See Dick Vote

Bert Bananas is to politics what Ann Coulter is to sexual massages.

Having thus theoretically placed myself way towards the “I’m a registered Whig” end of the political spectrum, you may safely take any political discussion from me as endearingly sweet and innocent.

I asked myself, “How would you explain U.S. politics to kids under the age of 8?” But I wasn’t paying attention and my response was, “Huh?” So I repeated the question. My response was, “Let me get back to you on that.” So this is me getting back to myself. Please gather round; the more nubile of you can sit on my lap and yer 'ol Uncle Bert will gently fondle your intellects while helping you understand American national politics.

Okay, you know how your parents, or one parent, a step-parent and the non-custodial parent, or one parent and a succession of live-in friends, are always talking about how to raise you and what to spend on you, especially when you tell them you want a cell phone or a better iPod? Well, that's basically what national politics is all about.

Republicans and Democrats are the ones trying to bring up America. They would both pinkie-swear that they each want what’s best for America. But just like your mom and dad argued about whether your older sister could wear make-up when she started Middle School, Republicans and Democrats argue about whether America should buy every head of household a Blackberry so that he or she can receive Amber Alerts.

Basically speaking, kids, Democrats want government to smother Americans with love and support, while Republicans want government to be remote and standoffish, hoping that Americans will figure things out for themselves.

But it’s like when your dad had his NY Yankees shirt on and Uncle Rick came over to the house wearing his Boston Red Sox shirt and their initial friendly jibes soon (a 6-pack later) ended up in a drunken boxing match out by the barbecue. You couldn’t figure out how two people who supposedly love and respect each other could end up fighting over baseball teams! Well, it’s the same way with politics. It’s just one of those things that cannot be logically explained: two otherwise sane and responsible people can end up screaming the vilest imprecations at each other based on their respective opinions regarding welfare, or tax cuts, or Iraq, or windfall oil taxes or Wal*Mart. Kids, however long this list of things the two parties fight over is today, it'll be longer next month.

And the time will come when you will be expected to chose a side. Your basic personality has already been formed and most of you will chose to wear a Blue shirt or Red shirt and you’ll learn to spout jargon and hurl invective with the best of them. The combination of Nature & Nurture will have it’s inevitable way with you.

But the honest truth, kids, is that politics is like Christmas: Whether or not you believe in Santa Claus, you’re still going to get presents, some you like and some you don’t. It’s the same with politics. If you never, ever register to vote, and never, ever form a political opinion, you will still have a President who does things you approve of and things you don't.

Now get off my lap and don't mention to your mom that we had this chat.

Songs that are Note Worthy

I've yet to find a song with an minor 7th chord that I didn't like.

The song, not the minor 7th chord.

I bought a program that allows me to create mp3s from anything that makes music on the internet. Like the audio of videos on YouTube. And Pandora...

I now possess an mp3 of Heart's Crazy on You with a five minute acoustic guitar intro by Nancy Wilson that sends me over the moon every time I play it.

I am slowly and steadily acquiring a music library you couldn't buy on iTunes if you wanted to.

Hey, don't waste your time hating me, just go get your own software.

Pandering v. Pandaering

The title means not a dang thing. Well, maybe a political operative could spin a link...

Laztheists, since the shambling, stumbling lurching into existence of mankind, have struggled to give verbal vent to shock & awe (Bring it on!).

Without a religion on which to base irreligious vocalizations, Laztheists can't give be profane. And there are times when F-bombs just don't cut it. You've got to let the ghawds know you're pissed!

Laztheists have fashioned a work-around. We curse our genitalia. (But we don't really mean it, of course.) Because although there may be fringe groups here and there who don't worship their own genitalia, the vast majority of right-minded people do.

Plus, it has the double edge of bringing genitalia out of the dirty back alley of whispered mutterings and making them into a clarion call of wounded pride.

Just thought you, along with Mrs. LionKing, would like to know.

Leon Boogerkhan, fiesty local correspondent

I read a letter to the editor in today's paper. The local paper, called the Valley Post Haste, has a letters to the editor section that mostly deals with issues like horse droppings in the Wal*Mart parking lot, plumber cleavage displayed by the local police, and how much prayer in school is enough to keep Satan from making the boys show their underwear.

So the letter today about the American economy being in trouble, over the signature of one Leon Boogerkhan (surely it's a nom de plume! C'mon, Lion King of boogers?) really stood out from it's compatriots.

Leon said that American wages are depressed. While prices are rising for you-name-it, wages are not, except when the minimum wage is hiked. And since taxes keep rising, along with all our costs, the standard of living is dropping for an ever increasing proportion of the population. He was especially indignant about the economic stimulus package. He commented that it's unfunded, meaning that all the government did was print more money, making each new dollar, along with the existing dollars, worth less. (Worth less is too damn close to worthless!)

In 1965 I had a summer job with the State of Nevada. If I'd have stayed on full-time, after my one year probationary period, with the hike in pay I figured I could have rented a house and gotten married. I even got engaged! It would never have worked, so it's a very, very good thing that I went on my Mission.

In 1970, during my senior year in collich (that's how it's spelled in Utah) I was making $90 a week as a broiler cook at a Mr. Steak. I was married and had a kid (Hi, Kris, Happy Birthday!) and our rent for a house out on Utah lake was $75 a month. My old but dependable '62 Buick Skylark convertible was paid for, as was my wife's '65 Ford station wagon. (If you can imagine it, SUVs didn't exist, except from some place in Bavaria.)

What happened between then and now is a blur. But it does seem that America, that beacon of hope on the mountain top, became America, the target in the cross-hairs on the mountain top. And who can blame those targeting us? Aren't they following a script written by Life Itsownself starting back with whatever Kingdom you want to nominate as the first 'known-world' power?

Whomever has something has at least one whomever-else who wants it. Sometimes the wherewithal exists so that the whomever-elses can duplicate the feat of the world power. But eventually there is conflict and somebody loses. No kingdom is forever and nobody shares and shares alike.

Leon Boogerkhan said that America, is finally showing signs of losing the battle. He said he didn't know if it's because our enemies have gotten too strong for us to resist them or because of a cultural malaise that has lowered America's ability to resist them. In either case, if it continues, we're going to be just another chapter in world history, like the Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, Gauls, British, etc. (Man, it's a long, long list!)

Ol' Boogerkhan ended by saying he couldn't see America's future, but he can see certain trends that he didn't approve of. One trend he deplored was the notion that you can be 'kind' to people and thus appease them. He said there were plenty of others but didn't name any. The one I disapprove of the most is nanny-stateism. Or would that be State Nanny-ism?

But how can one resist agreeing with the observation that unless America changes, things will continue inexorably down hill. And I don't think the current election cycle will change anything that needs to be changed.

Amateur Crastination can't be compared to Procrastination

There is popular sentiment favoring the notion that there is a huge divide between the competent amateur and the true professional. Golf is an example. So is crastination. Amateur crastination is so thoroughly disregarding as a field of endeavor that only procrastination exists in our vocabularies!

What's the longest and most creatively you've put off doing something?

The pinnacle of my crastination was the loss of my virginity. I can't take all the credit; the Mormon Church helped enormously. I do remember, to my own despair, that when I finally lost my virginal status, I lamented not having had the prior experience that I might have allowed me to more favorably acquit myself. Worse, I didn't know, because of the lack of experience, just how badly I'd performed.

Innocence is not all it's cracked up to be.

Four Wheels and Funeral

I have no idea what my words are being underlined. It's a mystery to me.

And now it's disappeared! And all I
offer up a burnt offering to Micro-
Soft!

If all is going according to plan,
you are asking yourself, what do these two photos mean, not just individually, but as companions?

First, the funeral. It was Lefty's funeral. He lived in Barstow, CA. He lived there over 30 years. There was a large turn out. It was a week day, in Barstow. Barstow is like Bakersfield, but without the oil or the meth. The people are laid back and uncomplaining. I wanted so badly to take a photo of the woman who showed in in a dark blue AC/DC t-shirt. Besides the AC/DC logo, there was a line from one of their songs emblazoned across her very ample bosom. I hope it was in honor of the deceased. It was very stirring watching her walk in with "You shook me all night long" as her funeral theme. Kind of inspiring.

As for the Shelby AC Cobra, I'd kill to have one.

Steaks with a Mushroom Cloud

My wife's best friend's mother invited us over for a combined birthday party. My wife and her best friend, who have known each other since kindergarten, grew up next door to each other in Huntington Beach. The best friend's mother still lives in that same house. My wife's family had to leave their ancestral home for reasons that the government still maintains are classified.

It so happens that Mrs. Wasjawlueskovich (or something like that) was a Japanese war bride, born and raised across the bay from Nagasaki. Yeah, that Nagasaki. She was 15 years old when the second A-bomb was dropped. She heard the 'boom' and everyone rushed outside and watched the mushroom cloud blossom. She had a bunch of stories to tell me about the days that followed.

She holds no grudges. And she cooks like a dream. We had steaks that had been marinated for two days, potatoes, corn souffle, fried rice, steamed rice, teriyaki chicken, a yummy jello/fruit salad and then the cake and ice cream.

Here's the cake:

Liz & Pattie had their pictures taken together in kindergarten standing in front of Pattie's house. (I'm married to Liz...) They struck the same basic pose on high school graduation day. And last night they did it again.

Kind of weird seeing the same two females at 5 years old, then 18 years old, then xx years old standing in front of the SAME house, french-kissing! And what is it with airline food, huh? What's up with that? (Yes! A new episode of Family Guy tonight!)

By the way, lots of people living in Las Vegas back in the 50s saw mushroom clouds, including yours truly. And then they went to underground testing. For weeks after an underground test you could almost read by the glow from the toilet bowl water.

How to Stifle an Orgasm

There are many of us men who enjoy the art of orgasm. Okay, maybe it's a science? I don't have the answer, but if any of you women do, I'd be interested in knowing: Who makes a better lover, an engineer or a creative blogger?

One answer I do have is that a man who achieves an orgasm in 2.8 seconds is considered by most women to be a thief. I apologize in advance...

So right away you can see the relevance of this woman's photo. I borrowed the image from a site which had also borrowed the image. But I suppose if you steal something from a thief who just stole that something, it's still a crime. Hopefully humanitarian considerations will get me off with house arrest. (hee hee! I said, "...get me off..."!)

So, we get to the heart of the situation. I would no more want to make sweet love to this woman that I would to ..., to ... a picnic table!

Right at this moment, the scroll down has cut of the lady's head. And without the hair-do, I can't tell it's a female! That, when it comes to sex, is never a good thing. And I think most heterosexual men would agree, we enjoy those secondary mammalian treats. I mean, traits...

So to all my favoritely-placed blogger women: thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of my crotchetal well of goodness.

I'm not just another pretty face...

Yesterday, after golf, I was reading & lounging just outside my office. (It used to be a bedroom, but hey, if the kids are going to run away to college, I'm not holding their rooms for them.)

I have a metal rocker/recliner just out the sliding glass door. There's a hummingbird feeder at the end of the portico, so that as I recline there, these tiny little birds are about 12 feet from me.

I'd always figured that taking a photo of one and posting it was trite to the max, especially as they are pretty boring looking as still lifes. Poetry in motion, but not much to look at when they're still. But then this guy shows up. All the other ones perch on the ... perches. But this one wouldn't. He/she would do her business while in flight. I consider that a form of purism and so since I'm a purest, I had to admire him/her. So I grabbed my paints and easel, put up a canvas and painted him/her. Then when the painting was done, I took this photo of it. You can see that I had trouble capturing the blur of the wings.

My wife like the painting so much that she taped it to the frig. The one with some fudge still in it.

(That's one of my gripes with blogging, your time lines suffer because they stack them most recent first.)

Proving Who's in Charge.

I worked late on Thursday, so my wife saved dinner. So Friday at lunch I opened the frig and saw the moist, succulent fudge. Then I saw my share of the previous evening's meal. I love salmon. Salmon and rice! C'mon, is there a better, healthier meal.

But... My wife's fudge, as I've already stated, is always moist and succulent. (Like her!)

So I got them both out and lined them up. I knew you people would benefit from a good example.

I took the photo, put the fudge back into the fridge, headed up the salmon and rice.

While it was heating, I got the fudge out again and made sure that it was worth cleaning my plate for.

It was.

And truly, I did eat all the salmon and rice. I added soy sauce to the rice because lemonated soy sauce coats the stomach walls and neutralizes chocolate. I'm very careful that way. Proving that by thinking things through, you can stay in charge.

You're welcome.

Press F for Fart

Ripped screaming from today's Google Tech News:

"NTT Communications aims to tap into the sense of smell with a new system that allows users to send fragrances from their cell phones.

"A trial of the service will take place later this month during which users will be able to select and send certain fragrance recipes to an in-home unit that is responsible for concocting and releasing the various fragrances. Each holds 16 cartridges of base fragrances or essences that are mixed to produce the various scents in a similar way that a printer mixes inks to produce other colors."

This is kind of bogus, because it's not like I can wave my Blackberry around the area of my butt to capture that essence that is truly me and then attach it to an MMS so that my wife can be reminded of just what she had to look beyond in order to marry me.

This is one of those things that a business is doing just because they can, not because there's a genuine need. Like people on welfare reproducing...

Role Modeling in Abstract Clay

I borrowed these photos from a friend's blog. The kids are way cute, but still I thought it best to obscure their identities.

The second thing I thought about after looking at these photos of my friend's niece & nephew (the first thought being, "I wonder if their mom fools around?") was, "Hey! Look at the genderfication!"

He's all manly and she's all demure.

I'm betting the photographer suggested the poses and the parents, or whomever was present representing their interests (wouldn't it be wild if Hillary Clinton won the election and every minor child was assigned a Federal Child Welfare & What's Good For You Department attorney to help guide each and every kid through life's shoals?) and got immediate agreement.

I know my friend was there, because she posted photos of her own baby, the adorable 'Mando,' and I sure hope she had a reservation or two pass through her mind as the poses were arranged.

My kids have never struck poses based on what society supposedly expected of them. Calvin & Hobbs was our guideline back then. We all remain to this day CalvinHobbsians.

Parents, don't make your sons grow up to be captains of industry or Presidential candidates. And for goodness sakes don't let your daughters grow up thinking that only their flesh matters.

Strike a blow for liberty and buy your boy a bonnet!

Holy Week

Based on a glance at a calendar, I am fully aware that Genesis notwithstanding, the world seems to have decided that Sunday is the first day of the week. But it can't be if you're talking about a Holy Week. Holy Weeks end on Sunday. Unless you're Seventh Day Adventist... but even a Seventh Day Adventist golfer would agree that this week, The Masters Week at Augusta, ends next Sunday.

Of course I understand that all this Holy Week at Augusta crap is a creation of advertising and the crusty bastards who run Augusta National. These guys are so crusty White Bread that the first Black golfers who played there had to change in the parking lot. (This is perhaps a legend, but when you have a choice between legend and the truth, print the Man who Shot Liberty Valance.) But yet I will watch just about all the televised coverage that I can, with the proviso that I'm switching to Family Guy when it's on, including re-runs.

Drunk on his Ass

As old men go, I'm not "age old," just "calendar old." I think most of this is due to the fact that my third wife, the ex-brassiere model, is 28 years younger than me. I didn't want to marry her, but my doctor, her father, prescribed it. And because it was a prescribed marriage, my group health carrier paid for everything but the co-payment.

Anyway, I've done places and been things, driven over a million miles, averaged a book a week since I hit puberty and manufactured over 2.6 trillion gametes. Did you know that gametes think that zygotes are basically useless except for their ability to create gametes? It's a twisted way of looking at why we, you and me, exist.

Anyway, one of my people had a meeting with a guy, but when my guy showed up, the other guy was so drunk he couldn't do more than grin and drool. Which brings me to my admission: despite having been things and done places for lo these many years, I've never been drunk. Heck, I haven't even been tipsy except that one time at a pizza place when my wife (the ex-brassiere model) dared me to drink a pitcher of beer. I didn't do it, but thinking about it sent me over the edge. She had to drive home, despite the fact that she was only 14 then.

I haven't even done marijuana or a single other recreational drug, except for snorting estrogen.

A mystery writer whose work I like very much wrote a novel that I'm sure she hoped would be optioned by movie producer. It wasn't a mystery. It was a flight of fancy. But she is a good writer, so it was a well crafted, entertaining flight of fancy. And it would make an excellent movie that I could watch when it finally got to basic cable, but only to see how the actors and director interpreted the characters and their mannerisms.

Reading is FUNdamental. Didn't use to be that way. Used to be you had to learn by doing. Silversmiths learned their trade as apprentices and played with pewter for 10 or 15 years. For most of the history of mankind, that's the way we learned. Gutenberg, the printer, not the actor, really got the ball rolling. Look where we are now! There's nothing you can't find in print!

And now we have videos and audio tapes supplementing reading. But what you do best in life comes from learning by doing, no matter how much of the theory of it you read before hand.

Martha Grimes. That's the writer's name.

Tree, this isn't good news ... for you

My friend, the one who wants a Democrat in the White House next term, cannot be happy with this story. She has been worrying that the primary races, between Clinton & Obama, are a continuing divisive factor causing harm to the Democratic party. Certainly there is an argument to be made for this proposition.

And supporting this contention is a story on Drudge today, wherein a person apparently favoring Obama was described as having used vulgar language when she likened Hillary Clinton to a prostitute. I could have clicked the link and watched the YouTube video and listened to it from the (w)horse's mouth, but was too excited about writing this post to take the time.

And who was the author of the critique? None other than liberal commentator Randi Rhodes, who prior to making the comment was the 3:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. host on Air America… She has been ‘indefinitely suspended…” So much for freedom of speech.

Three observations:

If this inter-mural squabbling continues to take place between now and the nominating convention, Republicans don’t need to say or do anything...

If Rush or Sean had called Hillary a hoor, there would have been blood in the street.

There may be some hard working prostitutes out there who were offended by the comparison.

What do you know and Why do you know it?

Back in the hey-day of the British Empire, circa 18th & 19th Century, if you were upper class, you proved it by knowing everything Greek & Roman. There was constant reference to Aristotle this, Narcissus that, Peristalsis this, Hydra-headed that. The schools of the privileged taught the kids all this Greek and Roman knowledge and you proved you were upper class by laughing at clever references to this fund of knowledge.

Those of you reading this post, and the person writing it, don't know diddly about the Aztecs, except that Hernan Cortez tricked them out of Mexico. You don't know squat the creation myths of the American Plains Indians. The list is endless of things about which we know nothing. One of the most important facts that we should be taught is that speaking categorically, humans barely know enough to come in out of the rain.

Luckily for the vast majority of the herd, there are individuals who want to know more about a certain topic than is currently known. These people have the Curious George gene. Without these people, with this gene, or gene set, Homo sapiens would still be Homo scratch-his-assiens.

But whom does society reward? A hint, it's not the knowledge gatherers. Too many of us have become Homo trendiens. So in today's culture we prove our superiority by knowing the names of the American Idols finalists. Zeus must be weeping.

Obama or Hillary?

Back to this issue. . .

There are many, many... and conversely, there are few, few... instances where two people with open minds can have a conversation.

Most of us have an open mind when it comes to how many jumps per minute is couth when it comes to Masai warrior dancing. You and I, not being Masai, could discuss this issue and reach an amicable agreement in minutes. But if you had this discussion with a Masai warrior, you'd either have to accept his point of view or get hopelessly lost in an argument about which you did not care.

So we can easily see that arguments, to be successful, require the involvement of people with divergent opinions. And the stronger held the opinion, the greater the likelihood the argument would eventually involve yelling and fist shaking.

Letting go of the need to defend your opinions is very hard. And it's wicked hard when you think your opinion is a scientific fact. (Notice how few arguments you get in about gravity or the freezing point of water?)

Anyway, Laztheism teaches that arguing should only be done if make-up sex is a certainty, during freeway closures, or when you're only doing it because the other person froths at the mouth cutely. Which is a basic tenet of Laztheism: whenever possible, only do those things which amuse and entertain you. But the only way arguing can be amusing is if you don't care about 'winning' the argument. Which is another tenet of Laztheism: you should care about what it is you're doing. See, even the most unorganized, motivationless, pointless plan of action has rules...

So in the next few months, as countless opportunities are afforded for expressing your views, avoid them, because too many of these will be precursors to 'arguments.'

Hillary or Obama? Global Warming or Global Myth? Jehovah or Allah? Raise taxes or lower taxes? Do those pants make her ass look fat or not? Arguments seldom have winners, but they almost always have losers.

The Conductor waved the latern and yelled, "All Abort !"

It's beyond controversy that 'abort' is a word that carries way more negative baggage than just about any other word in the English language. (To men, only "pregnant" carries close to as much weight, if not more, in some instances.)

But not having been aborted -- yet -- the word doesn't bother me. So I'll just move on,

There is word out from that part of the Medical World caught up with your well-being, that holding a cell phone to your ear while conversing on it for 20 hours a day may cause heating of the brain. So it's like sex, I guess, only 45 seconds of brain heating is apparently okay.

I'm passing this along to you in case you missed the announcement. Don't use a cell phone over 19 hours a day.

On the plus side, this research apparently did not cost American taxpayers a cent.

Little Known Doggie facts

1. The custom that has chic women carrying around little lap dogs began with the Iroquois Nation and then spread to immigrants to Canada, and hence and thence to France, where Napoleon insisted that Josephine adopt it. The purpose has always been to give these chic women credibility when they accused the dog of being the one who farted.

2. Dogs (of any size) will, in a human family or group setting, stay close to the person they identify as the alpha dog/human. But in that person's absence they will hang around the human most likely to fall over dead, so that they can be assured of a meal.

Both of these facts have been carefully screened and vetted by the United States Federal Truth Commission and may be relied on to win bets and settle arguments.

Politics as Boose-ual

The title has little to do with this post. I simply cannot refrain from playing with words. Although the "politics" part was sort of on target.

I am not rabid about politics. You could count in one jock strap what I am rabid about, and the way I do it, politics is not involved.

So here's the deal: I am a Republican. Old school. I wouldn't let George Bush be in my party. I mention this when the RNC people call my wife for donations. Which only means that I'm rabid about not spending money, not that my philosophical differences with the current administration bother me.

One of the best friends (I've never met) in the world is a Democrat. She's gone closing in on eight years now without a Democrat in the White House. Six months ago she was CERTAIN that there would be a Democrat in the White House come January 2009. And it wouldn't have bothered me, because if that's what it took to make her happy, then I was ready to hand her the election.

But now she's written a letter to Hillary Clinton, suggesting to Hillary that unless Hillary bows out of the race RIGHT NOW, things may go so horribly wrong that McCain will dodder to a photo-finish against whomever finally does emerge with the Democratic nomination.

There's a lot of merit to that concern. The Obama-Clinton fracas may polarize the adherents to each side so severely that the losing side in that fight may either refuse to vote, or vote for McCain or Ralph Nader/Nadir. And we get 2.6 years of President McCain, and 1.4 years of whomever his Vice-President is, when McCain is finely diagnosed as suffering from senile dementia.

But it won't matter because my friend will be unhappy starting in November. And because I won't be unhappy if a Democrat does wins the Presidency, I would like to help my friend out. So if any of you have any pull with the DNC, please see what you can do about making Clinton & Obama IMMEDIATELY agree to a Clinton/Obama ticket. If the two of them announced this tomorrow morning on the Regis and blonde girl with tits show, my friend would have a chance at happiness. And the Democrats might be looking at 16 years of White House occupancy.

Thank you.

A Challenge, of sorts

Critics of the Bert Bananas’ way of looking at life are legion. Some are legionnaires.

By far the biggest criticism recently is, “Why do you play Pandora so freakin’ loud, dude?” To these critics, I take the Family Guy path and respond, “Because I can, Lois, because I can…”

But the most galling criticism, and the main point of this post, has to do with those critics who tell me that Laztheism is an empty vessel that results in a lack of a believed purpose to life, which has to leave me with no appreciation for life and living. They say, “Dude, if life has no purpose, why bother being alive?” Of course they’re eyeing my Blackberry, my hot, hot motor vehicle, and the other accouterments of hip-ness I’ve accumulated while they’re saying this, perhaps hoping I’ll commit suicide on the spot and they can, with faith in a purpose to life, take them.

I submit that people who need to find ‘purpose’ to life are flawed human beings. My first presentation to support this tenet would be children between the ages of 4 and 7. ‘Nuf said, right? Kids are proof positive that all the purpose life needs is found in figuring things out. At some point most of us stop trying to figure things out. The majority because of a combination of thinking we figured out enough to get by and being too busy to do any further exploring.

If someone were to suggest to you that you need to explore the facts behind what you accept as “true,” 98.27745% of you would smile knowingly and respond that there’s no need, because you ‘know’ it’s all true. So how about this, if the Cubs win the World Series, which everyone ‘knows’ they never can, you have to explore to its very foundation your belief that being beautiful makes a woman good.

He is Risen!

Although this was the basic theme of our honeymoon, I shan't visit that theme infra.

Yesterday late afternoon, on my way to poker (6:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. every other Saturday, with frequent bathroom breaks; yes, that's what getting old is all about, along with sensible shoes), I was listening to Wayne Resnick on KFI. He was gloating over the fact that as a non-observant Jew he finds being alive both endearing and rewarding. And because it was the eve of a very important Christian anniversary, and he wanted some listener response to prove that someone out there was listening to him, he asked devout, knowledgeable Christians to call him, because the theme of the hour was, "Answer the Jew's Questions about the Resurrection!"

Almost a contest, but not quite, because how would he know if the answers he was getting were true? After all, without Faith, religions are nothing more than fairy tales with a promised happy ending. (But when you consider that mainline Christianity says there's no sex in heaven, how can you use the term "happy ending"?)

I didn't get to listen to much of the conversation between Mr. Resnick and his devout Christian apologists. But one caller garnered my respect when, to one tricky metaphysically complicated question about the timing and sequence of events regarding the stone being rolled away from the tomb, the caller's answers was, "Whoa, dude, we're talking about Ghawd here!"

To those of you with Faith about a Resurrection, Heaven and Eternal Life, enjoy the day!

And fret not about me, I have my enduring faith in the cold, uncaring, non-favoriing Universe to comfort me.

Anonymous, sir...

Your screed ended with this lament: "WE ARE IN BIG TROUBLE."

Tough to disagree with this assessment, but at my age, it's an old lament.

With respect to your screed, two issues come to my mind as responses. I shall now prattle on:

1. I believe you make a serious error when you assign condemnation to "the rich," the 1%, as an evil class of humanity. 1% of 6 billion is 600,000,000. That's essentially twice the population of the United States. I have observed all classes of people over the length of my life. And I assure you that a majority of this 1% don't work at getting richer. You're certainly correct that they have no idea what the middle and lower classes go through in their lives, but what did you expect? I submit to you that the 1% are in essence a leisure class. They are taught to protect their wealth and they hire money managers to assist them in this endeavor. I submit that the greed that scares me is that of the 2% to 10% of the top who are trying to get into the 1%. They are the ones who scheme and plot and cut corners and lie, cheat and steal. I don't have a solution to the problems they cause, other than the edumacation and maturing of the masses, as Homer Simpson would say.

2. While not a conspiracy wacko, I will not be surprised if it is discovered that certain movers & shakers in Islam, when confronted with a choice of action involving that which is good for Western Democracies and that which is bad for Western Democracies, push for the action that harms Western Democracies. And who could blame them? (Take revenge, sure, but blame them? No way!) After all, they learned from what they suffered at the hands of the Western Democracies from prior to WW1 all the way through to the formation of Israel and the Arab-Israeli conflicts that followed.

Finally, for the purposes of this response, it's not the rich, that vaunted 1%, who are putting the fight against mythical Global Warming ahead of our own national interests. I submit that if new drilling were permitted in known Western oil fields, in under two years we'd see gasoline at under $2.00/gal. But do you see anyone protesting the drilling bans? Okay, maybe I am a conspiracy wacko...

BearStearns goes belly up. Was it just simple greed, or was the greed complex?

Competitive greediness is what made America "great." But yet we had that Depression thing. I wasn't alive then, so I'm only working on rumors and things I made up, which experience has taught me works for the Federal Government when it came to involving us in foreign wars.

The Depression started when expectation couldn't match the excellence of the money-markets' collective greed. I'm of the impression (meaning I'm making it up) that this collective greed made people believe things that couldn't be true, like everyone who loans money to poor risks should be shielded from the consequences of such stupidity.

But apparently if you're the Chrysler Corporation or BearStearns, this actually turns out to be the case. Maybe it's just that the people at the top of these businesses knew people that Enron didn't know. I don't know them either.

There is no one way to order a society that is "the best" way. But there are better ways for the people who call themselves Americans to handle greed. From personal experience I know that the best way to control my own greed is to not want anything. Not wanting anything, or expecting anything, creates a cocoon of hopelessness that cushions me from the reality of modern America. That and watching my Family Guy DVDs... The ones in my imagination.

Riding out the Recession, or "How I got poor spending money I didn't have."

Okay, the last part was a cheap shot at governments and other deficit spenders. Sorry.

Today's lecture only applies to a narrow class of people, those who are living within their incomes. The rest of us need not listen as this will not be on the final exam.

Take your monthly net income. By 'net' I mean the actual money that you get to deposit in your checking account or mattress. Forget about saving money; this is a recession, so saving money is actually a bad thing, but retirement funding that you've already set in place is okay, because the odds are the worth of that account is depreciating, so it's not technically savings, for now.

You take the figure that is your monthly net income and you pay your mortgage/rent/utilities and allocate the necessary money for comestibles, because them's good eatens, you betcha! So now you're protected from the elements, you're warm, can watch TV and flush the toilet, and starvation is forestalled! Yowza, you're in the top 98 percentile in terms of humans who think being alive is an attractive option!

Is there any money left over? I sure hope so, because the odds are you have to travel places to make sure there's money in the back for next month. And even an MTA pass costs something.

If no, click on comments and say something that demeans me as a human being; you've obviously got plenty of time, unless you've got hitch-hiking down pat as a dependable transportation alternative.

If you have transportation money, or are trading sex for transportation, keep reading:

Now it gets tricky. Are you really satisfied with just riding out the recession? Or do you want to be part of the solution to this recession? Do you want to go down in history as being part of the problem or part of the solution? What's that? I can't heeeaaar you... Louder. LOUDER!

All right, that's the spirit! Together we can tame this beast!! You and me!!

Here's what you need to do, you need to read my 32 page pamphlet which holds the key to ending personal recession. (mine, anyway...) Purchase a money order for $14.95 and make it out to me. Enclose it in an envelope addressed to Bert Bananas, General Delivery, Earth. Include your address and let me know:

1. are you right handed or left handed?

2. is your mother still alive and if so, does she fool around?

3. are you allergic to water?

Once your money order has been cashed I will send you my pamphlet which contains all the information you need on how best to spend your surplus income so that the current economic doldrums will recede. We're going to all pitch in to recede ourselves from this recession. (Please, if you have a lisp, just hum along with the rest of us)

This message has been approved by the Vatican Council and Major League Baseball. Or as the Latins would say, if there were Latins who spoke High Latin, "Dunc, dunc, guhz."

Why the Draft is windy

This is a story from a long time ago. Many of you were not alive then. I was. Even if you were some strange lady's womb at the time, you wouldn't have heard about it, because acoustics in the womb are always a crap shoot.

When I registered for the Draft, the 'Nam was just heating up. And so was I. But rather than go to war or have sex, I traded in my 1-A Selective Service status for a 4-D clergy exemption. How cool was that? Here I'd just spent a year baking my carcass working on a road testing crew for the State of Nevada, and then overnight, with the receipt of a bulky letter from my Church of Choice, I was clergy! I know that like most of you, I think of the Church of England when I hear "clergy. 19 year old Mormon kids don't really measure up to that standard. But none the less, I had me a newly minted 4-D card.

So then after the best two years of my life, I returned to America, fluent in Spanish and with amoebic dysentery. How cool was that? And my Church of Choice snuck me into BYU and I turned in my 4-D Selective Service card for a 2-S card, a Selective Service student deferment.

And then in late 1968 the powers that be decided they needed cannon fodder more than they needed college graduates. How sad is that? So I was sent the dreaded 1-A card, cannon fodder.

And then I got my draft notice: "Greetings!" it said. "Come spend a year in Vietnam!" My initial inclination was to join the Marines. A friend of mine told me that from what he knew of me, that in giving myself up to the Marines, I would become the perfect killing machine. An enticing goal, no? But apathy, inertia and a drinking problem (Fresca) kept me from doing anything except for shooting myself in the foot with a nail gun. But when I went in for my draft physical, a doctor put a bandaid on the wound and declared me fodder.

So I appealed the decision. The draft board turned down my appeal. So I went to Vietnam and collected social diseases...

No, I re-appealed to the full board. And while that final appeal was pending, to be heard the following Thursday, they held America's first draft lottery, the Monday before. In that first lottery they had 366 capsules in a big bowl, In each capsule was a piece of paper with a day of the year printed on it. Which meant that the young men with birthdays corresponding to the date on that first capsule would be the first ones called. Etc., etc.

The capsule with my DOB remained untouched until only it and one other occupied that bowl. Imagine my nervousness! Would my DOB wind up the final date? Nope, mine was pulled next.

I lost that final appeal and my name was put on the list to be called to service per the order designated by the draft lottery. Hee hee hee! And so I went on to become a perfect killing me softly with love machine.

(In subsequent draft lotteries they had two bowls' the capsules in one bowl had DOBs and the other capsules had numbers 1 through 365 (leap year wasn't a consideration for that second drawing). So there was a double pulling, a date with the number it would be listed. But of course I paid no attention to that lottery.)

America can breathe easy!

No, I am not referring to the fact that I'm blogging again, although there are those who right now have raised their fists to the heavens and cursed ghawd for this revulsion to the natural order...

Nope, I refer to the FACT those plucky people who manufacturer and market Downy fabric softener are trying to lead America out of our economic doldrums by giving us not only clothing that is soft, but has fragrance!

While many of the rest of us were slouched in a comfy TV lounger watching Family Guy (oh sure, like I'm the only one...) some movers and shakers within the Downy commercial kingdom were busting their humps to find some way to stop America's slide into advanced mediocrity and push us back up the slope to a new era of USA-ian hegemony, or as those in the world dominance industry call it, Pax Americana.

What I found shocking is that the powers-that-be revealed the identities of their "Designers."
What were they thinking? Downy put their names and photos on a website for all the power-hungry foment-mongers of the world to see. And for the rest of us to envy... C'mon, admit it, you wish you'd come up with Turquoise Frost.

But none of this would matter if The U.S. of A. had not lost that gumption that took us to the pinnacle of our panache, back in the olden days (whenever that was...).

Our "olden days" could be said to be any time after the Civil War up to Desert Storm, with the slice 'o history that covers the last three years of the Viet-None war excised.

Like that 20 year period following Custer's Last Stand at the Little Big Horn... (Had Custer chosen the Big Big Horn to make his stand, the world would be a whole different place.)

Anyway, after Custer and his 200 men died, along with most of Major Reno's men, at the Middle Big Horn, the citizens of the USA were incensed! INCENSED, I tell you! America wasn't taking that slight sitting down, no sir! The citizenry, with hardly a quibble, funded 20 years, TWENTY YEARS!, of prairie war making. That's how long it took for the US Army to corral all those wild Indians.

How far is it to your nearest Indian casino? I only go to buy fireworks...

I'm not one who normally complains...

But I would like to take the opportunity, on this lambent Sunday morning, to eschew that trait and give vent to, as the Mexicans say, a queja:

Politics.

I don't like politics. There may have been a time, back when Shirley Gregson's father was running for Mayor of Las Vegas, when I might have thought it was an okay gig. But to give credit where credit is due, it had to do more with how cool Oren Gregson was (not to mention his daughter, yowza!). So I helped get him elected and then learned the ugly truth, that politics makes for strange bedfellows. Or does that go, "Politics makes strange bedfellows of us all"?

That mayoral candidacy in Las Vegas, NV, circa summer of 1961, ended with me in the hospital with serious complications from mononucleosis. (So okay, I was not immune to the allure that are a woman's lips ... sue me.)

But ever since then politics has done all it possible could to annoy, harass and otherwise be an affront to my own personal happiness. And I don't think it has anything to do with the fact that I am, generally speaking, ungovernable. Nope, politics is at it's heart a rotten way to make a living, even if the populace acedes to being governed. And while there may be some merit in the argument that... "Hey, someone's got to do it!" I would not mind taking some time out of my busy schedule to debate that issue.

But not right now. I have to go trim my ear hair.

Thank you and good day.

We all have a Twin. I finally met mine

Isn't he the cutest thing? But it turned out although we are spitting images of each other, we're nothing a like as I am not able to reach my genitalia with another other than my hands.

In Praise of Rocket Studios

I have this little curb painting business here in SoCal. It's a living, going door to door asking home owners if they want their street number painted on the curb in front of their homes. It's all in how you take off your cap and bring a knuckle to your forehead in a show of obeisance, and quaver out, "I say, guvner, (no, not her) paint yer curb?" That plus my winning smile and I'm able to keep our two boys in 2nd tier state colleges. It's not a Princeton/Yale living, but it's a living.

Anyway, I have a business website. I've had it for about three years. I paid someone to create it for me. I have zero ability to do anything with the website. I've been wanting to update it. On 2-01-08 I received a friendly email from my web hosting business, telling me about the wonderful upgrade they'd just done. It suggested I test my site. I did. The submission pages weren't working. Individual homeowners can submit orders on one page and HOAs and tract builders use the other page. Neither page worked.

I called the hosting service and was told by tech support that it was my problem. The simple, inescapable fact that it was their 'upgrade' that ruined things meant nothing to the young tech support person: my site, my problem.

So I turned to Rocket Studios, aka Katrocket. She switched me to a friendlier hosting service and built me a new website, one that comes with instructions on how I can do things on the extra pages she's provided. She was all the things one expects from a Mother Superior but seldom gets when it turns out you're not Catholic.

Now I know I'm preaching to the choir here, but it just had to be said: Kat was my Rock(et) of Gibraltar. If you or someone you know needs professional (meaning you have to pay for the service) website building or remodeling, I insist that you ask her for a friendly, free review and quote. Plus mention my name and she'll add 20% to your fee and give me 5% of it.

We've done our taxes!

Okay, my wife did our taxes. She used TurboTax, referred to as "the box" in a certain TV commercial. It took her two and a half days. She says we're getting a refund. Mistrusting the beneficence of the American federal government, I'll believe it when I see it. But at least they're done and filed. Which lessens the charges they can lay against me in the future. Naturally if there's anything wrong, I say it was all my wife's doing and testify against her. But on the plus side, I promise to wait for her.

Why can't we find a less burdensome way to pay for the services we receive? If you're Nancy Pelosi, you think the current system is fine, taking from the rich and giving to the poor as it does. But doesn't she see that the money that the poor are given is spent by them for goods and services is the first step of that money's journey back into the wallets of those rich? But maybe there's no way to get around that inevitable cycle.

You know how people obey speed limit laws? Or don't? That's the kind of behavior we need from the American public when it comes to the IRS. A massive popular uprising of non-compliance, with people refusing to pay personal taxes would quickly result in a VAT or a FAIR tax being implemented and hopefully the IRS would turn it's enormous power towards policing manufacturers and sellers instead of individuals.

But hey, for this year I'm cool with the status quo.

I was talking to a guy the other day...

and we went on and on about life itsownself, but when we were finished, I realized that at least on my part, I hadn't really said anything. I was just blathering. Something we are all forced to do way to much in life: pretend to communicate. Mostly this pretending goes on when we know the guy isn't worth listening to or the woman isn't going to sleep with us for free.

Because humans use 'language' and 'language' is inexact and slippery, humans can't really communicate. Everyone thinks he can communicate, but no one really can. Sometimes we get darn close to it, but it's almost always an accident.

People who insist on precision in their use of words, and who use techniques to try to ensure that correct communication has taken place are almost universally shunned. Plus whether they are or not, the males who do this are always thought to be gay. And while I'm thinking about it, I can't ever remember meeting or hearing about a woman who strove to be precise in her communication efforts. At least in any situation that doesn't involve her explaining what she "wants."

And so we come to another difference between the sexes: Women want things; Men want to do things. How we all try to achieve our disparate goals is what Hollywood calls entertainment. But for us ordinary Joes and Janes, we are like the blind leading the double life of a secret agent who thinks he can see, but forgot his glasses. The fact that you finished that sentence and didn't hurl your breakfast proves my point: you're not listening to me. I should have listened to my mother and become an accountant.

Terror in Lower Manhattan!

First, the story EXACTLY as it appears on Fox News:

Police say a Parks Department employee took his city-issued golf cart on a rampage, running over and killing five birds in a public park.

Police say they arrested the 45-year-old employee Friday evening after receiving complaints that he was driving erratically in the park in Lower Manhattan. He faces charges of reckless endangerment and intentional injury to an animal.

Three pigeons and two sea gulls were killed.

I did some digging to get to the story behind the story. That is, after I had my mourning coffee; it was a somber breakfast, knowing the world was a poorer place, what with five birds taken in the prime of their lives.

I learned that the pigeons were members of a Bronx gang, Las Mierdas, and had been taunting employees of the Parks Department.

But the sea gulls just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But isn't that a necessary ingredient when it comes to senseless tragedy? It all could have been avoided if anyone, be he man or bird, who wants to can drive a vehicle could do so, instead of just people who are "licensed." Yeah, like not having a license stops criminals from getting behind the wheel.

I just know that if those sea gulls had had their own cars, they'd be alive today. Food for thoughts, people, food for thought...

Founder's Day

Laztheism marks it's second anniversary. The exact date is unknown, but it's sometime between today and next year's third anniversary. Not all details are important.

For those new to Laztheism, or those currently too inebriated to make sense of the memories, I offer these highlights:

Laztheism is the religion of non-religion.

Laztheism demands that you make no demands. This contrasts with atheism, which demands you deny the existence of god... Or Ghawd, as He is unknown to Laztheists. Laztheists neither insist nor deny that Ghawd exists; that's entirely up to Him.

Laztheism is a disorganized religion. There are only two things that are important about the fact that I am the titular head of the Laztheism: 1. The "tit" in titular is extremely distracting, and 2. my phone number is unlisted, meaning that you're on your own.

The principle tenet of Laztheism is that religion should not distract, impede, hamper or intrude on the art of living a good life. If you think this leads to chaos, then you're not hanging with the right people.

It's been said (in today's comics page) that Laztheism puts the 'fist' in pacifist. Since we have no scriptures (other than this blog) there's no way to prove or disprove this sentiment. But I like it.

Parking my horse went off without a hitch ...

... and now I'm on foot.

I found ten chapters of a book I more than half wrote some years ago. I was rummaging around the detritus of my office and so I promptly sat down and read it. It was semi-autobiographical, meaning it was all lies, versus a true autobiographical effort, which is just mostly lies.

Have you ever thought about writing your own eulogy? There is probably a viable market now for Professional Eulo-ologists. University Schools of Communication need to address this issue and need to offer degrees in Eulo-ology.

Besides the actual need to have a eulogy at the ready, crafting these eulogies on a yearly or biannual schedule would give you a history of your life as you wished you'd really lived it. If you think it's weird now going back and taking a look at your high school senior yearbook, imagine the delight in reading the eulogy prepared after your 25th birthday. If you add the power point presentation that now seems to be de rigueur at funerals, you'll eventually have a complete chronological history of how you want Ghawd to think you lived your life.

I'm looking forward to seeing the movie (via Netflix) that has an elemental scene in it where a beloved character has the power point presentation for his funeral swapped out by a bitter enemy. The new new power point presentation starts with requisite smarminess and then descends to clips of the deceased doing gross and disgusting things, like writing a blog, or something equally hideous.

Think of what you could do in this vein for Bill Clinton's eventual funeral...

My Blackberry Kept on Working!

Of course I've always felt special, so today when my wife came in to tell me that Blackberry's all over North America weren't working and asked me if mine was, I checked and it was working fine. Since I was standing at my computer (Yes, I stand now to do desk work, so it's not desk work anymore, it's counter work, and saying that I do counter work makes me sound like I'm counter work and pro fun!) I did a quick check and every new email through out the day hit both my computer emails and Blackberry.

Why was this, why didn't my Blackberry suffer the service outage that apparently struck all over the Americas? I haven't a clue, except to pontificate that I'm special and as with any special Laztheist, nothing and no one watches over me, so it's just a current of history sweeping me along.

But to balance things out, Ipowerweb says my website has been upgraded, but when I went to test it, my forms submissions didnt work and now my username and passwords are working. I'd rather it had been the other way around...

Three Days to St. Valentine's Day...

Every year it's the same old Valentine's Day massacre, but without the machine gunning. But there is rattling off at the mouth... But the high speed in no way implies negativity. It's just that we like to get it over with quickly.

I will totally ignore the concept and practice of buying my wife a Valentine's Day product. Millions of dollars of advertising will be completely wasted on me.

My wife will let the day pass without comment, until after dinner, when she will hand me a Valentine's Day card, in an envelope. On the envelope will be my pet name... you know, something very youthful sounding, but yet kind of degenerate.

I will pretend surprise. I'll open it and read the message. (It's been the same card for, what?... maybe seven, eight years now.) I'll thank her for this wonderful expression of her love and suggest that an incredibly complicated and sordid love making technique would have worked just as well. She won't respond to this witticism (again) and then I'll say that I didn't get her anything for Valentine's Day because I won't be dictated to by commercial interests and that my love for her on Valentine's Day is the same as it is on every other day of the year, completely consuming of my very being.

Then she'll say, "Here, I got you this." She'll hand me a package, which I'll open and then hand her back the gee-gaw that she bought for herself. It used to be jewelry, but these last few years it's been socks or gloves.

Who says you have to be romantic to have romance in your life?

YouTube and Culture

I didn't know that you could find EVERYTHING on YouTube. I'm sure you can understand how I was of the notion that YouTube was just about emerging pop culture iconism.

But it's not. As I type this I am listening Herbert Von Karajan conducting Beethoven's Symphony No. 6 In F Major. That's the Pastoral, the one featured in Fantasia. If I typr= wign ny eues colsnotd I cqn see rhe wigned h[infes flyinbg about! Cppol!

Anyway, I am now a YouTube junkie. I've listed to the the last two-thirds of the 9th Symphony and all of the 5th, and last night I found a student orchestra delivering of themselves a very credible Tchaikovsky's Capriccio Italienne. That's his opus 98, for those of you keeping score.

And if you promise not to tell anyone, I also listened/watched Peter Cetera doing The Glory of Love, which I will one day learn on the guitar and sing to my wife when she least expects it.

And I listened to Heart and to Richard Pryor and Shania Twain and Reba McIntyre and Dusty Springfield (You don't own me) and I'll keep on searching through the debris of my youth, kicking about among the flotsam and jetsam that keeps washing ashore...

You know how when you went to visit your grandmother in the old folks and all those geezers were just sitting around doing nothing but looking for someone to grab a hold of so they could tell you what they did at the Chicago World's Fair? Well, we, in our old age, won't be doing that. We'll be in our wheel chairs with a laptop and earphones, reliving our lives on YouTube. Go, us!

Stolen from another Blog !!

Literally, but not really...

See, I typed it all in Mrs. LK's blog, as a comment. But I was SOOOO entranced with it (a lot of what I type is new to me as a I read it) that I just had to have it all to myself. This is what men are geniuses at, wanting things! So here it is, freshly copied & pasted from her site, as a response to why stupid things happen:

There are three levels to any organization:

1. the lowest level, where people do what needs to be done,

3. the highest level, where people decide what needs to be done, and

2. the middle level, where people too lazy to do what needs to be done and too dumb to know what needs to be done, sit and make up things they think ought to be done.

Not that it matters, but all politicians at the national level are in the middle level.

A suggestion to my Catholic friend. (Yes, I only have one...)

Today, in the Catholic version of life itsownself, is Shrove Tuesday. (To Shrave: to eat as much as you can while clothed. I'm going to shrave like a pig on my birthday. Oy, I shrove like there was no tomorrow, or like tomorrow was Lent!)

Anyway, to my Catholic friend, give up Lent for the next 40 days. What's ghawd going to do, smite thee? C'mon, how many people do you think are in line ahead of you for a good smiting?

...Or I'll Beat you with a Dead Horse!

Today is the 40th anniversary of when I would have arrived in Vietnam for my first of four tours of duty, had I not french kissed a psychiatrist at my draft physical.

I had a whole day to screw up my courage to commit this dastardly deed. You have to realize that as a very ardent heterosexualist, with a family crest of an erect penis rampant on a field of hardwood bolts, that kissing another man, with or without tongue, was as close to being impossible as was the thought of being away from women for a year or more. (Although I had read The World of Susie Wong, I didn't make the gymnastic mental leap needed to figure out that sex was going to be even more available in 'Nam than it was in Provo, Utah, which is saying something!)

During the back and forth debate that raged in me that day, there were times I just knew I couldn't kiss another man, even to save myself from a year in Vietnam. And during these interludes I would imagine myself as enjoying military life. I pictured myself as a beautiful killing machine, all smiles and death. I could see myself as a drill instructor, loathed but respected by my men, and I rehearsed speeches to platoons of new recruits. And because I've never been a swearer or a taker of a god's name in vain, I had to come up with effective invective so as to instill respect and fear in my recruits. And that's when I invented, "... or I'll beat you with a dead horse!"

But it was all for naught. The psychiatrist was not a bad looking man and I kissed him, deeply, lingeringly, but not passionately. The whole time my arms embraced him and my lips were on his, I was thinking of Paula Bunker. Yeah, Paula Bunker, the one who got away, the one who hurt me so badly that I refused to make love to another woman with that first name or those initials. To this day, when my wife asks me if I want a PB&J for dinner, I cry. Yep, it's almost been 50 years, but the thought of Paul Bunker and Jelly still makes my eyes moist.

I Boated Today, Did You?

I'm not trying to impress you, because that's not my job. J.W. Thompson handles that chore for me, although I've been having difficulty finding an Account Executive whom I feel can really appreciate me.

Nope, this post is just to let you know that I'm a good American, that my Laztheist tendencies don't get in the way of my boating.

I've been boating since I was an adult. Which is a long time ago! That's a lot of boats and boating! But because it helps keep America strong, I'm not going to stop boating.

Remember, you dinghies, every boat counts!


(a tip o' the Banana's chapeau to Gilda Radnor and Violins in School...)

Another Example of bad Nanny-ism!

Again I didn't click on the link, but if you can't trust a Drudge headline, who can you trust?

A school district somewhere in the United States of America is going to outlaw intentional farting.

Smells good on paper, right? Who isn't against rampant pull-my-finger-ism? How many times can it be funny? (Okay, only 'pullers' get to vote on this question.)

But who gets to judge whether it was intentional or not?

True story: in 8th grade we had a kid transfer in to my class. The core of this class, say 20 out of 23, had been together since 4th grade. So here was an outsider. And you know how brutally despotic junior high kids can be. His name was Arthur. I can still see his bespectacled face, but I can't remember his last name. He didn't live near any of the rest of us. His mother made him vegetable sandwiches, like onion, lettuce & tomato (OLTs were obviously going to invite ridicule!) and he had gas.

He farted uncontrollably! (Well, we all assumed he couldn't control it.) Maybe he would have been better off with detention, instead of having Kent Reid, who sat behind him, continually pretend to faint and fall out of his seat. But it was always funny, the way Kent would get our attention with his fake gagging, start waving his hands in front of his face, and then fall over.

Mrs. Morrison finally put Art/Fart (there is no limit to the cruelty children inflict on the weak) at rear of the class, next to the door, which when he started farting, she would open and ask him to move closer to it.

Anyway, we had all better start practicing a credible look of stunned surprise...

Kindness killed him...

This is one of those stories that makes you shake your head. Palsy will also make you shake your head, even if you're illiterate.

In 1952 Roger Storme was a successful garage owner in Hopeful, Alabama, 36 years old, married 16 years to his high school sweetheart and the father of 14 year old fraternal twins, Roger, Jr. and Rebecca. He was also Wizard 2nd Class in the local Ku Klux Klan. He was always proud of how blindingly white his wife bleached his sheets.

On October 21, he was walking with two of his fellow Klansmen down Jefferson Davis St. He was sandwiched between Lucas Morgan and Paul Stuartz, both of whom had recently joined the KKK and were eager to be seen as worthy members. Had they not been present, there'd be no story.

They were walking up a hill, towards the courthouse. Suddenly a shrill cry was raised. Roger looked up the hill and saw a Negro woman (that's how people spoke back then...) crying out and pointing to a baby buggy that was rolling towards the three men and picking up speed.

As he would relate to his wife almost daily in the three months that followed, he acted without thinking. He positioned himself on the sidewalk to catch and stop the baby buggy. As the mother came rushing down the hill to him, Roger looked into the buggy and saw a Negro infant. Then he looked up at the Negro woman hastening towards him. Sweat began to bead his forehead. He looked over at Lucas and Paul, both of whom were backing away from him, horror writ plain on their faces.

By the time he got home that evening, the story had reached the ears of everyone in Hopeful, Alabama and was making it's way out along all the four compass directions.

Roger Storme, a lifelong racist, had become undone because of one act of thoughtless kindness. Roger took his own life the following Christmas Eve. In his suicide note he mentioned his love for God, country and the Klan, and apologized for having let the White Race down.

The Negro child whose life Roger possibly saved grew up to be Black. He is alive and well and living in Atlanta, GA, where he has a prosperous dental practice and has no recollection of that day in 1952, although his mother never tires of telling the story.

There is a moral to this story, but it's not always the same for everyone.

"We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to ..."

According to the title to a link on Drudge, (someone'd have to pay me to actually click a link....) some southern state is planning on ordering/authorizing? restaurants to refuse to serve food to obese people. Meaning the 'slippery slope' is turning into a cliff to fall off of.

Rock-rib Republicans and Libertarians, not to mention anarchists and nihilists, are opposed to governments playing Nanny with their governed. As I am at least one and a half of the above four food groups, I must stand to oppose to Nanny-ism. If you're in favor of Nanny-ism, I can understand the draw and I have to admit that to some extent Nanny-ism has to exist. Obviously I appreciate the vigor expended by the appropriate governmental agencies to deliver into my home uncontaminated drinking water and to see to the removal of waste and excrement.

But I put forth that while I can tolerate Nanny-ism for the group, I must oppose it for the individual. So I'm against helmet rules for motorcyclists. I admit the safety issue is very valid, so why not mandate that all humans wear crash helmets when in public? If the majority voted such a law into force, I'd be happy to obey it. A whole new fashion industry would spring into being! Safety and new jobs!

Drunk drivers are a menace. It's a good thing for bartenders to cut off obviously intoxicated drinkers, but they're doing it to protect the bar against a very good basis for a law suit, should the drinker injure himself or others. So that's not Nanny-ism in its pure form.

Who decides whether a person is obese? Due to an unfortunate glandular problem, I have one obese leg. Will my one fat leg be enough to get me refused service at the Hee-Haw Home of Grits & Macaroni? Can I sneak in my wife if I be-girdle the bejebus out of her?

Again, this is way more than just a small slide down the slippery slope, this is a step of the cliff that will, in a generation or two, cocooned to the max from everything that makes life fun. Or it just could be a reaction by a chain of all you can eat buffets to increase their profitability. After all, we are a nation of special interests...

Please feel free to hyperbole along with me....

I'm getting calls...

Yes, I'm getting calls and emails from all over a grateful (great full? Boy, that takes me back to the magic of a first date...) nation. People are needing, hungering for information from me for use in their upcoming political decision making.

I've tried to remain a loofa (Hey, I've got your back!), but the din is exceeding and so I shall cave in to the demands.

If you are Republican, you should vote for the Democrat you least want in the White House. This holds true for Democrats, you should vote for the Republican you least want in the White House. Notice that I did not mention 'candidate.' That was intentional. Meaning, of course, that George W. 'Bushie/Shrub' Bush will win by a landslide because of Bill Clinton and Al Gore splitting the Republican vote. That being the case, the entire election will be turned over the the College of Cardinals, often referred to as the Electoral College.

Because the popular vote has the current, ineligible President receiving the most votes, all the delegates pledged to him will be set free to vote for whomever they damn well please. Ebay will be flooded with Electoral College delegates auctioning off their votes. And when the dust settles, the new American President will the one with the best financing, which will involve taking delivery now and making payments over the next four years.

I have no idea who the President will end up being, but I have faith, and so should you, in the American dream and corporate greed, the two-sided coin we're all devoted to.

Now go, Grasshopper, and be at peace.

All the News that's poop to print

I have to tread carefully here, because to a handful of people the basic set of facts from which this post grows constitutes a tragedy. Not to mention that I don't want to violate the Primal Precept of the internet, never prevaricate, not even if sex is involved.

So first, the basic set of facts, as lifted from irrefutable sources, Drudge, my local paper and my joi de vivre:

"A Florida Highway Patrol spokesperson announced that five young men are dead after a car they were riding in crashed after traveling off an airport runway. According to preliminary FHP investigation, a 2008 gray BMW with 5 male occupants, ages 18 to 20, was traveling at a high rate of speed, reached the end of the airstrip, which terminates with an embankment. and then "flew" (it must have seemed to them, for that brief interlude, that they were flying) 200 feet before coming gracelessly into contact with that big globe called the Earth, but missing any hint of the three-quarters of the Earth's surface covered with water, colliding instead with dirt."

I'm guessing that it is very possible that "alcohol was involved."

Further on in one of the stories I read, it said, and I quote: "BMW engineers recovered the cockpit voice recorder. The last two seconds of the recording captured three 'Oh shits,' one 'Mommieeee!' and a 'Wheeeee!'"

A release from Darwin Awards.org read in part: "Hey, the year is young. Who knows, these guys might not even merit an honorable mention."

A spokesman for the Church of Scientology, which was contacted because John 'I've been eclipsed by that little runt' Travolota lives in this 'fly-in' community, would only say that the Church is investigating rumors that Thetans bought beer for these underage kids.

The only Absolute: There are No Absolutes, except...

Except for one, and it really pisses people off when it comes up during discussions: Death.

Yep, I am of the opinion that death is the absolute end to being alive. If I'm wrong, I apologize now. If I'm correct, you owe five bucks after I die. Other than that, I love taking the "con" side in discussions about absolute moral truths.

I was reminded of this when I read an editorial in our little 30,000 circulation local paper. A local citizen was responding to a letter written by a 'moral relativist.' And boy, was this respondent indignant! At one point, today's letter writer accused the moral relativist of being 'capable' of believing the 9/11 plane crashers had a valid moral POV that made their actions 'the right thing to do.'

As Rocky Balboa often said, "I coon believe it..." Because of course the 9/11 participants thought they were doing something morally correct. It boggled my mind that today's indignant writer couldn't comprehend that.

That kind of absolutism is dangerous. Maybe not to the individual, but Mankind probably suffers. But I understand the thrill of embracing certin moral absolute truths. "Knowing" you're absolutely right is way heady stuff; it's an intoxicant with no hangover for the individual, for the most part. Not to mention the banishment of what we herd animals may hate the most, not being part of a group. Moo.

If only Herdism didn't come with the inescapable corollary that one believe one's Herd is better than any other Herd.

Global Warming Freaks, pay attention!

I have an opinion about "Global Warming." But I'm not vain enough to suppose that what I think matters to anyone but me and people who think kissing up to me is of some advantage. (It's not, but don't tell them.)

But I know a fact about "Global Warming" that as far as I'm aware, no one else has thought of... And when it comes to this issue, facts are few, and their relationship to the total picture is often disputable.

The phenomena of "Global Warming" did not exist prior to the foundation of R. L. Hubbard's paean to egocentricity, The Church of Scientology. You can watch the growth of Scientology and the world's temperature rise in tandem.

I blame it on Scientology's ability to 'clear' their adherent's brains/minds of those pesky Thetans. Free of their docile existence within the cozy comfort of a human brain, the Thetans are in a frenzy to find new abodes. And they're probably in a frenzy to do so and the competition is probably frenzied! And as your high school physics class taught you, "frenzy" = heat.

See? When you take a step back and practice objectivity, uncertainties can come into sharp focus and become realities.

You're welcome.

When 'throw away' lines come back to haunt you.

My fertile mind comes up, spontaneously, with comments that when I say or type them are the first time I'm seeing them. Since I'm me and not someone else, I use my own personal standards by which to judge them, and usually find them hugely entertaining. I've become, to probably quote El Pistolero, one of my biggest fans.

The other day I spontaneously combusted this sentence: "I drink beer and piss ethanol." Succinct, pithy, etc., I loved it and held onto to it for way longer than my usual attention span, and then released it back into the wild. (Like many males, I practice 'catch & release.')

But now it's haunting me.

See, I'm beginning to believe that I was inspired by forces beyond my understanding to come up with that sentence (could a mortal man have otherwise created it?) because it was meant to be a sign post to a new and vibrant future for mankind. And what's good for mankind is often good for womankind! So, see, potentially no losers! (or as they used to say on AOL's Bookshelf, no gay loosers...)

Viewed objectively and scientifically, human excrement, both liquid and solid, and the occasionally uncomfortable semi-solid, just has to be an organic wonderland. And right now it's going to waste (to coin a phrase).

But what if, literally, when I drank beer, or any other H2O based liquid, my piss did turn into ethanol? Oh, sure not at the "tap" but somewhere further down stream? Oh wonderous day!
And the same for the other "tap" and its products. Oh odorous day!

Sure, you're all squeamish and gagging, but the organics are there, ripe for the harvest! Our own excrement could make us energy independent. We could figuratively poop on the Terrorists and win the day!

So next time you're pooping or peeing, give a thought to what a waste it is, okay?

Remember when?

Remember when Gore Vidal said, "Whenever one of my friends enjoys even a moderate success I die a little."

Whether we want to admit it or not, most of us fall into this category. I'm luckier than most of you in this regard since I have such few friends, and we work hard and keeping our successes from being visible. (Thank ghawd for pants!)


Remember when, in 1952, you could wear an "I Like Ike" button to school and get beaten up by Democratic bulies, thus forever cementing your place on the Right?

It's hard for me to admit this, but there were probably Republican bullies who created life-long Democratics via this very same tactic. How many of our ingrained habits exist simply because we wanted to be different from some particular person?


Remember when you were innocent and hadn't seen the private parts of a member of the sex you were attracted to that you weren't related to? As an only child I can only imagine what it would have been to grow up with sisters. No, don't tell me! Leave me with my dreams...

I finally got "tagged" !!

It was in the shower this morning. It was wonderful. I hope to get "tagged" again very soon. There was no mention of passing it on, so I shan't. There's no need, really. You're all very capable of "tagging" yourselves.

Where else have I "tagged" myself besides in the shower? C'mon, grow up!

The question reminds me of that new program which is nothing more than Truth or Dare without the Dare option. Hooked up to a lie detector and being asked EXTREMELY personal questions in front of people you'd like to think of as being loved ones.

From the previews I can only see this as getting far, far more intrusive and destructive. In the previews they asked a man, "Do you see yourself still married to your wife in five years?" And remember, this is on-camera, while a lie detector is doing it's best to suss out your every prevarication. How can anyone go on the program who has a dirty little secret? And of course, if you DON'T have a dirty little secret, they don't want you!

Can you imagine (c'mon, imagine with me!) what questions they're going to get to as the season rolls along? Here's three for guys that just rolled off my brainiwac assembly line:

1. Would you want Britney Spears tied naked to a folding leaf table on her back or on her stomach and would you leave her alive when you were done with her?

2. If you could drink beer and piss ethanol, would you fill your tank in public?

3. Could you get in shape if your life depended on it?

Okay, the last one isn't fair, because if you answered no, we'd all understand.

Champagne Promises

In a blast of insight comparable to figuring out during a game of gin with my grandfather that HE was the one who farted, not me, I have realized that the words "Campaign" and "Champagne" are, within the context of the Presidential Elections, interchangeable.

You're welcome.

Why it's good to be a Dictator

A lot of U.S. Presidents have played golf, but only three United States Presidents have made a hole in one: Eisenhower, Richard Nixon & Gerald Ford. I've been playing, hard, since 1984 and I have one hole in one.

North Korean President/Dictator for life Kim Jong Il watched some televised golf soon after Tiger Woods became a media draw and liked what he saw. So he ordered a golf course built and acquired golf clubs. He played his first and last round of golf EVER on October 11, 1999 and North Korean news outlets dutifully broadcast the fact that he had 11 holes in one during that 18 hole round. Not one story deviated from lauding and praising Kim Jong Il's skill and acumen. In all of North Korea not one word of doubt was uttered. Not one blog questioned the feat.

The golf course was then turned back into a Peoples' Park for the Greater Glory of Communist Way, and there's a plaque at the entrance to the park commemorating his feat. Here in the USA, every single golf score Bill Clinton ever posted was analyzed and questioned by a heartless combination of right wing media/blog writers. How Bill must have envied Kim Jong Il.

Hillary Topless on new poles!

Which is what I THOUGHT! the headline said. And my mind reeled as I wondered if anyone would give her any money, or would her feelings get hurt again. And I wondered if she was really spry enough to give us a good pole dance. An imagination is not always a good thing, because I was breaking out in a cold sweat and feeling a wee bit nauseous...

But then I reread it, reading for comprehension this time, and the headline turned out to be Hillary Topples in new polls. The polls that showed her losing to JFO (John Fitzgerald Obama) in New Hampshire.

You know why the polls were wrong? Me either. But here's what I tell pollsters who call me to ask my opinion about why the polls were wrong: It was the Goody Two Shoes syndrome.

See, the Goody Two Shoes people don't want anyone, even pollsters, to think ill of them. So when this vast Goody Two Shoes crowd was sampled, that all said they were voting for JFO, so as to be thought of as progressive and liberated. But they aren't!

When they were within the privacy of the voting booth they voted with their prejudice and shot the brother down.

How about having topless shots of the candidates on the ballot? That might even things out for Obama...

The Dance: sexual expression to a beat

I think I'm the norm, when it comes to The Dance: High school was pretty much it.

I rarely think about it, but when I do, I can easily conjure up memories (real ones!) about all the dancing I did in high school. We had weekly 'sock-hops' in the gym and then there were the de rigueur seasonal dances. Junior year was good, but my senior year was top drawer, because I got asked out to the Sadie Hawkins Dance, by Linda Sharp! Schweet!

Anyway, I spent my 'dancing career' dancing to top 40 songs of the 1960s.

And now I feel cheated. Oh, sure, we had some great rock 'n roll and some wonderful slow dancing music, don't get me wrong. But now I'll probably go the rest of my life never dancing- in public -to all those great songs of the 80s, 90s and now. (Notice how I left the 70s out? I shouldn't have. I just had a sudden rush of memories about doing some 'dirty bumping' to disco... So there is a shameful side to sexual expression to a beat.)

Remember all the yearning that would build up prior to a dance and then you'd go pick up your date and there was some boobage showing and your loins would start their slow twist (which growing Mormon ended with me twisting in the wind, and not the Chubby Checkers kind of twisting) and then there'd be a killer ballad and you'd hold her in your arms and sing (off-key) into her delicate shell-like ear, trying to let her know, through the huskiness you imparted to your voice, that she was the most desirable woman there... And her thighs would brush yours and you'd wonder what she was thinking about the banana in your pocket...

Dancing at weddings (why don't we dance at funerals?) with someone you've watched delivering your offspring somehow just isn't the same, yearnings-wise. So I guess it's just an instance of a part of your youth you can never recapture, except in a blog.

Ladies, was there ever a guy who did sing on key into your delicate shell-like ear?

He's gone, green.

Why the comma, you ask? Sure, you're familiar with the concept of people going green, but there is a new surge building, that when it crests will forever change the landscape of the landscape. So in addition to people going green, people will start going, green.

Yep, within your lifetime it will come to pass that when a person dies, once the paperwork is done, the body will be wrapped up in a shroud (NFL shrouds will be popular) and taken to a dump or an approved 'recycling' center, where the shroud will be washed, ironed and resold. Humans will finally be free of the conceit that a dead human body is worthy of attention beyond the need to dispose of it.

Wakes and funerals will go the way of the Do-do, and Rememberceptions will become the rage, elaborately catered and themed. Funeral homes will be sold to drug rehab and unwed mothers businesses and ten years after the last body is buried in a cemetary, the land will be auctioned off for 'public use' purposes. (I was once auctioned off for pubic use purposes, and I still have the video...)

We'll all be a lot more healthy, mentally and the economy will benefit enormously, once we get over the fixation we have on spending vast sums of money on empty, useless husks.

I expect that many of you will now add a codicil to your Wills, the soon to be famous "Green Me" instruction. You'll soon be able to download it from LegalZoom.

The Lie; humanity's answer to a harsh reality.

Many, many people making a living from religion are on record as being against 'lying.' Which when you look it the situation without a bias is like being against the tide, or breathing. Lying is a function of controlling your environment, which is what being a human being is all about. Notice how "being" is a recurrent theme?

I was always impressed by what I thought of as a mature point of view in the Ten Commandments. Here is the exact (King James) wording of the ninth commandment:

Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.

Those who practice rote religion take this as meaning Thou shalt not lie. But that's not what the clear text meaning is! Reverse the negatives:

Thou shalt bear false witness against not thy neighbor.

See? The Lord thy God is crystal clear: Take care of your neighbors, and do whatever is necessary to take advantage of those not your neighbors. So what becomes crucial isn't whether we should lie or not, but to whom we are allowed to lie, by a just and benevolent (and really With It) God.

Could you go a day (and a night) without lying? Maybe if you were really, really sick and confined to your bed. But anyone who leaves the house in the morning to walk among men - - as well as men's complimentary gender, women - - is going to tell a probably uncountable number of lies. And the Lord is cool with that, just as long as it's not to bear false witness against thy neighbor.

Just thought you'd like to know...

All Seriousness aside, what are you going to do about ...?

Jokingly, all seriousness aside, what are you going to do about the cost of Spackle?

My wife asked me this this morning, after she pushed my head through some, fortunately, thin drywall, when I confessed that I'd forgotten that it was our wedding anniversary.

At the emergency room I passed the drywall dust in my hair off as dandruff, and the three inch laceration as the result of the "itch of psoriasis. The nurse-practitioner winked at my wife and said, "yeah, we see a lot of that on anniversaries."

Yep, been married now 24 years. We got married exactly six months to the day after we met. We'd spoken on the phone a couple of times (she ran a sex chat phone line) and I really liked the way she could describe making love at the edge of a cliff, and then making me believe we'd fallen off. What a rush!

I pulled up in my 1979 Nissan 280z (I used to be a cliché [from the french, to tickle a clit]) and she was standing out in front of her office. She was a total vision in a pumpkin colored blouse and multi-colored lederhosen (from the Canadian, to straighten a hose).

I was only expecting lunch, but she coyly let it drop that she'd taken the rest of the day off, and if I had $200 in cash, she would take me to her apartment and do things to me that I didn't even know could be done. Droolingly I agreed and she gave me direction to her apartment and when we got there, she gave me a pedicure. Who knew!!

Later my car would be towed for parking in a handicap zone under construction. But it didn't matter, I was in love... And to this day, she is still ledering my hosen.

Idea for a porno...

There's this website, see, that if a female over the age of consent (12, in Utah & Mississippi) clicks on the URL when she's in the ovulation-phase of her menses, she ends up pregnant.

I don't exactly know how to get the requisite porno scenes/positions into the film, but the premise is a sure fire winner, reaching out as it does to the X, Y & P generations, marrying sex and the cyber arts.

The P Generation? It's shorthand for "baby boomers"... The P stands for prostate.

The Iowa Cacas...

The implication offered by the title is lost on those without at least rudimentary Spanish. Or maybe it's a case of national slang? Maybe only people from Mexico would know that when you say you have to go to the bathroom, it's either to go p-p or caca.

About the Iowa Cacas: There are more people living in just Orange County, CA than live in all of Iowa. And of all those living in Iowa, what tiny percentage do you think will take advantage of the free baby sitting and free snow removal to attend a local cacas? (I hope there is at least one couple who takes up some candidate's offer of free baby-sitting and then just goes to dinner and a movie...)

I don't fault the system, after all, it simply evolved to meet a need, much like the male penis. Think of all the problems caused by the male penis, almost all of which could be avoided if women didn't have hootchie-coos. (I can't bring myself to type the monologue word, fearing, like those afraid of Lord Voldemort, that saying its name might conjure the beast!)

So am I saying that our system for selecting Presidential candidates is like sex? Well, yeah! Everything is like/about sex. And as with actual sex, things often get sick and twisted. Uh-huh... You know who you are.

2008: An ordinary year

While it does have some cachet in its Leap-Yearedness, 2008 is an ordinary year. At least when you compare it to prime years. Remember when you were 17? Now that was a prime year, eh?

So let's all enjoy 2008 in it plodding ordinary leap-yearedness. Have fun, take care of yourself, and do what you need to do to get ready for 2009, which is a Prime Year, divisible only by 1 and itself.

If I were prone to making things up for religious purposes, I would foment a rumor that bible scholars all agree that the Second Coming of Jesus will be on a prime day of a prime year. I'd tell people that 2009 has 365 days and all you have to do is identify the prime numbers between 1 and 365 and you'd have a leg up on everyone else on which day during 2009 Jesus would be returning.

Remember, you heard it here first.