Tax the shit out of everybody.

Taxes. It's all about taxes. So why not tax what people defecate, discard, consume. Charge per fecal unit and volume of urine , charge for paper, water, wearing of the devices. Charge the shit out of eveybody and soon, there will be no shit to tax.

But by all means tax the shits. Figure it this way.. this idea is grounded on a theory that is in opposition to the Wall Street. If we can't stop them, then let's tax them, they (the 1%) want more of the pie which they ain't likely to get. Begin taxing Occcupiers, who by all means should be arrested for numerous health and sewage problems caused by so many, living so closely for so long. But why stop there. We must able to find data detailing the amount of sewage the average person produces then tax them on it the insouble solution. By taxing each according to the amount of fecal matter one eliminates and volume of urine passed we can reach a fair way to tax the citizens of this great country. . We have the data. We know what you throw away, what you eat, how you love, how the inside of your head works just from the things it throws away. For after all isn't what we throw away or dispose something we chose to eat or own. We consume and then discard in both senses. We eat and excrete simple. Therefore he who eats less should excrete less this being perhaps due to the social advantage of having less money to buy more food. Carbon foot printing adherents must have certifiable data in support of their computation. He who earns more must necessarily consume more, use more fuel, discard more uneaten expensive food, and use more electricity and water. The cost per unit of defecation can be adjudged as to its content and amount.. or weight and volume. What's in the fecal matter will necessarily reflect a higher life style. In shor,t tax the shit out of everybody. Higher taxes on utilties will ironically will not be noticed and more profit may be taken each according to use... in other words is 'green' is by by taking peoples' green. But what if the green runs out, the government can't print it any more? Oops that's a stinky problem I wouldn't want to touch on here.

Think of it, a truly fair and proportionaly-based tax... hike car registration a dubious but frequent occurance, gasoline each at the Fair Value Tax say 15%.. tax me on what I use.. not just so that the government has enough money to run, be it ever so enormous, and so that it can continue growing more so by the second . One must needs only to look forward to see the almost endless vehicles to use in taking more taxes from everyone, but proportionately of course. I mean if you drive a 2012 Chevy twin axle then you paying more than the postal clerks 12 year old second-hand clunker. Shoot to be fair, the poor bastard needs to have a new truck too. "He's spending lots of time and money on keeping it going and why should be, just because he can't afford it!" The 6,3 Mercedes AMG says all a car needs to say. If you want to buy anything above that, expect high taxes, chaufferred vehicles will be taxed, as will rleased vehicles. For course most of these services, possessions and patterns of consumption and sloughing off will necessarily be a tremendous source of balance in the conutry's economy. Think of it old fellow, we're entering a new world, like the Pilgrims did, inventing our own ethos, our own needs, our own methods of paying the piper. Above that, gouge them with prohibitive taxes. But you may ask, doesn't the guy with the Benz have to help pay so that Chevy can make a profit to pay the workers who are on the line. Everybody is buying and sellin something, eating something and then defecating, les's tax 'em for all of it.: shit, pisee, farts. We could have an annual fart tax calculated on diet and fecal prodcution. So what do you think a fart is worth on the open market.

PTSD

I suffer from PTSD caused by two separate injuries and unrelated to armed conflict. I was never in the military though my father who served in the Pacific was most likely a PTSD victim also. So I know a little about the issue. This is my story about two separate incidents that have forever marked me. When a person is injured, horrifically and suddenly, the body has its first line defense: shake it off, everything is alright. The mind freezes the body in the last second in which the whole body had existed. Everything about that last moment is frozen in time, the weather, the day, the date, wat one was wearing, the last words spoken down to infinite detail. But the injury quickly imprints itself on the psyche. One realizes that I am forever changed, my physcial body has been damaged beyond repair, I know this, my core physical being recognizes the true and lasting effect immediately though consciousness goes into denial. Thereafter the mind begins its warp.. its suffering, its inestimable anger, grief. Only those who have suffered such a life altering experience can attest to this! I will be specific in a short time. What happens in the years following the first injury really amounts to reliving the injury or attempting to medicate or booze oneself from living with it. I've done both and neither works. Counseling? Perhaps that works, but we here in America in the 21st century go for the quick cure.. atavin, xanax, weed, alcohol, heroin anything to dull the hurt, the irreconcilible recognition that one is forever changed.

To the story. My first PTSD experience came on November 5, 1962 a warm Tueday... when I crashed a car into a wall and my mouth hit the steering wheel. I was spitting blood everywhere and ran ino the church office to tell the priest whose car I was moving that I had wrecked the car. Funny I was apologetic.. I wrecked your car, I'm sorry. What has followed over the last 49 years has been innumerable dental surgeries, bridges and shame. After all the most important thing on American television is the toothy smile. Without that one is a freak, a toothless racist hillbilly, white trash. Repeatedly, daily, that message hits home.. I am less than everyone else because I have false teeth. The psychological pain is far worse than the physical though I suffer everyday.. ask anyone who wears dentures knows how they hate those devices. So at 16 I began wearing dentures and undergoing dental surgies to have permanent upper bridges fitted. I'm on my third and awaiting procedures that will lead to a fourth.

My second PSTD experince came on April 15, 1990 a warm Wednesday when while pitching batting practice as a girls softball coach I was stuck on the right temple by a hard grounder that took a bad bounce. I was knocked off my feet and as I lay on the ground and my players rallied around me I immediately got up and attempted to shake it off. What has followed has been over 20 years of misery and headaches. After the intial blow I had a month long headache which could not be relieved. I went to the hospital for x-rays and then my family doctor who said I had a dent in my skull, code for a fracture. She prescribed Indurol.. which I took for a week and then stopped because I was essentially a zombie. When I asked my family doctor if she would attest to the line drive as being the cause of my multiplying headaches, she said no... you see I'd had headaches in the past so this wasn't the cause.. and she wasn't going to take a day off to testify. I was and am extremely disappointed in her. There is one long term disability that resulted from that injury. I cannot close my left eye in a blink! Well if that hit to the head was not a work related and a compensation worthy injury why prescribe Indurol. And to top if off, the girl who hit the ball had the afrrontery to confront me about my lack of interest and energy while I was on Indural. But enough castigating the others.

Soldiers injured or shot in war relive their experiences even to the day, the weather, the locale just as I have. PTSD is as real to noncombatants as it is to those injured in war. I have spent a lifetime in pain, discomfort and regret. What might have been had I not cut school on that warm day in 1962, the week that Eleanor Roosevelt died? No use going there and did I ever profit from the injury, did it exempt me from military service in an honorable way. NO. Instead when the intake officer at the Selective Service asked if anyone had dentures I was too ashamed to speak up.. which would have gotten me a medical instead I passed through on a lie. Forever after my exemption will be related either drug use or my father's PTSD. Gutless and stupid what a combination. And what might have been had I not attempted to back hand the ground ball? I was showing off and have paid dearly for it. I will go to my grave with those two injuries haunting me every day! And what about my head injury while coaching, did I ever profit from that. Well no and I never threw batting practic the same. True I had taught those kids to hit,, if they could hit my pitching, they could anybody's. I wasn't that good but I was accurate. Only twice in nearly 2 decades of pitching batting practice did I hit a batter..

That's all I have to say on the subject today.. Fellow PTSD sufferers I salute you. Life after Trauma is never the same! Often if I allow myself I can return to that day in November, 1962 and relive the event, hoping and fantasizing that a second more or less, had a decision to skip school not been made, my life would have been much different. No arguing that, but why think that way. Things are what they are.. the explosive impact comes back to me, the sudden confusion, shock, the blood. Over and over I see it happening I bleed, I spit out my broken teeth. There was no saving them, the teeth, that is, were broken, splintered.. And next the long walk perhaps 6-8 blocks to the dentist.. of that I have no memory. Then the removal of the fragments. I don't remember the dentist using any anaesthetic.. Then later in the day when my parents came home I was there with the bad news. Sad to say I don't remember their reactions.. shock, anger whatever. Each blamed the other.. I blame them both for not being better parents.. but I was and am willful so blaming them is another method of denial. Had I had different parents, had they been more aware of me and my doings. Then there is the priest, whose name I will not reveal. I wonder how often does he think about me, or does he ever? When I try to remember the days that followed, the pain, perhaps the medication.. I don't think there was any. I do recall that I didn't sleep well that first night. My next recollection was going back to school a week later, after being fitted for dentures and the solicitude of a few people, things go blank except for one remarkable incident. There was a girl, a Greek girl who came up to me and told me that she had full dentures and then showed me and remarked that it wasn't so bad. That gave me some comfort but also I suspicioned she was making primitive advances toward me. She wasn't a particuarly pretty girl, certainly not popular. In fact I don't think I'd ever noticed her before. Looking back I guess a high school girl with full dentures was likely to be a wall flower. One other incident stands out about the girl, whose name I will not use. I remember being invited to a birthday party some years later at her parents home. This was during my wild years.. The party was in the basement of which I remember nothing. But I do recall making my way up to the formal living room.. which was a somber place, dark furnishings, plush but dark and univiting. Nothing remains of that experience. There will be more.. but for now I must stop.. it happens that way.. it overcomes me to relive the days following, the months, and even the years, the multiple office visits, the gold teeth attached to my eye teeth.. I still have that bridge as a keepsake? Or reminder?

On the bottom line

Pawn Store is it a group of fat cheats or a family business that went viral? Either both or neither. Just like most people I am hopelessly attracted to such shows just as a moth is attracted to a light. Why? By now we have the formulaic script down pat. Person enters store with item, one of the principal characters doesn't know the item's value or authenticity. Next line, "I have a buddy who knows everything there is to know about.... blah, blah, blah. I don't think the man has any buddies just people who can be called on to estimate an item's value.

"Let me to call HIM in,"Notice it's always a him." These guys have more buddies than the poor slob in your fifth grade class had cooties. Skip to next scene ' buddy' gives an expert opinion on item's worth. For the heck of it, let's say it's a Mickey Mouse or Superman lunch box lunch box. No, that won't do because the guys at the pawn store would know right off the value of a piece of modern Americana and would find every flaw imaginable to low ball its value.

Let's say it's a water color painting by Winston Churchill. Expert authenticates item.. Let's say if it's a Churchill water color it's retail value is $29,000. Expert spouts a little of this , a little of that and voila it is authenticated and here's where the show gets on my nerves, and I would guess yours too. Just before the 8 minute commercial break, tricky Ricky goes into his usual side-bar about the potential value and how much he'd like to have the item in his store if he could get it at the right price, repeat at the right price -with the disclaimer I have to make a profit on it.

Cut back to Ricky and customer after expert makes an estimated retail value. Of course there are a few other lesser items considered in the mean while. Expert says item is authentic.. and at retail might fetch say $20-25,000. Customers face assumes a look of smug satisfaction.. dollar signs seem to ring in the eyes as they would in a cartoon characters. Then the show goes into negotiation mode. "How much do you want for it?" Ricky asks. Gullible customer repeats what expert has said. Ricky does his thing. "Yeah, I know but here's the thing I'll have to have it cleaned up, get a new frame- bada bing, la la la.. and there really isn't market for it. Here's the low ball..It's going to sit on a shelf for eons. I'll give you three thousand for it." Customer's face drains to chalky white. the expected windfall is now a liability to Pawn Store owner, yeah sure.

At this pont almost anything might happen but if you're on to this show, you'll know if the customer hesitates or counter offers at below half retail value, Rick is going to get the piece on the cheap. Wouldn't you love to hear the customer say, "Sure there's no market, sure you're going to have to put so much into it (usually if it's piece requiring refurbishing Ricky does the cost he's going to incur and how he has to make money), sure it's going to sit on your shelf; but you're a thief with a cash register, forget it." Actually I 'd like to hear a customer go a little more ballistic on Rickster. "Screw you, tell me an original Churchill is worth three thousand." But too often customer goes into negotitation mode. I gotta have $15,000. Now you and I know Rick ain't buying no painting for 15K. He then says . "OK, I tell you what I'm going to do. I've give you 4,000. Customer either withdraws (to a collective cheer heard round the block) or gets sucked in. Customer askes"can you give me $5,000?" Long pause means Rick is going to buy it. Quick retort means Rick is locked in, he makes counter offer at a lower rate just to get the customer's goat. Then the hands go out for a shake on the deal followed by the order for Chumpley to write it up.

If the chump customer agrees , an original Churchill gets sold for perhaps $4500. Flash to next frame. Customer justifies having sold the item with some lame ass comment such as.,"Well it was just hanging on the wall drawing dust." Flash to hundred dollar bills being counted out followed by self-satisfied and smug Ricko bragging about the deal. Then we find out just how glad he is to have gottent the Churchill at such a price and how there is such a large market of collectors. Theme song, fade, commercials, theme song again, clips of crowds mulling around the shop, cut to crew exiting Lincoln and a few frames of items we will see if we stay tuned.

So, if the show turns me off, if I find the legal swindle so tawdry, why am I such a fan? Why do we all love it so much? Because we never know what's going to show up , as Rickster says, "You never know what's going to come through the door ." We also love it because on occasion, a customer will decline, will actually realize that the low ball express has rumbled passed and he has refused to get taken for a ride. End blog..

Curious isn't though. Those poor bastards at the pawn store are so stout, no let's tell the truth, fat, go Lem say it straight out"obese." They aren't suffering. Just watch as the 'old man' as he stacks gold bars or as the money counting machine wraps up large bills.

So here's the bottom line. If you take an item you know or think has value to a pawn shop. be ready to get low balled. Hey that's the bottom line. Now about the term 'bottom line". Everybody's using it.. the accountant's mantra, the business man's hymn, the customer's woe. When I hear someone using the term I turn off my over-sized ears, clamp my lips down and turn them off. Bottom line is you are the bottom of the line.. or you're bottom is feeding me a line. Either way, get lost, hit the road, jump in a lake. lie down on a rail road track.

Disclaimer:

The person or places mentioned in this blog are merely fictional and any association with persons living or dead is purely coincidental and should not be associated with any person or business enterprise. Hey that's how I lowball my comments.

It's ain't about anything, just a free speech diatribe.

Confession of a 'serial' reader

I admit it I am a serial reader. I read everything and almost anything I can get my hands on. Get my hands on is the critical phrase here , actually it's not a phrase -it's a fragment. But who cares. Back to the topic. How and when I learned to read is a mystery to me, It seems it was something I learned to do on my own. I'm not dicrediting my lovely, vivacious and wonderful first grade teacher, I'm saying that it happened almost without my knowledge. One day it was Run Spot Run and Dick and Jane and the next it was I Claudius by Robert Graves. and Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. Now I know Dick and Jane no longer scamper through the pages of elementary school reading books. They are the agents of a racist, evil school system. Yawn, scratch, cough!

I know I'm supposed to jump on the politically correct band wagon and rail about the inherent racism of Dick and Jane. But had it been Ricardo and Clytemnestra, I still would have been interested. It just so happened it was 1951 and the little readers in those days were geared to the majority population. The important thing is I wanted to learn to read and when letters and sounds began to have meaning, there was no turning back. Once you can read, you're marked for life. You can't help but read.. from the Stop sign to the posted speed limit, to the menu at Subway, your eyes and brain work in concert to make sense of the world. You begin reading cereal boxes at breakfast, street signs, food labels everything and anything. Its evolution, the survival of the smartest. If you can read, you do read. You can't help it. Of course there are somethings not worth reading or that are difficult to read. To this day, long pages of computer data defy my reading addiction. This is what I meant when I said I read everything I get my hands on. I need the concrete feel of a book in my hands. I'm one of those 'throw backs' who think the Kindle is an electronic farce. People think that having one will make them read.. not likely. If you aren't a reader, a compulsive, down and out addicted, serial reader, a kindel is a waste of time. Better to buy a book on tape or CD than a kindel.

Reading is an unusual human acitivity. When you can read the words, you can't not read. The last sentence contains a double negative but really expresses the truth in the most succinct way. You can't not read. Certainly you can be distracted and not look at the word(s) but then you haven't truly looked at whatever was in front of you. Words thus have an existence of their own. They seem to be a mirror from which you receive an image, an image that is in your mind. I know very little about the neural firings. It occurred to me that the word Subway was not only on the sign but in my head and the best way I could describe it was to say it was as if I were looking into a mirror and the word Subway in my mind was a reflection. This will require some further consideration. About the concept that once you can read you read, you can't not read. Of course the applies specifically to one's own mother tongue though reading in another language becomes as automatic with time. I can read some modern Greek but have to sound it out, syllable by syllable before I can pronounce the word. The same is true of Spanish and since Spanish shares almost the same alphabet, decoding it requires less effort than Greek though I understand spoken Greek far better than spoken Spanish and speak ( in a rustic and very simple way) Greek, I do not speak Spanish with any degree of polish. The same is not true of French. I speak French better than I speak Spanish and can read it but often fumble over words. This area of langauge acquistion is beyond my comprehension.

Here's the pith. I was a certificated Reading Specialist.. I was supposed to know how to teach people who could not read to read. But I did not know how to do that other than to read to them and have them read with me. Having never taught first grade I am at a loss as to the progression of sound-symbol recognition to the actual decoding. I know that the shapes of letters and words are eventually assigned to the sounds we make. Much like crawling, walking and running, reading progresses through the intial hesitant activities to the more difficult ones. For anyone who has worked with a person who is sounding out words, the process is tedious and tiresome. I suppose this is the see-say method and for most students it works. . But even though I am certified as a Reading Specialist I can't think of a way to teach someone with a severe learning disability to read. I've known many students with brilliant minds, who slipped through school and graduated without being able to read. Something else must be working. I keep harping on the physical aspect of reading or pretending to read. It takes a special intelligence to fake it, to go to school for over a dozen years and never catch on to reading. Some kids who do this are amazingly bright, they have to be. They have a store of knowledge that amazes me. Others are just passed along. Sad to say that but it's true. Of this first group of non-readers I acknowledge they had the capacity, the intelligence to learn. why didn't they? Is there a genetic link ? Of the latter class I hang my head an confess that there is a certain level of intelligence that is often missing, though many people with limited intelligence can and do learn to read even if it is at the most functional level.

So dear readers if you have progressed this far, you too are probably a serial reader. It's not a crime but it does offer a trip to anywhere at any time. The one area I do have some expertise in as regards reading is fluency and rate. I refer the reader back to the tedious and tiresome work of listening to a learning read sound out each letter. It takes patience. God bless elementary school teachers who not only teach kids to read but work with several diferent reading levels in the same class. Memory fails me when I attempt to remember how I learned to read. I can't remember there being different reading groups at any time in my primary years. It seems that everyone was at the same level in the same book. Memory is no ally. I wish I could speak with my first grade teacher. If she is still living I will seek her out at the next family reunion which is held in the town where I began elementary school. Even in later years I don't recall 'reading' groups. At one point in my elementary schooling I was in the 'low' class whatever that means. I had moved to Baltimore from Canonsburg, PA in the fifth grade and the school placed me in a class with discipline problems. I knew the kids were 'bad' but never associated the idea that this was the 'slow' group. Grouping inthose days consisted of entire classes. I don't think we had three reading groups in my fifth grade class. Ironically the Baltimore City Schools had suggested I be put back a grade. The school system felt that my education in PA had been inferior to the Baltimore City Schools. It hadn't been. In fact the opposite was true. The PA schools had done a much better job of teaching me. For me fifth grade was a nightmare, terrible discipline problems, an older burned out teacher, a new school, a city instead of a little town. All of these conspired to make school a horrible place to be but I never adopted that opinion. I still loved school. What I did learn that year was to teach myself. I always had a book at my desk, most often a biography from the school library. Those little biographies were a life line for me. I read everyone one the school library had. It was a harrowing experience moving to Baltimore from First Ward, the school my father had attended.

Like You Know What I Think

It almost goes without saying that in daily conversation most people begin their speaking with one of these three openings. I shudder whenever somone with whom I am speaking begins with one of these. I can usualy guess that I am about to be bored by what follows. So in that spirit I have actually sat down and thought about these three. Why? Here are a few observation on the Like you know I think issue.

When someone says "Like ,you know , or what I think" I almost immediately tune them out. Why? First, Like I really don't. The prevalence, the repetitious use of 'like' is pandemic. If you like (sorry about that) you may consider 'Like" a mental hiccup which most people can't control or to be more gross ,linguistic. flatulence Something is or is similar to.. Consider , she was like tall. Was she tall or wasn't she. Then there is "You know". Allow me to turn this around and inside out just as an intellectual or linguistic exercise. Many people begin whatever they are about to say with the independent clause: "You know. " Its intent is to attract the listener. Like I know something and the speaker is going to share what he-she knows that I know. How nice! But what a waste of time! Actually if I know why should I be listening to you and why the heck are you saying this to me, because as you said "You know" implying that I already knew. . Obviously you think I know why repeat it, I know it. It's complimentary that you think that I know! Then there is the oxymoronic " I think" if you're using this I have to say you probably don't think . If you are guilty of the first two in this trilogy then what "I think" (meaning what you the speaker thinks)has no importance. Or to misquote a much better mind than mine, "The brain is an organ with which we think we think."

What is responsible for this? Is it laziness, or just poor language skills. I assert it is both To digress I will consider language instruction (actually all instruction in America's public school). First, language instruction in American schools which is primarily responsible. Curious that SAT language scores began to drop in 1964 and disallowing for revision to make the scores look better I cite the move away from the teaching of Latin. When Latin left the curricula of academic programs, we all began to get dumber and demonstrate poor speaking and writing skills. Having taught English for decades I can still hear the echo of little minds repeating their litany. whenever I began or continued on my infamous diagraming instruction. "When are we ever going to use this?" Like you never know! Perhaps if you knew the parts of speech and the various functions of like, you'd refrain from the peremptorial misuse of like. Like a virgin is a prepositional phrase and I give Madonna credit because she really said something that I liked . Oops, there he goes using like as a verb.. my goodness he's boring the shit out of me.

On a more cynical level- So what? You know what I think. Yes I do.. I think you think with borrowed ideas, parroting whatever programed knowledge the educational elite peddle. Oh, my god I've gone tangential.

Now to conclude.. actually this isn't going to be a conclusion after all because I intend to come back to this again and again. The educationalese for coming back to a topic is 'revisit".

Readers, fans, relatives, indifferent observers, proponents of the apocalypse and any others, this blog is dedicated to Newspeak which is actually NoSpeak. The first casualty in America's educational system is actual teaching. I say this because it's true. What has replaced the 3 R's is diversity, sensitivity training and values clarification- or if you're not a fan -sheer bull shit: programed mind control on a level that even Orwell would shutter to utter. Small wonder the media (and those bastards are the first to compare American schools to those in other countries). Do you think the Chinese care about diverstity, about self-esteem, values clarification or any of the other hot topics American schools adopt rather than teach. Small wonder that foreigners who speak English do not split infintives, or use incorrect pronoun cases or mangle verb tenses. They are taught English grammar something that has gone out of vogue and which the great minds who write articles about American education are now pushing. I sense a conspiracy here or it may just be an accident. First the educational elite pushes (as in drugs if you're cynic like me) one thing and when it fails, the educrats go back to basics. It's a testament to their brillance. Excuse the metaphor, they upset the apple cart and then pick up the apples and shine them. Look see it's all new, it's ours.

Like you know I'm sorta finished with this for today. I'll get back a little later about something called Values Clarification, a program I was involved with in the Baltimore City Schools. You won't want to miss this. Unless of course like you know what I think.. which you can't.

The Green House Effect versus The Outhouse Effect or May the Farts be with you

We've all heard about our ecological footprint and the green house effect. I have decided that pundits and others have missed a point which I call the outhouse effect. Much has been said about the fecal matter and faltulence of bovines polluting the environment, but what about humans. I read recently that each human has 14 farts a day(and that's on a good day) now multiply that by 6 billion and you can see that that's a lot of hot air. Of course hot air issues from both ends and it's difficult to tell which emanation is more obnoxious. I think the hot air we expend from our mouths is far more noxious than the gases our rears expend. After all, a fart dissapates quickly,(well some don't) but a foul mouth can issue obnoxious matter that clings for years.

So what's the point? We can't stop the flatulence, but we're taught from an early age to be polite and wait for an appropriate time and place. I have a solution to those problem which I will mention later.

For many the opportunity to let one rip is an occasion for merriment and a chance to disgust friends and family. We have names for the various forms of flatulence: the loud but odorless (hereafter called LBO's), the silent but deadlies (the SBD's), the little poppers with a frangrance akin to peanuts.. the peanuttiest, the repeaters, the putter farts, the green vaporous fart that clings in the air - these are the ones we like to let but which are thoroughly disgusting to those in the vicinity. These greenies seem to have a life all their own often spreading around a small area and taking a long time to fade. Another variety is the squealor fart that high pitched fart that has a sound all its own. Then there is the pre-poop fart..and finally the finest anal expression of all time the fart that surrounds a turd's exit. anyone who has ever experienced this type of fart knows that it is a pleasure beyond compare.. the turd that exits with a blast of gas is peprhaps natures finest creation. Then there are combination farts such as the belch and fart, the sneeze and fart, and a dozens of others. I welcome suggestions. Also, I hypothecate that every person's farts are as specific as one's voice. Science needs to look into this.. or sniff into this to see if there is any scientific validity to it.

Most of us have learned how to fart silently by lifting a butt cheek. We've all also experienced the accidental noise-maker that we thought would be a hisser but turns into a blaster the LBO.

I have a suggestion for a product that would end this outhouse effect. and improve social life. It is a product I call FPH.. a thin sheet of absorbent tissue placed inside the under wear.. FPH stands for For Posterior Hygiene. This product has numerous benefits. First the FPH will absorb the fumes and turn them into pleaant smelling perfumed air... thus benefitting the environment. In addition the FPH will decrease the sound of a fart and allow people to expel gas whenever they chose and not suffer the disconfort of holding it back... something I'm sure all of us have done at some time. Some time it just isn't convenient or polite to let one go.. say while in church, at a funeral, while dining out or even making out. FPH makes ancient history of this.

The benefits of FPH are limitless. First it will clean up the foul air that each of the 6 billion of us creates daily which will greatly improve our ecological butt print. Second we will avoid the embarassment that the accidental fart often causes. Third our insides will not have to suffer the uncomfortable feeling of holding back a fart until an appropriate time. Third, a new industry will be created.. FPH factories. which will create jobs... Also, used FPH's can be recycled, aired out and reused. In addition our under garments will not longer be befouled by the fart gone bad.. ye olde skid mark.

Who can possibly object to my FPH proposal. Scientists can begin working on this project with the goal of improving the very air we breathe. The word stinker would become obsolete.. and the obnoxious people who rip off nasties will be rendered silent and inoffensive. What a proposal. We will have the benefit of the old saying 'there's more room outside than inside' without the obnoxious odors that often are issued with that statement. Clothing will last longer, underwear will retain its pristine color and society and the environment will benefit from the end of the outhouse effect. Thus we can all reduce our ecological butt print while becoming more civil, a concept long over due. May the farts with you!

I stand corrected

Tree swallows... not purple Martins have invaded our mail box. I stand corrected. Yet it seems the tree swallows have not rejected the pathetic house sparrow I discovered in my driveway. Loyal fans ( those one or two related to me by blood) will recall my entry regarding purple Martins and their proclivites. I in my absolute stupidity mistook the tree swallows for purple Martins and hypothecated that these new residents of our mail box were behaving in a most unusul way. Wrong. Tree swallows behave like tree swallows and for the sake of the poor rejected house sparrow I found laboring to free itself from the shell, a prayer goes out that the swallows will nuture the little fellow. Even the tree swallows are cautious and behave protectively toward the young. . Whenever I approach the mail box, the swallows vacate and then stay within feet on me, circling, squalking, giving me a devil of a time for messing with their young. Can't blame them.

Well, here we are on June 8 actually feeling the full weight of summer's humidity. The record temperature for today was 95.. I think we either tied or toppped it. As for my part, be it lack of intelligence or just luck, I managed to take my daily forty minute walk, nearly two miles. OK more like a mile and a half. It was just after four in the afternoon and the temperatures was at least 95, I think more like 97. So what did I do? What any witless 65 year old in moderate condition would do.. I took my walk, listening to Joe Satriani's Engines of Creation. Engines of Creation is a great walking tape, in most cases. It is fast, rhythmic and fast. Oh, I said fast. Well it does rock. Keeping pace with the rhythm is difficult on a regular day. But try it on a day which is 97 with a heat index of 107. Yes, that's one oh seven. Mad, you say I'm mad. Well a little.

I've been a compulsive walker for many years. It hasn't kept me from getting pneumonia but it certainly has helped me keep my weight down and my legs muscular. As to my lungs.. well only and prayer and a miracle can reverse the long-term effects of smoking. Lucky to be writing is the truth. Double pneumoia, twice no less and a long inglorious infatuation with all manner of inhalable substances. I am currently in my 25th year of no cigarettes... but... well lest I be too open. I'll say no more. That I am alive is a miracle, that my lungs and body still feel strong and capable is a gift from my Creator.

Well friends, today also marked an interesting chapter in married life. When we were younger, much younger than today (*thanks Beatles)my wife, girl friend, constant companion and otherwise better self and I used to , as she so aptly put it, 'space around'. Shoot she and I have spaced around an entire continent several times... We've probably driven over 200,000 miles together.. I'd say more like 300-400,000. Space around.. yes we did it again. Spaced off to Frederick County where a new Wegman's grocery store just opened. Wegman's and many grocery stores like it are almost obscene. The food we have here is just too much. Now don't mistake me for a Socialist. I don't often go off on a share and share alike tangent but as to food, we Americans have more than enough. Too much if the statistics are correct. But space we did.. and enjoyably, regardless of the temperatures. The ride began with an enjoyable drive through Catoctin National Park where temperatures were 7-10 degrees cooler. The canopy of trees, the open field, the height all contributed to a cooler drive. But one doesn't race through Catoctin Mountains. There are hair pin turns where 15 mph is a stretch.. but the sight of cool, clear streams running parallel to the road seems to make the drive so comforting. Plus the camopy of trees keeps the sun frm blazing down.

Years ago we'd space up to Catoctin just to walk in the steams. Sometimes we'd choose PenMar, a lovely park on the MD-PA border from which one can see 4 states. PenMar sits on the Appalachian Trail and often trekkers would be camped or passing by,

On occasion I'd walk a mile or two down the trail getting a feel for it. Walking the Appalachian Trail is one of my life long goals, I suspect that's why I started walking in the first place... I've not packed that dream away but I am folding it. At 65 walking the trail seems a bit of a stretch but as my Spamalot tee-shirt says, "I'm not dead yet!" I seldome wear the shirt for fear it may find someone who would challenge that or that I might offend someone who has recently lost a loved one. Black tee shirts, got a bunch... like them a great deal.

With the hour growing late, I feel a slight ache in my body from today's walk and ride... not to mention the work I did around the house (which in honesty wasn't much). So with my body still burning calories from my walk, I'll take me to bed. As mentioned in an earlier post my internal body clock is beginning to revert to work mode. Tired by 10, asleep by 11 and up by 5. But what to do at 5 a.m. . A wiser man might walk, it's cool, quiet, and so on. Truth is I like the heat, and enjoy the sunshine. No more excuses. A tree swallow is not a Martina and I was foolish to think a Martin would change its habits, snap just like that. So I stand corrected and I am not a naturalist or bird watcher. My spacing around buddy discovered what kinds of birds we had in our newspaper slot. All things considered, the nest is a much better use of the space than is a newspaper.

Hope tomorrow's entry is full of enjoyable reading and that I can get my 4 person reading audience back. Oh yes you wonderful four, tell a friend, leave a comment, or just read. Night all.

Purple Martins and the fledgling sparrow

Today is DDay. June 6, 1944 perhaps one of the most significant days in our history. God bless those who were left in graves on Normandy. Friday June 3rd was a day worth recalling. In my driveway that day I noticed a speckled shell, half open and the pinky flesh of a baby bird. I stood for a moment mersmerized by the hairless, eyeless creatures, struggling , stretching, laboring to be born, to break free its shell. At fist glimpse I was unsure of what I was seeing. I'd had seen assassin bugs on the drive, huge nasty-looking creatures and thought this one of them. I stopped myself from stomping on the thing I thought was a bug. I'm glad I did. In a split second I realized that this was not a bug but a bird, or rather a bird in a shell.

Rather than interfere with the bird and knowng that its age there was little I could do, I left it to its fate.

The next day June 4th Saturday morning I looked and there was that tiny bird still trying to crack out of its shell... the creature had been there 24 hours and was still fighting for its life.

Now to back up and prepare to tell the rest of the story. Our mail box is a large metal contraption. The upper part, polished brass for mail, the lower level is a slot where the newpaper would normally be placed. About a month or less ago, we stopped subscribing to the local paper. Several weeks after that I noticed hay, grass and other materials pushed to the back of the storage area under the mail box. I knew birds had made a nest there, but not what kind. Later in the day, the grass and hay were back, the rebuilding had begun again, this time with my knowledge and approval.

As it happens we have been visited by one of the more private and reclusive birds: purple Martins. Purple Martins are known to build their nests high. Many people in this area have long poles with bird houses on them. Martins seek these out. Martins avoid lower nests, will not nest near a tree and are very selective. All of which I didn't know before discovering the nest. Since then I've learned a great deal about purple marins. It is said that once Martins build a nest they return to it year after year. Not only that but they return on a schedule. almost the same day each year. I also leanred that Martins will not harbor or nurse other birds.

Well back on my Saturday time line. I picked up the fledgling, though it wasn't even to that point, and held it in my hand. The bird, moved attempting to shake the shell off itself. Knowing I could do nothing for the bird and unaware of what species it was I thought- the nest of Marins is six feert away. I'll put it there. Several hours later, after the mail came, I looked on the ground and the shell and bird had been evicted from the nest.

I picked up the bird again and my wife got her bird book out. It seems our little fellow was a sparrow.. a very common bird in this area. I still couldn't decide waht to do. Obviously at some point I had to put the little bird somewhere and hope for the best.

After holding the little bird for an hour and taking some moving film, I put it back in the newspaper slot where the Martins have their nest. I made sure to put it as far back as I could. Several times over the last few days I have checked, the sparrow and its shell were no where to be found and I presumed the Martins have adopted it. I hope though as I mentioned Martins are not knownt to adopt other species. What happened to the little guy I cannot say but I can comment on what I have discovered about the amazing Martins.

First these Martins should not be living under my mail box which is only 4-5 feet off the ground. Second Martins are rare and brave. Whenever I go to the mail box the Martins flee the nest, landing as close as possible and constantly keeping an eye on me. As I open the mail box, the Martins begin diving toward me, emitting a scream. The Martin is a small bird, with wings that remind me of a Stealth Bomber. The wings are short and have an aerodynamic angle to their edges. Thus the Martin is able to swoop and dive at full speed. Not that they frighten me, but it does get to be an annoyance to simply try to get the mail. The Martins pitch a fit, will not fly off and abandon the nest. Instead they remain steafast and bold, swooping and screaching.

Have the Martin's adopted the sparrow? I can't say. I hope so. And finally one last interesting but unrelated comments. As I said whenever I go to our mail I lightly tap the mail box, alerting the Martins to flee. Notice dear read the next time you see a police car stop a driver that the police will always touch either the back fender of back door of the car stopped-in as they approach the driver. They does thise in order to leave finger prints, marking the car just in case. Irrelevant to purple Martins and Sparrows but interesting none the less.

Stay tuned. We will try to download the film of the sparrow in its shell.

Marshall Dillon has died

Sad news from the world of entertainment, the man who played Marshall Matt Dillon for 20 years on the TV show Gunsmoke died today or yesterday; the scroll on the news station screen didn't specify. Who can forget the impact the man had on generations of young Americans. This was a hero, not only on the screen but also in the war. At six foot seven and a half inches, Arness was not eligible to train as a fighter pilot, his chosen interest in the war effort. Instead he became a soldier and served in the Italian Campaign,. Wounded at Anzio, Arness always displayed the stiffness in his leg from that wound. His huge presence seemed to be the reason for his long strides and odd manner of walking but it was the wound that caused that... Also I can also remember how Arness mounted and dismounted his beuatiful gray quarter horse, Buck. He always pulled that injured leg over and off the saddle stiff-leggedly.

So what was it about Matt Dillon that made him so much a part of our television history. The list of charatersitics is unlimited. Dillon stood for law and order in the wild, reckless world populated by unsavory, vicious and dangerous villains. Matt was always there to shore up any clamity. The good found shelter in his immense shadow; the evil- justice.. Probably the most intriguing aspect of Gunsmoke was the unspoken relationship of Matt and Kitty Russell, the proprietress of the Long Branch Saloon. Kitty had the tendency to say Maaatt with a cooing, admiring tone which lead viewers to believe there was a relationship. So year after year we waited to see if the saloon keeper and the Marshall would ever marry, if the show would ever indulge us with an explanantion of their relationship. He was her hero and ours. But if were they intimate, why wouldn't they marry. Sad to say, Amanda Blake left Gunsmoke after the 19th season. The show aired but one more season but no mention of Miss Kitty's departure was ever mentioned. Miss Blake died of AIDS not long after leaving the show.

For me and for many of my generation, watching Gunsmoke on Saturday nights ended as we began dating and being out on Saturday nights. Of course several other factors contributed to my generations straying from its Saturday night ritual of Jackie Gleason, Have Gun Will Travel and Gunsmoke. First the change from black and white to color affected the film noire, the black and white certainty of the law and seemed to diminsh the show. Then the show moved from a half hour to the whole hour which diluted its impact. Also new characters were added, Newly and Festus, and Arness began to fade into a perpetual state of being away only to return in the nick of time to save Dodge from the wicked. For me the longer show appeared to be just padding.. By that I mean half hour scrips were being extended to an hour with digressions and humor. None of these features improved the show! Rather they seemed to be the work of advertising. Here was a popular show with a loyal following. Have Gun Will Travel left the air and Gunsmoke attempted to fill the vacancy but didn't.

For me Gunsmoke was a integral part of growing up. It taught values our society held and was moving towards. Matt was a good man, fair and decent. He treated the Indian renegades with dignity and decency. In later episodes racial considerations came into the scripts. Black characters began to appear on the show and Matt was a model of the equality toward blacks which our soceity was now beginning to recognize. We, as a nation, were moving towards a more fair society and Matt showed us that this was the right thing to do. He took the side of freed slaves being pressed upon by racists, ex-Confederates and other unsavory types. The lesson to the country was that things were changing. Our heroes recognized the evil of our ways and were showing us the way we ought to behave as a society and individuals.

Then there was the explosive element of Viet Nam, student protests, drugs and sex and rock and roll. Gunsmoke was out of its element. True, the values we had been learning on Saturday nights had been planted and blossomed. Westerns became passee, cowboys associated with racism. The morals that Gunsmoke gave us didn't fade though. We may have strayed from our Saturday nights at home with the family watching the tube into the abyss of sex and drugs and rock and roll but we held tight to those principles that Gunsmoke so surreptitiously taught, equality under the law, fairness, honesty. Even our mission in Viet Nam played back to those values.. we were going to help the weak against the strong incursion of the evil Red Empire. This was what America was all about, or so we thought in our more lucid moments. Like Matt Dillon we were going to ride to the rescue of the down trodden, the over run, the weak. We were Marshall Dillon riding high in the saddle.. our morality as large as Arness himself. Those who served carried these principles forward into action. Those who didn't felt that their efforts to stop the war were also based on the things we learned watching Gunsmoke.

As mentioned in a previous blog, what truly amazes this writer is the caliber of writing on Gunsmoke, Paladin and indeed most Westerns including Wagon Train and The Virginia. The writing augmented the message. The stories were life lessons, morality plays. Those Western helped form our modern values. I miss the caliber of shows but am gratefull that they are available on DVD.. and now on channels such as the Western Channel. If the reader can find DVD's or broadcasts of Gunsmoke, I suggest the reader take time and watch. You will be amazed at how influential Gunsmoke and other Westerns were. Why they got such a bad rap in later years confuses me. I guess the level of killing, all in the line of duty, was unacceptable. I guess our tastes changed. All that aside there will never be another television show with the power of Gunsmoke. This humble writer smells an opportunity... a movie of Gunsmoke. It's going to happen.

For this writer I have set aside my middays to watch Gunsmoke, I scower the shelves at Sam's for DVD's of these and other shows and I revel in the glory and greatness of 1950-60's television. God bless James Arness.. a hero both on and off the television screen.

why we love and hate westerns

Last Halloween a trick or treater came to our door. I guess the little guy was about 5 and with his dad. The boy had on a holster, gun, boots, cowboy hat and maybe even spurs. I thought to myself.. today young boys don't get holsters and guns as they did when I was a kid. So this little fellow was an immediate flash back to my youth. Without knowing it, a tender spot for those cowby shows was touched, smitten when after I asked the little guy what or who he was. He boldly offered "a cowboy." His dad added, there aren't many of those left. My mind did flips.. True quite true. I had a momentary flash of depression over the

loss of that spirit, the can do attitude that fueled my nostalgic desire for Westerns. Here's the good news.

They're back! Yes, westerns are back, well at least at my house. It all started when I first discovered that Gunsmoke is on my cable carrier every day at noon and one o'clock. Then as a guest as my son's house I found that his cable included a Western Channel. After that I got a DVD of Have Gun WIll Travel, Season 4. The more I watched the more I reflected on the the themes of the shows I was able to watch. Surreptitiously those Westerns carried important moral lessons, most being 'morality plays" in the classic sense. Exactly what is a morality play.. a story which teaches a moral lesson. Watching Marshall Dillon and Paladin I kept seeing the moral lessons of the 50's and 60's repeated in show after show. Tolerance, honesty, character, respect for the law were repeated season after season. Those values stuck to us, made tremendous impressions. Especially because our parents sanctioned and even watched the shows with us. What impresses me most is the caliber of writing in these two shows.

Gunsmoke was the preeminent TV Western. The show ran for an incredible 20 years. I recall one episode in which Anthony Zerbe plays two roles, twins, one a priest , the other a bandit. The dialogue was filled with Biblical quotes as the plot unfolded.. Thematically this was the battle between good and evil as its centerpiece. The evil brother had also once been inclined towards a career as a clergyman but fell because of a flaw. Evil brother and good brother are juxtaposed with evil one showing no fear of damnation. Eventually Matt Dillon tracks the bad brother to a church where the evil brother has asked for sanctuary. In the course of sanctuary, good and evil brothers argue, and good brother strikes the evil one killing him in a scene reminiscent of the death of Thomas a Beckett in the movie version of Beckett. As I checked the credits I caught the name of the writer, William Kelley. My insatiable curiousity lead me to Google up Mr. Kelley whose credits were amazing. He won an Oscar and write dozens and dozens of shows. This particular episode was noteworthy for its excellent camera work, the director did a smashing job of photgraphing Anthony Zerbe in his dual role. Yes, that's been done. But Gunsmoke did it very well. Then I saw an episode of Have Gun Will Travel that was actually called Everyman.. a morality play I often taught. Boom. I finally got it. But even more impressive is the level of writing, acting and directing. Those two things seem to be a thing of the past. Never mind the moral lessons or the values which we boomers learned on Saturday night on CBS; it is the writing that most impresses me. Televion today has descended into a series of 'reality shows' and talent searches. No need for writers, no cost for performers, nothing but commercials. How about those commercials that are shown twice back to back. Isn't that insulting. As an aside, relevant but a bit off target, who has been swayed to buy Geico insurance by the guy doing his Joe Friday immitation.

What did Westerns provided us with in the 50's. Short answer, heroes and justice. The bad guy always got his due, justice was served. So that's what we loved and still love about Westerns. Maybe it was the two-fisted, no back-down characters who not only brawled but also showed a more tender side when dealing with children and women.

Now to flip the discussion to criticism of Westerns. I notice that Paladin kills at least one guy every episode, some times several. Thus one could say that the shows promoted the idea that justice too often came fom the barrel of a gun. And in our anti-gun culture, kids are discouraged from playing cowboys for many reasons. Native Americans when they were included were portrayed as savages. This charaterization ran smack dab into the awakening of a new view of Native Americans. They were savages, half clad, wearing war paint, threatening the settlers and comitting unspeakble atrocities. The acidity of that view has since been changed. We became aware of the atrocities in the West that America perpetrated on the indigenous peoples. Westerns became associated with horrific acts committed by the whites who settled the west. Really wasn't the area already settled? Oh well, you get the idea. Our collective conscious got to us and told us that cowboys and Westerns perpetuated those very views so liking such shows was racist.

The shows also were characterized by all white casts.. seldom did a minority appear. I pull back on that generalization because Paladin did have an Oriental woman in a recurring role, Unfortunately her name was always Hey Girl. Many may say that Westerns had a racist crust to them, no doubt there is something to that argument. But that wasn't specific to Westerns, it was true in all programs. Can anyone ever remember Perry Mason defending a black person. Not likely. Then there is the whole negative view of cowboys as racists, red necks a stereotype that has come down to us. Is there truth to the stereotype. I can't say that.. I think that there were cowboys of all colors in the West, they just weren't on television because in the 50's , when America had a population of 180,000,000 and the majority of people were white, advertising and programing were geared to sponsoring shows that that audiences wanted to see.. and audiences like to see people like themselves. Today our population has nearly doubled, The WWII generation has almost disappeared from the country and a new sensibility , a new code has been established. A code which associates anything pre-twenty-first century as racist and evil. Despite that Westerns continue to attract us. I hope they always will because there was much good in them.