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?

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!

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...

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.

Laztheism

Frictionless in Gaza...

I revealed the existence of Laztheism in a comment on another blog. I shouldn't have, as Laztheists are not supposed to reveal Laztheism or themselves as Laztheists. The whole point is never to take action! But with the cat out of the bag, I need to make sure the record is straight. So here's the inside story on this remarkable way of life.

Laztheists are non-believers in god, who are too lazy to look for or need explanations about why the universe exists and what part Humanity plays in the Big Picture. It's enough that Laztheists are alive; explanations may be nice, but they are not necessary. After 180,000 years of existence, humanity is what it is. Whether we are doomed or will be Saved, my next meal is still of more importance.

Laztheists never get into religious discussions. Whether or not Laztheists believe in god is irrelevant. What really defines Laztheists is we don't go to church.

If you have to open your big yap and talk about your feelings about god, religion and worship, we just maintain eye contact and nod a lot. Laztheists always take the easy way out when it comes to religion, we have no beliefs, no preferences and no desires. The only need we feel when it comes to religion is to be left alone.

Applied Laztheism is very, very restful and soothing.

Michelle Wie and the Man in the Iron Mask

Tiger Woods marries a pretty girl from the Swedish National Bikini Team and everyone congratulates hm. "Well done," we men all say, drooling over the vision of her serving him a tall Swedish lager. (What do Swedes drink for fun?)

But who will marry Michelle Wie? She could marry a bimbo boy, but the odds are sheMawon't. That way lies madness. If she falls for simple cute, what does she do when a cuter boy toy comes along up? Maybe she'll collect them? But this is not a hobby for the ages.

Nope, if she is sane, she will marry a man of substance. But whom, among we men of substance, will have the moxie to marry her? And don't kid yourself, she'll have to marry a golfer. At least for the second marriage. Just ask Andre Agassi or Bruce Springsteen. They married for looks and then wound up with second wives who were in their respective industries. Andre couldn't make it with Brook Shields and Bruce couldn't make with the tasty morsel he first married.

But good golfers are competitive. No sane male golfer will marry a woman who gives him three a side and still beats him like a Buddhist gong at Christmas.

So who can she marry? Let me think about it and I'll get back to you. If you have any thoughts on the subject, feel free to chime in.

A Freebie for Tinseltown

Coming soon to a screen near you!

Although many may not think it rivals the creation of "Up Cheek Creek" this invention of mine should inspire at least something more than tepid laughter. At least if it's done right. I wouldn't want Tarantino or Oliver Stone trying to transfer this to film. This works best as a flash-back, because otherwise it's too fearsome because you'd wonder if the kids will survive their childhood.

Scene: a middle class neighborhood in the mid west. We can see it's well into autumn; the trees are bare and there are low clouds in the background. It looks cold. The camera moves in on one home, very ordinary looking. As the camera gets closer and closer, a family walks past the house, the kids dressed in Halloween costumes, so we know it's late afternoon on Halloween.

A mini-van veers into the driveway, off the driveway and then back on, coming to rest somewhat askew. The driver gets out. He's a late-30s everyman. He's drunk, he's staggering drunk and we see him wrestling with a grocery bag.

The scene switches and we're looking over the shoulder of a harried housewife as she's looking out the kitchen window of that house, and we see the man, who is close to her age, so we'll assume they are husband and wife, wrestling with the grocery bag and staggering towards the house.

She's joined in the kitchen by three little boys, ages 7, 5 & 3. They are halfway ready for Halloween, sharing among them an assortment of incomplete costumes, too small for the oldest boy and hanging on the three year old. Their chatter is interrupted by their father barging in the back door.

Now from this point on I'll let the script doctors and the director add their personal touches. The event that unfolds is the father announcing, in a drunken slur, that he's brought home pumpkins for the boys to carve. Even the long-suffering wife is cheered by this unexpected twist. But then he tips over the bag and cantelopes come rolling out.

The pathos is gasp-sharp, but not as sharp as the humor, as the father, somewhat aware that he's screwed up yet again, tries to convince the kids that canteloupes are just as good to carve as pumpkins. As we leave the scene the drunken father is waving a big carving knife around, canteloupe guts are starting to fly and he is handing a deadly looking steak knife to the three year old.

I see Eddie Murphy or even Bill Murray. Isn't it weird that Harrison Ford couldn't pull this off? Those of you old enough to remember a young Peter O'toole will know that he would have done it marvelously.

And I'm not even Gay!

Many sayings enter the language having been born as mistakes. I would now like to purposely introduce a new saying, which I accidentally made up, but very much want to see become a part of the language. It satisfies a need to say the right thing while at the same time, satisfying a need to avoid saying the wrong thing!

It would be impolite to use the phrase, "Up shit creek" in many social situations. But having now introduced my NEW phrase into the lexicon, we can get past this cultural bar.

"Up cheek creek"

Yep, I invented this phrase. In and of itself, it offers no harm. Substituting "cheek" for "shit" takes all the anti-social invective out of it. A Cardinal could whisper this to the Pope and not worry about his Holiness taking offense. "Oy vey, we're up cheek creek now, your Holiness!"

And then there is the very useful implied meaning of "Up cheek creek." Where does shit come from? From between your ass cheeks, of course! So "up cheek creek" implies an anatomically correct "up shit creek!" So my newly minted phrase, "Up Cheek Creek" can spin off and become an anthem for the gay community! As in, "We go up cheek creek."

Oh, Please, no need to thank me... Well, if you must, in lieu of flowers, I'd rather you donate to your local library in my name. Thank you.

The Roleux Watch

If you have one eye more astute than the other, you may have noticed that "Roleux" is not how Rolex is really spelled. But if you're standing next to the entrance to a dark alley, next to a guy who is furtively looking in both directions down the street you've been walking along in sunny Caracas, Venezuela, you might not have the presence of mind to make this fine distinction.

Add to the mental overload the fact that the gentleman speaking fractured English to you is breathlessly offering to sell you what he declares is a genuine "Roleux" watch (and it is!!!) and you can understand -- and perhaps even forgive -- my former father-in-law's collapse of good sense. This was quite a few years ago, but he should have figured it out that even under the calamity the gentleman said was forcing the sale, that $30 was way too good to be true.

I was presented with the watch as a sort of 'welcome to the family' gift. Obviously it was a harbinger of things to come. The only other thing I remember from this lost in space episode is that this former father-in-law loved baseball and had his heart set on making professional baseball a life time career. But then WWII, Flying Fortresses, a stint in a German POW camp and then marriage put the kibosh on those plans. He'd lump WWII in with the circumstances that kiboshed his deal, but I know it was just marriage. He didn't marry a woman who would have put up with the economic misery of minor league baseball back in the late 40s and early 50s. She wanted the "American Dream." So he went to work for an oil company and got it for her. What a bitch my former mother-in-law was. And yet I grew up to be just like her, vain, prissy, and prone to fainting when I don't get my way.

I don't recall what ever happened to the "Roleux" watch. It pretty much kept time, so it wasn't a complete waste of $30.

Waiting on pins & needles

I get to play golf every Wednesday. Usually we play early in the morning. It's the same bunch of guys and it's been going on for years. But today we're playing at 1:30 p.m. It's 11:00 a.m. right now and I'm having a hard time focusing at work. Of course I ALWAYS have a hard time focusing at work. What did people do before Drudge and Comics.com, etc.? But I never play games on the computer at work. NEVER! Sometimes I do on my PDA, I'll tilt back and play a quick game of Bejeweled, but just to calm down after some strenuous typing or phone-calling. You know, to take the edge off.

But all morning I've been wondering about the heat, how I'll play, if I'll have to wear a glove (Me and Freddie Couples, we don't need no stinkin' gloves!), how many guys will show up, whose team I'll be on, etc., etc. Basically, nothing about me or my life has changed since I was first allowed (encouraged!) to play outside all day. At age two...

Golf is such a polite game. Probably because of the horror we all face in playing it. The degradation that takes place, as one's personality crumbles and the tears of anguish begin to flow and you ask God, "Why me?" So we feel sorry for each other and in defference to how humbling it is, we smile and say things like, "No, I believe I'm away..." and "oh, great shot!" and "rats, another two inches and you would have had a great shot..." and as your fellow competitor's ball sails out of bounds, "I thnk the wind took it..." Naturally you expect the same courtesies when you're in need of some face-saving commentary.

Show me a person who hates golf and I'll show you a person with issues about his/her life. You can be neutral about golf, but if you take the time to hate it, you have a serious problem. I mean besides abject cowardice.

Religion is the Opera of the Masses

Singing a Song for the Ages

Humans are natural joiners. We herd. "Girl, I herd that!"

I believe that as part of our evolution, we turned inter-personal grooming into religious devotion. Which is why women are more in tune with the fine points of religion.

Before we could 'think' or 'reason' we sat around plucking fleas from off each other's backs. Once we found the power to reason, we began plucking dieties to put onto our backs. All that reasoning ability had to go some where. Read up on all the creation myths that exist. Just because we could reason doesn't mean that any of us got it right. I remain partial to the Navajo version, with the earth riding on the back of a turtle. And there are even wilder myths out there! Can you say L. Ron Hubbard, or El Rubbard?

Religion will be the death of the human race. Someone needs to find a cure for it. But I don't think Pres. Bush is likely to fund any research on a cure for religion.

Muslimites of the world, UNITE!

Are they really out to get you?

Yes.

Did you know that there are Muslims who tell the fanatics, "Hey, some of my best friends are infidels!" But then they back down and end up agreeing that the world would be a better place without us infidels. And it's part of their religion to think this way...

Jesus never said anything about killing for Him or for the His religion. We Christians came up with killing for Him on our own, throwing opposing knights in full armor into a lake and calling it their baptism and final rites all rolled up into one ceremony.

Islam has wiping out the infidel as a fundamental building block of the religion. Jihad. Those who reject the Truth deserve, and will be given, death. And dying while engaged in Jihad insures the faithful Muslimite of Salvation and never having to suffer blue balls ever again.

They aren't going to give up. You won't be able to reason with them. That's what being a fanatic is all about. So you better start thinking about being a fanatic when it comes to staying alive. Do something tomorrow about that particular goal, like buying another box of ammo or a 50 pound bag of pinto beans. Think of your future!!

My Friend was working a broad...

Another Excersice in silliness

To tell you the truth, I did have a cousin who worked a couple of broads. He'd drive them to Vegas on holiday weekends and he'd rent a room, but never use it. He'd sit and play poker, before poker was a televised sport, all day and night, and when he got too sleepy he'd go sleep in the car. Then the weekend would be over and he and his ladies would drive back to LA. He died in his late 20s in an auto accident. I can only imagine the mischief I missed getting into with him, although I don't mind admitting that he never was able to talk me into smoking weed. For awhile he was married to a girl who stood over 6 feet tall. They had a kid, who'd be an adult now!, and that kind was over 6 feet when he was 12. So he's probably the tallest person in the world with my surname. One tall Banana...

All about Nothing

A tour of where I go when I have no place to go...

Putting one foot in front of the other, or on the gas and then the brake, I go through life never getting very far from where I started.

There are tables you can consult in old books and your nearest major library that show, conclusively, that in the 13th Century the serfs of Western Europe, or at least 94% of them, never traveled farther than a day's journey from the spot they were born. And a day's travel, 800 years ago, amounted to perhaps six to ten miles, if the weather was agreeable.

So in the past 20 years I have traveled back in time 800 years. In the sense that I haven't been farther than a day's travel from my bedroom. And like my Serfing Safari compatriots must have felt, it doesn't bother me. After all, no matter how far I go, I'm still there, at the center of the universe. As far as the eye can see, no matter where I am, the universe continues to revolve, sedately, around me.

I don't get, nor do I miss, Frequent Flyer miles.

Driving Miss Dizzy

All I want for Christmas is a Tank of Gas

I'm old enough to remember gassing up for 19.9 cents a gallon. This is a terrible memory to retain, as it only adds to the pain.

I gassed up on Saturday and drove to Garden Grove. I ended up going right by Disneyland. Then Monday I drove to Newport Beach and Laguna Beach. All on the same tank of gas. That's a lot of mileage and I credit the seeming increase in mileage endurance to moderating my driving. I only went over 80 mph a couple of times. I mostly kept the cruise control pegged at 70 mph. I'm sure I made the Auto Club proud of me.

Gas costs are artificially high. Speculators drive up the price of gas, and at a time when production is as high as it's ever been. In the US, inventories are the highest they've ever been. So in a time when production is not only uninterrupted, but setting records, the price goes up only because some people with money WANT world events to send the price of a barrel of oil to over the magical $100 a barrel target so that the gas they've just paid for can be resold for a huge profit. I wonder if speculators and profiteers reveal themselves in childhood?

Division of Labor

Where do you fit in?

Culturally we are creating a three-way divsion, in terms of what role you have to fill in life:

1. Talent

2. Behind-the-Camera / Craft Services

3. Audience

99.99% of us start our lives as Audience. And for the most part, the huge majority of us are content to be audience. After all, the other two groups only exist to cater to us.

I have no experiece as Talent. I can build a case for feeling sorry for talent, but Talent could care less, I think.

If you're in the number two group, which basically can be called talent-support, I'm glad you've found something to do besides just sit and watch.

A Wildfire as Al Gorey

Global Cooling Heats Up!


Many parts of Southern California cooled off during the current heatwave because two huge wildfires produced so much smoke that the sun was hidden and temperatures (away from the fires) plummeted.

The situation in the Middle East, heating up as it is, offers more hope for cooling, should things really get out of control. Nuclear holocaust, while involving short term upward temperature spikes, are followed by dust-in-the-atmosphere cool downs. There is speculation that the cool down follows geometric progression, rather than simple arithmetic projection, based on an increasing number of detonations.

Now would be a good time to finish buying that list of "Must Have" songs from the iTunes store. That and a nice parka, one that sets your eyes off.

Degrees of Irony

π hit in the face by a man!

I am not adept at irony. I like irony on the menu, but overpriced.

Here's an example of what is acceptable as irony in my world: The Story of the Christian Whore.

Back in 1991, while traveling through the Florida panhandle, working on creating a Cracker alphabet, I was talking to a Deputy Sheriff in a small town. I was gassing up and he'd pulled up behind my cheerfully decorated van. I hadn't decorated it; it had come that way, handed down to me by my Uncle Ricardo in a fit of gallows humor, but that's an entirely different story.

The Deputy, whom I figured wasn't there to gas up, came right to the point, after coming up and invading my personal space. "You in town for long, or are you smart enough to see that your kind ain't welcome here?"

Slipping into my well practiced Scottish brogue, I replied, but only after inhaling sharply and making a face. "Aye, laddie, I'll be making for the road just as fast as the good lard lets me. I ken that this no be a spot on which I should tarry."

Much to my surprise, not to mention my delight, the Deputy laughed. "Ha ha," he chortled. "Yer all right, son! Hey, on yer way out, stop here and worship." With this cryptic remark he fished into a breast pocket on his crisp uniform jacket and handed me a business card.

SISTER SATISFIED
CHRISTIAN CHARITY
AT YOUR SERVICE
211 Hoffman Ave.
Crackerbarrell, FL
Turn North at the Water Tower

Without thinking I asked, "What's this?" in my normal voice.

"About 25% of our local economy. Go try it out." Pointing along the street he continued, "Head on up three blocks and turn right. Have a good day." And with that he whirled and got back in his patrol car. He didn't give me another look as he backed out and regained the street.

(to be continued when the boss goes to lunch...)

After concluding my business with the gas pump, I followed the Deputy's directions and soon found myself in front of one of those barn-like churches, it was a big building, with a steeple and two steps up to the main entrance. The only sign was over the door: "Christian Charity"

I pushed through the front door and found myself in what for all the world looked like a doctor's waiting room. It was a small room, with only a sofa and two folding chairs. There was a door at the far wall, with a window in the wall next to to it. I heard footsteps behind the door and so when it opened I was standing there, waiting.

"Hi, I'm Sister Satisfied! What your name?" She looked to be in her mid to late 20s. She was pretty in a farm-girl sort of way, very healthy looking. I mumbled something about the gas station, the Deputy and fumbling, handed her the business card.

From that point on details grow hazy. But to bring this to moral tale to a close, I'll explain that Sis. Satisfied was a whore. A Christian whore. She and her fellow Sister Satisfieds, (Sister Christian having been trademarked by Night Ranger) charged money for holy acts of sexual gratification that did not involve intercourse, vaginal or anal. They were all virgins or church-married. And my particular Sis. Satisfied was certainly adept at giving pleasure without endangering either herself or my eternal soul.

So there you have it. Christian Whores, devoted to God but addicted to mammon. I left satisfied and she remained unsullied. I am VERY surprised that there isn't a nationwide chain of Christian Charity.

88 bloggles of beer . . .

According to a guy who acts like he knows that the organization he quotes ought to know, there are over 88 million websites as of 7-01-06. Probably 86 million are blogs. And 32% of those blog sites belong to that guy Justin...

So now I have a purpose in life. I'm going to write down the names of each URL. I bought a pack of yellow, lined, legal pads at Costco. Not your standard, wimpy 8½ x 11, uh-uh. I got the humungo 8½ x 14. You should always make sure you get the right tools for the job you're doing. Plus I'll write small.

And please, don't bother to offer to help. And don't send me your URL hoping to get an early listing. I'm going to be fair about this and just list them as I encounter them. The chips will fall where they may, I'll take'm as I find'em and devil take the hindmost.

There IS such a thing as a free lunch!

Meet me at Costco...

It worked so well yesterday that I went back today. To Costco... Yesterday I ate lunch there, for free. See, they apparently not only allow, but encourage food firms to offer free samples! Oh, of course there is no such thing as a free lunch... someone is paying for it, just that this time it's not me. Yesterday, Saturday, I piggied out on bite size tidbits of turkey breast and chips & salsa and fruit bits and some kind of vegetable soup. I had a cart and I had some things in it and I pushed it around and around, in this loop, grabbing the free samples as I looped by each station.

Today it was bratwurst, cherries, some kind of hearts of palm dip on crackers and these great Tyson Teriyaki chicked breast slices that are pre-grilled. They were so good I good a bag of them! But I don't think that actually takes the shine of the free lunch thing.

I'm thinking that if my wife ever kicks me out, I can live okay just eating at Costco. And the price will be about all I'd be able to afford, what with the alimony, an' stuff...

Love

Love in the time of collar... uh...

First, know that love is a crutch, used by people who aren't viewed as "superior." Cruel, huh?

Superior types don't have to bother with love. They get the kind of action that we 'inferiors" only dream about. We have to find a matching inferior and babble on about love and devotion and we were made for each other. Babble babble...

That's all. Just wanted to point out that love is a tool used by those of us who are impaired by our inferiority. Nature would rather we didn't reproduce, but we out-foxed Nature. Good for us.

Morality

Musings on a Recent Invention

What's your best guess on how long morality has existed? My guess is 5,279 years. If I'm right, what existed before then?

What existed before the invention of morality is exactly what exists now, but we are increasingly able to talk about it in ever larger groups.

Basically speaking, you, sitting there in your tank top, cut-0ffs and flip-flops, are physically capable of doing each and every "immoral" act your culture taught you not to do. All 'morality' is is the concept that you shouldn't do "it," no matter how easy "it" is to do. But then all of us do one, two or a large number of 'immoral' things. Why? Because it's what the human race has evolved to do, lo these roughly 180,000 years since Lucy Leakey lived. We're bred to do all these immoral acts, and we're trying to say that simply by thinking 'pure' thoughts, we won't do them. Which, or course, is why prostitution, gambling and illegal drugs would be wonderful investments if they were traded on the NY Stock Exchange. Oh, wait, they are! You can buy stock in Nevada casinos!!

The Summer of my Dis Content

Words as Toys!

Besides being weapons of mass destruction, instruments of healing and conveyors of truth and beauty, words can also be a lot of fun to play with.

Ever felt you were dissed? "I've been dissed!" My parents would have had no idea what this meant. If you have a rough summer, being a dissed a lot, if you keep track of it all, you will be able to one day look back at that Summer of Dis Content.

Go ahead, let the soft bubbling laughter flow...

I'm very adept at playing with words. I've made people laugh in more than just a few decades. I'm a lucky guy. If you watch the Discovery Channels enough, you'll agree with me. I've never once HAD to kill in order to eat.

How do you pronounce Quixotic? And have you ever seen it spelled quijotic? Just wondering...

Global Warming

Boobs can be global in shape, but that's not what this is about.

Global warming. Caused by carbon dioxide. Plants "breathe" in carbon dioxide and exhale oxygen. Animals breathe in oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide. Nice equation, great synergy.

There are studies that suggest that if this apparently very synergistic equation gets out of whack, bad things happen. If there were a build up of oxygen, things would catch fire too easily. Which would heat things up. If there is a carbon dioxide built up, things won't catch fire, but the world still heats up.

There is a vocal minority currently engaged in screaming warnings about global warming due to a carbon dioxide build up. They are exhaling carbon dioxide at an accelerated rate. Have you noticed any one of them traveling by bicycle or sail boat? Me, either.

Let's say that global warming exists and that humanity is causing it: "Global warming exists! And humanity is causing it!!!!" All humanity has to do to correct the problem is stop breathing. It's a foolproof plan. I would very much like the global warming chicken littles to adopt this plan and put it into action.

The more reflective among you will have long ago figured out that humanity is not going to change. For every enlightened Hollywood celebrity who buys an electric car, there are 200,000 Chinese and Indian sub-continent dwellers buying motor bikes, motorcycles, vans, trucks and cars. The rate at which Humanity is turning oxygen into carbon dioxide is going to continue to rise, as the population rises and the standard of living rises amongst those population most adept at procreation.

In other words, forget solving global warming and learn how to make a buck dealing with its inevitability.

I Care...

No I don't...

The essential opening scene of the animated feature, Antz, starring the voice and personality of Woody Allen, has Woody's ant, Z, on his psychiatrist's couch, doing a wonderful send-up of the basicl neurotic Woody Allen personality. He's kevetching up a storm and final concludes that amongst the millions and millions of workers in the nest, he feels insignificant.

The psychiatrist interrupts to congratulate him on his break-through! Woody does an animated double take... Break-through? he asks.

"Yes," says the psychiatrist, "because you've grasped the essence of your existence, you ARE insignificant!"

Naturally the rest of the very entertaining movie is Woody being significant.

Which all of us think we're doing too, being significant. That's what Popular Culture is all about, making you think you're significant. Get a tattoo, get a piercing, smoke something exotic, drive something that doesn't look like all the other wheeled vehicles on the streets... On and on it goes. Labeled clothes, perfumes, jewelry, hair styles, vocal styles, physical affectations...

But in the end you only really matter to yourself and, if you're lucky, one other person who isn't your mother. And if you do it right, it's enough.

BOO WHO!

Don't Cry for me, Rigatonni...

All of us have people we don't like. And events we don't like. Even non-events can sometimes upset us, like when I think I'm getting sex, but I don't.

My point being that probably no one with an adult mentality, alive today, doesn't know the churning, bothersome emotion of 'dislike.' And people let it escalate all the way to hatred. Hatred isn't something I can really comment on because I'm not capable of the kind of sustained effort necessary to maintain hatred. Hatred is very hard work and I avoid hard work at all costs.

So who do you dislike? Yeah, I hate her, too. But what're ya going do; there are so many idiots who think her poop don't smell. Luckily you and I know different.

Have you noticed that the easiest people to dislike are the ones who think they know what's best for you? I noticed that a long time ago. It could possibly be one of the defining moments of our humanity, when you, as a child, realize your parents, in fact pretty much all the adults with power over you, are full of crap when it comes to preparing you to become one of them.

Becoming an enlightened adult is hard because the possibilities for loneliness are increased with each step of enlightenment. And there's no prize for acheiving it; the only satisfaction is what you yourself get to feel. Anyone else who acheives that enlightenment knows that there's no point to discussing; it's wasted effort because either you know about it or you'll never know about.

Boo who? Boo whom? Whomever deserves it.

The Worm Turnth

Or how a game show was lost

Statistics prove nothing. Swords and guns prove things. Statistics may show trends, bullets show results.

I mention this because Iraq, as a cup, overfloweth. You know what we're REALLY accomplishing in Iraq? Experience. We've elevated squad after platoon after brigade after regiment after division to new heights of artisanship in maiming and killing! We must be the envy of all the other armies who have to be satisfied with pretending to kill an enemy. American armed forces are doing the real thing, daily.

Mark my words, we're going to rely on this quality killing ability sometime in the future. We don't have to worry about the rule of 'use it or lose it." Our boys, and girls, are definitely 'using it' and I for one sleep better nights knowing that anyone desirous of my death solely because of my nationality can't be as hopeful about accomplishing it because of our magnificent standing army. And Navy, Air Force & Marines. Oh, yeah, the Coast Guard, too. HooYah!

We Revisit Katie Couric

Has she really paid for herself?

Here's a quote from Katie's boss, Les Moonvies: "Katie probably paid for herself in the first week of our upfront ... (sales to advertisers). We brought in about $15 million more for the Early Evening News (sic) in the first week. ... She will be one of the best bargains. I've already made my money back. There aren't too many Katies."

But how can that be? How can CBS sell more ad time for one show? They only have X number of ad minutes. And they've always sold those. The only way this can be true is if the price being paid is being jacked up and advertisers are paying a total of $15 million MORE than was being paid before. That would work out to about $2 million more a minute, assuming 7 ad minutes per 30 minute block.

Which does return me to my original point: Who is really paying for Katie?

Regrets? I've had my share . . .

Nobody Gets a Free Pass

You know how you're sitting there, avoiding work, and suddenly you're day dreaming? Well, I can't share the day dreams, but I can tell you about a secondary thought that came in on the heels of a day dream. The secondary thought was, "...what would you do if you had a fatal illness and were told you only had a short time left to live?"

One response clings to me: So what? No matter how old you are, you don't really know how long you're going to be alive. Just because some doctor says "you won't see Christmas" doesn't mean you know exactly when you're going to die.

But I digress... One thing about being told you're about to die is that people will walk up to you and express sympathy. If you give them a chance, they'll sure ask, "With your death eminment, do you have any regrets?"

But heck! Who doesn't have regrets? See? There is no one who isn't harboring a regret or two. No matter how great you think you have it, you have regrets.

So anyway, go easy on the sympathy. Weak people, people with no ambition, maybe they need it. But you probably don't do well with sympathy. Give me a laugh anytime. Even when I'm dying.

Regrets? I've had my share . . .

Nobody Gets a Free Pass

You know how you're sitting there, avoiding work, and suddenly you're day dreaming? Well, I can't share the day dreams, but I can tell you about a secondary thought that came in on the heels of a day dream. The secondary thought was, "...what would you do if you had a fatal illness and were told you only had a short time left to live?"

One response clings to me: So what? No matter how old you are, you don't really know how long you're going to be alive. Just because some doctor says "you won't see Christmas" doesn't mean you know exactly when you're going to die.

But I digress... One thing about being told you're about to die is that people will walk up to you and express sympathy. If you give them a chance, they'll sure ask, "With your death eminment, do you have any regrets?"

But heck! Who doesn't have regrets? See? There is no one who isn't harboring a regret or two. No matter how great you think you have it, you have regrets.

So anyway, go easy on the sympathy. Weak people, people with no ambition, maybe they need it. But you probably don't do well with sympathy. Give me a laugh anytime. Even when I'm dying.

Surprise me!

An actual conversation:

The office manager took off early to go to the 'closing' on her burial plot. She described the peaceful setting and how in touring the cemetary (have you noticed that "graveyard" doesn't get much play in the sales literature?) she found that there was a section of the graveyard for her particular religion.

I mentioned this to my wife and then asked her where she wanted to be buried. Her response was, "Surprise me!"

What are they thinkng?

Two Examples of Rampant Stupidity

First example: quite a few people are going to make money off photos of the Brad Pitt - Angela Jolie baby. This situation exists because there are IDIOTS who will pay money to purchase magazines featuring the photos. What would be funny is if they printed the wrong baby's photo. But who would know it? And would it, ultimately, make any difference? If the morons who NEED to look at the baby are shown the wrong baby's photo, and then are told on their deathbeds, "Hey, 30 years ago you were duped and shown a baby's photo that you thought was of Shiloh Arm Pitt. It wasn't. How do you feel now?" Like they'll care...

The second example of glorious ignorance: In LA County's election on Tuesday 28 Superior Court judges were up for reelection. Of the 28, only two were rated "Awesome" by local bar associations. One of them was beaten by a deli owner who hadn't practiced law for years and had just reactivated her State Bar membership. She out-spent the judge during the campaign. But the acknowledged basis for the upset: People looked at the names and picked Lynne Diane Olson over Dzintra Janavs, despite Janavs' credentials, and her 20 years on the bench. The deli owner will now be sitting as a traffic court judge. Maybe she can collect Shiloh Arm Pitt baby photos?

Stay Off My Island!!

You don't even know when you're being insulted!

I was flipping with the remote this afternoon, after golf was over, and finally settled on watching (for the 20th time?) Bruce Willis in The 5th Element. But before I got there, I spent about 20 seconds watching "Stranded with a Star: Who would you Choose?"

There are no stars on the program. Just cool looking young people offering opinions about who they'd want to spend a few days with on a deserted island. I heard one vixen say that she heard that one star in question didn't use a deodorant. So then a number of other vixens said "eww" and "yech" and other important observations. Except for one nubile repository of grace and wisdon, who said, "I'd do him anyway he's so cute!" So I started clicking again until I found Bruce.

So say you WERE sent to a deserted island and could take one person, any person... Are you so shallow, is your life so barren, that you would resort to picking someone based on the image he or she worked ever so hard to create? I think you'd have to be such a loser to isolate yourself with a star!

Now that would be a 'reality show' worth watching!! You, a tubby, flabby, nose-picking web-surfer, on a deserted island with the deified sex-object of your desire. Oh, wait... It wouldn't be worth watching, unless we wanted to see nothing but episodes of you kissing up to the 'star' and nodding your head at the idiocy uttered by the star.

I believe there is a significant difference between having a dream and day dreaming. That show is all about day dreaming. Right now our culture has a premium on day dreams and day dreaming. Day dreams are easier to market to. Just check your medicine cabinet and your garage.

Golf: An Apology

It's not for everyone, because not everyone is honorable.

Seriously, golf should be played for "Fun," just as long as "fun" means disappointment and pain, tempered with the occasional pure bliss of doing something right.

Which, if you can stand back far enough, defines being alive. And the farther back you have to stand to see this, the less likely you are to enjoy life, much less golf.

Golf has good breaks and bad breaks. Some times you win, some times you lose. Some times you just sort of break even and you could have spent the day in bed and not seen any difference.

Golf is. Life is. The latter encapsulates the former, but the former helps you comprehend, understand and even appreciate the latter more. Not that Life cares one way or the other if you appreciate it or not. But it's my view that if you can do something better than others are doing it, you should.

Thank you for listening.

Katie Couric for a Day!!

If you could be Katie Couric for a day, when it's a day after she starts reading the evening news to those who like perky stuff, you would earn $41,096 for that day. Except during leap years, when your daily dole would drop to $40,984.

Katie is worth every penny. This can be proven by simply noting that it's what CBS is paying her. Case closed on that issue.

Ever think about where the money comes from? CBS has to accumulate the money somewhere, and they have to take in a WHOLE lot more than $41,096 every day. How much more would probably blow my exhaust manifold...

How much of it comes out of your pocket? I can safely assure you that very little of it comes out of my pocket. I don't watch CBS except for golf. I'm glued to the set during the Masters weekend. But I haven't bought a Buick, a Cadillac or invested one dime in any of the acronym money handlers who advertise during golf presentations. I'm playing with a set of 1988 Hogan irons I got on Ebay and my driver and utility woods are all second hand. I don't drink beer, except for that admittedly cheap swill that Costco sells by the 36 pack, Sharps. (It's not even beer; beer soda is what it really is.)

Luckily for us human beings, wild preposterous facts and events like being paid $41,096 to sit at a desk and read a teleprompter, don't boggle our minds. We can handle these vagaries of existence. But I am serious when I say that I take pride in getting my news not from Katie, but from a number of disparate websites. I pick and chose what to read, following up on some trails, stopping and retreating on others. I do NOT sit and stare at a perky White girl trying to sound like she cares. If you get off on that, tear up any party invitations you might get from me; you won't have a good time. Better you should sit home and think perky.