Fallingwater

It’s the sort of thing you always want to do, but for one reason or another, keep putting off. On a picture-perfect autumn day in mid October, we drove to Fallingwater. It was a chilly Saturday morning, and the turning leaves were in full display. The ride there was magnificent; the return trip, with the sun behind us, would be even better.

Ever since I first heard the name, Frank Lloyd Wright, and I learned of the futuristic home he’d designed that would rest on top of a waterfall, I’d wanted to see it. The very idea was crazy - like the mile-high skyscraper Wright had once proposed for the City of Chicago. While that plan remained an idea on paper, the house often referred to as “Wright’s Masterpiece” was real, had been lived in, and was only an hour’s drive away.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the emotional connection I felt with the family. It began with the tour guide, who casually listed the rules we were to follow, and then in an almost off-hand manner, lowered her voice and said, “As we enter the house, we will enter through the same door the family would have.”

More than a house, it is the home of the Kaufmann family, and you arrive at a snapshot in time decades ago, where personal possessions lie about. It’s as if you’re walking through the home of your grandparents after they’ve passed. Photographs of smiling friends and family taken out on the terrace, or laughing in oddly dated bating suits as they swim in the water that ceaselessly runs under the house, lend a sweet sadness to the experience. And although there are dozens of other people at different stages of the tour throughout the house, a respectful silence remains, amidst the ever-present soft background music of the waterfall.

A visit to Fallingwater is an emotional experience unlike anything I’ve found when visiting museums or the buildings where the rich and famous have lived. I’m sure we’ll visit again, perhaps in spring time, when the Rhododendrons are in bloom.

War: What is it Good For?

To say I'm disappointed would be a gross mischaracterization. It was my generation that faced the tragedy known as the Vietnam War. And unlike previous political conflicts that drew the collective national spirit together through reason and purpose (including "The Cold War") with Vietnam, there were more of us against it, than were for it.

Now, here we are again, invading another country, killing its citizens, and having the lives of American sons and daughters taken from us in return, with no goal or conclusion in sight.

Where is my generation that promised this wouldn't ever happen again, that we were tired of those who fabricated conflicts and bloody wars that seem to serve no purpose other than to thin out the growing population, to acquire the riches of others, and to consolidate power so that robbing other countries of their resources would be easier the next time?

I'm not merely disappointed, I'm downright angry. I want my generation, the one that agreed and proclaimed with absolute certainty that war was a thing of the past, and that fictitious events, like the Gulf of Tonkin incident that was used to escalate U.S. involvement in Vietnam would never be used to draw us into war again... to stand up at the ballot box, and begin correcting the mistakes we've been living with during the current administration.

A Prairie Home Companion

If, like me, you've been a fan of the live PBS radio broadcast that is a step back in time to a gentler era where you could count on the participants to be warm and friendly, and the content to remain non-offensive and family safe, and you've waited for the movie version to appear on DVD so you could rent it, save your time and money because you'll be greatly disappointed.

Like a lot of things that attempt to cross into another medium, A Prairie Home Companion falls short of expectations. The ironic part is that the show has been broadcast on television several times, and when it stayed true to its format, it was even more enjoyable. You saw the faces behind the familiar cast voices, the musicians and singers who produced incredibly simple but enjoyable music, and the sound effects people who brought humorous skits to life the way it was once done in old-time radio.

Missing, most especially, is the comforting, familiar, and always moving monologue delivered by Garrison Keillor as he talks off-the-cuff about his home town, Lake Wobegon, "where the women are strong, the men are good looking, and all the children are above average."

Disappointment begins in the opening moments as Keillor's radio private eye character, Guy Noir, enters played poorly by one of my favorite actors, Kevin Kline. The script is rambling and pointless with a failed attempt to create a story which includes a theater-saving angel that confusingly, some can see, but others cannot -- at different times.

The worst inclusion is actor Woody Harrelson who plays half of the cowboy singing team of Dusty and Lefty, as they pace the hallways passing gas and whose song lyrics and adult joke telling are reminiscent of vaudeville strip shows when the audience was comprised of only drunken men.

American nostalgia, Midwestern charm, and corny Lutheran jokes are gone, replaced with attempts to mix-in unfamiliar characters who die backstage, obsessively write teenage suicide poetry, or babble endlessly over each other's lines so that the dialog is completely obliterated, rendering the content incidental. What portions that are enjoyable, such as most of the music, is frequently interrupted with some meaningless cut to what is going on backstage.

A Prairie Home Companion, the movie, has forfeited its charm and wit in favor of reaching a younger audience who have probably never listened or watched it before, and allowed its character to be turned into a series of fart jokes. In its present form, it's neither welcome in my home, or a companion at all.

Keepers of the Western Door

A four-hour drive in a comfortable car beats a four-hour plane ride any day, especially if you're with friends or family. Take turns driving, pause at a roadside rest stop when the mood strikes you, stop for brunch or dinner at the halfway point. There are no pesky luggage searches, we take our shoes off and leave them off -- not for national security, but because it just feels good. We bring all the liquids we want without having to wastefully toss them in a trash can at the departure gate. Sitting together, we can talk without having to shout over the sound of jet engines; we're not interrupted by airline employees barking about what we can, and cannot, do. The journey seems almost effortless -- even enjoyable. Four hours pass as though they were only one.

As we arrive, we're greeted with smiles everywhere, and we feel welcome. It's a bit chilly, but at least we're not dripping with perspiration before we reach the front door like we had out in the western desert of Nevada. Once we enter, it's another world. Like Alice stepping Through the Looking Glass, we're not in Buffalo, New York anymore, but someplace that seems a lot like a hotel and casino complex, and one of the better ones at that. Everyone has heard of Las Vegas and Reno, but for someone like me with very little gambling experience, Seneca Niagara seems like it must be one of those well-kept secrets you never hear about. It's bigger and better than I expected. I like this... who knew?

This time I might get up the courage to do some honest-to-gosh gambling, rather than merely gazing at the fountains or admiring the decorating scheme. Instead of just hanging out at the penny slots, I might actually approach a Blackjack table, if someone would only talk me into it... or tie me to a chair, something like that... yeah, maybe then I might do it. But, somehow I do it, without anything involving cattle prods, or duct tape and kidnapping. I get up early when most others are just going to bed, brush my teeth and head down to the tables before I have time to begin forming self-doubt. Like a child lost in the mostly-vacant casino, I wonder around with my hands in my pockets, looking for an empty table and a friendly-looking dealer who might not mind answering a lot of stupid beginner questions, like... "Is this a Blackjack table?"

I find one. A man at least my age, perhaps a bit older, and he's chewing something that might be tobacco, or maybe broken glass, I'm not sure. This is someone I can communicate with. I explain it's my first attempt at Blackjack, and throw myself at his mercy. He's kind and informative, sometimes too much so. He divulges so much information, I'm unable to absorb it all, or even retain small amounts. I ask him to alert me if the cocktail waitress passes behind me, I need a large cup of black coffee. After about two or three hands, he's tapped out and an older woman takes his place. She's kind, friendly and informative. She's, also, skinny and sounds as though she smokes about three packs of cigarettes a day. She appears drunk, or on medication. As she's dealing (or maybe shuffling, I forget) about four cards fly out on the table and she calls the pit boss over and confesses. They talk and work out a solution that sounds like some kind of magic card trick, and suddenly we're back playing. She gives advice and tells me "what the book says," and because I follow it, by the time the original dealer returns, she's managed to strip me of $110 at a $10 table. Two men simultaneously sit at my table, one on the left and one on the right of me, and because I sense I'll receive less instruction, I cash in my chips and move on.

Another table and the dealer is available -- a man who looks younger, and even more stupid than me. I can only hope. Yes, it's a Blackjack table (I'm still asking dumb questions) and as I place $90 worth of chips down, and he begins shuffling, I tell him it's the second time I've played Blackjack, and I've just lost $110. Also, because I'm feeling a little nervous, I inadvertently find myself in a rambling monologue that discloses all of my shortcomings and the major events of my life. Well, it was his own fault; it took a long time for him to shuffle the eight decks of cards that comprise the shoe he was about to deal from. Had it been a single deck, I could have shortened my story. Now, here's the kicker -- as soon as he finished, he was tapped out and a different dealer now stood before me. Is this a pattern, or just an indication of my bad luck? This guy was even younger, sported one earring, and he had a space between his front teeth wide enough to hold a dollar's worth of nickels. Even worse, he was fast, smooth, and smart. But bless the gods and saints of card players, he was friendly, and gave explanations as though I was playing with his money. I noticed that when I didn't do "what the book said," sometimes I did better.... sometimes not. Another player sat down at the table, and I "colored up." I read that phrase someplace, and since it sounded good, I used it.

A third table, and a dealer with a shaved head like mine is standing alone. I concluded this was either a good sign or a bad one, I couldn't be sure, but whichever it was, it was very much so. He was tall and thin, and he didn't look too smart. By now you'd think I'd know better... he wouldn't be dealing Blackjack if I was smarter than he was. Since I now had experience, I no longer asked stupid questions, but expressed myself in declarative statements. "Hey," I said with an air of confidence, "This is a Blackjack table." "This is Twenty-One, sir." I paused a moment, rolling the words over in my mind and while I wasn't sure at first, it now seemed that meant the same thing.

After an awkward moment when he jokingly asked me to assist him in mixing the cards, and I began to oblige (I knew I wasn't permitted to touch the cards, I just forgot) the game began. Like all the other dealers, he was an affable soul. He told me how "the book" said I should handle situations, and why. Some of his advice contradicted the things I thought I already knew about the game, and sometimes when I went against the prevailing logic, I did better than if I'd followed it... sometimes not. Another player sat down and I left with my chips. Crossing the casino, I paused at a row of slot machines and emptied my pockets to count my winnings. To my surprise, I was $45 ahead of the original amount I started with. I couldn't believe it, I had to count it three times to be sure. And, because the casino was starting to get busy and there were no more empty tables, and because I was ahead, it seemed like a good time to stop.

During our overnight stay at the hotel, we had a fabulous steak dinner, saw an entertaining magic show, and spent time at the in-house night club where we observed several well-known football players rubbing elbows with us common folks, all without ever setting foot outside of the building. We had a wonderful time, and to the best of my knowledge, we each came back still wearing our shirt. Thank you again Chris and John, thank you Danielle for watching "Morph the Wonder Dog" so we could all go, and thank you especially, to the Seneca Nation of Indians, Keepers of the Western Door, for your hospitality. I sometimes wonder, if Indians were in the White House instead of cowboys, might things have been handled better?

9/11/01

One of the most over-used phrases you hear in regard to the 9/11 tragedy goes something like "Not all Moslems are terrorists, but all terrorists are Moslems." Another is the mistaken rhetoric involving what has been erroneously labeled "The War on Terrorism," sometimes shortened to, "The War on Terror," in the same simplistic way one might have a "War on Drugs," or a "War on Poverty," only with bombs.

By now, enough experts on the terminology of conflict have instructed us that only Congress can declare a State of War under Article I, Section 8 of the U.S. Constitution, which it has not formally announced since World War II. In 1973, Congress, in response to the escalating conflict in Vietnam, passed the War Powers Act (technically, the War Powers Resolution) requiring presidents to seek congressional approval within 90 days after introducing troops into hostile action.

Whatever the means, methods, or label... we now find ourselves entangled in an unending hostile military conflict in which neither side can win. It has robbed us of -- and will take for the unforeseeable future -- the lives of sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, and fathers and mothers, from many countries, needlessly, regardless of how most of us feel. It's been inflicted upon us all, and now that it has started, there's nothing we can do about it.

The single solution lies within the worldwide Moslem community itself. There's just no way to rid ourselves of every radical Moslem fundamentalist bent on striking out at the world as they seek revenge for some insult, real or imagined, and it's impossible to predict where or when terrorism will rear its ugly head in some perverted sense of justice-seeking for the poor and downtrodden members of that society. However, what is clear is that only when the larger, non-aggressive, truly compassionate, peace-loving members of the Moslem culture soundly reject the destructive activities of the terrorist few, and express their disapproval loudly and in unison, will peace return to our lives, and theirs.

First-Time Vegas

The plane ride was long, but about what I expected. Nothing fancy, packed in like sardines, wake me when we get there. Upon our arrival, my first thoughts reflect in the words of Eugene Morris Jerome, in the movie Biloxi Blues. "Man it's hot. It's like Africa hot. Tarzan couldn't take this kind of hot." Inside the airport, we're greeted by banks of flashing slot machines. No thank you, I'm just here for the shows and a little weekend rest and relaxation. I'm not going to get sucked into that gambling thing.

A white-knuckle cab ride by one of many drivers who know the streets, alleys, and short-cuts in Las Vegas intimately, and we burst through the doors of our hotel as though we had just been ejected from our seats back at the airplane. (Blessings upon Willis Haviland Carrier, the man who invented modern air conditioning, without whom human habitation of the desert would not be possible.) We are in paradise... walking in slow motion as though in a dream... lush gardens, waterfalls, hundreds of other tourists dressed like gardeners at a black tie dinner. Everyone looks very much out of place in this five-star hotel.

We open the door to our room as relaxing cocktail lounge music tinkers in the background. Once inside, it takes me a half-hour and several phone calls to figure out how to open the curtains, but when I do, I stand there for hours... over a period of days. We were on the 52nd floor overlooking "The Strip." Below us was the life blood of Las Vegas, taxi cabs flowing through the city and off into the distance, like the fluid traveling our veins and arteries. I stayed up most of the night seated in front of the window just watching the city, like some kid in front of an aquarium, feeling like some country bumpkin on his first trip to the big city. There was a lot happening out there, and I didn't want to miss any of it.

The stay was short, but we managed to see two shows over two nights both after having dinner fit for a king. Then it was back to the hotel, which was like a city unto itself. All paths take you through the hotel casino at some point. Having watched over the shoulders of others, eventually I got up the courage to approach a penny slot machine. Cautiously allowing the machine to suck the dollar bill from my hand, I soon turned it into $5. Quickly, I retrieved my winnings and dashed away, clutching the money as I laughed out loud like Doctor Frankenstein with the secret discovery, "It's alive... It's ALIVE!"

I was tempted to get on a plane and head home, straining against the need to beat the odds, and return from Vegas a winner. But it was so easy, why not try again. At a different machine, POOF... I turned $1 into $16, and at another, $1 became $12. And so it went on and on, win some, lose some. I don't know if I came home ahead or behind, but I had a good time. Not once did I ponder wars, hurricanes, or the National Deficit. My body had been on vacation before, but this was the first time my mind came along for the ride.

The odd thing is, for years I ridiculed friends and family members for their "wasteful" excursions to Las Vegas. Now, I'm looking forward to going back some day, confident that I'll return with fond memories of my trip. At least, I know I'll enjoy the view. I think I want to try the 53rd floor with that wall-to-wall view of the city. Thank you Chris and John for showing us a wonderful weekend. Next trip, I plan to go "big time" in the casino and play the nickel slot machines.

It's NUCLEAR!

... not "newk-yah-ler," you idiot.

If you want to be taken seriously on the subject, you should at least know how to pronounce it.

A Fair Wage

Over and over, the republican-controlled U.S. Congress has offered its citizens legislation the general public overwhelmingly desires, only to attach provisions that will effectively prevent the Bill from passing. Now, they're doing it again with the Federal Minimum-Wage Bill.

The word fairness comes to mind. Since 1996 the minimum wage has remained at $5.15, yet legislators have voted themselves a pay increase each year, on no less than 10 separate occasions. During that same period congressional pay has gone up $31,000 for members, many of whom are independently wealthy, and will work less than 80 days this year. As of January 2006, Senators and Representatives receive $165,200 per year. The Majority and Minority Leaders in both the House and Senate and the President pro tempore of the Senate earn $180,100. The Speaker of the House earns $208,000.

The proposed Bill would raise the minimum wage from $5.15 an hour to $7.25, not instantly, but by 2009. Attached to the same legislation offering the working poor a meager increase in income, is a sweeping package that includes a permanent reduction of the estate tax, and provisions that extend and expand various existing tax policies beneficial only to the rich, and profitable to giant corporations such as Microsoft and Boeing, including benefits such as reducing capital-gains taxes on timber sales by 60 percent.

In the words of Senator Dick Durbin, Democrat of Illinois, "Republicans, in time of war, a war that costs us $3 billion per week - are proposing tax cuts for the wealthiest people in America - tells the whole story about their priorities."

Touch-Screen Voting

It's Primary Election Day where I live, and I've just returned from my first experience with a touch-screen electronic voting machine.

My initial impression was, if you know the slightest bit about computers, this would be the easiest way in the world to fix an election, short of assassinating your candidate's opponent. My second impression was, if the powers that be want to take this route, why not make it possible to vote over the Internet from the comfort of your own home and in your jammies?

My third impression was, we're screwed. There's no way crooked people with a crooked mind can resist tampering with this system. Wrong-headed people with their corrupt point of view already go out of their way to change, alter, and fix things much less important. With the stakes so high, and so much money at risk, the same people who have been picking our pockets for years won't be able to resist altering, changing, and fixing elections. It will happen somewhere, I promise, and we'll be hearing about it through the media one day soon.

My only question is, with every possible poll showing such a high level of disapproval for the people running things now, if the next several elections reflect something other than the way we know most of us feel, what will be the result? Who can we complain to, and what would be the outcome? Short of anarchy and a complete revolt, all that's left to us is something like, The Fall of the Roman Empire.

Surprise!

Keeping it a secret was difficult, planning began a year in advance. Our daughter, with help from her brother (as well as many friends) arranged a surprise birthday party for their mother. Years from now, the details will have faded away, and so they're not really important. But, the feeling of it, and the emotions, will remain with us for the rest of our lives.

I had a small part -- get my wife to the party on time. Fearing we might be late, we arrived too early, so I began driving around, retracing my path, pretending to be looking for a suitable restaurant that wasn't too crowded that time of the day. Coming up with truthful-sounding answers when she would inquire about my bizarre dinner search wasn't easy -- she's no dummy.

We arrived, and were led to the party room by someone smartly tipped off regarding our appearance. Then, like something you'd see in a movie, the doors parted, and everyone shouted, "Surprise!" There are few really magic moments in life, and even fewer worth remembering, but this was one we'll keep forever.

The best part is, she never knew her friends and family were all waiting for her. I believe we're defined by our friends and family, and my wife has the best of both. Time was that life was too hard and busy for me to worry about friends or family, but the experience our daughter provided for her mother has taught me they're the most important aspects of life. Thank you Chris and Robert, and all the others who helped. Happy Birthday, Michele. The details are not important. But, the feeling will remain with us for the rest of our lives.

Narco-Mexico

Mexico's President, Vicente Fox, has U.S. lawmakers in a tizzy over new legislation, passed last week by the Mexican Congress, which designates small quantities of heroin, cocaine and other narcotics as drugs that people can use without being prosecuted as criminals.

Mexican authorities say it's an effort to free police from dealing with small-time, petty drug users, while U.S. authorities, fearful of an increase in drug trafficking near the border, and having American citizens turned into narco-tourists, say the bill is an attempt to decimalize narcotics.

The legislation passed by the Mexican Senate would make it legal to possess up to 25 milligrams of heroin, 5 grams of marijuana, or half a gram of cocaine. It would also make it legal to have small amounts of LSD, amphetamines, and up to a kilo of peyote.

With the First Twins well-known penchant for overindulging and then getting arrested, I wonder if their father will be giving them plane tickets to visit his good presidential friend south of the border, or will he just begin bombing Mexico?

Rating School Girls

A local news story that's setting radio talk show phone lines on fire has to do with a list prepared by several less than scrupulous boys, rating the "Top 25 in 2006" high school girls. In spite of its benign, almost complimentary title, the list reaches beyond the mere inclusion of each girl's name, grade, and photo.

Printed and distributed anonymously, the list goes on to present sexually explicit descriptions of each girl in detail. Physical attributes are given letter grades, and body parts as well as faces, are described using the crudest of terms. Along with commentary regarding a person's weight, height, and ethnicity, there are references to the way each might perform vulgar sex acts. Much of it is so vivid that it can't be read on radio or TV. Many of the girls wouldn't attend class for days.

The parents and community, in general, are understandably concerned and simultaneous inquiries are being conducted by both the school board and the local police. What charges might be filed is still being debated. At the same time, a portion of the population is proclaiming that this is merely a matter of boys being boys... that it's only a joke that happens every year, and this is just the first time parents have become aware of it.

Some parents just don't get it. One can only hope that the children they're raising don't grow up and find jobs in important government positions, where their decision making will affect the well-being of others, and their mistakes can be justified with simple bumper-sticker slogans such as, "Boys Will Be Boys."

Happy-Slapping

One of the worst things that ever happened at my high school involved a rule which said students weren't permitted to leave the grounds during lunch. The major scandal one year was when a school "bad-boy" drove his convertible past the front of the building at lunchtime with the top down, his friends yelling and waving while he honked the horn. Teachers were in an uproar, the principal huffed and puffed up and down the halls all day, but the students got a big kick out of it -- we just laughed.

We've come a long way since then. The dangerous and foolish things that pass for pranks, and that young people think are funny, often make me pause and shake my head. Television programs such as Jackass, Dirty Sanchez and Happy Tree Friends have popularized these scenarios and their imagery. Happy-Slapping, or attacking some unsuspecting stranger or acquaintance while recording the still or video images on cell phones is the latest gift to us from those too young and stupid to know any better.

Sometimes staged with friends, but more frequently a tactic akin to a sucker-punch delivered to a stranger, happy-slapping takes many forms, from setting someone on fire, to tossing water on an elderly person on a bicycle from a passing car. Along with injury, rape and even death have occurred... for the fun of it. In some instances, the act has been turned back on the perpetrator.

There was a time when someone would have their house T.P.ed, (toilet papered) usually around Halloween time, or friends would pat you on the back, leaving a "Kick Me" sticky note. One wonders what's left for subsequent foolish generations to do next... tossing babies from roof tops, high-speed head-on collisions with strangers on the highway, or perhaps the ever-laughable neighborhood thermo-nuclear explosion captured by camera phone?

Did He Think He Could Fly?

It was reported late last week that 62-year-old Rolling Stones guitar player, Keith Richards, suffered a mild concussion after falling out of a palm tree while on holiday in Fiji. News accounts said that even after Richards performed his Palm Tree Plunge, he was strong enough to hop on a Jet Ski and involve himself in another accident.

Somehow I wasn't surprised. But, several questions, almost immediately, come to mind.

What was he doing in a palm tree? Should aging rock stars be permitted to drink so much that they begin, (or resume) exhibiting bizarre behaviors that land them in the hospital? And, is it possible that Richards will outlive Mick Jagger?

Older Women

As a boy, I was always attracted to older women. The truth is, so is just about every boy. Girls are cute and fun, and they're the ones you're allowed to connect with. But, women are where the action is, and every boy waits for the day he can connect with real honest-to-goodness woman.

I used to read a lot about comedian Lenny Bruce because he talked and wrote about older women, and his adult encounters with them. Lenny grew up in a world of older women in the family, his first "love affair" was with a woman ten years older, and as a young man he worked on stages where strippers were the main form of entertainment. Lenny Bruce knew a lot about older women, and they loved him.

He once wrote of an older woman who talked to him, not as a boy, but as the man he would one day become. And truly, putting all physical attraction aside, that's what a young person seeks from an older woman, recognition and acceptance.

I've always liked older women, and happily, I'm married to one. She wasn't always an older woman, when we met she was quite young. But today, she's an older woman, although she's several years younger than me. I've finally connected with an older woman, and she treats me like the man I will, one day, become.

The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth

The gas price problem is starting to pinch everyone where I live. I'm tempted to count my blessings and say that paying a high price is better than an availability problem. But, now there are stories of gas stations running out in some places, and I know it's just a matter of time before it spreads. I've already been through that situation twice, and I'm not looking forward to doing it again.

For me the solution is clear; we need alternative fuel sources -- more than one, so we don't paint ourselves into a corner again like we've done with oil. But, because the bureaucracy drags its feet, and because politicians and leaders of countries fear upsetting the global economy, finding alternative fuel sources is a long-term solution, not something that will help us in the weeks ahead.

Other than wheeling our old bicycles out of the garage and dusting them off, I don't know what else individual citizens can do. Big problems require big-minded leaders to get off their duff and do something. Governments exist to protect and serve their citizenry. Administrations are put in place to deal with the large problems (road building, mass immunization, price gouging) that the public isn't able to deal with by themselves. So far, I see little effort on the part of people elected for dealing with such problems in my Country.

A list of reasons for the fall of the Roman Empire reads like the headlines of the day. It includes, a decline in morals and values, public health problems, political corruption, unemployment, inflation, urban decay, inferior technology, military spending. Can anyone else see the writing on the wall? I'm guessing "the meek shall inherit the Earth," a lot sooner than anyone expected.

Future Isn't What It Used To Be

When I was a kid in school, they told us that by now, we'd all be flying our own little helicopters to work or when we went shopping. They said most of the diseases and illness that plague human kind would be cured by now... and that we'd spend weekends on the moon, and two week vacations on Mars. There would be no more war.

They said we'd have two-way wrist TVs to communicate (well, we're almost there) and homes would all be heated with solar panels on the roof... cars and trucks would be pollution free... cars would drive themselves down the highway. Why did we believe them, the dirty rats. Where's the pleasant, clean, peaceful future we were promised?

Watch Wearing

Time was (no pun intended) when I felt naked without a watch. If I'd leave home and forget my wristwatch, I was constantly looking for a clock to see the time. It wasn't that I had to be someplace, or that I might be late if I didn't keep track of the time. It had more to do with being in the moment... so to speak. I'd read a book called Be Here Now, by an associate of Timothy Leary, a Harvard psychiatrist named Dr. Richard Alpert, who became Baba Ram Dass. It's a long story that I'll skip for now. But anyway, I was trying to be here... you know... like, now.

For a time, (no pun intended) there was an early-morning TV program where an interesting and likable college professor conducted a class on the media. I wasn't taking the class for credit, but the man was interesting. And since I had to get up anyway, I'd tune in for the class. One morning, he talked about clocks, and specifically, digital clocks. He called them "the most subversive invention ever." The professor went on to explain that a clock with hands showed you not only the time at the moment, but where you had been, and where you were going in time. The issue with digital clocks, he told us, was that they forced one to focus on the moment, to the exclusion of what came before or later. Suddenly, I no longer wanted to "be here now," I wanted to be here before, or after now. I didn't care when, just not now. I got rid of my digital watch and went back to one with Mickey pointing to numbers.

Eventually I got out of the habit of wearing a watch altogether. I hate hunting down those little batteries, and because almost everywhere you go, there's a clock someplace... except at the doctor's office. They don't want you to see how long they've kept you waiting.

The Long Arm of the FBI

Jack Anderson was a newspaper columnist and investigative reporter who broke many stories embarrassing to the Nixon White House, the FBI and the CIA. He won the Pulitzer Prize in 1972, and died in December 2005. Among those who worked for him, and studied under his tutelage, was Brit Hume, now managing editor for Fox News... no left-wing liberal network.

Anderson sometimes obtained information from "insiders" who supplied him with secret documents and memos not intended for public viewing. So angry were members of the Nixon Administration, that a top aid employed thugs to poison him, a plot that dissolved when conspirators of the Watergate break-in were captured.

Now, the FBI wants legal permission to go through Anderson's files which have been donated to George Washington University for use by scholars and researchers. Some think the move is a "fishing expedition" by the Bush Administration to frighten reporters who might engage in similar investigative journalism in the future.

Could it be that the Bush Administration has something to hide?

Baby Names

A generation ago they laughed when rock star Frank Zappa of the group Mother's of Invention named his daughter "Moon Unit" and his son, "Dweezil." Grace Slick, lead singer of Jefferson Airplane called her daughter "China" while David Bowie bestowed upon his daughter the name, "Zowie," causing school mates to call her by the humorous moniker, "Zowie Bowie."

Still today, people give their children weird, strange, and even laughable names. Jason Lee and Beth Riesgraf call their son, "Pilot Inspektor," and Penn Gillette of the magic team Penn and Teller crowned his daughter, "Moxie Crimefighter."

I have to wonder if anyone gave consideration to the children who will have to wear the names they were given until they're old enough to change them. Will their friends think their parents were really cool, or just idiots? How will it sound when the teacher takes attendance each morning?

We gave our children the traditional names of Christine and Robert, because it was about them, and not us. And, because we wanted their friends, family, and people who they would meet later on in life to like them, not laugh at them.

Unfinished Wars

I'm tired of all the wars we start, but can never finish. In the U.S., our government has given us the "War on Poverty," the "War on Drugs," and now we have the "War on Terrorism,"... another opened ended war with no possible end in sight. You'd think the people who make it to the top would be the best and the brightest, but obviously that's not the case.

Best Guitar Players

I play guitar and participated in several garage bands that had a few gigs in some bars... nothing serious. But, when guitar players get together, the topic always turns to, "the best guitar player." There are lots of differing opinions, and many subjective lists have been posted on the Internet (jazz, rock, country) but, the same names always appear. One name that's always missing is Robin Trower.

Born on March 9, 1945, in Catford, England, (he's now 61) Robin Trower played in lots of bands including Procol Harum (A Whiter Shade of Pale) before eventually starting his own, which sometimes was the opening act for the Rolling Stones.

I picked up a copy of his Living Out of Time DVD and I was pleasantly surprised that he played (and sounded) just the same as he did when I first discovered him.

What I Wouldn't Do

I sometimes wonder if there's a limit on what people would do for money.

Recently, a Kansas City, Missouri couple falsely claimed they were the new parents of sextuplets in a scheme to profit from their neighbors' kindness. The births were said to have occurred in March, and the local newspaper ran a story with a photograph of the couple holding six baby outfits. A reporter was allowed into the home nursery, which included six gift baskets from the husband's employer, and demonstrating they were prepared to receive the four boys and two girls, as soon as they were discharged from intensive care.

The couple created a web site soliciting gifts which included a van, washer and dryer, cash and gift certificates, and a new house. Oddly enough, the babies were never seen and the town police chief could find no record of the birth. Now, the truth is out, and prosecutors haven't determined how much the couple profited from the scam, or what charges to bring beyond the municipal level. The couple said they did it because they needed the money. I was amazed at all the effort they put into their scam.

Occasionally, I ponder just how far I'd go if I really was in desperate need. I wouldn't kill anyone, or become involved in anything that would harm another. I wouldn't rob, steal, or cheat anyone. And, I wouldn't do anything that involved a crime. I'm the kind who always gets caught.

Wrap Rage

A major newspaper in the U.S. city where I live recently reported, "British researchers blame "Wrap Rage" for more than 60,000 injuries in that country." The article went on to say, "In 2004, a writer for The Times of London described the CD as the crucible of wrap rage, whose old cardboard box was replaced by a zip strip. The answer to our unwrapping prayers! Yet 12 years later, a pull-tab torn off in hand, we are still chewing through plastic like wild dogs."

I've occasionally sliced a finger on the edge of a plastic package, and I've managed to scatter the contents of a potato chip bag about the room. A company that makes my favorite cough drops provides a bag that's resealable, but the initial opening can be frustrating as the perforated portion never quite comes off all the way. It usually takes three or more attempts to completely open the bag.

I've acquired the habit of reaching for the scissors rather than a razor blade or a sharp-pointed knife when opening a new package. Past experience has taught me that introducing some tools into the situation can only increase the risk of injury when dealing with a hard-to-open packaging.

The worst packages to open are children's toys, especially on holiday mornings. Parents are half asleep, the children are impatient, and even after opening the package, you're likely to encounter a host of wire or plastic ties employed to prevent theft. Often, freeing the toy from its packaging without destroying the item is a challenge.

"We've put people on the moon," as the old saying goes, so it seems as though someone could design a package that would protect the contents, without preventing the consumer from getting to it.

Good-bye June

I was shocked and saddened by the news that June Pointer, the youngest member of the Pointer Sisters, died of cancer at UCLA Medical Center in Santa Monica today. She was only 52-years old.

I loved the Pointer Sisters the way I loved the Beatles, but June was my favorite of the group. I still play their music, dancing around the kitchen while we cook the evening meal. I can't sit still when I hear Automatic, Fire, He's So Shy, or the Neutron Dance.

It's depressing to think that, like the Beatles, the Pointer Sisters can never get together again. Good-bye June.

Fries with that?

A news story on CNN told of a woman who dipped a hard-boiled egg in a dish of multi-colored dyes and pulled out an Easter Egg with Jesus on it. Although this occurred eight years ago, she's recently decided to sell her treasure on... you guessed it, eBay. Currently on eBay, you can even bid on an autographed picture of Jesus Christ, honest to God.

I've lost count of all the various food items, trees, windows, and subterranean wall oozings upon which an image of the Savior has appeared. I recall a tortilla, a toasted cheese sandwich, a potato chip, and a pork chop or some cut of meat, all with a likeness of the Lord, or so claimed the owners of said items.

Reflections of street lights and merging shadows of a bush and a real estate sign once produced an image of Christ on the Cross on a garage door in California in 1981, drawing 8,000 visitors one April weekend. And, Jesus showed up on the chimney of a suburban Chicago bowling alley in June of 1987. Some argued it really just meant it was time to have the chimney repaired, while others thought the image looked more like Popeye. In May of 1991, J.C. miraculously appeared amidst a plate of spaghetti on a Pizza Hut billboard in Atlanta, Georgia. At the same time, others instead saw deceased rock star Jim Morrison, or country singer Willie Nelson.

In 1993, 3,000 of the faithful converged on an apartment building in upper Manhattan to witness an apparition of Jesus Christ on a frosted glass of a 5th floor bathroom window. Apparently, the source of the apparition was moisture that had accumulated between two layers of glass. When police removed the window and had it taken to be scrubbed, some called it, "sacrilegious."

I suppose people see what they want to see, or perhaps what's on their mind already. Frequently religious images have been observed after prayer, or on the way home from church services. But, it was when I saw a web page demonstrating how to create your own toasted religious relic by creatively arranging slices of butter on bread that the idea struck me. There could be something like McBuddha, or maybe House-O-Moses and Pancakes. Customers could order food with their favorite religious figure burned, carved, or molded into it. Think of the possibilities.

"Would you like fries with that Confucius Burger?"

Falsely Accused

Depending on the jurisdiction, in some places a man might receive up to a ten-year sentence if convicted of rape. In countries governed by religious leaders, the punishment can be much worse. A few cultures still practice stoning someone to death, or cutting off their hands.

By contrast, (depending on the jurisdiction), a woman might get just one year in jail if it's proven that by accusing a man of rape, she filed a false report.

There's no justification for rape and certainly the punishment for such a crime should be harsh... some even suggest castration. But, given the severity of the penalty a person would pay for raping someone, I wonder if it's fair that the punishment for falsely accusing another of the same crime is so much less.

If a UFO Landed...

I've thought about how I'd react if I ever observed a UFO land. If there's one thing the Bush Administration has taught us, it's that you have to be prepared for anything all the time, and to be afraid... be very afraid. And so, I am.

Should I knock on the door of the flying saucer seeking autographs, or load the pellet gun and hunker down, so to speak? Would they be agreeable to peace talks over wine and crackers, or will they be seeking hostages? Can I convince them the cat is our first born, so take him instead of me?

It's a tricky business, all this UFO stuff, and there are no books in the library, or sites online that explain just how to handle every extraterrestrial close encounter. Well, actually there is, if you're a fireman.

Deerfield Township Fire Chief William Kramer, who also teaches firefighting courses at the University of Cincinnati and hosts fire education videos, covered the topic in a 1992 textbook, Fire Officers' Guide to Disaster Control. Chief Kramer says that firefighters and emergency providers should be prepared to handle mass panic if a UFO lands, and that an actual UFO landing should be treated with caution to safeguard against toxic substances. He goes on to advise us to not alarm possible extraterrestrial visitors, as though we wouldn't be in the process of changing our underwear.

I never knew that handling UFO crash sites was part of a firefighter's job description, but somehow, I feel safer.

Getting Older, Getting Old

I've been thinking about the difference between getting older, and getting old.

One time honored adage says, "Age is a state of mind." Well, try and tell that to the elderly. I've spent some time with relatives in nursing homes, and I'm not looking forward to the future. After a certain point, whatever is going on in one's mind, if anything at all, is questionable. For some, the mental process seems to turn toward things that never really happened, or a sort of crazy time/space jump back to things that happened long ago. On occasion, it seems as though it might be fun to do, even if you're the only one in the experience.

Getting older is good. It feels good to be mature and accepted by society. Maturity brings with it a degree of freedom. You can do things without getting scolded, or reported to the principal. You can go farther away from home to do bad things so that no one you know will see. Eventually, if you live long enough, you can even get to drive fast, and drink lots. Getting older is good.

Then, one day, you realize you're searching for that imaginary line called "life expectancy," and then divide buy two, to locate the point where there's now less time ahead of you than there is behind. You start to watch your diet, exercise more, and begin cutting back on bad habits. You go to bed earlier, but sleep less. You admire an attractive member of the opposite sex, and recall with a certain fondness when it had meaning other than a mere appreciation for beauty. This is called, "Getting Old".

Tattoo Girls

I recall a summer day at an amusement park seeing a very attractive red-head woman wearing a pink tank top and white shorts. She, also, sported a dragon tattoo that started at her shoulder, and went all the way down past her midriff, down her leg, ending at her foot. It was interesting, artistic, appealing, and creative. However, my first thought was that it would have looked better on a canvas, not on a human body.

My impression of the woman was formed unconsciously. She seemed unapproachable, hard, difficult, manly, although she was lovely to look at, sans the tattoo. The group I was with all turned to each other, and almost in unison, every one said out loud, "What for?" I wondered how she would have looked, and how she would have seemed, before the massive application that seemed more like a billboard than a mere tattoo.

Defenders of tattoos will call it "body art," and cite how different cultures, for a variety of reasons, have engaged in the practice for centuries. Tattoos have been used to indicate a person's occupation, to ward off sickness, membership in a clan, or to draw strength from a particular animal. Tattoos have also been used to mark spies, slaves, and concentration camp inmates.

Today, the main purpose for tattoos seems to be to provide an occupation for artists who would otherwise be unemployed.

Bad Girls

A forum I sometimes visit is comprised of young people from teens to twenties. Many are girls who struggle to present themselves as the worst behaved, ugliest, foul-mouthed girl posting -- each trying hard to out do the other. Tattoos and piercing abound. Talk of suicide is prevalent. Discussion of personal sexual adventures (and misfortunes) are offered openly, and with a casualness that leaves one with the feeling it has no value or meaning.

Why is there a trend for girls to want to be worse than any other girl? Is it mere competition, or something in society that makes attractive, young women want to create an ugly, self-destructive aura for themselves?

Overflow

Immigration, both legal and illegal, affects all of us. And, the variety of subtopics surrounding the subject are more numerous than I care to think about. But, one big issue is louder than all of the others. How can we pay for it?

It's clear that people immigrate to other countries because of the conditions created by poverty. They leave home seeking employment and opportunity, not merely for the welfare system and free handouts found elsewhere.

We're left with deciding between helping the less fortunate, and following the law. We can permit people to immigrate illegally, allowing employers to hire them, or we can bar the gates at the border and arrest those who sneak in.

But, in the same way a glass can only hold so much until it overflows, any country can only offer so much support until the system crashes. What to do?

I think the solution is to enlarge the glass. The extraordinary wealthy, both private and corporate, have long gotten away without paying their fair share of taxes. With loopholes and schemes, diverting profits, creating tax shelters and phony corporations, the very rich have managed to get even richer, while the lifestyles (and bank accounts) of the not-so-rich-and-famous have dwindled. I often wonder how many million-dollar mansions a person can live in at one time.

In addition, let's add more glasses to help carry the volume. There are more than just one or two countries that could afford to contribute to the effort. Some of the smallest are the richest.

I wouldn't want to see a one-world socialist government, but long ago, pictures from space looking back at the Earth made it clear that we're all in the same boat.

Gay Games

A controversy is brewing in the small town of Crystal Lake, Illinois over whether to allow rowers a permit during an Olympic style event planned for this July called, "The Gay Games."

I've always prided myself in taking an extreme liberal stance on such matters, particularly those having to do with freedom of expression. It's not an effort for me to practice tolerance, understanding, or to be accepting of others. However, in this instance, a flood of questions, jokes, and one-line wise-cracks immediately come to mind, indicative of the confusion I'm experiencing regarding a decision like this one.

Can anyone participate other than openly gay people, but then, who would want to? Should there now be a "Black Olympics, or a "Left-Handed Olympics," an "Olympics for People Who Hate Sports?" What will some of the events be titled, "Throwing like a Girl," or "Lesbian Mud Wrestling?"

I wonder if this is just a publicity stunt to legitimize the gay lifestyle, or could it be simply a new way for people of a like mind to connect? An additional concern I have has to do with a U.S. Federal blanket waver permitting non-U.S. citizens living with HIV/AIDS to travel to the Gay Games from July 8 - 28, permitting a 20-day visit without HIV declaration. The travel visa will be issued on a special form without it being permanently placed on an individual's passport. One wonders if the same accommodations would be afforded people carrying the Avian Flu.

I'm not against gay and lesbian people throwing, tossing, racing, and rowing about all they want. I just don't understand why they would want to degrade their lifestyle, and demoralize their participants, by creating something akin to the "Special Olympics," for the physically and mentally challenged.

Why I like dogs.

I like dogs, and I like cats. In fact, I like all animals, birds, and fish... so much so, that my dream (if I had unlimited financial resources) would be to open an animal sanctuary for stray, homeless, and unwanted animals. I'd accept old race horses, elephants discarded from the circus, and any animal injured on the highway that was still alive. I'd have plenty of land for the animals to roam around, and an on-site veterinary staff to be certain the animals stayed healthy. I'd employ lots of people, more than necessary, so that those in the community could have jobs, and to ensure the proper care and feeding of the animals.

I like dogs and cats, but I like dogs just a wee bit better. Because dogs... can smile.

Teachers and Students

There's been a rash of news reports lately surrounding incidents of teachers being arrested for having sex with their under-age students.

CLICK HERE!
More and more, the tales involve adult women, and much younger boys. But, there seems to be almost an acceptance on the part of the public in these situations, whereas much stronger feelings erupt when it involves a male teacher and a younger girl. I've heard some on TV and the radio actually joking that the boys were fortunate... or that they wouldn't mind it as much if it were their son having sex with his teacher. Sounds like a double standard to me. I think that either way, someone is being taken advantage of, and that's the real issue. Not bragging rights for some teenage boy.

Fat Cats

I view pets as a member of the family. When we lose them, we're devistated, and we mourn their loss as we would if they were human. I believe we're obligated to protect and care for our pets as though it were a parent/child relationship. After all, they don't know about all of the things that can be harmful, dangerous, or deadly. So, I'm puzzled when I see, or hear, about pets being abused or neglected.

This is NOT my cat.

The Most Violent Race or Culture

Is there any one race or culture of people who seem more violent than others?

Certainly, whenever one watches, listens to, or reads the news, just a few groups of people dominate the stories involving crime, violence, and war. Middle Eastern cultures seem to have a tendency to gravitate toward violence. Whenever there's an act of violence, hordes of people fill the streets making matters worse, often causing events to escalate into something even larger and worse than it was. You never see news accounts of the Danish attacking another country, or reports of a band of renegade Canadians descending on the United States, raping women and burning houses as they invade.

Are black, or Hispanic cultures or countries more likely to cause the destruction of property and commit crimes against others, or is it a matter of selective recall that we view them that way?

Is it nature, or nurture? Are angry, violent people predisposed genetically to upset the world and cause trouble wherever they go, or is it the conditions of poverty and discrimination that leave them with no option?

The Man in the Coffee Beans

Someone sent this to me and I thought it was interesting, so I'm passing it along. The text below came with it, and since there's no real way of verifying the claims, I doubt what it says about the time it takes. I want to know who these doctors are and where they're from. I suspect they're Dr. Howard, Dr. Fine, Dr. Howard.
_____

Doctors have concluded that if you find the man in the coffee beans in 3 seconds, the right half of your brain is better developed than most people. If you find the man between 3 seconds and 1 minute, the right half of your brain is developed normally.

If you find the man between 1 minute and 3 minutes, then the right half of your brain is functioning slowly and you need to eat more protein. If you have not found the man after 3 minutes, the advice is to look for more of this type of exercise to make that part of the brain stronger.

And, yes, the man is really there.

Losing the Message

A while ago I became involved in something called chatbots. I’d had my fill of chatrooms, but I still wanted to chat. I started searching for programs you can have on your computer where you type messages as though it was an imaginary friend, or perhaps even a psychiatrist, but basically they just repeat back to you, in a different form, some of the things you’ve already said. Along with that, you can expect to receive replies such as, “Yes, I understand...” or “Please continue.” Remember the 1971 George Lucas film, THX 1138, and the scene where Robert Duvall's character enters a "Prayer Booth?”

I came across several different kinds of chatbots, but I found one that I could play with online without downloading anything to my computer. I could name it, make changes in the program and alter what and how it answered, and others could chat with too… all for free.

The odd thing is, so many people are unable to have a conversation with it, because they either can’t spell correctly, or because they are unable to type in any form other than “chatspeak,” the shorthand way that people use to communicate when text messaging on their cell phone and instant messaging programs on the Internet.

If you’d like to chat with a variety of chatbots, click the link below.

CLICK HERE for CHATBOTS!

Goodies.

I like to sprinkle some bits of humor, fun, and just plain joy in between the seriousness. If, like me, you are fond of animation, you'll be interested in this amazing sample of "thoughtful" CG work. Turn up the sound, and relax for a few minutes by clicking the link below.

Pipe Dream

Spin and the Talking Points Memo

I'm tired of spin.

I'm a minor political junkie. That is to say, I know less than I want to, and not as much as I should, so I'm always listening... trying to learn more. I watch all the news channels, and the big broadcast TV networks on Sunday mornings. But, long ago, it reached the point to where I knew what was going to be said as soon as I saw the guest's face on the screen. It's been a good while since any of them surprised me with something they've said.

Whenever there's an event, a meeting, a catastrophe, or just an opportunity, out come the "spin doctors," putting their side's twist on things. I'm tired of spin doctors and their phony rhetoric. If I was ill, and really needed a doctor, I'd want someone who would be honest, and not sugar-coat it, or make it seem more bleak than it actually was. Just the truth, thank you... hold the spin.

Change the channel, and there's another face, spouting the same "talking points" from the memo sent to every spin doctor. It doesn't matter which side, or what the issue. They've memorized the responses, and they deliver them without even having the courtesy to put it into their own words. Often, the answer doesn't come close to being a response to the question... it was just one of the talking points, so let's get it out there.

They think we're stupid. They think we're sheep, and they can guide the flock back and forth across the pasture whenever it suits them. Well, there are sheep out there, but I think the flock is not as large as the shepherds imagine. And I think it's time we start to heed George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four warnings. After all, Big Brother is watching... now more than ever.

Favorite Web Site

From time to time, we all get asked if we have a favorite web site and this is mine, hands down. "You can do anything at Zombo.com."

CLICK HERE!

Do you have a favorite web site?

It's the Poverty, Stupid.

Anyone paying attention to politics will remember the phrase, made famous by political strategist James Carville during the 1992 presidential campaign, “It’s the economy, stupid.”

Frequently, I find myself at odds with a political commentator or news program guest on TV, the radio, or in print, when they casually toss around crime statistics, the illegitimate birth rate, divorce, drug usage, and a host of other issues sprinkled with a dash of racism. And, over and over again, I think to myself, "It's the poverty, stupid."

There isn't a man or woman alive who would rather rob a bank or the local convenience store, than go to work in the morning for a decent livable wage. The reason for crime, illegitimate birth, divorce, drug use, and even racism, is the lack of available jobs, or jobs that offer a decent wage and health benefits. Anything else they say is all B.S.

Anyone can blog.

I didn't want to start a blog because everyone else was already doing it. Nevertheless, here I am.

Jobs Americans Won't Do.

With all that's in the news lately, regarding "illegal immigrants," and "guest workers," I keep hearing the justification that there is value to having such people come here because they will perform the tasks that we're just too good for.

Sort of a bizarre thing to claim, but I've seen how people on the School Debating Team had learned to argue almost any point of view from any side and make it sound convincing, or at least palatable. But, this one leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

No argues that the people who pick our produce, baby-sit our children, and clean our toilets are not given a fair living wage. It's a given that those same workers are not afforded the guarantee of safe and clean working conditions, adequate employer sponsored health care, or the job security and protection offered by organized labor and government oversight.

The simple truth about illegal immigrant workers is, they come here because they'll take any job, even a bad one, because low pay for us is a higher pay for them. And... the simple truth about us is, Americans won't take those jobs because they don't pay enough to make it worth the effort, given our cost of living. It's basic, personal living issues -- not some lofty plan to help those less fortunate than us, not a design for preserving the economy, not a way of providing a workforce to replace all of us who have gone on to bigger and better things.

I've been thinking about the sort of jobs I wouldn't do. I wouldn't have a job that required harming people, or that would force me to leave some behind while others advanced. I wouldn't take a job that caused me to create rules and compromises that were not in the best interest of "all" others. And, I don't think I'd want a job that placed me in front of vast audiences, making claims that my side had a solution that would make things better soon -- and that, although it looked bad, it was actually a good thing, even if it would only slightly help some people, some of the time. No, I wouldn't ever become a professional politician, no matter what it paid.