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Punkinhead Avery

Punkinhead Avery lived around the corner from me in a two family duplex with his Gramma and his idiot younger brother, Carl.  We all knew his name was Punkinhead because his Gramma would walk out onto the porch at least once a day and scream

Punkinhead!!  Punkinhead Avery, you get your ass home right now!

Punkinhead was a little older than everyone in the hood, so we all kinda looked up to him. Punkinhead was the neighborhood inventor and was considered a friggin' genius by virtually every fourth grader.  I am reasonably certain that Punkinhead is currently a research scientist at MIT, the head of the NASA Space Program, or the president of some prestigious university.

On one particular occasion, Punkinhead had built a go cart out of four by twos, some layer board, and the wheels from a rusty baby carriage.  Of course, he needed a test pilot, as any reasonable inventor would not want to jeopardize a brilliant future in the engineering sciences on a faulty experiment in ground transportation. So the logical test pilot was Punkinhead's pinhead brother, Carl.  Carl had the IQ of an avocado and the disposition of Barney the dinosaur, so he was a perfect test pilot.  I cannot for the life of me remember how this all turned out, but I am pretty sure that no one was killed.

Actually, I am sure that Carl survived, since I ran into him a couple of years later working at Bender's Farm. Old man Bender would drive from corn field to corn field, with the whole Hee Haw gang of migrant farm laborers from my neighborhood sitting in the back of his pickup. When I saw Carl, he was sitting on the tail gate after we loaded up for the days work.  When old man Bender hit the gas, Carl fell off the tail gate onto his head, did two barrel rolls, and got up laughing like a hyena.  In all likelihood, that is also the way the go cart experiment ended.

I guess this whole story allows us to ponder the question "Are we better off smart and frustrated or dumb and happy".  I suspect that dumb and happy might be the better choice.  Then again, maybe I am already there and am just too dim to realize it.

All content copyright of Christopher Hammond

My Mind Drifts Back

Why am I drawn over and over again to visit nutty old pals. Middle age seems to leave me pining for the good old days, when daily interactions with a large group of close friends was a common occurrence. It may be that I only remember the pleasant ones and have somehow managed to purge all of the ugliness and emotional traumas that occurred.

Remember high school and college? You saw the same people every day and always had some sort of "interaction". Of course some of those interactions where unpleasant - as was the case on several occasions during junior high school. I do remember one particular occasion when a certain kid named "Bart" decided that I was not the kind of scum that deserved to walk on the same side walk as he. That one "interaction" led to animosity between he and I for the rest of our high school years. Probably one of the reasons that high school reunions are held in a public place.

And yet still I pine.

Whatever happened to so-and-so, or I wonder what how-ya-callit is doing now with her life. I did think that Facebook would be a partial answer to this middle-aged quandary, but the disconnectedness of not having an ongoing conversation, results in people talking and no one listening. What I have found is that I reconnect over FB, have a two sentence conversation, and then the posting, liking, commenting cycle starts. This process continues until, well, you know... We've all done it so don't get all huffy on me now!

I tried that Facebook thing for a couple of years and realized that it was just a huge waste of time and energy. I also discovered that those previous relationships that I pined to re-establish, well, there was a reason that they ended. No one wants to see the dark underbelly of a persons psyche that has been despoiled by 30+ years of life having its way with them. That "what don't kill you makes you stronger" theory of life, I have discovered, is kinda bull shit.

Recently, I have taken to reconnecting with a few people face to face. This seems to be a little more satisfying, in that we have a conversation and reminisce. Reminiscing seems to be more prescriptive and healing. Maybe someone needs to develop a web application that is less Facebook-ish, and more Reminisce-with-me-ish. An application where we are forced to share stories, since after all, man has been sharing stories since the dawn of time. Maybe sitting around a virtual campfire, eating raw meat and banging broken animal bones on the ground while sharing a cave drawing or two might be palliative.

As always I'll end this post with a pithy quote, a poem or a song.

Everybody's talking at me I don't hear a word they're sayin' Only the echoes of my mind

All content copyright of Christopher Hammond

The Ballad of Moscow Mitch and Dasvidaniya Don

You know, sometimes you’ve had about all you can stands. Your brain just won’t stop spinning until something comes out of your mouth or out of your fingers onto the typewritten page. Such is the case today as I contemplate the very timely impeachment of a confidence man and the enablement of a slow witted southerner.

What better way to do it than in a song that is sung to the tune of The Ballad of Jed Clampettt AKA The Beverly Hillbillies theme song. This song is so iconic that one need but utter the words "Come and listen to a story", to cause this ear worm to start rattling your medulla oblongata.

In my mind, I picture this presented as a theme song to a local TV cable show. We would use finger puppets as the actors and finger puppets as the audience. I have no script for the show, but a good buddy of mine, Spike, has assured me that we can quickly whip one up at the next meeting of the Crusty Old Bastards Miserable Old Bastards (COBMOB) breakfast club. The actors would resemble the finger puppets at the top of this post and audience would look something like those shown to the right,

In any event, I give you

The Ballad of Moscow Mitch and Dasvidaniya Don

Come and listen to a tale about a couple of doods
Each sunrise greets a menopausal mood
Then one day they got voted to run the world
And it all swirled the toilet in a giant polished turd

A con that is, sucked us in, down the drain

Well the next thing you know the shit had hit the fan
Pack up your golden toilet cause you’re in trouble with the man
Pooty says “Vladivostok is the place you ought to be”
I got a condo and a hooker for you by the Black Sea

Y’all don’t come back now, hear?

Big Joe Torre lines out

Baseball!!  The greatest of all sports.  As a young lad, I remember rising up at the dawns early light, mounting my trusty banana bike, and spending most of the morning gathering the gang for a baseball game over at the Crescendoe Road sand lot across from my house.

I do want to clarify that the following series of events occurred back in the day when all of the baseball bats were wood, all the baseballs were covered with shit, all of the baseball gloves were hand me downs, and all of the bases amounted to a dirt spot with a nebulous perimeter.

I don't remember any involvement with organized baseball, little league, t-ball, baseball helmets, or mooshy baseballs that wouldn't dent your dome.  I do remember getting boinked with a baseball at least eleventy four times while I learned to catch it with a crappy hand me down leather mitt.  No one was eased into baseball with smiling coaches and plastic tees, it was a basic survival skill that we all learned.

One incident that stands out in my memory involved a near death experience.  I was pitching a game at the sandlot and Big Joe Torre was at the plate.  Now the word "Big" hardly describes Joe, as he was about the size of a small car. As the first pitch left my hand and headed towards the bat of Big Joe, I realized that I might be a leeeetle too close to big Joe.  This proved to be the fact as he connected and sent the ball back at my head at just below warp factor 3.  Now this is the most amazing thing, the big guy upstairs intervened and somehow placed my glove directly in the space between Big Joe's speeding ball and my head.  I caught the ball and was greeted by a roar of approval from my team mates.

I still have flashbacks to the moment, and realize that, but for the grace of God, I might not be typing these pithy comments and all would be lost.  I might have been stuck in a nursing home with a drool bucket, humming the theme to Captain Kangaroo.

All content copyright of Christopher Hammond

The Logic of Terrorism

So, I have been trying to figure this terrorist thing out. Generally speaking, everything we do has a purpose, so there must be a purpose to what these nitwits are doing. I must assume that the purpose is to convince others to take some action.

What doesn't seem to make sense to me is that the only action I am convinced to do is to kick their ass. If I were trying to convince someone to do something, I probably wouldn't blow myself up in a crowd of people. This seems a bit counter productive. You see, if I blow myself up, I am not around to experience the result of the thing that I am trying to convince others to do. Also, I have just blowed up a bunch of people that I was trying to convince.

So my conclusion is that my underlying assumption must be wrong. There must be some other purpose. Perhaps we can look at the great successful and unsuccessful movements of history to gain more insight. Let's check a few out and we'll grade them.

The Crusades - Not our greatest moment
Hitler genocide - Resulted in a German ass whuppin'
Tutsis and Hootoos - These bone heads are still kickin' each others asses
Middle East Conflict - What the fuck?
Gandi peaceful civil disobedience - Social change in India
Milosavich genocide - A bitter twisted old man sitting in jail
Martin Luther King peaceful civil disobedience - Social change in the US
Berlin Wall dropped - Social change throughout Eastern Europe
Montgomery Bus Boycott - we all know how that turned out

Note the trend. Nonviolent change - successful, Violent change - unsuccessful. Hmmmm
Let us all hope and pray that the trend grows and continues

All content copyright of Christopher Hammond

Bully This, Mofo

Just recently, I read with great glee about the demise of one of our old neighborhood bullies. I resisted the urge to photobomb his funeral, as well as the urge to go and take a huge dump on his grave. The obituary sang the praises of this douche wad from my youth as well as enumerating the many relatives, multiple marriages, and multitudinous grand children that would survive as his legacy. In any event, I must now recount a sordid series of events that helped to define who I am today as a result of the combative relationship that our entire neighborhood had with the dreaded Nellis Boys Gang.

I am sure that you had bullies in your neighborhood when you were growing up. Neighborhood bullies tended to hang out together. These swarms of bully type characters were the precursors to the Crypts and the Bloods. In my neighborhood, it was the Nellis boys and the Hennessy brothers. The Nellis boys were the more worser of the two gangs, although I seem to remember that they would sometimes work together with the Hennessy brothers to torment us or to torture and sacrifice baby animals. What made the Nellis boys so demonic, was that they were identical twins with IQ's equal to that of an educated pineapple. The names of these devil boys you ask? Ray and Roy. That kinda says it all doesn't it? Ray and Roy Nellis also had a semi-imbecilic younger brother named John, whom they would often utilize as kind of an assistant imbecile.

The completion of this little gang of nitwits was accomplished through the aid of one Timothy Frenyea, who acted as "The Muscle" to the gang. Timothy Frenyea was a large oafish sort of fellow that wore glasses that had to be an inch thick. I assume that he needed these thick glasses so that he could exact physical harm upon the kids in our neighborhood with the precision of a medieval torturer.

So one day our happy neighborhood gang was playing baseball at Crescendoe field. Crescendoe field was the sand lot baseball field we had at the end of my street. It was bordered by Crescendoe Road, stinky old Cayadutta creek, and an extremely spooky cemetery that was perched up on a hill across and above the creek. Suddenly, our idyllic play was interrupted by the war cry of the aforementioned Nellis gang.

I won't go into all of the details, but the disturbance that ensued resulted in screaming, crying, rock throwing, and several burdock hats. A burdock hat was when you were held down and crowned with a wad of prickers from a burdock bush.

I think the whole thing was broken up when my drunken old man staggered out of the house and started chucking rocks at the Nellis boys. Man, nothing was scarier than when the old man tied one on and came out swinging. While I don't remember this stopping the Nellis boys from tormenting us, I do remember them scattering like cockroaches when a flashbulb goes off. Also, I don't remember them breaking up another baseball game.

In later years, I would hear that Roy and Ray were arrested for selling drugs. It may have been that the old man scared them so badly that they decided to change careers. It may be that it was less threatening to sell crack than to get their asses kicked by a drunken old fart.

All content copyright of Christopher Hammond

Seek and ye shall find?

Why is it that we always seek answers and explanations for virtually every anomaly that we encounter? When the answer is not immediately obvious, then we start with the rationalization. I firmly believe that this is one of the drivers of chaos in our world.

Everyday at about 4:30 PM EST, some financially inept talking head announces that "The stock market dropped today on news that ADD INANE EXPLANATION HERE".

And then there is the so called "TV News", which has now mutated into the "TV Opinions". I don't remember ever hearing an opinion from Walter Cronkite. It was always, in the words of Joe Friday, "Just the facts ma'am". Now it may be that this was a slow progression down what I will henceforth call the "Hierarchy Of Redundant Social Engineering Pushed Onto Ordinary People" or HORSEPOOP. For the enlightenment of the followers of this blog, I list the hierarchy below, followed by my analysis of this analysis. Your opinions are of course welcome, as well as anything else you would like to just plain make up.

1. Facts pure and simple - the Edwin R Murrow era of true journalism.


2. Analysis of the facts - primarily done by historians, but eventual crept into the jargon of the journalist.


3. Opinions on the analysis of the facts to make me seem more like Mister Smarty Pants.


4. Opinions on the opinions of the analysis of the facts to make me seem even smarter than Mister Smarty Pants.


5. Stuff we just made up so that more people will watch our stupid show and we can make more money - The FOX News and MSNBC Era, augmented of course by such smarty pants guys as Rush Limbaugh and Jon Stewart.

This last item, I will call the top of the hierarchy, as it was built upon all of the others and could not really exist without there being actual facts to lampoon. I have in fact just recently read a very concise statement on this "celebration of ignorance" that describes our current culture and the dissemination of knowledge, information, and wisdom (yes, they are different things).

"I have a foreboding of an America in my children's or grandchildren's time -- when the United States is a service and information economy; when nearly all the manufacturing industries have slipped away to other countries; when awesome technological powers are in the hands of a very few, and no one representing the public interest can even grasp the issues; when the people have lost the ability to set their own agendas or knowledgeably question those in authority; when, clutching our crystals and nervously consulting our horoscopes, our critical faculties in decline, unable to distinguish between what feels good and what's true, we slide, almost without noticing, back into superstition and darkness...

The dumbing down of American is most evident in the slow decay of substantive content in the enormously influential media, the 30 second sound bites (now down to 10 seconds or less), lowest common denominator programming, credulous presentations on pseudoscience and superstition, but especially a kind of celebration of ignorance" - Carl Sagan from "The Demon-Haunted World" - 1995

All content copyright of Christopher Hammond

It's Not That I'm Lazy, It's That I Just Don't Care

So I was watching that old cult classic Office Space tonight on Comedy Central. The movie is a parody of corporate America, in which an anti hero, do nothing, worker drone gets “woke” and takes control of his own destiny through a series of strange coincidences.

Initially drowning in a state of existential angst, Peter Gibbons gets his mind altered by a psychiatrist hypnotist who dies before he is able to snap Peter out of his altered state. Peter and his friends subsequently develop a software virus that robs their companies customers, transferring millions of fractional pennies to their bank accounts over an extended period of time.

Much hilarity and chaos ensues, but ultimately, Peter and his small gang of co-conspirators win out and never wind up in “Federal pound me in the ass prison”.

Now I could go on and on about what the lesson to humanity is in this movie, but I would instead prefer to expound upon what I learned from this movie.

I learned that I essentially wasted the vast majority of my career getting fucked by “da man” whilst other far less talented suck asses were able to bamboozle the “Rulers of the World”.

One particular example comes to mind. I worked with one of our customers to develop a software solution to a jet engine inspection problem that they were having. We worked for about six months on the solution and deployed it across the customers business.

Later, while attending a business conference, some douche yo-yo climbed the stage to give a presentation on the software, whilst implying that he had developed the whole solution. He even used the Power Point presentation that I had created to describe the project. Meanwhile, I sat there with mouth agape whilst listening to this sleazel describe “his accomplishment”. He finished his presentation to a round of wild applause from the audience.

I said all that to say this - I had the wrong approach to life and instead should have adopted the “Peter Gibbons Philosophy of Life”. What is that you ask? Do Nothing. That’s right - Do Nothing. Do absolutely nothing and realize the joy that can be experienced by the lack of activity. The universe will work the whole thing out for you, so why would you want to interfere? Coincidentally, my son has adopted this philosophy to his entire life. It seems to be working out quite well to date, so apparently he is a far wiser man than his old pappy.

I always wondered how and why unemployed disability do nothings could be so joyful. Well, now that I am retired I am realizing that, indeed, the non-act of doing nothing is very joyful. My advice to y’all?

Do nothing, and you can do no wrong. You won’t do any good either, but you can’t be blamed for any of the faults or failures of this world. To quote Peter Gibbons - “Michael, I did nothing. I did absolutely nothing, and it was everything I thought it could be.”

A corollary to this theorem, also attributed to Peter Gibbons is - "It's not that I'm lazy, it's that I just don't care".

Wasted Away Again In Ukuleleville

My good buddy, Mark (The Professor) Pietrafesa convinced me that the future of music lies nestled in the sound hole of a ukulele. 

So, convinced that he was indeed the prophet that I had a need to heed, I bought me an el cheapo Kala ukulele. (pictured directly to your right)

I be lovin this thing. I can sing all sorts of stupid songs to my new grandson, like C is for Cookie (that’s good enough for me) and Froggy Went Uh-Courtin (he did ride uh huh)

Now the only problem with buying an el cheapo ukulele, is that shortly after learning my first song, I realized that I need a far more expensive ukulele. And so it goes ...

Behold, the ukulele that I have been uh-pining for, lo these many days. Designed, contrived, and assembled by froggy little naked native boys in the jungles of Kumoniwannalaya Hawaii using wood sawed from the limbs of an endangered species of Koa trees.

I have no idea why I gotta have this guitar other than the fact that I believe it will somehow imbue me with the powers of a thousand hula girls singing Tiny Bubbles. In any event, I am on the path, the journey, the trail of something way bigger than myself.

I'm old ... I'm confused ... and I gotta grow as a human

So there

The Year of the Psychopath

 

Psychopaths are really having their special moment this year aren’t they? Well, I think this is just a portent of things to come. I am no Nostradamus, but I really think I am onto this one, so bear with me as I expound and obfuscate upon this most important of modern trends.

I hereby designate the year 2020 as “The Year of the Psychopath”. I’m really feeling this one. Psychopaths all over the world are massing to make 2020 into a real disco agogo mosh pit of psychopathic frenzy. Almost every country has a psychopath running it and many are just throbbing, waiting for a new psychopath to throw out the dull old normal leader. Canada May be the last hold out. 

I found this online test that can help y’all understand if you be ready to participate in the upcoming carnival of psychopathy, Ready? Steady? Go!!

https://psychcentral.com/quizzes/psychopathy-quiz/

I Think That This Might Be IT

You know, when I ‘‘twas a wee lad, I had a VW bug, followed by two VW microbuses. They was the

greatest years of my life. And then, suddenly, I see that VW is resurrecting an all electric version of that wondrous icon of my yoot. It is kismet my friend. It is truly s karmic reality.

Who’s Driving the Bus?

Didja ever wonder who’s in control of this crazy world? As time passes and I age, I wonders more deeply about this existential question each and every day.

The religious, semi religious, and even slightly religious will all fall back on the old “God is in control”. This seems like a huge cop out to me. Even I, THE TCOU have naively thought these same thoughtful thoughts, since I am the True Creator of the Universe and you all are just figments of my imagination. After all, if God is in control, I can just take solace in that and be assured that it will all be just fine and dandy in the end. God is gonna kick the ass of every asshole that ever spoke a disparaging word about me, so there.

Still others think that they have everything under control. After all, who the hell doesn’t think that they are at least somewhat in control of their situation. They will continue to think these thoughts until some shit happens.

Movers and shakers think that they are in control. The presidents, CEOs, and other assorted “Rulers of the Universe” all think that they are in control, until a bigger fish comes along and either eats them or shits on their head.

What seems to be proving itself out for me is that no person, place, thing, or alien entity is in control. We are all subject the the physical laws of the universe, and even these are barely understood by even the most brilliant of scientists. If you want to call that God, then I guess we are back to square one, but I am finding harder to believe in magical forces as I age.

The universe is infinite and beyond our understanding. We are but a tiny dot on a vast tapestry comprised of an infinite number of tiny dots. Since when does one pixel in a gigantic painting get to say what the painting is supposed to represent.

Get over yerself, okay?

Dear Diary Episode 1

So today, I has decided that the world needs to know my daily activities. I mean really, who doesn’t want to know what a 61 year old cranky old fucker does each and every day of their lives? Inquiring minds wanna know.

I woke up at about 6 AM after a fitful night of frequent urination, only to discover that I needed to meet a bunch of other cranky old bastards at the Saratoga SPA golf course for a round. Of course I had to feed the ever starving puddy tats before I left.

As a side note, why are puddy tats always starving? I mean really, they get fed 3 squares a day along with multiple handfuls of nummies. They spend the rest of the day laying in the sun and sleeping. Oh to have a life like that!!

After pondering what it would be like to be a puddy tat, I packed up my shit and headed to the golf course. This year, I have discovered new strength and the ability to knock the crap out of the ball with my driver. This can only be attributed to either more focused workouts at the YMCA or the fact that my playing partners are getting older, weaker, fatter, and more feeble.  I of course prefer to revel in the former analysis. I also must note that the old bastards that I play with, insist on using electric carts rather than the more healthy alternative of walking. Their weak and feeble state may be exacerbated by inactivity 

We had a good, albeit slow, round and had a few bets with lots of laughs. Poor old Pete ended up paying the rest of the foursome as he had an incredibly shitty round of golf. And so it goes. I generally find that some or all aspects of your game inevitably collapse during any single round. Unfortunately, all aspects of Pete’s game collapsed during this particular round and he ended up paying us all. 

Following the round, we headed in for lunch and a couple of beers. It was at this time that Pete decided to enlighten me on the idiosyncratic nuances of short selling stocks. I am not sure that I followed much of the conversation, but I am reasonably certain that I convinced Pete that I completely comprehended his lengthy diatribe. My conclusion is that short selling is not for the faint of heart, but I would not tell Pete that. 

I said all that so that I can say this: I made it home, fed the puddy tats yet again, and am now comfortably sitting on my couch listening to some old Velvet Underground on Spotify whilst the puddy tats wrestle on the floor. 

I am sure, dear reader, that you can comprehend this glorious zen like state. The old bastards that I play golf with?  I think not.

Pancreatic Cancer? Really?

Did you know that once you start experiencing the symptoms of pancreatic cancer, it is too late? What the fuck kind of disease has no symptoms? Is that even a disease?

I have a friend that was recently diagnosed with this dread disease, so I decided to do a little research. Nausea, fatigue, and pain in the back are all symptoms that could be pancreatic cancer. They could also be symptoms of a hangover since every human being that I know has back pain. These are symptoms that I have had like since forever, so have I always had pancreatic cancer? Apparently not, since I am still walking around. Pancreatic cancer is considered incurable with a 1 and 5 year survival rate of 20% and 7% respectively.

A couple of symptoms that seem a little more definitive are dark urine and yellow eyes. Now I have known a few people with yellow eyes, but they are still wandering the earth, so it must not have been pancreatic cancer, which brings me to what started me to wondering about all of this. Scut Farkus.

For those unfamiliar with this spawn of satan, let me illuminate your mind. Scut Farkus was the bully in the movie A Christmas Story.Scut Farkus was the bane of Ralphie’s existence, a merciless ginger bully who delighted in cackling at his prey from under his coonskin cap and behind his braces.The protagonist, Ralphie, introduces us to his arch enemy Monsieur Farkus:

There he stood, between us and the alley. Scut Farkus staring out at us with his yellow eyes. He had yellow eyes! SO HELP ME GOD, YELLOW EYES!!

Did Scut Farkus have pancreatic cancer? Apparently not, as he still lives on as a regular in the campy Walking Dead takeoff Z Nation.

I must assume that dark urine is the differentiating factor in the determination of pancreatic cancer. But of course, I have had that too. A little further research reveals that dark urine could be anything from dehydration to cirrhosis of the liver.

So what are we to conclude? I need to cease reading internet articles about real and/or imagined diseases. I fear that I may be hopping down the hypochondriac trail along with George Castanza and Felix Unger.

Dream a Little Dream of Me

Just yesterday I was reading a scientific article about the “multiverse”. Yes it’s a real, or possibly imaginary thing. Obviously this all needs some ‘splainin, and I do believe that I am THE most qualified person, that is writing this blog, and talking to you, to perform the aforementioned ‘splainin.

First let’s talk about the universe, since we must first understand that afore we can move on to the multiverse. The universe contains the sum total of all matter and energy. So stuff like your marble collection, the earth, the moon, the sun, and you - all comprise pieces of the universe. The universe also contains trillions of stars and trillions of galaxies. So many, that we can’t even see or conceive of the end or perimeter of the universe. According to phys.org

The universe is about 13.8 billion years old, so any light we see has to have been traveling for 13.8 billion years or less – we call this the 'observable universe'. However, the distance to the edge of the observable universe is about 46 billion light years because the universe is expanding all of the time.

Now let us move on to the multiverse. What is missing from my definition of the universe? Time and the innumerable possibilities of alternate possible outcomes. Let's call it choice or free will, since those concepts are simplest for our feeble minds to comprehend. At any moment, any number of things could happen. One always does, due to the inexorable passing of time. But what happened to the other possible things that could have happened? Some are equally as likely, some are unlikely, and in fact, there are an infinite number of things that could happen next. Where do those things that could have happened next go?

And so is born the multiverse. The multiverse contains the infinite number of other outcomes and paths that could be followed. These paths are all located in parallel universes that are all members of the multiverse. We obviously need a concrete example.

Suppose that I am backing out of my garage. I could have backed into the garage door or my sons truck. The gas line might have blown loose, causing an engine fire and subsequent explosion, consuming me and my family in a giant flaming fireball of death.

But of course the most probable in this universe is that I will remember to open the garage door, drive around the truck, make my way to the coffee shop table with the other old bastards, and commence to bitch about the length of the red light on the corner of Burdeck Street over a cup of coffee and a cruller.

But my contention is that those other innumerable outcomes exist in the parallel planes of the multiverse. There are innumerable other "Me's" sprinkled throughout those parallel universes. In some I am the king and in some I am the sap.

We need to conclude this discussion, as I feel that your brain is starting to hurt or implode or explode or melt or any other number of possible brain extinguishments that are spread throughout the multiverse.

My last and final thought, and this is just my personal theory, is that dreams are glimpses into these parallel universes. Each dream that we have is a brief snippet of time that is taking place in one of the parallel universes. It is probable that this concept is complete bullshit and it may be, as Charles Dickens said when speaking of strange nocturnal visions:

You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!

It may also be that I smoke too much weed. 

Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On

So there I am at the top of Crescendoe Road Hill parked on the seat of my green Schwinn Banana Bike. Yes I do date myself don't I. Next to me is John Luft, seated atop his equally mighty banana bike. For those of you who have not a friggin' clue as to what a banana bike is, a brief diversion is required.

Just before ten speed bikes and just after the demise of the legendary JC Higgins Fall-a-part, Schwinn developed a bicycle that looked much like a miniature version of the scooter ridden by Peter Fonda in Easy Rider. This magnificent animal had itsy bitsy wheels, a seat the size of a torpedo, and handlebars that extended to about three feet over your head. It also featured a three speed stickshift mounted on the cross bar. Strange as it may seem, every damn kid on the block had to have one of these things. If you didn't you were branded a lowlife dirt sucker.

So there we were at the top of the hill, ready to race. Now the funny thing abut any high speed hijinx on a banana bike is that, you needed to get your feet going about 17,000 RPM's and maintain a steady eye whilst your feet were spinning like a Turkish dervish.

John Luft had a little problem in this department. It seems that when John was a wee lad, one of the evil Hennessy boys had done a bit of bow and arrow target practice on John's head. John had one glass eye and one real eye, so when he looked at you he was kinda sorta looking at you if you get my drift.

So, off we head, down the hill in a neck and neck race to the death, winner take all, kick ass, and take names drag-a-thon. John grabs a twenty foot lead and seems about to win, when suddenly, he looses control of his banana, and heads ass over teakettles, face first into the concrete. Slamming on the brakes, I rush to John's side. John slowly rises, blood streaming from every possible non-bleeding spot, and ever so slowly walks towards home. He never said a word, he just walked slowly home, busted teeth and all.

Later, it was discovered that John apparently suffered a concussion and had no memory of the accident, the walk, the blood, the teeth, ... nothing. Years later I would run into John in a bar. He was drunk as hell and doing mule kicks in the middle of the bar room floor. Later that night he got the shit kicked out of him by some other drunken moron. I have not seen or heard of John since.

So why this story you ask? I am sure there is a lesson here, so lemme think.

Some people are just disaster magnets. Things seem to just "happen" when they are around. Now in the corporate world, these people would be called "movers and shakers". In the poor homeboy world, these people would be called "dumb asses". So what is the difference between a "dumb ass" and a "mover and shaker"? I think it depends on how many bodily functions, organs, or limbs you lose during the process of making things "happen".

If you can make a whole bunch of things "happen" and still retain all of your body parts, I suspect you would have a shot at being the CEO of some major corporation.

King Phlegm

Every neighborhood has a cast of characters. Strangely, certain events get tied to a person and they are forever remembered for some small character flaw or inane statement that they might have made. That's probably how serial killers get their nicknames. 

In my neighborhood there was this feller named Tim Vose, whose nickname was King Phlegm. Now all animals have a self defense mechanism. Porkypines have quills, skunks have stinkum, rattlesnakes have poison fangs, and King Phlegm could put your eye out with a wad of spit at ten paces.

Tim  was a good natured fellah, that had the misfortune of being a younger brother. When you are a younger brother, you are generally susceptible to regular ass whuppins, head smackins, noggin noogies, and the like. 

Tim also had an ex-marine father named "Junior" and a mother named "Mona". Let me just assure you, when you got an ex-marine named Junior for a father, you better watch yourself. King Phlegm's uncanny spit marksmanship might well have been the result of basic training from Pappy Phlegm.

Getting a beat down from an older brother is bad enough, but when the other kids see a beat down occurring on a regular basis, they can either show pity or go all "Lord of the Flies" on you. So King Phlegm, through selective mutation, developed his defense mechanism. On top of that, he was a fast little squirt, so he came to master a sort of drive-by shooting approach to defending himself. 

As Stormin' Normin' Schwartkopf says "A good offense is your best defense". The very act of spitting was not what you might think, when it came to King Phlegm. It was like watching an olympic athlete perform.

Step one was the accumulation of the phlegm ball. This involved a series of deep inhales and snorts as he gathered his artillery piece into the chamber.

Step two was the launching of the aforementioned projectile. His entire body was engaged in the initial forward motion followed by a barking exhale of air as the phlegm ball shot from his throat in a straight bee line.

His spits were not arced, they were more like precision missile strikes. Notice that I say the phlegm shot from his throat, not his mouth. This apparently was critical to the trajectory, along with the head snap and upper torso thrust. Forty five years later, that is the sum total of my memory of Tim.

So what can we learn from all of this? Whatever you do, do it with all of your heart. People really respect and remember excellence.

My (and your) Civic Duty

Just t'other day whilst sitting in the sauna at the YMCA, the topic of jury duty came up amongst the amalgam of old bastards sweating and farting on the wooden benches.

Says one fellow - "I just throw the damn things in the garbage. Been doing it for years with no repercussions." Another pipes up and describes a friend that shows up dressed in camouflage and carrying gun magazines. Yet another fellow tells us that when asked what news he listens to, he always says Fox News and Shaun Hannity, which results in him being disqualified as a candidate.

At this point I have had about enough of this bullshit and piped up to say that I had proudly served on a jury and consider it to be the civic duty of every citizen. Which of course resulted in dead silence followed by descriptions of other civic activities in which these old bastards had participated so as to ensure their polished patina of patriotism.

I call "BULLSHIT"!

And another thing, why would watching Fox News and Shaun Hannity disqualify you as a juror in the eyes of the prosecutor? Could it be that if you are watching such crap, it must be assumed that you don't know right from wrong? Or that your judgement must be somehow impaired?  Just sayin'

And that is my rant for today.

This is Red Neckerson signing off and sayin' - Good Day!!

You’re Supposably Going to the Libary ?

I yam not the grammar or spelling police,  but some things just drive me to drink, not that I need a reason. What are these things, you ask? Mispronouncing common words is one of these “things”.

“Supposably” is one word that makes me physically ill. Another is “Libary”. The first thought that comes to mind when I hear either of these words used in a conversation is “This dude is one dumb shit”. I realize that I am being judgmental, and must attribute these thoughts to my sterling upbringing by a grammatically correct mother.

My dad used to say “chimbley” and “irregradless”, which my mother would immediately correct. She claimed that both of these words did not exist. I am reasonably certain that my father would deliberately use both of these words just to drive her fucking nuts. My mom actually went to college in the 40s, which was pretty much unheard of. She came from a family of well educated Vermonters that looked down upon the uneducated rabble that surrounded them.

Way back there in 10th grade. I had an English teacher named Missus Vandenburgh. She was a short bow legged woman that sorta looked like a duck. In fact, that was the nickname foisted upon her by the brutal and immature teenagers that inhabited my school. As a side note, I think we can all learn something from the way a person reacts to such playful derogatory-ism. You can ignore, embrace, combat, or just plain ole be pissed off about it. Missus Vandenburgh was somewhere between ignore and embrace which I think is a fine place to be. In any event, I digress.

The point is that i was ninja trained in the grammarical arts by Missus V and still hold that up as one of my sterling qualities to this day. Strangely, I went down the mathematical and engineering routes career-wise,  but I do think that I would have been comfortable taking the literature route, had there been even the remotest chance of gainful employment. In any event, grammar was instilled upon us through Missus V and her little black text book of grammar that we were forced to memorize cover to cover. I don't remember the name or author, but I do remember fondling the pages of that little black book and carting it from class to class throughout the day.

Thank you Missus V for ensuring that we don't have an entire generation of dumb shits.

Postscript: I recently found out that Missus V is still alive and well and playing the organ at a church in my home town at the age of 95. Apparently grammar is also good for longevity.

I Want to Ride My Bicycle

Now I am not saying that my brother is in any way physically flimsy, so let's get that straight right up front. It is just that, when you are a kid, a couple of years difference is huge. Not so much as you get older, more on that later. 

So there was this time, when I decided that my little bro needed to learn how to ride a two wheeler. Way back then, my parents (and maybe yours) did not give a monkeys wiener about where we were or what we were doing. We coulda probably not even come home and they would have gone right on living their self absorbed lives, until the police showed up and asked why we weren't in school, but I digress.

Back to our story - Rolling out my now defunct 20 inch Schwinn single speed, I proceeded to strap him into the seat and send him sailing down the driveway. Our driveway was about 12 feet long and had a slope of about forty seven degrees, so the initial launch speed was just about equivalent to that of an F16 fighter off the deck of the USS Ronald Reagan. To my utter amazement, he was off and sailing down the road like PeeWee Herman with a rocket in his ass. I cannot say that I remember if he ever came back or ever stopped, although I did run into him recently at a family gathering. I am not sure what this all proves or says bout growing up, except that sometimes we don't know what we are capable of until faced with death and/or dismemberment.

Wolf Blitzer and the Decline of Civilization

Today, as I was listening to that bastion of liberal thought (NPR), it occurred to me that the decline of civilization can be linked to a single series of events. Possibly, it could be just one event, perpetuated by one man, that caused the cascade to commence.

The man is Wolf Blitzer. On my wildest drinking binge, I could not have made up
a better name for the author of global decline.

Blitzer was born in Augsburg Germany, the son of Cesia Blitzer, a homemaker, and David Blitzer, a home builder. His parents were Jewish refugees from the German concentration camp at Auschwitz in Nazi-occupied Poland. Wolf has had a long and distinguished journalism career, culminating as the chief correspondent for CNN. He is most well known (at least by me) as the primary talking head for CNN during the first Persian Gulf war in 1991. 

My mind drifts back to the night that bombs were raining down on Baghdad. There he was in all his manly manliness, giving us a blow by blow description of the destruction. The fact that he was doing this is nothing new. Mankind has been receiving news updates since, well, since forever. No, the key point that made this the beginning of the end, is that it was completely live and continuous 24 x 7 x however many days it took us to kick Saddam's ass. To my knowledge, this was totally unprecedented and continues to this very day.

Now, you ask, why was this the beginning of the end? WAKE UP UH-MUR-UH-CUH!! Every damn piece of information from Arnold's underwear size to Oprah's pit spray brand is in your face at all times. It all started on that fateful day when Blitzer (damn his rotten heart) got the ball rolling. Is Wolf the anti-Christ? Is he Satan hisself? I dunno. He certainly is, at the very least, one of Satan's minions. How else could he be awake and reporting continuously for seven months while we were bombing the shit out of Iraq?

I believe that all of the current woes of the world stem from this single cataclysmic event and the resulting 24x7 news cycle that has been foisted upon humanity as a result. Do you read the paper anymore? I certainly don't. Do you even read anymore? Do you ever get off your fat lazy ass to do anything other than watch Fox News, CNN, CNBC, Headline News, Al Jazeera, or those sexy weather ladies on Spanish TV? Unfortunately, there is no way to reverse the trend.

If somebody busted a cap in Blitzer's noggin, would it have occurred anyways? Probably so. I just feel better being able to pin worldwide decline on one cause. It just feels good.

And that's the truth.

The Crusty Old Bastards Club

I’ve recently started attending a (mostly) monthly meeting of old friends for breakfast. We have named this “club” the Crusty Old Bastards (COB). There are no requirements for membership other than being old, crusty, possessing questionable bathing habits, and having a hail and hearty appetite for alcohol.

How did it all start? Origin stories are always questionable as they tend to be exaggerated and embellished  with time, much like your high school memories which I am certain are embellished with age. We’re always a better student, athlete, lover, and fighter in the canyons of our mind than we ever were in reality. My memory of the origin of the COB is that a couple of old rock band mates just thought it would be great to get together once in a while for a few laughs. The band Elwood ... THE BAND!!!

Lemme tell ya about the band(s). As a young angst ridden teenager, I had picked up the guitar and harmonica. Later I met a few like minded angst ridden teenagers and some older dudes that were way better musicians than we ever hoped of being. This all progressed into being a member of countless country rock, rock, blues, and jazz bands that achieved poor to moderate success in our home town and surrounding environs.

The strange thing about bands is that they always break up. I mean, shit, the firggin Beatles and Van Halen broke up. These breakups are always the result of some interpersonal conflict involving girlfriends, boyfriends, inability to take direction, inability to give direction, or any other number of things that happen when people get together and try to make a go of it.

In any event, out of this primordial soup of mediocre musical talent, there emerged a couple of lasting friendships, mostly based on our inability to remember why we were pissed off at each other in the first place. That couple of dudes were THE DUDES that got together to start the COB.

We have lots to talk about, mainly because we all have partial memories of what we did and who we did it to. So between our collective memories, we can piece together some version of what really happened. We are all aging now, so at least part of our diatribes revolve around medical conditions, procedures, and medications.

All of this bullshitting is done over plates of eggs, bacon, and butter slathered toast. Well, except for the vegan dude that is recovering from heart surgery, and the drummer that still has a wicked thirst for "the drink" and needs to wash it all down with sips from his scotch flask. The keyboard player died in a motorcycle accident. He was a swell dude and is sorely missed.

We haven't invited the singer yet, because, well, he is a bit of an asshole. Not that we aren't assholes too, but, well, you know how it goes. Sometimes divorces are really really final.

We occasionally have guest speakers, just to mix things up. We're looking for new guest speakers, so lemme know if you want to attend. Your breakfast is on you, because we are all cheap old bastards living on limited incomes. Also, please don't mention any medical issues if you come, else you'll start all of the other birds to chirping about their sad state of affairs.

Misery, it seems, triggers thoughts of more misery.

Don't Jump!!!

Ya gotta jump down, turn around, and pick a bale of weed.

You know, when you are little, immortality is an assumed state. Such is the case with the creator as a young boy. We used to climb up to the very peak of the garage roof, and leap into the snow bank some 20 feet below.

The universe as you know it could have terminated on the spot, had there been a hidden picket fence or piece of busted up lawn furniture beneath the snow.

Later in life things didn't change much either. Well one thing did change, we added the half pike with a twist to the jump. Sometimes, in a frenzy of one-up-man-ship, we would try a flip or two and try to land so as not to snap our frail spinal column.

Usually, I like to end these blogs with some pithy comment or societal analysis. There is really none that comes to mind other than

Raindrops keep falling on my head they keep falling
Because I’m freeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Nothin’s worryin' meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

I Yam Not a Crook

I am not a crook or a trouble maker for that matter. Some event occurred in second grade to which the details are not entirely clear. It may have been note passing, note reading, booger picking, booger sticking, or any number of offenses punishable by having your pee pee whacked. The end result was a sentence of detention after school.

Now this was my first (and possibly only) detention that I was to have during my entire school career. I remember blubbering, whining, crying, and whimpering my way into the classroom as the rest of my school mates went home. There were three of us there, Mrs. Hall, myself, and Dick (the Dickster) Travis. Mrs. Hall was a tall stately woman with graying hair. Her commanding presence by itself was enough to make grown men fall to their knees and beg forgiveness. And then there was the Dickster. He basically had a revolving detention account from which he drew on a daily basis. Each day, Dick would do some inane thing that ultimately resulted in the position he now found himself in. My suspicion is that Dick was one of those trailer trash kids that regularly took a "beatin' from his Paw".

The strange thing was, Dick had a great deal of compassion for his fellow man. Here was I crying and carrying on. Here was Dick, comforting me and saying stuff like "things ain't that bad" and "we'll get through this together". Somehow I survived my single bout of detention with the help of Dickster. I don't remember much of Dick after that. In fact I don't remember particularly seeing him again, even though we all went to the same schools. Dick may have been held back once twice, or a dozen times. Hell, Dick may have never made it past second grade for all I know. He may still be there.

It wasn't until recently that the Dickster popped back up on the periscope. It was a much more grandiose appearance than before. Watching television one night, onto the screen pops the face of an aging Dickster. It seems that they had found an old woman chopped up and placed in a Rubber Maid garbage can. Apparently, the poor old mother in law of Dick had keeled over leaving a void in his trailer trash existence. In an attempt to keep the Social Security checks flowing, Dick had taken it upon himself to give the woman a proper burial. Seems he just needed to burp the container once a week to keep the contents fresh.

What does this story mean? Well sometimes shit just happens. Life goes down its random path, tossing us to and fro in the creator's mind as he thinks his jumbled thoughts. Sometimes, we are in his primary stream of consciousness, sometimes we are in a tributary. Other times yet we are caught in the mud, trapped in a whirlpool, or just pop out of the colon with a grand anal announcement. Such is the case with the Dickster.

Come and Listen to a Story About a Kid and a Shed

Other remembrances beyond that fitful fateful day are not rememberable by me. The next thing I do remember happened a number of years later. The events are quite jumbled but I will try to recall it as accurately as I can for the anxious listeners out there in the electron fog.

I remember sitting on the roof of our shed. Back in the day, sheds were not these cheesey tin ribbed condom oil cans we have today. They were stolid, manly wooden structures hacked together by manly men with no more knowledge of carpentry than Peewee Hermann. As such they could support the accumulated weight of

• one hen
• two ducks
• three squawking geese
• four limerick oysters
• five corpulent porposes
• six pairs of Don Alvarzo's tweezers
• 7000 Macedonians in full battle array
• eight brass monkeys from the ancient sacred crypts of Egypt
• nine apathetic sympathetic diabetic old men on roller skates with a marked propensity towards procrastination and sloth
• ten lyrical spherical diabolical denizens of the deep who haul quay around the quo of the quivvy of the quarry all at the same time. Often these structures were rotten and musty, smelling of oil, old lawn shears, and gasoline from last winter.

As I sat atop this mighty structure, I remember being extremely pissed off at some kids who had excluded me from a baseball game. I could, in fact, see them playing quite clearly from the shed roof. I sat there like a gargoyle, plotting their destruction. I think this may have been the first instance in which thoughts of murder actually entered the misty caverns of the creator's brain. I can't recall the events that followed this event in any great detail. I do remember sitting there for what seemed like hours. Hanging was too good for the rotten bastards as far as I was concerned. They had shunned one of their own and were to be damned to the fiery pit of Gehenna or some such equally rotten eternal torture.

Some time later, a great melancholy came over me. Being a bit older now, I realize that it was the first bout of depression that I was to experience. I can say now with great authority that rejection and loneliness are the root of all depression known to humanity. Adam and Eve first hung their heads in shame when they were rejected in the garden. It's things like this that set the tone for each person's life. Things like this are remembered years later and pointed to by the psychiatric community as seminal events in a person's life.

We have all heard the blame for peoples actions being placed squarely on the shoulders of mothers, fathers, and the occasional rotten sibling. Sadaam Hussein, Adolph Hitler, Mussolini, and Ghengis Khan can probably all point to some act of rejection and loneliness that they were compensating for. Heck, it may have been some rotten kid kicking over a friendly game of Risk that propelled us into World War Two.

I do not even remember climbing up or down from said roof. I do want to place some of the blame for this and forthcoming postings squarely on the perpetrators of the "Shed Roof Event".

Rats, Rats, Lay Down Flat

Now it will be revealed. The real truth, often hidden from most kids, but now exposed. Rats is quite dangerous critters. In fact if one bites you, there are exactly 60 seconds before you succumb to the tortuous, agonizing death of RABIES!! This was one of the facts we had to deal with as kids in my neighborhood. I lived near the Cayadutta creek. It was, in fact, about 100 yards from my doorstep. 

Now, I am sure that at one time it was a magnificent creek. Mohawk Indians probably navigated its rushing waters, spearing trout, swimming, and pissing in the stream. Unfortunately, when I lived near the creek, it was a greenish, orange, purplish, color. It exuded an odor similar to rotting meat with a slight tinge of vinaigrette dressing. By the sides of the mighty Cayadutta there existed pea soup looking pools of muck. It was believed by most kids, that if you stepped in this gook, you would be sucked into the burning pit of eternal torment, reserved for those that didn’t eat their vegetables. Also, along the sides of said creek (and to our great delight) were the biggest damn rats you ever saw. 

All I can say at this point is, show a kid a rat, and he will immediately dream of some way to catch it. Our chosen attack method was composed of huge rat traps that you could buy from the Family Bargain Center. The traps were a most effective tool of death, both for the rat, and for the kids. Only the bravest soul would cock one back and set it. The fear was always that you would snap off the tip of a finger, break a knuckle, or get caught by your parents. 

Creeping along the sides of the sinister Cayadutta, we would set our traps near the bank. It was always a difficult task to identify the most frequently traveled path by rats. You had to sort of think like a rat. Rats possess some sort of intrinsic evilness that belies their size. Thus, it was quite simple for a small child to think exactly like a rat. Thinking back now, I don’t remember how many rats we caught. Heck, I don’t even remember what we did with them after we caught them. What I do remember was the sense of belonging to an elite group of kids that could all do one thing very well. I also remember the preparation, planning, and execution of our plan.

There is something about doing things in secret with a group that makes it all the more delicious when it comes off. From this example, one comes to realize why some might gravitate towards the KKK, the John Birch Society, Al-Quaeda, the Masons, the Elks club and other equally noble organizations. 

Simple Simon Met a Pie Man

When I was in junior high school, attending that pinnacle of acedemic research, knowledge, teenage angst, and middle school Lord of the Flies-esque culture, I happened upon a most cherished cassette tape. I would load that tape into my rudimentary1970s vintage boom box and allow my mind to drift and meditate upon all things that a 14 year old boy in the midst of puberty meditates upon. That cassette was a comfort, a mystery, and a meditative dream come true.

Now I know you are all asking, “What could this tape be? Who is the artist? And who could possibly have the knowledge and wisdom required to enlighten one such as I, The TCOU?” Well lemme tell ya, it was Simon and Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits, released in 1972.

Quit yer laughin’ cause t’aint a laughin matter.

This great album covered pretty much every emotion that a young man could contain. From anarchistic swipes at da man in The Boxer to pining for an escape from the chains of life in Bridge Over Troubled Water. It covers the darkest moments of the human soul in The Sounds of Silence to pining for love in Cecelia and For Emily.

Fer-chri-sake it even covered that crush on an English teacher whose name escapes me at the moment, in Missus Robinson. There were also uplifting and happy songs which could bring a young man out of his darkest depressions in Homeward Bound and The 59th Street Bridge Song.

Probably the most personal song on that whole album was I Am a Rock. It really struck home for me, and probably most teenagers. Teenager-hood is when we finally come to the understanding that we are on our own.

A rock feels no pain and an island never cries.

I have no idea what became of that cassette. It may be that I outgrew it or replaced it with some other “medication”. I wish that I still had it, as just the sight of that little plastic box was soothing to me. I probably tossed it into a box somewhere after I discovered Led Zeppelin. In retrospect, I shoulda stuck with Simon and Garfunkel. Who knows, I might have been a happier teenager.

If we could pack that cassette into a pill, I believe it could replace psychotherapy, Paxil, and Xanax.

Sometimes, I Say Stuff

I say stuff, sometimes. And sometimes that stuff is offensive to some people, mostly because I have entered old age and am slowly becoming oblivious to the sensitivities of others. For example, I could make a joke about millennials and their obsession with their mobile devices. If you happened to be a young person that was sitting in a nearby booth at a restaurant, you might be offended. Another more personal and closer to home example is when I made a joke about a hair lipped dog, and it turned out that the person I was telling the joke to had a cleft pallet as a child. The look on their face said “I am offended by that joke”.

For the insensitive and oblivious curious among us, I must repeat the joke. If you are a hair lip or had a cleft pallet as a child, please skip over this section.

Q: What’s small and furry and goes “Mark, mark, mark, mark”?
A: A dog with a hair lip

There, I said it. I used to think it was funny, but not anymore. I am over it and accept that it is insensitive to people that might be sensitive to it. I’m insensitive, oblivious, and I accept it. I have a problem with empathy and I have no control over it.

As a defense to this behavior, I need to point out that there are gazillions of oblivious old geezers driving gigantic SUVs and RVs down the interstate every day. So ya better watch out who you're calling oblivious in mixed company.

On a somewhat related topic, old men have a real problem with context. It most probably relates to the aforementioned insensitivity and obliviousity issue, but I must expound upon it. I feel that most old bastards don’t even realize that they are doing it, so please do think of this as a public service announcement.

The context problem almost always occurs in either a confined space or with a captive audience, like in an elevator.  Old men often start a conversation by framing it in a social context. For example, some old bastard might quote a line from an episode of Archie Bunker or Gilligan’s Island as an icebreaker with a bunch of twenty somethings. The twenty somethings typically give a condescending nod, but I am pretty sure that they are thinking “What the hell is this senile old bastard talking about?”

If you’re thinking “Who the fuck are Archie Bunker and Gilligan?”, then please consider this: someday you might find yourself in an elevator at work, quoting Dwight Schrute to your coworkers, saying something like

“I grew up on a farm. I have seen animals having sex in every position imaginable. Goat on chicken. Chicken on goat. Couple of chickens doing a goat, couple of pigs watching.”

Only to find yourself escorted out of the building with a box of pencils and some shoes. 

Gonna Climb into that Tower and Pray

My mind drifts back to a time just before I graduated from high school when my gramma was still alive. Gramma Roxana was a devoted church goer that regularly attended the local Methodist church over on State Street in my home town. In fact at one time, when I was a wee lad, she regularly took us to the Sunday School there as well as the occasional sermon. My brother and I were even enlisted into what I can only describe as a Choir Boys Crack Drill Team (CBCDT). My sole memory of my time in the CBCDT is in donning a purplish gown and walking down the aisle singing Onward Christian Soldiers at the top of our lungs. Those were the days (I think).

In later years, my gramma was kinda home bound and took to spending a majority of her "religious time" watching the Oral Roberts Abundant Life program on the television box. Her desk was also inundated with correspondence to and from said ministry, mostly sending them her nickels and dimes in hopes of receiving the healing power of Oral's ministry. I don't think it worked because she never did end up leaving home and eventually passed from a heart condition.

In the mid seventies, Oral's ministry was apparently hurting for money, so he would regularly appear on TV to beg, plead, and cry for money to be sent to PO Box 12345 so that he could continue his ministry. Well, apparently my gramma's nickels and dimes just weren't enough, so Oral climbed into his "prayer tower" and locked himself in until he got the needed cash. He begged and pleaded and claimed that God would "take him home" if he did not receive the desired cash infusion to support whatever it was that needed supporting. I do not remember the outcome or if Oral survived, or if Oral got the money he requested, or if Oral is even alive today.

A quick Google reveals that he died in 2009, so apparently he survived the "Tower of Terror".

Now one might ask, "Why is my mind drifting back to this, seemingly unrelated to any semblance of reality, scene?". Well lemme tell ya.

There is an event that is happening as of this writing that reminds me of that fateful month in the mid 70's. A certain president has apparently locked himself naked and alone in the White House and is waiting for either God or the democratic congress to deliver the money for a much needed barrier at the southern border of the United States.

I have no idea if the barrier is needed or if the president will survive his "Tower of Terror", but it sure makes for good television. Too bad that millions of Americans need to suffer so that some group can claim triumphantly that "We Won!!!".

Me? I'm sick of winning.