager queen.

After she is seated, the lights are brought down and the men all shine flashlights (notice the symbolism?) at the bedroom door. Drum roll.... The Man exits the bedroom. Bedlam ensues! The women throw themselves at his feet, grasping at his ankles, but he eludes them. The men all start to sing "You are the Champion.." Then he sits and receives his presents, basking in the adulation that is due an egg quickener.

More drinking, more eating, lots of laughter as he opens his presents, lots of sexually charged conversations. Couples go home and do what they do best.

Then (roughly) for the next nine months the man is a virtual non-entity. But with memories of The Conception Party*, it's more easily endured.

*The Conception Party is trademarked and is the property of Bert Bananas Enterprises, S.A., Inc., LLC. All Right are Reserved. No one may have a Conception Party without the express written permission of Bert Bananas and Major League Baseball. Your Place or Mine?

How Many Rules Are There?

None! And if we had any, we wouldn't call them rules!!!

It's getting kind of wacky... People are emailing me, people are stopping me on the street... I've even been pulled over on the highway and asked about it. The dental hygienist yesterday wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise, with all her questions...

So here goes, for all of you who want some answers to these two questions: What is Laztheism and where can I get me some?

Laztheism has in the past been handed down from father to son. Only occasionally has it passed from father to daughter. These rare instances can only occur where there is no son for him to work with. But mostly it's because women tend to make want too much sense and order to their lives.

This attempt to lay out some principles is doomed from the start. "Principles" implies some kind of order. So...

Laztheism is without order, without merit and without pride.

It just gets better.

Laztheism can only be practiced by that rare segment of the human population which doesn't require any more adulation than is provided by a mirror. Laztheism teaches us to put off until tomorrow that which someone else will do today, but only if no one is hurt, except maybe their pride.

Laztheism doesn't allow the practitioner to hold sway over another human being who hasn't been paid for the privilege.

Laztheism teaches the practitioner to make every one with whom he comes into contact smile. Whether they want to or not. And you can't force them, but you can use deceit and slight of hand. And sex.

Laztheists NEVER need or want to convince anyone about anything. (I still struggle with this.)

Laztheism holds no truths to be self-evident, much less absolute. Laztheism carries no brief for spiritualism, naturalism, extremism or ismism. Science is okay but often costs too much.

Laztheism wishes you the best but bids you to prepare for the worst.

Laztheism asks you to simplify your life. It's the most complicated thing you'll ever do.

Laztheism only advocates the end to advocacy. As for laws, we only obey those which are convenient or are currently being enforced. But we respect lines and appreciate orderliness.

Laztheism does not seek to measure happiness, but just to practice it and without exception, Laztheists die happy.

Is there a god? Laztheism doesn't offer an answer, but suggests you stop asking this question, and any and all questions that involve religion, politics, ethnicity, and sexuality.

Questions that require machinery, art, computation and scientific rigor for answers are encouraged.

If you aren't satisfied with this Laztheistic presentation, you have inner demons you need to dominate. Maybe you should consider Scientology?

A prior Post, now Illustrated

Time Heals all Wound Clocks

Or, Who's watching our invisible Towers?

Did you wonder (wounder) how to pronounce the "wound" in the title? Me too.

This is my gentle, non-garish intro into putting a bit of perspective (certain to be unappreciated) into the recent 9/11 reviews.

Take this, for instance: Between Feb. & July, 1916, during the Battle of the Somme, the British, French and Germans combined to total up 420,000, 200,00 and 500,000 casualties,respectively. A third of these were deaths. Of the remaining 2/3s, half wished they were dead.

The little (relatively speaking) itty-bitty battle of Iwo Jima killed a bit more than 20,000 Japanese and 6,700 Americans. The Americans had over 21,000 wounded.

Rome erased Carthage from the map.

Each year Americans get to bury over 50,000 dead vehicle drivers and passengers. (Yes, we have wrought a mighty wrecking.)


This list could go on and on. But 95% of our citizens don't, and actually can't!) care. But a goodly percentage of us do care about 9/11. But Time will take care of this. Just ask any GenXer, as he's getting out of his Honda, with his Toshiba laptop, eager to get inside to play on his PS2 about his outrage at what happened on 12/07/41.

I have no point, except to try to excuse just how blase I am about all this meting out of death and destruction that we humans do. Good thing we're so prolific.

Homilies & Grits.

or, Homilies for Homies

When you play with words as much as I do, sometimes you say something that passes for new age wisdom. Here's one I came up with at dinner tonight:

"People who do serious drugs may not have a death wish, but they sure don't have much of a life wish."

I expect to see this homily used in an ABC afterschool special by March of 2007.

"The Iron Age Rusted, but who didn't see that coming." This one just sprouted, totally unbidden, from my lips when we were studying menopause in Sunday School. Only Huey Mortenson got it. He and I always were ahead of our time.

"Your mother wears underwear!" I shouted this, at the ever so tippy-top of my lungs at an exotic dancer who threatened to expose me. I was trying to hurt her in a way she'd never been hurt before. Did I succeed? I haven't the slightest idea. This was, again, in Sunday School, and I was asked to go to the healing room. But later Huey Mortenson stopped by to say that the exotic dancer didn't say another word for the rest of the class.

"La Paz es la no-intervención." I am told that this translates, loosely, into 'peace is not getting involved.' I wish I'd thought of it. But I cribbed it from a website about Mexico; it's supposed to be that country's motto. Here in America ours is "In God we Trust." Which do you think is better?