Fun On A Crowded Elevator

I don't usually enjoy elevator rides. Only if I can get on when there's no one else around and get off before anyone else shows up. When it comes to elevators, I'm antisocial. Even more so than usual. So yesterday, it bummed me out to have to ride an elevator at the hospital that was jam-packed with people.

They have two elevators right off the parking ramp, but one of them was apparently broken down. It was a disaster in the making, since the elevator is already slow, and to have two elevators' worth of people on one might break it down too! Then factor into it that people getting on an elevator in a hospital aren't necessarily healthy or pleasant to be around. It felt like it might be a long trip two floors down.

But I didn't want to wait till no one was around, and circumstances were such that I really needed to use the elevator instead of doing my normal thing, taking the stairs. Because I was accompanying a guy in for his checkup, part of the basic service I sometimes offer real life friends. So there he was, not feeling the best. And there was me. And there was a crowd of others, including a couple guys who had monitors of some sort, maybe breathing apparatuses, I don't know. One guy had something major taped to his nose, like maybe he'd had a deviated septum undeviated. I didn't notice what everyone else's problem was, one, because I didn't need to know, and, two, because there was nowhere to stand where you could get a good view. We were packed in.

But it because fun ... semi-fun, as fun as it can get ... when either the guy with the nose problem or the guy with him said, "Take your hand off my wallet." Obviously kidding around because we were crammed in. Then he or the other guy said, "There's nothing in it anyway." Everyone was laughing. I joined in a little by way of response when I said, "No one's getting off this elevator till he gets it back." There was no grousing about being on a crammed elevator. Everyone was pleasant, perhaps mostly because the ride was fairly short, we got right down.

Out we all spilled, going our separate ways. A few minutes later I saw the guy pushing his monitor around the lobby and gave him a smile. But I don't know if he remembered me for being one of the guys on the elevator. This short story ends about there.

My Friend Who Died

This is my generic tribute to a good friend who died one year ago today.

I suddenly had the thought a few days ago that this guy I knew died about this time last year. So I looked up his funeral information, which I keep in Evernote, and, sure enough, the day was coming up, Feb. 6.

That's today. And so this is my generic tribute to him, generic because I'm not going to say anything about him in a specific way. His family likes me and all that, but I'd rather no one could Google this article just to see what kind of dirt I might be scooping on him. Frankly, he's got enough dirt scooped on him.

I was at his grave a few times in the last year. I straightened up some hobby effects the family left behind. The wind plays havoc with stuff at the cemetery.

It was a shocker that he died. He was clearly old enough to die, being in his 80s, but to all appearances he was in great health. He was active, then one day (a year ago today), that was it. Complete and total death, sudden and merciless, and he was gone just as fast as that. I was surprised. It was a stunner.

Anyway, he was older than me, obviously, since I'm still in my 50s. But we were pretty close, politically especially. Except he would watch the Fox News channel and I won't. He'd come by and tell me the latest crap he'd heard from "Hanraddy," which was his word for Hannity. He'd roll his eyes and act disgusted and I'd say, "Why are you even watching it?" As for me, I don't watch any of the Fox assholes, so I never know what they're up to. And now I've been without a whole year of updates, so I'm falling farther and farther behind! That's at least one positive thing about his death, which, on the whole, hasn't shown many positives.

As for being a nice guy to me, he was tops, this guy. Helpful, true, honest, good hearted, a good mind, had good things to say about people. He was nice to minorities too. You get some people who are real bigots, like if a black family or a Mexican family would move in. But not this guy. He was helpful and kind.

So it's been a whole year. And I'm glad I thought of it the other day. I figured I overshot it without realizing it, but somehow, nope, today is the day!

I've Got Entertainment Overload

Oh no, how did this happen? Where do I go from here?

I've got entertainment overload. Too many options are piling up and no more time in a day. This shouldn't have happened, but I let it.

Plus, I can see where it will lead. I'm going to have wires everywhere. Eventually there's going to be excess wires. Something's going to get forgotten, a link will break in the chain sometime. And what is a working network of interwoven entertainment sources will eventually sit in shambles. Just last night the batteries died in one of my remotes.

"One of my remotes," it's enough to make me scream. There's so many remotes scattered around the house, they're like cockroaches, which, thankfully, I don't actually have. But if I did, they'd each have their own remote to sleep under. I just got another few remotes in the last few days, including one last night!

I've joined the good times crowd in the last few days. Of course I was already a member, pretty much, all this time, since I've kept up, by and large, with the various requirements for membership over the years. But I wasn't part of Netflix, let's say, since I'm not really much of a movie watcher. I like to see a few minutes of a movie when I'm exercising a couple times a day. But once in a while, it's nice to see some old movie. So now I've got that.

A couple weeks ago, I got a Wii. I never had one before because I haven't been much of a game player. I had a Colecovision in the '80s, but since then, I've let it all slide, till now. So that's all set up. And remarkably, the two go together, the Netflix on one of the TVs runs through the Wii. So you can see there really is a network of sorts, some interdependencies. Naturally, since I have a bedroom, why not get a Netflix ready Blu-Ray player to also pick up the wireless signal and give me a movie or two in there? So I got one of those.

Then on top of all that, I got a Kindle at Christmas. And I love that, and I'd be reading that if I weren't so busy with this other stuff.

Anyway, last night I started feeling the jitters of entertainment overload. I knew it was there, creeping up, and now, this morning, I woke up with that terrible sense of regret. Blah. Because somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm the guy who should be sitting at Walden, or a cheap imitation of it, with a lawn chair and a book. So there I am with my lawn chair and book, feeling like I have entertainment overload, at which point I throw away the book and have nothing but the chair.

I've entered a different realm with all this stuff.

(By the way, for all the movies Netflix has to stream directly, it really is a kind of piss poor selection. At this point, who still wants to wait for DVDs to show up in the mail? I've never had one in my life yet, but I can already see the drawbacks. Waiting is so ten years ago.)

The Local Man Answers To No Man

I woke up today with a renewed sense of my self, my independence, and my ability to say what I want, being beholden to no man. I lay abed, recommitting myself to a sturdy resolve in these matters, disdaining all allegiances, foreign or domestic, that might impinge on my freedom.

That's the kind of attitude, the kind of spirit, you can have when you're the local man. Just me, independent, all by myself. The national man is usually part of a syndicate. He's in a network of associates, just one tiny box about the size of a pinpoint on an intricate and involved flowchart. I don't know for sure, but I think there hasn't been an independent national man since Daniel Boone. In ancient times.

Then we have the man up the rung from the national, the international man. His daily intercourse is at the highest realms, echelons, really, of the world. Talk about networks and intricacy and involvement, oh boy! The international man doesn't have the independence to crack his knuckles. He might've woke up this morning in Japan and will sleep tonight in New York. He's got a briefcase like the shed in my backyard. And it never gets lost because there's super computers keeping track of it via a satellite signal. If it ever got lost -- and it won't! -- things would turn very sour very fast.

Would I ever like to be the international man? I suppose I've daydreamed of it, if I'm being totally honest. The travel, the people I'd meet, the important shed I'd be carrying around. Who hasn't daydreamed of rolling dice in Monaco? Or looking at the behind of a boatman in Venice? But then I think, It's not just luxury, it's the endless duties, heavy responsibilities, entangled relationships, the whole thing of vast networks and demanding men you're answering to 24/7. Again, it might be tempting -- the international man is obviously on the cutting edge of communications, super computers and holography, and has a lot more to write home about than, say, me.

The biggest difference, going with that last point, is that I'm always home already; there's no need to write. The neighbors see me walking to my car, then they see me walking back to the house. I'm out watering flowers when they're in season. I fling a dead mouse to the road every few days. Thankfully, the traffic is such that they never have a chance to pile up. I can drive around town and the same old people know me. They ask about me. There's nothing bogus, not like the national and international man get. As far as the personal touch, they're screwed.

I was in bed thinking of all this today. Then I carried it over to the shower. Thinking how the local man can really enjoy his shower. The thought was somewhere in the background that I could make an alliance with a few other people. Then I thought, No! That'd be just the beginning! And next thing, I'd be entangled, answering to someone else. From there it'd be a short jump to county man, state man, regional man, national man, and international man. And that's not a jump I'm prepared to make!

Hiding Water Under A Plate

The way to get rid of dirt on the floor is to sweep it under the rug. Then if the bulge gets too big, get a bigger rug or a shallower floor.

I was out to eat this morning and got some water on the table -- it might have been flavored with coffee, I don't remember. I thought a good place to hide it would be under the plate. That's a good way to get rid of a few drops. A few drops aren't smart enough to know they're completely free, since the intelligence of water is only manifest when it's in a bigger group.

Since that's true, the more water you hide under a plate, the more likely it'll seek a way of escape. And when water wants out, there's really no way to contain it. It'll leak out the other sides, then there you'll be, swishing it in and only stimulating it toward quicker escape on the opposite side. Actually, water doesn't necessarily go to the other side; it seems to navigate itself wherever the downward course is, or, if you put thrust on it, it will flee toward the opposite side for the most part.

I was trying to hide something else today (in plain side) and it resulted in a personal tragedy for me. I needed to get the slush and hard ice out from my tires. I was driving around and every time I turned the corner, I could hear the ice rubbing against my tire. So instead of going where I was going, then having to drop a bunch of ice in their driveway, I just pulled along the side of the road. I got it all chipped away, it started falling, and after five minutes or so, it was all in the road. There wasn't a rug to put it under ... or a plate either, for that matter.

As I drove away, I looked in my rear mirror and chuckled as I saw it left behind, since it reminded me of horse crap in a parade. I said to my traveling companion that it looked like "a big steaming pile of horse ice some guy left!" But I should've looked a little closer, and here's the personal tragedy I mentioned, because my phone and iPod were in among the "horse ice." Seriously.

A couple hours later I got a call on the other phone, and, guess what, someone had my phone and iPod. They found them in the street right near the horse droppings. So I needed to go all the way back over there. They didn't ask how my phone and iPod came to be in the road. They were actually very nice about it, nice enough to call me and not to want a reward. But I found out who actually found my stuff, went to his office and he wasn't in, so I left some reward money on his desk.

I was afraid I might be caught like George Costanza. The guy would come in and see me and think I was trying to steal the money off his desk ... but fortunately he didn't, and I got the heck out there! He'll never know it was me ... unless he has the place under video surveillance, which occurred to me. Plus, I had to leave a brief note, so that took a little longer.

Isn't it crazy that a guy wouldn't feel a phone and an iPod fall out of his shirt pocket, make their way down and out the bottom of a couple of coats? Then not even to notice it for a couple hours! It was crazy.

Picturing Your Own Funeral

Unless you're very lucky, like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, you won't actually see what happens at your funeral.

There are lots of people who pre-plan their funeral, the music to be played, the minister, the poems to be read, and the dress they'll wear. But there's still elements of chance that come into it.

I've been to quite a few funerals, and for the most part, they're very predictable. Short and sweet, a few songs, the obituary is read, the minister says some things about life and the afterlife, they finish up and everyone goes to the lunch. There's not much crying anymore, and certainly not as many attempts to jump into the grave with you.

As to that last point, trying to jump into the grave -- ha, ha -- the person most likely to do that is someone who wasn't all that close in recent years and is dealing with guilt. You'd just love to whack 'em up side the head and say, "Maybe you ought to spend the rest of your life getting as close to the rest of your family as you can so you won't embarrass yourself like this again!" That's just a little pet peeve of mine. But, like I said, it doesn't happen that much anymore; people are more jaded about the consequences of ignoring their families.

Anyway, enough of that. I was making the point that, in the absence of knowing exactly what your funeral will be like, it's at least helpful to picture it in advance. Helpful? In what sense? It gives you a peace of mind to just know that they're not going to forget you. Unless you're unfortunate to be in a major devastating hurricane, in which case you might end up in a mass grave, with a preacher who doesn't even know you and doesn't mention you by name and, of course, neglects to enumerate your many good points and hobbies. The only recourse in that case would be if you were singled out as The Unknown Hurricane Victim, then you get a tomb all to yourself, although, again, since you're unknown, there's no mention of your hobbies.

As for me, myself, I don't live where they have hurricanes. Nothing ever happens around here. It's The Land That Weather Forgot. When the meteorologist comes on TV, he's usually just sitting in a chair snoozing, so we flip it over and play Wii bowling. Then if weather actually happens, we're surprised. Yes, weather does occasionally happen, like a gentle breeze every now and then. So there's no danger of dying in the weather. Meaning I can picture my funeral perfectly.

I'm actually an old pro at picturing my funeral. I used to do it as a kid all the time. I'd pull the covers of my bed up behind my head, get them good and tight, and look down toward my feet. It's just like a coffin. I quit doing that when I was maybe 16 or 17, for whatever reason. It could be that you have a greater sense of death and mortality when you're a kid (everything's a threat), then at about 16 you become immortal, then at about 30 you're suddenly Dead Man Walking again. Then by the time you get to my current age, on the older side of nearly 60, it's hard to think of anything else. Sex and Death, with Death edging out Sex by a nipple.

So what will my funeral look like? I'm just going to imagine it to myself without spelling out all the complicated dimensions of my life, i.e., how far various ones would have to travel, who would step in to say a few kind words about me, etc. Several years ago I specified to some relatives what songs I wanted played. But my guess, not fear, is that they've forgotten the exact ones, and will probably go with whatever suggestions the funeral director makes. Meaning I won't get the contemporary songs (contemporary from 40 years ago when I was a kid) I wanted but will have to suffer a few 150-year-old hymns about death and glory.

Since it's a very prevalent thing now, I fully expect someone will make a photo board of my life. My precious kindergarten picture, pictures of me from the other grades, snapshots of me holding up big fish, me standing by a new car from the '80s, me climbing a tree (a view of my butt) when I went deer hunting with a guy once, me at the amusement park holding Clifford the Big Red Dog I won once, etc. The pictures are so elemental and typical, you don't even have to know the person to enjoy them.

So all that stuff will be there. There will be a gathering at the beginning. Like I said, not much crying. Maybe some crying when they say what a good spirited, helpful person I was, and each person there is able to reflect back, "Yes, I remember he helped me during my crisis with X, Y, or Z." Or, "He was such a frugal guy, I never knew him to borrow money. And if he had, he was precisely the sort of person who'd pay you back." Or, "I never knew a nicer guy, and that's the honest to goodness truth and not something nice you say at someone's funeral." That one almost made me tear up right now!

Then they'll all leave the church, auditorium, or stadium, and make their way in a motorcade to the cemetery. Highways and interstate exits will be blocked off. Massive crowd control efforts will be underway. And so forth.

In conclusion, would you like to hear something that bums funeral directors out? That so many cars today have their headlights on all the time. Because it takes away that "something special" about a good old fashioned funeral procession.

The Pink Professor -- My Dreamboat

I just came from the Roadhouse (one of the town's bikers bars) from spending time with my dearest amigo, the Pink Professor.

It was an early evening. I left a little early, since he had some responsibilities out there. As should be well known by now, he serves as the Pink Professor figure there, a very beautiful concept. In short, a bikers bar and bikers themselves really flourish if they're fortunate enough to find someone like him -- a Pink Professor figure -- to hang around the place and keep it softened up. The bikers are happy to have his counsel and assistance and perpetually good attitude, and it also gives the bar a nicer feel.

He wanted me to stop by for a few minutes, just to catch up after a few days out of each other's sight. It was supposed to be a few minutes but it stretched to a couple hours! But I didn't get him to myself, of course (and I'm not complaining), because he was called to referee a minor tiff, to welcome some traveling folks, and to talk with a waitress, in addition to just the ordinary "spirit" he lends the place. I did have him to myself for a little while, sitting in a booth together, and enjoying some soft chocolate chip cookies that I baked. I made a bunch of extras because I knew some of the regulars would like one. They were a big hit.

I probably shouldn't say it, but being a Pink Professor figure at a bikers bar is not really an easy position. He gets stressed just like anyone, but of course he knows it's all worth it if he can do the folks some good. This is where I come in, to help him. I played the intuitive card, looking at him square in the eye. He got my body language right away! My look was as if to say, "I am Svengali, and you are under my spell." And I held that look, and I kept it there! He got the message, which was, "You have to take care of Number 1, too..." Then I smiled and he got the message, that I wanted him to relax and have another cookie.

The guy teaches classes all day -- that's his professorial role. Then he's out at the bar many evenings. I need to be there to make sure he keeps his spirits up, and he generally does!

Anyway, I'm sitting there, looking worried, and suddenly he returns the "favor." Suddenly, I found myself arrested by a terrific stare from across the table. "Oh no," I thought, "I let down my guard, and now ... and now ..." His stare returned my exact sentiment, very easy for me to discern: "I am also Svengali, and now you are under my spell." I wanted to turn away; that was my first thought. But then I thought, "This Svengali has dreamy eyes; he can take me anywhere he wants to go!" Then he went way out there, gritting his teeth in kind of a fearsome way, a negative look with a positive message, which said, "You worry too much." That's true, I do...

I put my hand up to my eyes -- I was playing silly, like he'd nailed me -- thinking I might break the spell and escape, and when I would look up again, he'd be looking the other way. But when I looked again, he was still looking right at me ... continuously ... then he burst out laughing, as if to say, "You worry too much, yes -- I nailed you on that. But don't worry about it!" What an ironic thing to say!

The guy is a dreamboat. The Roadhouse is lucky to have him. And as for me, I'm lucky too ... but, hey, it goes both ways! I think I can speak for him, "We're both lucky!"

Is It True That No One Cares Anyway?

I don't know how I ended up at this website, Traffic Generation Cafe. I think I clicked on a Twitter link -- sounds right -- a couple weeks ago, and there I was. You don't really care, do you? (That's the point of this post.)

Anyway, a couple weeks went by and I kept thinking about one little phrase I read there, "No one cares anyway!" That's pretty good in this age of skim reading and only partially at that. I didn't read the whole article. I got the gist -- and who cares? -- left.

The article is on "How to Successfully Write an Awesome Post Per Day – Every Day," written by Ana Hoffman. The idea seems to be, You can write an awesome post everyday, and even though no one really cares, there's something in it that's going to get them to your website. My guess, to see your ads, something like that.

I don't put too much effort into this post about it, because, look, you're already here! One of the points she makes is limited effort is good:

With that in mind, don’t stress out about making your post “sound good” by using lots of big words, descriptions, adjectives, etc. No one cares anyway!

Then it ends with my favorite line, "No one cares anyway!" They don't want to hear your big words, descriptions, and adjectives. Why would they, since they don't care?

But if I get you here, you can look around and click on my ads. By the way, how do you like my crummy Google ads? You don't really care, do you? Only about 50% of you click on them, so believe me, I'm not making 6 figures on them. If I break $50,000 a year, I consider that good. I know, it's pathetic, but it's nice not having to wonder where the next sack of groceries is coming from. And even at that, sometimes I feel like I'm rich. And when I feel rich I always shop at the health food store, where you pay twice as much for everything.

I could write any old crap ... la la la, connect the dots.

But of course you know I wouldn't do that, write any old crap. Because I know you do care, and that's why I get so many letters from my readers chewing me out for one thing or another. Like what I wrote in my two Milkbone posts (1) and (2). I guess I learned my lesson on that, never try to mix humor with world hunger, especially if you're point is that you're keeping a dog biscuit on your dashboard in case you're ever starving. Number 2 post was a "Mea Culpa," and even that wasn't welcomed by open arms by my readers, because, again, it still mixed humor with the issue of world hunger. Even though I said I was 100% sincere! Did anyone care? Well, yes, people did care. They didn't care to the point of making death threats against me, but they did complain.

Do I myself "care" when I go to someone's blog and read their articles? Well, I don't do it that often. I read several things, and, yes, I care. But I don't make death threats either. I simply make note of what they do, and if it's bad, I grimace and move on. If it's good, I'm jealous, so again, I grimace and move on. My reaction to most things is to grimace. Either they're too stupid to be worth my time (not usual), or too smart and make me feel bad. I feel that way when I read science articles. Hey, speaking of science articles, I'd like to have a science blogger explain to me WHY, if the moon is able to lift the waves of oceans and put them on the shore, it doesn't lift us? Is it because water is just so many disparate, unconnected molecules, hence without much weight in its component "pieces" and we're more connected and hence heavier? I'm sorry if I used too many big words, knowing you don't care.

It's an interesting article for someone to write, what I quoted from, how to write an awesome post everyday. It's not too hard, really, if you start from the premise that no one cares. I could blather on and on at some length about any subject, as you see I just have.

It's liberating ... knowing that no one cares anyway! Just as it's liberating to not have that many people reading your stuff, because you know not that many people are grimacing and moving on.

Magisterial -- The Greatest Compliment

The greatest compliment you can give a movie is "blockbuster" or "boffo." For movies, the whole thing is to make big box office bucks -- it's all reduced to that. Actors, directors, and the others don't give a crap for anything else. It's all money.

But in the world of books, there's some differences. As a dedicated reader of blurbs on the back of books -- and occasionally I get up to around page 16 in my unsuccessful efforts to read them (I'm busy and it takes forever to read a book) -- I know what writers like to hear.

"Authoriative" is nice, "essential," "definitive," "really good," and "interesting" are good compliments. I would like to have any of those terms used to describe my own writings, this blog. People often say such things -- then I wave them off as being undeserved, hoping they'll prevail in the battle of wits against me, but they usually give up and move on.

Yes, all those words are great. A writer sits in his study writing, dying to hear those compliments, as page after page is written, maybe a page a day or only one paragraph; it doesn't matter. Maybe he's so immersed in a character, like my own Percival A. Hashbrown, that he subsumes his own personality.  But somewhere under his crunchy light brown exterior, there's still a soft spot in his heart for praise.

I've often daydreamed of writing a book as thick as a couch, with everyone sitting up then and taking notice and giving me my well deserved strokes. Maybe it'll happen, maybe not, it probably will someday. Then they'll stroke me with those words, which of course I'll love.

But the word that is the highest praise for a writer, a book, is "magisterial." That's a knockout word. It sounds so grand, like a magistrate, a big white powdered wig on a judge, and the guy's so serious he has narrow eyes and a pointed nose. Or maybe he's a Calvinist magistrate who persecutes men, whose daily edict has everyone burnt at the stake just for fun.

To be called "magisterial" -- your book -- means you've gone beyond simple authority all the way up to literary divinity.

Would I like my own writings to be called "magisterial"? Of course, it's every serious writer's dream. You've got your words well ordered, every comma in place, you've spell checked it, and no one can dispute your conclusions. Even if they do, they're still breathless that you wrote it like that, magisterially. To them, you're a magistrate, a god on the magisterial mountain of literature.

I just saw in the last couple days a couple of books called "magisterial." And I bought one of them! Because if it's that good, it must be good. It gave me no great personal joy, not being the author, but it assured me that I could trust this book implicitly. I did get a little personal joy, because if I actually read it, and I'm like in the third chapter already, it might help me write better, more magisterially.

The thing is, with blogs, they're not usually called magisterial, because you're not taking the same care. The difference between me and others is ... I do take the same care; I proofread everything at least once and I'm a good to very good speller. I'm a magistrate in the making!

E Ink Shortage Roils Ebook World

The ebook world -- including the Amazon Kindle and all its imitators -- has been shaken by a sudden drop in the supply of E Ink.

Chalk it up to an unforeseen consequence of too much success too fast. Or maybe greed is at the root of it. They probably should have seen it coming but they didn't. And now we all have to suffer.

Millions of readers have already emptied their shelves of books to make way for ebooks, turning to the little reader devices. Of course they thought all would be well and there would be no problems. But reality always seems to have a way of intruding on everyone's best laid plans.

With the sudden drop in the supply of E Ink, ebooks are already very scarce and the problem threatens to get worse. To deal with the crisis, Amazon.com is now limiting customers to one ebook a month, or two if you can prove you can actually read that fast. No relief is in sight.

Like the supplies of gasoline, where we are used to shortages and price increases supposedly due to continuous retooling for summer and winter blends and other screwing around, it's anyone's guess what the problem is with E Ink production. To be frank, we're not entirely what E Ink even is, but we think they crunch up black chalk and mix it with chemicals. As to how there could be a shortage, when's the last time you shopped for black chalk? It's tough to find.

Speaking for myself, of course I prefer the Kindle to actual books. Shakespeare only wrote one book but it's a thick one! It's a lot easier to cart your whole library around when it weighs nothing. But with the shortage, I'm glad I kept a few old fashioned books, just in case they don't get it resolved by the time I read the 600+ page ebook on the Third Reich I'm currently working on.

My Milkbone Mea Culpa

Going by some of the emails I got since yesterday, some of you think I was pretty "flip" in what I wrote about the Milkbone dog biscuit I've got. Flip, in the sense that I didn't sound sincere about it being my last resort/go-to food in the event that I ran out of other food and money to buy more.

Well, it's the last day of January, and I don't want this weighing on my conscience into a whole new month (February), so let me address the issue right now and hopefully get it over with. Let this be my mea culpa if indeed I have anything to feel guilty about, which really I don't think I do. Because I was 100% sincere.

I was, as I just said, 100% sincere, with this little side note, that I don't really expect to be completely out of food or out of money to buy more. Hence, I don't really expect to have to eat this Milkbone, and so, going by that, I guess I was a little flip, and for that -- mea culpa -- I'm sorry.

The issue some of you had, and I completely understand this, is that there are indeed lots of people out there who are either starving to death or close to it. To me, that's no laughing matter, and I'm 100% sincere about that. It sickens me that in a world where there should be plenty of food, there's not. That's no joke, that's really how I feel. But it's a matter of economics, problems with distribution. There's always some problem with distribution and that is a sickening reality.

This blog's stock in trade is trying to make people smile. If I can toss in a few jokes and make people laugh, that brightens my day ... and I hope theirs. So, let me try to do that, leaving behind the last paragraph, which veered off into a serious subject for which I have no solution. Make distribution better is the solution, but how I'm supposed to do that, sitting here as I am, one guy with a single Milkbone, I don't know.

If I'm ever that bad off, believe me, I'm not likely to think it's funny. Because it wouldn't be. If I'm down to one Milkbone and that's all I have to eat. I was thinking about this today while I was outside scraping some ice off my windshield. I was thinking, "If I'm ever down to one Milkbone -- literally one dog biscuit -- I may as well give it to someone less fortunate, because what good's it really going to do me? If I eat it myself, then die?" But then the question presented itself, "Why aren't I giving it away today? Or why aren't I giving away everything else I have today? Why should I wait till I'm down to it?"

The obvious answer -- which became obvious to me within seconds -- is that if I gave away everything I had, what kind of life would that leave me? Then I'd be at the mercy of the elements. Then I literally would wish I had at least a Milkbone, so I could eat it, then die. Or, as I said above, give it away, because really, what good it going to do me to have one Milkbone to eat, then die?" I may as well die today and spare the world its need to care for me, which it wouldn't anyway, thanks to problems with distribution.

The whole thing, you can see, raises more questions than it answers. Even now I'm sensing some mea culpa feelings again for having even brought it up. Because there's someone out there who would give their eye teeth (is that how the phrase goes) to have this thing. And that's sad, that the stinking distribution system in this world is so piss poor that people can't even have a bare morsel.

We need a world leader -- a benevolent one, not a crappy one -- to get this all figured out. Someone smarter than me, if such a creature exists.

My Last Morsel Of Food: A Milkbone

I probably should wait to write this, since I'm not hungry in the slightest. I had some pizza for lunch and a Hostess cupcake and a can of Orangette. Certainly at this point a Milkbone doesn't sound good. But, who knows, someday I might eat one, the one I have. I'm saving it just in case.

That's a picture of the actual Milkbone I possess. I've had it around for a couple weeks. I'm wondering if I should wrap it in plastic to keep it fresher. Or does it really matter? It feels exactly like it did when I got it, but then the way of all flesh (and things) is to decay, to crap out. It could be if I don't put it in plastic that it'll be completely corrupt by the time I might need it.

And I really might need it someday. Just because I'm completely sated at this moment doesn't mean I won't get hungry again. But it'll have to be someday, because at this point there's plenty of food in the refrigerator. And I have additional money, in my wallet and in the bank, to buy other food between now and that (hopefully) distant day, hopefully never, when I might need this Milkbone for food.

I look at food maybe in a different way than the average person at any average moment. I see it for the energy it has bound up in it, which I believe we measure by the word calories. Each thing has calories. Then in addition to those, it has nutritional content meant to address certain needs of the organism. The nutrients swim through your bloodstream looking for holes in your nutritional status to plug up. Seeing none, they become poop, and that means you're full.

The upshot of all this is it doesn't really matter what you eat, just so it has nutritional value, measurable caloric content, and can be digested when it's time to go. You don't want to eat a whole walnut and have to pass it later. It's better to get the meat of the goodie out of the middle and eat that. The husk probably has nutritional value -- but if it tastes anything like it smells, you wouldn't want it.  Even the squirrels know better.

So if it doesn't matter what you eat, a Milkbone is just as good as anything else if you're starving to death.

My dog Underbrush would've eaten this particular Milkbone except she doesn't like them. I'm not sure why. She's never gone for them. One day a couple weeks ago I took her to the bank, and when I went to get my money out of the pneumatic tube, the teller had stuck in a Milkbone for her. She sniffed it and let it lay. So I threw it up on the dash, and ever since I've been thinking that I'd keep it just in case.

Would I like to eat a Milkbone? I don't believe I would. But it'll come in handy if I ever have to.

Is Amazon Monitoring My Reading Speed?

I had a weird passing thought of paranoia (very mild, since it doesn't really matter) while reading my Kindle.

The weird thought was that everything you do with the Kindle might be reported back to Amazon, who, with no evil intention that I can think of, would be carefully filing away and examining the data.

I eventually would've had this thought no matter what, except when I first got it I became aware that they compile everyone's highlights, so they're able to show you the most popular highlights as you read along. Which I really didn't want to see, so I turned the feature off.

Really, why would I want to see everyone else's highlights? When I buy a book I'm not looking for the most marked up one I can find. I want a clean book! And anyway, everyone else's preferences aren't my own ... If you're sitting drinking a glass of pop you don't want the flavors everyone else is savoring to keep appearing in your mouth. One at a time, let my experience be my experience; my private thoughts don't have to have that social media accompaniment.

But this thought this morning is a little more than the highlights although of the same genus. They could be monitoring everything, like the angle I tilt the thing most often, whether I'm reading in the sunlight or a room, of course what words I look up in the dictionary (charting out everyone's vocabulary skills), and anything else you can think of having to do with reading comprehension, speed, apparent interest (if my speed picks up or slows down, one having to do with breathlessness, the other with savoring), etc., etc.

If the Kindle's tipped up at a certain angle, of course you're reading in bed. Wouldn't it be great to quantify how much reading people do in bed, so they could tie it in with marketing, something to do with mattresses? Or selling nightlights? I don't know what devices there might be in this device, all with their own evil or benign devices. The thing could be tracking my every move. I spilled a tiny bit of seasoned salt on it yesterday and I thought I heard it groan. I'll try pepper today and see if it sneezes.

It probably doesn't matter. The big companies want to know everything about us. And we're complicit if we hold their spies in our hot little hands. We may as well lay back and enjoy it, and just hope it's all going into a big aggregate number and that it's not so specifically individualized.

I might run a magnet over it and see if it cries. I have a big magnet on my refrigerator. I think I got it out of a car motor one time. No, probably not a car motor. Wherever I got it, it's the most powerful magnet I've ever seen. We'll see how the Kindle stands up to this big lug. I'm afraid to put it against appliances -- the refrigerator doesn't seem to mind -- since I don't want them acting up.

Facebook Status: Taking A Bullet For Junior

I'm amazed on a daily basis how schmaltzy and sentimental people are on Facebook.

Each one has a dead dog waiting for them "in Heaven", or a child; it's nauseating. Of course family still here on Earth get a lot of tributes. Each week it's Daughter Week, Son Week, Mom Week, Dad Week, or something. But there doesn't seem to be any organization behind these designations, since I know I've seen Daughter, Son, and Mom Weeks roll around with some frequency.

I'm also wondering, Are the people in my life (or formerly in it) really this sentimental in their everyday life. Are they really going around with tears in their eyes singing "Wind Beneath My Wings" to one another? Or slowly thumping their fist to their heart while staring meaningfully into one another's eyes?

Here's one that's a tribute to our children in general:

Parents think about their children day and night. Parents love their children in a way that they will never understand. Parents will be there for their children when no one else will. Parents would take a bullet, jump in front of a train, or ask God to take them instead of their child--I know I would! If you have children you love as much as I love mine post this as your status

That's probably true, parents think about their children a lot, and they love them in a way they will never understand. And I would guess that parents would be there for their kids when no one else is. If you're talking just about the way normal life is, it's tough to "be there" for every person you see unless you have some kind of deeper relationship with them. Being a parent meets that criterion. It's like being the home team.

Then we find out that parents would take a bullet for Junior. Well ... I don't know. I'm presently reading a book on Al Capone, and there's a picture of his mother and sister (Theresa and Mafalda). The caption says they were "part of a large, tightly bound family." I haven't read far enough to know if Theresa Capone ever took a bullet for Alphonse. But who knows? Maybe she would've if she'd've been there when the bullets were flying.

Parents also would "jump in front of a train" for Junior. I wonder how often it happens that you need to jump in front of a train for a kid. But look on the bright side, it'd actually be better to jump in front of a train than some lesser vehicle. Because you could jump in front of a lesser vehicle and end up crippled (differently disadvantaged) for life, but a train's going to kill you outright. In the first case, Junior comes to resent you because now he has to pay for your medical care for life, since you were trampled when you ignorantly jumped in front of an ox cart and slipped, thinking it'd be a great way to show your devotion to your child. But if you're run over by a train and killed outright, Junior gets his inheritance and you've won big respect points forever!

The next thing is parents will ask God to take them instead of Junior. To which I have to ask, Is that really the way it works? Seriously, I have problems with the idea that we're all on a number system, that we're all in line to die, and that somehow, with enough pleading, the order can be switched. My kid's about to die of a rare lung fungus -- a lungus -- so I rush down to the hospital chapel to pray: "Please, God, take me instead of Junior!" The next thing you know, you're coughing up blood and that's a good thing...

The sentimental status writer ends with a challenge to parents everywhere. "If you love your little brats as much as I love my spawn, post this as your status." Parents everywhere are out there blubbering, crying their eyes red, even sacrificing their time to type this out character by character rather than resorting to the lazier CTRL-C, CTRL-V. If you're going to take a bullet or jump in front of a train, you at least should have the devotion to type it out word for word!