It's been a long time since I've blogged...busy holiday season, a long bout of illness, and everyday life seemed to preclude writing here.
But, now I'm back. And I have to tell you about an addict that lives in my house.
My wife is a techno-phobe. She can't run a VCR, can barely run a dvd player, and when it comes to computers...let's just say that she knows what a mouse is, but that's about it.
We got a new laptop computer for Christmas. I got it for her, mainly so that she could play games in the living room, or look up the occasional thing on the 'net if she wanted to without bothering me. What I didn't bet on was the World of Warcraft.
We have some friends who have existed in WOW for several years, and we've heard talk of it from them over those years. I was intrigued, having played the original Warcraft games many years ago. But I didn't realize just how much different this game was from the originals until we set up an account for online play about a month ago.
I hopped right into it, having played a variety of video games over the years. My wife was more hesitant, since she was still somewhat cowed by using the computer. Then she set up a character, and our life has not been the same since.
She sits for hours at a time, playing WOW, cussing out the evil characters, and calling out to me for help. 3, 4, 5 hours a day she spends taking her character on quests...and when she's not playing the game, she's talking about it.
Asking questions, relating experiences, are all ways to learn and grow--in real life. WOW is the next best thing, but it seems to have taken over her life. I limit myself to a couple of 30-45 minute sessions a day (usually), and can always find something else to do and talk about.
She can't. She is addicted.
But, now she knows how to use a mouse...sort of. And she can maneuver around the World of Warcraft without my help...mostly. Is this a bad thing?
The following months will tell me if this is so. In the meantime, lookout for Jazmeenaa--she's a level 23 mage with a helluva fire bolt.
And so it goes...
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
A New Lease on Life
There comes a time in every person's life when he or she must make a decision that can, ultimately, be life-altering.
On October 13, 2007, I made one such decision. I quit smoking.
This was prompted by a number of reasons. I'd like to say that foremost among them was the fact that I wanted to live many more (and healthier) years with my wife, or that seeing my children and grandchildren come of age was paramount; however, I'd be lying.
The main reason I quit smoking is because I was scared. Not the creepy chill you get when you watch a horror movie, or the thrill that you feel cheating death on a rollercoaster. No, this was outright terror of the sweaty palmed, trapped in a corner kind.
You see, while running some tests for another reason, it came to the attention of my physicians that there was an "anomalous spot" about the size and shape of my thumb in the upper part of my left lung. They didn't say so, but the speed with which they got me in to see a pulmonologist (lung specialist) seemed to spell the big "C" to me.
To make a long story short...a month later, and many more tests completed, and I've been given a positive outlook for my lungs. My blood pressure is perfect, my heart seems healthy, and I don't have any lung disease.
But I'm still overweight and forty-eight...but working on the first, and resigned to the second.
And, as of today, I've been smoke-free for thirty-one days. With, hopefully, a nice long life to look forward to being a recovering smoker.
And so it goes...
On October 13, 2007, I made one such decision. I quit smoking.
This was prompted by a number of reasons. I'd like to say that foremost among them was the fact that I wanted to live many more (and healthier) years with my wife, or that seeing my children and grandchildren come of age was paramount; however, I'd be lying.
The main reason I quit smoking is because I was scared. Not the creepy chill you get when you watch a horror movie, or the thrill that you feel cheating death on a rollercoaster. No, this was outright terror of the sweaty palmed, trapped in a corner kind.
You see, while running some tests for another reason, it came to the attention of my physicians that there was an "anomalous spot" about the size and shape of my thumb in the upper part of my left lung. They didn't say so, but the speed with which they got me in to see a pulmonologist (lung specialist) seemed to spell the big "C" to me.
To make a long story short...a month later, and many more tests completed, and I've been given a positive outlook for my lungs. My blood pressure is perfect, my heart seems healthy, and I don't have any lung disease.
But I'm still overweight and forty-eight...but working on the first, and resigned to the second.
And, as of today, I've been smoke-free for thirty-one days. With, hopefully, a nice long life to look forward to being a recovering smoker.
And so it goes...
Monday, October 08, 2007
Time Flies
Yes, time flies, and times they are a changin'.
I was having a discussion last night about how things have changed just in the last ten years or so--and that led to a discussion about how things were when I was a kid.
Watching a movie: A man is walking down a busy rural road, and a woman stops to offer him a ride. Can you imagine that happening today? If someone sticks their thumb out, most people roll up their windows and accelerate past them, and pretend that they don't feel guilty for pre-judging the hitcher. Granted, even ten years ago, hitching was dangerous--either for the hitcher, or the driver. Thirty years ago, when I did most of my own hitching, I had a couple of scary experiences with drivers. But I (and others like me) continued to hitch. Today, it's easier to just walk. Trying to hitch will either prove frustrating, get you run down, or if you do get picked up, might just end with you rotting in a remote ditch somewhere.
Locking the doors of your house used to be reserved for times when you were going to be gone for several hours or overnight. In this day and age, however, many people double-lock their doors when they're home--and if they go anywhere besides the nearest convenience store, it's double locks and the security system for their house.
Do the above sound like paranoia? Maybe. But it is paranoia based upon personal experience, as well as what can be gleaned from the news.
And whatever you do, don't call the police. As yesterday's news tells us, even they can't be trusted. When a sheriff's deputy goes into jealous rage and kills six people at a house party, God forbid that we call upon that department for something serious.
It's probably best that you just forget the "good old days." Telling your kids about it justs frustrates and angers them; and remembering those days with nostalgia just makes you less satisfied with your own daily life.
Lock your doors, load your guns, and don't leave your house unless you have to--the Huns are at the gate, and it's ready to give way.
And so it goes...
I was having a discussion last night about how things have changed just in the last ten years or so--and that led to a discussion about how things were when I was a kid.
Watching a movie: A man is walking down a busy rural road, and a woman stops to offer him a ride. Can you imagine that happening today? If someone sticks their thumb out, most people roll up their windows and accelerate past them, and pretend that they don't feel guilty for pre-judging the hitcher. Granted, even ten years ago, hitching was dangerous--either for the hitcher, or the driver. Thirty years ago, when I did most of my own hitching, I had a couple of scary experiences with drivers. But I (and others like me) continued to hitch. Today, it's easier to just walk. Trying to hitch will either prove frustrating, get you run down, or if you do get picked up, might just end with you rotting in a remote ditch somewhere.
Locking the doors of your house used to be reserved for times when you were going to be gone for several hours or overnight. In this day and age, however, many people double-lock their doors when they're home--and if they go anywhere besides the nearest convenience store, it's double locks and the security system for their house.
Do the above sound like paranoia? Maybe. But it is paranoia based upon personal experience, as well as what can be gleaned from the news.
And whatever you do, don't call the police. As yesterday's news tells us, even they can't be trusted. When a sheriff's deputy goes into jealous rage and kills six people at a house party, God forbid that we call upon that department for something serious.
It's probably best that you just forget the "good old days." Telling your kids about it justs frustrates and angers them; and remembering those days with nostalgia just makes you less satisfied with your own daily life.
Lock your doors, load your guns, and don't leave your house unless you have to--the Huns are at the gate, and it's ready to give way.
And so it goes...
Friday, October 05, 2007
About this Blog...again.
The title is "Aimless Rambling." I think that I've managed to justify that pretty well over the years, touching on whatever happens to cross my mind when I'm at my computer and in the mood for blogging.
The subtitle is "Infrequent and aimless rants, raves, and ramblings." I definitely have the infrequent part down pat...
And so it goes...
The subtitle is "Infrequent and aimless rants, raves, and ramblings." I definitely have the infrequent part down pat...
And so it goes...
Perspective Has Changed
When I was 16, 17, 18 years old, I did what a lot of my contemporaries did: I made out with my girlfriend(s), I smoked, I drank alcohol, I smoked pot.
I drove like an idiot (which the studies say most teenage boys are until they reach their late twenties), and acted pretty much like one. I thought with my balls instead of my brain, which made for lots of fun but no clear future.
Thirty years later, I'm pretty much the same guy that I was then, except for one major change--I'm a parent.
As a parent, I wonder what my own children are doing--and with whom!
Is my daughter making out with her boyfriend--and just what liberties is he taking with my little girl. Is he taking the same liberties with her that I did with someone's little girl so long ago? The thought makes me shudder, and reach for the shotgun.
Is my son taking similar liberties with another man's daughter? Are these the thoughts that went through my parents' minds thirty years ago?
I clearly remember my teenage and young adult years. I had a lot of fun, and I guess I want my children to have fun in their teen years, too.
But...not with my daughter!!! And son, be careful.
Holy shit. I sound like a parent. I've become my Dad...
Is this when youth is truly lost? When you realize that what you did in your youth wasn't necessarily the best choices you've ever made? And when you try to protect your children from making the same mistakes that you would have resented your parents for trying to keep you from doing?
Parental responsibility vs. youth. Do I have a choice???
And so it goes...
I drove like an idiot (which the studies say most teenage boys are until they reach their late twenties), and acted pretty much like one. I thought with my balls instead of my brain, which made for lots of fun but no clear future.
Thirty years later, I'm pretty much the same guy that I was then, except for one major change--I'm a parent.
As a parent, I wonder what my own children are doing--and with whom!
Is my daughter making out with her boyfriend--and just what liberties is he taking with my little girl. Is he taking the same liberties with her that I did with someone's little girl so long ago? The thought makes me shudder, and reach for the shotgun.
Is my son taking similar liberties with another man's daughter? Are these the thoughts that went through my parents' minds thirty years ago?
I clearly remember my teenage and young adult years. I had a lot of fun, and I guess I want my children to have fun in their teen years, too.
But...not with my daughter!!! And son, be careful.
Holy shit. I sound like a parent. I've become my Dad...
Is this when youth is truly lost? When you realize that what you did in your youth wasn't necessarily the best choices you've ever made? And when you try to protect your children from making the same mistakes that you would have resented your parents for trying to keep you from doing?
Parental responsibility vs. youth. Do I have a choice???
And so it goes...
Betrayed
My body is betraying me.
At 48 years old, I'm experiencing random episodes of temporary paralysis (both my arms), my right upper back is killing me due to an ill-resolved issue stemming from about 1990, my hands are afflicted with moderate arthritis, my knees are wrecked, I'm too heavy by about 60 pounds, and I'm going bald.
If I left anything out, it's either an oversight on my part or senile dementia. At this point I'm not sure. All I do know for sure is that if I was offered the chance for an eighteen year old clone body for my brain to be transplanted into, I'd jump at the chance.
Ah, to be that young again! To greet each morning with energy and vitality; to be able to run and jump without fear of my knees popping out of their sockets or my lungs and heart giving out on me.
To be young again would make me appreciate it so much more than my first time around.
But how would I explain to my kids that now I'm the same age as they are? How would that affect the parent-child relationship? Would we even be friends?
Perhaps it's better this way, but I'm not sure that I like it. I've aged quite enough, thank you--I'm done now.
And so it goes...
At 48 years old, I'm experiencing random episodes of temporary paralysis (both my arms), my right upper back is killing me due to an ill-resolved issue stemming from about 1990, my hands are afflicted with moderate arthritis, my knees are wrecked, I'm too heavy by about 60 pounds, and I'm going bald.
If I left anything out, it's either an oversight on my part or senile dementia. At this point I'm not sure. All I do know for sure is that if I was offered the chance for an eighteen year old clone body for my brain to be transplanted into, I'd jump at the chance.
Ah, to be that young again! To greet each morning with energy and vitality; to be able to run and jump without fear of my knees popping out of their sockets or my lungs and heart giving out on me.
To be young again would make me appreciate it so much more than my first time around.
But how would I explain to my kids that now I'm the same age as they are? How would that affect the parent-child relationship? Would we even be friends?
Perhaps it's better this way, but I'm not sure that I like it. I've aged quite enough, thank you--I'm done now.
And so it goes...
To Blog or Not to Blog...That is the Question
Today, I was berated for not blogging enough--to wit, I was asked, "[Is] nothing going on in the world worth writing about?"
Of course there is. I could write about the problems I'm having with my teenage daughter. I could write about my son's soccer games, and his growth into manhood. I could write about the health problems that I'm experiencing right now--the ones that have me concerned about my immediate future, as well as the future of my family.
I could write about the accident that destroyed our favorite convertible, but harmed no one. I could blog about the state of affairs in the world.
Or I can do what I do on a daily basis: I deal with my daughter one day at a time, and help to guide her into adulthood with a sense of responsibility. I attend soccer games that my son plays in, and try to squeeze in a couple of hours of quality time with him in between his practices, his games, his schoolwork, and his life. I go to my doctor appointments, follow my doctor's advice, and try not to worry about my health any more than I need to. I deal with insurance companies, finance companies, and car dealers. I read the paper and watch the news, and worry about the world that my children are growing up into--the one that my lonely little blog will not affect in the slightest.
In short, I live my life--full and rich, fraught with daily problems, dilemnas, small happinesses and large disappointments. And if I think at all about blogging, it's a passing thought.
And one that I sometimes--but obviously not often enough--take the time to put into words.
And so it goes...
Of course there is. I could write about the problems I'm having with my teenage daughter. I could write about my son's soccer games, and his growth into manhood. I could write about the health problems that I'm experiencing right now--the ones that have me concerned about my immediate future, as well as the future of my family.
I could write about the accident that destroyed our favorite convertible, but harmed no one. I could blog about the state of affairs in the world.
Or I can do what I do on a daily basis: I deal with my daughter one day at a time, and help to guide her into adulthood with a sense of responsibility. I attend soccer games that my son plays in, and try to squeeze in a couple of hours of quality time with him in between his practices, his games, his schoolwork, and his life. I go to my doctor appointments, follow my doctor's advice, and try not to worry about my health any more than I need to. I deal with insurance companies, finance companies, and car dealers. I read the paper and watch the news, and worry about the world that my children are growing up into--the one that my lonely little blog will not affect in the slightest.
In short, I live my life--full and rich, fraught with daily problems, dilemnas, small happinesses and large disappointments. And if I think at all about blogging, it's a passing thought.
And one that I sometimes--but obviously not often enough--take the time to put into words.
And so it goes...
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Thirty Years...and Still Counting
It's been thirty years since I graduated high school...and today is my thirty year reunion. I could go--but I'm not. It's only about an hour drive to get there, but it doesn't start until 3 p.m.--and I have to work tonight.
Yeah, I could put in an appearance, but is there anyone there that I really want to see? I haven't seen any of my old classmates since my fifteen year reunion, and I was a very different person then. Different wife, different life, younger, thinner, and more prepared for the changes in my classmates.
I only went to the school for my senior year. The friends I made then were temporary at best (except Jean! Always Jean!).
There will be another reunion another year, perhaps. Maybe I'll make that one, if only just to see all of the old people that we have become.
Until then, my memories are intact...and perhaps that's the way they should stay--just memories.
And so it goes...
Yeah, I could put in an appearance, but is there anyone there that I really want to see? I haven't seen any of my old classmates since my fifteen year reunion, and I was a very different person then. Different wife, different life, younger, thinner, and more prepared for the changes in my classmates.
I only went to the school for my senior year. The friends I made then were temporary at best (except Jean! Always Jean!).
There will be another reunion another year, perhaps. Maybe I'll make that one, if only just to see all of the old people that we have become.
Until then, my memories are intact...and perhaps that's the way they should stay--just memories.
And so it goes...
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
GONE SOUTH
Way back at the dawn of time (the Fall of 1999, to be exact), my family and I went on a trip of a lifetime--we spent nine days in Orlando, Florida, taking in the Disney Parks and Sea World.
Well, it seems that the "trip of a lifetime" can be done twice...but the differences are remarkable the second time around.
The first trip that we made was fun, but whirlwind. My son was just eight years old, and my daughter not quite ten--and their sense of wonder and fun made the trip fun for me, even though my tolerance for crowds and amusement parks is somewhat limited. But this was DISNEY, and that made all the difference.
My daughter went on her first "upside-down" rollercoaster there--Aerosmith's Rockin' Rollercoaster--and many of the other rides and attractions were of a unique nature not found at our 'local' amusement park, Six Flag's Great America. We even rode the "teacups" at Magic Kingdom, just to say that we had :-)
Eight years later, and there had been many changes to the parks, and we went to the Universal Studios parks this time, as well. But the most significant changes weren't in the parks, but in us.
I am eight years older. At forty, the parks were fun, but I was worn out at the end of the vacation. At forty-eight, the fun was mostly gone, and I was worn out after the first day. But I made the most of it, since it cost me an arm, a leg, and other body parts I can't mention to take us to Orlando for two full weeks.
My wife is a big kid. She loves the parks, the people, and the souvenirs. She laughs and thrills to the most silly and child-like of the attractions, and pouts like a baby when she can't get something that she wants. Sometimes I think these trips are all about her...but she tries to make things fun for all of us.
My kids are jaded. They have lost their sense of wonder, and want instant gratification in the place of fun. My son still thrills to a good ride, but thinks that anything with a Disney character theme is too "kiddish." My daughter just doesn't seem to enjoy anything that doesn't involve her car or her cell phone.
But this was the last big vacation that we'll be able to take as a family--at least for a long time--and we wanted to make it memorable. I took about 500 pictures, a bunch of 'coaster videos, and we finally saw the Magic Kingdom's fireworks (they were rained out in '99).
So, all things considered, it was worth the money, the headaches, and the taking off of shoes in the airport security checkpoint.
But time keeps on keepin' on, and when all is said and done, all we have of our trip are some souvenirs, some photos, and some memories. I hope that for all of us, they are good ones.
And so it goes...
Well, it seems that the "trip of a lifetime" can be done twice...but the differences are remarkable the second time around.
The first trip that we made was fun, but whirlwind. My son was just eight years old, and my daughter not quite ten--and their sense of wonder and fun made the trip fun for me, even though my tolerance for crowds and amusement parks is somewhat limited. But this was DISNEY, and that made all the difference.
My daughter went on her first "upside-down" rollercoaster there--Aerosmith's Rockin' Rollercoaster--and many of the other rides and attractions were of a unique nature not found at our 'local' amusement park, Six Flag's Great America. We even rode the "teacups" at Magic Kingdom, just to say that we had :-)
Eight years later, and there had been many changes to the parks, and we went to the Universal Studios parks this time, as well. But the most significant changes weren't in the parks, but in us.
I am eight years older. At forty, the parks were fun, but I was worn out at the end of the vacation. At forty-eight, the fun was mostly gone, and I was worn out after the first day. But I made the most of it, since it cost me an arm, a leg, and other body parts I can't mention to take us to Orlando for two full weeks.
My wife is a big kid. She loves the parks, the people, and the souvenirs. She laughs and thrills to the most silly and child-like of the attractions, and pouts like a baby when she can't get something that she wants. Sometimes I think these trips are all about her...but she tries to make things fun for all of us.
My kids are jaded. They have lost their sense of wonder, and want instant gratification in the place of fun. My son still thrills to a good ride, but thinks that anything with a Disney character theme is too "kiddish." My daughter just doesn't seem to enjoy anything that doesn't involve her car or her cell phone.
But this was the last big vacation that we'll be able to take as a family--at least for a long time--and we wanted to make it memorable. I took about 500 pictures, a bunch of 'coaster videos, and we finally saw the Magic Kingdom's fireworks (they were rained out in '99).
So, all things considered, it was worth the money, the headaches, and the taking off of shoes in the airport security checkpoint.
But time keeps on keepin' on, and when all is said and done, all we have of our trip are some souvenirs, some photos, and some memories. I hope that for all of us, they are good ones.
And so it goes...
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Why Do You Bother?
I just read my last two posts. Am I always this depressingly philosophical? Do I try to rationalize life and existence--and if so, to whom? You? Me?
Just once I wish I could write something a bit more upbeat. I guess I could if I tried; but trying takes effort, and lately I've been too sick to breathe, let alone blog.
Tune in next time. We'll see what happens, you and I.
And so it goes...
Just once I wish I could write something a bit more upbeat. I guess I could if I tried; but trying takes effort, and lately I've been too sick to breathe, let alone blog.
Tune in next time. We'll see what happens, you and I.
And so it goes...
As the Years Fly By
I don't remember getting old. What I do remember is the journey here.
Little things crop up in my memory every once in a while that make it evident that while I may not really be old, I've taken a long time to get where and when I am. For instance, the other day when I mentioned to my friend that this May will mark the thirtieth anniversary of my high school graduation, she smiled, chuckled, and said, "Oh. That's when I was two." Long journey for me, not so long for her.
When I think about my children, I can remember holding them in my arms for the first time, changing their diapers, feeding and caring for them, watching them take their first hesitant steps, and the like. Now my eldest is twenty-six with two growing children of their own; my second eldest is a year from graduation, driving everywhere, and holding down a job; and my youngest is a high-school letterman, only months from getting his driver's license, and about to celebrate his two-year anniversary with his girlfriend.
Where does the time go? Are there only so many minutes in the day that we can spend making memories? Are the highs and lows all that remain at the end of the road? And if so, why don't we take more time to make more memories? Is it because when all is said and done, memories are as painful as they are poignant, as fleeting as the time spent making them?
What all this boils down to is this: For me, life is just too damn short! I don't want to live to be seventy or eighty and have only my memories to sustain me in the end. I want to continue to make memories, those bright shiny coins that we are paid for living a rich life.
I just want more time. I look back over the last few days, and I see so much time wasted doing things that really don't matter a helluva lot in the grand scheme of my life. But the daily grind sometimes makes it all seem so pointless, so useless, that coming up with the energy to do something real seems impossible.
As a sidenote to this: I guess part of me longs for immortality. That being said, and given the apparent improbability of that happening, the only alternative is for me to become embedded in the memories of others. Let me become the thoughts that make them smile occasionally; let me be the person they think of and heave a deep sigh; let me be the one who did something so significant in someone's life that they'll never forget me.
Tick tock. Tick tock. There goes another wasted minute, and here I am moaning about it to whoever reads this.
Make a memory. Make a difference.
Like "Tuck" said in Tuck Everlasting, "Don't fear death. Rather, fear the un-lived life."
And so it goes...
Little things crop up in my memory every once in a while that make it evident that while I may not really be old, I've taken a long time to get where and when I am. For instance, the other day when I mentioned to my friend that this May will mark the thirtieth anniversary of my high school graduation, she smiled, chuckled, and said, "Oh. That's when I was two." Long journey for me, not so long for her.
When I think about my children, I can remember holding them in my arms for the first time, changing their diapers, feeding and caring for them, watching them take their first hesitant steps, and the like. Now my eldest is twenty-six with two growing children of their own; my second eldest is a year from graduation, driving everywhere, and holding down a job; and my youngest is a high-school letterman, only months from getting his driver's license, and about to celebrate his two-year anniversary with his girlfriend.
Where does the time go? Are there only so many minutes in the day that we can spend making memories? Are the highs and lows all that remain at the end of the road? And if so, why don't we take more time to make more memories? Is it because when all is said and done, memories are as painful as they are poignant, as fleeting as the time spent making them?
What all this boils down to is this: For me, life is just too damn short! I don't want to live to be seventy or eighty and have only my memories to sustain me in the end. I want to continue to make memories, those bright shiny coins that we are paid for living a rich life.
I just want more time. I look back over the last few days, and I see so much time wasted doing things that really don't matter a helluva lot in the grand scheme of my life. But the daily grind sometimes makes it all seem so pointless, so useless, that coming up with the energy to do something real seems impossible.
As a sidenote to this: I guess part of me longs for immortality. That being said, and given the apparent improbability of that happening, the only alternative is for me to become embedded in the memories of others. Let me become the thoughts that make them smile occasionally; let me be the person they think of and heave a deep sigh; let me be the one who did something so significant in someone's life that they'll never forget me.
Tick tock. Tick tock. There goes another wasted minute, and here I am moaning about it to whoever reads this.
Make a memory. Make a difference.
Like "Tuck" said in Tuck Everlasting, "Don't fear death. Rather, fear the un-lived life."
And so it goes...
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Now is the Time
We have today. That is all that we have.
Tomorrow is not yet here, and we have no assurances that it will ever come. Yesterday is gone, and while it may be remembered with nostalgia, it is forever past.
Hang on to the now for its fleeting moments, for they, too, will soon become yesterday. Do things today that will enhance the chance of tomorrow.
Live in the now. Before you know it, your past will be richer and longer than your future, but looking back is no way to live.
Look around, smell the roses, hug your kids, love your spouse, rake the lawn, close your eyes and face the warmth of the sun, cook a meal--all the things that make living worthwhile.
And while you're at it, breathe deeply, and enjoy life.
And so it goes...
Tomorrow is not yet here, and we have no assurances that it will ever come. Yesterday is gone, and while it may be remembered with nostalgia, it is forever past.
Hang on to the now for its fleeting moments, for they, too, will soon become yesterday. Do things today that will enhance the chance of tomorrow.
Live in the now. Before you know it, your past will be richer and longer than your future, but looking back is no way to live.
Look around, smell the roses, hug your kids, love your spouse, rake the lawn, close your eyes and face the warmth of the sun, cook a meal--all the things that make living worthwhile.
And while you're at it, breathe deeply, and enjoy life.
And so it goes...
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Wouldya? Couldya?
If I had it all to do over again, would I? Would you?
Take a look at your life--not just where you are today, but where you were in all of your yesterdays, and how they brought you to this point in your life. Is there anything you would change--and if so, how would that change affect the rest of your life?
I look back on what I have done over the years, who I have known, and all of the friends that I have made and lost in my life. What would I change?
Would I change moving to Texas in 1977 (a major crux in my life); would I change the breakup with my girlfriend that just sort-of happened just prior to that? Would I not move to Oshkosh in 1978, and all that happened because of that move?
Would I not meet and marry my first wife, and consequently not have my oldest daughter or my grandchildren? And because of that, would I not end up in Janesville with my second wife, and my two younger children?
Would I miss any of it if it had not happened? Would I know???
It would be interesting if we could spark up the old WhatIf machine, and just take a peek at our lives...but in the time that would take, we would use up our present lives just watching the past.
I guess that it's best to just live our lives, put the past to rest, and try to make the best of where we are today.
After all, we're the ones who got us here--even if we would wish otherwise.
And so it goes...
Take a look at your life--not just where you are today, but where you were in all of your yesterdays, and how they brought you to this point in your life. Is there anything you would change--and if so, how would that change affect the rest of your life?
I look back on what I have done over the years, who I have known, and all of the friends that I have made and lost in my life. What would I change?
Would I change moving to Texas in 1977 (a major crux in my life); would I change the breakup with my girlfriend that just sort-of happened just prior to that? Would I not move to Oshkosh in 1978, and all that happened because of that move?
Would I not meet and marry my first wife, and consequently not have my oldest daughter or my grandchildren? And because of that, would I not end up in Janesville with my second wife, and my two younger children?
Would I miss any of it if it had not happened? Would I know???
It would be interesting if we could spark up the old WhatIf machine, and just take a peek at our lives...but in the time that would take, we would use up our present lives just watching the past.
I guess that it's best to just live our lives, put the past to rest, and try to make the best of where we are today.
After all, we're the ones who got us here--even if we would wish otherwise.
And so it goes...
Saturday, January 20, 2007
The Way I Was
Something about nostalgia makes me feel like a junkie who wants to quit, but keeps going back. What nostalgia does for me is something akin to what that junkie must feel: a need for it, but when you get it, it makes you wish you hadn't.
Nostalgia for me is a way of remembering my past. But hindsight has its bad points, too--like pointing out just how far back you can remember...and how much less you have ahead of you.
For me, it's a mixed thrill. I find that I keep going back to that well more and more all the time, even though I know that one day I will fall down that deep hole in the ground, and that's it--game over, end of story, finito.
And what will happen to my nostalgia when I'm no longer around to remember? Gone, like dust in the wind.
So why do I bother? Because someone has to. And it might as well be me.
Besides, if I share some of it with others, and they share it with others, etc., then a little bit of what I did might outlive me.
And that, my friend, is all the immortality we get.
Remember. Share those memories. Take pictures. GET THE WORD OUT!
You only get one trip around the block, so make it memorable.
And if I bring out a photo album or show you home movies when you come over, don't bitch at me--or I just might throw you out on your ass.
Wouldn't that make for a great memory? WHERE'S MY CAMERA???
And so it goes...
Nostalgia for me is a way of remembering my past. But hindsight has its bad points, too--like pointing out just how far back you can remember...and how much less you have ahead of you.
For me, it's a mixed thrill. I find that I keep going back to that well more and more all the time, even though I know that one day I will fall down that deep hole in the ground, and that's it--game over, end of story, finito.
And what will happen to my nostalgia when I'm no longer around to remember? Gone, like dust in the wind.
So why do I bother? Because someone has to. And it might as well be me.
Besides, if I share some of it with others, and they share it with others, etc., then a little bit of what I did might outlive me.
And that, my friend, is all the immortality we get.
Remember. Share those memories. Take pictures. GET THE WORD OUT!
You only get one trip around the block, so make it memorable.
And if I bring out a photo album or show you home movies when you come over, don't bitch at me--or I just might throw you out on your ass.
Wouldn't that make for a great memory? WHERE'S MY CAMERA???
And so it goes...
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Whistle While You Work...and Talk...and Sleep...
I have tinnitus. For those of you who are not familiar with this condition, it is a hearing condition that can be brought on by a host of reasons; but the reasons are really unimportant. What is important is the symptoms.
In my case, the tinnitus causes a loud, whistling sound that seems to be in my left ear, but pervades the whole of my inner head (subjectively). For a better demonstration of what I go through 24 hours a day, take an old teapot--the kind that whistles when the water's boiling. Set it to boiling. When it is whistling at its best and loudest, put your left ear approximately a foot away from it. Hold it there until the water is gone and the whistling stops. Then repeat. And repeat. And repeat.
Now, while you're doing this experiment, try to do something for which hearing is useful. Like watching television. Or holding a conversation.
After 8-10 hours of this, try to sleep with the teapot whistling near your ear. Make sure that someone is there to change the water every hour or thereabout, so that you can get the full effect of my tinnitus.
Now you know why I can't sleep. At least in part.
My wife says, "go see a doctor." I say, "whatever."
But you know (and I will deny ever having said this), this time she might just be right.
And so it goes...
In my case, the tinnitus causes a loud, whistling sound that seems to be in my left ear, but pervades the whole of my inner head (subjectively). For a better demonstration of what I go through 24 hours a day, take an old teapot--the kind that whistles when the water's boiling. Set it to boiling. When it is whistling at its best and loudest, put your left ear approximately a foot away from it. Hold it there until the water is gone and the whistling stops. Then repeat. And repeat. And repeat.
Now, while you're doing this experiment, try to do something for which hearing is useful. Like watching television. Or holding a conversation.
After 8-10 hours of this, try to sleep with the teapot whistling near your ear. Make sure that someone is there to change the water every hour or thereabout, so that you can get the full effect of my tinnitus.
Now you know why I can't sleep. At least in part.
My wife says, "go see a doctor." I say, "whatever."
But you know (and I will deny ever having said this), this time she might just be right.
And so it goes...
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Hours with My Eyes Closed
Today is Saturday. I have not slept since Tuesday past.
My mind races, and I desperately try to sleep, but something keeps me awake. I'd like to say that in its race, my mind is working on something amazing, but in reality, all I hear from my mind is the 'wahwah' of Charlie Brown's parents. Sound without meaning. Or maybe I just can't translate it.
Maybe that nasty wahwah is my brain's way of saying, "Get some sleep, idiot!"
I wish I could.
Today I will try again, with the help of some peace and quiet, a cup of Sleepytime tea, and a dose of full strength, drowsy-type Benadryl.
If I don't sleep soon, I may have to seek medical attention. After all, at my age and in my health, I'm a prime candidate for a heart attack or stroke if I don't get some rest. This old body can only keep going at this pace for a little while longer before I literally crash.
So...now I lay me down to sleep, I hope my rest is dark and deep...
And so it goes...
My mind races, and I desperately try to sleep, but something keeps me awake. I'd like to say that in its race, my mind is working on something amazing, but in reality, all I hear from my mind is the 'wahwah' of Charlie Brown's parents. Sound without meaning. Or maybe I just can't translate it.
Maybe that nasty wahwah is my brain's way of saying, "Get some sleep, idiot!"
I wish I could.
Today I will try again, with the help of some peace and quiet, a cup of Sleepytime tea, and a dose of full strength, drowsy-type Benadryl.
If I don't sleep soon, I may have to seek medical attention. After all, at my age and in my health, I'm a prime candidate for a heart attack or stroke if I don't get some rest. This old body can only keep going at this pace for a little while longer before I literally crash.
So...now I lay me down to sleep, I hope my rest is dark and deep...
And so it goes...
You Can Never Go Back...
I drove into the town of 3000 or so people, and the streets looked familiar to me, even though I hadn't been down them in nearly thirty years. Some things had changed, too; I wasn't sure what, at first, but then it struck me. While I had aged thirty years, the little town had aged, too.
The streets were still laid out like I remembered, but the faces had changed. Not the faces of the people, though if I'd seen anyone from the 'old days', I'm not sure that I would have recognized them. Rather, it was the face of the town that had changed. More worn and rundown than I recalled, with many of the once familiar signs changed to different names, different things.
Gone was Burn's Hardware. The sign on the Bridge Lounge was faded and nearly illegible, and I found out later that it had not been open in years. Where once a small, red pole barn sat on the site of the original Trek Bicycle works, now there were several huge warehouses, squatting like an ugly, cancerous blight in what had once been a neighborhood.
I drove past the house in which I had lived for a couple of years, and was dismayed to see the paint peeling on the drab remnant of what had once been a house filled with the town's history. Gone from in front of the house was the old coachstone that had borne the name of one of the town's founding fathers. Gone were many of the old trees that had once shaded the sidewalks and lent a homey atmosphere to the area. Gone was the feeling of neighborhood.
I drove around the town for as long as I could stand it--a mere fifteen or twenty minutes--but long enough to let me see most of the town. So much looked the same, yet so much had changed.
My old home town had the look of a woman who, in her youth, was pretty and bright and polished. But that young woman has long since come of age, and in her declining years she has lost what beauty that youth gave her, and in place of that shiny penny, all that is left now is a tarnished and dying husk.
They say that you can never go back. I guess, in the end, they're right. Memories make such attempts bittersweet at best; at its worst, nostalgia just makes us feel old.
And so it goes...
The streets were still laid out like I remembered, but the faces had changed. Not the faces of the people, though if I'd seen anyone from the 'old days', I'm not sure that I would have recognized them. Rather, it was the face of the town that had changed. More worn and rundown than I recalled, with many of the once familiar signs changed to different names, different things.
Gone was Burn's Hardware. The sign on the Bridge Lounge was faded and nearly illegible, and I found out later that it had not been open in years. Where once a small, red pole barn sat on the site of the original Trek Bicycle works, now there were several huge warehouses, squatting like an ugly, cancerous blight in what had once been a neighborhood.
I drove past the house in which I had lived for a couple of years, and was dismayed to see the paint peeling on the drab remnant of what had once been a house filled with the town's history. Gone from in front of the house was the old coachstone that had borne the name of one of the town's founding fathers. Gone were many of the old trees that had once shaded the sidewalks and lent a homey atmosphere to the area. Gone was the feeling of neighborhood.
I drove around the town for as long as I could stand it--a mere fifteen or twenty minutes--but long enough to let me see most of the town. So much looked the same, yet so much had changed.
My old home town had the look of a woman who, in her youth, was pretty and bright and polished. But that young woman has long since come of age, and in her declining years she has lost what beauty that youth gave her, and in place of that shiny penny, all that is left now is a tarnished and dying husk.
They say that you can never go back. I guess, in the end, they're right. Memories make such attempts bittersweet at best; at its worst, nostalgia just makes us feel old.
And so it goes...
Friday, December 01, 2006
Winter is a Four-letter Word
You just have to love living in an area of the country where it can be 68°F on Wednesday, and on Friday it’s 21°F with a foot of freshly fallen snow on the ground.
Yep, you guessed it, I live in Wisconsin, the state of which it has been said: “The rest of the country has climate; Wisconsin has weather.” And so we do.
I was out mowing and raking the lawn Tuesday past, and wearing shorts, sandals, and a light sweatshirt. This morning, as I was shoveling the first four inches of snow off of my sidewalk, I was wearing jeans, boots, gloves, and a heavy wool jacket. Of course, the thirty mph winds didn’t help matters; it made it seem much colder, and turned that four inches of snow into drifts eighteen inches deep or more.
But, that’s life in Wisconsin. If I didn’t want weather, I’d live somewhere else. Like Hawaii.
Wait a second--I’d love to live in Hawaii! Black sand beaches, perfect climate, bikini clad goddesses…
All things being equal, I’d rather be beachcombing. :-)
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Native American Summer
How's that title for political correctness?
Of course, we all know that the season is referred to as "Indian Summer", but we don't want to offend our red-skinned brothers--oops! Was that not PC? Oh well. I meant to say, our brothers and sisters of Native American heritage.
No, what I really meant to say was this: Indian Summer, when we get it, is great. The temps here in southern Wisconsin are in the mid 60's today, and for November, that's something to smile about.
And if my red-skinned, Indian neighbors take offense at this, then they can just go fuck themselves.
How's that for being offending???
And so it goes...
Of course, we all know that the season is referred to as "Indian Summer", but we don't want to offend our red-skinned brothers--oops! Was that not PC? Oh well. I meant to say, our brothers and sisters of Native American heritage.
No, what I really meant to say was this: Indian Summer, when we get it, is great. The temps here in southern Wisconsin are in the mid 60's today, and for November, that's something to smile about.
And if my red-skinned, Indian neighbors take offense at this, then they can just go fuck themselves.
How's that for being offending???
And so it goes...
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Two Days Later
Hallowe'en...or All Hallow's Eve. In America, it is traditionally the day when children dress up in costumes fanciful or scary, and go knocking from door to door in hope of getting treats.
This is how it was back in the Dark Ages (the 60's and 70's--that's the 1960's and 1970's, for all you smart alecks out there!), and that's how it should be today, but...
The past few years, we've had older teenagers come to the door wearing nothing but the typical hooded sweatshirt (hoodie) with maybe a heavier jacket over it, depending on the weather. Last year, I asked one of these non-costumed goody-grubbers what he was supposed to be, and without missing a beat he said, "Troubled youth." I give him points for his quick and inventive answer, and he walked away with treats in his goody bag.
But more and more I see teens--and even younger children--out 'trick or treating' with no attempt at a costume. This year, one of the hooded goody-grubbers came to the door, my wife gave him a couple of treats (just because she didn't want our car or house egged later), and he had the gall to ask for a couple of treats for his friend, a girl who was out on the main sidewalk, uncostumed, riding a bike with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. I would have said no, but my wife gave in to her fear and intimidation.
What is happening? Everyone is out for the goodies, but they don't want to make the effort to 'earn' them by using some creativity to come up with a costume. I guess that's the way everything has become in our country--everyone wants something for nothing.
But, as the saying goes, "There ain't no such thing as a free lunch."
I can tell you this: eggs or no eggs, intimidation or not, if someone comes to my door next year sans costume, they will get a 'trick', not a treat.
So parents, you need to realize that we are losing so many traditions these days to laziness and sloth…this one’s easy to keep, so make sure that your children are costumed before they go out trick-or-treating, or keep them home.
And so it goes...
Thursday, October 26, 2006
May You Live in Interesting Times...
The title of this blog is the content of an ancient Chinese curse. "Interesting times" are just that--interesting. Doesn't mean that they're good or bad; as a matter of fact, the most interesting times are those filled with the most strife, heartache, disaster, etc.
Look at history. Does any of our history detail the daily lives of regular people? Hell, no! What our history details are the wars, the conflicts, the inventiveness, of extraordinary people, or those who lived through unusual events--in short, 'interesting times."
Well, I don't know how history will judge the times we are living in right now, and looking at the big picture, it would probably be best if history just plain forgot the last 30 years or so. But I can tell you about some tiny, insignificant things that I've noticed right in my own neighborhood that I would call 'interesting'.
For one thing, the weather. Now, we all know that the rest of the country has climate, while we here in Wisconsin get weather. That's a given. But what weather we've had!
Last year between December 2005 and March 2006, my town was hit by no less than six major thunderstorms. That may not sound exceptional to those of you who live in southern climes, but for Wisconsin to get rain, much less out-and-out T-storms in mid-winter is, at best, unusual.
And that may have a bearing on this next little bit of trivia.
In my yard, I have two sugar maple trees. One is in the front yard, and one in back. The one in the front yard is old...really old. It has a semi-hollow trunk, and about a quarter of its limbs are dead or dying. This year, it leafed up later than usual, and the little helicopter-like seed pods that usually drop in late Spring never dropped then--they were in tight little clusters on the tree all summer, never grew to more than half the size they usually do, and didn't drop from the tree until the end of September. And that's unusual.
The tree in the backyard is younger and healthier, and dropped its pods right on schedule, in late May. I've been waiting for it to turn color (usually a golden-orange) and drop its leaves, because it really sucks trying to rake those leaves up once we've had our first snowfall. But, alas, the tree [as of this writing] has still not changed color.
However, two days ago, just after dawn, I went out into the backyard to have a smoke, and almost got smothered by all of the leaves raining down from my green-leafed maple. The leaves rained down for nearly an hour, and then stopped.
The tree still looks as bright green as it did in July, but my yard is full of maple leaves. How did this happen? Where did they come from? And why hasn't my tree turned color? It's certainly gotten cold enough.
Two more oddities, and I'll let you ponder this at your leisure.
One night about two weeks ago, I was sitting out in the parking lot at work about 2 a.m. The wind was blowing from the north, and chilly. A few minutes later, the wind abruptly shifted around from the south, and of the 20 or so trees in the lot (all of the same variety), only one of them--the one in the center of the lot--dropped all of its leaves to the ground. I'm not exaggerating here--I mean every one of its leaves. But none of the other trees did more than rustle in the wind. Almost scary.
And the last thing, and I don't know if this is unique to Wisconsin or not. We have an abundance of gray squirrels in this state. Probably more of them than there are people. And they've become weird. They are not timid, and they are barking.
Not barking like a dog, but a high-pitched, guttural shrieking that is rhythmic and quite scary. I didn't even know the little suckers made noise until this year, and now it seems that they're communicating, and quite vocally at that.
Believe it...or not.
And so it goes...
Look at history. Does any of our history detail the daily lives of regular people? Hell, no! What our history details are the wars, the conflicts, the inventiveness, of extraordinary people, or those who lived through unusual events--in short, 'interesting times."
Well, I don't know how history will judge the times we are living in right now, and looking at the big picture, it would probably be best if history just plain forgot the last 30 years or so. But I can tell you about some tiny, insignificant things that I've noticed right in my own neighborhood that I would call 'interesting'.
For one thing, the weather. Now, we all know that the rest of the country has climate, while we here in Wisconsin get weather. That's a given. But what weather we've had!
Last year between December 2005 and March 2006, my town was hit by no less than six major thunderstorms. That may not sound exceptional to those of you who live in southern climes, but for Wisconsin to get rain, much less out-and-out T-storms in mid-winter is, at best, unusual.
And that may have a bearing on this next little bit of trivia.
In my yard, I have two sugar maple trees. One is in the front yard, and one in back. The one in the front yard is old...really old. It has a semi-hollow trunk, and about a quarter of its limbs are dead or dying. This year, it leafed up later than usual, and the little helicopter-like seed pods that usually drop in late Spring never dropped then--they were in tight little clusters on the tree all summer, never grew to more than half the size they usually do, and didn't drop from the tree until the end of September. And that's unusual.
The tree in the backyard is younger and healthier, and dropped its pods right on schedule, in late May. I've been waiting for it to turn color (usually a golden-orange) and drop its leaves, because it really sucks trying to rake those leaves up once we've had our first snowfall. But, alas, the tree [as of this writing] has still not changed color.
However, two days ago, just after dawn, I went out into the backyard to have a smoke, and almost got smothered by all of the leaves raining down from my green-leafed maple. The leaves rained down for nearly an hour, and then stopped.
The tree still looks as bright green as it did in July, but my yard is full of maple leaves. How did this happen? Where did they come from? And why hasn't my tree turned color? It's certainly gotten cold enough.
Two more oddities, and I'll let you ponder this at your leisure.
One night about two weeks ago, I was sitting out in the parking lot at work about 2 a.m. The wind was blowing from the north, and chilly. A few minutes later, the wind abruptly shifted around from the south, and of the 20 or so trees in the lot (all of the same variety), only one of them--the one in the center of the lot--dropped all of its leaves to the ground. I'm not exaggerating here--I mean every one of its leaves. But none of the other trees did more than rustle in the wind. Almost scary.
And the last thing, and I don't know if this is unique to Wisconsin or not. We have an abundance of gray squirrels in this state. Probably more of them than there are people. And they've become weird. They are not timid, and they are barking.
Not barking like a dog, but a high-pitched, guttural shrieking that is rhythmic and quite scary. I didn't even know the little suckers made noise until this year, and now it seems that they're communicating, and quite vocally at that.
Believe it...or not.
And so it goes...
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
The Hardest Job
Being a parent is a big responsibility. No shit, right? Well, what you aren't told when you become a parent is that it is also the hardest job that you'll never get paid for.
That's right...there is no monetary compensation for being a parent. Instead, you pay through the nose for [at least] eighteen years, with absolutely no return on that investment.
Okay, so I'm full of shit. There is the potential for a big return on that investment, but it doesn't pay in cash. Rather, the payment you receive is something much more intangible, but when you get it, seems more valuable than any amount of money.
"What's that?" you ask. I'll tell you. In the long term, you can count on your children loving you, and often respecting you. When they're young, that love and respect is almost overwhelming, and is given to you freely. When your children get into their teens, they may still love you, but the respect seems to disappear, and they probably won't even like you.
But that's okay. There's plenty of time (if we're lucky) for them to like us later. The love is nice, but the respect would be better. If they respected us, then maybe they'd fucking listen to us!!!
But alas, they don't. Being a good parent, though, means continuing to do the best we can even if the 'payment' seems long past due. Someday, we might collect--if my children grow up healthy and happy and moderately successful, I will have been paid in full.
I recently reminded one of my kids that when they were born, the hospital didn't hand us a book that had all the answers to perfect parenting. The most we can do is the best that we can, and try to set our kids upon a path that will allow them to eventually lead fulfilling lives, with as few regrets as possible.
But sometimes, as parents, we have to let our children make mistakes; let them trip and fall without us there to pick them up; in short, to let them live their lives.
We expected no less when we were their age...
And so it goes...
That's right...there is no monetary compensation for being a parent. Instead, you pay through the nose for [at least] eighteen years, with absolutely no return on that investment.
Okay, so I'm full of shit. There is the potential for a big return on that investment, but it doesn't pay in cash. Rather, the payment you receive is something much more intangible, but when you get it, seems more valuable than any amount of money.
"What's that?" you ask. I'll tell you. In the long term, you can count on your children loving you, and often respecting you. When they're young, that love and respect is almost overwhelming, and is given to you freely. When your children get into their teens, they may still love you, but the respect seems to disappear, and they probably won't even like you.
But that's okay. There's plenty of time (if we're lucky) for them to like us later. The love is nice, but the respect would be better. If they respected us, then maybe they'd fucking listen to us!!!
But alas, they don't. Being a good parent, though, means continuing to do the best we can even if the 'payment' seems long past due. Someday, we might collect--if my children grow up healthy and happy and moderately successful, I will have been paid in full.
I recently reminded one of my kids that when they were born, the hospital didn't hand us a book that had all the answers to perfect parenting. The most we can do is the best that we can, and try to set our kids upon a path that will allow them to eventually lead fulfilling lives, with as few regrets as possible.
But sometimes, as parents, we have to let our children make mistakes; let them trip and fall without us there to pick them up; in short, to let them live their lives.
We expected no less when we were their age...
And so it goes...
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Pussy Ticklers
I was on vacation last week, which for me meant many things...not the least of which was the activities that I engaged in that I usually don't have the time to do. However, even more important to me were two activities that I usually do have the time for, but really hate doing:
1. Working
2. Shaving
2. Shaving
The not-working is pretty much self-explanatory, but also leads into the not-shaving, since my work does not allow beards of any kind in the workplace. So, vacation for me means goofing off, and growing a beard.
I grow beards pretty fast. In a week, I have enough facial hair to be called a beard; give me two weeks, and it's just about ready for a trim. (Note: since my beard now has much more 'salt' than 'pepper' in it, it doesn't look nearly as thick as it did years ago.) From the time I graduated from high school until I started this job, I had a beard all but about six months--so that means that I had a beard continuously from 1977 until mid-1990.
I still miss it. It was a way to hide my rather weak chin, and gave me a bolder, more fierce appearance. And something to tug on when I was bored or wanted to look pensive.
All this leads up to what I really wanted to talk about.
This week, as I was shaving in preparation for returning to work, I decided to leave my mustache in place. I've been without one (except on vacations) for about three years. I can't remember why I shaved it off in the first place, but now it's back.
The funny part of it all is this: upon my return to work, some of my more observant co-workers remarked on the change in my appearance. But the comments they made and the questions they asked were completely off the mark.
The most common question I was asked was, "Did you get a haircut?" No.
Then I was asked, "Did you get new glasses?" No.
Not one person noticed the mustache--or if they did, they weren't talking.
You'd think that a bushy gray and black caterpillar on my lip would prompt at least some notice.
I guess that what this means is that either I'm too nondescript for anyone to care about a fairly major change in my appearance...or I'm so devilishly handsome either way that comment is unnecessary.
And so it goes...
I grow beards pretty fast. In a week, I have enough facial hair to be called a beard; give me two weeks, and it's just about ready for a trim. (Note: since my beard now has much more 'salt' than 'pepper' in it, it doesn't look nearly as thick as it did years ago.) From the time I graduated from high school until I started this job, I had a beard all but about six months--so that means that I had a beard continuously from 1977 until mid-1990.
I still miss it. It was a way to hide my rather weak chin, and gave me a bolder, more fierce appearance. And something to tug on when I was bored or wanted to look pensive.
All this leads up to what I really wanted to talk about.
This week, as I was shaving in preparation for returning to work, I decided to leave my mustache in place. I've been without one (except on vacations) for about three years. I can't remember why I shaved it off in the first place, but now it's back.
The funny part of it all is this: upon my return to work, some of my more observant co-workers remarked on the change in my appearance. But the comments they made and the questions they asked were completely off the mark.
The most common question I was asked was, "Did you get a haircut?" No.
Then I was asked, "Did you get new glasses?" No.
Not one person noticed the mustache--or if they did, they weren't talking.
You'd think that a bushy gray and black caterpillar on my lip would prompt at least some notice.
I guess that what this means is that either I'm too nondescript for anyone to care about a fairly major change in my appearance...or I'm so devilishly handsome either way that comment is unnecessary.
And so it goes...
Monday, October 16, 2006
New Names, Same Old Faces
I saw a TV commercial this morning for a drug that will alleviate the symptoms of--get this--Restless Leg Syndrome!
What the hell? Back in the day, people with RLS (as it's called) were called 'twitchy', or 'nervous', or just plain 'restless'. Now they get their own syndrome?
The National Institute of Disorders and Stroke simply defines RLS as: "Restless legs syndrome (RLS) is a neurological disorder characterized by unpleasant sensations in the legs and an uncontrollable urge to move when at rest in an effort to relieve these feelings." Sounds to me like this person needs to find an outlet for all that excess energy...like dancing, jogging, hiking, walking, etc. I'd be willing to bet that if an RLS 'sufferer' were to do any of these things for an hour a day, their RLS would diminish rapidly.
We live in an age of complacence, laziness, and sloth. No wonder people have the time to come up with syndromes to explain away the symptoms of a low-energy lifestyle. If people would spend more time just doing something physical, they'd have less time to become hypochondriatic about their 'twitches', both real and imaginary.
And on the same note...what about Attention Deficit? When I was growing up, all we needed to get our attention was a smack on the desk with a ruler, or a cuff up-side the head from our old man.
Now, though, it's so much easier to drug our kids into submission. Take an eleven year old boy who likes to gaze out the window of school and dream about running around and playing, and of course his attention is going to wander; of course he's going to be restless. But instead of channeling his energy into more studious pursuits or using his imagination to make class more interesting, we'd rather quench the fire of his creativity with medication!
No wonder we're raising such a bunch of jaded, dull children who can't imagine what life was like before movies filled with in-your-face special effects and luridly colored comic books with little or no story to fill their vacant minds.
Sounds like the 'attention deficit' is on the part of the parents and the teachers. Maybe if we all paid a little more attention to our kids, they'd respond in kind.
And so it goes...
What the hell? Back in the day, people with RLS (as it's called) were called 'twitchy', or 'nervous', or just plain 'restless'. Now they get their own syndrome?
The National Institute of Disorders and Stroke simply defines RLS as: "Restless legs syndrome (RLS) is a neurological disorder characterized by unpleasant sensations in the legs and an uncontrollable urge to move when at rest in an effort to relieve these feelings." Sounds to me like this person needs to find an outlet for all that excess energy...like dancing, jogging, hiking, walking, etc. I'd be willing to bet that if an RLS 'sufferer' were to do any of these things for an hour a day, their RLS would diminish rapidly.
We live in an age of complacence, laziness, and sloth. No wonder people have the time to come up with syndromes to explain away the symptoms of a low-energy lifestyle. If people would spend more time just doing something physical, they'd have less time to become hypochondriatic about their 'twitches', both real and imaginary.
And on the same note...what about Attention Deficit? When I was growing up, all we needed to get our attention was a smack on the desk with a ruler, or a cuff up-side the head from our old man.
Now, though, it's so much easier to drug our kids into submission. Take an eleven year old boy who likes to gaze out the window of school and dream about running around and playing, and of course his attention is going to wander; of course he's going to be restless. But instead of channeling his energy into more studious pursuits or using his imagination to make class more interesting, we'd rather quench the fire of his creativity with medication!
No wonder we're raising such a bunch of jaded, dull children who can't imagine what life was like before movies filled with in-your-face special effects and luridly colored comic books with little or no story to fill their vacant minds.
Sounds like the 'attention deficit' is on the part of the parents and the teachers. Maybe if we all paid a little more attention to our kids, they'd respond in kind.
And so it goes...
Thursday, October 12, 2006
The Weather Outside is Frightful...
I'm sitting here wearing my "Hairy Beavers" sweatshirt and a pair of shorts--and freezing my butt off.
Why are you wearing shorts, then? you may ask. I'll tell you: I rarely wear long pants around the house before November 1st. It's just my way of saying "NO!" to Wisconsin's weather. So I will freeze before giving up my shorts, unless I'm going to be outside for any amount of time. Then, good sense dictates that I dress appropriately, no matter what my personal convictions are.
Speaking of: I have to go outside for an hour or so this afternoon, and the temperature is a balmy 34 degrees F. So, while the "Beavers" sweatshirt stays, the shorts are going to have to go--for the time being. I really don't want to get frostbite just because the backyard needs some tidying up.
Winter. A necessary evil, but one that I could certainly do without. My 'leaves' don't turn colors. I don't hibernate. My growth doesn't stop for several months during the year (though lately, I wish it would--at least around my waistline!).
So, if I were a plant, I'd probably welcome the winter. If I were a squirrel or a black bear, I'd yawn, find my lair, and take a winter-long nap.
But I'm a human being. We've conquered the rest of the planet--let's get busy on the weather thing, okay?
And so it goes...
Why are you wearing shorts, then? you may ask. I'll tell you: I rarely wear long pants around the house before November 1st. It's just my way of saying "NO!" to Wisconsin's weather. So I will freeze before giving up my shorts, unless I'm going to be outside for any amount of time. Then, good sense dictates that I dress appropriately, no matter what my personal convictions are.
Speaking of: I have to go outside for an hour or so this afternoon, and the temperature is a balmy 34 degrees F. So, while the "Beavers" sweatshirt stays, the shorts are going to have to go--for the time being. I really don't want to get frostbite just because the backyard needs some tidying up.
Winter. A necessary evil, but one that I could certainly do without. My 'leaves' don't turn colors. I don't hibernate. My growth doesn't stop for several months during the year (though lately, I wish it would--at least around my waistline!).
So, if I were a plant, I'd probably welcome the winter. If I were a squirrel or a black bear, I'd yawn, find my lair, and take a winter-long nap.
But I'm a human being. We've conquered the rest of the planet--let's get busy on the weather thing, okay?
And so it goes...
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
My Life...and you're welcome to it!
Been awhile. Guess there's been nothing interesting happening to me lately.
If my life were a soap, no one would tune in. There's no inter-marital sex going on, no dread terminal diseases ready to strike (at least, not today!), no supernatural happenings, no uber-rich men trying to ruin my reputation (I do a pretty good job of that myself).
If my life were a sit-com, it would be cancelled.
If my life were a movie, it would go straight to video--and get buried on the dustiest back shelf at Blockbuster.
If my life were a book--YAWN!
But my life is what it is: my life. Boring as it may be, it's all I've got.
And so it goes...
If my life were a soap, no one would tune in. There's no inter-marital sex going on, no dread terminal diseases ready to strike (at least, not today!), no supernatural happenings, no uber-rich men trying to ruin my reputation (I do a pretty good job of that myself).
If my life were a sit-com, it would be cancelled.
If my life were a movie, it would go straight to video--and get buried on the dustiest back shelf at Blockbuster.
If my life were a book--YAWN!
But my life is what it is: my life. Boring as it may be, it's all I've got.
And so it goes...
Monday, September 25, 2006
A Long Time Running...
This week, after 32 years and some odd months, my friend Dorothy is retiring from work.
Quite frankly, I'm jealous of her. She's still young enough to want to do things (besides sit and vegetate, like so many retirees do), and she still has goals that she wants to meet.
Reminds me of a quote I saw the other day: "It's never to late to be who you might have been."
How profound, and how true! As long as there's life left in the old body, and the spirit is willing, it is possible to do and be almost anything you want to be.
And how sad that most people who are retired consider themselves 'expired', also.
So much potential, so much knowledge and experience is lost when we 'retire' people from their jobs. It's one thing when someone retires willingly, and moves on to something else; it's another, sadder thing when someone is forced out just to make room for someone younger and more energetic.
There's such a thing as 'elder' or 'senior' statesmen--those to whom the new generation turn to for advice. How unfortunate that we don't have a pool of knowlegde like that for our future generations of workers.
Perhaps if we did, the current loss of work ethic might not be as bad as it is.
Turn to those who are older, and perhaps wiser; they are a fund of experience that we cannot afford to squander and lose.
And so it goes...
Quite frankly, I'm jealous of her. She's still young enough to want to do things (besides sit and vegetate, like so many retirees do), and she still has goals that she wants to meet.
Reminds me of a quote I saw the other day: "It's never to late to be who you might have been."
How profound, and how true! As long as there's life left in the old body, and the spirit is willing, it is possible to do and be almost anything you want to be.
And how sad that most people who are retired consider themselves 'expired', also.
So much potential, so much knowledge and experience is lost when we 'retire' people from their jobs. It's one thing when someone retires willingly, and moves on to something else; it's another, sadder thing when someone is forced out just to make room for someone younger and more energetic.
There's such a thing as 'elder' or 'senior' statesmen--those to whom the new generation turn to for advice. How unfortunate that we don't have a pool of knowlegde like that for our future generations of workers.
Perhaps if we did, the current loss of work ethic might not be as bad as it is.
Turn to those who are older, and perhaps wiser; they are a fund of experience that we cannot afford to squander and lose.
And so it goes...
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Money...It's a Trip
The lottery. It's the new American pipe dream, and a group of us at work are vying for our chance to strike it rich with little or no effort. So, twice a week, we pitch in $2.00 and go for the gold.
So far, our big winning was $110.00, which we rolled over since divided 22 ways it didn't add up to much. And then we lost all but $30.00, which we then rolled over, and turned into $4.00.
Reminds me of a Shel Silverstein poem:
So far, our big winning was $110.00, which we rolled over since divided 22 ways it didn't add up to much. And then we lost all but $30.00, which we then rolled over, and turned into $4.00.
Reminds me of a Shel Silverstein poem:
SMART
by Shel Silverstein
by Shel Silverstein
My dad gave me one dollar bill
'Cause I'm his smartest son,
And I swapped it for two shiny quarters
'Cause two is more than one!
And then I took the quarters
And traded them to Lou
For three dimes--I guess he don't know
That three is more than two!
Just then, along came old blind Bates
And just 'cause he can't see
He gave me four nickels for my three dimes,
And four is more than three!
And I took the nickels to Hiram Coombs
Down at the seed-feed store,
And the fool gave me five pennies for them,
And five is more than four!
And then I went and showed my dad,
And he got red in the cheeks
And closed his eyes and shook his head--
Too proud of me to speak!
'Cause I'm his smartest son,
And I swapped it for two shiny quarters
'Cause two is more than one!
And then I took the quarters
And traded them to Lou
For three dimes--I guess he don't know
That three is more than two!
Just then, along came old blind Bates
And just 'cause he can't see
He gave me four nickels for my three dimes,
And four is more than three!
And I took the nickels to Hiram Coombs
Down at the seed-feed store,
And the fool gave me five pennies for them,
And five is more than four!
And then I went and showed my dad,
And he got red in the cheeks
And closed his eyes and shook his head--
Too proud of me to speak!
And so it goes...
Sunday, September 17, 2006
A Penny Saved...
Extra money.
Ever had any? I know that I haven't. I'm not even sure when (or if) I've ever had 'enough' money, let alone 'extra' money.
But my wife says that she is working her second job to make 'extra', so we already must have 'enough'.
And they say that high finance is an art--I say it's bullshit. If I've ever had enough money, then enough must be just barely enough--and extra money must be that money that allows me to afford to buy anything I want, as long as it's less than $20.00.
Sigh. Must be a woman thing, 'cuz I'm sure not understanding it.
And so it goes...
Ever had any? I know that I haven't. I'm not even sure when (or if) I've ever had 'enough' money, let alone 'extra' money.
But my wife says that she is working her second job to make 'extra', so we already must have 'enough'.
And they say that high finance is an art--I say it's bullshit. If I've ever had enough money, then enough must be just barely enough--and extra money must be that money that allows me to afford to buy anything I want, as long as it's less than $20.00.
Sigh. Must be a woman thing, 'cuz I'm sure not understanding it.
And so it goes...
Friday, September 15, 2006
Kiss and Tell (Revisited)
If you have been reading, you will remember the content of a recent block called Kiss and Tell.
Well, they did it. Management 'managed' to pick the least qualified person for the job, and we all know why: it's because management doesn't care about getting the job done right; rather, they just want a paper-pusher and a corporate 'spy' to keep tabs on us and report back.
Well, they certainly picked the right person for that job.
And so it goes :-( ...
Well, they did it. Management 'managed' to pick the least qualified person for the job, and we all know why: it's because management doesn't care about getting the job done right; rather, they just want a paper-pusher and a corporate 'spy' to keep tabs on us and report back.
Well, they certainly picked the right person for that job.
And so it goes :-( ...
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
One of These Things Is Not Like the Other
Men and women are different.
"Oh, how profound," you say sarcastically. But it's true.
The fundamental differences are such that it's amazing that the human race has survived all these aeons. Perhaps it the fact that we have interlocking parts that keeps us from (usually) killing one another off. Or the 'maternal instinct' that keeps women from eliminating their essentially useless partners.
All I know is this: women think with their emotions, and sometimes their minds, but most often irrationally. Men think with their gonads, but rational thinking and the ability to reason things out gives them an edge.
Think about it. If a woman gets pissed off at a man, what is her first action? She will either scream (emotional), or strike out (irrational, since more often than not, the man is bigger and stronger and could easily knock her silly(er)). If a man gets pissed off at a woman, he will stew about it for at least a minute, and then either strike out (rational, as he is the bigger and stronger of the two), or he will think of a way to get even (reasoning ability).
And these are just a couple of examples.
Can you imagine a pre-menopausal woman president? What happens when she gets PMS? Who do we nuke that day? Or an older, 'wiser' woman president going through menopause. Can you see her breaking into tears in the middle of the State of the Union address? Or snapping at her advisors to turn down the heat because she's having a hot flash?
I guess I'll stick with being a man. I might not be the smartest, or the most rational, but I can think without getting my emotions in the way.
And so it goes...
"Oh, how profound," you say sarcastically. But it's true.
The fundamental differences are such that it's amazing that the human race has survived all these aeons. Perhaps it the fact that we have interlocking parts that keeps us from (usually) killing one another off. Or the 'maternal instinct' that keeps women from eliminating their essentially useless partners.
All I know is this: women think with their emotions, and sometimes their minds, but most often irrationally. Men think with their gonads, but rational thinking and the ability to reason things out gives them an edge.
Think about it. If a woman gets pissed off at a man, what is her first action? She will either scream (emotional), or strike out (irrational, since more often than not, the man is bigger and stronger and could easily knock her silly(er)). If a man gets pissed off at a woman, he will stew about it for at least a minute, and then either strike out (rational, as he is the bigger and stronger of the two), or he will think of a way to get even (reasoning ability).
And these are just a couple of examples.
Can you imagine a pre-menopausal woman president? What happens when she gets PMS? Who do we nuke that day? Or an older, 'wiser' woman president going through menopause. Can you see her breaking into tears in the middle of the State of the Union address? Or snapping at her advisors to turn down the heat because she's having a hot flash?
I guess I'll stick with being a man. I might not be the smartest, or the most rational, but I can think without getting my emotions in the way.
And so it goes...
Dip and Rinse
Like any redundant job, dishwashing is a thankless, neverending cycle. If only we could figure out a way to eat food and not use any plates, glasses, or utensils, the cycle could end!
But, alas, at least once daily I dip my hands in the soapy, hot water, wipe the dishes clean, and set them in the drainer to dry (because, while I'll wash dishes, I see no sense in doing what the air will do for me).
When I'm finished, I dry my hands on the towel, and stare forlornly at the prune skin that my hands have become.
And so it goes...
But, alas, at least once daily I dip my hands in the soapy, hot water, wipe the dishes clean, and set them in the drainer to dry (because, while I'll wash dishes, I see no sense in doing what the air will do for me).
When I'm finished, I dry my hands on the towel, and stare forlornly at the prune skin that my hands have become.
And so it goes...
Monday, September 11, 2006
Way Down South of El Paso...
I hate to harp on this point so much, but it's thrown in my face every night when our Mexican janitorial crew shows up for work, and I see the faces of those who were demoted out of similar positions to make way for these people.
I have been giving a lot of thought to how Immigration should handle the problem of illegal immigrants. So I have outlined a few contermeasures that I think would be effective, at least against the Mexican Invasion.
1. Treat all illegal immigrants as criminals. Prove their illegal status, and deport them.
2. Change the law regarding citizenship as birthright. Too many illegal aliens come here to have children, hoping that fact will keep them from being deported. Change the law to read that all children born to non-citizens in this country have conditional citizenship--that is, upon their eighteenth birthday, if they choose to become full citizens, they will have to show a knowledge of the laws, history, and language of the United States. They will have to pledge allegiance, in writing, to the United States. If their parents are illegal aliens, and are deported, then they, too, will be sent to their parents' country of origin. This will not, however, change their conditional citizenship status. They will have until the age of nineteen to claim their citizenship, or have its status revoked.
3. Impose stiffer penalties on employers who knowingly hire illegal aliens. Mandatory prison time would suffice, in addition to higher fines and/or seizure of their assets.
4. Impose stiff penalties on American citizens who knowingly harbor illegal aliens. Mandatory prison time and high fines would suffice.
5. Mandatory deportation for all illegal aliens, regardless of their marital, familial, or employment status.
6. Economic sanctions against any government knowingly aiding or abetting the illegal immigration of their citizens.
7. Do not assign 'employment numbers' to non-citizens, unless they have a work visa.
8. Do not allow the children of illegal immigrants entrance into our schools. Public schools are for tax paying citizens.
9. Do not allow illegal immigrants access to medical facilities, social welfare programs, or any other publicly funded programs.
That would take care of a lot of the problems.
Now, for a solution to the border problem. Since the majority of illegal aliens in this country come from south of the border, the following steps should be taken.
1. Round up as many able-bodied illegals as possible, and put them to work, paid in pesos, digging a twenty foot wide, twenty foot deep trench along the entire border between here and Mexico. When the trench is completed, give them the opportunity to cross it into their native country before it is filled.
2. Pump as much water from the New Orleans area into the trench as possible. Use the earth removed from the trench to then raise the New Orleans area above sea level (again, use as much illegal alien labor as possible.)
3. Build two bridges, centrally located, across the trench: one for vehicular (truck) traffic, and one for train traffic. Place guard posts at both ends of the bridge, and thoroughly search everything that moves in either direction.
4. Build an Immigration office at the southern end of the vehicle bridge. Allow any who want to apply for legal immigration and citizenship to apply, and have their applications speedily processed.
5. Seed the water filled trench with piranha and other freshwater denizens who like to eat fresh meat. Place signs every fifty feet on the southern side of the trench warning illegal immigrants, in English, of the hazard of entering the water. Couple this with coils of concertine barbed wire on the entire northern face of the trench. At the top of the northern side, place guard emplacements every 100 yards with fully armed and ready to shoot border guards. Standing orders will be "shoot to kill".
6. Man the southern border trench with National Guardsmen, on a six-month rotation. This will keep enough active guards along the border to effectively patrol it, while also maintaining minimal disruption in the employment and familial status of the Guardsmen.
This may sound harsh, but we need to deal with a 12 million strong population of criminals in an immediate fashion, showing strength and conviction.
And so it goes...
I have been giving a lot of thought to how Immigration should handle the problem of illegal immigrants. So I have outlined a few contermeasures that I think would be effective, at least against the Mexican Invasion.
1. Treat all illegal immigrants as criminals. Prove their illegal status, and deport them.
2. Change the law regarding citizenship as birthright. Too many illegal aliens come here to have children, hoping that fact will keep them from being deported. Change the law to read that all children born to non-citizens in this country have conditional citizenship--that is, upon their eighteenth birthday, if they choose to become full citizens, they will have to show a knowledge of the laws, history, and language of the United States. They will have to pledge allegiance, in writing, to the United States. If their parents are illegal aliens, and are deported, then they, too, will be sent to their parents' country of origin. This will not, however, change their conditional citizenship status. They will have until the age of nineteen to claim their citizenship, or have its status revoked.
3. Impose stiffer penalties on employers who knowingly hire illegal aliens. Mandatory prison time would suffice, in addition to higher fines and/or seizure of their assets.
4. Impose stiff penalties on American citizens who knowingly harbor illegal aliens. Mandatory prison time and high fines would suffice.
5. Mandatory deportation for all illegal aliens, regardless of their marital, familial, or employment status.
6. Economic sanctions against any government knowingly aiding or abetting the illegal immigration of their citizens.
7. Do not assign 'employment numbers' to non-citizens, unless they have a work visa.
8. Do not allow the children of illegal immigrants entrance into our schools. Public schools are for tax paying citizens.
9. Do not allow illegal immigrants access to medical facilities, social welfare programs, or any other publicly funded programs.
That would take care of a lot of the problems.
Now, for a solution to the border problem. Since the majority of illegal aliens in this country come from south of the border, the following steps should be taken.
1. Round up as many able-bodied illegals as possible, and put them to work, paid in pesos, digging a twenty foot wide, twenty foot deep trench along the entire border between here and Mexico. When the trench is completed, give them the opportunity to cross it into their native country before it is filled.
2. Pump as much water from the New Orleans area into the trench as possible. Use the earth removed from the trench to then raise the New Orleans area above sea level (again, use as much illegal alien labor as possible.)
3. Build two bridges, centrally located, across the trench: one for vehicular (truck) traffic, and one for train traffic. Place guard posts at both ends of the bridge, and thoroughly search everything that moves in either direction.
4. Build an Immigration office at the southern end of the vehicle bridge. Allow any who want to apply for legal immigration and citizenship to apply, and have their applications speedily processed.
5. Seed the water filled trench with piranha and other freshwater denizens who like to eat fresh meat. Place signs every fifty feet on the southern side of the trench warning illegal immigrants, in English, of the hazard of entering the water. Couple this with coils of concertine barbed wire on the entire northern face of the trench. At the top of the northern side, place guard emplacements every 100 yards with fully armed and ready to shoot border guards. Standing orders will be "shoot to kill".
6. Man the southern border trench with National Guardsmen, on a six-month rotation. This will keep enough active guards along the border to effectively patrol it, while also maintaining minimal disruption in the employment and familial status of the Guardsmen.
This may sound harsh, but we need to deal with a 12 million strong population of criminals in an immediate fashion, showing strength and conviction.
And so it goes...
Sunday, September 10, 2006
A Wrinkle In Time
Be very careful if you are traveling north on U.S. Highway 151 between Beaver Dam and Waupun, WI. Somewhere in that 10 mile stretch of highway, there is a rip in the fabric of time; a time warp; or something akin to the Twilight Zone.
I was moving up that stretch of road, the wind whistling in the windows at 65 m.p.h. Heading for my grandson's birthday party, I was in pretty good spirits. Nothing could have prepared me for what lay in store for me.
My arrival at the party was uneventful--visited with my daughter and her best friend for a couple of hours, waiting for the guests to arrive. When they did arrive, I realized that I had traveled back in time, to an earlier era--one of innocence and rebellion, of flowers and free love. Yes, oh Reader, I was back in 1969, and the only thing missing was the Magic Bus.
There was the guy who had blond dreadlocks who was so stoned that he was almost willing to eat meat!--as long as it wasn't red...
There was the requisite number of maxi-skirts and peasant blouses adorning the female guests, who stood or sat nibbling on veggies with hummus dip, or vegetarian taco dip, or the berry salsa served on organic cinnamon grahams.
Then, the one thing that clinched my arrival in this bygone era: my son-in-law's father. This man had to have done way too many drugs, because, in the parlance of the day, he was fried! He has met me on numerous occasions, and at each one, I have had to be introduced over and over again--and yesterday was no exception. He walked over to me, looked at me quizzically, so I said "hi". He frowned, said "hi" back--and asked who I was! Then, just a couple of minutes later, he went to my son and asked him who he was. My son said, "Jesse", and Steve, my daughter's father-in-law said, "Jesse who?" Jesse replied, "Jesse [Lastname]", to which Steve asked, "Who's that?" My son, who has the same patience with which I am graced (none, that is) replied, "Jack's son (that's me)." Steve asked, "Who's Jack?" Jesse snapped, "Micah's grandfather!", and walked away.
Now, I know this guy doesn't have Alzheimer's...it wasn't diagnosed back in '69. So it has to be way too much 'acid' or something.
Needless to say, my discomfort at being out of place--and time--prompted us to leave early (of course, that was coupled with my being scheduled to work later that night).
Luckily, the time portal was still open, and shortly after leaving Waupun, we felt safely back in our own time.
And so it goes...
I was moving up that stretch of road, the wind whistling in the windows at 65 m.p.h. Heading for my grandson's birthday party, I was in pretty good spirits. Nothing could have prepared me for what lay in store for me.
My arrival at the party was uneventful--visited with my daughter and her best friend for a couple of hours, waiting for the guests to arrive. When they did arrive, I realized that I had traveled back in time, to an earlier era--one of innocence and rebellion, of flowers and free love. Yes, oh Reader, I was back in 1969, and the only thing missing was the Magic Bus.
There was the guy who had blond dreadlocks who was so stoned that he was almost willing to eat meat!--as long as it wasn't red...
There was the requisite number of maxi-skirts and peasant blouses adorning the female guests, who stood or sat nibbling on veggies with hummus dip, or vegetarian taco dip, or the berry salsa served on organic cinnamon grahams.
Then, the one thing that clinched my arrival in this bygone era: my son-in-law's father. This man had to have done way too many drugs, because, in the parlance of the day, he was fried! He has met me on numerous occasions, and at each one, I have had to be introduced over and over again--and yesterday was no exception. He walked over to me, looked at me quizzically, so I said "hi". He frowned, said "hi" back--and asked who I was! Then, just a couple of minutes later, he went to my son and asked him who he was. My son said, "Jesse", and Steve, my daughter's father-in-law said, "Jesse who?" Jesse replied, "Jesse [Lastname]", to which Steve asked, "Who's that?" My son, who has the same patience with which I am graced (none, that is) replied, "Jack's son (that's me)." Steve asked, "Who's Jack?" Jesse snapped, "Micah's grandfather!", and walked away.
Now, I know this guy doesn't have Alzheimer's...it wasn't diagnosed back in '69. So it has to be way too much 'acid' or something.
Needless to say, my discomfort at being out of place--and time--prompted us to leave early (of course, that was coupled with my being scheduled to work later that night).
Luckily, the time portal was still open, and shortly after leaving Waupun, we felt safely back in our own time.
And so it goes...
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Faded Genes
Today is my grandson's third birthday, and I am trekking north (about two hours) for his birthday party.
How strange it is to come to grips with the fact that my [oldest] child has children. Is this how a dynasty grows? Or is it just that infamous 'circle of life'?
My genes--or some of them--are in my grandchildren. In that respect, a part of me (diluted, no doubt, in each generation to follow) will live forever. I like that thought; it gives me some comfort to know that I will have, however indirectly, had--or will have--some impact on the human race for all time. Of course, my genes were handed down to me from generations past, so I am a part of them, also--and they are a part of me.
Kind of daunting when you think about it. My genes--the stuff that makes my physical being--were once part of someone who lived and died hundreds--thousands--perhaps, even millions of years ago.
And this means that if we go far enough back, my genes were once part of a common ancestor to all of us.
So, looked at that way, and in view of today's world: what's all the fighting about? We fight one another, when in reality those we are fighting are a part of us--no matter how small.
Given this big picture, it all seems rather silly, doesn't it?
And so it goes...
How strange it is to come to grips with the fact that my [oldest] child has children. Is this how a dynasty grows? Or is it just that infamous 'circle of life'?
My genes--or some of them--are in my grandchildren. In that respect, a part of me (diluted, no doubt, in each generation to follow) will live forever. I like that thought; it gives me some comfort to know that I will have, however indirectly, had--or will have--some impact on the human race for all time. Of course, my genes were handed down to me from generations past, so I am a part of them, also--and they are a part of me.
Kind of daunting when you think about it. My genes--the stuff that makes my physical being--were once part of someone who lived and died hundreds--thousands--perhaps, even millions of years ago.
And this means that if we go far enough back, my genes were once part of a common ancestor to all of us.
So, looked at that way, and in view of today's world: what's all the fighting about? We fight one another, when in reality those we are fighting are a part of us--no matter how small.
Given this big picture, it all seems rather silly, doesn't it?
And so it goes...
Worlds and Wordsmiths
This is a review I recently posted on Rhino.com of Dean Koontz's One Door Away From Heaven:
Having read Dean Koontz books for many years, it has been personally gratifying to me to watch his talent grow. From a moderately good story-teller in his earlier years--some have referred to him as a "book mill"--his abilities have matured into that of a master.
This book is made up of three main storylines--peopled by sub-stories and plots--that one knows will eventually converge. How they converge is at once fascinating, enlightening, and frightening.
Koontz has written a rare book: fraught with suspense, filled with real-life horror, steeped in a gentle spirituality, it is not what one would suspect from an author who has made his living by scaring the pants off of his readers.
One of the few books I've read this year that I found hard to put down; higher praise I cannot give.
Having read Dean Koontz books for many years, it has been personally gratifying to me to watch his talent grow. From a moderately good story-teller in his earlier years--some have referred to him as a "book mill"--his abilities have matured into that of a master.
This book is made up of three main storylines--peopled by sub-stories and plots--that one knows will eventually converge. How they converge is at once fascinating, enlightening, and frightening.
Koontz has written a rare book: fraught with suspense, filled with real-life horror, steeped in a gentle spirituality, it is not what one would suspect from an author who has made his living by scaring the pants off of his readers.
One of the few books I've read this year that I found hard to put down; higher praise I cannot give.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Truly, I am a slow and often unsteady reader, who loves to read more than most. So for a book to hold my interest day-in and day-out, it has to have something. Sometimes, because I read so slow, I become bored or irritated by even slower moving stories. But if the characters are engaging enough, the dialog witty or interesting, and the plot still seems to have direction, I'll stick with it.
Often criticized (most often by my brother), Stephen King is one of my favorites. Even his poorer efforts are fun for me, because I enjoy the depth of character and his penchant for twisting, convoluted story lines. After I read THE STAND for the first time [many years and countless re-readings ago], I felt like I had just read a chronicle of the lives of people I knew--didn't necessarily like 'em all, but I can't say that I didn't know enough about them to make that decision.
Similarily, a book like The Deed of Paksenarrion (see review in previous blog) held my interest for a number of reasons: one, that such a book of military strategy and violence had been written by a woman; two, that there were a number of interesting characters; three, the plot seemed to be going somewhere interesting; and four, the main character started out enigmatic and 2-dimensional, only to become familiar and more firmly fleshed out as her character grew in experience and maturity.
Yet I also love the perfectly executed short story. Frederic Brown was a master of the short short, and his stories are amusing, witty, and often scary--with enough of a bite to them to make one think.
Reading is something that you either do, or you don't. The tastes of readers are as varied as the books they read, as it should be. We are all different, with divergent personalities; how sad it would be if we only read one type of book, when there is so much to learn, to be amused by, to be frightened of, and ultimately to experience in the works of many authors.
I pity the poor souls who never read for pleasure. Even non-fiction can transport you to other places, but fiction is the stuff that dreams--or nightmares--are made of.
And so it goes...
Often criticized (most often by my brother), Stephen King is one of my favorites. Even his poorer efforts are fun for me, because I enjoy the depth of character and his penchant for twisting, convoluted story lines. After I read THE STAND for the first time [many years and countless re-readings ago], I felt like I had just read a chronicle of the lives of people I knew--didn't necessarily like 'em all, but I can't say that I didn't know enough about them to make that decision.
Similarily, a book like The Deed of Paksenarrion (see review in previous blog) held my interest for a number of reasons: one, that such a book of military strategy and violence had been written by a woman; two, that there were a number of interesting characters; three, the plot seemed to be going somewhere interesting; and four, the main character started out enigmatic and 2-dimensional, only to become familiar and more firmly fleshed out as her character grew in experience and maturity.
Yet I also love the perfectly executed short story. Frederic Brown was a master of the short short, and his stories are amusing, witty, and often scary--with enough of a bite to them to make one think.
Reading is something that you either do, or you don't. The tastes of readers are as varied as the books they read, as it should be. We are all different, with divergent personalities; how sad it would be if we only read one type of book, when there is so much to learn, to be amused by, to be frightened of, and ultimately to experience in the works of many authors.
I pity the poor souls who never read for pleasure. Even non-fiction can transport you to other places, but fiction is the stuff that dreams--or nightmares--are made of.
And so it goes...
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Kiss and Tell
It seems to me that there is a new breed of worker in the American workplace these days...an obsequious, butt-sucking employee who has no goal in mind other than self-aggrandizement and monetary gain, usually at the expense of efficiency and quality worksmanship.
I guess I can't blame these types--after all, they seem to be the ones that current management want in positions of middle-management. Because they are all about self gain, they make nice puppets for management: easily controlled, unable to think independently, they are the perfect go-betweens for management. Unfortunately, they are not what the workers want in a supervisory capacity. Workers want someone who understands their job, the needs of the company, and the problems faced on a day-to-day basis.
This new breed of pissant, who are in place mainly to report directly to management on the vagaries of the employees, cannot hope to function alongside their "co-workers", since they are not truly workers at all. They are middle level, pencil-pushing functionaries at best, and at worst, are the bane of all true workers. This is especially true in today's work environment, when so many smaller companies are becoming, in part, employee-owned.
I long for the days when supervisory posts were earned, not by kissing butt, but by showing a knowledge of the company's needs and a thorough grounding in the skills required to meet those needs.
Hear that sound? That's two lips smooching a manager's butt cheeks...
And so it goes...
I guess I can't blame these types--after all, they seem to be the ones that current management want in positions of middle-management. Because they are all about self gain, they make nice puppets for management: easily controlled, unable to think independently, they are the perfect go-betweens for management. Unfortunately, they are not what the workers want in a supervisory capacity. Workers want someone who understands their job, the needs of the company, and the problems faced on a day-to-day basis.
This new breed of pissant, who are in place mainly to report directly to management on the vagaries of the employees, cannot hope to function alongside their "co-workers", since they are not truly workers at all. They are middle level, pencil-pushing functionaries at best, and at worst, are the bane of all true workers. This is especially true in today's work environment, when so many smaller companies are becoming, in part, employee-owned.
I long for the days when supervisory posts were earned, not by kissing butt, but by showing a knowledge of the company's needs and a thorough grounding in the skills required to meet those needs.
Hear that sound? That's two lips smooching a manager's butt cheeks...
And so it goes...
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