Saturday, September 30, 2006

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.

Friday, September 29, 2006

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...)

Thursday, September 28, 2006

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?

Sunday, September 24, 2006

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.)

Monday, September 18, 2006

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.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

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?

Friday, September 15, 2006

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?

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

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.

Monday, September 11, 2006

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?

Thursday, September 07, 2006

It's Never Been Easier to be Human

Or, Nobody's Perfect . . .

I submit two items, one earth-shattering and the other run of the mill, as proof that the longer we live, the human-er we get.

First the mundane item: a polling organization lied. DataUSA, whose clients included politicians from both sides of the aisle, contracted with clients to gather data. A staffer has now admitted in court that they often fudged the data, mostly when they were running out of time to complete a poll. They would either lie about the age/gender/ethnicity of people polled, or just out and out make up poll survey responses. Shocking, no? It reminded me of a government job I had back before you were born. I worked as a compaction tester, reviewing the progress of work on an interstate highway. We were supposed to test the compaction of the roadbed, with tests conducted every quarter mile. You did the test and then you filed out a form with the results. Sounds just like doing a poll, doesn't it? I was taught by my co-workers how to just fill in the blanks for a day's test runs and play poker all day. All my experience in life has shown me since then that given the chance, 99% of humans will, given the chance, avoid work if there's a way to make it look like the work was done. Some to tiny degrees, others to rampant fraud. It's just our way of being Charles in Charge.

The Earth-Shattering item: My local McDonalds has raised the price of a Bacon, Egg & Cheese Biscuit from $1.99 to $2.29. Final cost went from $2.20 to $2.47. That's 27¢ a unit! I asked an attendent if at that same time, the employees had gotten a raise. They didn't. See, this is where communists come from. The rich get richer, the lot of the poor doesn't improve and so resentment builds and eventually becomes revolution. Except in supposed free-market economies, where we all play the 'Capitalist Lottery' hoping to be the next Bill Gates. And remember, you can't win if you don't play!

Sunday, September 03, 2006

My Poker Virginity went up in Flames

Or, I went all in for $77 and lost.

I was invited to play in a Texas Hold'em tournament. I've watched Texas Hold'em on TV because it's unscripted. They have to bleep the players when then let loose with F-bombs and BS grenades. Like anything involving humans and rules, there is fun to be had.

It was no big deal. It was just a $20 buy in. This guy set up two tables, put out some coolers and ice, a few snacks and that was it. There were 18 people invited, so there was $360 up for grabs, with the top three spliting them money 70-20-10. When I went out it left 5 players. I only lasted that long because I played ultra-conservatively. I had $77 in chips in front of me when I called the chip leader's 'all in' bet because I was certain he was bluffing. He wasn 't.

I probably won't ever play Texas Hold'em again. As a waste of time, not to mention money, it can't hold a candle to golf. Plus, there were smokers there. I reeked of smoke when I got home. I understand the addictive power of nicotine. So I know you just can't quit, even though anyone with the ability to reason knows smoking sucks. I've never smoked marijuana, but if people are going to be allowed to puff noxious chemicals into their lungs, marijuana is probably a better choice.

While on the topic of vices, mine is vanilla ice cream and Hershey's chocolate sauce. Oh yeah, and golf...