So what is Fathers' Day? If you were out the day before, it would seem to be just another endeavor into commercialized consumerism. If you get past the surface, though, looking through the last-minute gift shoppers storming through stores trying to figure out a good 'mandatory' prize, what do we have left?

Truly, Fathers' Day is a celebration of memories.

Today, we made a few. Through a persistent blatter of day-long rain, we set out with no particular goal in mind. After a roundabout ride across the island, we ended up in Copper Harbor, hiking through the rain to capture a letterbox, picking agates along the shore, and discovering another possible branch in the family tree. We got pretty wet, yes, trundling through the boreal forests, but a lazy saunter home to some dry clothes and a homemade pot of chili served to top things off. Like I said. . . Memories.

My father and I are separated by a thousand miles; our occasional phone calls are never enough. Camping excursions, fishing trips, all those things I've learned because of him. He is the reason I can repair a lawn mower with an elastic hair band, or back up a trailer just as easily as driving a straight line. There are no gifts that I can find to repay him for what he's given me, except for the gift of time. Those moments we have, fleeting though they are across the miles, are themselves gems to be revered and then passed on through my own children.

To those out there, fathers and children alike, I hope today's memories were good ones.

Unplugging Destiny. . .

Throughout a couple hundred thousand years of human civilization, technology has continued to develop to both the benefit and detriment of humankind. Bicycles were a nice addition to our lives, as well as eating utensils and indoor toilets. I'm certain more than a few people could have done without the guillotine, but where would we be without the advent of the steam engine and, later, the internal combustion engine?

The thing is, we are constantly turning out items and ideas to make our lives easier, but have we gotten to the point where that is impossible? Have we reached a plateau whereupon every gadget and feature we tweak into our daily routine only hurts our productivity; steals our time? Have we, as a society, forgotten how to jettison things that don't work as planned? Perhaps we've forgotten the failure that was the PDA; good idea turned paperweight.

Now, I have to admit that I love the internet. The ability to not only find the answer to potentially any question, but to find an item on the other side of the planet, purchase it, then have it show up on your doorstep a few days later is both convenient and wonderful. Through social networking sites, I have gotten in touch with friends I had feared lost to the passing of time.

. . .And there, of course, are the games.

So where has it all gotten us? Where has it gotten me? I have, of late, come to the realization that I haven't quite made it to where I want to be at this stage of life. I am a steampunk, which means by nature that I am a recycler and upcycler. I invent and I reinvent. I have the ability to live simply, but do I, truly? How much time have I lost to online diversions in the pursuit of quick information? What have I done to achieve my career goal of becoming a reclusive writer?

Beginning with this new day, I am going to unplug. I am going to turn my back, temporarily, on some of the conveniences of the day, with the intent of getting back some of the productivity I've lost these last few years. I have accomplished so much recently, and I refuse to backstep. The world needs my contribution, so here I come. We often forget the power we have over our own destinies.

I will not be completely isolated from the modern world, as I will be coming back from time to time to report my progress. For now, it's back to an earlier time. See you around. . .

FRACK!! (Originally published May 9, 2008)

Normally, I try to keep my inner dork reigned in, but occasionally it comes out and brings along a soapbox. I am a huge Battlestar Galactica fan, dating back to the days of feathered haircuts and cheesy stock footage. I knew what the word 'frack' meant long before Starbuck was a girl and the Cylons looked like swimsuit models.
To say that the 'reimagined' show is as frustrating as it is entertaining would be an understatement. The supposed 'best drama on TV' seems to get its jollies from dangling carrots in the faces of its fans. Currently in the last season, we are seeing ten of the final twenty episodes right now, with the remaining ten not scheduled to release until next year. The current season came over a year after the last, with nothing but a single made-for-TV movie in November to tide us over. Frack, indeed.
I do admit that I am much more enamored of this show than the original, with its stunning visual effects and its deep delving into the human condition. Unlike most science fiction offerings, the human race isn't wheeling through the galaxy in glistening, ultra-efficient starships getting in everyone's face about how superior their spirit and morals are. Beyond bad planning and distribution, there is very little you could find fault with in a series of this nature.
. . . And then I saw the Star Trek tribute.
I almost missed it, and I almost wish I had. Four of the human characters have been revealed to be Cylons. Unable to cope with this individually, they find it necessary to meet occasionally in secret to complain about it. One such secret location was 'locker 1701-D'. A Trek tribute in BSG?! What gives? Did some obscure person from the show work on this particular episode, or are we seeing some twisted foreshadowing? Now that I think of it, it all fits… An entity capable of mimicking humanoid life forms, multiple copies, and a bad sense of humor… I would be sorely disappointed to find out that Data was the final Cylon.
It would be par for the course, though… The human race suffers a crushing blow from an enemy of their own design, sending them on a journey that spans not only thousands of light years, but also the length and breadth of their mortality and morality; of ethical and religious practice and beliefs that are only now, in these bleak times, coming into question. They are on the brink of a religious revolution threatening to tear asunder their very core beliefs and devotions. What would it do to them to reach Earth, only to find an agnostic society who will swear to God, when the humorous interjection of a 'colorful metaphor' is necessary, but who would not believe in Him?
But I digress… My intention was to not come here and go on about religious connotations. When, exactly, did the inhabitants of the science fiction community become incapable of standing on their own? Mainstream shows as far back as Seaquest felt the need to pay homage to those which came before them, usually Star Trek or Star Wars. I remember watching a 'Sci-Fi channel original' in which Wil Wheaton referred to two nuclear warheads by the serial number of an Imperial Stormtrooper and THX-1138. It was totally out of place, absolutely random, and useless inasmuch as the only people who could possibly catch the reference are wonks like myself who have seen Star Wars more times than the average male college student has seen the Monty Python 'Parrot Sketch'.
Let's face it; there are no original ideas anymore. If there were, we wouldn't have had sequels from the Rocky or Rambo series in 2006 and 2008, respectively. Has anyone out there heard of the proposed remake of 'Short Circuit', or the upcoming 'Get Smart' movie? It's like everything old is new again, but not really. This is the reason I like to curl up to a good Heinlein novel now and again. Even though they are decades old, it's nice to read an original story. My hat is off to the Grand Masters, though not because I heard an obscure notion in an unrelated movie. For now, I think I'll head off to bed with a Tolkien novel from my own library. Let's see… Ah! There it is...
…Bookcase 1701, shelf TK-421.

Curriculum Vitae. . .

So, this go-round, I didn’t make it for the end of the year toast. Sorry, I was asleep. 2008 had been a long and tiresome year, filled with frustration and troubles aplenty. Truth to tell, I needed the sleep and, without the assistance of alcoholic substances, I fell into a coma around about 9 p.m. EST and didn’t come out of it until about 8:30 this morning.

Oooo-rah.

There were some good things to come out of the past year, though, from reconnecting with old friends to first connections with new ones. With a little help, I came to a realization that I had been hanging on to some things I should have left behind; things that kept me from truly moving on. I experienced a rediscovery of self and purpose, which will make for a rough but interesting journey in the year to come.

So what does lie ahead? Who knows. I have big plans for the future, for myself and my family, and can only wonder how far this year will carry them. An internet store, leading into a health and fitness business is one of my goals, as is building towards a larger home for my family and moving my parents up from Kentucky. As for the near future, I have set off on teaching my oldest son and daughter wilderness survival skills, which started off with a rather humorous adventure centered around building a snow shelter. I am also thoroughly convinced that this winter will be perfect for another little science project we’ve been talking about for a couple of years. For details on that, stay tuned to this station.

As for my friends, both nearby and beyond the horizon, I hope to share this journey with all of you. As the past year has shown, we’ve been apart too long; we’ve missed too much. But before we embark on new beginnings, we must take care of the endings. . .

· To my entire family: I couldn’t have made it through 2008 without your support. We have to do that whole ‘hurricane’ thing again sometime.
· To my four wonderful children: I don’t know what I would ever do without you… Know, too, that I don’t know what I wouldn’t do for you. You are all truly pieces of my heart.
· To Diane, truly my twin sister: You are an EF-5 tornado in an otherwise calm sky. Your chaos helped me find my calm; my soul finally knows itself.
· To Cindy, dear heart: Life took you away so long ago, yet I sometimes think I can feel you beside me. I know I will see you again in the next life. I’m thankful you were in mine, if only for a short time.
· To Justin, my brother-in-arms: Life has made us unfathomable to those around us. We may not have figured ourselves out completely, but at least we’ll always have the misanthropy.
· To Tammy: You are forever seeking yourself, through the maelstrom that is your life. No matter what may happen, I will miss our walks in the park.
· To Alicia, my newest good friend from Tennessee: You’ve been having trouble seeing the way, too. You are someone I can trust, and that doesn’t happen often. Keep living in the moment, and never second guess yourself.
· To Ben: You may just be a worthy opponent. I look forward to many chess matches. Maybe I’ll even win a few.
· To Absent Friends

And now, we begin. . .

Again, We Come to the Ending. . .

Like the autumn winds dashing through the trees, another year has come and gone, full of trials and turmoil, seeing as many uncountable tears as moments of abandon and laughter. Now is the time to ask ourselves how we fared. . . Did we accomplish what we set out to do this year? Did we fall short?

As for me, this was the year I was to find myself or, at least, most of myself. I had begun a journey of uncertainty that almost cost me all that I have worked for but, in the very end, I found that I had so much more. I found myself; I found my heart again.

Not in a long time has so much changed for so many… Relationships lost and some rekindled, new friends found after so long, some marriages, some life-altering decisions, new careers embarked on and some returns to college to prepare for just that…

And here we are again. The house is silent, save for the tiny adenoids of my children, and even the neighbors’ attempts to ring in the new year with firearms and explosives has died down. Without further ado, I ask you to raise your glasses with me…

To Kimberley, my little mystery… I feared the worst but have found you again, just in time.
To my children, Jessie, Zack, Johan, and Sabrina… The constant source of joy for my heart.
To Bonnie, the sister I never had… You’ve made me so proud of you, and you’re nearly to the end of your college journey.
To Mike and Bailey, married only a few months. . . Here begins your great adventure.
To Sarah Bethany, who always seems to show up when you most need her… We don’t talk nearly as much as we should, anymore.
To Mike and Diana, friends gone for so long… We haven’t had time to catch up since we collided again, but we have an entire year ahead of us.
To Tori Anne, finally free and away to college… I’m proud of you, too, and wish you and your sweetie all the best.
To Tammy and Michelle, one friend found and another so distant… You are anchors to the time when I learned that life is more than masks.
To Amber, the acquaintance that became a good friend… We have many games of Literati ahead of us.
To Carrie, having found the strength to live her life again… Welcome back.
To Justin, my Brother In Arms… You have walked through the fire and set off again to find who you are. There are forks in that road, but there are friends along the way.
To absent friends…

And now, the beginning…

The Inhumanity of Humanity. . .(An answer to a friend's anguish, reprinted by request)

The one commonality among all humans is their ability to allow themselves to be manipulated by intolerant historical views and small groups whose best interests involve societal disharmony. Look at the media, which are, ultimately, the government's own, unpaid PR department.

If you turn on any newscast, local or national, on any station you wish, all you hear are stories about all the things that make us different: race, religion, artistic expression, sexuality, etc. The government makes 'issues' of them, feigning concern for the citizenry, which, in turn, fuels the media with inflamitory subject matter. The entire affair plays on the human animal's sheepish ability to swallow anything they are told and not only choose sides, but formulate uneducated opinions. Combine this with the inability to be flexible in their thinking, and you have disharmony by unity.

People learn intolerance from their religion (Catholicism comes to mind, as it says that to even enter another faith's church is a mortal sin), and from their parents. A few years back, nearly 140 years after the end of the Civil War, a town in Georgia vehemently protested the erecting of a statue of Abraham Lincoln, citing that it was a 'terrible insult' to their heritage. People are still burning churches, fearing and generalizing over national origins or skin color, and even protesting the way we express our love of one another. The most infuriating clip I ever had the misfortune to see was of a woman on a talk show talking about how her lesbian daughter 'didn't have to be that way' and how 'she could be re-taught'.

In essence, hatred is a swell born of, nay, synonymous with ignorance. Since ignorance is a dominant trait in the human species, it becomes a unifying factor, drawing similarly ignorant individuals to like groups. The only thing that gives the rest of us hope is our own ability to come together and remain standing before the tide.

Ghosts of the Past. . .

Everyone has ghosts. . . Everyone has skeletons in their closet; those annoying little memories we wish would go away but keep resurfacing every so often to remind us of things we’ve done that were so embarrassing or painful that we wish we could burn them out of our mind. Usually these memories are attributed to life lessons.

The greatest teacher of all is life. Unlike the moderately overweight, balding guy in the plaid leisure suit that tried to convince you that geometry was the most important thing you could ever know, life has a way of commanding your attention. Hearing someone drone on about the area of a triangle being expressed in terms of A=(1/2)ab just doesn't grip one's interest as much as, say, learning that you should never spit a mouthful of Listerine into your campfire. I do, of course, speak from experience and, even though it makes a pretty awesome eruption of blue flame, do NOT recommend you try this. It has a tendency to melt your shoelaces.

When life teaches you a lesson, it is very necessary and, often, involuntary, bringing to light a common sense issue that can oft be punctuated with the phrase, “Should have known better.” Whether that lesson is ‘pay attention to where you’re going’ or ‘never use alcohol-based mouthrinse solutions near an open flame’, you have no choice but to absorb its wisdom.

There are some lessons that take a little longer than others to sink in, requiring repeated experiences to get their points across. For me, that particular lesson was ‘think before you speak’.

One of the largest drawbacks of the human species is the spoken word. Both a blessing and a curse, there is no language on Earth that cannot be used to hurtful ends. Regardless of the species, animals have the ability to communicate in the simplest of fashions and, though the message may only be ‘get back’, ‘watch out’, or ‘that’s mine’, they never have to worry about tact or subtlety.

Since a young age, I’ve been cynical and outspoken and more than willing to launch my opinion into low-Earth orbit for all to partake of. Subtlety has always been one of my strong suits; a finely-honed weapon to wield when the situation called for it. My weakness was tact. Simply put, tact implies delicate and considerate perception of what is appropriate for the given situation. It took me a long time to learn that I was lacking in this skill, allowing my emotions to override the brain’s ‘think ahead’ safeguards.

I remember the place and the time, but I don’t remember exactly why we were there; it was either a football game or track meet. I was there for her, because she was my best friend, perhaps more. At the time, she was seeing a fellow who was, for all intents and purposes, a grade-A git, but she was still a couple of weeks away from that realization, herself. Sparing the sorted details, in one line I expressed my opinion of him, speaking the words just as quickly as they formed in my mind. Seven little words, and she was furious. All I cared about as I spoke was letting her know how I felt, totally oblivious to the fact that, being newly in love, she was blind to all but her own perceptions. She needed to be told, yes, but it should have been tactful; instead, I dropped a nuke in her lap. I know that she’s long forgiven me, but the thought that I hurt her so badly still burns.

I was told a story long ago about a boy, his father, and an old wooden fence. The boy had an awful temper, prone to explode at any time for any reason. One day, his father handed him a bag of nails and told him that, every time he lost his temper, he was to drive a nail into the old fence out back.

The first day, the boy had driven more than thirty nails into the fence but, in the days that followed, that number dwindled. He discovered that it was easier to hold his temper than to drive those nails.

Finally, the day came when the boy didn’t lose his temper at all. When he told his father, he suggested to the boy that, for every day he doesn’t lose his temper, he remove a nail from the fence. Days passed and, finally, he was able to tell his father that all the nails in the fence were gone. The father took his son by the hand and led him to the fence and said, “You have done well, my son, but look at the holes in the fence; it will never be the same.” The story’s meaning, of course, is that every wound, physical or verbal, leaves a scar, no matter how many times we say “I’m sorry”.

Life lessons come at us during times of abandon or recklessness, or just those ‘switch off’ times when the brain’s common sense circuit breaker pops off. Some of the best achievements are made when we ask ourselves, “I wonder what will happen if. . .” Unfortunately, that is where humans usually begin their misadventures. Perhaps the reason behind this is the fact that we are attracted to dangerous situations--we think they're fun and exciting. The problem is that, by the time we've asked ourselves that question, our mind already has a good idea of what the outcome will look like. Unfortunately, not everyone can see the reality of the situation to come.

The moral of our story tonight: Look before you leap, and don’t forget to think as you’re looking. And to all my friends, I hope I’ve not left too many holes in your fences.

Not Another Day

Vacations are short for a reason. Think about it for a moment. . . If the average person had at their disposal an indefinite amount of vacation time and the ability to say, “I’m going on vacation, see you all when I’m good and ready to come back”, chances are good they would either return completely wrecked or dead. Humans are creatures of habit and, when removed from the routine in which they’ve been ensconced for years, tend to go down rather destructive roads in their pursuit of ‘recreation’.

Perhaps a case study would better illustrate my point.

I have, for quite some time, felt that I ‘needed’ a vacation. It’s been a long time since I’d taken any time off for reasons other than exploding plumbing and health crises, so a good, solid vacation would work wonders. I planned three days off during spring break for no other lofty goals than to play with the kids and, maybe, get through a few more chapters on my current novel. What could possibly go wrong?

The weekend started out fairly well, as Saturday and Sunday both became ‘goof off days’. I actually revisited some old sketch work that had been too long ignored, and I wrote a bit more in my sci-fi universe under the scrutinizing eye of my seven year-old daughter. All was well.

Then, later in the day Sunday, came a whirlwind decision: We would take the time this week and visit our family down in Kentucky and Southern Indiana. Okay, I wouldn’t get much done, writing wise, but we would get a good mini-vacation out of the adventure. One blazing round of packing, six hours, three stops, and 402 miles later, we were nestling into the ‘guest room’ of my wife’s parents’ house, looking forward to a good sleep and some much-needed time to unwind. We almost got away with it.

Monday and Tuesday went well, save for a few traffic snarls and the fact that I still hadn’t picked up my pen and pad for any productive time. We spent four hours at the zoo in a blaze of unseasonable warmth and sunlight, which didn’t matter, since the kids had a great time. The rest of the time was spent visiting my family which, I am amazed to say, went off without a hitch.

Then came Wednesday. We knew that the storms Tuesday night were bringing arctic air down from the northern climes, but the first clear weather report we heard for our hometown made it rather clear that some plowing would be in order once we returned. Coupled with the fact that my in-laws were celebrating their anniversary, we felt that it would be best to stay another day, returning home in the full light of the day Thursday, rather than forging our way back around Wednesday, midnight. It would give us an excuse to catch up with a couple of old friends, and keep the grandparents from giving us the guilt about not seeing their grandkids often enough. You can already hear the ominous music, can’t you?

Since they rarely get a break from the local grandchildren, we thought it would be good to take our kids and our nephews out for some entertainment that extra night, giving my wife’s parents at least a few hours’ peace. One large pizza and roughly an hour later, we found ourselves in a place called “The Fun House”. Perhaps it is aptly named for small children, but for adults the name requires a disclaimer. I would suggest, for example, “The Fun House: Your kids are going to love all our ticket-spitting, loud, malfunctioning games that all require many dollars’ worth in tokens to play but will, in the end, only yield them some crappy piece of plastic that makes noise or just breaks if you look at it with a sideways glance while you pacify yourselves with our ‘salad bar’ and ‘gourmet pizza’ which is really just leftover produce and frozen French loaves we got at the local wholesale club for pennies. By the way, the ‘gym set’, a.k.a. the ‘gerbil cage for kids’ is really nothing more than a fancy urinal. Have a nice day.”

Those of you with small children understand this trip. Every parent, in some form or another, has taken this trip. It’s the one that ends with you carrying your screaming, kicking, eighteen month-old daughter through the building because she’s: A. tumbled out of the insipid little kiddie-ride that looks like a school bus, skinning her knee on the abrasive carpeting and: B. wanting to get back in the insipid little kiddie-ride that looks like a school bus because she just likes to put the tokens in the slots. It’s also the trip where you learn or re-learn to carry your younger children at odd angles, since their legs are just long enough to kick you in places that would get them removed from most professional sporting events. When they smile at you at the end of the trip, you tend to forget all the worries and trouble, though (at least, until you get home later and the soreness starts to kick in).

Not being one to invite trouble and headaches (upon himself, anyway), my oldest son saw the opportunity to cut and run and took it without hesitation, going to see the new ‘Ninja Turtles’ movie with his aunt and older cousin.

So there you have it: Case study #1a in a nutshell. It was a moderately uneventful vacation trip, flawless in its execution, until being done in by a random, extra day. I can’t complain, as the kids had fun. That’s how it’s supposed to be when you’re a child, isn’t it? Let your parents have all the worries; you need to have fun when you can, while you can. As for me, I write this at midnight, plus thirty, unable to sleep. I know I need my rest for the trip home tomorrow, through the blinding snow. I know that, despite my best efforts, I will be roused from my slumber at six in the morning by four very wide-eyed children trying to separate the toys they brought from the menagerie that is their cousins’. I just know that I’m going to listen to four hundred miles’ worth of TMNT movie review from my son.

I just know that it’s all worth it, because Friday, I get to go back to work.

Next time: Our Imperiled Perspicacity. . . No, Really!

A Far Better Thing. . .

I try to start out every year with positive, though cautious, optimism. With the coming of each New Year, I try to fight back many generations’ worth of genetically-programmed cynicism. I am proud to say that, this year, I made it one week. True, it may have been my month-long bout with the flu that soured my disposition this year but, regardless of the cause, I have come to realize that the world is chock full of people I’d just like to smack rather hard.

Now, I realize that sounds a bit harsh, but what better way to burn off all the latent hostilities that build up over the course of the day? The first candidate that comes to mind is that guy that always merges with a 70 m.p.h. interstate at 40 then, when he’s disrupted traffic as much as possible, takes off at twice the speed of sense. Close behind him is the engineer who designed my vehicle. Would it have killed the people at G.M. to put a slightly larger bottle under the hood to accommodate a full gallon jug of washer fluid, rather than the 126 ounces it annoyingly holds?

Recently, I was watching a game show with my wife, when the question “Which Soviet Premier was responsible for Glasnost and Perestroika?” came up. The person being asked was my age, approximately, so I figured she had it in the bag.

Her answer was ‘Bin Laden’.

Still clinging to my optimism that this was an isolated aberration and that the ‘No Child Left Behind’ initiative was alive and well, I stayed with the show long enough to catch the answers to a few more questions. The ordeal was extremely painful. Apparently, there are polar bears in Antarctica, China borders the United States to the north, and Bill Clinton was impeached for the Watergate scandal.

You wait here while I go get a heavy club.

Hostility and impatience are in our very nature, surfacing in even the most unsuspecting individuals. Sometimes it is subtle; a twitch of the eye or an annoyed inflection in the voice are our only clues. Sometimes, it is an explosion, erupting violently, either verbally or, in the worst case, physically.

We frequently use the term ‘pushing his/her buttons’ when we talk of annoying someone. Perhaps we shouldn’t be so casual about it. ‘Pushing buttons’ turns it all into a game; the prize being the display put on by the newly annoyed and/or irate victim. By my observations, the ‘hostility control’ is actually a switch and, in some cases, one of the ‘momentary contact’ variety.

Take, as a case study, subject ‘D’. Subject ‘D’ is a friend of mine who wouldn’t consciously harm an insect. She once cried for nearly 24 hours when she accidentally drowned a spider. To speak to subject ‘D’, you would think you were talking to the nicest person on the planet. However, in the midst of a number of cell phone conversations, she will burst into a directed tirade of harsh language and other discouraging words to the motorists around her on the open road, only to return to her normal self in the next breath. The scary part is not that she becomes so hostile so quickly, but that, when the switch is turned off, she returns to the conversation and her natural, sweet tone with no sign that anything happened. The transformation is casual: From ‘Doctor Jekyll’ to ‘Miss Road Rage’ in .025 seconds.

In this casualness, Subject ‘D’ is not alone. Though the transition is not so smooth, I have caught myself doing the Bipolar Shuffle on many occasions, as with my ever-growing ‘People I’d Love to Smack’ list. Just because neither I nor subject ‘D’ allow our rantings to escalate doesn’t detract from the potential hazards of uninhibited release. That’s how we get road rage shootings and sports-related riots. That’s how we have abuse and domestic violence. That’s how we start wars.

Hostility is something we can’t run away from. As I said before, it’s in our basic makeup, as part of our ‘fight or flight’ response. As (supposedly) intelligent life forms, it should be within us to control the need to act on these impulses. Just because the neighbor decides to build a ten foot tall bonfire to roast marshmallows with his other drunken friends doesn’t mean the only way to get through to him is with a cinder block. There are always other options. When the guy you’re trying to wave through the four-way stop doesn’t move, it could just be the sun reflecting on your windshield, not his being a goober.

My advice to you all? Take a deep breath, weigh the possibilities, and, above all, remember that diplomacy is the key. We call ourselves an advanced culture, so we should act like it, true? I suppose I still am positive and optimistic, even though I don’t always show it. Patience is, truly, the virtue they say, especially when dealing with other, volatile minds. Understanding, as with all things in life, cannot be rushed; we must take our time. Don’t take too much time, though.

On a related note to my neighbors: If your wreath has turned brown and died, it’s time to take down the Christmas decorations.

**Next Week: Speling in the publik skool systim.

Wassail!

I caught myself humming Christmas carols the other day. Having worked within and around retail for so long, I had become almost completely desensitized to the holiday season, due in no small part to the fact that it seems to come into the stores ridiculously early each year. My first job in the retail world had me putting out those big, plastic blowmold ornaments in early October, caring little that Halloween and Thanksgiving were between us and the relevant holiday.

You hear the term ‘commercial’ so much around the holidays (even Charlie Brown was worried about it). Fact is, though, the holidays haven’t become too commercial; they’ve become too impersonal. Think about it for a moment. Even gift-giving has degenerated to swapping gift cards in little envelopes. What was once the most personal, meaningful act between family and friends has become the biggest hassle of the holidays. Whether a gift be useful, thoughtful, or totally ridiculous, the whole point was that someone actually thought enough about someone else to go out into the world and select what they believed would be the perfect token of their caring. Some retailers are now offering gift cards via e-mail, which the recipients can print out on their own. You don’t even have to walk to the mailbox, anymore! It all comes down to one thing: When you give someone a gift card, you’re saying that you care enough to send them on an errand.

In fact, the whole of society seems to view the holidays as a hassle. Not so often do we hear the words ‘Merry Christmas’ as we do ‘Happy Holidays’. Our media, our stores, our employers, and our schools seem to be on a holy quest to excise that part of the holidays to avoid oppressing or, dare I say, discriminating against those who do not celebrate in one fashion or another. Personally, I wouldn’t take offense, or think someone was labeling me, or even pushing their religion on me if they offered the greeting, ‘Happy Hanukkah’. If that’s the holiday they celebrate, that’s fine by me. The underlying message, the peace and unity of the season, is the same, regardless of the greeting itself. When we go so far out of our way to avoid using the ‘C’ word that we almost sound uncomfortable when speaking to others, it has gone too far. Certain retailers have returned to offering the more traditional greetings only out of an interest to preserve their sales. At least it means that I’m not alone in my observations. One local newspaper went so far as to print an article of ‘holiday hints’, the first of which was titled ‘How to determine if your Yule tree is fresh. Yule tree? We can’t even say ‘Christmas tree’ anymore, apparently, so we’ve gone back to Pagan terminology. I suppose that’s fine, though, since the Yule sabbat is where our tree decorating tradition came from in the first place.

So, therein, we see the magick of the season fade. As a small child, I had a hard time believing in things like Santa Claus and flying reindeer, but that didn’t keep me from feeling the magick about Christmas morning. It was a living thing that wrapped you up in warmth and made you feel good to be alive. Granted, all the Star Wars paraphernalia and electronic mumbo-jumbo was nice, but I couldn’t help getting lost in its mystery. Even though flying sleighs were physically impossible (I was WAY too logical for such a small child—blame it on watching Mr. Spock), I tried to believe. Oh, how I tried.

Life has been good enough to grant me a family of my own and, through the eyes of my four children, I am again in tune with the magick of the season. I could be cynical or pessimistic, but I refuse. For the first time in years, I hear Christmas music without the feeling of ‘retail dread’ I have carried for so long, and I will not allow anything to keep me from enjoying that light in the eyes of my children. Whatever your holiday, I wish you the same magick.

God bless the master of this house and the mistress also,
And all the little children that 'round your table grow.
The cattle in your stable, the dog by your front door
And all that dwells within your gates, we wish you ten times more.



>Next week: The Year In Review, for those of you who weren’t paying attention the first time.

Many People Have Eaten My Cooking and Gone on to Live Normal Lives. . .

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone and, this morning, as I sat down with a breakfast of turkey omelet, I began to think back over the things I have to be thankful for. It was a sobering collection of brain spasms.

The original pilgrims had such fare as swan, lobster, and seal on their menu, among the various agricultural wealth at hand. They celebrated the bounty of their harvest with the Wampanoag Indians, who added venison to the list of choices. Life wasn’t always so bountiful then, but there was still much to be thankful for. Throughout the last 385 years, we have continued to celebrate the Thanksgiving holiday, though the menu has changed somewhat.

Thanksgiving is a tradition, meaning we always do the same thing over and over again; we spend hours in a hot, humid kitchen, as though our lives served no purpose other than to generate a week’s worth of turkey-related leftovers. Sometimes we throw a changeup into the mix and make pork-related leftovers, but the end result is the same; an endless parade of soups, casseroles, sandwiches, and the occasional bowl of turkey chili.

The leftover problem has escalated since 1621, with the advent of modern refrigeration and the abundance of other sources of food than the family kitchen. This doesn’t mean that we won’t have a close encounter with a developing lifeform when we clean out the refrigerator in the spring, it just means that we have a longer time to eat the same meal in various forms before it goes all blue-green and fuzzy. Even so, we still take chances as we move into the second and third week of reruns. There are so many uncertainties. Should you worry about mushrooms going bad? They used to grow on things that had already gone bad. I don’t care if the Romans called them ‘the food of the gods’, that’s just disturbing.

Personally, I would love to know who the first person was to look at a mushroom and say, “I think I want to try eating that funny-shaped thing growing out of that rotting log/corpse!” There has to be a first time for everything, I suppose, but how desperate do you have to be? I would have liked to see the face of the first person to bite into an onion, though.

This is a country in which thirty percent of the population looks like they ate the remaining seventy percent. I can only guess that to be the reason that many fast food restaurants are staying open during the holiday. For some, this has become an alternative to the traditional meal, though I’m not certain it should be a welcome one, since the average fast-food sandwich has the calorie content of a Thanksgiving plate-mound. Personally, I’d take a pound of turkey over a pound of grease and fat without hesitation, even if it meant I had to cook it.

We press on, though, dismissing all the troubling issues of life and remembering the many things we have to be thankful for. We are thankful for happy, healthy children, and a good home (that we didn’t burn down during the cooking); we are thankful for cartoon marathons when we are trapped in the kitchen; we are thankful for the fact that the mid term elections ended political ads (for the time being), and we are thankful for brothers and sisters, and good friends, though they be far away.

Now, I wonder if there’s any of my ‘food of the gods’ gravy left in the fridge. . .

Politics, and Other Tasteless Humor

I want to tell you all a story, as it was told to me.

A man in a hot air balloon realized he was lost. Seeing a woman on the ground, he descended and shouted, "Excuse me, can you help me? I promised a friend I would meet him an hour ago, but I don't know where I am."

The woman replied, "You are in a hot air balloon, approximately 30 feet above the ground. You are between 40 and 41 degrees north latitude and between 59 and 60 degrees west longitude."

"You must be a republican," said the balloonist.

"I am," said the woman. "How did you know?"

"Well," answered the balloonist, "everything you told me is technically correct, but I have no idea what to make of your information, and the fact is I am still lost. Frankly, you've not been much help, so far."

The woman below responded, "You must be a democrat."

"I am," replied the balloonist. "But how did you know?"

"Well," said the woman, "you don't know where you are or where you are going. You have risen to where you are due to a large quantity of hot air, you made a promise which you have no idea how to keep, and you expect me to solve your problem. The fact is you are in exactly the same position you were in before we met, only now, somehow, it's my fault."

My friends, the mid-term elections are less than a week away and I, for the love of all that is holy, cannot begin to say how depressed I am at the choices we face. Partisanism is the weakest link in our chain of government and, as I'm sure a large portion of you are becoming aware, it is only getting worse.

The problem, though, is that not enough people are realizing what has happened over the last two centuries. In a nation that was founded on the precept of 'Government BY the people, FOR the people', we have slowly crept into the murky waters of Government OF the people WITHOUT the people.

The war between the Democrats and Republicans has been raging for some time, overwhelming all other parties' bids for the Top Job. The last president not of either party was Andrew Johnson of the Union Party, successor to Abraham Lincoln. Since that term, the battle for the White House has escalated to the farce that was the 2004 election. As seen in recent days, the shouting match has found new life as John Kerry continues to show his skill at inane insults and flip-flopping. Personally, I don't care who he was trying to insult. I just want him to go away.

I have always voted on issues and integrity, a stand that has become more and more difficult, of late. I do not care about party affiliation. I would vote Democrat or Republican, depending solely on my perception of the best choice. We, as a nation, are becoming so wrapped up in the political chaos that we are losing sight of this. Would you make an axe murderer the leader of your group, just because you belonged to the same fraternity in college? I seriously doubt it. Minus the 'axe murderer' part, that's what we do every election. Are we, as a nation, just saying, "we're tired and want to finish this with as little trouble as possible so we can get back to our reality television"?

The 'Democrapp-Repulsican' war has even become automated. In recent days, I have received several automated phone calls (sometimes in reruns) from one politico or the other, to say nothing more than how badly their opponent will handle their term in office, if elected. Couple this with the radio and television ads we are bombarded with, and the term 'mud raking' seems wholely inadequate. It has taken me, literally, weeks to research the candidates I am responsible for choosing in this election. Who is lying? Who is telling the truth? Did that guy really run a cat up a flagpole when he was in college?

And then there are the issues. . . We need stable public school funding, but one side calls it 'lobbying for higher taxes'. We want to bring our troops home as soon as possible, but we don't want to allow the Middle East to collapse into total chaos. My favorite, so far, is a proposal up for vote in our state to make it legal to hunt mourning doves. I come from a family of hunters. Having shot and hooked more than a few meals in my day, I appreciate the rights of the American hunter. You can, in no way, however, make me believe that if we don't legalize the hunting of these little-bitty doves the 'environmental extremists are going to take away all our hunting rights'.

So, it will be with heavy heart that I trudge, wearily, to the polls this November 7th. We need to take back our government from those who hold office for naught but their own gain. The people have merely lost sight of the fact that their governments belong to them. Every election, we are 'hiring' these people to do the jobs we cannot; to make our voices heard. I don't want a representative that votes the way they want to vote. I want a representative that votes the way the people in his or her district wants to vote. That is the way it should be, simply because it's too damned hard to crowd 300 million people into Washington D.C.

Face it, the plumbing can't take it.

What's In a Name?

At the risk of sounding overly-redundant, I have to bring up the 'Pluto' thing, again. Our good friend, keeping silent vigil in the outer reaches of the solar system, has, once again, been dumped on by the astronomical community.

In an attempt to reinforce their recent decision to strip Pluto of its planetary status, the International Astronomical Union has grouped it with other small solar-system bodies with well-known orbital paths. In other words, asteroids.

Yes, friends, Pluto has a new name and that name is '134340'.

It just doesn't roll off the toungue, does it? What of Charon, Hydra, and Nix? 134340 I, II, and III, respectively. Geeze, let's kick them while they're down.

It's late, I'm tired, and I'm getting very weary of piddly bickering over absolutely nothing. People are protesting in the streets (or, at least, the University campuses) over this farce. I can't say as I blame them. I've written stories about Pluto. I get sentimental over the little iceball.

Throughout the centuries, it has been the goal of humankind, in general, to make things much more complicated than they need to be. Something as simple as camping used to be a tent and a campfire. Nowadays, I see thirty-foot RVs pull into campgrounds and never disgorge their passengers except when connecting the water and electricity. Changing fluids in a car used to involve unscrewing a bolt, draining the fluid, and putting more fluid in. Now, it involves fifteen to thirty separate steps. Taking music along for a walk used to involve a transistor radio, then a walkman, and now, an MP3 player with desktop computer and internet support and supply.

Give it a rest. Besides, 'Pluto' is easier to remember.

Requiem for a Lost World. . .

I can stay silent no longer. I grew up a science wonk and, as such, I knew for a fact that the Solar System had nine planets. I was aware that that number could increase due to new discoveries but, barring a cosmic catastrophe, it should never decrease.

I knew the sun's name was Sol, and the moon's name was Luna. At the time, Jupiter only had nine moons and, thanks to Mariner 10 and the later Voyager probes, we had visited all of our known planetary neighbors.

Now, Jupiter has sixty-three confirmed moons, we've proven that the 'Face' on Mars was merely a trick of light and shadow, and mysterious, icy Pluto is now only a 'dwarf planet'.

In 2003, another celestial body was discovered, larger than Pluto and just a bit farther out. The new world was called 'Xena', and its discoverers proposed calling her and two other bodies 'planets'. The International Astronomical Union rejected the proposal, then decided to push around our tiny ninth neighbor. It was decreed that a new definition for the word 'planet' was needed.

According to the IAU, as of August 24th, 2006, a 'planet' is any body that orbits the Sun, is large enough to be made round by its own gravity, and has cleared the area around it of smaller cosmic objects.

This definition, of course, excludes planets that are struck on a regular basis by asteroids. Earth, for example.

In a Reuters article by Andy Sullivan, Allen Stern, the organizer of a petition challenging the IAU's ruling, said that the definition was "technically flawed, linguisticly flawed, and scientifically embarrassing". Hear, hear.

An astute eye would pick out the most glaring flaw. . . "A planet is any body that orbits the Sun. . ." The AIU makes things so general that they, themselves, are confused. Since these are bodies that orbit around 'the Sun', does that mean that extrasolar planets need their own definition? I propose we call them 'Those big, round things that aren't shiny'.

But we have drifted off course a bit. Why does the AIU have it in for Pluto? It has been a planet since February 18th of 1930. Why, now, should we demote it with a definition that is so poorly worded that we have to make exceptions to keep calling Earth a planet? Is it because of its size? Its composition? Perhaps they just don't want to memorize any more names.

Pluto was discovered by Clyde Tombaugh with ground-based equipment in the 1930s. At a diameter of 2390 kilometers, it is half the size of Mercury and just over half the size of our moon. Pluto has three confirmed moons, Charon, Hydra, and Nix; as many as all the inner planets, combined. Perhaps it hasn't cleared its surrounding space of cosmic debris, but could Mercury, if it weren't so near the sun?

Let's leave our textbooks alone. We can always add easier than we can erase. I say we give Pluto a chance. It may be smaller than Luna, but it orbits Sol with the rest of the planets, and holds silent vigil over the Kuiper Belt with all the other ageless little iceballs.

I bet if it were made of diamond, they'd call it a planet again.

A Million Dollars. . .

Think about it. . . A million dollars.

It's the capitalist's dream. It has become the benchmark of success and financial independence. . . "When I make my first million, I'm gonna. . ."

What would you do?

Tonight, as I prepared for my nightly pre-writing ritual, I had the opportunity to take in a show on TV that highlighted the newest, state-of-the-art weaponry in use by military agencies the world over. The one that stood out was the 'Sensor Fuzed Weapon'.

In a nutshell, the SFW is actually a 'canister' that, shortly after being dropped from the delivery aircraft, breaks open, deploying ten cylinders by parachute that, each, holds four hockey puck-shaped 'skeets'. These 40 skeets are bomblets that use infrared sensors to detect targets for their small-yet-powerful warheads. The particular test they televised was against an armored division of retired assault armor. Each skeet warhead was loaded with molten copper, decimating its target on impact, or, if the warhead couldn't find a target, exploded in midair, spraying the battlefield with the molten metal.

The cost of the test-fire: One million dollars.

Now, let's step back a bit and look at the situation. I have always been a science wonk and, throughout high school and college, I favored physics because, well, it's fun to make things go kabloey. But a million dollars?!! I'd have to look at the money awful hard before sacrificing it to mere pyrotechnics.

We are invested, militarily, in a seemingly-unending commitment in Iraq that is bleeding money from our budget at a freakish rate. I understand that a weapon of this type could end a conventional military confrontation very quickly, but we're not dealing with that type of battlefield. It's useless.

Turning towards the home front, we find several storm-ravaged areas still in ruins, neighborhoods cleared of homes, grocery stores and gas stations empty and abandoned, and schools and churches falling apart. What would a million dollars do in the effort to rebuild?

Perhaps I'm picking nits. I mean, the atomic bomb cost about two billion dollars to develop and, at just over one billion dollars, the American Seawolf-class submarine is a venture that even the government had a hard time affording to produce. A million dollar bomb doesn't sound so bad in comparison. If you could buy such weaponry at the average retail stores, the Sensor Fuzed Weapon would be on the clearance shelf in your local Wal-Mart.

Ah, free Capitalism! I suppose we can't blame the government for using their money to develop a new toy. They know best, don't they? Besides, if I had a million dollars, I'd probably waste it on frivolous things like paying off my house or saving for my retirement and the kids' college tuition. At least the government is using the money to help insure the freedom and independence of our country.

. . .By blowing up a large piece of it.

All the Subtlety of Above-Ground Nuclear Testing. . .

Tonight, I'd like to talk about tact and decorum, subtlety and manners.

I'd like to, but I'm not, because I'm going to be talking about humans.

I had to take a small business trip to Detroit this week, and I opted for a State Park campground, rather than a hotel, since I am able to sleep much better in the former, than the latter. There's just something about being in a comfortable room with no screaming kids around that makes it impossible for me to write or sleep in. I just belong in nature.

And then there were humans. The cabin next to mine was occupied by about eight teenage girls of various ages, and one boy I would guess to be about fifteen who was brother to the largest part of the group. Needless to say, the 'missing the screaming kids' problem was nonexistent after this point.

Through a soundtrack of Christian rock emanating from their CD player, a hail of swearing and moderately off-color stories wafted across the campground with sufficient volume to be heard clearly by all. The only intermission to this being a short 'check up' visit from their father on the second day of their stay.

Across the way, an older fellow got into a shouting match over a citation he was given by the park ranger for 'driving off-road in an undesignated area'. That, translated, means that he couldn't back his trailer into the campsite, so he pulled straight through across another site to park it. Thus, we revisit the idea that, if you wish to own a vehicle (including trailers and RVs), you should have to take a training course to learn how to drive it. As I've said before, most people on the road today should be driving Volkswagen Beetles and such.

Not to be upstaged, the 'girls next door' began to wonder where their eldest sister had gotten to. Their brother, whom I had already begun to feel sorry for, announced that he would go find her. As I sat at the picnic table in front of my own cabin, writing stories and eating my steak sandwich, he walked past, disappearing down the road to the lake. Short minutes after, he comes back around the bend, announcing to everyone that she "fell asleep at the lake," and that "she looks like a friggin' tomato!"

Shortly behind the brother came the sister who, from two cabins away, announced to her group (and the campground at large) that, "my boobs are white, and the rest of me is glowing!" Thinking that wasn't exposition enough, she pulled off her bikini top to provide two, large visual aids for anyone who couldn't grasp the concept she was conveying.

**Please note, I didn't take any pictures, so don't email me. Thank you.**

Needless to say, things went downhill from there. I like to think it was Karma that sent the platoon of Raccoons upon them as they sat about their campfire, that night.

As with most of my observations of humans, both in the wild and in their native habitats, subtlety is a lost art. For any who doubt this conclusion, I invite you to look upon the current administration and any number of their actions. Or you could look at our history of conflicts.

War is the ultimate opposite of subtlety. Whether conventional or nuclear, a bomb is a rather rude interruption to the flow of someone's day. As if that's not enough, before they are deployed, our troops write insulting messages on them.

Whether we are looking at troops at war, citizens in conflict with authority, or loud, exhibitionist girls with a very henpecked brother, I believe we're seeing both a psychological need to be understood and an inability to tell when the subject's point has been made. Call it a 'malfunctioning barometer', if you will. One part of the brain is not paying attention to what the other parts are trying to accomplish, thus the mouth and body keep rambling and gesticulating long after everyone gets the idea.

Not being a psychologist, I cannot speculate as to the treatment or cure for this failing, if such it can be called. I can only suggest observation from a distance and, of course, a little popcorn to go with the show.

Never Let a Wiccan Wish for Rain While You Test New Plumbing

Today started quite well. I had a bit of a headache when I got out of bed this morning, but that was from the massive amount of cleaning and spackling the day before, in an attempt to redecorate the upstairs bathroom. A little breakfast, and I was ready to start the day.

I had no complaints about work, as everything was nice and dull. The day progressed with no problems, and my headache dissipated.

It was later in the afternoon, as I was getting ready for my Tai Chi class, that things began to go wrong. Oh, it started innocently enough. I decided to take a shower in the downstairs bathroom; a sort of 'inaugural cruise', if you will, since we hadn't really used it since I finished it. Everything went swimmingly, and I went upstairs to get dressed for class.

Here, I digress. Every homeowner, after a certain amount of time, knows every creak, pop, squeak, shimmy, or other annoying noise their home makes. I do. I can tell, from the opposite end of the house, when the ice maker refills. So, when you hear rushing water when the washing machine and dishwasher are both silent, your life passes before you.

And you run.

I wish the Guinness people had been around, because I blew away speed records in reaching the basement. Of course, my first and only thought was stopping the flow of water that was gushing from the access hall between the bathroom and the bedroom, so I neglected to turn on any lights. In the dark, I found the bathroom's shutoff valves and, naturally, turned off the wrong one first. When I finally got the blown line's valve in hand, I was a bit dismayed to find that it wasn't working completely. Fully closed, it was still letting a trickle flow through, deepening my new indoor swimming pool. In wet socks, I slogged over to the main and shut off the whole house.

Thankfully, the idiots that built my house couldn't level a concrete pad to save their lives, so the water was corralled on the uncarpeted side of the basement. Unfortunately, it just happened to be the side with all the boxes and tables jammed against the wall.

It was about this time, for some reason, the song, "Come On, Get Happy" began running through my head. Suddenly, I found myself wondering if David Cassidy was still alive so I could strangle him.

To make a long story manageably short, five hours, two shop vacuums, one box fan, many towels, four repair couplings, and a large amount of primer and cement later, we have running water. The cause of my entire problem had been a small seal in the shutoff valve I mentioned earlier. The seal broke free and was swept through the line to a repair coupling where it, apparently, caused a pressure variance that blew out the compression fitting.

A series of unfortunate events. And none of it was lemony.

This evening, as things were calming down, I was speaking to one of my friends over the phone. She was telling me about how, at around the same time I was having my day's adventure, she was really wishing for a heavy rain. Also, about this time, her grandmother had a water line explode in her basement. She felt bad because she 'caused' it. Hmmm. . . No, Diane, I'm not letting you take responsibility for this one. This is just the way the Universe keeps things interesting for me.

"Come on, get happy"? It's a screaming wonder I don't drink.

No Brain, No Gain

I have come to a single conclusion. . . I need to write a book on fitness.

What? It's true.

Walk into any bookstore in the United States (and, most likely, Canada) and you will find an entire section of books devoted to making everyone fit, healthy, strong, and generally gorgeous. There are diets from the sensible to the absurd, weight training routines that are supposed to make anyone look like Conan the Barbarian, and fitness routines that are a melding of martial arts and dance that, in all honesty, I truly wonder about.

And, yet, we are a nation of obesity. Obesity is the second leading cause of death in the U.S., with approximately 60 million people considered obese (Body Mass Index >30) and approximately 9 million extremely obese (BMI >40). Once again, though, I have to wonder how true those facts are since, not that long ago, I also saw an article about how the BMI index is inaccurate, as it does nothing to distinguish between lean body weight (muscle) and fat. In fact, it doesn't even consider clothing.

I wear, on average, around 5 pounds of clothing, not including my shoes. This is jeans, shirt, and whatever is in my pockets or on my belt (wallet, keys, cell phone, spare change, etc.). At home, weighing myself in lighter attire, I am not considered overweight by the BMI index (though it is only by a narrow margin). At the doctor's office, they do not even require me to take off my shoes to be weighed so, there, I am overweight (BMI = 25.8).

Needless to say, I have little confidence in medical science's ability to gauge my health by such tenuous means.

I do believe there is a problem, however. It's hard to not see it. We live in a country where the meat of another animal has become a condiment (i.e., "I'll take my half-pound burger with lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise and BACON!!"). There are greasy, fast-food places on every corner and, quite frankly, our society is not exactly a model of self-control.

I am not here, today, to take a 'holier-than-thou' attitude on the matter. Far from it, I am here to set the record straight. I am NOT an expert, nor am I a certified personal trainer or nutritionist. I am an average being with above-average knowledge of the subject of fitness because of one reason, alone:

I acknowledge that no two people are exactly alike.

Everyone is different. This fact seems to escape all the 'gurus' and 'experts' who write these books. People buy their collective works as though they are the Word from On High, but what works for one person, or even a sizable group, is not guaranteed to work for the average person. I have, over the years, picked up a large number of fitness magazines, all claiming to have the best workouts for muscle mass, or diets for fat-burning, and I've tried a few, now and again. Have they all worked? No. Have some of them worked? No.

Now, don't get me wrong; there was a lot of helpful information in those articles, but just not all at once. I follow fitness guidelines for myself that is a hybridization of all of the knowledge I've accumulated over the years since high school, and I've made it work for me. I weight train four days a week, run at least a mile on the other days, and throw in Tai Chi as often as I can. It works for me. Will it work for you? Probably not. Remember, everyone is different.

My point, through all this ranting, is that the human body is an amazing machine. If you exert yourself, physically, on a regular basis using common sense, you will improve your health. If you are mindful of what you eat and lay off of the garbage food, you will lose weight or, at least, maintain a healthy weight. For some people, losing weight could be as simple as cutting out soft drinks. For others, medical intervention could be required. Carb-free diets and all-liquid meals are fads that come and go and, quite frankly, should be left alone.

If you are concerned about your weight, you should talk to your doctor. No magazine or book or DVD knows you like he or she does. Doctors aren't all about the prescriptions; they may have a good, simple plan for you to follow. Besides, you should see your doctor for a physical before starting any workout regimen, so you're going to be there, anyway.

Remember, it's our duty as good citizens to live as long as we can, just to keep the Social Security people totally confounded.

A Special Thanks to all my Concerned Friends. . .

Well, friends, another year has begun, and we've gotten off to a wonderful start. This age of computerized communication has placed in all our hands the power to keep in touch with family and friends as never before. To those friends who send me actual letters via email, I am forever appreciative. My heartfelt appreciation also goes out to all of you who have taken the time and trouble to send me email "forwards" over the past 12 months. Thank you for making me feel safe, secure, blessed and wealthy.

Extra thanks for the ones that I have to open 15 times to get to the message.

Special thanks to whoever sent me the one about rat doots in the glue on envelopes 'cause I now have to go get a wet towel every time I need to seal an envelope.

Also, I scrub the top of every can I open for the same reason. Because of your concern, I no longer drink Coca Cola because it can remove toilet stains and clean chrome.

I no longer drink Pepsi, or Dr Pepper, since the people who make these products are atheists who won't put "Under God" on their cans.

I no longer use Saran wrap in the microwave because it causes cancer.

I no longer check the coin return on pay phones because I could be pricked with a needle infected with AIDS.

I no longer use cancer-causing deodorants even though I smell like a water buffalo on a hot day.

I no longer go to shopping malls because someone might drug me with a perfume sample and rob me.

I no longer receive packages from, nor send packages by UPS, or FedEx, since they are actually Al Qaeda in disguise.

I no longer answer the phone, because someone will ask me to dial a number for which I will get a phone bill with calls to Jamaica, Uganda, Singapore, and Uzbekistan.

I no longer eat KFC, because their "chickens" are actually horrible mutant freaks with no eyes or feathers.

I no longer have any sneakers -- but that will change once I receive my free replacement pair from Nike.

I no longer have to buy expensive cookies from Neiman Marcus, since I now have their recipe.

I no longer worry about my soul, because at last count I have 363,214 angels looking out for me.

Thanks to you, I have learned that God only answers my prayers if I forward an e-mail to seven of my friends and make a wish within five minutes.

I no longer have any savings, because I gave it to a sick girl who is about to die in the hospital (for the 1,387,258th time)

I no longer have any money at all - but that will change once I receive the $15,000 that Microsoft and AOL are sending me for participating in their special email program.

Yes, I want to thank you so much for looking out for me that I will now return the favor!

If you don't copy and send this article to 144,000 people in the next 7 minutes, a large pigeon with a wicked case of explosive diarrhea will land on your head at 5:00 PM (EDT) this afternoon. I know this will occur because it actually happened to a friend of mine's next door neighbor's ex-mother-in-law's second husband's cousin's former college roommate.

Heads up!

Stereotypy, Ad Nauseum. . .

It's not very surprising and a bit horrifying that screaming incompetance and idiocy is a worldwide trend.

Scenario #1:
The holidays are over, and I FINALLY got my last Christmas package sent off yesterday. Why so late, you may ask? Because a package I sent out on the smegging 20th of December was returned to me by Canada Post for being 'improperly addressed'. What kind of grievous mistake did I commit? Did I leave out the postal code? No. Did I screw up the street address? No. Canada Post requires all items inbound from the United States to be printed in capital letters. In my apparent haste, amongst the capitals, I inserted a lowercase 'h'.
Example: SMITh

We're not exactly talking about a quantum leap of understanding, here.

Scenario #2:
Though I'm loath to admit it, I found myself watching one of those 'amazing video' shows last night. One of the clips was from an Austrailian children's show, the title of which was never given. The star, however, was one of those big, floppy monster-like creatures portrayed by a man who should have listened to his high school guidance counselors before choosing educational and career paths. An animal trainer was a guest, and he brought a (naturally) kangaroo.
Now, for those of you who have never had the opportunity to see a kangaroo outside of your local zoo, they are cute, yes, but also EXTREMELY strong and HORRIFYINGLY fierce when they feel threatened.

Enter the actor in the big, orange, floppy suit.

Within seconds of his walking on stage, the man in the costume found himself ON THE FLOOR IN A VISE-LIKE HEADLOCK, FIGHTING FOR AIR. The cute little kangaroo made it perfectly clear that he did not like the guy in the monster suit; so much that two people had to pull her off of him.

What does he do once he gets back on his feet? HE WALKS OVER TO THE KANGAROO AGAIN!! Of course, the animal reiterates her earlier editorial act and attempts to rip the costume head off while kicking the man severely in the groin and midsection.
Geeze. Where were the 'Darwin Award' people for this guy?

There we go. Two examples out of twenty this week that just make me wish there were colonies in Antarctica to ship people to.

More to come. . .