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. :-)

And so it goes…

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...

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...

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...

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...

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

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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:

SMART
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!

And so it goes...

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...

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 :-( ...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

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...

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...

Remember Yesterday?

Remember yesterday when I said that I was going to make an effort to waste less time, and to keep track of the time I did waste?

Forget it. I won't be able to keep track of that much time. Today was pretty much a complete waste.

And so it goes...

Talkin' Trash

I am sitting at my computer right now, and watching the minutes tick by second by second on a spyware scan, and the thought strikes me: Just how much time do I waste each day doing such things? Not so much the doing, since it is necessary, but in just sitting and watching it being done?

I wasted 16 minutes during that scan. I could have washed the dishes, or started some laundry, or taken a shower, or made a sandwich, or called a friend. But instead, I sat idly staring at the computer screen, willing the timer to go faster. Yet, I bemoan the days that move too fast, the years that flash by like instants.

Time is a subjective thing, but sometimes we allow outside influences to take time away from us. Too often, it is time wasted--and we have so little time to us.

When was the last time any of us allowed an outside influence to give time to us, to make a night seem to last forever, or a good time to never end? More often than not, it is only the time we spend doing onerous chores or in pain that seem eternal.

I am going to make an effort this week to keep track of time that I waste, time that I reclaim, and time that I have no control over. I'll keep you posted--later.

And so it goes...

The Rest of It...

Time passes, and sometimes we don’t even note it as it does.  But there are milestones to every life…and one is occurring today.

My brother is having a birthday today.   Whether he’s celebrating it, or just marking its passing with regret, it’s happening…and he’s 52 years old.

I told my son in jest that his uncle was an ‘old fart’, but I’m not that far behind him—so I really can’t say a lot about that.  

We all get older with each passing day; the trick is in staying as young as possible where it really matters:  in our hearts, and between our ears.  Stay young there, and the aging travails of the body will be less pressing.   Stay young there, and laughter can be a true friend.

Stay young there, and death will come as a surprise—one not wholly welcome (death rarely is), but one that can be taken with grace, and perhaps a smile to cap off a life well lived.

And so it goes…

Just a word...

Sunlight is pouring into my den as I write this; early evening sunshine that is golden and green-hued as its rays filter through the leaves of the maple tree by the deck.

I am getting tired, but it’s been a good day.   Got some new toys in the mail (always good for us guys), and the kids were in especially good moods—my son because his girlfriend is back from vacation, my daughter because she made $70 in tips at her job.

But now they are gone.    He is at his friends house, she at her mom’s.    So now it’s time to close this, and go take a pre-work nap.

Tomorrow is my night off, and I can hardly wait; it’s been a long time in coming, and I’m ready.

And so it goes…

The Time(s) of Our Lives

Just the other day, one of my 50-something co-workers said to me, “The 70’s were the best time of my life.”

Huh?   Is his life over?  Or is it so bad now that he is looking back nostalgically at what was a good time for him?

Who can say that they have had the “best time of their life” when their life isn’t over?   I’ve had a lot of good times, and a lot of bad times, and a lot that fall in between…but the “best” time?   I don’t know.   I could rate what’s happened to me so far, and come up with a favorite or “best” time, but how do I know that it is the best time of my life?

Maybe on my deathbed I’ll be able to make that comparison, and point to a time that was best…since nothing else good will be coming my way if I’m dying.   But to do that now, at 47?   Can’t do it.

The best time of my life may still be yet to come…and I wouldn’t want to miss it because I thought that the best had already been.  

The jury’s still out on this one…and I’m in no hurry to be knocking at Death’s door—and wondering simultaneously just what my best time had been.

Live each day to the fullest, and maybe at the end of your life, you’ll be able to look back and say to yourself:  “Those were the best times—my life!”

And so it goes…

Tick..tick..tick...

Does the body know when it’s time is up?   Does our internal clock have an alarm that tells us when the clock stops ticking?

Sometimes I feel like my clock is running down…maybe the intimations of mortality that I feel are nothing more than my body telling me I’m done…so stick a fork in me!

Other times, I think that I’m just afraid of dying, so my morbid fascination couples with my imagination to make me feel the icy cold finger of death brushing my soul…making my breath come short…squeezing a vise around my heart.

I guess I’ll know soon enough either way.   If I continue to blog regularly, you can assume that I’m still alive.

If my blog stops abruptly, and never resumes, you can assume that the alarm went off, and the mainspring of my life has wound down…forever.

And so it goes…

The Fittest (A Story)

The scenario goes round in my head…

It is mid-October, and the nights are cold, even if the days still harbor a residual warmth that evokes Spring or late Summer.   But that feeling of impending Winter is in the air, and those of us in our small group who can face the truth know that the end of easily livable weather is soon upon us.

It is with this in mind that we begin to prepare for the first Winter since the EMP took out everything that we of the 21st century had come to take for granted.

What little electricity we have is generated for us by a couple of windmills that spin the turbines inside two Chrysler alternators; the voltage regulators are wired up to a series of Delco batteries that power a few 12 volt lights, and our all-important radios.   The ancient tube-based AM/FM/Short-wave is on auto-scan, and rarely does it settle on any one frequency for long.    Static hisses quietly from the speaker like steam rising from the corpse of our country in the chilly night air.    The sideband radio is silent.   We are not even sure if it works. We are all but locked in for the night.  

Aunt Kathy calls me over to help her load a five-gallon water bottle onto the dispenser; she rations it, but cannot lift it—she’s always looked like a refugee from Auschwitz, but her personality is considerably stronger than her physical being.   I heft the 60 pound bottle onto the cooler, and she makes a mark at the level of the water.

Outside, Tom is gathering up the 15 or so pieces of wood from the pile for the night’s fire.   He chooses wisely, picking 3 pieces of pine to start the fire, 3 pieces of dry hardwood to get it hot, and the rest is greenwood to burn slow and keep the coals burning through the night.

We congregrate in the basement room.   It is roughly 15’ by 25’—a large room, but with thirteen of us and our cots in there, it is crowded.    Tom starts the fire in the conical fireplace, and within minutes, the damp chill is gone.   Kathy dispenses out water in eight ounce cups, but no one drinks.   We are waiting for the stew which bubbles in the pot over the camp stove.  

An hour later, with our meal finished, the dishes wiped clean, our water ration finished, and latrine trips done, we bed down.   Tom sits in the dim firelight, occasionally stirring the coals and adjusting the damper on the fireplace.  I look into my woman’s eyes, and they look black in the gloom, though I know that they are a brilliant cobalt by sunlight.  She kisses me lightly, and pulls the blanket over her head.    Not tired, I sit next to her with my hand resting lightly on the small of her back.   I love her, and miss privacy.

Glory takes the first watch.   She is huddled inside a poncho and wool blanket at the head of the stairs, keeping her eyes fixed on the glass of the door behind the security bars.  What little warmth reaches her from the basement is not enough to keep her fingers warm, so she wears gloves on her hands to ensure that her trigger finger will not be stiff or numb should she need it.   And we pray that she doesn’t.
***************************

We use the whole house by day.   Many of the rooms have been converted to storage.   The trappings of the electronic age still linger, poignant reminders of what we have lost.  The shelves that once held a thousand DVDs now hold canned goods and books.   The entertainment center, made of solid oak, has long since been broken up for firewood.   The television, microwave, and stereo are in a pile behind the shed, along with other useless electronics.

Most of the books are in the smaller room in the basement.   Piles of them are on the floor, and wall to wall shelves are filled with them.   We keep them in the basesment because it is cool and dry—and because, come Winter, it is the only part of the house that will be kept consistently heated.   Mold and mildew will be kept at bay, and the books, at least, should last.

The second story spare bedroom holds clothing.   We have crates marked with type of clothing, sizes, and seasons.   We have shoes and boots in the sizes that we need—at least two replacements for each of us.

In the kitchen, there are two Franklin stoves that we ‘liberated’ from a local supply store.   These are kept burning night and day, and impart a little warmth now that the nights grow cold.   It is on these that we do most of the cooking.

The kitchen cupboards are filled with dry and canned goods; the pantry holds more still.   The stove has been moved out of the house.   It took up too much room, and the Franklins sit black and heavy in its place, their pipes standing straight before curving out through the wall.   The fire tiles beneath them are stained and sooty, but we can spare little water for cleaning.

The refrigerator is still in place.   It’s insulated interior keeps things fresh for a day or two longer than just letting them sit out, so it has not entirely outlived its usefulness.  

The other rooms of the house hold a hodgepodge of furniture, crates of food, fuel, and firearms.    We are prepared for a siege—but everyday is part of that siege.   We are besieged by the world, these days; each day brings another challenge.  


***************************

It is morning.   I roll out of my cot, and kiss Tam-tam on the cheek.   Creaking and groaning, I walk quietly around my sleeping companions and up the stairs.   Glory looks at me and smiles, her eyes weary but still alert.    I tell her to go lay down, and she gratefully unwraps herself from the blanket, leaning her rifle against the wall behind the door.

I brace myself, and pop open the door.   The morning chill assaults me, making me shiver as I use the latrine.   I walk across the deck to the garage, open the door, and check the charge on the batteries.   I connect two more to the series, and attach the leads to the second regulator.    This is my job—to make sure that the little electricity we have is enough to last.   I may start looking for a solar charger soon.   Windless days are a disaster for me.

I close the garage on my way out.   Seth is using the latrine, so I avert my eyes and make a big deal of lighting a stale cigar.    Clouds of blue smoke envelope me, dissipating in the bright, clear morning air.

Another day has begun.

Sometimes I wonder why we continue.   Other days I’m just too busy to care.

And so it goes.

Spending Time

In three years or so, my household will change drastically.   The kids will be out of high school and off to college or elsewhere…and then what?

Never before (well, at least in the past 25 years) will I have been without daily, kid-related activities.   Then, without warning almost—because the time seems to pass so swiftly—I will have free time on my hands.

How will this affect my relationship with my wife?  With my friends?  With myself?  What will I do with all of this ‘free’ time?    

And how do you spend something so free?

And so it goes…

Talkin' 'bout Talkin'

We were travelin’, on vacation
To a cabin far from home,
But the cell phone kept on ringin’
‘cuz my plan gives us free roamin’.

My daughter had to talk a lot
To the friends she’d left in town
Just when one call would be over
Her nasty ringtone would give sound.

Chattin’ with one, then another,
I never thought that it would end,
Until her battery life was down to naught,
She would dial and then press ‘send’.

After a day or two of listenin’
I have to say I was pretty pissed
Time after time I contemplated
Making out a cell phone usage list.

I couldn’t get that kid to stop
Her incessant talk and chatter
But with her attitude to me
I guess it really wouldn’t matter.

You see, if she is always talking
On her cell phone to her friends
I don’t have to put up with her shit—
And this is where this story ends…

And so it goes…

A "Deed" Now Done

Hey!   New/old book alert!  

I hate fantasy.   By fantasy, I mean that tripe that publishers like Tor books (distributors of Dungeons and Dragons) put out—the kind of fantasy where magic and reality mix willy-nilly, where things like the inverse square law allow gigantic creatures to ignore gravity and mass (maybe because of all that magic?); fantasy where the plot has absolutely no bearing on what goes on in the story, because there are too many poorly played out battles between orcs, dragons, giants, and all manner of creatures.

Into this category, I would like to not place books like The Dragonriders of Pern by Anne McCaffrey, which on the face may seem like fantasy, but if you read the entire series, is merely fantastical science fiction.   Also, the Shannara series by Terry Brooks is less fantasy than allegory, and a possible view of what our future may bring.

And finally, there is The Deed of Paksennarion by Elizabeth Moon.   Originally published as three separate books, it is compiled in a 600,000 word trilogy volume that held this reader’s interest throughout.

The book follows Paksennarion Dorthansdotter (Paks), a young woman raised on a sheep farm who has been raised hearing tales of warriors, paladins, and heroes.   She runs away to join a mercenary company—and this is where the true magic of this story lies.

Elizabeth Moon has woven a tale full of battles and gentle, earth-based magic, but her strength lies in the development of Paks through her training and combat experience.   The training sequences (lengthy) are well-thought out, and realistic.   Paks is not a natural warrior, but she is dedicated to her goals, and works very hard to live up to her training.

The battle sequences are brutal and gory, not because of sensationalism, but because that’s what battles fought with swords, pikes, bows, and lances are like.

Yes, there is magic enough in this book to keep the fantasy fans happy—but it is magic that could occur if immortal elves existed, if kuakugans lived in groves where they helped the living things of the earth bind everything together; a land where orcs wended there subhuman culture on the outskirts of the more civilized lands; and where paladins and followers of St. Gird were able to tap into the power of the land to heal the wounded and defeat evil.

Fantasy?  Sure.   Great story?  You bet.    As you read this lengthy story, you see character development at its finest as Paks grows, through her experiences, from a simple sheepfarmer’s daughter into a whole, fully realized person.

Highly recommended by a non-fan of fantasy (I’ve never been able to slog my way through the Lord of the Rings series, though I loved the movies).

If you’ve got the time, give it a try.  

And so it goes…

R and R: Revisited

Well, I survived my vacation to the great north woods…and managed to get some of the the rest and relaxation that I desperately needed.

However, I was right that my wife and her brother would want to go go go…and try to drag me with them.  “Let’s go swimming,” “Let’s go hiking” “Let’s go to [name of town]” “Let’s do this” “Let’s do that”.   And when I said no, and reiterated that I wanted to relax, I got a snide, “Whatever!”

“Whatever”, indeed!    I should not have to feel guilty about wanting to relax.   I’m 47 years old, I work third shift, and I never get enough sleep.   The last thing I want to do on my vacation is run around like a chicken with it’s head cut off.

So, I didn’t.   I held firm, and got my relaxation, ignoring the angry glances and sarcastic jibes.

What really got to me during this week of vacation was my wife’s countdown to the end.  “Sigh.   Four more days and I have to go back to work,” she said our second day there.   And the countdown updated several times a day—every day!

Finally, the day before we were to leave, she asked me, “Do you want me to reserve the cabin for next year?”

I smiled at her, shrugged, and said, “You do what you want to, dear.   I don’t care, because I’m not coming up here next year.   You’re on your own.”

Hey, if nothing else, while she’s up north with her family, I can spend my vacation doing such exciting things as watching the grass grow and feeling my beard come in.

How can I handle such excitement?   Easy.    All in the name of Relaxation.

And so it goes…

Dog Days...

My brother is on a much-needed vacation this week, so I will be attempting to fill the void left by his absence from this blog. He's relaxing "up north", and, I hope, enjoying the heat with a cold beer as his company.

Yes, these are indeed "dog days"; when the air is heavy with the promise of thunderstorms that never seem to come. When going outside feels like walking into a sauna. When the slightest exertion leaves your body drained, sweaty, and panting.

As a kid, and a teen, I used to love days like this. Run around endlessly, stopping occasionally to gulp down a half-gallon of cold water, then badk out in the sun. Now, my greater experience (read: age) tells me that on days like this, it is important to rest somewhere cool, drink plenty of fluids, and call lifting a glass of liquid refreshment "exercise".

I miss those carefree days when nothing was serious enough to cause whatever plans we had to be put off until a "better" day. Snow, sub-zero temperatures, thunderstorms, wind, extreme heat--those were just things that had to be allowed for, and not allowed to slow us down in the least. Now, I find myself all too willing to take a long moment to relax; nothing seems quite urgent enough to venture forth in extremes of weather. Any plans that could be made for today can probably be made for tomorrow--or the day after--or next week.

It's an interesting change of perspective that most of us go through; things that should be important, like enjoying our lives, get put on the back burner in favor of "must-do" things, mostly work-related.

We only get one chance at this life. Attempting to enjoy it might be wise, eh?

Ten Things I'd Like To Do...

My brother invited me to contribute to his blog; why, I don't know, but I'll try to keep it different than the things I post in my own The Cynic's View blog.

Pursuant to a recent discussion I had with a friend about world travel and travel in general, here's a list of things (including travel) that I would like to do:

1. Spend a month on a bicycle tour of Ireland.
2. Hike the Appalachian Trail from start to finish.
3. Visit Machu Picchu, Mt. Shasta, and other "spiritual" places.
4. Go whitewater rafting on the Snake River.
5. Visit Russia and live among the people, not in the cities.
6. Tour historic sites of Greece and Italy.
7. Wander the Scottish moors and play golf at St. Andrews.
8. Spend a summer on a motorcycle tour of N. America.
9. Work a cruise to New Zealand and spend a month seeing both North Island and South Island.
10. Stay in a remote Rocky Mountain cabin for an entire summer.

It's a somewhat random list, because my interests are varied, but all of them would be "an experience of a lifetime". You have your own lists, I'm sure. Comment and tell us where you would go and what you would do.

Windows XtremelyPissedoff

I’m so pissed.   I just wrote one of my longest blogs ever, and lost it to the vagaries of Windows.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!


(I’m not even going to try to redo it…and because of the subject matter, it’s probably for the best)(and no, I’m not going to tell you what it was about)

And so it goes…

Time Enough for...R and R

I’m going on vacation next week.   This is our annual family vacation, which generally includes my wife, my two teenage children, my mother-in-law, my brother-in-law, my nephew, and myself.

That may sound like a recipe for disaster, but it’s not.   We usually rent a cabin about five hours north of here in the middle of nowhere, and spend the week fishing, swimming, hiking, and generally ‘getting away from it all’.

Unfortunately, my brother-in-law is one of those can’t sit still kind of guys, and wants to gogogo all the time.   My mother-in-law is a nervous type, but likes to go for walks or just relax around the cabin.  My wife is wishy-washy, and will do anything her brother thinks should be done, ‘cuz she just can’t say no to him.

My kids are okay for a couple of teens.   My son likes to swim, fish, or sight-see…and he’s enough like me to want to do whatever I do.   My daughter is easily bored, but aims to please most of the time, and will go along with the majority with a minimum of complaints.

I like to relax.   Swimming is okay…it’s fun exercise, and with the temps in the mid 90’s, I don’t have a problem with that.   I’ll go on the occasional hike, camera in tow, so that I can get some memorable and perhaps beautiful shots.   But most of all, I like Rest and Relaxation.    I don’t find running here and there, road-tripping, or rushing from one activity to another particularly restful.   What I do find restful is floating on a boat, beer in hand, waiting for an adventurous but hopelessly doomed fished to bite my hook.   Or better yet, sitting in the shade with a good book and a beer, dozing to the sounds of waves lapping on the shoreline and leaves rustling in the trees.

This year, I am determined to relax.   I need it.   It’s been a stressful year, with no end to the stress in sight.   So whatever time I can grab for myself, I will hold onto dearly.

Wish me luck.

And so it goes…

Broccoli As Life

I’m in a black mood.   I never really thought of this kind of feeling like that before, but I read a reference to it in a novel, and that’s what it is.

A black mood.

I feel angry—not at anyone or anything in particular, but at everyone and everything in general.

I’m frustrated with my life—is this all there is until it’s over?  Work, go home, do house stuff, run the kids hither and yon, go to sleep, work, ad infinitum…

I feel like a kid who’s in a candy store, with all the rich sweets placed in front of him…and then his parent says, “You can’t have what you want.”   So, instead of candy, I get broccoli.  

You see, I know what I want—I just can’t have it.   I’ve been eating a steady diet of broccoli for years, with no end in sight for that big plate of greens—and I want more!   I want it all, but I am settling for what is safe and known.

I could take some risks, but would the risks be worth the cost?   Would I risk it all, and end up without even my plate of broccoli to show for it?  

I guess that’s what risk is all about.   I have to be willing to lose it all to get what I really want.   Keep my eye on the prize.   And hope like hell I don’t end up more miserable than I already am.

I just wish I had a crystal ball, so that I could take a safe risk.

But that’s just cowardly.   I need to just take the risk, and hope for the best—or at least something different.   Maybe that’s just what I’m looking for…something that isn’t the mundane life to which I’ve become accustomed.

A black mood.   How appropriate when all I see ahead of me is a dark, dead end.


And so it goes…

Let's Do it Like They Do on the Discovery Channel

“Money.   It’s a gas”…no, wait, I think that goes:  “Money.   Pays for gas…”

This situation is becoming untenable.   Gas is well over $3.00/gallon, which puts it well over the milk gallon/gas gallon = 1/1 ration that has held for many years.   And now gas is actually closer to the price of the over-taxed, inflated cost of a pack of cigarettes.

Next week, I am planning a trip to the northern part of the state (“up-north” to the natives), and renting a 15 passenger van to carry the seven of us and our shit.   We did the same last year, and spent over $200.00 on gas, and did very little extra driving.   This year, with gas 20 percent higher than last year, we can look forward to spending closer to $250.00 on gas.  

When I was a kid, we used to drive to British Columbia (that’s western Canada for those whose geographical skills have waned since high school).    It’s roughly 1800 miles one way.   Now, driving a VW microbus fully loaded like we did in 1967, we spent about $100.00 for the whole round trip!    And that included side trips to tourist attractions and relatives homes.

Granted, gas in 1967 was less than 40 cents a gallon, and that hundred bucks constituted a good portion of a week’s pay…but it was affordable even then.

Today, however, that trip would be prohibitively expensive, unless you’re driving a Toyota Prius and using the electric drive almost exclusively.    And then, what are you going to pack?   One small duffel bag for each of the four people you are going to cram into your little eco-safe runabout, and that’s about it.   And don’t even think about going into the mountains with this little puddle-jumper.   Even if it weren’t under-powered, you’d have to kick in the gas power…and there goes your spending money!

It just gets tougher all the time to take your kids anywhere exciting and/or educational.   Even if the cost wasn’t so dear, when would you find the time?   Take a week’s vacation, and spend it all traveling so that when you get home you’re more exhausted and burnt our than when you left work?   Take two weeks, and try to cram a lifetime of experience into 14 days?

Or do what most people do:   tune into the Discovery Channel, and watch someone else take the trip that you are aching to do.

And so it goes…

Actions Speak Louder

Today, I read the blog of someone close to me (my brother), and it dealt with death—not in a morbid sense, but how we deal with death, and convey our feelings about someone else’s loss to them.

I, too, have run across this problem, and have taken the coward’s way out:  I try to ignore the fact of the matter, avoiding the person who lost their loved one as much as possible.   I can think of only one case in which I dealt with another’s loss in a more positive manner…and that only when she returned to work after a couple of weeks.

My friend lost her nineteen-year-old son three years ago this past June.   I have known her for nearly sixteen years, and her children virtually their whole lives.   So I felt her loss keenly—especially since it made me wonder how I would deal with a similar loss.

When my friend “D” returned to work, she looked haggard and grief-struck, and my heart went out to her.   Not knowing what to say—the usual clichés just didn’t seem right—I told her how I felt the only way I could.   During a moment of privacy and quiet her first night back, I walked up to her, put my arms around her, and gently held and hugged her.

Her tears were quiet, but they wouldn’t stop flowing.   So I loosened my hug, and produced some Kleenex for her.    We sat together for a quarter of an hour, silent but for her sobs, then I hugged her, kissed her forehead, and smiled slightly as I walked away.

Later, “D” told me that she appreciated my gesture more than she could possibly say.   She said that I respected her right to grieve, didn’t ask questions, and didn’t say anything insincere.   She said that it was almost as if I knew that she needed a hug, and to be held, so that her world, if for just a moment, would stop spinning.

So, sometimes words won’t do.   Sometimes they will.  

I just happened upon the one time when what I did meant more than anything I could have said.

And so it goes…

Having My Say

You know what’s really neat about having a blog?

I can pretty much say anything that I want to, and it may reach an audience of one, two, or hundreds.

Of that minor multitude, no one may agree with what I have to say…or all may agree…but no one can keep me from saying it.    Their only recourse is to send me feedback, or blog on their own.

Kind of neat.   Almost like freedom of speech.  

And so it goes…

American Rage

I just read my father’s blogspot (The Bard’s Corner), and in it he mentioned that the weather in Houston is in the 90’s.   Well, 1300 miles north of him, it is 96 degrees F, and humid as hell…so I guess I can relate.

Also, most of his blog details what he sees as a great threat to our way of life—the issue of what to do about the Mexican “invasion”.  

I, too, am worried about this, which puts me in the minority of those who still believe that our country has been, and could still be, one of greatness.   But with the influx of illegal (for those among you who don’t understand that word, it means “against the law”) immigrants who are not willing to become American citizens and integrate themselves heart and mind into our society, that same society is falling prey to the ills of any polyglot people: failure of communication, racism, and cultural upheavals.

Our Congress is currently considering measures that would make English our official, national language—a step over two hundred years late in the making.    While this will not necessarily force everyone to learn English in order to live here, it will make it more difficult to function, since government offices will no longer be required to make information available to the populace in any language but the national one.    

Mexican-Americans (who, if they are citizens, should be known simply as Americans, or at worst, Americans of Mexican descent) are in an uproar over this step.   It will water down their heritage, they whine, and make it more difficult for immigrants to assimilate into our country.    Well, I say, if they are that worried about watering down their heritage, then leave that heritage in Mexico.    If immigrants want to be assimilated into our country, then let them learn the language and come here legally.

And if they cannot—or will not do this—then the treatment they should get as illegal—ILLEGAL!!!—immigrants is all they deserve.   Other countries, less disposed to humanitarian ideals than ours, shoot illegal immigrants.   We just send them back where they came from, at our expense.

So, next time you see someone flying the Mexican flag, or celebrating Cinco de Mayo (a uniquely Mexican holiday), use the univeral language that everyone understands, and give them the good ol’ American finger!

Whew!

And so it goes…

Lazy, Part II

Well, two days off, and guess what?

It didn’t help.

And so it goes…

Lazy

Sunday.   Last day of my working weekend, and by far the laziest day of my week.

Today, I sat at my computer for a while, wandered around the backyard tidying up a little (for about ½  an hour), then decided to take a nap.   This took me until about 5:30 pm, at which time I had a snack, and then wrote this little blog.

Now it’s time to go to bed and finish the ‘nap’ I started earlier.   Only two more nights of work, and I have two nights off—in a row!

Maybe I’ll have the energy to really let my thoughts go aimless then.

And so it goes.

I'm Certain That I Am For Sure

The phrase that makes me cringe today is “For sure.”   As in, “I’m not for sure where he went.”   Shouldn’t that read “not certain,” or “I don’t know”?    Wisconsin.  Land of the Fractured Speech.


Anyway, it’s been a while, and a busy while at that.   My youngest daughter now has a car to drive…and that’s scary.    Reminds me a lot of Robert A. Heinlein’s novel, “Time Enough for Love,” wherein his character (Maureen) is discussing the freedom that having a carriage gave her and her beaus when they went out (referring to the way things were at the turn of the last century).  

I’m pretty for sure  ( that my daughter has forgotten how to walk—at least since she got the car.   And her friends have found a new taxi.   But at $3.00+ per gallon of gas, that taxi had best start charging, because Daddy Warbucks I’m not.   I can’t stand the thought of filling my own gas tank, let alone my daughter’s.


We held our 9th annual Party on Prairie this past Monday (July 3), and it was, as usual, a good time.   Lots of eats, drinks, and camaraderie, punctuated by a moderate fireworks display and lots of splashing in the pool and on the waterslide by the kids (and a couple of adults, too.).

Some notable absences from the guest list this year—some didn’t show because of personal reasons, some didn’t show just ‘cuz they couldn’t make it.

But, hey—there’s always next year:  THE BIG TEN!



And so it goes.

Caps and Gowns

Tempus fugit.      Time flies.  Boy, whoever said that got it right.

Today is May 22, 2006.   Twenty-nine years ago today, I donned a cheesy, dark-green robe, a cap made of mortarboard with a tassel with two shades of green, and some decent shoes.   Then I sat on a folding chair in Fireman’s Park in Waterloo, WI, and waited for my name to be called.

Yep.   Twenty-nine years since my high school graduation.   Sure doesn’t seem like it’s been that long, unless I stop to think about everything that’s happened since then.  Things like three marriages, two divorces, three kids, two grandkids, friends made, friends lost.   Over thirty cars, twenty-some apartments, two houses, numerous pets, hair grown long, hair gone away.   You know what they say—“hair today, gone tomorrow?”

I look at my two youngest children, and wonder where the time has gone.   Amanda is finishing up her sophomore year in high school, and will be a junior in the fall.   Jesse is an outgoing freshman who no longer looks up to me, but looks me straight in the eyes.

I’ve gained weight since high school—quite a lot, which doesn’t make me fat, but definitely puts me in the ‘stout’ category.   I’ve lost a lot of hair—everywhere except my back (one of God’s little jokes that he plays on middle-aged men).

Milestones like these make me sit back, reflect, and ponder my life so far.   I try not to wallow in regrets, because short of a quantum leap, I’m powerless to change my past.    All I can do is think back, and wonder where that young man went when he turned into me.

So, happy graduation day to me.  

And so it goes…

And now...A word from our sponsor...

     Many things have happened lately, and now that I’m on vacation, I thought I’d talk about things a bit…

     Got new carpeting in our house…first time for new carpeting in about 20 years.   I like it a lot, but my paranoia level has gone up about three notches since its installation—it cost enough to make me want to have it last as long as possible.  So:  no shoes on the carpeting, frequent vacuuming, no eating on the floor—and absolutely NO spilling!!!

     Bought an older system from a friend.   It’s an IBM Pentium II 266, and it came preconfigured with a whopping 32MB of RAM, a 6.4GB hard drive, an onboard 2MB display adapter, and an integrated sound card/modem.   Thanks to my friends Todd and Ebay, I now have 288MB of RAM and a network card, which allowed me to network with my main box [thanks, Moe!].  Ebay is supplying me—at a nominal cost—with a 16PCI graphics card, and a 20GB hard drive.   Since I plan on using this machine primarily for burning cds and scanning photos, it should do the trick now.   Not a blazingly fast machine, but solid.

     My dad was supposed to come up this month to promote his new book of poems/essays (www.throughmymind.net), but because of my mom’s poor health, he had to postpone.   He might be able to come up the end of June, which would mean that he would be able to be here for the 9th annual Fourth of July party.  That would be cool…he’s gregarious, and would fit right in with my friends.

     The weather has literally sucked for about the last week:  cold, rainy, miserable.   I finally took advantage of a couple of hours of near sunshine this afternoon to mow the jungly front yard…but the back was too long and wet to tackle.   Maybe I’ll rent a couple of sheep (

     Thinking about tackling my den tomorrow.   That should kill a day.  

     Thursday I am going to tackle the garage.   I’m sick of my tools being scattered, and I have so many lawn and garden implements now that I have to actually organize them, too.

     So it turns out to be a working vacation, but on the plus side I’ve been sleeping like a normal human being (at night), which makes for more interesting days.   I’m not as grumpy as usual…which means that I’m still grumpy, but I’ll fire a warning shot before planting buckshot in your ass.

     And so it goes…

     

The Day the Music Died...

     I watched a movie the other day while laying lazy in bed…and I’m not ashamed to admit that, while the movie itself wasn’t that great, the subject matter brought a tear to my eyes.   Hell, it had me blubbering.

     The name of the movie was “The Karen Carpenter Story “, starring Cynthia Gibb in the title role.

     This movie was a thumbnail view of Karen’s life story…but what had me saddened were the ‘live’ performances, ably lip-synched by Gibb.  

     In February 1983, at the age of 32, Karen Carpenter’s life ended.   On that day, the world lost one of it’s most beautiful singers.

Carpenter’s voice was like a combination of all of the best instruments known to mankind—the mellow voice of a cello, the smooth range of an oboe and clarinet, the power of a French horn, and the magical quality of a flute.

I can hardly listen to “A Song for You,” or “Hurting Each Other” without crying.  

And I’m man enough to admit it.

The first LP I ever bought was one by the Carpenter’s…my mom let me order it from the “Columbia Record and Tape Club” (circa 1973 or so).   I will always remember the way Karen’s voice made me feel…and the nostalgia it still brings to me.

It’s been going on a quarter century since Karen died…I hope that someone, somewhere, is always listening to her sing.


And so it goes…

Life Trek: The Next Generation

     Death.   It’s just one of those things that we all have to face someday…but somehow we all try to ignore that fact--until someone presses our noses into its smelly truth.

     When a great-grandparent dies, there’s a little sadness, but at least you know that Grandma or Grandpa are going to carry on with the little ways of life that your great grandparent started.  When one of your grandparents die, you miss them, because they have been a big part of your life (in most cases).

     But when a parent dies, there is something much more immediate to that passing.  Perhaps it’s the physical connection—after all, these are the people who gave you life, and now their own is over.

     Or perhaps it is the intimation of our own mortality that is proven by the fact that our progenitors are dead; therefore, we too will someday die.  

     Or maybe it’s the fact that, with the passing of our parents generation, there is no other generation that is slated for demise but our own.   No longer two, or even three generations lie ahead of us under the Grim Reaper’s scythe.   No, when our parents go, we can hear the wind whistling under his blade, and we now know that the next time the blade falls, it is our turn.

     Mortality has but one drawback—and that is the fact of its existence.   Death is assured.   As a noted science fiction author once put it, “Life is just the daily putting off of the inevitable.”

     And so it goes…

Some are more equal than others...

     All things being equal, I’d rather be in America.

     Where else can you find a country that is so willing to be a “melting pot” that we are considering allowing illegal—ILLEGAL—aliens the right to work in our country, with the prize at the end the chance at citizenship?

     What people don’t seem to get is that it is breaking the law.  That is the very definition of illegality.  And now we are going to host “Guest workers.”  Guest workers?  What kind of euphemism is that?   These are people who have come here illegally, are taking jobs from citizens, and eating resources that could be distributed among the needy citizens of the United States.   As one editorialist put it, “We don’t mind ‘guest workers’ so much; however, we do mind ‘guest criminals’ in our jails, ‘guest patients’ in our hospitals, and ‘guest students’ in our schools.”

     The language barrier posed by having approximately 12.5 million illegal immigrants in this country is astounding…and distressing.   I went to my bank’s ATM yesterday, and for the first time, it asked me to press this button if I wanted my instructions in English, and that button if I wanted my instructions “en Espanol”.   This really pisses me off!   There should be no option for people living in this country.   English may not be our ‘official’ language (an oversight for which I condemn our founding fathers), but it sure as hell is our ‘lingua franca’, the tongue spoken by the majority of the people.

     I’ve said it before, and I’ve said it again:  If we can’t communicate, how the hell are we ever going to get along?

     Ship the illegal immigrants back where they came from…and bill their home countries for the cost of shipping.   Then, put up a REAL border.   Anyone comes across it illegally, gets a warning shot.   If they don’t turn around, they are in violation of our laws, and should be treated as criminals and either deported or shot.

     And so it goes…

A New Book is in the World!

My father is a writer. Like Harry Chapin sang of a lonely singer, “[writing] was his life, it was not his livelihood.”

At nearly 73 years old, my dad has published two books of his collected writings—poetry, and essays in verse.

The first book, “Pathways: Through My Mind” was a labor of love for him, and he had it printed several years ago, and it has been greeted with great respect and enjoyment by all who read it.

Now, the ‘sequel’, for want of a better term, arrives in 2006—NOW!

“Other Pathways: Through My Mind—Continuing the Journey” is a self-published volume as well. However, unlike “Pathways”, this volume has been published under the auspices of Trafford Publishing, one of the leading self-publishing housed in the world, and a true leader in the print-on-demand publishing community.

I wrote a preface for Dad’s book, and I would like to share it with you here, before I get on to the ad for “Other Pathways.”

An Introduction to My Father

I have grown up listening to my father speak. Often, it was him reading us a bedtime story; sometimes, it was just him talking about the day’s events to my mother or, as we grew older, to one of his four children.

I loved hearing him talk. My father has a voice that rumbles in a tenor pitch, with eloquence and distinction in every syllable. His voice can carry great kindness or blistering vehemence, but always with the same strength of character.

I have listened to his poems for as long as I can remember. His love of language as a medium of communication and thought fostered my own facility with words. I credit him with teaching me to think, both creatively and independently.

The poems that are contained in his considerable body of work are not of the greeting card variety. To be sure, there is humor contained within these pages, and much warmth and feeling. My father’s poems, however, are first and foremost, as he has put it, “pathways” through his mind.

It is to this mind, and the man who allows it to flow freely into the written word, that I would introduce you.

So venture into this convoluted, complex, and fulfilling experience in life, communication, and faith.

World, meet my Father. He has much to tell you, if you will but listen.

Other Pathways: Through My Mind -
Continuing the Journey
by Marat M. Bandemer, Jr.

Introducing the second most exciting, provocative collection of poetry in years,the first being Pathways: Through My Mind



About the Book

Building a sidewalk takes but a few days...to build a road takes weeks, but to create a pathway takes years of wandering down the same route-always taking the familiar way, always finding the unfamiliar. In Marat M. Bandemer, Jr.'s second book, Other Pathways: Through My Mind - Continuing the Journey, the author has once again put into words nearly fifty years of travels down the road of his life... poignant, angry, sad, hilarious, and always honest...now, and once again, he is prepared to share that pathway with us. This book may be one man's pathway, but it is truly everyman's journey.

About the Author

Marat M. Bandemer, Jr. was born in Chicago, Illinois in 1933. He attended Chicago Public School, graduating from high school in 1950, and then spending a brief time at the University of Illinois Undergrad facility at Navy Pier. Although too young for the draft, he enlisted in the United States Air Force in 1952. It was during this time that he met, and married his wife of more than fifty years, Jean. Together they have four children, six grandchildren and two great grandchildren. Bandemer retired from the corporate world in 1995, and has spent the past ten years working part-time in fundraising and sales for the Houston Symphony. The couple has resided in Houston, Texas since 1991.



Catalogue Information

www.trafford.com/4dcgi/view-item?item=11341
283 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #05-3004; ISBN 1-4120-8006-1; US$23.95, C$27.54, EUR19.67, £13.77


And so it goes…

WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW

WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW
(IF YOU’RE GOING TO OWN AN INTERNET CONNECTED PC IN TODAY’S HAZARDOUS WORLD)


You’ve pushed the ‘on’ button on that new box of yours, and a bunch of cryptic gobbledegook flashed across the screen in front of you. Then, a few seconds later, a weird piece of music played, and your computer desktop appeared.

So, now what? What do you want to do with your computer? If you’re going to play minesweeper or solitaire, you already know what to do. But if you’re planning to ‘surf’ the internet, check email, or download mp3’s, there are certain things you need to know.



The one thing that most people forget when they’ve purchased a computer is that they have bought a major appliance. Yes, the prices have dropped dramatically in the past few years, but that doesn’t change the fact that, with the exception of the humans (or most of them) in your household, your now have in your possession what is nearly the most advanced piece of equipment ever built by human hands. However, most people treat their computer (and the tech support personnel who keep it alive) with the utmost disdain.

Let me ask a multi-part question—and you can answer it silently to yourself, and blush in embarrassment when you do. When you needed your washing machine fixed, or the dryer went out, or your furnace needed servicing, did you call a technician to come and fix it? And if you did, did you expect them to come to your house, spend time and effort fixing the problem, and then leave empty handed? And even if you did expect that, did they leave without charging you? Answer truthfully.

If you answered this question honestly, the answer(s) should have been: Yes, I did call a technician. No, I didn’t expect them to leave empty handed. And No, they didn’t leave without charging me.

Now, think back to the last time you needed bailing out of some major problem with your computer (or, if you are among the rare breed to whom this has never happened, think about someone you know—and you know someone like this!—to whom it has happened). Did someone come over to your house and spend anywhere from one to several hours fixing your system because it was viral, or full of spyware, or something equally disastrous? Or did you take your computer over to someone’s house and drop it off for fixing? The answer is probably Yes.

Now, after the problem was solved, and your system was up and running like new, did you offer any compensation to your tech support friend? Did you even thank them? Try getting away with that at your local computer store, and you’ll get a bill that will make you wish you had been nicer to your friend.

But I digress. The purpose of this article is not to berate the cheapskates among you who have no appreciation for the thousands of man-hours that have gone into making your tech support friend as savvy as he/she is; rather, this article will hopefully inform and educate those of you who are new to the world of computing (and those of you who aren’t, but might as well be) so that you can stave off all but the most dire consequences of your internet related actions.

Don’t be surprised at the sarcasm herein; it’s how I write, and usually gets the point across (kind of like a warship shooting a cannon across your bow).

So, if you would learn something, read on…


Surfing the net is a lot like driving around in a big city. Sure, there's a lot to see and do, but if you don't take at least some basic precautions, you can wind up in a lot of trouble. Everyone should know how to fix a flat tire on their car; similarly, you should know how to do some basic maintenance on your computer to keep it running well and safely. Here are a few tips for making your surfing relatively safe:

Ever have a cold? The common cold is caused by a virus, and has a detrimental effect on your performance. . Malicious software can have a similar effect on your computer, and so these programs have been given the name of ‘virus’. A cold can be caught by coming into contact with an infected person. A computer virus can be caught in a similar fashion, by coming into contact with an infected file. These files can be transferred in many ways, but the most prevalent way of spreading virii has become the email virus. The easiest way to avoid this problem is by never opening email from someone you don’t know! However, some of the worst virii can be sent by someone you know who isn’t using an antivirus program on their own system.
Having and using an updated antivirus program is a necessity. Use its auto-update feature and scan your system at least weekly. Sure, it takes time, but so does a checkup at your doctor, and it can save time and money down the road. Try http://free.grisoft.com/ for AVG Antivirus or http://www.avast.com for Avast! Antivirus. Both programs are free for personal use, and have daily update and scan features.

Spyware (or malware) is just bad. “What’s spyware?”, you ask. Wikipedia defines it thus: Spyware is a broad category of malicious software designed to intercept or take partial control of a computer's operation without the informed consent of that machine's owner or legitimate user. It eats up bandwidth, spies on your personal information, flashes unwanted advertisements on your desktop, and can allow others to ruin your Internet experience. Install at least two reputable anti-spyware products, update them regularly, and run them weekly. I recommend Lavasoft Adaware http://www.lavasoftusa.com/ and Spybot Search & Destroy at http://www.safer-networking.org/ as both are good (and free) programs that will get the job done.

All users can benefit from a good software firewall. A firewall acts as a barrier that keeps intruders out, and the better ones will keep unwanted applications such as Trojans (A specialized computer virus that enters via stealth or through another program and deposits and/or executes an often destructive bit of computer code) from sending out any information as well. Zone Alarm Free from http://www.zonelabs.com/ is an excellent solution for this problem.

Do not use Internet Explorer, but do get any security updates for it. Windows settings rely heavily on Internet Explorer files, so even though you don’t use it, you can open yourself up to nasty things. Do use a better browser, such as Firefox from http://www.mozilla.com/firefox/ or Opera Free from http://www.opera.com/ or an entire browser/composer/email suite from Mozilla at http://www.mozilla.com .

Do not use Outlook Express, Hotmail, MSN Mail, or Yahoo mail (except as throwaway accounts) as all are riddled with imperfections that can open your computer to problems. Use Pegasus mail from http://www.pegasus.com/ or Thunderbird from Mozilla at http://www.mozilla.org/thunderbird/ . Both programs allow the importation of your Outlook address book, and are marked improvements on Outlook in both functionality and security.

Avoid porn sites and ‘Warez’ (pirated software and cracks) sites as both are well-known for planting virus or trojan files on unwary computers. Not to mention that in many areas legal issues are involved.

Avoid P2P (peer-to-peer) file sharing (with programs such as Limewire or KaZaA), but if you must share, scan every downloaded file with an updated antivirus program before opening it.

When you are looking for answers (and I recommend that you look on your own first), check your Windows HELP files. I can’t count the number of times I’ve gone to help someone with a basic problem, arrived at their home, and sat in front of their system—then opened the help files only to get a message that says “Windows is configuring help files for first use.” And this is on systems that have been up and running for months, if not years! If the help files don’t help, then ‘google’ it at http://www.google.com/. Google is the best search engine yet, and it’s generally accepted that if Google doesn't find it, it isn’t there.

Keep informed! Subscribe to a newsletter that keeps you up to date on the changes in the Windows world—and posts fixes and ideas that can be of help. The Langa List is a good one to watch for (google it—good practice); The Lockergnome Report at http://www.lockergnome.com is another useful one, and they have an entire stable of more specific newsletters that you can subscribe to for free.

Backup data! Let me say that again: BACKUP DATA!!! Save all of your important files somewhere other than My Documents or My Pictures. A good place to save your important files is to a separate partition on your hard drive; the best place to save your data is to a writeable medium such as CD-R. Bad things happen, and backups insure that you will cut your losses.

Respect the person who does your tech support. He has spent hundreds or thousands of hours learning to make easy what boggles your mind. Many of us will do repairs or upgrades for a small fraction of what the big box computer/technology stores will, and most of us have more knowledge than the young techs at those places. Appreciate that, and don’t balk at paying us what we ask--we're not usually greedy. But we are hungry, and time is money. The time we spend working on your system is time away from our own—and many of us have projects going that are much more time intensive than you can imagine. Yet we grudgingly take time away to fix the mistakes of others.

Last, don’t be afraid to ask questions—but make sure that you have some basic information in hand before you do, because just as a mechanic needs to know the make and model of your car to begin servicing it, your tech support will need to know a few things about your system in order to give you a meaningful, accurate answer. Some of these things are:

Operating system. This is the version of Windows/Linux/MacOS/etc. that is running your computer.

Processor. This is the heart of your system, and will have a name like Intel Pentium 2.8 GigaHertz, or Athlon 3200.

RAM. This is the quick memory of your computer, and is also called Random Access Memory. It is usually measured in multiples of 32, 68, 128, 256, 512…megabytes.

Hard Drive. This is the semi-permanent storage media inside your computer. Know what you have—size matters.

Optical Drives. This includes cd-rom drives, cd-rw drives (recorders), dvd-rom drives, and dvd burners, or combinations of the above.

Anything else that you know about your system will be of great assistance. Knowledge is power, and the more we know, the more we can be of use.

Any questions? Just ask.

And so it goes...