My Report on Playground Turtles

I recently had the opportunity to be part of an interesting study, which an exhaustive review of city parks files showed had not been previously done, at least as far back as the records go, to 1875. And as far as I'm concerned, the findings, for the most part, were positive, with the future remaining bright for playground turtles.

When the subject came up of studying the particular turtle in the photo, in order to discern its favorability with its target audience, children, I simply asked, "Who doesn't like playground turtles?" Could there really be someone? Since I've always thought they were pretty cool.

Then I went quickly through my memories over the years and recalled, in some instances vaguely, that negative things can and have happened. Kids getting stuck underneath, mothers become frantic, feel faint, etc., dreadful stuff no one wants to see. Still, we all have to accept some degree of risk in whatever we do. You could lose a finger or toe on almost anything. Have you noticed the effects of gravity on children who fall off tall slides? There's a huge risk of moderate bruising. So in the end, my overall take on playground turtles was positive.

This particular study came about when a friend of mine, who happens to work for the city, said to me that she never sees kids play on this turtle, and that maybe it should be taken out. Even though I'm only seldom at that particular park, leaving plenty of opportunities for kids to be there playing on it unseen, I had to admit that I hadn't seen any either. So maybe a study would be good.

Fortunately, there's an app for that! You enter the type of playground equipment, the sort of study you want to do, and set up the various apparatus needed for the task, as the app directs, and you're all set. It requires cameras, various sensors, and an electric eye system, depending on what your study needs. And all this stuff has to be set up so as not to catch the attention of the thieving general public, who would quickly make off with it.

We did it all, the whole thing. The electric eye -- we put in four electric eyes -- making a perimeter around the turtle. Whenever someone would pass through, presumably a child, the rest of the apparatus would go into action. The sensors on and under the turtle would register such minutiae as the intensity and spirit of the child's play, and detect various other useful information, body temperature, blood pressure, glucose levels, perspiration, etc.

The idea, then, was that that information would give a more reliable reading on the child's true favorability toward the turtle than we would get merely relying on video evidence. Plus, who knows, there could be some use for it in the future, like combining the medical care industry and playground turtles, making children more health-conscious through life.

The statistics, literally uploaded from our computer system buried there, revealed that there is an average of 8.25 kids at the turtle a day, give or take a quarter child. The most common activities are kicking the head, scampering and sliding over the back, lying with their face on its head and looking out, and, of course, crawling under it.

One boy -- we looked at the video a dozen times! -- came to the park with a body-sized suction cup on his back, like a turtle himself, crawled under the turtle, and stuck himself to the underside of the shell. We had some interesting footage of a very frantic mother. Finally, the boy, who had remained silent for a good 20 minutes, apparently as a prank, fell to the ground with a thud that resounded through the park. Mom saw him and was very angry, but happy. However -- and this is where everything went slightly sour -- in the fierce escalation of emotions, she had a heart attack, and died. After a minute, the boy was outside the perimeter and the camera went black.

But back to the study. As for the various body temperatures, blood pressure, and so forth, of the children, they were all in the normal range, no anomalies from what one would expect. On hot days, they were warmer; on cooler days, cooler. Everything seemed normal and actually quite predictable. This part of the study turned out to be an enormous waste of money, but I reasoned that it's better to know you know nothing than to regret not doing the tests and not knowing that you don't know anything.

In conclusion, playground turtles are a valuable item in any park. They definitely should remain in place. And where there isn't one, we recommend that park officials get one ASAP. We further recommend that the undersides be filled in, or maybe more reasonable, that the surface underneath be pocked in such a way as to resist the adherence of larger suction cups.

North Korea -- A Cool Place

I know I'm risking whatever security clearance I have, may have, or may not have, by writing this. But other considerations override my personal fate, the fact that I am of the opinion that North Korea is a cool place. I know, I know, it's not popular these days to stand up and be counted.

It all started -- I'm guessing here -- three or four years ago. A guy I met at the library was acting a little furtive with his reading material, like he didn't want me to see it. But I prodded and pried, and next thing, he was showing me some literature he had from the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, North Korea.

I looked at it with some suspicion, but he gave me the "shush" sign and assured me he possessed it legally, then he went on to tell me how cool it was. I thought, "Hmm," overcoming my inbred suspicions and turning the pages of the magazine, "This actually is kind of cool. I love the whole vibe." He smiled and nodded. After that, I guess you could say we became a club of two!

Now it's been, like I said, years, and we still have only that one magazine, dated 1975. I asked him if there's anything newer, and he said, No, that's what we've got so far. He thought back and said he'd gotten it fresh when he first shared it with me, that it'd just come in by ship and that that's all we needed for the time being. OK. And something about the printing presses needing parts from Cuba.

But the key thing is not its age, but the content, which we have to assume is still just as relevant today as it was in 1975. I've often heard that North Korea doesn't change that much, that they've been able to maintain a sort of constant stability, whereas we in the West have had tumultuous changes. What's better? The contentment of stability or the upheaval of change? I don't think I have to answer that...

This particular issue shows their great president, Kim Il Sung, traveling the world, as a goodwill ambassador for everyone. And meeting with various world leaders that I can only presume are still in power, heroes of the cause, Comrade Nicolae Ceausescu of Romania and President Josip Broz Tito of Yugoslavia. I seriously thought Tito was dead, or had joined the Jackson 5 or something; I honestly haven't kept track. But there he is, as of 1975, still very much alive!

But the article that really caught my attention is their call to Americans to defect, to "Join our unremitting struggle for the victory of the cause of people and democracy." That sounds cool! Really, why do we want to follow the lackeys over here who simply prattle out the things they want us to hear, all the while pulling the strings of repressive imperialism both at home and abroad? The key thing for my purposes is: The trip there is all expenses paid, and they have employment for you. The listings are mostly for field labor, but there's also a tractor factory looking for skilled workers.

I know I'm getting myself in deep here. But -- be bold! -- there's no turning back now. The magazine sketches out the steps: 1) Contact the State Department; 2) Go to the State Department; 3) Renounce Citizenship; 4) Complete Paperwork; 5) Enter Renunciation Room for Formal Swearing Out; 6) Go to North Korean Embassy for Hero's Welcome; 7) Live Happily Ever After in Great Struggle.

That is one cool photo I've got! Six motorcycles for every car.

The Ghost of Old Man Harris

When you get old like me, if you're not careful, you'll find yourself dwelling on the past. It's different than when you're 20, since now there's so much more of it. As for me, I try to dwell on the good ... but of course there's also the bad.

I shook it off, but there in my mind was the image of my worst school principal, Old Man Harris. I think scourge would be a neutral enough term for him, but bane, terror, plague, they're all good. I told all this to a neighbor -- Deanna -- and she said, "Being angry at things and people in the past seems a waste of time."

That sounded reasonable. So I went on with my day, until the old demons again rose to the surface. I googled Old Man Harris and got 14 million hits. It seemed everyone in town remembered him! But now he'd passed on. I kept checking, and Google Cemetery View showed me right where he was. I had an idea.

I also googled what you should say to the dead who've aggrieved you. Most of it was very extreme: "You dirty so and so," "You worthless bag of so and so," and so on. But Deanna's voice rang in my ears, "Being angry ... seems a waste of time." True, true, I said, what good would it do?

Regardless, the more I thought of it, the more I needed to resolve it. Yes, he's been dead 35 years, but he must finally get his. I got to the cemetery and looked around. Hmm, there seemed to be a very worn path to his grave; everyone in town had been there. I was about to add my two cents, just the right string of curse words, when the same counsel came back to me, "It seems a waste of time."

So that was it, I was finally reconciled. But as I turned to leave, never to return, who was standing in front of me but the ghost of Old Man Harris himself! Just like in the movies, tattered clothes, indistinct features, a serious mien, like a lot of people I know in everyday life. But it was Old Man Harris himself, that's the key thing!

I had been reconciled, but Harris needed to reconcile with me! I would've never guessed it. The spirit collapsed to his knees, sobbing, "I'm sorry for that time I named you in the school assembly, calling you the biggest failure I'd ever known." I thought, "Gee, I'd forgotten that," but I nodded. "And I'm sorry for that time you brought a hot plate and a can of soup to school as a lunchroom protest, and I forbade you to go through with it." That I remembered, but I was surprised he did. "And I'm sorry for that time I shook you forcefully in my office when you were falsely accused of making a culturally-bound and otherwise arbitrary gesture denoting craziness on the part of a particular teacher." Damned straight, I was falsely accused. But, I thought, all gestures are culturally-bound and intrinsically arbitrary without a common basis of interpretation. See, I'm not such a failure.

I no longer needed Deanna's counsel. There wasn't one iota of anger. I looked at that ghost like he was a basket of sweet puppies on fluffy terrycloth. Long story short, he came home with me, staying the night in the "ghost room." I know, "Boo..."

And now, within the last hour, he and I finished a nice breakfast and were reliving old times. He admitted making many mistakes, and I had to confess a few of my own. One of his biggest mistakes, he said, was ever becoming a principal in the first place. "That was all my dad's idea. I wanted to join the Army and be a drill sergeant." I had to nod and chuckle, "I can see that."

I said, "How about we take a picture of us, old enemies, as it were, but now old friends?" He smiled broadly. He definitely liked the adult me much better than the kid, but who knows what problems he may have had as a principal? You're dealing with cranky parents all the time, on and on. I set the iPhone up and had the timer on and the camera app clicked. It's a very tender picture that I will always treasure, showing me sitting there with my arm as though around someone, but it's just me.

Deanna was exactly right, this is the way to live. He and I simply hung out, had another cup of coffee, then I said I had a busy day ahead and he probably did, too. Maybe he'd better float back up to his heavenly reward. "Whatever happened in the past," I said, "none of it matters. All is forgiven and forgotten." The feeling was mutual. Old Man Harris nodded and smiled, indicating everything was copacetic, which means hunky dory, which means good.

A Huge Pet Peeve -- Never Enough Tallows

OK, you've never known me as one to complain, complain, complain, at least not incessantly. Because my philosophy is, If something's wrong, do something about it. In this case, I've tried. Plus, you can't always do something about it, realistically, like if you're at someone else's house.

Of course, I'm talking about tallows. There's always something wrong with the tallows. There's either not enough, they're dirty, they might be dirty, they're on the floor, they're behind the hamper, and on and on. This is frankly my Number One pet peeve in the whole world, bar none, including death, war, and the price of cheese.

I have people over. Relatives come by, friends drop in, the occasional door-to-door salesman stops for coffee and biscuits, police running down a lead. And it's always the same. They're off to the bathroom, washing their hands, cleaning up crumbs, and things you can hardly imagine -- like wiping something off their feet -- with one of my tallows. Next thing I know, there's no clean ones in the whole place.

And it just happens to be my policy that I don't want to use a tallow that someone else has already used. I know, that's my problem. It wasn't always that way. When I was a kid, we were like barbarians, in and out, barefoot, frolicking, sharing the same ladle for drinking water, dipping sticks in the outhouse and chasing each other. Crazy stuff.

So obviously back then we didn't mind using the same tallow, or even someone's shirttail. Tallows might hang there, I don't know how long. I wasn't keeping track, but I would guess Grandma was picking them up at night and putting them in the dirty clothes. It's funny now how different things are. Now it's one of my hangups, a big one. I'm not sure what changed, or how it changed, precisely.

The fact is, I think the whole country has changed. We've gotten a lot more meticulous about germs. I know I look at a dirty tallow and I don't even want to pick it up to put it in the dirty clothes. That's how much they bum me out. So I might take a paper tallow, fold it over and grab the cloth one by the edge, doing all this as fast as possible to get it in the hamper, because the paper tallow absorbs moisture very fast. Then it gets on my fingers.

Sometimes, especially if I know there's going to be company, I put a couple of tallows behind something, like the breadbox. No one knows they're there but me. Then if I need a clean one, there they are. And these, I don't mind using the same tallow on my own hands a few times. It depends on what I was handling. I have a little red flag in my brain that pops up when it's time to toss it. I'm also careful with red flags.

Another thing has changed since "yesteryear," and that's all the paper tallows we go through. I literally go through eight rolls a week, like the old Beatles song. Because you need them for everything. It's surprising -- a shock, really -- how many tiny spills happen in the course of a day. It's funny, but just making coffee takes maybe three paper tallows, all the drips and tiny spills. As well as making sure my cup is totally clean. That's one whole tallow right there, because I'm not going to reuse the one that cleaned the counter.

Then there's bathing. I take a shower everyday. So I need a good-sized bath tallow to wipe with. And I was raised with the idea that you put a second tallow on the floor for when you get out of the shower or tub. All this adds up, then it's time for the laundry again. It's an endless job, but at least tallows are the easiest thing in the laundry to fold. I actually like folding tallows. Fold in the center, then the next center, and they're done!

Not everything we do in the course of the day is something we really want to do. But in the end, it's worth it. Because if you want good hygiene and cleanliness, you need tallows. I just wish we didn't go through so many of them. Because then you run out, and it's to the washing machine ... again.

One other note on this, I could buy lots more tallows, I know that. But I like to have a finite number. Because one thing I definitely don't want to do is accumulate eight or nine loads of dirty tallows before washing them. Imagine the load that'd be! Plus, just to handle that many dirty tallows doing the laundry, it'd take five or six clean ones to wipe my hands after handling them, and that's almost another load right there.

The Sheds of Butlic County

You could ask nearly anyone in the state what is one of the most interesting of our many tourist spots, and they'd probably say, The Sheds of Butlic County. Some college students even made a movie there about a couple adulterous farmers and ladies from out of state, Butlic or Bust. I never saw it, but I understand it had quite a bit of each. Also, years ago, some genuine Hollywood stars were in the area.

As for me, it's sort of funny. I could live right across the street from a tourist attraction and never go to it. But then, if I'm in some other state, I make a beeline for whatever it is, a famous rock or anything, The World's Largest Rotten Tomato. But I hadn't actually toured our famous sheds, until around three weeks ago.

It's a little different, as tourist sites go, since they're not in one place but scattered around the county. That means you either drive yourself or get on the bus and go with a guide. I thought $15 was a pretty good deal, with the price of gas, and also because you learn more with an educated person.

OK, the overall summary -- and I'll be looking at my notes here, excuse me -- is that a Mr. Ebenezer Tobias Peabody Smith, who wanted to serve the world as a priest, but because his parents were deathly sick on the farm and he had younger siblings, had to drop out of seminary and help the family, worked as a carpenter. Most of the things he built are long gone, but he built nine sheds, six of which remain.

Of the six, there's three major ones, making the others minor ones, very minor. But they do take you to the minor ones, mostly so you can say you saw them, but, frankly, I'd advise dropping out way before then. So we have the Big Three. And even these vary, being called the Best One, the Medium One, and the Other One.

The Best One has quite a story. (That's it in the picture. It now has modern siding and bears little resemblance to its original self, since they want to preserve it for future generations.) Runaway slaves used to congregate there, with the brave townspeople pretending to help slaves in another part of the county, throwing slave owners off track. But it all came to a head when a turncoat, Col. Butlic's greatest nemesis, Benedict Ziffle, led the slave owners to the shed. They almost burned it down with the former slaves still in it. But the townspeople took them on, rounded them up, and burnt them alive. The slaves were free! All that -- an amazing story! -- happened at this shed!

The Medium One has a so-so story. Two donkeys had been tied there in the late 1800s when their owners were in school. One donkey belonged to a girl, the other to a boy. But the boy's donkey was a female, and the girl's donkey a male. One day, nature being what it is, the donkeys interbred and ended up with twins, the male of which went to the boy and the female went to the girl. So all was right with the world. Walking the little path to shed, the guide said it was called "The Trail of the Four Donkeys." So I watched where I stepped.

Then there's the Other One, the other "major" shed. Its most famous story is how a farmer came up over a hill, again in the 1800s, back when apparently all kinds of things happened, unlike now, and thought he saw a family of fairies dancing on the green in front of it. Then, as he approached, the truth became clear. Turned out that he'd been drinking and mistook the sun reflecting off some metal bars and the swaying of garden variety weeds for a fairy family. I thought, Big damned deal. I've seen weirder stuff than that without drinking!

Among the many other interesting things the guide told us, all the sheds had famous people who stopped by over the years. Since they've been there forever, of course that wasn't so unbelievable. But the famous names! I was floored, somewhat. Especially when it came to the Best One. When President Woodrow Wilson came through, he and his wife stopped and toured the Best shed. The duties of office prevented him from doing the whole tour. So there I stood, right in the very doorway where President Wilson himself passed!

The Medium One was also visited by a political titan, at least halfway a titan, Henry Wallace. Ever heard of him? Turns out he was a vice president in the '40s. So that's a definite step down from President Wilson, but still not too bad. So I also stood in the doorway right where Henry, uh, Wallace went through.

Then at the Other One, the most famous person to visit it was a guy named Walter Seymour Randall, according to the guide the founder of Randall Eggs, an egg farm which has since been bought out by a conglomerate and renamed. So I also stood in the doorway where a guy who sold eggs once passed...

The final story concerns more gossip than established fact, since people are usually quiet about their romantic shenanigans. But the rumor goes -- and I'll be brief since I doubt anyone's too interested in who was boinking whom way back when -- that there was enough hanky panky at these sheds alone to repopulate a barren land, were each coital encounter to have resulted in pregnancy and subsequent live birth. So I'll just sum it up with a few names, without suggesting what may or may not have happened between them. The Best Shed: W.C. Fields and Mae West -- very, very cool; The Medium One: Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, a married couple; and, The Other One, Slim Pickens and Gabby Hayes. You might remember the movies, neither one was a straight man.

Anyway, what a tour! It was definitely fun to get out and learn. In my advanced years, I really don't do much learning, so I'll be taking some time off. But it was quite a refreshing change of pace. I hope I didn't give away too much. Because next time you're in the area, I would definitely advise you to at least visit the Best One of the six.

My Time Wasted Mentoring Ted

This was something I had long contemplated. They said there was a kid out there needing to be supported. Being myself a well-respected man, I presented myself available to help.

They told me my mentee was 13 years old and named Ted. I greeted him, "Hello, Ted." I was glad that I'd been invited for this. Some of these kids, it's like they're dilapidated people; they've been isolated from good company so long, they're goners. So anything we can do that they might be rehabilitated is always appreciated.

But my pleasant reverie was interrupted and melted away when he blurted out, "I'm not Ted!" I checked the paperwork and, no matter how such things are accounted for, this had to be Ted.

With a gentle, contented look and friendly lifted hand, I prevented him from storming out, letting him know I really wanted him to stay. I thought, "Poor kid must have been booted from place to place, or maybe taunted over something." Soon, he rested his twisted features.

It was obvious that this was a kid who called for a moderated attitude from me. But I started to take it for granted that no one alive could be delighted to be around him very long. I fretted that I wouldn't be able to do it, already feeling tormented.

But as indicated by the situation, I resorted back to total calm, and once again had corrected my attitude. I wasted no time, "Tell me, what are some of the things you've celebrated in your life, a life really only just started? You seem like such a spirited boy."

All at once his face contorted, and I heard a strangulated voice, which imparted and repeated what he had already asserted, "I'm not Ted!"

I'm sure I must have looked agitated, and maybe disgusted. Had I said "Ted"? No, I explicitly resisted having said his name, until such a time when I would have seen more evidence and reflected on it. "Dimwitted boy!" I thought, "What are you, demented? Maybe you belong in a gated community, the kind that has twisted barbed wire on the fence!"

Again, it was up to me to think, "This boy must be tolerated." I catapulted my anger and quickly concocted a line: I attributed the misunderstanding to myself and said I stood corrected. I'd never before tasted this kind of nonsense, but I wanted to give him another chance, so I attempted to engage him again, despite being exhausted. "Why don't you tell me what you expected when I was invited to get together with you?" His features were again distorted. It was easy to see his perfected ire had again routed itself straight to the surface. "I'm not Ted!"

I was nauseated, and simply said, "Ted -- or whatever other blasted name you were fated to bear -- you seem to think I'm obligated to help you, when in return you've resisted everything I might have given. This cannot be tolerated! You have now grated on my last nerve!"

I shouldn't have even started with a kid like this. If only I had resisted! I gesticulated and ranted on: "I hope you'll finally be contented when you look back and see that you've been deserted by your very last friend!"

The little monster mounted up from his chair as though escorted by the Furies themselves. I could see he hated my guts, and his voice reverberated in the room and down the hall as he spouted forth: "My name isn't Ted! It's Theodore!"

The Real Life Guy Who Played Horst

This is a companion piece to my "Happy 90th Birthday, Horst!" post.

That post was originally featured on a website I had in 2000, based on a birthday party I attended for a 90-year-old man I knew named Fritz, but changed to Horst for the website.

The pictures featured a man who was neither Fritz nor Horst, simply because I couldn't use pictures of Fritz himself, and I owned copies of these pictures from buying them at an antique store, or somewhere -- I don't actually remember where. An antique store is most likely. They had a guy at a younger age and then older, as I needed.

The names of the folks is given on the back of one of the pictures. I decided now, in 2013, to look them up online, and they were there! They were Elbert and Olive Macy. Olive's actual first name was Mary, so Mary Olive Macy.

I have two pictures of them, the first one below from their wedding in June 1932, and the second from their 25th wedding anniversary, June 2, 1957.

Below the pictures are a couple of newspaper accounts, first, an account of their wedding, and, second, Mr. Macy's obituary from 1990.

They had children and grandchildren. If any of them happen to read this, hello and my sincere regards.

 

 

 

Elbert Bonebrake Macy, Manhattan, Kansas; Mary Olive Strnad Macy. Rooks County, Kansas. Belleville, Kansas.

Happy 90th Birthday, Horst!

One of our dearest friends, Horst, recently turned 90 years old! The big 9-0. Time to look back, for sure, and a time to look ahead to all the great years to come!

For Horst everything is getting better and better. Now he has lots of time on his hands at the nursing home, and that can be a kick.

In the long-ago far-off days of youth, Horst never dreamed he'd live to be 90. He was a handsome guy (still is), and all the girls had a thing for him. Especially one girl, the girl he would marry. (But more about her later.)

Take a look at Horst on their 30th anniversary. He's pictured here with his dear wife, Edna. (Unfortunately, Edna had to be cropped out because we wanted a uniform format on this page.) They not only look happy, they were.

Gettin' Better 'n Better in Every Way

At 90, Horst has nothing too much to worry about these days, just to take it easy and try to stay out of the nurses' way. Edna passed away a few years ago, and that was sad. But Horst's family made it much easier for him by having the newspaper print a poem, which read in part:

God broke our hearts to prove
He only takes the best.

What would people get Horst for his 90th birthday? Well, turns out there were all kinds of things he'd probably like. Like this "Footprints in the Sand" decorative thing. Horst's surprise comment on opening this gift: "What the hell is it?"

Of course, a singing bird clock is a gift idea that can't miss, whether your intended victim is young or old. And so it was for Horst. His comment after opening this gift: "What the hell do I need this for?"

And these days, the Boogie Blade is very popular as a gift item. It's kind of like the Boogie Bass (singing fish) or the Billy Bass (another singing fish), but this is not a fish nor does it have anything to do with birds, but it's a singing and dancing windshield wiper! Anyway, it was an obvious choice for an old guy like Horst, whose eye is just naturally captured by something so novel. Horst's comment on opening the Boogie Blade was touching: "What the sam hell — ?"

There was music and ice cream, and quite a few cards.

A nurse asked Horst, "Do you know how many people are here?"

He said, "200?"

"No," the nurse said, "50!"

Horst's beautiful reply: "That all?"

Horst, we know this is a happy time for you, with 90 Big Ones under your belt! Our sincerest wish for you is just this: May you have another 90 and then some!

---------------------------------

Note:

This post is from a webpage I had in 2000. It was based on a party I had recently gone to for a 90-year-old guy I knew. The guy's name was Fritz, but I changed it to Horst. Fritz actually said, "What the hell do I need this for?" when he opened the bird clock. And the line about how many people are here -- 200? No, 50, That all? -- is a true detail. I didn't include it, but Fritz thought he was either 100 or 110.

The formatting had to be different from the 2000 website. Here's the animated gifs I had of Horst at 90 and the Boogie Blade. The Boogie Blade originally had a soundtrack of snippets of various rain songs. I worked on the 30th anniversary picture with Photoshop to try to make him look around 90.

To learn about the actual guy in the pictures -- Elbert Macy -- see my post at THIS LINK.

Why Aren't There More Natural Disasters?

We have a few tornadoes, hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis, forest fires, and volcanoes and we think we have it so bad. Or an occasional asteroid comes within 2 million miles of us and we're concerned. How about crying me a river; that'd be a disaster!

I think we have it pretty good. It could be much worse. I watch some of the science shows and they say we're in the "Goldilocks" area of space -- where it's "just right" -- although I saw something by a guy the other day that disputed that. He had stubbed his toe getting out of the bathtub, probably.

The fact is, so far, the Earth's had it cream puff easy. Somehow, even when an asteroid did hit the planet, it made it better, clearing out the dinosaurs so we could evolve in relative peace. As much as I like watching dinosaurs on TV, the idea of one crunching my body the first thing in the morning is unappealing. Look at my scrawny little physique ... How desperate could a dinosaur be?

All we have to do is compare the Earth to other planets to see we have it good. There are storms on Jupiter that last thousands of years. Imagine that. The nightly news, "The storm continues yet another day." There's planets that have no atmosphere but pure methane. We catch one whiff of methane on Earth and we think we have it bad. There's planets where the oceans are 5,000 miles deep. I can't picture that. If the Titanic sank, that's the last we'd see of it. Saturn pulls on its moons so forcefully, they're literally reshaped everyday. Is your yard in a different place everyday?

As far as I'm concerned, all this is good and proper, especially since we can't do anything about it anyway. But were we there, it'd be bad. We can literally thank our lucky stars that Oklahoma only gets wiped out by tornadoes three or four times a year. Because comparatively, that's nothing. The only thing we want to avoid is messing up the balance and making things worse. We can do something about that.

Then there's hurricanes. They come around at a particular time of year, when the air and water temp are just so, along with the spinning of the Earth, and, according to the crazies, whatever God's mad about. It's funny that God's supposed anger happens at a particular season of the year that can be explained by natural forces. But there's no disputing them. According to Pat Robertson and others, God might be mad about a gay pride parade in Louisiana, therefore this perfectly natural force partially destroys a city.

But assuming that's so, what about all the planets -- out of hundreds of billions, there have to be a few -- where it's hurricanes all day everyday? And no one lives there, except maybe one lone weatherman crying in the tumult. The truth is: Since there's only 26 hurricanes possible on Earth a year, so we don't run out of alphabet to name them, God can't be that mad. The whole theory is crap.

The same thing goes for plagues, diseases, infections, and sitcoms. At times, we're besieged by them, but in the whole context of things, it's nothing. We enjoy a certain balance of what seems good and what seems bad. I personally hate mosquitoes, but in the whole scheme of things, they're food for something else. So who am I to complain? I'm outside five minutes a day, try to bite me ... If you must.

There's Gotta Be a Better Way

It came up the other day at breakfast, What are we doing, sitting here, exposing ourselves like this, letting everyone see us stuff food in our ... mouth?

I've been embarrassed about it for years, and I've said so, but it's like no one's paying close attention, so I just do it, brazenly, and figure that covers it. Act like there's nothing especially weird about it, get it done, and go. Walk out, then collapse in tears...

I've actually sworn off these public places more times than I can count, eating like that, because of course being in public's where the real embarrassment is. There's a entire staff watching your every move. The manager seats you. The menu deliverer makes sure you're comfortable with the fine print. The waitress' hands are clean and she has her place at your side. There's a guy at the bar scrubbing a glass, giving you a thumbs up. On and on. The manager's back at his books, multiplying a few figures, writing a hopeful note to himself, "A few more warm bodies made the trek -- we remain hopeful."

Before leaving home, I look in the mirror, moving my mouth up and down -- one lip at a time, like everyone -- and see there's no obstruction. I don't want food stuck and someone doing the maneuver on me. Every eye in the place turns, people crossing themselves that it wasn't them, then the words of encouragement, "First time you ate? It goes like this," showing the up and down motion. I'd be like, "No, I've done it ... all my life ... " I trailed off because they're already back at their meal. Had I died, it would've been that much more for them, but they seem genuinely relieved.

There's gotta be a better way! Everyone needs a mantra, how about that? I guess I'm questioning what the seer always says, This is the best of all possible worlds. My reasoning, which I'm keeping to myself, is it doesn't hurt to imagine better. Then if it turns out to be better, whoever takes the credit, that's nothing to me.

They came up with the nicotine patch for smokers who couldn't quit. How about the same thing for eating? A whole series of patches for all the food groups, pineapple, pork chops, eggs, hamburgers, chive dip, etc. A long time ago we heard that we'd be putting a pill on our plate and expanding it with water like a sponge. My idea just takes it the other way, the expansion taking place in your body. Actually, a pill could expand in your belly. Although if it were powder, when it expanded it'd be like chewed up pieces.

Till they come up with that, there could be a pore opener you apply to your arms and neck, creating stigmata-like ooze points for absorption. Then you apply a bit of food there, wrap it in gauze, and you're good to go. I've heard of ladies putting fruit on their eyes at night, same idea. Absorption's the key. It'd free up your hands for more important things, and your mouth, and take away some of the shame.

It might even look comical, giving the world a whole new reason to be happy. "What's that you're working on, Thanksgiving in July?!" They give you a good-natured slap on the back, only to realize they just smashed a pie. Lemon meringue, too, that's now dipping down your pants!

I can definitely picture myself saving all kinds of time when traveling. No more stops at fast food restaurants and fighting the crowds. The other day I was at a place and a guy rushes in, stepping in front of me, and blurting out to the lady, "I need a glass of water, my baby's thirsty!" I had to think, You're a dad (or boyfriend) and you can't provide your baby even the bare minimum of a glass of water without begging for handouts? What's the world coming to? My dad would've moved heaven and earth to avoid that.

Instead of facing these situations, what if I had an extra absorbency roast -- a large pork or beef roast -- gauzed to the back of my neck? I wouldn't be eating in public, I wouldn't be stopping, I'd save time, and I'd have a built-in neck rest. It's a winner all the way. Then I'm barefoot, let's say, with some coleslaw smeared to the accelerator, a biscuit on the gearshift knob, and a grape on the ends of each finger. At the very least, it'd do wonders for my coordination.

Do Bugs Deserve to Live?

The first answer is, yes, they deserve to live, just so they're not doing it in my home. Which seems to be their first choice, even though they have the whole vast outdoors. But you can see it from their point of view, the vast outdoors has too many bugs.

I actually like bugs, I like nature, thinking of nature out there. To hear them at night is a joy. The only ones outside I hate are mosquitoes and chiggers and anything that immediately attacks me. Live and let live -- I say to the bugs -- and we'll get along swell.

Lately, I've been overrun with little fruit flies, since I've been eating more fruit. I don't know if they come in with the fruit -- my first guess -- or they're flying by and smell it. It's a definite downside to eating healthy, since I haven't seen any red meat flies, Cheetos flies, or candy flies. There no doubt are meat flies, but probably around the Amazon, where other weird things are.

The little fruit flies aren't hard to catch, squish, or otherwise annihilate, but so far it's just been one at a time when they're bugging me. I haven't gone after them systematically. There probably is a fruit-flavored poison for them, but I haven't looked into it.

As to whether bugs in your home deserve to live, I will apply three rules before jumping to my ultimate answer of "No, no, hell no!"

First, the Wild Boar rule. The Wild Boar rule is the rule of the ridiculous extreme, but it covers lesser pests. I would not be able to live in a house with a raging wild boar. I would do whatever it took to get it out, be it gun, arrow, poison, or dynamite. That'd actually be a good reality show -- like they do with gators -- guys coming around to clear your house of wild boars. Or even insect guys coming around to relocate insects back to their own wild habitat.

So, do bugs deserve to live in your home? Going by the Wild Boar rule, clearly not. It'd be nice if they left of their own freewill, but since they don't know anything of the nuisance they are, they probably won't. Another implication of the Wild Boar rule is that if the bugs were in your home in sufficient quantity, enough to make huge clouds, they'd probably kill you. So whether it's one or a million, it's all the same thing.

The second rule to consider is the Barney Fife rule, which is, whatever the problem, Nip it in the bud. It's true. If we nipped more stuff in the bud -- everything from weeds all the way up to mass murderers -- what a wonderful world it would be. We'd have fewer problems. Maybe we should develop a whole army of people -- the Nippers -- to do this. Or robots. What could go wrong? I can think of lots. This idea needs to be nipped in the bud. See how easy that was? Bugs in your house is the bud that needs to be nipped. They're not endangered species, they don't deserve to live in your home.

And if anyone quibbles about killing, I'm applying an even more awesome rule, the third rule, the Bhagavad Gita rule. Gita for the Mosquita! Have you read it? It's actually a wonderful writing, despite the weird-looking title. The hero, Arjuna, doesn't want to kill the opposing army. But God, in Krishna form, tells him he must. The answer is that the true self (the inner bug) is indestructible, enduring, unborn, and unchanging. The embodied self (of the bug) discards its little body, just as a man discards worn out clothes, to take on new bodies. Which sounds frightening, but it doesn't necessarily mean Super Bugs, only the next role of the self in evolutionary destiny. (BG, 2:21f).

I'm not even Hindu and I think that's cool! I'm doing these fruit flies a favor! The next Wild Boar you kill in your kitchen might one day be a saint!

To review, we have these three rules, and whether we apply one or all three, bugs do not deserve to live in your home.

My Moments of Doubt

As we all know, life takes a lot of faith. You think there's rhyme and reason and purpose, and not that things are just random, haphazard, and lacking in meaning. It always nice to find a place of security like that, which has been the happy story of my life. It's good to dwell secure like this, like an infant, satisfied and content, never knowing anything else. I'm in bliss right now, even as we speak. See my eyes rolled back in my head? I'm dwelling on several planes at once, all blissful.

But once in a while, even I have to confess, I have my doubts. I shake myself, go for long walks, hit the reset button, the escape button, anything to get back on track. And it works, it really does work, as opposed, say, to the ESC button on your computer that never does anything. Then I'm happy again, and without these doubts, my eyes go back to their normal place, rolled back.

My life can serve as an example for you, and it can also serve as a cautionary tale, that you never have doubts.

One of the things that I doubt is that the Congress of the United States has the best interests of their country at heart. I see the gridlock, the sniping, the endless procedural wrangling, the posturing, the needless opposition to every apparently reasonable plan, and that's just the Republicans. Then they pass bills that don't make the slightest sense, and I just have to say, "I have my doubts! If this is your idea of the 'best interests' of our country, then you're cracked!" These doubts shake me.

One of the biggest doubts of my life, seriously, just happened a couple weeks ago. I was out with a friend, and having a pleasant time over coffee. It was so pleasant, I didn't think anything in all of God's creation could ruin it. Had cockroaches marched in spitting on the table, I'd still be content. It was comfortable. Then my friend told me something unbelievable, that pork and beans was on sale at the store for a nickel a can. I was like, "What?! That's impossible! You're cracked! I have my doubts about that!"

Try as we might, we could never get back to the pleasant time we'd been sharing. It was on my mind: I know pork and beans is always 69 to 99 cents a can, $4.99 at a convenience store, it can't be a nickel a can, it just can't be! But my friend was sitting there straight faced. I took a hasty sip of coffee and burnt my lip, then descended back into this pitiful reverie: At a nickel a can, I could stock up for the apocalypse, and still have money for ammo. But I'll get to the store and there'll be a line around the building. I told myself, It just can't be, no sir, I'm calling BS on this, I HAVE MY DOUBTS!"

Just then the waiter comes to our table, and my friend says, "That guy looks familiar," going on to suggest that he works as a waiter at another restaurant while simultaneously being not just a waiter here, the newest restaurant in town, but the owner. Now I'm wondering about my friend. No one would do that, would they? Own a restaurant, be a waiter there, and be a part-time waiter in a different restaurant?

I fleshed it out in my mind -- with the pork and beans occasionally crowding out the waiter story -- and came to the conclusion, Yes, it could happen. Think of it: He might be waiting at the other restaurant to get enough money to pay rent on this place, since it is a new restaurant. Still, wouldn't that really dissipate his energy, energy he could be putting into this restaurant to make it a success? That kind of splitting his time might just make this place fail faster. Bottom line: I have my doubts!

I'll spare you my other doubts, because I doubt you're all that interested.

Drink With Us On the Bus

I've seen this bus around many times, and probably the less said the better. I've had to stop and think a few times what's going on. I'm still not 100% sure, but right now my best guess is that they shuttle people in, then see that they get home safely after drinking. If that's not it, I'm sorry. I'm not identifying the bar, so as not to misrepresent their policy.

But you might get the impression, since it says, "DRINK WITH US ON THE BUS," that you're going to be literally drinking on the bus with these particular ladies, or others. With all sorts of possibilities that could follow, including parking at some secluded spot out by the lake, with one guy, a burly bartender, standing guard against bushwhackers. Again, I don't know ...

Let's say that not what's going on. I accept that. But what if you had a guy who thought, Hey, ladies that want to drink with me on the bus! We're looking in on this little scenario as the screen goes wavy, then we focus in on a particular guy, whom we'll call Walt. Walt has just entered The Drinking Bus Zone.

Walt approaches. The bus is very dark and obviously no one's there. "I'll have them all to myself!" he says with relish, then jimmies the door and gets in. Now it's just a matter of waiting. So he's sitting there, occasionally looking out the window. They must live around here, since this is their bus. But the night is wearing on and no one's coming by for drinks.

As Walt gets a little groggy, he stands and walks around. He sits in the driver's seat, commandeering the bus in his imagination, and taking the girls out for a spin. Where they're going, no one knows, not even him. But they'll know when they get there. One possibility would be a cool nightclub, where they wouldn't have to drink on a small bus.

Although, it might be a better plan just to drink on the bus; with such a small space there'll be less competition. Maybe just Walt and these six! He takes a long lingering look at the one on the right end. The bar on the window really accentuates things. Everything above her mouth looks like a cowl. Still, that's just a picture, she has a normal head.

Time passes, and Walt's rooting around in some stuff, when he pulls out a cooler, a pretty good-sized cooler. It wouldn't hurt to set out some drinks, just to be ready when they show up. One here, that's his, and six around a small table. He gets thirsty after a while, of course, with the temptation, and drinks his own. Then reasoning that he can always refill their glasses when they get there, he goes around the table drinking each one.

After another round or two, the picture on the windows is starting to come to life, almost. They're certainly doing a halfway seductive dance, which has to be fun to see. Walt puts his arms out for a huggy-bear, then drops them. Playing hard to get, eh? He looks up, bleary-eyed, and makes some suggestive remarks. No bushwhackers are in sight, and it's only natural. But still, they're reticent.

Pretty soon, a cop comes around.

The Reluctant Hero

This is the kind of hero I like, a reluctant one, who has to realize his potential heroism. He got bit by a spider, nothing happened. He fell into a vat of nuclear waste, nothing happened. And he took a course on the history of comic book superheroes, which bored him to tears, all the cliches. But when the subject came up, What about you? he said meekly, "Who? Me?"

All this happened in Mediapolis, where he was born, and where someday they'll erect a statue to him. As for now, the police are chasing him, with all their expensive gear bought with Homeland Security largesse. When the whole terrorism scare of the 2000s took place -- when we were so terrified we even renamed French fries -- H.S. was delivering gigantic amounts of money to small police stations in large unmarked suitcases in large unmarked trucks. So they ended up with a lot of unnecessary command units -- mostly used to monitor unsuspicious activity at the July 4th parade, kids taking pieces of their brother's cotton candy, etc. -- and stun guns, poison darts, tasers, lasers, and a few smart guns that hit their target but cannot kill, grazers.

What they didn't have was a super hero. Till this guy -- whose secret identity is so secret that even I, the omniscient narrator, don't know it -- said to himself, not repeating it anyone, "What about me?" I get that feeling once in a while. There's no reason it couldn't be me, although in this case it was him, since I don't live in Mediapolis. He accepted the call and came charging on the scene. Please don't get bored to tears, I'm hoping this gets better...

Now, the Reluctant Hero has a close ally, who presumably know his secret identity, his mother. She's in on all the local gossip, and flashes his sign in the sky, the insignia seen above. A question mark, indicating his reluctance, and a lightning bolt, showing his later determination. If it's night, he pops up out of bed, going, "What? At this hour? Am I supposed to be watching the sky all night? What kind of life is that? And if the crime happens in broad daylight, what then? If it's not a cloudy day, how am I ever going to see it?"

All right, he has the Reluctant Heromobile, nothing like the fancy stuff the Mediapolis police have, just a typical junker, an old Ford Taurus, reluctant to start, outfitted with a few tools, various extinguishers, grappling hooks, and a cotton candy machine for the kids. And whereas the police are stymied -- they have so much fancy Homeland Security equipment they barely know how to use -- the Reluctant Hero puts the pedal to the metal and gets the job done.

His super powers are: 1. Force of personality by virtue of his determination, and, 2. Miracles. Thinks what he wants to happen. A quick pose as a question mark, followed by thrusting his arms, one up, one down, like lightning. The sound of thunder rumbles through the town. He nods his head and it's done.

He rushes in, clunks the crooks' heads together and ties them up. He leaves them in a pile by the road. He breaks up domestic disputes, and leaves the perpetrator, sometimes a woman, usually a man, but sometimes a woman, tied up in a pile by the road. He rushes into schools where there's a fight going on, ties up the perpetrators and leaves them tied up in a pile by the road, then makes cotton candy for the innocent.

What are the police doing all this time? They eventually show up to collect the piles of human rubbish. But most of the time they have their wives on their mind, or their girlfriends -- sexual stuff -- and they want to get back to them quickly, so they're not very dedicated. That particular area needs single, fearless guys, to set aside the Homeland Security gadgetry and simply charge in with a sword. Anyone can handle a sword. You slice and dice, nothing to it.

As of right now -- and the police think he's a criminal himself, which is what also happened to both the Lone Ranger and Superman when they started out --  the Reluctant Hero has bested the police every time. May they someday say the same thing of all of us, or something equally glorious.