Edumacation

Edumacation is Homer-speak. Homer, of Homer Simpson fame. He calls Lisa's saxophone a saxomaphone...

Most of you faithless readers (Hey, I know you're seeing other blogs...) are involved in careers now. Or had careers. Or think about having a career. Or wish someone would give you a career...

As many of you know, I have an exciting career: I paint house numbers on curbs. Hey, it's not brain surgery, and may be fairly low on the career totem pole, but I make a living and it's not something everyone could do. (Although my wife sometimes tells people that she's married to an 'artiste.')

How much of my K thru graduate school edumacation was useful in preparing me for my career? As I predicted to Mr. Ryan, my high school freshman algebra teacher, I have gone my entire adult life without solving a single quadratic equation, or even being asked to look at one. I recognize that algebra is important, but ... (But I have used Trigonometry! Weird, huh? When I got my first car, we solved the financing problem by using a cosine...)

For me to make my living, I have to communicate, including reading and writing and I have to do simple arithmetic. I need discipline, I need to be able to plan my work, and then work my plan. And as with any member of our culture, I have to know how to blend in, so that I don't get "pink monkeyed." (I just found out that there may never have actually been a Pink Monkey experiment! But you get the idea?) I have to stay in tune with our cultural iconography ...

So why do we do it? Why do we condemn our children to put on the 100 year old strait-jacket of the American public school edumacation program? Home-schoolers don't... I don't know much about private schools, but they probably are improvement to public schools.

Could it be that part of the problem lies in 'higher edumacation'? To be accredited as an edumacated person, you have to earn your sheepskin. Meaning that you have to get into one of them there institutions of higher learning... Meaning you have to be able to SAT to their standards, and have a resumé of learning that the admissions committee feels comfortable with. And the raison de etre for all this has been that the best jobs go to the kids who have 'tested well' at the so called elite universities. Because today, given a choice between a prospective employee who just graduated from Harvard and one who just graduated from Cal State Pacoima, any sane employer will chose the Harvard grad, and think he got a real deal, even though he has to pay the Harvard Crimson grad 30% more than he could have gotten the Cal State Pacoima Vato grad.

But after you spend enough time in the Real World, which apparently HR people avoid like the plague, you simply have to admit, that now, finally, this system is more hindrance than help. Because we all know about edumacated doofii, hired by mediocre managers who don't want to be embarrassed by their subordinates, which ends up perpetuating what's wrong with the system. It isn't the edumacation that makes a person successful, it's that he/she learned how to learn.

I bet I'm not the only one who can say that he's getting along just fine on things he had to learn for himself. And who isn't using one bit of the 'knowledge' gained from sitting and looking up for 50 minutes a day at that period's teacher. Learning how to learn ought to be the goal of 'teaching.' Young humans can then find out the things they want to, and need to, know. Who the hell are school district curriculum committees to tell us what we ought to know?

Having to go to school, instead of wanting to go to school, is totally the norm today. While not having an answer to the immediate problem, I do have some fears about America's future if some solutions aren't found. In a study I undertook the third week in January of this year, I was able to determine that 63.7% of high school sophomores in the LA Unified School district will turn 18 and not know how to spell eighteen.

What I'd like to see is admittance to college prep high schools a reward to be earned, and those who don't earn it can apprentice themselves out to labor unions. Especially the farm labor union.

If I'm wrong, tell me where I'm wrong...

In my Version, King Kong lives to a ripe old age.

And he and Frankenstein are great pals and play in the same poker game every other Friday night.

(Which brings up the issue of Dracula... If Dracula bites two people tonight, and it takes a week for each one to become a fully functioning vampire, and then they each bite two people, who each bite two people, while Dracula and the first two new vampires are also biting two people... See where this is going? In 10 weeks the original first two have multiplied to 1,049,576. And the two pairs that are a week behind have laid out another possible 1,049,576. In another 10 weeks the first pair has increased to a whopping 1,073,741,824. There aren't enough humans, really, for this to go on. So logic dictates that it doesn't... Vampires, as they are known to us in literature, cannot logically exist. And if you don't like my conclusion, bite me...)

But back to King Kong. Why was he killed? Heck if I know... I've never seen either movie. Did he get too big for his britches? (bitches?) Was it 'cuz he got a little out of control and squished a few humans? I suspect it's something like that. But how about this: he couldn't buy votes. Think about it...

And he didn't have his own theme song, or line of hip-hop apparel. King Kong was born before Madison Ave. could put him to use.

I like to think that if he showed up today, he would have been a star. His agents would right now be putting out that he, too, might be the father of Anna Nicole's baby girl. K. Kong, as he would be known (K.K. would be totally verboten!) would be living large in Southern California, would have a foundation to help less fortunate primates, and be protected by a the cutest bunch of albino midget body guards you ever did see.

We've got to stop the killing!

Exhilaration! ...An Inquiry.

Okay, I'll grant you that first we should define exhilaration. How about we say it's any thrilling feeling from a source other than sexual?

Which do you think is more important to the creation of natural exhilaration, competency or good luck?

Based on the above, can you plan to be exhilarated? Realistically, I mean...

From experience, I know that you can purchase exhilaration. But after you've put your foot into it a couple of times, the exhilaration factor of your sports car wears off.

And is exhilaration a necessary component to a life well lived?

Does anyone ever teach exhilaration?

When you purchase exhilaration, should you have to leave a deposit?

The Herd of Independent Thinkers

I, along with many brilliant geneticists, theorize that 92% of the human population (we did a poll) are subject to the human genome Fb4c gene sequence, which influences one aspect of sociability, 'getting along.'

92% of humans want to belong. Nay, they NEED to get along, to be part of something they feel is larger than themselves. They need the insulation from harsh reality that they feel 'belonging' gives them. And the impetus comes from gene-level. Not gut level, but gene level. The only thing more primal, more elemental, than gene level is mitochondral level, which is the level men must access to get their mojos.

To validate this finding, I hired an attorney, online, paid him for his conclusion, after giving him my research and a Hallmark card. I was so totally a wreck waiting for him to come to a conclusion! I kept my fingers crossed and a good thought in my head while I waited and it was SUCH a relief when he announced, in writing, over his signature, which was under Penalty of Perjury, under the laws of the State of California, that he agreed with me that most people want to get along. He waffled on actually ratifying the 92% figure, but did not hesitate to go on the record that the figure was "...like, way over half... a BUNCH way more over half, especially the cute chicks!"

Anyway, the fact is that you need to fit in. Look at how you dress, what you drive, the foods you eat, the drinks you pour down your gullet, the language you use, etc.; it all demonstrates that you are part of the 92% majority.

But yet you hold on to one or two silly affectations that allow you to pose as an independent thinker. This is why you, my friend, are part of that vast herd of independent thinkers, totally identical to the rest of the herd, by choice, except for those one or two silly affectations that you think 'set you apart from the herd.' But step back and examine the situation... maybe while you're chewing your cud...

I, surprisingly enough, am in the 8% who don't care about getting along. While my affectations are just as silly, I do NOT need to belong. I'm not kidding, just ask my wife.

Picking the Winners

If you were a wandering space traveler and you had just arrived on the Earth's moon and started observing the goings-on down here, what part of our globe would most catch your attention? What area of the globe is kicking up the most dust? I bet North Korea looks weird at night, virtually completely blacked-out... If the Traveler could decipher the avalanche of electro-magnetic we broadcast, how confusing would that be?!

Would the Traveler see anything that impressed it? Explosions would probably catch its attention. As a species, we produce more explosions than is probably thought to be healthy among intelligent races. Maybe humanity is going through its Terrible Twos?

Would the Traveler be able to find anything worth emulating? Do we have anything to teach another Intelligence? Are we silly enough to get a pass based on how we tickle the funny bone of other Intelligences? Or is our pettiness, our cruelty, the stupidity behind how we treat each other enough to merit a call to Universal Exterminators?

What are the chances that they'd put me and you in some extraterrestrial zoo, where we'd keep the old species going? (Artie, Chris, Pistols... this last question is not directed at you.)

Truth in Titles

For a long time the title of a book I didn't read (but did look at the pictures) never really meant anything to me. The title made sense, but now I've come to know that the title was incomplete.

The book is The Joy Of Sex. The reason it's incomplete is because there did come the time when I finally learned there's a difference between having an orgasm and having sex.

So the rather than just The Joy of Sex, it should have been, Turning The Joy Of Orgasm into the Joy of Sex.

But they can keep the pictures...

Simpleton Economics for Complex Times

I have a household. I don't run it, but I fund it. With my wife's help, I have learned that I have to put more money in the bank than she writes checks for. It's a simple system that doesn't require budgeting. I put money in, she writes checks. If the balance is lower than the total of the checks she's writing, I have to hurry to put more money in. Deadline depositing it's called. We've been making it work!

The United States of America doesn't follow my system. If I could print money, I wouldn't have to follow my system either...

In December the people of these United States collaborated with our various levels of government to send more money overseas than was spend by denizens of other countries here in the United States. A lot of that money is LOANED back to us, and we pay it back, with interest. I haven't taken the trouble to, but surely someone has totaled all those monthly deficits... I bet it's a big, big figure. The yearly deficits were $763.6 billion in 2006, and $716.7 billion in 2005. That's $1.480 Trillion. (You just HAVE to capitalize Trillion!)

I'm too simple a person to know when, if ever, this is going to snap back and bite us (US). Is there anyone defending this balance of trade deficit? Anyone saying, "It's a good thing..."?

What does one man do?

60 is the new 59...

There's this theory about human needs, the Maslow Hierarchy. When first read, the usual reaction is, "Well, duh!"

All Maslow did was list human needs.

1. Oxygen, water, food
2. Shelter, weapons of protection, a place to keep food and water safe
3. Love, affection, belongingness
4. Self-esteem and the esteem, respect of others

5. When all the above are being satisfied, the final need arises: self-actualization, the achievement of what you were born to do. (That is, if there was something you were born to do. I was born to be alive, and because needs 1 through 4 are being met, I am free to be alive being alive.)

There are ever so many people who have 1 through 4 totally knocked, and haven't a clue about how to 'self-actualize.' In a simpler world, bringing in a harvest, or churning butter or taking five hours to do laundry was more than enough self-actualization. Today, fulfilling Maslow's final need is beyond the ability of 73.4% of American citizens over the age of 37.8.

And so too many 38 to 65 year olds think that looking younger than their calendar age is a worth 'achievement.' If getting laid were important (and it is, but not just because you're worth a 'notch' in the old bed post) then looking young would be important.

All I'm saying is that it's time you wrote that blog, song, poem, treatise, novel, script, ransom note, constitution, summons & complaint (or cross-complaint) that's been percolating down inside the lizard portion of your brain.

And if you do, remember to mention me in your dedication.

Bert Bananas features a story ripped, bloody and screaming, from tomorrow's headlines!

Lipo-Replacement Explosive Therapy & Threat Reduction
By Sholmo Shunn-Turtlebaum
RotoReuter
Tel Aviv, Israel

Sources close government sponsored anonymous spokesmen lurking in the the restrooms in the third floor cafeteria of IDF Headquarters in Haifa have confirmed the persistent rumors first heard at the new archeological dig, Go Tel it on the Mountain. With this confirmation we must now confront the question, how will this affect the balance of power among Israel’s enemies?

Details regarding the first use of Lipo-Replacement Explosive Therapy & Threat Reduction (LRETTR) have now been released. They read like a script for a technological thriller.

Mohammed Ali Yusif Al-Yiddi was a 42 year old full time Palestinian terrorist. He’d been Palestinian since birth, and become a terrorist 45 minutes after being enrolled by his doting parents at Honus Al-Wahgnerr Middle School Madrassa, home of the Fighting Wahabi. Their motto was, “The Fighting Wahabi will shiskabob ye.” It sounds better ululated in Arabic… Because in appearance he looked like a 13th Century monk, his nickname was ‘The Friar.”

Mr. Al-Yiddi’s 30 years as a terrorist had taught him survival skills the likes of which ordinary people have no concept. He never slept under the same roof twice in one month. None of his wives knew his real name. To his numerous children he was just the milkman. He would as soon eat pork as use a cell phone.

His caution was legendary; as well it should have been, because you can count on one finger his sole surviving contemporary, whom Al-Yiddi knew only by a code name, “Shabul,” which loosely translated means, ‘he who stirs up the ant-hill while memorizing the big words in the Holy Koran.’ The two terrorists had never met face to face, but had for the past 18 years exchanged messages in the code-plucked eye brows of those who have died to death by expiring for Allah.

On October 23, 2006 Mr. Al-Yiddi began to feel the effects of an-about-to rupture appendix. He happened to be in the small southern Israeli town of Elesdee, on the west coast of Galilee. Because he was traveling with the identity papers of a cooperative Israeli Arab, he checked himself into the local hospital. His malady was quickly diagnosed and the preparations for a quickie appendectomy were begun. Searching the eyes of the doctor who’d examined him and the nurses who attended him, Al-Yiddi saw no duplicity… for there was none to see.

But as soon as he was under anesthetic, a plan long in place was put into effect. Because unbeknownst to Al-Yiddi, the Mossad had been tracking him for over six years. Their agents had been following Al-Yiddi every time he entered Israel, having planted a GPS transmitter in a purple and pink head wrap, two colors irresistible to Al-Yiddi, which had been presented to him by the Mossad’s highest paid informant at that time, Yasser Arafat. (This certainly explains a lot, doesn’t it?)

So two seconds after he went under, the operation theater was invaded by scrubbed and gowned Mossad agents and a Mossad-friendly surgeon. Taking possession of the theater, they hustled the hospital employees out and began their work. The surgeon made a larger than necessary incision at the lower right quadrant of Al-Yiddi’s abdomen. While his thankfully as-yet-unruptured appendix was excised, two fancy looking thermos bottles were carried gingerly to the operating table. After the appendix was removed, the surgeon turned her attention to lipo-suctioning a large area surrounding Al-Yiddi’s belly button. The ‘spare-tyre’ accumulated by years of practicing all year long for Ramadan was removed, 13 pounds of human suet.

After the fat was out of ‘the Friar,’ a sterile cat gut ‘ladder,’ designed to hold the plastic explosive in place, so it wouldn’t pool at the bottom of the pelvic girdle, was put in place. Then one at a time, the six pounds of plastic explosive in each thermos-like container, formulated not as the clay-like substance made familiar by cinematic endeavors, but rather as a mimic for human fat, was injected into his abdomen. Finally, a microscopic receiver and detonator were anchored to the interior remnant of his umbilical chord. Then he was sewn up and sent to post-op. The Mossad team left the hospital, singly; anyone watching the hospital would not have noticed anything unusual.

36 hours later Al-Yiddi checked himself out of the hospital. Clapping on his headgear, he dressed and walked out of the hospital.. Beckoning a cab, with an Arab driver, he asked to be driven to the local bus station. At the bus station he bought a ticket to Jerusalem. He was in Jerusalem that night.

The following morning, under surveillance by no less than three part-time Mossad agents, he was seen entering a dry cleaners in the Chinese section of Jerusalem. Four minutes later a car pulled up and three Arab gentlemen exited, two older and one younger. The younger man carried a large briefcase.

Seated across the street at an outdoor café, the lead Mossad agent muttered into his beard while hunched over his bowl of sugar toasted minnie-motzas. He was asked to repeat his message. He did. The response was terse: “You have 30 seconds to get as far away as you can!” Throwing down money for his breakfast, plus a 5% tip, the agent scuttled away.

30 seconds later an immense explosion tore apart the dry cleaners. Al-Yiddi, two senior Al-Qaeda leaders and the President of Young Al-Qaedas for Allah, were killed. Plans they had been working on were never to be accomplished. Tens, hundreds, perhaps even thousands of lives had been saved.

Bert Banana, ...Icon...

I live in a semi-rural area. There are four little towns clustered around an interstate, surrounded by the Mojave desert. My little town is furthest from the interstate. We're almost...almost... semi-bucolic. Quasi-bucolic, maybe.

But we do have a Wal*Mart. It's across Hwy 18, and down the block from the City Hall. The post office is about five miles further east on Hwy 18. Much too far to walk. And the closest emergency room is about five miles west on Hwy 18. So we have a local bus system. And naturally, Wal*Mart is a stop on the bus line...

So I was at Wal*Mart, and in a fit of secular enthusiasm, I parked as far from the front door as I could. Which put me right next to the bus stop.

When I returned to my car, it was dark. I was loading dog food and sparkling water into my vehicle... I glanced up and made eye contact with a woman on a bus that was in the process of loading. She looked to be 'ethnic,' in her 30s, with a young boy seated next to her. The eye contact, for me, didn't last long... due to my shyness. But I could see that she kept watching me.

So there I am, with my share of problems..., wishing, hoping, conniving, trying to overcome the obstacles I think are present in my life. And it hit me, that the woman on the bus was looking at me and day-dreaming that I was the man in her life, with a car and a job, clean looking, no tattoos, short hair, kind of cute... I could just picture her day-dreaming about me, just like I've day-dreamed about guys who were passing me on the freeway in hot, hot cars, with $2,000/day escorts... Female escorts...

So I felt, for the moment, pretty good. She had me on a sort of pedestal, and it kind of felt pleasant.

And then I got in my vehicle and drove home, making sure that while I was her view, I didn't do anything to spoil her revere.

I wonder if she'll stalk me?

A Passing Notion...

What if we all stopped being 'political'? What if 90% of Americans stopped talking about their politics and simply 'lived' their politics?

By myself I am just a citizen. Like any citizen, I can walk into any Starbucks and buy a macho venti femmi-latte expresso vermouthie... if I have $16. Meaning, of course, that money talks. It's the $16 that counted, not my status.

Here's another thing... remember the last time you were running late, driving on the freeway at 11:30 p.m. on a Wednesday night? The posted speed limit was 65, but you were going 80, and you weren't even the fastest car on the freeway. Even the big rigs were going over the speed limit. 'We, the People,' had, at that moment, decided that 65 miles per hour was NOT the law. Democracy in action. Apologists for the Constitution might say it was anarchy in action, but they wouldn't have, if they were running as late as you were...

Getting 'We, the People' to use their power as 'We, the People' (or 'Us, the People' in the South and Mid-West) would have to start small.

What's the smallest, most innocuous thing 90% of us would agree on, and actually carry out that would piss off both political parties ? And you guys remember, it has to be something women would actually go for, sober...

Two Cars passing in the night...

I blew by this blast from the past at about 80 mph. I decided I wanted a photo. I had to slow down to 55 mph and wait a couple of minutes for him to catch up. And then the dude in the passenger seat looked all big and muscley, with a lot of tattoos, so I didn't want to possibly antagonize them, so instead of getting the side shot that I'd wanted, I got this one from the rear.

Iconoclasts that these guys must be, it's doubtful that they'll ever find out about this photo. Unless one of you has an in with the CA DMV and does a run on the plate. And if you do, let me know!!

A True Story, but that still doesn't make it interesting...

A 10 year old boy, sitting in the celebrity hypnotist's audience, raised his hand when the call went out for volunteers. He was among those chosen.

The volunteers were dutifully "hypnotized" and the first "trick" played on them was to be told that they were seated in a theater, watching a Mickey Mouse cartoon. They were told it was hilarious and they all dutifully laughed. Then they were told that Minne Mouse had been hit by a car; how sad!! They all cried.

Then there were individual "tricks." One comely young lady was told to become stiff as a board. Her head was placed on one chair and her heels on another chair. The hypnotist then put a towel over her midriff and stood on her. Applause, applause, applause.

When it was the 10 year old's turn, he was brought to the front of the stage. He was 'put under' again and told to put his right index finger on the tip of this nose. He was instructed that under no condition was he to remove the finger from his nose. He was then told to "awaken." The hypnotist then started an innocuous conversation with the youth. After a couple of questions, the hypnotist asked the boy why he had his finger on his nose. The boy answered, "I don't know." The hypnotist suggested that the boy remove the finger. The boy did so.

As one, the members of the audience rose and cheered! They then stormed the stage; two husky men tried to lift the boy onto their shoulders. But the boy, obviously in tune with the massively heterosexual future that awaited him, destained the husky men and chose instead to mount (the shoulders of) a terrifically zaftig mafia moll. (This all took place in Las Vegas, at the old Thunderbird Hotel.) The young boy was paraded about the room, all to the immense discomfort of the celebrity hypnotist. But all the boy remembers after that is looking down from his mount and seeing her belly button, framed by the lacy-ness of a brassiere under the kind of gravity load that makes men believe in God. (Which the boy never did, but he could always understand the temptation to do so.)

So there ya go.

Most of the events of this story are indeed true. To this day, the boy has never been hypnotized and zaftig women still appeal to him.