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...