You're Not a Mindless Robot, but what good is a Mind?

Or, Safety in Numbers

First, here's the math: 6,000/6,000,000,000 = 1/1,000,000 = 0.000001%

6,000 people is a lot if you're cooking and cleaning for them. But they are few in comparison to the number of humans currently exhaling green house gases from any and all available orifices.

There are MAYBE 6,000 people in the world who are thinking what might be called 'valid' unusual thoughts. What is a 'valid' unusual thought? Thinking about ways to sexually exploit a co-worker or class mate is not 'valid' thinking, at least for this exercise. Thinking about what exactly is at the center of the core of the earth IS a valid unusual thought. No one you personally know thinks about the center of the core of the earth!

Thinking about how many nose hairs it takes to fill a comforter for neo-natals is not valid unusual thought; thinking about whether creatures living at the bottom of the Marianas Trench are more in tune with the sun or the moon is valid unusual thinking. And again, you don't know a soul who thinks about this problem. Me, either. I just made up the thought, I'm not actually THINKING about it!!!

I'm not a 'valid' thinker; I'm just a blogger. (So what do you do in life? Well, I have a blog....)

My entire point being that 999,999 out of a million people don't think outside the box, and said box is more and more being defined by people who profit from the shape the box is in, and who are also within the box they are defining! Does anyone exist outside the box? I honestly don't know.

Does anyone in the United States of America not have daily access to reruns of Friends or Seinfeld? That was NOT a 'valid' unusual thought.

STUFF HAPPENS !!

Or, don't ask questions and you won't need answers . . .

Serious, sensitive golfers, to a man, to a woman, all know that "fair" is a treacherous, illusory concept. Asking 'why' something happened is useless, except as to possibly avoiding a recurrence of that happening. Once the event has taken place, the first thing to do is deal with it. Or not. Your choice.

Every serious golfer has had two experiences:

1. Hitting a perfect drive, squarely struck, seeing it fly down the middle of the fairway and then not being able to find the ball, even though everyone in your foursome saw it hit and roll in the middle of the fairway. Lost ball, two penalty strokes and re-tee a new ball, play on.

2. Hitting a perfectly awful drive, duck hook or wicked slice, seeing it fly left or right into the tree line and then losing sight of it after hearing the sound of ball hitting living wood, and then expecting the ball to be either lost or in a terrible lie, but then one of your group finds it in the middle of the fairway. Found ball, at least two strokes saved, play on.

See, that's a perfect example of your life. Stuff happens. When bad Stuff happens, take your penalty strokes and play on. When good Stuff happens, accept your good fortune and play on.

Why did each event happen? Why should you care? Okay, sure, some things you really should find out, so was to avoid future occurrences. But with the humdrum lives that most of us lead, you're just diddling Eternity when you spend time thinking about the 'why' of things. Diddle Eternity all you want, Eternity has all day.

It's the people who NEED to know the why of things who complicate their, and your, lives.

Don't ask why. Instead, declare, why not!

Temperature Sensitivity

Or, how I was meant to be Royalty

In my tiny cubicle I have a combination digital clock and digital thermometer. I got it last winter.

Because of the thermometer feature, I can now tell you that at 83 degrees farhenheit I am perfectly comfortable and happy. But at 84 degrees farhenheit, I am uncomfortably warm.

I'll be sitting here, hunched over my desk, cowed down by the heavy oppressiveness, by the constraints of of cubicle life, when suddenly I'll feel uncomfortable, temperature-wise, whereas an instant before I'd been comfortable in that regard. I'll whirl around and look at the thermometer, and it'll be at 84 degrees. Then I'll get up, step outside of my cubicle and stretch up to my full 5' 2¼" and then stride over to the A/C thermostat where I'll fiddle with the control to make it work harder and get me back to my comfort zone.

What bugs me is, who is fiddling with the controls after I set them?

Tomorrow is Hump Day

But will you call me on Thursday?

I didn't go to Palm Springs to play golf. I'm in the office all day. And my wife is 'indisposed' as concerns Hump Day, and when she's 'indisposed' I'm 'indisposed.'

I still get to play golf tomorrow, but the 'indisposition' will probably last until the week end.

Do the crabs look happy? Crabby happy?

Sunday, in leisure pants

I went to a golf course yesterday morning, for a 6:52 tee time. On the way home I stopped at a restaurant and had a hamburger and a strawberry shake. Then as I was leaving the restaurant I called a friend and asked, acting the innocent, if there was a game that afternoon. Of course there was. He said that if I could get there within 20 minutes I could join them. I got there in 12 mnutes. With me there were eight players, two foursomes. Excellent!!

Then I got home, pleasantly fatigued and had a vanilla ice cream, sliced bananas and chocolate syrup sundae, in an immodesly large bowl, for dinner. Then I continued reading my current house book (I keep one in the car, as well) and fell asleep around 9:30 p.m.

Now it's Sunday night. I mowed the back lawn before the PGA started, then I sat in front of the TV and watched five hours of golf, reading and dozing and scratching the dog's head when she'd put her head on my lap. She wanted some of my cashews, but they're not good for her because you can't eat cashews without a beer chaser and alcohol makes her slur when she barks.

But my life is not all skittles and A&W diet Cream Soda. Tomorrow I'll go to the office, do some work, then go 'into the field," then back to the office, only to have to get up very early Tuesday morning to drive 75 minutes to play golf at a resort, with a client. Then Wednesday is a regular golf morning, followed by offcie work that afternoon and all day Thursday and Friday! Two solid days of cubicle dwelling!! Oh, the horror!

But the whole time, ticking like a time bomb, and getting closer and closer to going off, is the illegal alien A-bomb, which, like Google's Gmail storage capacity, keeps growing in detonation size. It is haunting me. I have answers to so many of the complexities facing the world, but I can't solve this one. Which is why it haunts me...

She Could be #1, but it's all #2 to me.

Katie Couric, Girl Wonder



It was all I could do to refrain from blackening a couple of teeth and putting in some pimples and a black eye... Not because I dislike Katie, but merely because that's what louts such as myself are ever so capable of doing.

I have never met Katie and if we were ever to meet, it is likely that our life styles, goals, aspirations and political views would render us incompatible. But just as I suppose myself to be a decent human being, I am sure that she is, too.

What makes me think twice about Katie is the hype over her becoming head News Reader at CBS. (hmmmm.... who was the head News Reader during the Lewinski dust up?) If she were honest about being a 'journalist' she would admit that this is all she should be. If she wants to change the world, and skews the 'meaning' of what she reads, then she's not a journalist. If she wants the viewers to form one certain impression of what she's just read to them, then she's not a journalist. I have no problem with this, but would prefer that the show then be called The Katie Couric What Happened, What Didn't Happen and What Should Have Happened Show, starring Katie Couric, as the Beaver!

In other words, she could be the Rush Limbaugh of the Left, which would be wonderful.

As a person who has not watched a national network's news show since probably 1985, it boggles my mind that CBS feels they are getting their money's worth for Katie's services. And if she does turn out to be worth it to CBS, it means that CBS accurately analyzed just how brain-dead so much of the American populace is.

Meaning that the Internet still has a long way to go.

Cubicle Desk Jockeys

Or, where 90% of the Power lies

As one of the millions of nameless, faceless cubicle desk jockeys of this world, I am taking this time to alert the rest of you about our power. I'm not doing this to gain anything, but rather to help you, the non-cubicle desk jockey, to consider us, and our power, the next time you try to contend with one of us.

You know how when you yell at a waiter, and then one of your party says to you, hoping it's out of earshot of that waiter, that the waiter could be back in the kitchen adding spit sauce on your side dish, and you go, 'harumph!' trying not to show that you're worried about that, too? Well, we cubicle desk jockeys sometimes decide to add 'spit sauce' to the paperwork we're dealing with if given some motivation for doing so.

And the reverse is true.

Which explains why you hear people saying things like:

"Chase Manhattan Bank? I hate that bank!"

"I love CitiBank!"

In neither case did the "Bank" do anything. It was a person or persons working for the bank who did something to cause the reaction.

So think twice the next time before deciding to tear one of us a new butt-hole over the phone because after the phone call is over, we're the ones with your paperwork on our desk, and saliva building up in our mouths...

An Intermission...

H. Simpson and the Secret to Life

Lisa and Homer break into a museum to see a display of Egyptian antiquity, associated with Isis, whoever that babe was. Homer knocks over a stand, on which an orb sits, an orb with a mystery that remains solved. When it hits the ground, it pops open, like a petalled flower, and reveals itself to be a music box. The haunting music echoes through the museum hall. Lisa points out that they are the first ones to hear the song in thousands of years. Homer puts it back together and Lisa points out that now the music may not be heard for another thousand years. Homer acts impressed. As they walk out of that hall, he starts humming a song. But it's not the song from the music box, it's the Old Spice song. Lisa points this out. Homer says, "oh, yeah, but it's a good song, too." So Lisa joins him in s humning it and the credits roll.

See, that's an example of one of a fundamental building block of life.


And don't you worry, I'm working on the follow up to Do unto Others....

Love thy Neighbor as thyself

Or, Do unto Others Until you finally get it Right.

If you tried to give one piece of advice that would serve a person through out his entire life, you'd spend your life adding footnotes about nuances, exceptions and Mac v. Windows.

No one piece of advice is going to create a template for a satisfying life. Simply because there is no one definition for "Satisfying Life."

But within Christiandom there is supposed to be one good, solid rule you can follow which will get you to Heaven. (Heaven! Has any word ever had so many definitions??!!)

Do Unto Others as ye would have them do unto you.

I have no problem agreeing that as far as aphorisms go, this one is a doozie, a real beaut, a real rock on which to build a church...

But have you ANY idea what following this supposedly rock solid rule for living would do to Capitalism? Think about it! Fortunately the human animal, a creature forged by nature lo these millions of years, is as capable of following this rule as it is of living on love.

Capitalism depends on buying low and selling high. The lower you can buy and the higher you can sell, and the more units you sell, the more successful you are. Capitalists can't survive if they think about paying as much as they can just because that's how they'd like to be treated if they were sellers. Capitalists can't survive if they sell for as low a price as they'd like to have offered to them if were they buyers. The closer a Capitalist can come to making a sale the equal of forceable rape, the more money the capitalist is going to make. And as the oil companies have demonstrated, eventually the buyer becomes agreeable to bending over and taking the reaming with a smile. But then we've been trained by the credit card companies, haven't we?

Somewhere in Acts of the Apostles, (begiinning with 4:32) there's some talk of communism; everyone sells their possessions and gives the money to the Apostles, who distribute it according to each man's need. You don't see much made of this Holy practice today, at least outside of Cuba. Even China allows private enterprise (human greed).

Then starting with Acts 5:1, we have the short story of Ananias and Sapphira, a husband and wife. They opted into the Apostles' communist plan, but did it the way many people do their federal taxes: they lied. When Ananias turned in his 'communism return' he got caught mproperly withholding. His penalty was 'giving up the ghost.' Then his wife showed up, was shown the 'return' and agreed it was correct. She was castigated for supporting the lie and she too 'gave up the ghost.' The implication is that both of them died "voluntarily," but I like the think the IRS supposes the Apostles had something to do with it. They are so envious!

I want all of you to do unto me as I would do unto you.

You have no idea how kinky that would be!

Do I have a point? Maybe, but it's pointless, isn't it?

Where in Your Bible Does it Say . . .

The Bible As A Survival Guide

About 10 years ago a father started jotting down some notes as he and his wife were contemplating their oldest son's approaching departure for college. The dad must have started contemplating with a lot of lead time because by the time the boy was packed and loading his car, the father had written a book. And I heard about it in the press because the book became such a hot seller.

I have kids and I've given them advice. I couldn't have written a book, because I don't have that much to say about living, what with being naturally lazy. "Go along to get along..." was probably my big conttribution, and it doesn't even take a pamphlet to get that point across. I could have printed up a hand-out, but I kept putting it off.

So to my point: the Bible, as a hand book for living, is hopelessly confusing, outdated and just really a total mess. And yet it is recommended as a Must Read by every Pastor, Reverend, Prophet, Seer & Revelator you can name. (Note the omission of Priest and Father.) But in truth, there are much better sources for finding your way in the world. Like the Disney Channel!

I'm working on some thoughts about what a lame excuse for advice "do unto others as ye would have them do unto you" is... I'll get back to you shortly. In the meantime try going along to get along, at least until you can get off the particular bus you're on.

HEAD FOR THE HILLS!

I used to try to figure out how oral sex -"head"- and breasts -"hills"- combined in the above declarative sentence.

After all these years of never coming up with a satisfying visual, I now offer it in the more prosaic sense.

There are Muslimatics on the loose in these fair United States. They could be simply looking for the freedom we're famous for, and which the Muslimatic nations are not. I have no information on which to make a decision.

But since when has lacking facts stopped a good man? Or even me, a not-good man?

Maybe Goldwater was right and "extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice" but who among us non-Muslimatics would want to defend extremism in the pursuit of infidel deaths?

Lets see:
Democracy = Rights, Powers & Privilege (and their corelatives, Duties, Liabilities & Disabilities) as assigned by popular vote or representative vote, or

Muslimosity = Being governed by Sharia and living by the Koran, and only by the Koran.

It's an easy choice for any Laztheist.

The Push-Pull of Being a Human Male

Or, how much lubricant is enough?

Excuse me while I natter on about, finally, something I know very little about: being male. Hey, no one ever said that producing, storing and delivering sperm was going to be a walk in the park. And if it is, what’s the name of that park?

And no, just because 'lubricant' is in the sub-head, this isn't about sex. Well, not graphically about sex…

It's my belief that testosterone makes us (men) capable of being friendless, just like the alpha male in any group of primates, bimates, trimates or quadramates. Such alpha males are always on the look out for challenges to their supremacy, i.e., their sperm duties. Alpha males simply don’t ever learn to let their guards down. They can’t go out with the guys, can’t shoot a little stick at the VFW, play golf with some beer-swilling buddies, idolize NASCAR drivers, etc., etc.

But Human males have risen above that; we have made all kind of strides in male bonding, binge drinking and gang banging. How’d we do it? How the heck should I know?

I’d like to think it’s because we can ‘reason’, whatever you decide that means. But most of us do draw lines. Maybe Jesus or Mahatma Gandhi could rise above ‘natural tendencies’ and not feel the need to ‘hate’ a person or some specific group of other males. All the men I’ve been around hate someone, or some group. Me included. Luckily I have learned discrimination and I don’t blindly hate groups. Also luckily, I don’t let people know I hate them. After all, what if you needed to use that person in your climb up the corporate ladder or the ladder into a bed of reproductivity?

Why the heck did I put ‘or’ in that last sentence? It’s ALL about climbing into the bed of reproductivity and delivering that sperm! TOUCHDOWN! THREE POINTER! HOLE IN ONE! ACE! BULLS EYE!

Can you see what an aberration gang rape is? No Alpha male would EVER give another male a chance to make it a contest. So all you guys who have never gang raped, kudos to you. Take pride in your aberration-less living.

And yes, to the yellow journalists among you, I did once gang rape myself. When you’re 17 there are precious few limits to self-abuse.

A Sad Story, but not Relatively So, when you factor in the Pain that is Existence

Or, Better living through Chemistry

Like any 'normal' human, I know about saddness. Two or three days ago I learned about the saddness, unsung, of the Christian Holocaust during the CCCP's existence. I have witnessed, seen and photographed, poverty so grinding that to weep would have been insulting; it was either drop dead in mortal consternation or pretend it was just another day at the 'office.' (Email me if you'd like to know about this particular 'office.')

I was once handed a six month old Down Syndrome baby and asked for advice on how to cure her. That's not actually correct, but the truth sounds too weird. I wasn't asked for advice, I was asked to effect a cure. Pretty rugged stuff, huh?

But just now, not three minutes ago (I type very quickly) I almost wept because of the saddness, the tragedy, the hideous awfulness of dealing with someone with no sense of humor. Zip, zero, nada, naught. A yawning void where others bubble, in differring amounts, with light-hearted amusement, good cheer, and yes, even happiness. (I don't just bubble, I overflow, I cascade, I erupt (in both sexual and non-sexual modes) happiness. Hey, it's all in our genetic chemistry and the Bell Curve.)

I called an office to confirm an appointment tomorrow. When I was put through to my contact, with whom I've previously spoken and who was supposed to have called back 55 minutes before I called her, I said, "Pearl, wazzup!" I said it in a light hearted, song in my heart voice, way. Her response was, "Huh?" And it was heart-felt. I apologized and explained that since it was almost the end of the work day, I'd allowed a little levity to intrude, and that I'd been mimicking that standard greeting of today's youth, and a certain brand of beer drinkers. Again, the light hearted voice. I'm huge on light-heartedness!

But she reacted as if I'd been reading some Dow Jones closing market prices for October 13, 1929. Or maybe she thought I was reading names off the Vietnam Memorial. That would have explained how lifeless and devoid of cheer she sounded.

We went on to finish our business, and never once did she show even a spark of good cheer. Not a shred of bubbleliness, and just the barest spark of being alive....

When I put the phone down, the soul-sapping saddness of Pearl's life was cut off and I could feel the hole she'd torn into my soul, through which she'd been robbingme of my life force, begin to heal. Wow, talk about closure!

There is no way in Hell that anyone like that would EVER read a blog, so I think it's safe to say that you and I are safe from her, and her kind, here. All hail the WWW.

And did you know that numbered URLs are all the number of the Beast? Says so in the Bible!

TRUE STORY, followed by a QUESTION

Murder as a Tort

I played golf with OJ. Really. I was a 'single' one Summer afternoon at the Hansen Dam course, back when it still ended with a par 3. I'd signed up with the starter, and even though I could have gone off alone, I delivered my patented little speech, "Hey, golf is a social game; I'll wait for someone to come along." I was sitting on a bench around the corner from the starter's window. I heard some conversation coming from the starter's window, and then a couple of seconds later this White dude looks around the corner at me, and then pulls back. And then there's some more conversation and then the loud speaker says, "Bananas, check in with the starter." I get up and ambled around the corner and there was OJ, bigger than life, standing with the White dude. I walked up to the window and the starter tells me I can play with Mr. Simpson if I want to. Blase Laztheist that I am, I say "sure." This was just after the civil trial had found him responsible for his ex-wife's bloody demise. I paid and then went back to my bag and then, still ambling, went to the first tee. OJ had to fight his way through a crowd of one adoring fan who wanted his autograph and to feel the thrill of being so close to him.

One of THOSE golfers, OJ asked me if I wanted to play for something. What I might have said was, "if I win, you have to confess." But what I actually said was, "Uh....." A very long "Uh...." He interrupted by G# "Uh..." and asked me what my handicap was. I, like one of THOSE golfers, said I was around an 11. (I was a 6 then.) His response was that he was a 13, but that he'd play me straight up, and "How about a dollar a hole, birdies are double and dollar, dollar, dollar nassau." I did the math and calculated that I had enough to cover my losses if I was totally skunked. Then I okayed the wager. I lost $3. But had I invoked the rules of golf, I would won. Mr. Simpson routinely broke a rule calling for a two stroke penalty upon each occurrence. He would hit a bad shot and then swear at himself, reach into his golf bag, grab a ball and drop it where the ball he's just hit had lain. He'd wack away and say something like, 'that's the way I should have hit it.' In effect, he'd played the wrong ball during the hole, a two-stroke penalty. I didn't call him on it. It was obvious he felt there was nothing wrong with what he was doing. He finished the hole with the original ball, not the "practice" ball. But he had to know he was breaking a rule. But as so many commentators pointed out, he grew up being told repeatedly that he was above rules. And I think he believes it.

I caught a lot of flack from those of my friends who believe in justice and the American Way. They all said I should have turned down the offer to play with OJ, and maybe even spit on him, for Justice's sake. Others, the more cynical, just yawned and wanted to know what kind of clubs he was playing and if he 'sliced.' (Much laughter about OJ 'slicing.")

And so my question: If someone you don't know is accused of killing someone you don't know, and either there's no trial or the jury acquits the supposed killer, should the supposed killer be forever hated and shunned by people who never knew him or the victim? I mean as a general rule.....

Living Fearlessly in Fear

or... Brave enough to be chicken

I once almost had a heart attack. Meaning that I wasn't having a heart attack, but thought I was. And so I had the opportunity to contemplate my mortality. I'm pleased to tell you that I did not attempt to bargain with God. My wife did, and the pay-off was handsome for me. But that's entirely another topic.

About my mortality: I am not possessive. I am comfortable with the notion that it isn't mine to keep forever. I am pleased with what I'd done with my life (mostly with what I'd gotten away with!) and since I truly believe it's all a big crapshoot I think I've fared quite well. (If 'well' is an adverb in that sentence, why isn't it "...fared quite well-ly"?)

If I had wrap this up in one carefully crafted thesis for living well (well-ly?) it is:

Your shit stinks and so does everyone elses.

(This probably isn't in the bible, but it should be.)

WARNING! IMPIOUSNESS AHEAD!!

Just call me Pope Impius

The following is the entirety of a blog entry by a man of very serious mien... VERY SERIOUS!

"THE RUSSIAN GOLGOTHA by Vladimir Moss. Definitely a book you will want to acquire as part of the growing body of literature on the unsung holocaust against the Christians of Russia."

I did make one impertinent comment on an earlier, equally serious post of his, and I kind of felt bad, because I don't think he is looking for frivolity.

I forbore from the comment that immediately came to mind. That is, I forbore from making it there, on his blog. I shan't forbear here:

If the story of the Russian Holocaust needs to be set to music, it probably ought not to be by a hip hop artist. I'm thinking Barry Manilow could write the songs.

See? That's impious and if there were a humorless God, He'd get me.

Going & Meaning...

People Go, "I Mean..."

I have not looked for a birth year that divides the "So I go..." people from the, "So I said..." people. But I have to assume it's there.

But I don't think there's any age that has escaped the "I mean, really!" syndrome. The condensing of "What I mean to say is..." into, "I mean, you should hate the Martians!"

Big whoppie, though, huh? Communication is such a hit or miss thing that it's probably a good thing that we reduce the content of all that we say so that by saying less, we lower opportunities to miscommunicate.

Self Esteem & Gambling

Do you care if Vegas goes broke?

Segments of our population are high on Self-Esteem. There is no such thing in Nature as Self-Esteem, but that hasn't stopped the drive to feed and achieve it. (pause for applause to die down.)

I've watched some Texas Hold'em on TV. The way they play it, there is only one winner. That means that if 100 people enter a tournament, 99 people are losers.

If you go to your local card saloon and sit down with seven other people at a table, the majority of the players will be losers. (Although it is within the realm of possibility that one player could lose enough to make the other seven players winners. There are 'fish' in poker, but that person would have to be elevated to 'whale' status!)

I'm trying to figure out what the Self-Esteem crowd would do to remedy the plight of the losers. Perhaps there should be a casino tax? We'd all have to pay into this fund. Then when you lost all your money in a casino, the casino would issue you a voucher that you would take to the nearest office of Self-Esteem Redemption and get your money back. No more losers! That would be our new mantra: No More Losers! And everyone walking out of Self-Esteem Redemption center would have a smile on his/her face and live happily ever after!

The Breakfast of Chompions

No, my dog still makes do with just 'food.'

If my dog, Puppie, ever finds out about Barkfast Squares, we will probably have words. Strong words. Puppie adores eating. And she also thinks she looks good in clothing. She's a Black Lab and they do accessorize well. And I will admit she looks good in a sun dress.

But I draw the line at Puppie's comestibles. She gets the best Costco has to offer in its mid-range price line. Mid-range being the ideal to which I've yoked my life. And thus Puppie's life, as well.

But all my good intentions will be for naught if Puppie finds about about Barkfast Squares, the Breakfast of Chompions. Just look at Ward & June Canine and the Beaver. (Why do we never see Black dogs in advertising...)

Puppie doesn't know she's Black. She's growing up color blind. Well, all dogs grow up color blind. So they've got that over us. I grew up color blind, but in the figurative sense.

Puppie does know she leads a privileged life. She has learned to set her expectations high. She doesn't mind left over hamburgers, but she expects rib eye bones. So obviously I'm part of what's wrong with her and but for my having pampered her, I wouldn't have to worry about Puppie finding out about Barkfast Squares.

If you had spent two whole days coming up with the concept of a product named Barkfast Squares, wrote your copy, got your art director to work up the package, and then sold the client on it, would you go out to the Hamptons the next week end and brag about it? If a month had then gone by and you stumbled across, as I did, the product on the shelf, would you stand back and admire it or just furtively move on?

And how many people spell it 'Barkfest", which is another thing entirely! Puppie knows about barkfests.

Global Weather!!

Or is the jury still out on this?

Such a devisive issue! Is there Global Weather or not? The arguments rage back and forth and the fall-out is probably as injurious as the actually scuffling.

Prior to mankind's ability to launch men (and the occasional woman) into space, no one had been able to say with any certainty that there was such a thing as Global Weather. But now that we've seen the videos from space, who can deny that our Globe does indeed seem to be encapsulated with Weather!

We'd all been certain that we had weather wherever we happened to be, and took it on faith that when Aunt Esther called from clear across the country to report that it was raining there, that she was telling the truth, and so we had to accept that there was Weather there, too. But the whole, entire, every-bit-of-it Globe? I sincerely believe it was too much for any man to credit.

I don't mind admitting that I hold out this secret hope that scientists will soon stumble upon a remote, hitherto undiscovered locale with no Weather. I wouldn't mind at all going back to a time when all Weather was Local.