Higgins unHinged (www.ralphhiggins.com)

New Orleans in 1958

2012-01-25T19:51:00.001-08:00

One tired, old flugelhorn player. That's how I felt after a job.

My previous blog painted a picture of New Orleans that doesn’t exist anymore. I alluded to the fact that New Orleans in 1958 was much different than the New Orleans I experienced at a Super Bowl weekend many years later. And the New Orleans today has evidently morphed into something I wouldn’t even recognize.

After my blog hit, I received an email from Rick Tegeler, a Canadian buddy, who told me that he and his wife had just spent his birthday in New Orleans and they wouldn’t even go into the French Quarter. Evidently it was a mess with teenagers drunk in the streets, rock and rap blaring and any vestige of the “Old New Orleans” with its traditional jazz flavor long gone.

The government money given to anyone who claimed a loss due to the flood, whether valid or phony, was spent on cars and TV sets with very little rehab. I see no reason to visit New Orleans again. Fortunately, I have good memories of the way it was.

Blowing my brains out at Big Al's (long ago

I completed my Military Police training at Fort Gordon in Georgia back in 1958. When we were released to go back to civilian life, we were given a choice of a flight home or the equivalent amount of cash to find our own way home.

My buddy Steve Carmichael and I took the cash and planned to hitch-hike down to Florida and New Orleans and then across the country via the southern route. He and I had developed an interesting pattern of randomly picking southern towns on a map and hitch-hiking to them on our weekend leaves. We were stationed in Georgia, so it was easy to visit interesting southern towns. We ate a lot of grits and experienced southern hospitality first hand.

I have to interject that Steve and I remain close friends to this day and when we returned from the army I introduced him to his wonderful wife Phyllis. I recently joined them to celebrate their 50^th wedding anniversary. Both are wonderful friends.

Hitch-hiking back in the fifties was normal, especially for military guys. We were told to wear our army dress shoes with our civvies, because people would give you a ride if you were military. It worked. We traveled from Georgia to California with no problems, except one drunk driver, one driver with no brakes and a couple of fruits, who could tell by our demeanor that they were better off in the closet.

We hit New Orleans hard. Steve and I weren’t “drinkers,” but in the spirit of Dixieland we pulled a cork or two and experienced the most complete absorption of audible jazz imaginable. We hit one club after another and, as I’ve said before, the streets were alive with jazz. Every club had a great band. No rock. No rap crap. Not even modern jazz. Just the good old traditional New Orleans-style jazz.

We got word that there was a great trumpet player playing at a small club in the French Quarter, so naturally I had to hear this guy. And he was great. With the exception of Raphael Mendez, this guy was the best trumpet player I had ever heard. He was a big guy with a beard and a raspy voice. I think he owned the club, which wasn’t very large, and the night I was there it wasn’t even full of people. No one knew much about this horn player until later when Al Hirt finally became famous and got the credit he deserved.

Years later another friend, Dick Whitaker, was in the club with Al Hirt and they both called me at home. Unfortunately I was out playing in a club myself and my wife took the message from Al Hirt. Since I couldn’t talk to him in person, Al signed an album to me as his “favorite trumpet player,” something only Whitaker could talk him into writing. Al Hirt didn’t know me from Adam. My buddy Whitaker can sell pimples to teenagers.

I’ve heard that Al Hirt would sometimes be called to fill in for a first chair trumpet player with major symphony orchestras in an emergency. He was that good and that versatile. Jazz is totally different than classical music, although players with a classical background can do quite well in jazz; Wynton Marsallis is a good example.

Al’s good friend, Pete Fountain, had a club and was playing just down the street from Al’s place. He too had yet to be discovered. Can you imagine being able to walk from one small club to another to hear both of these great musicians?

Nobody knew either one of these guys back then. I was told that they were partners in an extermination business. Most musicians have day jobs. Music is a tough way to make a living. But Al Hirt and Pete Fountain both went on to fame and fortune and both were excellent musicians.

That was my New Orleans then. I also seem to remember falling in love with a beautiful dancer on Bourbon Street, but that will have to wait until my next blog.

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* The entire New Orleans series will be found in the archives under “When I Was a Kid"

New Orleans

2012-01-20T12:13:00.000-08:00

“New Orleans.” The mere mention of those words conjures up images in the minds of jazz lovers everywhere. That’s where it all started. Back in the days of King Oliver, Louis Armstrong and those great jazz innovators jamming on Bourbon Street.

I walked down Bourbon Street back in the ‘50s and the street itself was blanketed in the sounds of traditional jazz. You could walk past one club after another and hear the music from each club transition into the music from the next club. Those were happy sounds and great jazz.

Preservation Hall is where traditional jazz is played in the “traditional” style. Located in the French Quarter, the Hall is dedicated to the preservation of New Orleans style jazz. The owners “seeded” the band with several very old black musicians when I was there. This may be a ploy to give authenticity to the venue and the band itself, but it worked.

The musicians sat in chairs facing the audience and kicked off familiar melodies most people would recognize. It was a small combo of maybe eight musicians. With the exception of a few young “ringers” filling a couple of chairs, the rest of the musicians were very old and seemed to prefer blues and slow tempos. I remember one elderly clarinet player who never seemed to move. I began to wonder if he was actually still alive. I’m serious. I lost a bet when he blinked.

When I was there in the ‘50s the sounds of authentic jazz could still be heard echoing throughout the French Quarter. I don’t think it’s that way anymore. Once modern jazz and then “rock” and guitars with amplifiers moved in, the flavor changed. I was there a couple of decades later for a Super Bowl weekend and it had already begun to deteriorate. It was very disappointing.

My “work area” or “office” at home is almost a memorial to New Orleans jazz. I have a small statue of Satchmo, a painting of the “Preservation Hall” jazz band, given to me by my daughter Shannon, an actual tile from the roof of one of the old buildings on Bourbon street with a painting of a jazz combo, given to me by my brother Tom, and an autographed photo of the great Louis Armstrong that Satchmo himself gave me when I was a kid. I have T shirts, hats, paintings of many jazz greats, and even a photo or two of me playing in clubs myself “back in the day.”

All this to say that I’m surrounded by memorabilia of New Orleans and the spirit of authentic American Jazz. By the way, jazz is the only uniquely American art form. Jazz is America’s original and innovative contribution to the world. Like all art forms, music evolves.

When I think of New Orleans jazz, I’m not thinking about Dizzy Gillespie or Miles Davis. And I’m certainly not thinking of the simplistic rock bands with screaming morons, jumping around on stage, ecstatic because they can play three chords on a guitar. I’m reflecting on those glorious days at the turn of the century when traditional jazz was born and incubated in New Orleans.

Set your imagination free for a minute. Picture a smoke-filled brothel where black musicians play the blues all night until the sun begins to peek through the shudders on dusty windows. Think of a black and white scene from a film noir and picture a low fog hanging over a dark and wet street reflecting the moonlight. Picture steam rising from a manhole cover as a tired musician shuffles silently down Royal Street, past a gas lamp, his hat pulled low over his forehead, his dark overcoat collar turned up, and a beat-up leather trumpet case under his arm. Man…I love it. I wish I had been there. Not the brothel. Just playing jazz with those musicians. I wish I had been at the bedside in New Orleans for the “Birth of the Blues.”

I think I’ll do a “mini series” of stories of my personal experiences in New Orleans starting on my next blog. It won’t be as colorful and exciting as New Orleans in the ‘20s, but it was still New Orleans. I’ll begin with my trip south after my discharge from the army and then I’ll describe a weekend I spent there a couple of decades later.

I traveled with a few 49ers and other friends to a Super Bowl in New Orleans many years after my first trip. That one stands out, because I came close to being locked in jail with a couple of my friends who actually were locked up. A brawl at Pat O’Brien’s on Bourbon Street started that weekend off with a bang for a few of us. Maybe I’ll just describe part of that trip, but I’ll start gently with my personal introduction to New Orleans as a teenage soldier in 1958.

Man, those were the days…

Footprints in the Sand

2012-01-15T12:40:00.000-08:00

When I was in the army, a bunch of my buddies and I decided to play a trick on a guy in our platoon. He was a very heavy sleeper, so we carefully lifted his bunk and carried it out of the barracks, down the steps and far out into the desert. When we were quite a distance from the barracks, we gently placed the bunk behind a sand dune. When the poor soldier opened his eyes in the morning, he could see nothing but sand and sage brush.

He was panicked. He had no idea where he was. He couldn’t see civilization and he couldn’t see the barracks; all he could see was a world of sand dunes. When his shock subsided and he began to explore, he was finally able to go over a hill and see the barracks off in the distance. When he finally got back he was full of questions.

The bewildered soldier began to ask the guys in our platoon, “What happened? How did I get out there? Who put me out in the desert and why?” All logical questions.

This guy found his way home by following our footprints in the sand. He looked for evidence and clues. Logic played a role, but he wasn’t content to simply accept his plight, play in the sand and go on as though nothing mattered; in a sense, accepting his circumstances without question.

Every time I look down from a plane I see insects with headlights following each other on rivers of highway. I always wonder how many of them give a thought to how they got there, who put them there, and the big question… “What’s it all about, Alfie?”

There’s a popular expression I keep hearing; “It is what it is.” That reminds me of Bertrand Russell’s statement that the universe exists and that’s all there is to it. But at the same time I can hear the haunting voice of Peggy Lee singing that old song, “Is That All There Is?” I think Russell’s conclusion is a cop out, but at least Peggy’s song implies curiosity.

I’m always suspicious of people who think they have all the answers, but I respect those who search, whether or not I agree with their conclusions. What I don’t understand are those who lack the curiosity to read, study, think, explore or even “contemplate” the deeper questions of life.

Ultimately, the existential quandary may result in a “leap of faith,” a la Kierkegaard, but it doesn’t have to be a completely blind leap. There may be clues.

Obviously we will never have all the answers. And maybe our “answers” are wrong, but, as C. S. Lewis implied, some will be closer to the truth than others. So maybe we should at least think beyond our daily routine and look for footprints in the sand.

New Year's Eve at Greenhorn Ranch

2012-01-07T13:33:00.000-08:00

For some reason I have forgotten how to fall asleep like a normal person. I haven’t gone to sleep before two to sometimes four in the morning for a week or so. And I can’t even sleep late. So here I sit at the computer trying to think of a subject for my blog. It’s not 4 a.m. yet, so I still have time. Maybe I’ll talk about New Year’s Eve at Greenhorn Ranch.

We just passed New Year’s Day and the entrance into what the Mayans and other “seers” say is the year it all comes down - 2012. Of course there was talk of it ending in 1984, thanks to George Orwell, and then there was the dramatic transition into the 21^st century and the Y2k scare, when all the world’s computers were supposed to foul up and commerce and the entire world would go into convulsions.

Well, we’re still here. So let’s see if the Mayans and the others were right this time. But we still have that dingbat Ahmadinajad and his perpetual “rain dance” attempting to bring us the Twelfth Imam, who is scheduled to pop out of a gopher hole or something and bring us the end days. All I know is that if we get another four years of our current administration, it may be over anyway.

Naturally, here in the mountains we don’t worry about these trivialities. We go down to the ranch for a beer and some stompin’ around to a country western band. There’s nothing better than wearing Levis, drinking a beer and chomping on a dead pig. I’ve included a couple of photos from this year’s New Year’s Celebration at the ranch.

Poor Gayle. She likes to dance, but I don’t. Maybe it’s because I always played in the band and never developed my dancing skills. More likely, it was playing music and watching the inebriated dancers falling in love for the night. I sometimes felt that I was contributing to a breeding frenzy.

I guess what really turned me off from dancing was watching dancers jumping and jerking around on the dance floor, as though they were victims of the affliction called “Saint Vitus Dance.” In medieval times, entire villages would suddenly become a huge throng of writhing bodies, dancing uncontrollably while foaming at the mouth. It was sometimes thought of as a form of mass hysteria. Actually, all they needed was a rock band to appear normal to us today.

This was Gayle and my first year going to the ranch for New Years. This is a dude ranch, after all. You know…with horses, gunslingers, and spurs. We had nothing else to do and they had an entire pig to eat, including the apple in its mouth. They smoked the poor sucker and it was black as coal. But it was tasty, I’ll admit. And the band wasn’t bad at all. A little loud and, since I wouldn’t dance when Gayle asked me, we left early. But we ate the hell out of that dead pig. I passed on the apple. You know…pig germs and all…

This is a different lifestyle here at the Greenhorn Guest Ranch and I actually find it authentic and “basic” with no pretensions. Life is too short for people to be less than real. So let’s have a beer, eat a pig, and enjoy friends and family.

What Came First, The Chicken or the Egg?

2012-01-01T19:49:00.000-08:00

What came first, the chicken or the egg?

Everyone passes that question off as a metaphor for something that is unanswerable or maybe as a way out of a dilemma. But, really…what did come first? Something had to come first. Without an egg, you can’t have a chicken. But without a chicken, you can’t have an egg.

It’s too easy to pass this off and avoid the real question. So think about it.

Let’s take another one that has always baffled me. Butterflies are beautiful insects, but they were not always so beautiful. Before they went through flight training, they were each just hanging from a twig as a chrysalis, apparently doing nothing much. Like teenagers hanging around the mall.

The chrysalis is the old outer skin of a caterpillar that falls off revealing a hard skin called a chrysalis. The entire process from egg to pupae to butterfly is called metamorphosis.

Moth pupa is contained in a protective silk case called a cocoon. There are differences. The chrysalis is a butterfly pupa. A cocoon is a silk case that moths, and sometimes other insects, spin around the pupa. But all of that is beside the point.

What bothers me about the process is how it started. If the first caterpillar got screwed up and let his ambition to fly get in the way of his intricate plan of designing the process, he would never get off the runway. But even more puzzling is how the darn caterpillar got on that leaf in the first place.

Then I’m baffled by spiders. A spider needs a web. Willy, the world’s first spider, had to eat, but he couldn’t catch a fly. In fact, he couldn’t catch anything. That is…until he had an epiphany. Wrong word. Epiphany implies insight obtained through a divine inspiration of sorts, and we have to get the concept of a Creator out of this scientific inquiry. Let’s just say old Willy had an “ah-ha!” moment.

This spider had a great idea. He would build a web to catch insects to eat. Fantastic. But wait…he would have to have the physical organ necessary to produce the material for a web and the knowledge of how to make a web. And it had better work.

But if his mommy and daddy spider starved to death before they knew junior’s secret of building a web, how did junior come into the world with the specific mission to hang over our bed and scare the hell out of my wife?

All of this is very humbling. I must be stupid, because I tend to think I’m smarter than a caterpillar, but the only way I can figure out how to fly is to buy a plane ticket.

It’s these kinds of things that make me wonder how any one of them could happen gradually over a long period of time. Wouldn’t all of these skills have to work perfectly the first time they were tried? Help me out. With all of our combined brain power, human beings should be smarter than an insect...or even a chicken.

If someone doesn’t enlighten me, I’ll just have to fall back on a very politically incorrect explanation. At this point in my ignorance, it’s the only one that makes sense.

Revenge of the Grinch

2011-12-26T09:38:00.000-08:00

‘Tis the season to be jolly …and fat. The Christmas season and the New Years celebrations are normally a time for joy, food and drinks, and a variety of festivities. It’s all great fun and it’s also a time when we can justify letting our guard down to do some “over-indulging.” That’s what we do at this time of the year. We have no choice. It’s in our DNA. And it’s not just at Christmas.

Gayle and I like to take cruises. We actually took a cruise at Christmas once. Here again, unless you have the will power of Mahatma Gandhi you are going to eat yourself silly on a cruise. Let’s face it. That’s what you are forced to do as a captive on a ship at sea. Statistics indicate that a person on a cruise ship will average an increase of one pound for every day of the cruise.

If you took a picture of a cruise ship leaving port for Europe and another photo of the same ship returning after a two week cruise, the ship’s displacement would increase and you would notice it riding lower in the water. After all…the increase in the tonnage of chubby passengers could sink the sucker if it stayed at sea much longer. That’s why ships disappear in the “Devil’s Triangle.”

So everyone makes a New Year’s resolution to lose weight on January 2^nd. And everyone jumps “on the wagon” when the thought of a drink causes a migraine the day after. How do we combat this? And do we even want to combat it?

Most senior citizens have probably learned to go easy on the booze, but how do you bypass the food? Gayle and I live at 4500 feet elevation. Since the air is thinner here, the pressure inside our bodies pressing outward causes us to look fat. That’s why they pressurize airline cabins. Passengers could explode otherwise. And that’s why skiers seem bigger when they get off the chair lift than when they got on at the bottom of the hill. Ever notice that?

Although we haven’t been able to confirm this theory and our scale belies our claim that it’s the fault of the altitude, we continue to hold to our belief. It’s similar to those who hold to the belief that human beings are causing the sea levels to rise and the glaciers to melt, as though global climate didn’t fluctuate prior to the industrial revolution.

I had a friend who put on so much weight one Christmas that he was harpooned by a crazed Eskimo in the country club swimming pool. I had another friend who tried to lose weight by covering his body in Preparation H. It actually shrunk him, but to this day he still looks like a hemorrhoid. People shortcut their intestines, wire their mouths shut, go through aversion therapy and even graze on grass. But why?

What man would want a woman who looked like those bony fashion models strutting down the “runway?” Well, maybe that’s the wrong question to ask, but those emaciated women need to spend two weeks on a cruise ship. Look at their faces. They all look angry. They walk angry. They are angry. They’re angry because they’re hungry.

I think the problem is not how much we weigh. The problem is gravity. On the moon, my weight would be right where the insurance tables say I should be. Instead of worrying about global warming, we should be working on adjusting gravity.

So forget the “New Year’s” guilt. The extra weight will keep you warm in February.

Hipshot

2011-12-20T11:01:00.000-08:00

Just a Reminder...

A Hermit's Pilgrimage

2011-12-10T14:25:00.000-08:00

My book, "The Huckleberry Days of the '50s" is on sale for $10.00. It's a great "stocking stuffer" for Christmas. Check it out at ralphhiggins.com.

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A Hermit's Pilgrimage

I'm not sure our current journey to my old stomping grounds in Los Gatos, California, can be literally defined as a "pilgrimage," but it is a kind of homage to the old house I was raised in and the small country town we pillaged and plundered as kids back in the '50s. I'm blogging from a strange computer at a friend's house in Los Gatos. Gayle and I are visiting our kids, grandkids and a ton of life-long friends and having a great time. But things have changed here.

Sadly, that old country town of Los Gatos no longer exists. The ancient school house I once attended is now modernized with boutiques, shops of all sorts and yuppies coming out of the woodwork. There is no dirt left anywhere in Los Gatos. Everything is covered in concrete, asphalt, astro turf, stores, and far too many cars. If the "dirt police" spot a grassy area, it's soon filled with a specialty shop or concrete.

The streets in Los Gatos are plugged with cars and nothing is cheap. Only BMW's, Mercedes, and new shiny cars are allowed on the street, and only as long as they cost $50,000.00 or more. I had to outrun a Mercedes tow truck once when my "high-mileage" Lincoln was spotted by a government camera mounted on a stop sign. Too many bug spots on my windshield, evidently.

And SUV's... If the Germans had used young women in SUV's instead of tanks, they would have won the war. These woman have an intensity in their eyes that would have terrified General MacArthur. They can literally eat bean sprout sandwiches on whole wheat bread, while holding a bottle of French water in one hand and a cell phone in the other, as they charge an intersection like Frank Gore crashing through the line of scrimmage on Monday night football. And they're everywhere. Like Britons queue-up for a movie, women in SUV's line up on all roads leading to any elementary school. Many of these women don't even have children, but need to be around other SUV's, which are usually hanging around schools.

The traffic in the bay area is maddening. Literally. Traffic travels just under the speed of sound. Packed highways move at such a hectic pace that my GPS system developed a speech impediment and I had to kill it. If you are lucky enough to avoid incontinence during your freeway trip, you will find it more difficult to avoid developing irritable bowel syndrome and a facial tic.

There seems to be an abundance of "headless" drivers in the San Jose area. I think these cars on guided remotely. These are usually smaller cars. You can see the drivers seat, but there doesn't seem to be anyone driving. It's best to allow a lot of space around headless drivers.

After 2 or 3 pm, you can't drive on the roads around Los Gatos. I'm sure the rest of the valley is the same. Cars are literally lined up, bumper to bumper. You have the option of sitting in a line of cars, or sneaking onto a freeway for a white knuckle ride. If you actually make it home, get in the house, lock the door, drop to your knees and thank the Lord that you lived to fight traffic another day. A shot of whiskey can help with the shakes and twitches.

And then there are the mutants. Living in Silicon Valley with all the electronics, many of the natives have developed a strange growth on one side of their heads. You may be in a grocery store when someone begins to speak. At first you may think they are talking to God, but then you realize that this growth is really a telephone device. To be out of touch with the world for any period of time would be catastrophic for these folks. Hells bells...the president may need to reach them by phone. So the natives have learned to glue phones to their heads.

If that's not enough, everyone on the street seems intent on a hand held device that they poke at with their fingers. It's a strange affliction. Perhaps a form of sexual sublimation. Or maybe just displaced anxiety. They stare and poke. Stare and poke. Grin and poke. What's that all about?

The entire Silicon Valley is covered in stores and large parking lots. There are actually trees here and there, but most have been domesticated, bred to look uniform, and grown in a mini forest somewhere under government supervision. This time of the year the trees are forced to wear colorful lights, which is humiliating to a tree.

Everyone in Los Gatos dresses up. Kids wear Levis that are purposely designed to look well worn. In Quincy, all of our Levis look well worn. We wear the real thing and wear them out authentically. I think I've found a market for my old pants.

I guess it's "culture shock." You must remember that Gayle and I have spent the past couple of years living high in the Sierra mountains, where there is no cell service and no one cares whether you drive a Lamborghini or a horse. The point is to get from here to there. And there's no rush. The road leading to our small town is almost vacant. Oh, we might pass a car or a pickup with a gun rack and a large dog in the back, so we usually wave. Chances are it's a neighbor. Or maybe a couple of horses will pass our house, but normally the noise we hear is just the wind blowing through the pine trees.

Yep, life is slow in the mountains. Even boring. But it's "sane." I guess I'm too old for the speed, excitement and the 21st century "buzz" of my old stomping grounds. Unlike the lyric from the song, "The Green, Green Grass of Home," the "old hometown" doesn't look the same. But it's worth the price to see our kids, grandkids and old friends.

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If you are interested in learning more about the reasons some of us "older" Americans suffer from cultural shock, read my book, "The Huckleberry Days of the '50s. Growing up in Los Gatos." Go to ralphhiggins.com to order. They are currently selling at a discount. You'll see how Los Gatos has changed over the past half-century.

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Dawkins/O’Reilly Debate

2011-12-01T09:45:00.000-08:00

I recently watched as Bill O’Reilly interviewed Richard Dawkins on the subject of atheism. Everyone knows that Dawkins is one of the most outspoken proponents of atheism and can argue his position quite well from a scientific perspective.

Unfortunately, O’Reilly isn’t the deepest thinker at a pot party and failed to point out what could be the most important counter argument to disqualify Dawkins as the final arbiter on the subject.

The point that is overlooked in these discussions was articulated in passing by Dawkins in that interview. Dawkins disqualified O’Reilly’s points time after time by explaining that O’Reilly’s arguments were not scientific. O’Reilly didn’t grab the ball and run with it. Evidently it didn’t occur to him that Dawkins had boxed himself in when he defined his arguments as “scientific.” He had inadvertently handed O’Reilly the weapon he needed, but O’Reilly didn’t recognize it.

There is no shortage of atheists running loose in the world. We have Richard Dawkins and his book “God Delusion,” Christopher Hitchens and his “intellectual” attacks on religion and even Stephen Hawking, the brilliant scientist, who is confined to a wheel chair. Despite his brilliance, Hawking once claimed that “nothing created everything.” Hawking essentially believes in spontaneous creation.

The reason we will always lose the argument with smart guys like those is that they have forced us to play the game by their rules and on their football field. To attempt to win the game with them on a scientific basis is futile. Unfortunately, they can’t see beyond the football field and are unaware of the bleachers.

Science, as Hawkins readily admitted in the O’Reilly interview, deals with the physical universe. That means that only what can be observed, tested, and defined using the scientific methodology is truth. Anything beyond the physical world – this world that science can measure – is unknown and, to the scientific mind, unknowable. Hawkins is satisfied to pitch his tent in that particular valley and is not inclined to peek over the next hill. Science is the atheist’s comfort zone.

Origins, cosmology, teleology, spirituality and God are beyond the reach of science. So to expect a scientist to enter into an intelligent discussion of areas outside the boundaries of the scientific method is like asking a fish to describe fire. Fortunately, many scientists can understand that there is more than what science can measure.

When I was a kid, we had a speaker at a high school camp explain this limitation. He explained it in simple terms that I’ve always remembered. He drew a circle on a blackboard and began to fill the circle with everything we know. Everything in the universe went inside that circle. When we were satisfied that all human knowledge and everything in existence was inside that circle, the speaker asked a simple question, “Is it possible that anything could exist outside of that circle?” Well, is it? To answer in the negative implies that you have access to all knowledge. You are omniscient. You are also delusional. You are almost forced to leave the door open to that possibility.

So this is the flaw in the arguments put forth by Dawkins, Hitchens and others. Yes. If nothing exists outside of that circle; outside of the physical universe, outside of what can be determined by the scientific method, the atheists may be right. If we can’t “capture” God within our scientific testing laboratory, i.e. the physical universe, then maybe He doesn’t exist. What do you think?

Thanks for Ava Sophia

2011-11-23T19:23:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving Day is normally a time for gobbling the turk, floundering around in mash potatoes and gravy, sucking up cranberry relish and unbuckling your belt to make room for more. It's also a day of football and falling asleep on the couch.

I remember Thanksgiving dinners when I was a kid. It was second only to Christmas as a traditional time for the entire family to get together. Many families have a crazy uncle who wouldn’t be at the table if not for being “blood,” but the closest we came to that is my wild cousin, Lyle. My uncle was one of my heroes as a kid. An “almost” Olympic weightlifter, he generated my interest in lifting weights and gave me my first 22 rifle.

But cousin Lyle was a wild man. He was a biology teacher who was known for demonstrating that spiders were harmless by eating a large spider in front of his biology classes each year. He was the inspiration for my first interactive music software program, co-authored with Al Borges. It was a national best seller and was titled, “The Spider Eater.” I won't get into his exploits, but by today’s standards Lyle would be considered tame. I remember him spiking the cider and conning my “non-drinking” mother into drinking it. She liked his concoction and I think she just pretended not to know what was in it. She was the greatest.

I remember the smell of the house, the warm fire in the family room and a huge turkey lying in obscene repose on the kitchen counter. When the stuffing began I had the feeling that this was something I shouldn’t be watching. It was time to leave the kitchen and it was more comfortable to go out in the crisp, cold November air and throw the football with my cousins and my brother. After all, this is also a big day for football games.

When I was in high school, we played Campbell High on Thanksgiving Day. This was the big game of the year. This was the day the rivals clashed and every player knew that, win or lose, a feast awaited him after the game. In fact, I think that thought came to me almost as often as remembering whether I was to carry the ball off right tackle or block a linebacker. Late in the fourth quarter the Campbell ball carrier began to look like a golden brown turkey. That made him an easy target. We tried to knock the stuffing out of him.

Gayle and I will be having curry turkey on Thanksgiving Day with our Indian friends, but we’ll be spending time with our kids after Thanksgiving when things are less hectic. Being far from them makes it difficult.

Despite all that bad stuff going on in our country and the world, we still have a lot to be thankful for. My daughter Shannon’s success at bring Ava Sophia into the world, after years of problems, comes to mind. I guess if you didn’t have the “bad,” you wouldn’t appreciate the “good.” Ava Sophia Ciel Severino (4 names) is a miracle baby. Check out the photos of her above. This is my first granddaughter. I have two wonderful grandsons, and Gayle has a good balance of two and two. So Shannon's baby would be the first of many things I can think of to be thankful for on Thanksgiving day. Maybe every day should be Thanksgiving Day.

Sorry. This stall is Occupied.

2011-11-16T15:07:00.000-08:00

I know it’s past time for a blog, so I’ll come up with something quick.

It’s difficult for me to get past the insanity of the “Occupy” idiots, because that’s all we’ve heard about for weeks. No one with a brain can suggest that there is a comparison of this adolescent rebellion to the Tea Party. The Occupy dingbats are naive college students, union supporters, homeless druggies, and other societal dregs.

That’s evidenced by the drug use, rapes, murders, destruction of property, disease, open sex, and all the rest of the childish behavior. Defecating on police cars or in front of a crowd is not typical of civilized and intelligent adults. Most of these “flea baggers” have no idea why they are “occupying”, except to have fun, get stoned, get laid or break something.

The Tea Party people leave the area cleaner than it was before the rally. They are civilized. And they have well defined issues that concern them. They want smaller government, lower taxes, enforcement of our borders, and a stop to out-of-control spending. Who is not for these things? There is absolutely no comparison between the two basically opposing groups.

But I’m not going to get into what I see as the real reason for these “occupy” parties and what this kind of thing can lead to. Look at Europe and how the government reacts. “There is none so blind as he who will not see.”

What I really wanted to mention is why we are being pushed into socialism. And we have been moving in that direction for many decades. It’s just been "peddle to the metal" with this administration.

Strictly from an economic point of view, it’s really quite simple. Look at Europe. The European Union was designed to level the economic field, so that socialism could work in all the countries of Europe. It didn’t work, because the U. S. took business from Europe, due to our capitalistic economy. This allowed the Europeans to move capital to the U. S. where they could make money.

So going global requires our economy to go to socialism, because as long as there is a capitalist alternative, socialism doesn’t work. Money moves to where it can make more money, and that is not socialism.

On a “smaller” scale, look at the affect of Obama care on insurance companies and the medical profession.

I traveled through Yugoslavia on a motorcycle in the ‘60s and was amazed to find that there was no variety in store items. The country was under Tito at the time. There was one type of shoe, for example, with no competitive brands. If you need shoes, you buy what the government provides.

So internationally, you can see that the capitalist system draws investment from foreign countries, but, unfortunately, our current administration has caused hesitation even by foreign investors. No one knows what to expect from this administration.

I’ve always said that there cannot be an effective one-world government so long as there is a super power standing. For those with that goal, the U. S. has to be brought down. The “playing field” must be leveled. So the push toward socialism is not happenstance. And it’s not total incompetence by the Obama administration. There is a method to this madness and it’s not beneficial for the

America

we knew and the freedom people died for.

You're Never Too Old

2011-10-28T16:51:00.000-07:00

I’m not a health nut nor am I a gym rat, but I do believe in exercise and its beneficial results. And the results aren’t purely physical. I’ve always believed that exercise can change a negative mood into, if not a positive mood, at least a “less” negative mood. When you feel good physically, it’s reflected in feeling good mentally.

When I was young, particularly during my college years, I got into weightlifting somewhat seriously. Many of my friends were also into it back then. I worked out in an old-fashioned smelly gym with several close friends on a regular basis. This was before gyms were popular or fancy. Since the gym was the only one in San Jose, I got to work out with professional wrestlers and pro football players. I continued to lift off and on through my younger years and came back to it later in life.

I have to say that I retained some of my former strength into my 60s when we lived here in Quincy. I worked out with a real serious former heavy lifter, who by then was in his 70’s. He was well past his prime, but was still tough and strong. He told me that when you hit 70 you lose your strength very rapidly. Now that I’m there, I see what he meant. When I was working out with him I was in my 60s and I hadn’t yet started the big slide to “feeble city.”

I set a goal for myself to bench press 400 pounds while in my 60s and on Social Security. I wanted to brag to my grandsons. It was an ego thing, I admit, but I was very close to that goal. I think I could also have leg pressed 1,000 pounds. The machine could only hold 7 or 800 pounds, but I had no problem doing repetitions with that, so I’m sure I could have done a couple of hundred pounds more on my 60 year old legs.

I remember when I was preparing to go for a 400 pound bench. I was warming up with 350 or 375 pounds and on my fourth repetition I felt a rip in the left side of my chest. My workout partner kept yelling to “do another rep!” I barely completed the rep, but realized that I had injured myself pretty good. I was right. I ripped my left pectoral badly and I never got back lifting heavy again. I’m still mad at myself for letting my partner egg me on for one more rep, when I knew I was injured. I’m an idiot. It’s probably just as well though. It’s too easy to pop something or have a stroke at that age with that kind of strain and that’s probably where I was headed.

So now I’m just a little old man, with a bald head and big belly, staggering around the gym, using light weights like a wimp. But at 72 I guess I should be happy I’m able to even do that. Before my knee replacement, I couldn’t do outside work and any kind of exercise. Consequently the muscles began to disappear, my legs got weak, and the skin on my arms began to hang empty, when it had once been filled with muscle. It was more than I could bear to look at, so I rejoined the gym and I’m going to change that.

I have a close friend, who was my football coach in high school. This man is in his mid-eighties and is solid as a rock, with a flat belly and biceps like hardballs. He doesn’t lift, but has a machine in his home that he swears by. So it’s never too late.

This is just to encourage my buddies who are in my age group to get involved in physical activity. Yard work is great, but nothing beats weight training. The human body responds to physical resistance. That’s the only way to really gain strength. You may need a trainer if you’ve never done it before. There are right ways and wrong ways to work out. I ended my heavy lifting days by letting my ego push me too hard and injuring myself. So I speak from experience. I’m back at it, but on a less strenuous level. All it takes is about ½ hour moving from exercise to exercise and you won’t believe how good you feel.

I do believe it’s necessary to check with your doctor first, because working out can also kill you. Even if I could lift heavy now, I wouldn’t because the body changes with age and I have vulnerabilities that didn’t exist when I was young. So get a check up, then start easy, but be consistent at moving your limbs against moderate resistance.

Wow. Just thinking about working out has made me tired. I think I’ll take a nap. Old guys can do that any time they want to. It’s expected. Sleeping in front of the TV is just a way to prepare for the heavy lifting required to get up from the chair later.

Autumn's Chill

2011-10-22T00:10:00.000-07:00

The leaves are turning color and the air has a chill. It feels like fall, but what happened to summer? I guess we had a few weeks of it this year, but the winters here in the mountains seem to get longer and longer. The familiar smell of wood stoves burning in our small community is not unpleasant. It adds to the atmosphere somehow and I still like to ride my Triumph and breathe the crisp air, flavored by wood stoves. It’s definitely Halloween weather.

Back in civilization, the cities are beginning to reap the results of an unhappy populous or maybe one segment of the population. To compare the current protestors to the Tea Party folks is ludicrous. There is no comparison. Compare a flea bag with a tea bag. Most of these kids have no idea why they are involved, but it is a lot of fun and some even make it to the TV screen. Now they find that many are being paid to show up. In my humble opinion, this is just the start.

We are seeing an extension of “protestors” to “rioters’ in Europe, but, of course, none of that can happen here. But I remember something about the Rodney King riots in L. A., so maybe it can happen here and I faintly remember when the lights went out in New York years ago. Not a good thing.

During the depression, men lined up for soup and sold apples to buy food. There was a moral law built into those folks. If today’s inner cities lost electricity for ten hours, what would be left when the lights came back on? It’s a different mentality now. Most vestiges of morality, empathy, and individual responsibility have been effectively eroded as our culture devolved.

So sitting on my deck with a drink while my dog explores the forest behind us or riding my bike up a winding road leading to a lonely lake may not be a bad alternative to urban chaos, road rage and the stress of life in the fast lane. And in our little community, the natives would tolerate scummy protestors about as long as it takes to drop a shell in a 12 gauge shotgun.

Ava Sophia Severino

2011-10-03T13:57:00.000-07:00

I’ve been taking heat for not posting a blog for a week or two, but I have a good excuse. I’ve been in the Los Gatos/San Jose area spending time with my daughter Shannon and my new granddaughter Ava Sophia.

Some of you know the problems Shannon has had in her attempt at having a child, so it’s an exhilarating feeling to see a pretty little girl blinking her eyes at a world that is much different than the world her grandpa peeked out at over 70 years ago.

I was a coward or maybe I was clairvoyant at my birth, because I didn’t want to come out. I was a breach, which means I came out ass-backward, which is basically how I’ve lived my life. I’d still be floating around in there if the doc hadn’t grabbed my leg and pulled me out, kicking and screaming. I think that behavioral pattern was set back then.

But little Ava seemed quite content at her introduction to the temperature change, gravity, and swooning spectators. I have to qualify her beauty and contentment by honestly saying that when she cries, I swear she looks like Don Rickles.

It’s interesting how everyone tries to see who the baby looks like. A baby is like an ink blot test. People see what they want to see, but the only physical trait she and I seem to have in common is a lack of hair. But I have to be honest…she’s a beautiful little girl.

My granddaughter was the main event, but I met with a lot of friends while in civilization and spent time with a former professional athlete, coach and close friend. I’m working with him on his autobiography. It’s my first “ghost writing” project and it’s not as easy as I thought it would be. The challenge is to avoid writing in my “voice,” and not the “author’s” style of speaking. It’s a very interesting project with many professional athletes and famous people like the Pope and the President of the United States featured prominently. This man had an interesting life as an athlete, coach and businessman.

But the primary reason for my “blog” absence was that telephone call at 5:30 A.M. from my daughter. A call Gayle and I had been waiting for over the past couple of weeks, advising us of the impending arrival and the true blessing of a beautiful baby granddaughter. Along with Gayle’s four, we now have seven grandchildren. Holy cow! I’m older than dirt.

Congratulations Shannon and Stephen.

They can kill us, but they can't eat us

2011-09-16T19:15:00.000-07:00

Audie Murphy was the most decorated soldier to come out of that war. Unfortunately, his buddy Tipton was killed shortly after making that famous statement. For some reason, those words offer a strange consolation during trials and tribulations and when things get bad, you may hear someone say, “Don’t worry…they can kill you, but they can’t eat you.”

Personally I don’t find much consolation in that expression. The fact is that they probably can eat us, but maybe not all at once. And it probably is against the law…at least while food prices stay below home prices. But food prices are moving up rapidly and real estate has plummeted, so we might not have much time.

According to the media, Chicken Little was right – the sky is falling. The negative drone of plummeting real estate values became a self-fulfilling prophecy, but, as we now know, the seeds for the destruction of the real estate market were sown in the Federal Community Reinvestment Act back in 1977. Today many people owe more on their homes than the homes are worth, so banks take them back, the government bails out the banks, and the cost is passed back to the tax payers; a rapidly depleting demographic.

Years after the truce of WWII, there were some Japanese soldiers still hiding in the jungle who didn’t know the war was over. There are Americans today hiding in civilization who think government money is free. I think it was Mark Steyn who said, “If you think health care is expensive now, wait until it’s free.” As a Canadian, he knows firsthand. Some folks forget that government money is our money. As the economist Milton Friedman said, “There is no free lunch.”

Gas prices, food prices, famines, floods, earthquakes, drought, wars, and on and on it goes. Too much bad news. Makes you want to escape to an island where there is no electricity and no news at all. Just bananas, cool ocean breezes and hyperkinetic monkeys.

The ancient Romans used sports and entertainment to distract the public from the real problems as the empire began to crumble. Sound familiar? But the problems in our culture have become our entertainment. We’ve even developed means for keeping score. Unemployment figures, stock market scores, GDP, war casualties, and so forth. But our attention spans are limited. We want a war to end after four quarters without going into overtime. When the action on the news network is less exciting than cage fighting, we switch channels. As Pogo said many years ago, “We have met the enemy and he is us.”

Maybe all that negative news is the reason folks find relief in TV, movies and ballgames. And the “weirdness” of publications displayed at the supermarket check-out line. Next time you’re standing in the line, check the headlines of some of the publications. “Woman gives birth to half human, half alligator. Hungry creature bites arm off obstetrician. Nurses flee in terror!”

The way things are going, the negative news can drive you nuts. But despite all the bad news, humor can be found in strange places, so look for the funny stuff and if you can’t find anything to make you laugh just turn a negative upside down, inside out or distort it in such a way that it becomes a joke. And remember, they can kill you, but they can’t eat you. Except for that weird half-alligator kid.

A Sierra Morning

2011-08-27T12:33:00.000-07:00

It’s the end of August and the morning air is starting to get chilly already. I sat out on the deck this morning with a cup of coffee and my buddy, Dakota. It was peaceful and quiet, but now and then I’d hear the gentle snort of a horse in the woods, just off the back of my property. Otherwise there is no sound. Just the long shadows of the pine trees as the sun begins to climb the branches to make its dramatic appearance later in the morning.

I was reflecting on the peace and beauty. The old song by Louis Armstrong that speaks of this as being a “wonderful world” kept going through my mind. And I guess it is a beautiful world. But I’m always struck by the dichotomy between the beauty of our planet and the cruelty and brutality of nature.

I can look out at the forest from my deck and everything seems tranquil, but I know that a couple of miles up the hill from me there is a mountain lion tearing the throat out of Bambi, while off to my left is a blue jay snagging a butterfly right out of the air. Even the beautiful pine trees fight each other for the sun. Left to his own nature and adverse circumstances, I’m sure my gentle dog could conceivably join a pack of dogs and become a killer himself. That’s hard to believe, but that’s nature.

You can watch insects and fish eat each other. Let’s face it, death is required for life. Everything is food for something else. Ironically, the worms usually get humans, after we’ve eaten everything else.

In the book, “Lord of the Flies,” a group of British school boys are marooned on an island and the changes that take place in their personalities and behavior present grist for the intellectual mill of “nature vs. nurture.” The boys literally become savages.

Imagine if we didn’t “civilize” a baby and allowed the child to do whatever it wanted to do – just let it follow its nature. Would that child develop into a model citizen and a wonderful person or would it fall into the category of a “sociopath?”

It raises the question of whether human nature at its base is good or evil. The prevailing philosophy is to not discipline children physically. Some folks think that people are basically good. No need for religion or internalized morality. How has that worked out? Fortunately, I had girls and never had to physically discipline them. A look or a change in my voice was all it took. I was lucky and they were wonderful.

Any one of the ideas I’ve touched on could make an interesting study, but I’m just scratching the surface with some thoughts that came to mind while I was enjoying a beautiful morning in the Sierras. And that’s really all we can do. Enjoy what you can, when you can. And eat everything that crosses your path.

Three Things

2011-08-20T08:22:00.000-07:00

I have two Triumph motorcycles. I’ve owned bikes since the sixties, when I flew into Frankfurt, hopped a train to Copenhagen, Denmark, and bought my first motorcycle – a brand new 1969 Triumph 650. A 650 was considered a big bike in those days.

I traveled all over Europe on it. I remember when I rented a room from a communist party member in Zagreb, Yugoslavia, when it was under Tito. Sometime in the middle of the night I looked out of my window and saw cars lined up in a semi-circle with their headlights on my bike and a crowd of people walking around inspecting it.

I was several stories up and couldn’t have gotten down in time if there was a problem, but some of the guys looked up and saw me leaning out of the window watching them. It was obvious that they were just admiring the motorcycle and they didn’t even touch it. I had more trouble in Switzerland with theft than in

Yugoslavia

. But that bike was unique in those days in Europe and particularly in a communist country.

I rode that bike through nine countries by myself, because my riding buddy didn’t show up at the Hoffbrau House in Munich, Germany, on the date we were scheduled to meet there. He had flown in earlier. He claimed he fell in love with a German girl and she had him locked in her bedroom. Knowing him, she didn’t need a lock. So after too many mugs of German beer, I took off on my own. Someday I’ll write about that trip. It was a once in a lifetime experience.

All of this is to say that even as an old “dude”, I still enjoy riding a motorcycle. I’ve taken a few spills hill climbing, worn the obligatory cast on my leg, and I’ve done some other very stupid things when I was young, but I think I’ve learned a thing or two. Now I ride like an old guy…you know, at five miles per hour with my left turn blinker on. Actually, that’s a very good way to get killed.

I just got my newer Triumph out of the shop today and I was thinking about how much I enjoy riding through the Sierras on a motorcycle. While riding, I thought that there are three major things that make my life bearable living so far from family and friends high in the Sierra Mountain range. That has always been my gripe … being too far from my kids, grandkids and friends, but I do have three things that make it palatable. There are actually more than three, but these three hit me as I rode home from the bike shop.

The first of the three is a good wife. You have to have a wife that you respect and one that respects you. You both have to be able to laugh freely. She has to be trustworthy. She has to “have your back,” she has to share your “world view” and religious belief, and she has to be a true partner. I have that with Gayle.

The second thing … gotta have a dog. I have a great miniature Australian Shepherd, who has been molded into the perfect dog for Gayle and me. Gayle claims to not like him, but that’s B.S. She just doesn’t like him staring at her and that’s what herding dogs do. They can’t help it. I love the little sucker. Dakota is my buddy.

And the third thing is a motorcycle. That bike sets me free. There’s no better way to experience the beauty of the Sierras than on a bike, where all of your senses are open to absorb the richness of the environment. Riding in a car doesn’t do it. Even walking through the forest, as I do daily, doesn’t match riding a motorcycle through the mountains. Walking through the woods is like sipping beer. Riding through the forest on a motorcycle is like guzzling beer. There is a time for each. And a beer after a ride is not just a reward, but a means of flushing the bugs out of your teeth.

The Other Side of the Coin

2011-08-13T12:22:00.000-07:00

I’ve belly-ached enough about the snow up here in Siberia, aka “Quincy”, more specifically, Green Horn Ranch, so maybe I should explain that when the sun comes out it creates temporary amnesia and the obliteration of the concept of snow. And the sun is not bashful about making an appearance. Maybe because it knows “it’s time is short.” (That phrase has a biblical sound to it.)

It does get hot here, although at 4500 feet in elevation the nights are cool and the heat during the day is welcome. All kinds of strange forms of vegetation scramble to the surface as though there was doubt that the snow would ever melt and that life may never return to the planet. All that means is that I have to get outside and spoil their fun by whacking them down and tossing them in a pile so that at the first snow, I can burn them. So the snow wins again.

I also cut down a few dead pine trees on the property, although I was a little concerned that I may not be able to dart out of the way fast enough if the trees decided to drop in my direction. It had only been a few short weeks since my knee replacement, so I wasn’t very agile, but I had an expert logger help me. My next door neighbor is in his eighties and is tough as nails. He has done enough logging that he can aim a tree to drop exactly on his target. With his engineering we missed the garage, the power lines and both of us.

The horse trails in the mountains become dusty in the summer. But even when it’s hot, the shade in the forest makes for a relaxing and energizing walk among the pine trees. And my dog loves it. He runs his ass off and occasionally we may be interrupted by riders on horseback. After all, this is a dude ranch with “city folk” riding horses, some for the first time.

I get a kick out of the guests who go on trail rides with wranglers from the ranch as guides. They are tentative and apprehensive as they following the leader through the woods. They are as nervous about the animal they ride as they are about what dangers they may encounter. I’m sure they think that they may be subject to an attack by Indians or bears, so when I run into a group of them, I tell my dog to sit and I talk to the guide. That is important, because if they happened to come on me suddenly, the horses can spook, because they may think I’m a bear. At least that was what I was told by one of the wranglers and I can understand why… I look like a bear. But I’m working on that.

Anyway, life here in the summer is much different than it is in the winter. It’s actually pretty darn nice. Sadly, my Triumph is in the shop, so motorcycle trip through the beauty of the Sierras is on hold. My old 1969 Triumph requires a kick start and my knee isn’t up to the task yet, so I’m stuck without a bike.

Our anniversary is next week and we will be going to a rustic restaurant on a lake with the world’s best food. I think you have to call for a boat to pick you up on the dock, because the restaurant is not accessible by land. There are many such resorts and restaurants tucked away in these hills. So it’s not all bad living in the mountains.

Higher "Education?"

2011-08-06T10:23:00.000-07:00

I wrote a blog some time ago where I talked about how our country seems to be run by children. I thought I’d follow up on why I think this is so.

We live in a Peter Pan world, where kids never have to grow up. We allow a man or woman of 26 to be covered on their parents insurance as “children.” Our young people are educated by college professors who came out of the childish hippy rebellions of the ‘60s. Remember those euphoric days of flower children, drugs and free “love,” which is simply a handy euphemism for free sex. How many college kids could resist jumping on that one…or two…or three…or more. The University campus has become “Neverland” for students and many professors. . . a land where you never have to grow up.

Having moved directly from college students with flowers in their hair to college professors and having gained enough book knowledge to obtain the required credentials, professors are assured a safe and tenured haven of refuge inside the halls of academia. These are the people assigned to teach our children.

Wisdom comes when idealism butts up against reality, resulting in a re-alignment of precepts. Age and real life experience are critical ingredients for wisdom. Unfortunately many professors are devoid of wisdom and “teach” from a position of arrested maturity. They recruit our children into the world of make-believe without having set foot in the adult world of business and enterprise, but these are the “experts” who “educate” our kids.

One look at the academic level of U. S. students provides confirmation that very little “educating” is going on, despite the piles of money we dump into education. But our pathetic educational system is grist for another mill. And I say that as a former teacher.

Sadly, the average I. Q. in the United States has dropped from 100 down to 92, according to experts. Anyone with common sense can arrive at several reasons why this is so.

Most graduates come out of college with almost identical social and political profiles. College is a cookie cutter and it’s possible to ask one or two questions of a college graduate and you can fill in the rest of the blanks without bothering to ask any more. They all think alike.

Professors in more academic subjects, such as engineering, pre-med, etc., are actually educating, but there are more than enough electives or socially oriented subjects to mold pliable minds into the party line.

Is it any wonder that so many of our leaders, especially in this current administration, have never experienced life in the grown-up world? The current administration has the fewest members who have had any business experience outside of government and these numbers are fewer by a significant margin. These are academics who may have theoretical ideas and book knowledge, but little experience in the real world. Consequently we find ourselves in a mess economically and socially and can now take pride in being the laughing stock of the world.

Something to think about

2011-07-30T23:24:00.000-07:00

One of the major obstacles to the validity of Darwin’s theory of evolution is the Second Law of Thermodynamics. Commonly known as the Law of Entropy, this scientific law states that in all energy transformations, there is a tendency for some of the energy to be transformed into non-reversible heat energy. In other words, everything runs down or wears out. It decays. It dissipates. Reminds me of my 72 year-old body.

Entropy is used as a measure of the amount of energy depleted from a system. We can manipulate energy, but we can’t create it. This is confirmed by the First Law of Thermodynamics, also called the Law of Conservation of Energy. This one says that energy can be transformed in various ways, but it can neither be created nor destroyed. This means that the amount of energy cannot increase and that’s the key. Everything within our system, the entire universe, is running down, decaying, decreasing in complexity. This includes our own sun. It also includes my car and my brain.

The implication is that the universe is moving toward an irreversible state of maximum disorder and minimum energy. The second law says that this will not happen in reverse, mo matter how hard you work out at the gym. Energy and order won’t increase and since a maximum state of entropy has not been reached, the universe has not been here forever. It was “wound up” at some point and is now running down. In short, the universe had to have a beginning.

In the late 1920s Edwin Hubble discovered that the light from distant galaxies shifted toward the red end of the spectrum, indicating an expanding universe. Stars are moving away from us. This is similar to tossing a pebbled in a pond. The circle moves away from the center. Some scientists say that the original configuration of the universe may have been a state of infinite density where all mass, energy, space and time were contained in a single mathematical point with no dimensions. This is a hypothetical and complex concept that simply points to a beginning. I couldn't begin to understand it.

The evidence and natural laws fly in the face of the idea espoused by Bertrand Russell that the universe is “just there and that’s all there is to it.” The only rational alternative is that something has to be “eternal.” If the universe isn’t eternal then something external to the universe, such as a Creator, must be eternal. God is outside of time and space. God is eternal. God is the artist painting our universe on a canvas of time and space and it is within this portrait that we are created and temporarily confined.

I like to think about this stuff, despite the fact that I’m thinking about it while in a process of accelerated entropy, moving toward an irreversible state of maximum disorder and minimum energy. I think I'm already there! It’s time for a nap.

Enjoy what you can, while you can.

2011-07-22T23:33:00.000-07:00

We have all experienced the frustration of being without electricity when the power goes off in the evening. You’ve got to keep the refrigerator closed to hold the temperature as long as possible. You have to find a flashlight to help you find candles and matches. The heater doesn’t function and if you are on a well, you have to conserve water to drink and flush toilets. No computer. No TV. If your phones use electricity, no phone. It’s good to have a land line as a back-up. The garage door won’t work.

The point is that we take many things for granted and only become aware of them when they are gone.

Health is another case in point. When we are operating at full capacity, we forget how many body parts have to be functioning normally to keep us feeling good and how many potential vulnerabilities we have.

Ralph Thompson brought this up in a discussion we had today in relation to my knee surgery. It’s been three weeks and I think I’m far ahead of schedule in my recovery. I can walk without a cane, although I try to use one simply to avoid developing bad habits in my gait. But I think I’m past that already.

There is still swelling. Hells Bells…they cut my leg off in two places and hammered metal fittings into the bone. You would expect some pain and swelling. But the point is that I took my leg strength and the ability to walk without pain for granted until the operation. I didn’t miss it until it was gone, but fortunately it is coming back quickly and I’m already starting to forget what it was like when I first came out of surgery.

I think there are lessons to learn from these two examples. Enjoy what you have when you have it. This is particularly important as you get older and body parts start freezing up or falling off.

The same idea applies to friends. We assume that our friends will always be there and we take them for granted. Some of us lost a good friend last week when Glen Dennee died. I’m sure he’s cruising the golden highway in a ’32 roadster, but his friends here will miss him. I know I will. It’s the same principle.

Enjoy what you have when you have it and spend time with friends while you can. My mother always told Tom and me to treat people like it’s the last time you’ll see them. At some point it will be the last time you see them.

A Vacation Alternative

2011-07-03T15:11:00.000-07:00

I just got a reminder from Ed Wall to get off my butt and blog about something. Trouble is - my thinking has been limited to recovering from a full knee replacement, which I had done last week. Due to swelling, I’m not supposed to sit for long, so messing with the computer has been put on hold. But maybe I’ll give you a quick overview of the process.

If you can’t afford a European cruise this year and if you have Medicare, consider spending a couple of days in the luxury of a modern hospital. The amenities are endless.

You have your very own catheter and how many times have you wished you had one of these at three in the morning or during a long flight in a crowed airplane? Rather than climb over strangers to get to the head, you could simply smile, and dose off to sleep.

You also get an IV system with a spider-web of tubes, endless blood tests, thermometers and blood pressure checks. You even have your own plastic bracelet as a reminder of who you are. This is like the boarding pass on a cruise ship. Very fashionable.

The free robes are great. You wear them backwards, so that your butt can provide a welcoming vertical smile to spectators carrying flowers down the hospital corridors.

If you are a good patient, you may be rewarded with a stethoscope. Everyone seems to be wearing one of these things. They come in handy. At a nice restaurant, if you are wearing a stethoscope, the waiter will usually bring you extra bread.

And the hospital staff is always there to serve you. They are particularly active at night. You are required to “rest” and get as much sleep as you can, but this is a trick. As soon as you drift off to sleep, an orderly or nurse, who has been hiding just outside the door, will come in, check the IV, take your temperature and when it’s been determined that you are fully awake, the nurse will slip out of the room and tell you to get some rest.

After you settle down, another nurse watches as your eyes flutter. When you get back to sleep and begin to dream of a European cruise, the lights pop on again, and in trots someone else with a tray of ominous-looking tools. The nurse or “technician” reads from a chart and begins another process to confirm that you haven’t died yet.

This process continues through the night and you get used to it. I guess I’m a little less comfortable when a young man with a twinkle in his eye wants to check my catheter.

Let’s get down to the nitty gritty. My right knee left me only one option. That is, unless I wanted to continue to limp and watch my leg bow more and more.

In Quincy we are limited to what is available with regard to professional services. The orthopedic surgeon hits Quincy once a week, but fortunately he is very good at knees, hips and other orthopedic problems. I think he’s also a part-time building contractor, as I’ll explain later.

I wanted to be awake through the entire operation, so I was given an epidural, or whatever they call it. They had a sheet blocking my view, so I couldn’t see what was happening, but man, I heard everything.

Lots of sawing, tugging, filing and hammering. Not “tap, tap, tap” hammering. I’m talking about applying a framing hammer as a cathartic device for anger management. Since I didn’t feel it and they piped in good music from the ‘50s and ‘60s, I was actually relaxed and could have gone to sleep despite the noise.

The procedure itself is brutal. Basically the leg bones are cut off above and below the knee and, after some carpentry, the metal parts are hammered into the bone, stuffed back in, etc., etc.

After a couple of hours and still numb from the waist down, I was wheeled to my luxurious stateroom. I knew that I was required to be able to walk with a walker and be off IV pain medication, morphine drip, etc. before I could leave, so I got up as soon as I could and practiced with the walker. No problem. I could handle that part fine the first day.

The only other qualification was to be off IV pain medication. This was no problem either, because they forgot to put me on the stuff. The doc was a little upset by that and there were additional mistakes, but I was fine. I guess I didn’t need it. So I was out of the resort in two days. Frankly, the surgery is the easy part.

A hospital vacation doesn’t require knee surgery. Most of us have had our own personal preferences for various hospital stays, but if hip or knee replacement is something you would love to add to your resume, you’d better hurry. Hip and knee replacement surgery for older people may be on the chopping block under Obama care, from what I've read.

A hospital respite is just an idea for an alternative vacation, but you may prefer the Bahamas.

I Think the World Has Gone Nuts!

2011-06-12T15:03:00.000-07:00

I’ve tried to avoid anything controversial on this blog, but, I swear, the world is being run by morons and children. I read an article today about camels that upset me, so I’m going to let off some steam before I settle down.

I’ll stick to just one topic, but this is grist for your “common sense” mill. This blog is longer than normal, so you’re free to quit at any time. Here goes…

The average IQ in the U. S. is said to have dropped from 100 to 92, which is apparent to anyone who is awake. And that means that half the population is lower than 92. Sometimes I think the lower half works for the government.

I’ll briefly list some crazy things that come to mind on global warming. You can research this stuff on your own.

Let’s take one example of stupidity - man-made “global warming.” The term has now been changed to “climate change.” This change in buzz words may have been influenced by the fact that our illustrious scientists have discovered that the planet has actually cooled by 0.7 degrees over the past 100 years. The word, “change” provides more latitude for the “consensus-builders” and the media.

It seems that science changes as much as global climate.

Global climate has been changing since time began. Man-caused global warming or “climate change” is the biggest scam perpetrated on the world. But it transfers wealth, which is the purpose. Cap and Trade is a means to this end.

According to Australian scientists, back in 1991 Mt. Pinatubo in the Philippines spewed more CO2 into the atmosphere than the entire human race has produced since our appearance on earth. That’s only one eruption, albeit a large one. And there are more than 200 active volcanoes at work right now.

But not all Australian scientists are on the same page. One Australian Legislator thinks he has found the solution to global warming. His proposal would require the killing of all the camels that roam the outback. Evidently there are a lot of them in Australia and it seems that camels burp a lot. So let’s shoot camels. That’ll save the planet.

That one got me. Who are these people?

Scientists say that methane gas is 20 times more potent than carbon dioxide, but they lament the fact that methane doesn’t get as much attention…unless you’re in an elevator.

Argentina has been concerned for quite some time that their cattle production is a serious problem. (Cows have four stomachs and produce a lot of methane gas.) The cattle business is the primary industry in Argentina, but scientists have concluded that the methane gas they produce contributes to 30% of the air pollution over the country, so ranchers are trying to change the diet of their bovine buddies to clover, alfalfa, or something less explosive. I’m sure they have also outlawed smoking to avoid blowing Argentina off the map.

On the other hand, Chinese scientists say that cows are good for the environment. By grazing on grasslands, cows actually reduce nitrous oxide, which is another greenhouse gas. Nitrous oxide is known as “laughing gas,” used by happy dentists. In fact, laughing cows are keeping Chinese farmers awake at night.

The list of insanity goes on and on. Here are a few more things to think about:

Sheryl Crow has been promoting the idea that we should only use one or two squares of toilet paper to save a tree and we should use our sleeves instead of napkins when eating. She probably hasn’t had a date since her disclosure.

Here’s another brilliant idea. Let’s burn corn for fuel. So now food prices rise and Mexicans are unable to afford corn tortillas. They should be eating more leafy green vegetables anyway. It takes more energy to produce ethanol that what it saves and it simply contributes a different set of pollutants to the environment.

But what irritates me the most is that valuable rain forests are being clear cut, because the natives think there is money in corn. Problem is, the soil can’t support corn and tropical rains are washing away valuable top soil. There goes an irreplaceable source for medicine, much of which originates in those rapidly depleting forests. We are destroying a beautiful machine of nature for cleansing the air through photosynthesis.

Which brings me to carbon dioxide. Don’t these brilliant people understand that plants live on carbon dioxide? Without CO2 there would be no life on earth.

Cars that run on batteries create another set of problems, including safe disposal of the batteries and the rapid depletion of irreplaceable elements required to build the batteries.

The incandescent bulb is scheduled to be outlawed over a few years. Once incandescent bulbs vanish, Americans will have to purchase either compact fluorescent bulbs — known as CFLs — halogens, or light-emitting diodes (LEDs).

All three cost significantly more than incandescent bulbs and they must be disposed of at special recycling centers because they contain dangerous levels of mercury. They pose a significant danger to people and pets if broken in the home.

Another factor to consider: Incandescent bulbs are made in the United States, while almost all CFLs are made in China. Another example of outsourcing.

The “stupid list” goes on and on, but here’s the problem:

Science is not objective. It is and has always been driven by philosophy. When there is “consensus” among scientists, we consider that to be absolute truth.

Some among us believe that there is “consensus” among scientists that man causes global warming, so the lemmings turn off the barbeque, ride a bike and raid the drug store for Beano on their way off the cliff. By the way, the lemming suicide thing is also a myth begun by Walt Disney in the 1958 movie, Wild Wilderness. Lemmings don’t commit suicide. Only human beings do. Another example of “consensus” and myth.

Prior to Galileo, the philosophers, religious leaders and “scientists” held the geocentric view that the earth was the center of the universe. There was general “consensus” on that belief. The myth was accepted. And, of course, this viewpoint had its origin in philosophy, as I indicated above.

Galileo’s writings on the notion that the sun was actually the center of our solar system resulted in his being tried by the Inquisition and placed under house arrest for the remainder of his life. So much for consensus. So much for truth.

We are fed so much B. S. that I may get into other topics in future articles.

My outburst on this blog was precipitated by the article on Australia and the pending legislation that requires the total elimination of the entire wild camel population. That infuriates me. The leaders in Australia are evidently no smarter than ours.

Ahhhh...I feel better. Writing is a catharsis.

My naked dog

2011-05-27T14:04:00.000-07:00

It’s about time for another blog. As usual, I have no idea what I’ll write about, so I’m reading this for the first time along with you.

I’ve talked at length about the weather here and, although snow is expected again tonight, I won’t mention it. I will mention that our dog got a haircut and I don’t recognize him anymore. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen a naked dog. His beautiful coat of fur is gone, leaving him with a short, gray undercoat that doesn’t match his head. It looks like someone attached his head to the body of a different dog.

Unfortunately, Dakota had been panting whenever the sun came out. The fact that he's a fat little sucker may have contributed, but now that we see what he had hidden under his fur, it's a dog version of Weight Watchers for him. It gets hot enough here in the summer that dog owners normally trim their dogs, which seems to help them with the heat. Of course, I'm assuming the sun will eventually come out. I'm trying to adjust to my new dog. It's strange.

When you get old, it’s hard to adjust to change . . . even my dog’s haircut. If Gayle turned the toilet paper on the spindle so it rolled out from the bottom, I think both my legs would be numb by the time I figured out how to make it work. I hate getting old.

Speaking of legs…I’m getting a new knee in a couple of weeks. I’ve been thinking of buying one of those large knuckle bones you can get for your dog and putting it in the fridge. When my kids and grandkids come over my plan is to take it out and tell them it’s my old knee. Here in the mountains entertainment is limited, so you have to create your own.

I pulled a similar trick on them after having my prostate removed. I put a fig in a jar with cranberry juice for color and told the kids it was my prostate gland. After they adjusted to the shock, I unscrewed the lid, took out the fig and ate it.

The entire family ran as though I had tossed a snake at them. I swear they knocked all the deck furniture over and got as far away from me as they could. So maybe that old trick with a knucklebone won’t work anymore. But I'll think of something...

My Weather Dog

2011-05-15T15:26:00.000-07:00

It's May 15th and it's snowing heavily again here in Siberia. There for a minute we thought spring had sprung and so did the bulbs Gayle planted. The flowers she planted popped out of the ground enthusiastically, anticipating summer sunshine, but global warming fooled us again. It's been fooling a lot of people. And a lot of scientists. Now Gayle's flowers are frozen, my dog is white on the top and the natives have gone back into hibernation. I think our reclusive neighbor saw his shadow again.

Speaking of my dog...I've decided he's going to be my "weather dog" from now on. I can get a good sense of weather conditions by simply opening the door and letting my dog out. If he comes back in wet on top and dry on the bottom, it's raining. If he comes in white on top, it's snowing. If he's white on top and wet on the bottom, that means it's snowing and the creek is running, but if he comes in with huge balls of snow in his fur, it means that the snow is too deep to get the car out. I'm still waiting for him to come in warm on top.

It reminds me of Noah sending a bird out of the ark and when the bird came back with a leaf in its beak, Noah knew land had emerged from the water. Yep. We primitive mountain people learn how to read nature's signs.

Before this latest storm hit, I took Dakota for a walk in the forest, which is pretty much a daily thing when the snow melts. I can read the signs in the forest like a real Indian. I stopped at a dead tree that had been ripped open by a bear searching for grubs. Being an astute observer, I determined that it had been a large bear. I could tell because the claw marks were at least eight to ten feet up the stump.

When I hear a growing roar, like a train, and I see the trees moving, I can tell right away that the wind is coming up. Flatlanders may not understand these mysteries of nature, but we mountain folks pick up on this stuff. And when my dog is wet or white on top, I know it's time to head back to the base camp on Greenhorn Ranch Road. And, being the experienced tracker that I am, I can always find my van in the forest, because it's red and it doesn't resemble a tree.

Sorry about this blog, but I had spent a lot of time today writing an intelligent and informative political piece, but Gayle read it and talked me out of publishing it. I thought it was powerful and hit the nail on the head, but she thought I'd make enemies and find myself on the "no fly" list. Since dinner is ready and I had to write something, I let my weather dog in and guess what...

Yep. White on top.

What Now?

2011-05-01T09:51:00.000-07:00

The dust is beginning to settle after a flurry of activity in the design of my website, production of my book, “The Huckleberry Days of the ‘50s,”the re-write of my novel resulting in, “Folsom Parallax,” producing copies of my CD, setting up the PayPal account for sales, and publishing my two latest books on Amazon Kindle eBooks.

I wanted all of these to come together when the books came out and, fortunately, it worked. I had to have projects to avoid going nuts during this eternal winter. Global warming, my ass.

It’s a good thing the snow lasted into April, pinning me up inside the house. If the weather had been good, I may have spent the days riding my motorcycle through the mountains. Fortunately, my struggle against cabin fever and insanity produced something other than a catatonic stupor or head-banging.

Now what?

Well, there is the challenge of alerting people that there are several pages to the website. Some folks click on the home page and say it looks “pretty,” but “the pictures at the bottom are too small.” I’ve tried to correct this by plugging in reminders to click on the different topics to see the other pages. Maybe this will work.

There is also a link on this page to the website. It’s not as obvious as I would like, but I’ll try to correct that too.

But the greatest challenge is the follow-up. Books need to be promoted online, through Amazon, etc. I say that this will be the “challenge” for me, because once I’ve accomplished a goal, I tend to lose interest and move on. I’ve already started working on preparing my garage for a room upstairs and working on my motorcycles, so maintaining interest and promoting my “creations” has always been a weakness in me.

Today the sun is out. People I don’t remember are creeping out from hibernation, blinking at the sunlight like Nancy Pelosi wishes she could blink, and wondering who turned the lights on. People up here disappear in the winter. I wouldn’t say, “Spring has sprung,” but most of the snow is gone and that’s good. It will take awhile to adjust to the light.

Remember…ralphhiggins.com or www.ralphhiggins.com or something like that…

Words, Music & Art

2011-04-19T14:58:00.000-07:00

Featuring . . .

The Huckleberry Days of the '50s, Growing up in Los Gatos

If you were lucky enough to have been a kid in the '50s, this book will bring back fond memories.

If you missed the greatest decade and want to see what life was like for your parents and grandparents, this book will provide a keyhole to peek through to see life before traffic jams, cell phones and even TV.

The Huckleberry Days of the '50s presents scenes that would apply to any rural community during those years just after WWII. This is light reading and meant to be fun. If you read my blog, you know I never exaggerate, but you can be certain that the core stories are true despite incidental embellishments.

Please go to my new website at ralphhiggins.com to read about this book and others. My new site has 5 pages, so be sure to check out the books, the music (my CD), and Gayle's fantastic artwork. You can relax to some photos we took of our area in the fall, accompanied by a cut from my CD.

* * * * *

Folsom Parallax

     For an interesting murder mystery, Folsom Parallax is a good read, according to friends and strangers. Since I wrote it, I try to avoid hyping it, but even I think it's a good story.

     The hero or protagonist is a Los Gatos realtor who finds himself wrapped up in a murder and, as a result of his quest for vengeance, finds himself incarcerated in Folsom Prison during the most violent decade in the history of the prison. Folsom is the oldest in the California penal system and I was fortunate to be given a personal tour of areas not normally open to visitors. This was due to my work on this novel.

     This novel is only available through Amazon at their Kindle book site. These ebooks can now be purchased and downloaded to your home computer or mobile device. They are no longer limited to the Kindle reader. These ebook versions are also very inexpensive. Both Parallax and Huckleberry are available on Amazon as ebooks.

     If you have read The Granite Veil, there is no need to read this re-write. This version of the novel cuts out the scientific examination of counter arguments to Darwin's theory of evolution. If you are interested in that subject, I would highly recommend Granite Veil, which is also available on my website at ralphhiggins.com.  This novel is only available in "paper book" form.

* * * * *

Peanut Butter & Jam Session

I made this CD as a "going away" present for family and some friends who wanted one. I was surprised to find that "friends of friends" wanted copies, so I had more copies made. You can hear samples on the Music page of my website at ralphhiggins.com .

* * * * *

Please check out my new website at ralphhiggins.com and wander through the pages. I think you'll find it interesting.

To access this blog directly, you must now go to http://higginsunhinged.blogspot.com or there is a link back to this blog on the website.

A Note from Siberia

2011-03-25T19:37:00.000-07:00

If cars cause global warming, I say, “Gentlemen. Start your engines.”

I get a lot of calls from friends wondering how things are here in Siberia, so I think I’ll include a few photos taken today and yesterday. The snow is expected to continue through the weekend, so I’m sure I’ll have even more snow to photograph later. Taking pictures of snow is easy. Even I can do it. It’s just a bunch of white stuff. It all looks the same.

I hired a snowplow to clean out my driveway so we could go to town for supplies and get the mail two days ago, but the next day we were buried again and even deeper in snow. The glorious day of the return of the snow plow was the only day in a couple of weeks that we’ve been able to get out of this *&^%$#@ house. This may be my last communication with the outside world. The snow is sneaking up to the door. I can feel it.

I expect that some day in the future, scientists will break through a huge glacier in Quincy, California, and find a well preserved wooly mammoth, some ancient Indian relics, primitive tools and a frozen well-preserved Cro-Magnon man holding a peanut butter sandwich in one hand and a dog named Dakota under his arm. He will appear to be staring through frozen eyes as though waiting for a snow plow that never came.

So you want to write a book?

2011-03-18T14:37:00.000-07:00

Oooops. I forgot that I have a blog. Man, I’m getting worse and worse on updating this thing.

It’s not that there aren’t things happening, but I’ve been buried in other writing projects. I’ve been writing and editing for a couple of internet companies and just completed a new book on growing up in the terrific decade of the ‘50s. The title is, “The Huckleberry Days of the ‘50s.” Subtitle, “Growing Up in Los Gatos.” The book is in production as I type this.

I’ve also re-written my novel, “Granite Veil” and cleaned out most of the heavy stuff, for example all the scientific analysis of the theory of evolution, which seemed to bog some people down. For those who enjoy that kind of thinking, it was very well received, but the new version moves faster with the focus on the murder mystery. The title of the new edition is, “Folsom Parallax.” I’ll remember to post a blog when it’s out.

I'll give you a quick lesson in publishing:

Writing a book entails more than simply “writing a book.” That’s the easy part. When you function as Publisher you have to determine layout, edit, format, check all details of copy, punctuation, spelling, etc., file for copyright, ISBN number, library number, bar code, cover design, legal clearances, binding style, paper size, weight, texture, clarity of photos, proofing and other details.

It’s costly to self-publish, but there are advantages. You retain the copyright. You determine price based on the market and your production costs, you keep profits, if any, over costs. You actually engineer the entire project. You put up all the money in exchange for a predetermined number of books, which normally includes a possible 10% over-run. There are no contingencies. You pay for the books whether they sell or not.

Publishing-on-demand is another option. If you choose to “publish-on-demand”, which is a popular method today, there are pros and cons here too. You contract with a company to produce books as orders come in from yourself or other sources. You don’t have to warehouse books or come up with a lot of upfront money. But there are disadvantages with this. You have little control over quality. Marketing is a problem in all publishing methods except when a major publisher handles it. From my experience, the biggest disadvantage with print-on-demand is pricing. I have a book with one of these companies and they have it marked up so high that no one would spend the money for it.

The easiest way to publish is to interest a major publisher in your project. This is next to impossible and you usually need an agent. After you provide a final manuscript, the publisher takes over. You can market the book, but since the publisher has the biggest financial investment they will push the book. You may be required to do interviews, make speeches, and go to trade shows and events to promote your book, but you have no financial investment. If a publisher asks for money upfront, that’s a red flag. You should never pay a fee to a legitimate publisher. They take the risk.

The author signs over copyright and all rights to produce to the publisher in exchange for a percentage, called a “royalty.” There is a wide range for royalties, but the rate is normally between 10 and 20%. Royalties for foreign sales are less. These are paid as long as the book is sold. I have received royalties on my first book for over 40 years, but that’s unusual. If the publisher fails to sell enough books, the book will go out of print and unless you have a reversion clause in your contract, the rights don’t return to you and the book is virtually dead.

Self publishing is putting your money where your mouth is. If you think there’s a market for a book, you can bet on yourself, but it can be costly. I’ve lost a lot of money through the years on self published books due to lack of marketing and the fact that I always give my books away. So it’s a gamble. But here I go again…

Since I couldn’t think of a subject for my blog, here’s a quick lesson in book publishing, which is something I’ve had experience with through the years.

The Abdominal Snowman

2011-02-19T12:39:00.000-08:00

For those who think they would like to live in the beautiful, white stuff called “snow,” I have a house to rent you for a winter.

I’ve enclosed a photo of my dog trying to figure out why his toilet is covered in snow. Earlier in the day, he turned into a “gopher dog” and disappeared by tunneling under the snow. He’s got far too much energy to be stuck in the house all day, but, while he loves to lay out in the stuff, he’s a mess when he comes in and I have to give him a shower. The snow hangs on him in grotesque white balls and I’ve found the shower is the best solution.

As for Gayle and me, you can see what’s involved in getting out of the garage to get the mail, go to the store or go sight-seeing. Consequently we don’t get the mail. In fact, we can’t go anywhere.

Power outages come and go, the TV dish fills with snow, taking the garbage out requires a sled (I use the lid. It works like a sled) My computer has gone off and on so many times that it now has a nervous condition. I’m hoping it’s not Parkinson’s.

Gayle and I spent last evening reading books by candlelight. We had no electricity, consequently no heat, no TV, no computer, nothing but candles.

When we designed the house, I tried to avoid the 80# snow load requirement because of the addition cost, but the county wouldn’t okay it. Now I’m happy to have it. In fact, I’d be happier with a 100# roof.

I remember seeing the movie, “Roots” and wishing I had a slave. Fortunately I have a wife. And, as any good slave-owner, you want to take good care of your slave.

To give you an example of my sensitivity, I have to brace myself with a few shots of whiskey just to watch her suffer outside in the storm shoveling snow. I make sure she’s bundled up and her pants are wrapped to keep her legs dry and I even let her come inside every hour for a gulp of hot coffee. Since I don’t want her to suffer, I don’t let her stay inside for long. One gulp. That’s it. Going outside again would be a shock to her system if she adjusted to the warmth. I try to be kind.

I tried to find my old football shoes with the mud cleats, but even if I found them, they wouldn’t fit her. As a consolation, I just tell her to be careful and don’t slip and fall.

I let her use a small shovel so she won’t hurt her back and I keep the porch light on when she works at night. We still have our snorkel gear from our trip to Bora Bora, so it’s helpful for her to wear that rig when the snow is over her head. I gave in to her request on that one, so I do try to compromise.

I’m a little concerned for her when she tries to climb up on the roof to clear the snow. I agreed to hold the ladder for her, as long as she didn’t take too long climbing up to the roof. I think there’s enough snow around the house to break her fall, but I’m not sure.

The above scenario is pure fantasy. I’m the idiot trying to shovel snow with a bad right knee and a ripped Achilles tendon on the left ankle. Anyone reading this should feel sorry for me. If you do, then support our local ranchers with a donation of chili beans. One can is all they ask.

They have been feeding their cattle beans all summer in anticipation of a cold winter. The theory is that methane gas from bovine flatulence contributes to global warming and there are a few country roads here that you want to keep your window rolled up when passing through. But it doesn’t work. I think the government has been lying to us. Is that possible? I know it’s hard to imagine. We know Al Gore is honest. Right?

Anyway, if you don’t hear from me, you may have to wait until the spring thaw. Just look for the snow shovel handle and dig like mad.

Is Laughter the Best Medicine?

2011-01-27T16:51:00.000-08:00

Years ago there was a story about a guy who had a terminal disease, but determined to cure himself through laughter. His name is Norman Cousins. He was the editor of Saturday Review for 30 years and wrote a book entitled, “Anatomy of an Illness.” Cousins spent his days watching Laurel and Hardy movies and other comedy films that made him laugh. The amazing thing is that he was healed and he credits his healing to laughter. Look up Norman Cousins on the internet.

Remember - we don’t see things as they are. We see things as we are. Cousins was evidently able to change the way things were, because of who he was and the mindset he brought to his unfortunate circumstances. Someone said that the opposite of humor is depression. I wonder then if the cure for depression may be humor.

The Maryland Medical Center found that laughing is almost as effective as exercise for improving arterial health, so there’s obviously a physiological benefit as well as a psychological benefit in laughter.

Laughter relaxes blood vessels and improves circulation to the heart and it lowers cortisol, a hormone related to stress. The reason it works is that it reduces stress and stress will compromise your immune system. There are other ways of reducing stress, including exercise, having a dog or cat, prayer, music and other things, but laughing is easy and cheap.

Life is full to the brim with pain, sadness, sickness, cruelty, disasters, and death. There are myriads of negative events that can bury you emotionally.

Mark Twain said, “The source of all humor is sorrow.” That may or may not be true, but I tend to think that there’s something to it. Cynicism is certainly a source of humor, but you can find humor in human behavior and a myriad of more superficial things. And it may be true that in a deeper sense sorrow does play a role. But one thing is certain, laughter is good for you, so do it whenever you can.

Yogi Berra said, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

I say, “If you get a chance to laugh, take it.”

Don't let a crisis go to waste.

2011-01-12T10:40:00.000-08:00

Another week of chaos and vitriol. Some paranoid schizophrenic, who, if he is political at all, is more to the left than the right, kills a child and several other innocent bystanders. The fact that he watches violent films, which Hollywood says have no affect on behavior, is into drugs and occult crap, has been a threat to teachers and others, is less of a concern than the fact that he ate a filet of fish sandwich at McDonald’s and Sarah Palin’s husband is a fisherman. So there’s the connection the loons need. It’s Palin’s fault. Or Limbaugh’s. Or George Bush’s. Or talk radio. Since the killer ate a fish sandwich, fishing should be outlawed. Who are these morons?

As Rahm Emanuel said, “Don’t let a crisis go to waste.” Are there still enough ignorant sheep left in America to buy into this manipulation? Unfortunately, I think the answer is “yes.”

When a democratic Congressman can look down from his perch at an Admiral during a congressional hearing, and express his serious concern that sending troops to an island base may add enough weight to cause the island to “tip over,” you know that those who voted him into office have IQ’s even lower than his. It seems inconceivable that anyone can be that dumb and still sign a ballot, but it must be true. If you missed that hearing, look it up on the internet. It happened.

Back to the murder in Arizona. This mass murder was a non-political event, perpetrated by a psychotic and deluded fool, who was influenced more by the skull he evidently worshipped, the drugs he took and the voices in his head than an article in Newsmax Magazine or Glenn Beck.

The trial will be scheduled in ten years or so, when the emotions subside and we learn how much potential the poor boy had, how he was kind to his mother and how much he loved his voodoo doll. And you and I will pay millions for his defense and incarceration.

Is this a great country or what?

"What's it all about, Alfie?"

2011-01-01T12:16:00.000-08:00

I heard a gunshot at midnight, so I guess that was the starting gun for 2011. Up here in the mountains, miles from civilization, we are thankful for that guy with the gun who evidently also has a radio and communication with the outside world. Every year he notifies the natives that it’s time to change calendars. Without our Paul Revere of New Years Eve, how would we know it was New Years Day?

We’re buried in snow up here with more in the forecast. I found a frozen squirrel this morning, so I guess we have meat for a couple of days. We’ve eaten the bark off the trees as far as we can reach, so boiled squirrel is a real treat.

I was so excited about the new year that I forgot to have a drink in celebration. In fact, I went to bed before midnight last night, which is something I very rarely do, but it didn’t seem to make much sense waiting for some sparkling ball to drop in New York while thousands of morons are blowing paper horns and finding orgasmic pleasure in playing with balloons, jumping up and down while screaming and looking at colored lights. I don’t get it.

The year 2010 wasn’t so great, was it? Is 2011 going to be better? Who wants to be another year older, unless you happen to be 20 years old waiting to buy beer or 15 dreaming of driving a car?

They say life is like a roll of toilet paper. The closer you get to the end, the faster it goes. I don’t like it. It took me this long to finally learn to use the correct date on letters and documents and now they change the date on me. At my age it takes a while to adjust to changes and by that time, the change has changed again. Knock it off! Stop the bus! Turn the bus around. I want to go back to the 50’s!

When I was young, I played in bands on New Year’s Eve. I did this for many years. Too many years. I even got on the microphone and counted down the seconds to the New Year for all the happy celebrants. That was about the time that the musicians were tired and wanted to take a break and get to the buffet table.

So to speed things up, I would sometimes count down the seconds a little early. There was always some guy with an expensive watch who would start yelling that it wasn’t midnight yet and I was wrong, but by that time the audience was already counting down from ten to “Happy New Year” and his protest was buried by the enthusiasm of the throng. I can still see him waving his arms and yelling, “Wait! Wait! Your watch is wrong. Wait!” But he soon disappeared in confetti, balloons and funny hats.

Then we would launch into “Auld Lang Syne” where couples seem to fall in lust until the end of the song and the ride home, when the guy gets chewed out for dancing too close to his secretary. But for that brief instant in time, our music made people romantic. But that’s what we were paid to do. We were just facilitators. Like that last drink that closes the sale.

That song is sad enough, but for me it was even sadder, because my wife or a girlfriend was home alone watching the dingbats in New York on TV, jumping like St. Vitus Dance (look it up), while I’m blowing my horn helping remorseful dancers peel off the negatives of the past year. The optimistic anticipation of midnight plus one second never ceases to amaze me.

“What’s it all about, Alfie?”

I don’t know…maybe I’m getting old. “Hey Gayle! Is that squirrel done yet?”

"Out, damn'd spot! Out, I say!"

2010-12-20T13:27:00.000-08:00

The above words sound like a frustrated dog owner sending his Dalmatian out of the house. But we all know it’s a quote from “Macbeth,” Shakespeare’s shortest tragedy.

You might know that Olivia de Havilland is an Academy Award winning actress and the sister of Joan Fontaine, also an actress. Olivia de Havilland played Melanie in “Gone with the Wind”, and starred in other major films.

But you might not know that she and her sister, Joan Fontaine, both went to Los Gatos High School. Miss de Havilland was an honor student at Los Gatos High School in the early 30’s and gave up a college scholarship to go into acting.

If you were lucky you may have met her at the 100 year celebration in Los Gatos or on some other occasion. But I had the honor of meeting this wonderful woman when I was attending Los Gatos University Avenue Elementary School. I think I was in the seventh grade. That was my big acting break. I was a star. Yeah…riiiight.

Miss de Havilland was directing a stage production of Macbeth at the high school auditorium and, because I played the trumpet, I was “conscripted” to dress in tight pants, the traditional dress of the period for my particular character, and play a fanfare on my trumpet to open the play.

I want to make it clear that the play was the only time in my life I ever wore those tights; you know…those Tinkerbelle things or Robin Hood pants or whatever they are…Honest! And I made sure that on my entrance I walked like John Wayne. It’s a little tough to picture John Wayne in tights as depicted by a 13 year old, but I tried my best.

I had to walk into the auditorium, along with a drummer from the school, and play some kind of a trumpet call and then announce the arrival of a particular king. That was it. That was all I did. They just needed a horn blower with skinny legs. I was also in a crowd scene on stage, mumbling inaudible words or raising my fist in protest or whatever the scene required. It was a memorable experience and it was actually fun, except for those funny pants.

At the time I didn’t realize what an honor it was to be associated with a production directed by Olivia de Havilland, even though all I did was make some noise on my trumpet. I didn’t even know who she was back then.

Now when my wife and I are watching a movie or movie previews and Olivia de Havilland is mentioned, I always say, very casually of course, “Did I ever tell you that I was directed by Olivia when I did Shakespeare…?”

It’s become a standing joke between us and now when her name comes up I don’t even have to make the announcement. My wife immediately says, “Yes. I know. I know. You were directed by Olivia de Havilland and you’re world famous. And you’ll probably get an academy award for wearing leotards when you were thirteen and blowing your stupid horn.”

It’s easy to train a wife. You just use repetition.

Got Sand?

2010-12-16T11:50:00.000-08:00

"If you put the federal government in charge of the Sahara Desert , in five years there’d be a shortage of sand.”

- Milton Friedman

The above quote by Milton Friedman should be plastered on every TV screen each time anything related to politics or government is discussed. California is bankrupt. I think Iceland was first country to go BK, but Greece, Spain and most of the countries in Western Europe are teetering.

The only socialist or communist nation that seems to be moving in a positive direction is China, but the reason for that is that they’ve incorporated a form of capitalism into their economic system. Yet our leaders want us to follow the example of the failed systems of Europe. They want us to line up for rationed health care, as per England, Canada, Sweden, etc. They want to spend more than we have.

Ever wonder why?

Let’s say you had a vision of a one world government, a single currency and a universal set of laws. Obviously it wouldn’t work as long as there was a single super power with military and economic superiority, based on a philosophy of individual rights and freedom. The playing field would have to be leveled and freedoms removed, right?

So how is that done? How about Cap & Trade, transferring wealth from the U. S. to third world countries. How about the manipulation of currency and devaluing the dollar? How about turning a once strong country into a debtor nation? How about boosting labor costs to the point that industry is forced to leave the U. S. to survive, leaving service-related jobs to fill the vacuum with very limited production capacity? How about creating total dependency on government, the elimination of guns, control over the free market, etc.?

Anyway, boys and girls, our country is in trouble. In fact, I think we are witnessing the death rattles of western civilization. The hypothetical scenarios I read about in the 60’s have become reality. It’s been a long time coming, but the required economic catalyst is finally here and the slide has begun.

Sorry for being negative this morning, but the joy of Christmas seems to be in blaring juxtaposition to world events and it’s sometimes difficult to put things in a realistic perspective. But it can be done.

You can still have a good Christmas if you focus on what the celebration really represents. If you believe that the Deity made a visit to our planet in human form, these worldly problems pale in comparison to the magnitude and the ramifications of that singular event in human history. That’s the key.

Stop the Beano

2010-12-03T11:45:00.000-08:00

Global warming is killing us up here in the mountains. Since scientist say that bovine flatulence contributes to the problem, I wonder if our brilliant leaders will divert some of their financial aid to our foreign enemies to providing the cattle industry with beano for their cows or simply raise more taxes. I say let the cows pass gas. We need global warming in Quincy.

We’re freezing our butts off up here. I wish Al Gore and his minions would pray to their gods of earth, wind and fire, or whatever they worship, and see if they can divert some sunshine our way. (When I wrote for A&M Records I arranged the music of a group by that name)

We had roughly three feet of snow during Thanksgiving, which kept us from our planned Thanksgiving celebration with our kids and grandkids. We have another trip planned next week, but that too will be contingent on the weather. The black ice in the canyon is the real culprit here.

I see a lot of blue people up here in the mountains and I’m not sure if they’re blue because of the cold or because they buy this climate change B.S. and are holding their breath to avoid emitting carbon dioxide thus causing global warming. I suggest breathing and breathing heavily to turn up the heat.

My dog normally likes the snow, but not when it’s so deep he disappears and literally has to swim out of it. Let's play a game of, "Find the dog."

Early Go Carts

2010-11-16T19:12:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid we spent as little time indoors as possible and only came home when my dad whistled. This is a short story about one of the things we did for fun and how my training of my younger brother helped him develop the skills needed as a commercial pilot.

Back in the days shortly after the invention of the wheel and many years prior to machines that run on fossil fuel, we would build wooden carts. These were the ancestors of the modern go-cart. After a number of random genetic mutations cars eventually appeared, but they had to start somewhere.

Our carts were designed with wheels, a plank to sit on and a wooden box, if you wanted a deluxe model. A sturdy two-by-four with ropes was the front axle and steering device. Best of all – there were no seat belt or safety devices of any kind. We had a stripped-down model and we always crashed, but that was the fun of it.

We had to push these things up the hill, rest for a few minutes, and then ride them down, only to repeat the process until the sun began to tell us it was time for dinner. In the fifties we played outside as far from home as we could get and only came home to eat. And even then, only if we remembered or if we heard my dad whistle. You could hear his whistle as far away as San Diego.

We had a favorite hill, which was actually a long and curvy private driveway for homes belonging to some rich folks in our town of Los Gatos. It was a great hill. Steep and challenging, with hairpin turns, bushes that blocked our vision and the death-defying straight-away as we zoomed out into a public street, hoping to miss any cars coming down the road. Despite the fact that there were very few cars on that road back then, it was actually pretty stupid and unnecessarily dangerous, but it was fun.

But we began to learn the road well. The turns became too familiar and unchallenging, so we found a solution. Just beyond one of the hairpin turns where visibility was obstructed by shrubs, two of us would build a barricade out of wood with a small opening, just wide enough for the cart to pass through. This would be a test of reaction time.

One of us would push the vehicle up the hill and prepare for a signal to begin the trip down. The whole idea was to develop our reflexes. The driver would have but a split second to spot the barricade, find the opening and steer through it without crashing or flipping the cart.

Now that was a good time! It was a challenge. But we got good at that too. We learned to spot the opening quickly and steer through it with ease. Our skill level made a statistically significant jump and we were running out of challenges.

As was the case in many of my early adventures, my partner in crime was Dick Whitaker, and, many times, my brother Tom. Tom is an athlete. He has excellent reflexes, good judgment and is normally calm in the face of danger. That’s why he was a highly respected Captain and one of the top commercial pilots for TWA after he grew up. That’s not an exaggeration. He was contacted by the Whitehouse once, due to his expertise. I hope he advised the President that he had graduated from my training course.

But as a kid, he was still my little brother and it was my job to prepare him for the challenges he would face later in life as a pilot. His flying skills had humble beginnings as a wooden “cart-driver”. I took my responsibility as his trainer seriously.

With our expert instruction, Tom’s skill rapidly increased. Finding the hole in the barricade and guiding the cart through safely became too easy for him, so Dick hid a little way up the road and as Tom approached the final turn - the turn where the decision had to be quickly made - Dick tossed a blanket over the poor kid, blinding him.

Tom not only ran into the barricade, but the crash ruined our best racecar. Of course, our purpose here was to introduce Tom to flying a plane on instruments when visibility is zero. I think our training was critical in preparing him for his first instrument rating. But we forgot to provide the instruments. We gave him a compass, but the needle was stuck on “South.”. The thing never worked right.

Nevertheless I’m sure those early experiences with that cart were major factors in Tom’s success as a commercial pilot and the blanket trick most certainly gave him a “leg up” when flying with limited visibility. I don’t think he ever thanked me for that valuable training. And I’ll bet he never told the President about our training course.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

2010-11-04T00:11:00.000-07:00

My daughters like to read stories of my childhood, so here's a quick one.

I was talking to an old friend recently who says he woke up in the middle of the night laughing about a trick Dick Whitaker and I played on someone back when we were kids. He thought it was funny, but it could have had severe consequences. He dreamt about this 60 years after the event, but as you age things from long, long ago pop into your mind despite the fact that you can’t find your wallet and can’t remember what you did yesterday.

When I was a kid I had an old army M1 training rifle. It wasn’t real, but during WWII they used these for training soldiers, saving the real ones for the war effort. Years later I carried a real one. This mock M1 looked real and on this particular occasion Dick and I had the brilliant idea of putting a firecracker in the barrel of the gun and…Well, here’s what happened.

We lit the firecracker and ran out in the road, pointing the gun at some poor guy who just happened to pick the wrong time to drive by. When the firecracker went off, the terrified driver thought he was shot and lost control of the car. The car went flying out in an orchard, hitting a prune tree.

Dick and I felt guilty and went over to the car to check on the driver. The guy was sitting like a statue and staring, glassy eyed, with a death grip on the steering wheel, while mumbling incoherently. We spent some time consoling him, but he just sat there staring straight ahead. He wasn’t very responsive, but I guess he lived through it, otherwise I think I’d remember.

After pinning a purple heart on him, we went back for more firecrackers.

Where's My Coffee?

2010-10-21T13:21:00.000-07:00

Another week of bachelor-hood is coming to an end. I’m ½ hour from leaving to pick Gayle up from the Reno airport. Last month she was gone for a week and this month another week. This time she went to Portland to visit her best friend. I think these breaks are good for her. Being stuck in Greenhorn and the Quincy area might have some pluses, but in terms of social activities it’s like trying to rally the residents of a convalescent home for a pick-up game of basketball.

At least this time she didn’t leave notes all over the house with instruction on how to feed the cats their medicine and reminders to turn off the coffee, although I did find two notes, but I forgot to read them. (I just read one stuck on the front door re: “turn off oven, lock door”, and something else…can’t remember the third instruction) She didn’t even have all my coffee in the right amount already in the filters ready to drop in the pot. I guess she thinks I’m old enough to fend for myself now. Makes me feel like a big boy.

Gayle always leaves a card for me hidden where I’ll find it after she’s gone. I get a kick out of that. Sometimes on my pillow. Sometimes in the refrigerator and once on the toilet. There’s no significance to the toilet thing, except that she knows that sooner or later I’ll make a visit. Frankly, I like all of that.

Gotta get to the airport. More later.

Church without Walls

2010-10-15T15:30:00.000-07:00

Back in the 50's there was a great comic strip called “Rick O’Shay”. It was my favorite comic strip. “Hipshot”, who was a rough gunslinger, would ride his horse to the top of a mountain on Easter and Christmas, take off his hat while gazing out at the mountains, and pray. I guess I identify with Hipshot.

Church Without Walls

2010-10-11T13:23:00.000-07:00

I’ve had theological questions since I was a kid. They bubbled to the surface when I was in college taking courses from professors who openly admitted their intent to destroy any semblance of theism in their students. This was particularly prevalent when psychology was a major. It didn’t work on me.

My analytical process continues to this day, but the rock of my belief system has not altered much. Superfluous questions that can never be answered have been discarded leaving me with a few solid pillars that underpin my belief system.

I have yet to find a church that sees things the way I do, so I’ve resigned myself to what I call my church without walls. I go to church every day... or at least most days. That’s when I walk in the woods with my dog. In my church there are no babies crying, no people singing off tune to inane songs led by young guitar players from garage bands and hyper-kinetic drummers. No social cliques. No long sermons.

In the forest there’s peace, there’s a stillness and solitude that refreshes my spirit, while my dog runs blissfully seeking a new spot to leave his business card. That’s my church and that’s where I communicate, reflect, pray, and think.

Even more profound is the evening service when I can sit on my deck and stare into the heavens. There’s no ambient light here in Greenhorn Ranch and my property backs to the forest, so the sky is clear and one gets the impression that there are actually more stars in the sky in the mountains than there are in the city.

That’s it. That’s my sermon for today. I think I’ve finally found my church.

"Come on Baby, Light My Fire"

2010-09-19T19:25:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure if I was a bad kid, if I was just mischievous or if I became demented prematurely, but I was just thinking of what it was like to be raised in a large church with a bunch of buddies who were crazy.

If my dad had known what was going on behind the scenes I wouldn’t have lived to experience the true and indisputable insanity of puberty. My dad was a quiet and spiritual man with an Irish temper and the physical prowess to back it up. I loved and respected my father as I did my “Italian” mother, who was both protector and consigliere for her two sons. There were times when she would go to bat for us even when we were guilty as sin. My parents were a good team. They understood the “good cop, bad cop” routine.

I have many, many friends to this day that I have known from when we were kids in the church. But church was more than fire and brimstone for some of us. We were the pre-teen dingbats who were allowed to sit together in the back row, as long as we didn’t start a fire or a fight.

Many of our unorthodox practices would never be found in the church creed. For example, my buddy Johnny and I once snuck out of church, crept upstairs just over the auditorium and lit off a huge firecracker that brought the entire congregation to the gates of glory. My job was to “flick” it out the window, where it would not have caused a problem, but I missed it, panicked and jumped back.

Boom! The thing was like a clap of thunder inside the church. There were a few heart attacks and some “Hallelujahs,” but, in truth, the congregation had never been so uplifted and some even thought the rapture had occurred. Eventually things settled down as the deacons sprinted from the auditorium in search of the culprits.

Johnny and I were in an empty room upstairs when we heard the footsteps of the search and rescue team and the barks of the hounds. The only place we could find to hide was behind a curtain in one of the classrooms. We stood quietly with our backs to the wall and the heavy curtain touching our noses. Our hearts were pounding like the kettle drums in Space Odyssey.

What neither of us knew was that our feet were sticking out from under the curtain. Suddenly the curtain was ripped open and we were face to face with the minister’s wife. She had an angry look on her face, but must have been quite certain of the identity of the perpetrators, because she looked sternly at both of us, then slammed the curtain shut and walked away without saying a word. The only thing we could figure was that her son was normally with us on these escapades and maybe she thought he was hiding somewhere else in the room. To this day I think I saw a slight smile starting to form as she stared into the face of two of her favorite kids, both of whom must have looked terrified. Maybe it was the feet of two morons poking out from under the curtain that softened her wrath.

That’s just one of many stories, but I don’t want to give our grandsons any ideas. Can you imagine what would happen if my youngest grandson known as “Animal” ever got loose in a church?

Here he is..."Animal"

A Proclamation of Temporary Emancipation

2010-09-14T11:03:00.000-07:00

I admit to being remiss in updating my blog, but I tend to forget I have a blog. And I’m still not sure of the purpose of posting my ramblings, but I also admit that I enjoy typing nonsense that comes off the top of my head after a gin and tonic. So what comes off the top of my head this morning without a gin and tonic?

The most obvious is that Gayle is gone for a week. She is taking care of her two grandsons while her daughter is on vacation. She combines her obligation with visits with her close friends in Discovery Bay, where we once had a home on the water and she is evidently having a good time. So what’s it like for me in a relatively empty house?

First, it’s not like the experience is something new. I try to give Gayle the chance to visit her friend in Oregon, her friends back in civilization and just about anything she comes up with to take a breather from the chauvinist she lives with in Quincy.

She takes a lot of trips. Two weeks after we were married, she flew to Ireland with three of her girlfriends and spent a couple of weeks at an equestrian center located in a famous castle where they rode horses cross country each day, ate potatoes and sipped beer in Irish pubs. As Khalil Gibran said, it’s good to allow space in a relationship. I think he was right.

I’m filling in the space by feeding cats, the dog, making my own coffee, and following instructions that Gayle is so great at leaving for me. She leaves little notes stuck at strategic places around the house with instruction for everything. For example, the note on the refrigerator tells me when to give the male cat his pill, how to mix it with special juice and reminds me to do this at 12 hour intervals, how to follow it up with his food and how to protect him from the dog stealing his food. Then how to put the medicine for the female cat in with her food and guard her from the male cat, who likes to steal her food. What not to feed the dog in order to avoid the Hershey squirts, since he doesn’t do well on pork and reminding me not to steal Gayle’s food, like her chocolate hidden in the cupboard.

The note on the coffee pot reminds me to turn it off. I actually forgot to do this the first day she was gone, but don’t tell her that. She’s on the verge of having me committed already.

The notes on how to work the three remotes in order to watch a DVD is helpful, but with my brilliant mind I was able to grasp the complexity of this process after the first try. You can tell her that.

On the other hand there are some plusses: Things like watching football on TV with the volume up so that I can follow the action while in the den, working on my new deck, hiking in the mountains with my trusty dog, riding my motorcycle through beautiful pine forests, having spicy barbeques with my friends from India, swimming at the gym, slamming the refrigerator door at 3 AM without waking my wife, listening to Limbaugh with the volume up, and washing the dishes whenever I want. Actually, I do most of these things even when Gayle is in residence.

But in the final analysis, being apart makes you appreciate each other, and that’s a good thing.

Anthropomorphism

2010-09-05T17:18:00.000-07:00

The Bible says that God created man in his image. Not to be outdone, man insists on creating God or his gods in man’s image. It’s been going on since primitive times, although looking at our culture, if you drop out technology you may wonder if we aren’t still “primitive.” After all, some people still worship trees and rocks.

“Anthropomorphism”, is not a new word for anyone, but it is interesting how it is applied in various cultures. Anthropomorphism involves attributing human characteristics to gods, animals, objects, etc. An entire book could be written on Greek and Roman gods and other polytheistic cultures and the images they worshipped, but even today most people have an image of God that includes many human characteristics.

Most mature folks today would reject the idea that God is an old guy with white hair and a long white beard, sitting on a cloud; his piercing eyes watching to see if you got up at night, snuck into the kitchen and ate the last piece of pizza. But we still apply human emotions and personality traits to God. It must be in our nature.

Carl Jung, the Swiss psychiatrist, might say it’s an archetype from our ancestral past or Freud might consider God as a “father image”. Whatever we think God is or isn’t doesn’t in any way alter who or what He is in reality, but that’s not what got me thinking about this anthropomorphic thing. It was my dog.

I want to talk about my dog. I tend to be anthropomorphic when it comes to animals. I blame Walt Disney. I grew up with Bambi, Donald Duck, the first flasher, Goofy, who was most likely my role model, Pluto, who actually walked like a dog. All those characters are tangible manifestations of anthropomorphism.

I spent part of my wasted youth trying to understand why Donald Duck and his nephews wore shirts and no pants. The first time I tried that as a toddler, my grandmother brought me in the house and slapped a diaper on me. Later I thought maybe the ducks were perverts of some sort, but settled on the idea that it was a cultural thing.

As a kid I wouldn’t kill a lady bug, because I knew her “house was on fire” and she needed to “fly away home.” And I’m obviously not the first kid who wondered whether Goofy was a dog or a human and how animals could talk.

Those rhymes and cartoon characters must have left indelible impressions on a generation of kids, so that now when people look at a bird feeding its young they think the bird “loves” the baby birds, when in fact the bird is just doing what she has been programmed to do. The bird would probably rather be dropping markers on a statue of Lenin or a moving target like maybe a pedestrian.

Back to dogs…Talk to anyone who owns a dog and listen to how they describe their animal’s behavior. Listen to me describe my own dog. I have a Miniature Australian Shepherd, a dog that’s known for its intelligence. No dog has a better life than Dakota, who is now about one year old. He sleeps in the house just about anywhere he wants. He is never hungry or thirsty. He gets far too much attention. His health is a priority. And the world is his bathroom. It doesn’t get much better than that.

Gayle and I just got back from taking Dakota for a walk in the forest behind our home. He loves running through the trees, chasing squirrels he can never catch and compensating by trying for lizards, which he also can’t seem to catch. But he can catch a stick when it’s not moving.

It’s peaceful and quiet in the woods and a great way to exercise the dog and us too. So we think Dakota is happy. When he runs to us with his lips drawn back, we think he’s smiling. When he licks my hand, I think he likes me, but then I realize I hadn’t washed my hands since eating ribs. We project our human emotions onto our animals and interpret their instinctive behavior as more than it probably is in reality.

When we were in Oregon recently I thought Dakota would like to ride in a boat. Scared the hell out of the poor little sucker, so I decided that he probably wouldn’t want to ride on my motorcycle or go hang gliding either. Although I’ve done both and still ride the motorcycle, I certainly wouldn’t put a dog on a bike, but I’ve seen dogs on motorcycles. These guys must think the dog likes being terrified.

Yep. I’m the first to admit that I’m a dog lover. I have a soft spot for animals generally and maybe I should thank Walt Disney for that, but sometimes even I go overboard being anthropomorphic when it comes to animals. But there was never a question in my mind that Dakota would like peanut butter sandwiches.

Mother Nature Takes Over

2010-08-29T19:09:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when the children make a mess, Mother Nature has to step in and clean it up.

The recent oil gusher in the gulf is a case where the children decided that it was safer for the environment to drill for oil way, way out at sea than, say, to drill in a desolate area of Alaska like Anwar, where there might be less damage to the environment. Evidently it makes more sense to go far out to sea, where the ocean is rough and currents are strong, and find a spot where it’s a mile down before you hit the ocean floor and drill there. Makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it?

Way out at sea all was quiet until a pipe blew and oil gushed to the ocean surface and began to spread in a greasy mass off the gulf coast. The leader of the children acted quickly sending lawyers to the gulf to find someone to sue. That really didn’t solve the problem. The boys and girls in government thought and thought for days and days while the oil gushed and gushed, but they had no solution.

Individuals and privately owned businesses offered suggestions, but their ideas sat on the table as the leaders continued to pace the floor. Foreign governments offered to send clean-up ships to the gulf, but the leader hesitated in suspending the Jones Act, which prevents non-union ships in the gulf. So the government kept pacing and the oil kept leaking and the world kept watching.

The slick continued to spread, with globs and huge plumes of oil moving silently beneath the surface of the water. The damage had spread along the coast, causing the loss of jobs and destroying the economies of communities that depend on tourism, fishing and related industries for their survival. And the leaders paced the floor and thought and thought some more.

Finally the leak was plugged by the oil company and a clean-up effort began, but the prognosis for a pristine coast was not good. Miles of oil continued to expand.

Then a miracle happened. The oil suddenly began to disappear. People were swimming and fishing again. There was no explanation. Scientists ran to their microscopes. No one knew what happened to the oil, but the people rejoiced and their leader played another 18 holes of golf.

It was determined that a tiny microbe had begun consuming the oil. What the government, the experts and the scientists could not do, this tiny bacterium could do. This newly discovered microbe is said to be closely related to a petroleum-degrading microbe that operates deep in the cold waters of the ocean. But this was a new variety.

As we know, oil leaks constantly from the floor of oceans. Weird little microbes thrive way down there. There’s a species called Oceanospirillales that loves oil like Italians love spaghetti. This species thrives in deep, cold water, where temperatures have been recorded at 5 degrees Celsius (41 Fahrenheit). This newly discovered microbe is related by marriage to Oceanospirillales and these little dudes love oil.

Some scientists were concerned that these little helpers would use up oxygen in the water, creating a “dead zone” where other marine life could not survive. But that seems not to be the case. Mother Nature took care of that one too and sent the children to bed.

It’s interesting that an army of microbes appears to be solving a problem that we human beings were incapable of solving. That must be a humbling realization for some. You know, the folks who think human beings are powerful enough to change the climate of the world.

Who's Keeping Score?

2010-08-21T11:40:00.000-07:00

Eighteen years! Holy cow! That’s longer than some people have been alive. But compared to many of my friends, it’s not very long at all. Oh yes…I’m talking about Gayle’s and my anniversary. Of course, this was not the first marriage for either of us, but the rule is that past marriages don’t count in the total score, so I guess our kids won’t have to worry about a golden anniversary party for us. Actually, neither of us can believe we made it this long.

They say that married men live longer than single men. Maybe it just seems longer. But it would be interesting to examine the reasons men walk off the stage first and the role of marriage in the process. Could it be that our wives won’t let us die as long as there’s garbage to take out and a leaky faucet to fix? But despite their efforts, we men check out first.

My dad enjoyed his retirement villa, which was loaded with widows. Dad was Joe Cool and dapper at almost 90 years old; a true inspiration to my brother Tom and me. Tom says that if Dad spotted a woman he liked in the cafeteria, he would hit her metal chair with his cane. And he would hit it hard. When old ladies are startled they make a “hooting” sound. In one pass through the cafeteria Dad turned the place into what sounded like a horse barn full of owls with Tourette syndrome. He evidently had a lot of favorites.

Gayle and I had a great dinner tonight at a rustic lodge located high in the mountains and on the bank of a beautiful lake. It was fantastic. Great environment. Excellent food. And an unbelievable view of the lake and surrounding mountains. There are several places like this hidden away in these hills. Most have cabins with reservations years in advance with unique lodges and good food.

It was a beautiful trip to and from, although I almost hit one deer, five squirrels and a partridge in a pear tree. Up here in the Sierras you worry more about animals than traffic, so I drive like an old guy.

Time to wind down and get back in training for another year. Gayle is yelling that I forgot to bring the garbage can back in. That should give me another week or two. I’m keeping two leaky faucets as back-ups. As long as something is broken, Gayle will keep feeding me.

Grubs, Bugs, and Chianti

2010-08-11T22:21:00.000-07:00

Since I write for the Green Business Chamber, which goes to chambers of commerce and businesses across the country, I find myself walking the fence between a conscientious and reasonable concern for the environment and the radical environmentalists with their global warming hysteria. I have to be careful not to offend the latter while holding to reasonable conservation practices. Sometimes it’s a delicate balance. I love nature and I have no tolerance for polluters, but I’m not ready to eliminate back yard barbeques yet.

I don’t believe that man has the ability to cause global climate change, nor do I believe that the blue people who hold their breath to cut down on carbon dioxide are saving the planet. I think the sun has a say in the whole thing and the carbon footprint of a volcanic eruption can quickly destroy all the environmental benefits of carpooling, riding bikes to work and turning off lights. I think some of these folks go overboard.

I’ve mentioned the celebrity who claimed she only uses one square of toilet paper. After that admission, sadly her social life went to pot. Then there was the scientist who hooked a large plastic container to his cow to measure bovine flatulence, i.e. “gas”. Unfortunately a cowhand lit a cigarette and blew up the cow, the scientist, ten chickens and a pig. And we have the morons who decided to burn corn for fuel, resulting in tremendous negative impacts on the environment, as well as causing Mexicans to turn from eating corn tortillas and beans to French bread and Brie.

Here’s the latest: The UN is considering strategies to cut levels of meat consumption worldwide as part of its commitment to stamp out famine and cut down on greenhouse gasses. The UN claims that cows and pigs and other livestock require too much space and fodder to be an energy-efficient food source as the population increases. So the UN Food & Agriculture Organization is urging us to eat bugs. I’ve eaten a few bugs in my life, mostly when riding a motorcycle and I had a cousin who once ate a spider during a psychotic episode where he morphed into a chameleon.

John the Baptist lived on locusts and honey and the 1st-century Roman author, Pliny, wrote that beetle larvae, raised on a mixture of flour and wine, was considered a great treat among the toga set. The UN recommendation of grubs, bugs, scorpions and giant ants will no doubt help us lose weight, if nothing else. It’s evidently high in protein.

An authentic package of giant toasted ants states that these special treats have a “nutty, bacon-like taste, with an earthy, spicy kick.” For that taste combination how about cashews, Canadian bacon, top soil and Tabasco sauce instead?

It’s estimated that 80% of the world’s population devour the creeping and crawling creatures found under rocks. Since our country is moving into third world status at an alarming rate, by the time Obama is through with us grub dealers and ant farmers may corner the food market. In the meantime I’ll stick to peanut butter, steak and ravioli.

Enough

2010-07-25T13:02:00.000-07:00

I either heard or read the following story about Jack Bogle, who founded Vanguard, the large mutual fund company that also handles other financial products.

A news reporter stated, “Vanguard is a not-for-profit company. If you had organized it differently, you’d be a billionaire today. Any regrets?”

Jack Bogle’s answer is profound and I am reminded of his wisdom continually. Bogle said, “I read this story recently: There’s a big cocktail party on Martha’s Vineyard. Someone comes up to this writer, I think it was Joseph Heller, author of ‘Catch-22’, and says, ‘Joe, see that guy over there? He’s a hedge fund manager and he made more money yesterday than you made on all the books you have ever published.’ Heller pauses and says, ‘Yeah, but I have something he’ll never have. I have enough.’”

We all know people who will never have ‘enough’, no matter how much money they have or how many ‘things’ they own. There are others who think they have a right to more than they have. If you can accept the fact that you have ‘enough’ that is a positive step in starving an insatiable appetite for more or for dealing with financial loss.

Never Judge a Book by its Cover

2010-07-15T20:23:00.000-07:00

I’ve learned not to judge people by first impressions. This lesson has been reinforced many times in my life. I’ll mention only three instances that I use as reminders.

I was in the doctor’s waiting room with several patients waiting to be blessed by the appearance of a lady in white to announce my audience with the doctor. An elderly black man sat across from me. By his clothes he appeared to be indigent as he sat quietly starring at the floor. Floors get stared at a lot in waiting rooms.

This man in the waiting room was like me…just waiting patiently for his appointment. I struck up a conversation with him and was immediately impressed by his level of thought and diction. I immediately realized that he was more than his dress and demeanor indicated. It turned out that he was a retired scientist with credentials I could never match. I would have never known had I not talked with him.

I once owned commercial property and a store, gas station, car wash and deli operation. Every morning an elderly guy came in the store to buy a particular brand of Vodka in a small bottle. He returned again in the afternoon each day. I had the manager keep his brand and bottle size in stock for him. I asked why he only bought small bottles when he could save money on a larger bottle. His answer was that he didn’t want to take it home where his wife would catch him. He would take his little bottle of booze and his dog to the park and sit in his car and drink most of the day.

My initial impression was that he was just a burned out alcoholic, but I liked him and I spent a great amount of time talking with him. We became friends. As with the first example, this man impressed me with his intelligence and I eventually discovered more of his background.

He was the commander of the flight squadron in which Joseph Kennedy, John F. Kennedy’s older brother, was a pilot. As we know, Joseph Kennedy was being primed by his famous father for the presidency, but he died when his plane crashed. John was his father’s second choice. My friend was most likely leading the squadron when Joseph crashed.

He hadn’t been in the store for awhile when I read his obituary in the paper. This man with the small bottle of liquor and his faithful dog had an amazing career. It took long newspaper columns to cover his life. He was a war hero, among many, many accomplishments. He had done more with his life than I’ll ever do. I’m glad I knew him.

During my time at San Jose State College, I played the trumpet at night to pay my college costs. I played every kind of gig imaginable and was once hired to play in a large band in a dance hall in San Jose. The “Rainbow Ballroom” was kind of a dingy place and a place where I thought the dregs of society went to drink, dance or sleep.

I showed up, took out my trumpet and met some of the band members. It was a large band that used three trumpets. The two regular trumpet men were older than I was. They were unbelievable players. Although I was the top player in college, these guys were better. My smartass college boy attitude rationalized their superior skill by thinking, “Man, I hope I’m not playing in a dive like this when I’m their age. I’m going to college and these poor guys will always be stuck in smoky dance halls like this.”

My eyes were opened when I found out that the guy sitting next to me with the black suit and white socks hanging around his ankles was a Stanford professor who was known as the world’s foremost authority on Shakespeare. The other trumpet player was a nuclear physicist and both men were the two best trumpet players I ever worked with. Interestingly, the piano player was also a physicist. I didn’t ask about anyone else. That was humbling enough and a valuable lesson that I’ve never forgotten.

It turned out that later the Shakespeare professor and I played trumpet together in other groups, including the San Jose Symphony. I based a character in my novel on this man with the white socks hanging in weary repose over his ankles. He obviously lived at an intellectual altitude where socks don’t matter.

These are just three examples that come to mind that reinforce my belief that one should never judge a book by its cover.

Sunset in America?

2010-07-10T18:13:00.000-07:00

“When small men cast large shadows, the sun is about to set.”

This is a quote from a Chinese writer that applies to our country today. There are many large shadows darkening the landscape of the U. S. today and our citizens, as well as international leaders around the globe, sense that the sun is setting on a once great nation.

Our founders were giants like George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, Samuel Adams, Ben Franklin and other men of stature, intelligence and integrity. Compare these men to our current magnificent administration - Barack Obama, Joe Biden, Hillary Clinton, Janet Napolitano, Eric Holder, et al. What a contrast!

After looking at our leadership, consider the shadows that are rapidly creeping into every crevice of our lives, replacing our freedom with control by an inept government.

How did we get to this point? Is the voting public this ignorant? Is the course we are on as a nation due to incompetence or is there an international agenda? If those in power are not as stupid and unqualified as they seem to be, what else could account for our slide?

You can’t have a one-world government as long as there is one superpower still standing. Could that be the purpose of bringing down the U. S.? To level the playing field, as our “leader” implies. Is our “leader” the puppet master or the puppet? Is there a “Wizard of Oz” behind the curtain?

Are those currently in positions of power really the best our country has to offer? Really?? Small men are indeed casting large shadows.

Is the sun setting on America?

There Could Never Be Another Ewe

2010-06-27T16:54:00.000-07:00

You may remember that classic tune, “There could never be another you.” It’s a romantic concept, but is it true? Dolly the sheep was a Ewe and scientists evidently cloned her, so there was another “ewe.” (Sorry…)

This whole cloning thing presents questions. I was shocked when we took a family portrait to see a definite resemblance in every person in the photo. What was particularly disturbing is the fact that even my daughter’s husbands had the bizarre genetic mutation…and they aren’t even related to us by blood. Check out the photo. It’s pretty scary. My youngest grandson Joshua, also known as “Animal”, bears a striking resemblance to Adolph Hitler with glasses. That’s terrifying.

This brings us to the questions: Could there ever be another human being exactly like you? In my case, would the world really want another me? My wife thinks there are too many of me now.

Cloning is a strange thing to contemplate. If it were possible to clone a human being, would the personality of the individual go along with the physical body? Would my clone like peanut butter sandwiches dipped in hot cocoa? If we were both young, would my clone and I be competing for the same women? Could we pick the women we like and have them cloned? Better yet, could we pick various characteristics from different women for an ideal composite? On the other side of the coin, if nobody picked me to be cloned, I could become extinct. And if I were cloned, which one would be me?

Some people are having their pets cloned. There are claims that aliens in flying saucers have cloned human beings. Folks that believe this alien theory can be easily identified by an irrational fear of twins. The sight of triplets brings immediate incontinence.

On the bright side, if you are the type person who only enjoys hanging around people like yourself, cloning could be the answer. Clone three more of yourself and you could play poker and drink beer with guys you like. You could all cheer for the same team on Super Bowl Sunday. And you could fight over the one woman all four of you wanted.

Cloned women could exchange clothes and they would fit perfectly. When a group of women get together, they all talk at once. To a man passing by it may sound like a fox got in with the chickens, but women have the ability to hear and talk at the same time. If the woman clones were together having lunch, there would be no need to talk because they would all be thinking the same thing and there would be no difference of opinion.

With cloning, the phrase, “I can’t be in two places at once” would become obsolete. The old childhood saying, “Me, myself, and I,” would become a reality for all three of you. Those rare individuals who struggle with multiple personalities could pass their various identities out to as many of their clones as needed. The possibilities boggle the mind.

But back to the family portrait. Actually the Groucho Marx getup was my youngest daughter Juliane’s idea, which demonstrates the fact that you don’t need cloning to pass things like goofiness on to your offspring.

Extrapolating From a Basketball

2010-06-23T16:51:00.000-07:00

I was a high school teacher at one time and some kid left a basketball in the middle of the basketball court. The gym was empty and quiet and the ball sat motionless on the floor. While the ball might have been motionless, it created mental motion inside my skull.

I started thinking…what if that basketball incorporated our entire universe – our earth, all the stars, planets, space, dark holes, anti-matter, Jay Leno jokes and my daughter’s pasta recipe? What if everything we could imagine, invent, or test using the scientific method was packed inside that ball. Our total existence; including our mental capabilities and scientific potential - what if it all could exist within that basketball?

Since I mentioned the scientific method, science would necessarily be unable to extend its methodology beyond the parameters of the ball and could only examine and test the natural universe that exists within the limits of that orb, despite its vastness from our perspective.

Is it possible that something exists outside of the basketball? The basketball is lying on the floor of a huge gymnasium. Since we can’t see it and can’t test for it and can’t even imagine it, could there be something outside the ball? Could there be bleachers out there? Or lockers? Or smelly gym clothes? Or even a school filled with obnoxious teenagers? And maybe another school down the street filled with obnoxious teenagers?

So even if we could understand the mysteries of our own vast and limitless universe, is it unreasonable to consider the possibility that something else might exist outside or in another realm of existence, another dimension, far beyond our ability to comprehend?

The song by Peggy Lee comes to mind, "Is That All There Is?. Maybe this is not all there is.

How To Feel Old

2010-06-21T16:27:00.000-07:00

If you still think you’re thirty years old, spend a week with your grandkids. But, frankly, it’s well worth it.

I’ve attached a couple of photos of two of our grandsons, Luke and Seth, on a quad. Manroop Singh is our friend and the owner of the vehicle. He’s the one bent over working on something and is the same age as Luke. The old guy in the background is me. One thing about being a grandfather is that you can let the teenagers work on their own machines while you oversee things and pretend that you know what they’re doing.

We took a couple of motorcycles and the quad up a dirt road traveling miles into the mountains and returned covered in dust. I looked like a 250 pound dirt clod. I had Seth (the youngest) on the back of my Triumph until he thought his ass fell off, at which point we put him on the quad for a more comfortable ride. Actually his rear end was still attached, but I guess it was numb.

The other photo is at a river just out of town, which was ice cold. Here you see brotherly love in action, with Luke pushing his unsuspecting little brother in the freezing water. My dog Dakota is also shown doing what he does best…looking for something gross to eat. Good photo by Grandma.

Daily hikes in the mountains off-set the kid’s obsessions with computerized games. An authentic Indian-style barbeque with curry and all the great flavors put a cap on the second day. This countered my version of a barbeque, where I offer parts of a cremated dead chicken to reluctant guests and the smoke from my culinary task as an offering to the ancestors of the unfortunate creature. I think my kids tolerate my barbeque skills out of compassion.

Everyone rides Harleys. So I ride Triumphs.

2010-06-06T22:18:00.000-07:00

The sun has finally come out in Quincy. After snow even in June, it’s time to start riding my trusty Triumph motorcycle. I’ve taken some short jaunts between storms, but we are heading into the second week of June and it’s motorcycle time in the beautiful Sierra Mountains.

Here’s a shot of the newer of my Triumph motorcycles in our driveway in Discovery Bay. I also have a 1969 Triumph, which is identical to the one I bought in Denmark and rode through Europe in 1969. Someday maybe I’ll write something about that trip. I lived on that bike for weeks on end traveling through nine countries, including Yugoslavia when Tito ran the place.

Ahhh, to be young again. But even old guys ride motorcycles, as the photo proves.

Do You Have The Time?

2010-05-29T14:08:00.000-07:00

“Time began with the world – or after it.” Judaeus said that sometime in the first century (Philo Judaeus. 20 B.C.– 40 A.D.). What does that mean?

Well, according to Albert Einstein and his Theory of Relativity, it means that “If matter and its motion disappeared there would no longer be any space or time.” So prior to the existence of matter - the physical universe - there was no time.

I always think of it as holding a pencil between my thumb and forefinger and thinking of that pencil as “time.” It has a beginning and it has an end. The space around the pencil is eternity. People think in terms of concepts like “eternity” as being an extension of that pencil far into the future. The pencil goes on and on endlessly. This is the notion that time extends for ever, but that isn’t the case. In a timeless world there is no future. There is only "now."

Time has a beginning and it may very well have an end. So our existence, our universe and time itself is like the pencil floating in a vast sea timelessness.

Time could actually be an aberration. It may only exist in the physical universe. It may only be a factor in our existence. If there is a God, he must exist outside of space and time. Outside of our reality and our limitations. You wouldn’t find Mozart in one of his symphonies, for example, or God within his creation. But that’s another subject. The point is that a Creator would exist outside our time/space continuum.

Remember…you can’t have space or time without matter and motion. “Eternity” is not an extension of time. It is the absence of time.

It’s an interesting concept and one that has always fascinated me. It’s cud for rumination.

Embarrassing Teenage Moments

2010-05-22T16:41:00.000-07:00

I keep forgetting to update my blog, so I thought maybe this time I’d get personal and divulge some of the most embarrassing things that happened to me as a kid. Like most of my writing, this is off the top of my head.

The earliest thing I can now recall is when I was in elementary school and had a favorite shirt. My folks didn’t have a lot of money and my poor little brother ended up with some of my clothes as he grew. But I did have a favorite shirt. I can still picture it. It had blue and white vertical stripes.

Evidently I wore it daily for at least a week until a pretty girl boldly asked me if that was the only shirt I had. You know…I honestly didn’t think of it until just now, but that girl may have been my wife. She’s blunt and would say something like that. We did go all through school together, although we didn’t meet again and marry until sometime in our fifties. Yep. It could have been her. But now she’s buys my shirts, so she can’t complain. I hate shopping.

Another embarrassing moment was on a first date. I was always shy with girls as a kid and so awkward that my first date with a good looking girl at a drive-in movie was torture. I was determined to kiss this girl, but every time she turned to me, I turned my head in the opposite direction and pretended to look out the window. I don’t think I kissed her until about thirty years later at a class reunion.

But the worst experience was when I walked a girl to her doorstep and I finally got up the courage to kiss her. Unfortunately I closed my eyes too early and missed her completely. When nothing happened after an eternity, I finally opened my eyes with my head sticking out like a turtle, lips puckered and feeling like a fool. She gave me a peck on the cheek and quickly went inside. She gave me instructions later.

It was about that time that I finally kissed another girl in the dark and did it so passionately that I thought that she must think I’m a great and experienced lover. When she started talking and I felt her chin move and my head move at the same time, I suddenly realized I was locked onto that indentation between her lower lip and her chin. How else could she talk while I kissed her? In retrospect, I realize my aim as a kid left much to be desired. Maybe that’s why I was an MP in the Army rather than a sniper.

One last one, then I’ll quit. I never had a lot of money as a kid, although I worked from an early age. And my folks didn’t have money either, so I never had a ’57 Chevy or a ’50 Ford, like the rich kids drove to school. I was lucky to buy a 1939 four door Pontiac for $80.00. This car was old even then. It had a broken motor mount and when you made a left turn the engine would fall over pulling the throttle to the floor with the radiator fan hitting the metal housing. With the racket under the hood, the instant acceleration and squealing tires accompanied by the terrified screams of my passengers, left turns were always an exciting experience.

I remember taking a beautiful blond out in that car. This girl was a 10 plus. Everything went well and suddenly the girl moved up real close to me. I interpreted that as a romantic move until I noticed a small fire under the dashboard. It was very small at first and, although I noticed it, I was too embarrassed to acknowledge it. She didn’t say anything either. It wasn’t long before it turned into a growing flame and when her nylons ( shows how long ago that was.) started melting neither of us could any longer deny the reality that the car was on fire! I pulled over, got out and threw dirt under the dash until the fire went out. Of course the fire went out for both of us that night too and I don’t think I ever saw that beauty again. What a shame.

I guess I was really an idiot with girls when I was a kid, so maybe being an old guy now isn’t so bad. At least my wife doesn’t make fun of my shirts and I think I learned how to kiss, but I’ll have to ask Gayle… because now I can’t remember.

Hug a Tree

2010-05-04T16:06:00.000-07:00

Back in 1947 a Norwegian explorer and writer named Thor Heyerdahl built a raft called the “Kon-Tiki”. He sailed for over 100 days across the Pacific Ocean and made a documentary in 1951. I saw the film and one particular point that he made never left my memory. He said that not a day went by that he didn’t encounter trash floating in the water. This was over a half century ago and pollution of the ocean was well on its way even back then. Frankly, I found that upsetting enough that I have never forgotten it.

More recently scientists have discovered a floating island of trash in the Pacific ocean estimated to be somewhere in size between Texas and the continental United States. This mass of trash consists primarily of plastic, which doesn’t biodegrade. It photo degrades and does breakdown into smaller particles, but it never actually “goes away.” Plastic kills sea life and even when broken down into small particles it is passed through various forms of sea life and eventually to fish that we eat. Evidence indicates that there may be a connection to various health problems in humans as a result.

There is no excuse for this kind of irresponsibility. We have a responsibility to take care of the earth and we have the means to do it. We should take that responsibility seriously. Personally I get very angry when I read about how we are messing up our planet.

I live in the forest. I love nature. I take my dog for a hike in the woods almost daily and it’s great. But I’m disgusted by the childish and irresponsible behavior of some people. Even in our beautiful area people dump trash, car parts, and anything imaginable on their property and elsewhere. There’s no excuse for that just as there is no excuse for industrial waste dumped in rivers and the ocean. I was told I had six months to live after swimming in a bay in Costa Rica that I didn’t know was polluted with industrial and medical waste.

So I’m very pro-environment. But I don’t buy man-made global warming or man caused climate change. I don’t understand the hubris of those who think man is more powerful than the sun, solar activity and the electromagnetic forces impacting the earth. The climate of the earth has always been in flux.

The recent volcanic eruption in Iceland probably did more damage to the environment than all the emissions from automobiles, backyard barbeques, and bovine flatulence combined. But the environment will heal from this just as it did from the Mt. St. Helen’s eruption.

Cap and Trade has more to do with the world economy, enriching a select few and a general transfer of wealth than protecting the environment. And the environmental movement has become a religion. It’s anti-capitalism, tyrannical and sometimes just plain stupid.

There are extremes in every movement. A famous female entertainer told a TV audience that she uses only one square of toilet paper in order to save the environment. Nobody shook hands with her. A well-intentioned scientist changed the diet of his cows to cut down on bovine flatulence. Another guy wants to utilize methane gas productively by connecting old Bessie to his outdoor barbeque.

Other geniuses decide to use corn as fuel, which encourages people in third world countries to clear-cut rain forests in order to grow corn and make a quick buck. Ironically, the forest soil left after the land has been cleared can’t support corn crops and is rapidly washed away by the tropical rains. So now we’ve lost a valuable natural resource and a source for much of our medicine while attempting to produce fuel to drive our cars to a mall where fertile farmland has been covered in concrete.

Pogo once said, “We have met the enemy and he is us.” He got that right.

Is Laughter the Best Medicine?

2010-04-10T11:37:00.000-07:00

Years ago there was a story about a guy who had a terminal disease, but determined to cure himself through laughter. His name is Norman Cousins. He was the editor of Saturday Review for 30 years and wrote a book entitled, “Anatomy of an Illness.” He spent his days watching Laurel and Hardy movies and other comedy films that made him laugh. The amazing thing is that he was healed and he credits his healing to laughter. Look up Norman Cousins on the internet.

The Maryland Medical Center found that laughing is almost as effective as exercise for improving arterial health. So when you go to the gym, find a comfortable chair and watch the sweat hogs pumping iron and popping hemorrhoids, the fat guys trying to tie their shoes and the young gong-ho beginners throwing a subtle flex and sucking in their gut while glancing furtively and seemingly inconspicuously in the mirror as they walk by. Just don’t let anyone see you laugh. That’s the tricky part.

Sitting where you can also see the young ladies jogging on the treadmill is an additional benefit in terms of exercising the eye muscles and increasing peripheral vision, but that must be weighed against a possible increase in stress. But back to laughter…

Laughter relaxes blood vessels and improves circulation to the heart and it lowers cortisol, a hormone related to stress. The reason it works is that it reduces stress and stress will compromise your immune system. There are other ways of reducing stress, including exercise, having a dog or cat, prayer and other things, but laughing is fun.

In short, laughter is good for you. Do it whenever you can.

Life is full to the brim with pain, sadness, sickness, cruelty, disasters, mentally ill and stupid political leaders and a myriad of negative events that can bury you emotionally. Yogi Berra said, “If you come to a fork in the road, take it.” I say, “If you get a chance to laugh, take it!”

Well I'll Be A Monkey's Uncle

2010-04-02T14:04:00.000-07:00

Darwin’s Theory of Evolution has become part of the conventional wisdom of western culture, but I must be stupid because there are things about that theory that make no sense to me. George Orwell said that one has to belong to the intelligentsia to believe things that an ordinary man would be a fool to believe. Maybe it’s good to be ordinary.

I was reminded recently of how complex yet vulnerable our physical bodies are. If something inside us isn’t working perfectly, it can kill us. But according to evolution all these intricacies happened by chance, gradually changing over millions of years, through trial and error.

Here are a few things that I don’t understand. I don’t understand how a creature could breathe before its lungs were fully developed and working perfectly. How about a primitive amphibian bumping into things for ten thousand years before his eyes began to focus? What organ in my body could I live without because it wasn’t fully evolved? Doesn’t everything need to be in place and working perfectly for me to stay alive?

Take the process of reproduction. Two prehistoric rodents bump into each other in a tunnel, fall in love, have a couple of drinks, breed their brains out, and then hope that all the millions of tasks involved in fertilization and gestation work perfectly so junior rodent can pop out alive and well. If anything goes wrong, extinction wins. What if a single piece of this puzzle isn’t in place? What if the girl rodent hadn’t evolved fully functioning mammary glands to coincide with the timely physiological needs of the offspring?

I was taught in college that Archaeopteryx was a transitional form between reptile and bird. I’ve since learned that this unique creature was actually a bird and there is no fossil evidence of creatures gradually transitioning into Archaeopteryx and nothing evolving from him. And according to fossil evidence normal birds were flying around at the same time as the “reptilian” raptor. “Say what…??”

How could an ambitious reptile with his eyes on the friendly skies survive during the centuries it took for his front legs to turn into wings? He couldn’t run and he couldn’t fly. I picture the poor guy flopping around on the ground frantically trying to catch something to eat while he becomes easy prey due to his lack of mobility. That poor sucker wouldn’t last through the day.

Aristotle taught that when something new emerges, it doesn’t come from nothing. It derives from potentiality and the potential must be in the genes. If a cat doesn’t have the genetic potential to become a dog, it won’t happen. If you’re playing with two dice, you’ll never throw a thirteen.

Changes within species, called microevolution, goes on constantly. Evolution on that level is observable and factual. Adaptive adjustments are visible every day. What does not happen is change from one species to a different species. This is a key point.

If certain traits were necessary for survival, how did the creature survive before they were fully developed? If they weren’t necessary for survival, why did they develop at all? And how did these brainless organisms figure it all out? How did the spider come up with the web idea? How did butterflies design their glorious escape from their humble beginnings inching along the stem of a Geranium while dreaming of flight?

Sir Julian Huxley said evolution involves continual increase of order, organization, size and complexity. That’s the premise of evolutionary theory. Evolution requires a full spectrum leading right up the evolutionary ladder, but the evidence isn’t there. The rocks exploded with fossils during the Cambrian period, but the fossil record presents individual species fully formed. There’s an obvious lack of transitional forms.

True believers put their evolution money on mutations, but there are many scientific reasons why mutations won’t work, including the fact that mutations are malformations and are normally deleterious or fatal to the individual.

The Second Law of Thermodynamics, known as the Law of Entropy, states that in all energy transformations, there is a tendency for some of the energy to be transformed into non-reversible heat energy. Everything runs down, decays, and decreases in complexity. But the Theory of Evolution is based on the idea that living forms move from the simple to the complex, the exact opposite of the Second Law. So here we have a proven scientific law in direct conflict with a theory. What do we do now?

The late Malcolm Muggeridge said that someday people would laugh at the idea of evolution. That makes me feel a lot better. Muggeridge was smarter than I am and he didn’t buy it either.

Who's In Control?

2010-03-29T20:45:00.000-07:00

From subtle symbolism to outright brainwashing, the techniques used to control people have always fascinated me. Our last election proves that if we are not a nation of sheep, we’re well on our way. Marketing experts know this and they are experts at pulling money out of your wallet or pushing votes in the booth.

Ads on TV use symbols and images to elicit subliminal connections to sell products. Retailers even study the traffic patterns of shoppers; which way most people turn when entering a store and how to move you through aisles of temptation in your journey to the most popular products. Naturally the higher priced items are displayed at eye level. Books could and probably have been written on marketing techniques. Speaking of books, bookstores will turn a book so that the full cover is displayed if a favorable deal has been struck with the publisher while only the spine is displayed on others.

There’s no more obvious place to witness the effective use of hidden persuaders than in gambling casinos. The motivation to gamble is a psychological study in itself, so let’s just use that as a “given” and move inside the casino. What an exciting environment. Lights, bells, mirrors, people, music, bright colors, entertainment and money everywhere. You want to get in on the action. It’s almost irresistible.

Take the slot machines. Blue-haired women with cigarettes hanging precariously from overly painted lips, sit for hours pulling a handle or pushing a button waiting for God to bless them with a jackpot. Why don’t they give up? Here’s why: The most difficult behavior to extinguish is when the reward is based on an irregular and random basis. If the player won something on every tenth pull and suddenly the winnings terminated, so would the behavior of pulling the handle. But because there’s no pattern and the player never knows when a winner will hit, play may continue until the ‘puller’s’ arm falls off.

Did you know that the musical chord that the slot machines ring is a C major chord, which is a pleasant, reassuring and comforting sound? If there was any dissonance, like a dominant 7 chord, nobody would stick around. But this pleasant C major chord tells you that all is well, you are happy and content, even though you just lost a thousand bucks.

And how many times have you tried to find your way out of one of those places? They are purposely designed that way. Again there’s no obvious pattern for entrance and exit, with mirrors adding to the confusion. They don’t want you to leave, so rather than to look like a moron wandering this way and that, you sit at a table or slot machine until you get your bearings and you order another drink. And they do want you to drink, especially at the tables. The less alert you are, the better they like it.

Have you noticed that there are no clocks in casinos to remind you of how much time you’ve wasted? Hells bells…you can’t even tell whether it’s day or night outside, because it’s always bright and cheery inside. And the pretty women delivering drinks can make a guy linger a little longer. When you finally run out of money and crawl out, after six days without food or water, you can no longer see in the dark, so you lay on the sidewalk until sunrise or until someone in a uniform picks you up. But if it’s daytime when you crawl out, the shock of the bland real world may drive you back inside where the action is. There is much more to say, but that’s enough to think about for now.

One Infamous Fig

2010-03-27T17:23:00.000-07:00

Mark Twain said that the source of all humor is sorrow. But sometimes humor is just the manifestation of a twisted mind. And sometimes it’s just fun.

It was my first day home after a prostatectomy (surgical removal of the prostate gland). I only spent one night in the hospital and I was home. I felt great. The surgeon used a technique that was new at that time called, the DaVinci Surgical System. It’s less invasive and can avoid damaging nerves. Anyway, my kids and grandkids came over to see me and have a barbeque.

They were all surprised at how spry and unaffected I was. I tried to explain that the operation was a snap and the whole thing was no big deal. In fact, I said, “The medical lab gave me permission to take my prostate home to show my family.”

Only my wife knew that one of my neighbors had brought over a bowl of fruit the night before, which included one lonely fig. When I saw the fig, my twisted mind conjured up a bizarre scenario. I put the fig in a jar with water and some red cranberry juice and put it in the refrigerator.

Back to the barbeque…In the course of describing the hospital scene I asked the kids if they had ever seen a real prostate gland. The response was exactly as one would expect. “Da-ad…” and “Gross!” I tried to reassure them that it was just a part of the human body – nothing to be afraid of and with great enthusiasm, I clambered up the steps and into the house, returning with a small jar. Floating ominously in the pink water was the fig. Even thought I knew it was only a fig, it actually looked gross to me too.

The gasps from my daughters, the amazed look on my son-in-law and the huge eyes of my grandson upon seeing their first prostate gland is imprinted indelibly on my mind. Both daughters gasped in unison, “Eeeuuuu!” To assuage their repulsion, I explained that it was harmless. “Look. It’s just a gland. It can’t hurt you.”

To prove my point I unscrewed the cap, lifted the dripping fig from the jar and held it up for the world to see. They backed away, bumping into deck furniture, as though I might toss it on them. I again reassured them that it was harmless and to prove my point, I took a huge bite out of it. It was tough to keep a straight face as I chewed while watching my family scream and scatter. My adult daughters should know me by now, for Pete’s sake. I’ve been goofing around since the day I brought them home from the hospital. Maybe they thought the lobotomy would cure me.

To this day I’m not sure that was the right thing for a grandfather to do, because that initial shock left permanent scars. My eldest daughter is now anorexic and my youngest daughter refuses to eat fruit. My son-in-law has developed a facial tic that occurs whenever he sees a medical commercial on TV and my grandson should finish his therapy session sometime this summer. He wants to be either a surgeon or a butcher when he grows up. He seems to have an insatiable appetite for figs in ketchup.

(Disclaimer – While the story is actually true, that final paragraph is not true. Everyone is fine. They weren’t really that surprised. It turns out they actually know me too well. I don’t think I fooled any of them. Doggone it! )

Call Me On My Cell Phone

2010-03-21T12:26:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, I remember a black wall phone with no dial. Operators would respond to an open line with, “Number please.” And with party lines, which were common, someone would usually interrupt a conversation asking, “Can I use the line? This is Millie down the street. By the way, it’s not true that I can walk with a glass of water balanced on my rear end without spilling a drop.”

As kids we would tie two tin cans together with a string and talk into the can while the other guy put the can up to his ear. It actually worked and Millie couldn’t hear our conversations.

Can you remember when Dick Tracy wore a wrist watch-like device that he could talk into and actually see a picture of the guy he was talking to? Look what cell phones can do today. We’re way past that. It’s mindboggling.

And you can’t get away from the darned things. Cell phones are everywhere. What’s so important that over 50% of people in the U.S. feel naked without a phone in their hand or on their ear? And it’s the same in Europe and Asia. In fact, it’s a worldwide epidemic. I can’t imagine what could be so important that a guy would walk around with some weird device hooked to his ear just in case someone desperately needs to contact him. But it makes him look important and when the world is in such turmoil for this guy to be out of reach could be catastrophic.

Have you ever heard a woman yelling into her phone about her success toilet training her very special baby to her best friend who is waiting for her in the car? Or a “hen-pecked” husband in Safeway calling his wife to get permission to buy chocolate Cheerios. Maybe it’s not that these folks feel insecure or indispensible or want to publicize their success. Maybe they’re just lonely. Or maybe I’m still stuck in the tin can and string age.

The Pony Express was started in 1860. It operated at the western end of a telegraph line in St. Joseph, Missouri, and I think it ended in Sacramento. It covered roughly 2000 miles and had a very brief, but romantic history. That’s the way folks in California got information back then. That was their line of communication, but I guess people have more to talk about now.

I would bet that if you dropped a bean in a jar every time you saw a teenager on a cell phone and took a bean out every time you saw a kid reading a book, you’d fill the jar in no time.

I saw a boy and a girl walking hand in hand in a mall once while each was on their cell phone. The weird thing is that they were talking to each other. Now that’s scary.

"I Animal!"

2010-03-15T16:50:00.000-07:00

For those without grandchildren, this piece might be meaningless. And even those with ‘normal’, mild mannered grandkids might not be able to relate to the exploits of my youngest grandson, referred to by his grandfather as ‘Animal.’ This kid is three years old, but could pass for a 30-year-old troll with an attitude.

I spent Saturday at my daughter’s home, so I can confirm the fact that Animal has yet to be incarcerated. He remains at home under supervision while wearing a tracking device. He is definitely a danger to himself and to others. It’s been suggested that he be sedated, put in a straight jacket and tossed into a padded cell with pastel colors and soft music. But nobody listens to me.

When not plundering and pillaging villages or terrorizing the locals, Animal can sometimes be found at home playing violent computer games. His mother won’t let him play games that are in themselves violent, but it’s the way he plays the game. This distraction gives his mother a brief window of opportunity to seek first aid or take a quick shot of Jack Daniels. But these short respites end with the sound of something breaking as Animal grows tired of destroying images on a computer screen and turns to tangible items in his immediate vicinity, returning to his normal reign of terror.

This kid is like a miniature NFL lineman. Stocky with short legs, I’m convinced he could drive a blocking sled loaded with a 300 pound line coach and a dozen bags of concrete 100 yards while simultaneously arming an explosive device. This would be an opportune time for the line coach to get off the sled and run like hell.

Little Animal can look you in the eye with an adorable crooked smile and just when you feel a wave of love, he’ll hit your kneecap with a head butt that drops you like a rock, while laughing hysterically as you writhe in pain.

I remember when Animal learned his first words somewhere around the age of a year. While talking with my daughter by phone, I heard her ask the little guy if he wanted to talk to Grandpa. The kid took the phone. The next thing I heard was heavy breathing. In a grandfatherly way I said, ‘Do you know who this is?’ No answer. Nothing. Just heavy breathing. My daughter later said that he nodded. Kids always do that. You never want to ask a kid on the phone a yes or no question. They will shake their head, nod, or simply breathe into the phone.

My next question was, ‘Who is this? Who am I talking to?’ There was a brief silence. His reply sent chills down my spine. I’ll never forget it. A raspy voice stated ominously, ‘I Animal!’

Wow! To have formed my grandson’s self image so indelibly at such an early age made me proud. That’s what grandfathers are for…to pass wisdom to a new generation. To help the little creatures develop a sense of self and where they fit in the universe. Right?

But this little guy’s answer also had an impact on me. I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night in a sweat, hearing a raspy voice say, ‘I Animal!’ I get up and stagger to the kitchen, where I can turn on a light without waking my wife. I just want to be sure that there isn’t a 3-year-old linebacker lurking in the dark, plotting a head butt to my remaining good knee.

After painting this somewhat distorted picture of my youngest grandchild, I have to confess that he really doesn’t burn villages or decimate small countries. And he doesn't really wear a tracking device. He’s actually a cute little sucker with a sensitive side and it’s hard not to love him, but he tends to keep that part of his nature under wraps. He prefers being ‘Animal.’

Some day, years from now, when his intended victim is a rival NFL quarterback and he’s lined up over center as a tough nose tackle, I hope I’m still around to yell, ‘Kill ‘em, Animal!’ And when the game is over and they hand him the game ball on national TV, I want to see him raise that football in the air defiantly and in a raspy voice yell out, ‘I Animal!!’

What a legacy for a proud grandfather.

Tree Forts and Rubber Guns

2010-03-14T19:06:00.000-07:00

I don’t see kids running through open fields anymore and I haven’t seen a kid build a fort in years. I guess there aren’t many open fields anymore and parents are afraid to let their kids out of their sight. What a sad commentary on our culture.

If a kid tried to build a fort today he’d be required to have a building permit, an environmental report, a variance of some sort, a union contract, liability insurance, workers comp, and about thirty additional permits and clearances. HUD, OSHA, EPA and County Planning are just a few of the folks who would be looking over the kids shoulders as he digs his foxhole and reinforces it with scrap plywood, covering it with branches for camouflage. That building project would be red tagged before the kid got the roof on and the little sucker would be fined or hauled off due to numerous code violations. I don’t think it’s much fun to be a kid nowadays.

When I was a kid building forts was a rite of passage for a boy. My buddies and I had no idea what the girls were doing, because we were scared of girls and kept our distance. Besides…forts were for boys only. We weren’t even sure what girls were. My little brother thought they were just soft boys with long hair and high voices who giggled a lot and ran funny. All we knew was that we didn’t want them hanging around. But we got over that eventually.

I think fort building was a genetic adaptation mechanism that automatically kicked in with boys just prior to puberty. To build a fort was something boys were instinctively driven to do and the more complex, with tunnels and places to hid, the more admiration you received from your peers. Like a spider building a web this drive was something you couldn’t control. You became a fort-building machine. You wanted the best fort in the neighborhood and you had to be prepared to defend it. And that’s what led to the invention of the infamous ‘rubber gun.’

It’s been said that the Chinese invented rubber guns back in the Ming Dynasty, but I think this weapon was actually invented by Leroy Johnson, the kid would lived across the street from me in Los Gatos.

Rubber guns were long sticks or, if you were lucky, replicas of real rifles made of wood. Clothespins were nailed on the stock and these functioned as the trigger. Automobile inner tubes were cut in circular strips roughly an inch wide and stretched from the barrel end back to the clothespin, where the band was pinched and secured.

When you had the enemy in sight, you simply pressed down on the clothespin, releasing the huge rubber band nailing your adversary, if you were a good enough shot.

Tree forts were a definite advantage during the period of history known as the ‘Rubber Gun Wars.’ From a vantage point high above the enemy, you had gravity on your side along with a wider field of fire. And you had the additional protection of tree branches and leaves, which served to deflect incoming fire.

Those were great days, but I don’t know how we survived. There were no government regulations requiring us to wear helmets or protective gear of any kind and we were not even required to register our rubber guns. If our guns had been confiscated we would have thrown rocks at each other or resorted to hand to hand combat…which I think we did anyway.

We must have been chauvinistic, barbaric and unenlightened kids, but we had a lot of fun. I just hope that someday I see a group of boys dashing to their fort while being chased by other kids with rubber guns and a bunch of young girls following the action like cheer leaders, giggling and running funny.

They Can Kill Us, But They Can't Eat Us!

2010-03-10T09:37:00.000-08:00

“They can kill us, but they can’t eat us. It’s against the law.” Those words are attributed to Private Lattie Tipton as spoken to Audie Murphy in the heat of battle during the Second World War.

Audie Murphy was the most decorated soldier to come out of that war. Unfortunately, his buddy Tipton was killed shortly after making that famous statement. For some reason, those words offer a strange consolation during trials and tribulations and when things get bad, you may hear someone say, “Don’t worry…they can kill you, but they can’t eat you.”

Personally I don’t find much consolation in that expression. The fact is that they probably can eat us, but maybe not all at once. And it probably is against the law…at least while food prices stay below home prices. But food prices are moving up rapidly and real estate has plummeted, so we might not have much time.

According to the media, Chicken Little was right – the sky is falling. The negative drone of plummeting real estate values became a self-fulfilling prophecy, but, as we now know, the seeds for the destruction of the real estate market were sown in the Federal Community Reinvestment Act back in 1977. Today many people owe more on their homes than the homes are worth, so banks take them back, the government bails out the banks, and the cost is passed back to the tax payers; a rapidly depleting demographic.

Years after the truce of WWII, there were some Japanese soldiers still hiding in the jungle who didn’t know the war was over. There are Americans today hiding in civilization who think government money is free. I think it was Mark Steyn who said, “If you think health care is expensive now, wait until it’s free.” As a Canadian, he knows firsthand. Some folks forget that government money is our money. As the economist Milton Friedman said, “There is no free lunch.”

Gas prices, food prices, famines, floods, earthquakes, drought,wars, and on and on it goes. Too much bad news. Makes you want to escape to an island where there is no electricity and no news at all. Just bananas, goofy monkeys and cool ocean breezes.

The ancient Romans used sports and entertainment to distract the public from the real problems as the empire began to crumble. Sound familiar? But the problems in our culture have become our entertainment. We’ve even developed means for keeping score. Unemployment figures, stock market scores, GDP, war casualties, and so forth. But our attention spans are limited. We want a war to end after four quarters without going into overtime. When the action on the news network is less exciting than cage fighting, we switch channels. As Pogo said many years ago, “We have met the enemy and he is us.”

Maybe all that negative news is the reason folks find relief in TV, movies and ballgames. And the “weirdness” of publications displayed at the supermarket check-out line. Next time you’re standing in the line, check the headlines of some of the publications. “Woman gives birth to half human, half alligator. Hungry creature bites arm off obstetrician. Nurses flee in terror!”

Or how about the kid who was discovered running up and down escalators on all fours, disrupting shoppers at Macy’s. Investigative reporters discover that the kid was raised with hamsters in a pet store basement. A legal hassle ensues, as one group want to teach the kid to walk on his hind legs, while another group wants to connect his hamster wheel to a generator to produce electricity. The latter group is represented by the same guy who sold us on Ethanol, the idea of burning food for fuel. Another great idea.

The way things are going, the negative news can drive you nuts. But despite all the bad news, humor can be found in strange places, so look for the funny stuff and if you can’t find anything to make you laugh just turn a negative upside down, inside out or distort it in such a way that it becomes a joke. And remember, they can kill you, but they can’t eat you. Except for that weird half-alligator kid.

Where Have All the Fields Gone?

2010-03-10T08:08:00.000-08:00

There’s a lot of nostalgia for those good old days of the fifties. And for good reason. They were great days. Can you honestly think of a better time to be a kid than the 50’s? I can’t and I lived it.

I grew up in the town of Los Gatos in northern California. Nestle up against protective shield of the Santa Cruz Mountains, Los Gatos was small and friendly with what has been described as the best climate in the world. It’s a great place to live.

The railroad played a role in the development of the town and when I was a kid we used to run after the train and jump on a box car ladder for a wild ride to Santa Cruz and a day at the beach. We prayed that we’d be lucky enough to hop a train and get back before anyone missed us. And we also prayed that we wouldn’t get hurt when we jumped off as the train approached the station. We had to pick a soft spot to land.

Kids lived outdoors back then. There were orchards and fields, tree forts and foxholes to build and to be confined indoors was punishment. What a contrast to the poor kids today who are relegated to computer games and TV, because, unfortunately, the fields and orchards have been replaced by concrete and perverts.

I haven’t seen a fort in years and when a business man or woman is said to be “in the field” it doesn’t mean the kind of field I remember. I picture a guy in a three piece suit, holding his briefcase over his head while wading through a field of wheat. “Oh, Mr. Jones is out in the field today.” What field? I don’t see no stinkin’ field! It’s a different world with a new vocabulary now. “Gay” isn’t joyful, “high” has nothing to do with altitude, “in the field” means hiding from the office, and on it goes.

When kids get active now, they are no longer turned loose to invent adventures for themselves, but are wrapped in pads, helmets, facemasks, and athletic shoes with magic lights that make you look like you’re going fast when you’re standing still. The fact that they are so protected that they can’t move doesn’t seem to be a problem. They just waddle around like zombies in a horror movie until their team takes the field.

And they all have very cool uniforms. Have you ever seen a fetus in a uniform? I swear when I’ve watched my grandkids play baseball, the kids were so small in their uniforms that they almost looked like someone miniaturized the New York Yankees. You might think you’re watching a major league game on a small TV screen except for the fact that the batter runs the wrong way around the bases with a frantic coach trying to catch him, the center fielder is laying on his back eating M&M’s and the infielders are clumped up by third base looking at a dead gopher. Maybe the kids aren’t into this as much as their parents.

And the process for parents to get their kids involved must be a headache. These little dudes with all their protective gear appear to be ready for combat. They are all packed in an SUV for a trip to a death-defying soccer game while mom drives and talks excitedly on her cell phone while eating a deli sandwich with bean sprouts.

Pedestrians run for their lives and oncoming cars swerve off the road as the SUV careens toward the soccer field. A few bumps and bruises on the soccer field pale in comparison to the potential devastation left in the wake of a distracted driver in an SUV attempting to maintain the children’s activity schedule.
When I was a kid my folks just opened the front door and we were gone.

Keep Your Wife Out of the Garage

2010-03-09T21:56:00.000-08:00

(Warning: The following is based on a true story. It could happen in a garage near you.)

My Wife: “When are you going to clean out this garage? Look at this mess!”

Me: “I’ll get to it. I’m just looking for something out here.”

Wife: “It’s all junk. What’s this metal thing?

Me: “I don’t know, but I’m going to save it. I may need it sometime.”

Wife: “When was the last time you needed it? You don’t even know what it is.

Me: “It looks important and if I toss it I’ll probably wish I had it the day after I toss it.”

Wife: “When you die, the kids are just going to throw all this stuff out. You should do them a favor and get rid of it all now. The garage is supposed to be for cars.”

Me: “We can fit a car in here. I can move this stuff around. I’ll build some shelves.”

Wife: “Come on…when have you ever built anything?”

Me: “Shelves are easy.”

Wife: “Just think…if you toss this junk it’ll make you feel clean, free and unburdened and it’ll make me feel better too. I can’t even walk around in here.”

Me: “That’s not true. You can walk around in here. Look – there’s a little path over there. If you follow that path you’ll find my old Triumph motorcycle. The one I rode around Europe on back in the 60’s. Man, those were great times. And the furnace is back there somewhere too. You just have to work your way around things.”

Wife: “That’s ridiculous. It looks like a rat tunnel or something. There could be a dead body in here and you’d never know it.”

Me: “I’d smell it.”

Wife: “If I follow your stupid path I may never be seen again.

Me: “Go for it…”

Wife: “Seriously. It’s like a black hole in space. You should carry a cell phone when you’re out here in the garage in case you get lost. What’s in this box?”

Me: “That’s my old Cub Scout uniform.”

Wife: “Here. Put that Cub Scout hat on.”

Me: “Looks good doesn’t it?”

Wife: “It barely covers your bald spot.”

Me: “Yeah. It is a little small…”

Wife: “Now why in the world would you save something like that? That must go back to the 40’s. Do you think you’re going to need it someday?”

Me: The kids may want to have their dad’s Cub Scout uniform to show the grandkids. You never know. It’s got sentimental value and it’s an antique.”

Wife: “Speaking of antiques…”

Me: “See that old duffle bag? That has all my old army stuff in it. I can’t toss something like that. And that box of clothes…when I lose weight I can wear those again. ‘Waste not, want not’, or something like that. Who said that?”

Wife: “That’s ridiculous. I’m sure you would look great in a polyester leisure suit, a white belt and white shoes.”

Me: “Look. This was my first baseball mitt. I got this when I was about 8 years old.”

Wife: “We need to get you into therapy.”

Me: “Hey. We didn’t have much money when I was a kid. We saved things. Not like our affluent ‘throw-away’ society now. People in China would love to have this stuff.”

Wife: “Well why don’t you send it to them and get it out of the garage so we can get the car in here?”

Me: I don’t think they have Cub Scouts in China.”

Wife: “You know…it would really be nice if we could fit a car in our garage. That’s what normal people do.”

Me: “Maybe we just need a smaller car.”

Wife: “They don’t make cars that small. Your daughter said they have medication for your condition.”

Me: “Okay, okay. I’ll start working on it tomorrow. Nah, there’s a football game on tomorrow. Maybe next weekend. No. Can’t do it then either. Maybe this summer when it warms up. Or…