Santa Weeps By Charlie Melton

I sit down in the makeshift office. I rarely stop here; I usually pass through while on my way to other parts of the house. Tonight I’m exhausted and sink into the chair. I stare blindly, thinking of nothing except my lethargy. I feel heavy and fluid, as if I might sink to the floor and spread like so much oil. I reach into my shirt pocket to remove my pens and throw them on the desk. My index finger grazes a piece of paper. I pull it out and unfold it. I read and fall into anguish. Playing at Santa tonight should be joyful but a great sadness encompasses me.

The little girl reminded me of my own daughters. She’d given me the letter a few hours earlier. It’s printed in pink and purple marker. The printing is the neatest a first grader can muster. It’s simple and direct. She thinks I’m Santa and it’s her Christmas letter. She gave me the letter in silence, and I read it as if it were her Magnum Opus.

I read the letter again and stare off into the room. I think about my own daughters. I remember them in the first grade. My blank gaze focuses on displayed tokens on the bookshelf. The tokens remind me, and I understand my darkness. The pieces fall into place like the tumblers of a lock.

I remember and I weep. The epiphany is too awful to will it away. I don’t want to see but I can’t look away.

On top of the bookcase lurks a presentation for meritorious service. The citation glows with praise for going beyond the call of duty. It glows with praise for exceptional results from my efforts. As I look at it I realize the real message. It’d be more accurate if it praised me for putting my career before my family. It’d be more accurate if it stated the award was for missing school plays and gymnastics meets and scout meetings.

Another certificate is a letter of promotion. It’s for forsaking dinners at home and bedtime stories to get promoted ahead of my peers. It came with a larger chevron, a modest raise, and a missed birthday.

That’s why I weep. The innocent little girl represents my lost daughters. The innocent little girl reminds me of the tens, and scores, and then hundreds of little things I missed. She reminds me I traded time with my children to build a fleeting career.

In the book this would be the moment that I wake up and find my daughters in their pajamas and snuggled under the Strawberry Shortcake comforter. Every minute I’ve experienced since their 5th Christmas would be erased. I’d make them waffles and listen to silly little stories. I’d see the error of my ways and cherish every moment with the little princesses.

But this isn’t a movie. I bear the guilt for what has been missed. I can rationalize that I raised good girls. I can take the credit for them. I’d be wrong. The truth is they are decent and good in spite of my absence. They succeed in life from their own efforts, not from mine.

My memory of the children that are now grown is full of holes, and now I know it’s not from my old and addled mind. My memory is full of holes because the past is full of holes and voids. Perhaps my epitaph should read only “Not Available”.

I get up from my chair and feel old and weak. I remove the meritorious service award and replace it with the letter to Santa. It replaces the less important papers. The letter takes its rightful place. It’s a Magnum Opus.

Fini.

(Photo credit to originator)

Case of the Purloined Pie By Charlie Melton

I was making a chain of paper clips when she walked into my life. She had fiery red hair and wore dangerous shoes. Shoes that could sprain a girls’ ankle and sprain a guys’ soul. Shoes that made good girls go bad. I leaned back in the chair and put my feet on the desk. She strolled in the office and looked me in the eye. “Why are you in my office? Get to work.” she growled.
I stood up and eased past her. “The kitchen is missing a blackberry pie. It’s for a fundraiser. Do you know anything about it?” she breathed.

“A missing pie, eh? I’ll take your case. I get $100 a day plus expenses.” She slammed the door. That dame was playing it hard. I’d find her pie. I’d find her pie and finish the paper clip chain. The case would be solved by me, Charlie Melton, Dessert Detective.

I pulled my cap low over my eyes to fight the glare of the dining room lights. Making sure I wasn’t being followed, I strolled over to the nurses’ station. I took a seat next to the brunette bombshell writing secret nurse words in an official looking book. Maybe she knew something. Maybe she saw something. Maybe she had cookies.

“What about the pie, sugar cakes? Have you seen a missing pie?”

She turned and looked at me with big brown eyes; eyes that were like pools of hot fudge waiting for a bowl of ice cream. “I’m charting”, she said. “I don’t have time.” She seemed scared and really irritated at being interrupted. This case was getting deep.

I gave her my card and instructions to call when she could talk. I glanced at my watch and saw it was time. It was time to go to lunch and take a quick nap. I strolled through the door and out of her life forever, or maybe an hour.

I came back in with a full belly and red eyes from a sleep haunted by images of disappearing pies and irate nurses. I strolled into paradise gone wrong. I strolled into a room full of guilt.

The room was full. Everyone sat at tables and looked down in shame. They knew something, and they were ashamed- or maybe afraid. One guilt ridden pie purloining suspect was standing. I marched over and turned on the drill sergeant voice. “Where’s the pie? You know something.” She couldn’t even look me in the eye. “B-11”, she said. “B-11” It was some kind of nefarious code. What did it mean? “N-42”, she said. I faded back to think. I wasn’t getting anything out of this crowd. They were too afraid, or ashamed. Maybe they were bored, I don’t know.

I walked around, thinking. I thought about who had motive to steal a pie. Who had opportunity? Who had change for a five so I could get a soda?

I went to the maintenance shop to search for change and there it was. It was the gold at the end of the rainbow. It was the payday. On the desk was a empty pie plate with crumbs and a partial blackberry. Then I remembered. I ate it. I thought they brought it for me. Darn this senior forgetfulness. Darn it to heck.

I quickly cheered up. I solved my case. I got my man, even if it was me. I earned my fee. I was still good, very good.
Tune in next time for;”Dessert Detective, The Great Cake Caper.”

Fini.

Twinkies and Tube Socks By Charlie Melton

We were at “Early Bird” the other day. Our friends were discussing what they’re going to buy the Grandkids for Christmas, which is also known as the “Max Credit Season”. They were throwing out the idea of an iPhone 77xrT or a Sony Play-depot. I had to put the skids on that crazy talk right away.

The “Generous Grandparent” shtick is wrong for several reasons. Let’s see if I can get through them before my nap time.
Firstly, if you spend a bunch on the Grandkids then your adult children will see that you have money. They’re keeping score. Mark my words, if you buy a big-ticket item for Christmas, by Easter your kid is going to be moving in. You may say, “that’s not that bad”, but you’re wrong. Anytime an adult returns home, they bring their problems but not their money. Let the adult child move in and you’re putting a posting a big sign saying, “Crazy ex-spouses, bill collectors, and parole officers, come on over”. I’m telling you, let them move back in and they’ll use up your patience as fast as they use up your toilet paper and your Denny’s coupons. It’ll all be because you overspent on the little kids.

Spending big on the Grandkids will cause them to expect the same or better in the future. I bought my Grandson a bike tire one year. Not an entire bike, just a really good tire. In February he called and talked me into giving him a dollar for every “A” on his report card. That semester I ended up having to shell out like $4. The next semester it went up to $6 because he aced everything. This went on forever. His expectations about broke me. Thankfully, he dropped out of college before I ended up in the poor house. I was terrified I’d have to choose between him and the Pie-of-the Month Club.

Spending big on the Grandkids takes from more important things. If you buy an expensive Christmas gift you won’t get to take the Valentine’s Day Bingo Bus to Tunica. You may miss the big Star Trek Cruise out of New Orleans because you blew all your money on Air Jordan’s. The senior citizen economy will suffer. You may usher in TEOTWAWKI (The end of the world as we know it). Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Another bad effect of overspending on the Grandkids is that it puts undue pressure on the parents. Okay, you’ve got me. That’s a good reason to overspend on the Grandkids. It’ll make them think that you’re much better than the parents. Every time they get mad at home they’ll tell your half-witted son-in-law “Grandpa doesn’t even have to work and he’s better at everything than you!” That’s a wonderful thought. Even though this reasoning is tempting, don’t spend big.

So, if we can’t spend a bunch on the Grandkids what can we spend? One word: Dollar Tree. That’s a store near almost every Wal-Mart in the Galaxy. It’s a good store, even though they can’t seem to get their merchandise priced. You can go in and get a cartful of toys and “may work for a minute” electronic accessories for less than a Chocolate Silk pie. I call that a win.

You can also go “old school” for Christmas. Go to the store and get a big pack of “one size fits all” tube socks. Break them down and give each kid a pair. They’ll love it and in turn, love you for thinking of it. You’re welcome.

Don’t adapt this to packs of underwear because that’s just weird. I guess you could apply this to Twinkies but not packs of hot dogs.

Speaking of dogs, don’t go to a shelter and get a dog for the children. Even though it’ll make you look like a saint while it tortures the parents, it’s a bad idea. Rescuing a dog can cost you over $29. Get them a cat. Cat’s are everywhere and they’re pretty much free. You’ll be a hero with the little ones and won’t be out much money at all.

Remember, don’t throw good money after good Grandkids. Don’t give your grown-up kids a chance to eradicate you and your meager toilet paper rations. Sometimes less is more. After all, who doesn’t like Twinkies and tube socks?

Fini.

Conan the Senator from Illinois by Charlie Melton

Wonder dog and consummate actor, Rin Tin Tin, the German Shepherd Dog, had 16 hit movies by the year 1927. The dog is credited with single handedly (pawedly?) saving Warner Studios from bankruptcy. Rin Tin Tin was the odds-on favorite to win the first “Best Actor” Academy Award. The Academy changed the rules so only a human could win and stiffed the best actor in the town of Hollyweird. As a result of this injustice, dogs have taken a back seat to less talented humans for over 90 years now. I say “that stops here and now”.

We’re getting ready to elect a new US Senator to replace Dick Durbin. I think he’s been wholly inadequate. I won’t say he’s not smart, but it seems he doesn’t have a good grasp on, anything. He needs to go.

We can vote a person in but congress and the press may override us and try to force the elected to run away crying. A candidate would have to have great stamina, and be strong, smart, and loyal, which is the opposite of DD. A senator has to be “dogged”.
Who would be more dogged than a real dog? Nobody would. I nominate the dog-of-the-hour, Conan.

Conan isn’t a barbarian. Reports are mixed as to whether Conan is a male or female. Everyone agrees that Conan, who is reportedly named after one of the most annoying talk show hosts on the planet, is a Belgian Malinois dog. We used to call that breed a Belgian Shepherd.

The Belgian Malinois, Conan, is credited with chasing an ISIS warlord down a tunnel from which the warlord went everywhere.

The Belgian Malinois was featured in the movie, “John Wick 3”. The character Sofia had a pair of them that were ruthless Kung Fu hounds. If you see this movie you will be impressed, then astounded, and then terrified of these dogs.

I can vouch for that breed, because I had one. While I was in Germany a fellow GI talked me into adopting his dog, this one named “Helga”. Helga was a dog among dogs, and would make an excellent US Senator from Illinois. Frankly, a salamander would be up to par for congress or the senate but I’m done with the slimy factor, no offense.

Helga was the poster-girl for stamina. She was high-energy and needed a lot of exercise. The only safe place for her to run on base was the tennis court. I’d tie the gates closed and take her off-lead. She’d run around and around, ever faster and faster. I remember thinking she was like the tigers in the banned children’s book, “Little Black Sambo”. The tigers in the book ran so fast they turned into butter, and Helga seemed to become fluid-like too. Her expression would turn wolfish and some primal sense of danger would erupt in me. We both knew she could take me out anytime she wished. She ran so wildly she’d turn into a blur that occasionally would jump and grab my soda or hat as she ran by. Eventually she’d calm down enough to go back on the lead and we’d go home to water for her and a nerve pill for me. I want that in a senator. That senator could grab the most tender parts of the fake press, or cull the congressional herd to the benefit of our country.

Helga was smart and strong. When we got tired of the nightly runs at the tennis court we changed venues. One of us, I’m not sure which, thought it’d be a good idea to climb the fence and go off-base into the hilly, dark forest. I didn’t even try to keep up with her as she dug in with muscular shoulders to race up the hills and bound over rocks and logs. I’d listen for her, and try to catch sight of her but she was gone. Just when I’d give up, Helga would appear out of nowhere and laugh as she stole my hat along with a significant amount of my hair. I want a senator that can accelerate uphill in Washington and bound over legislative obstacles like Helga did, even if it costs someone a hat or some hair.

Our last trip to the woods changed everything. We followed our script of Helga disappearing and me being confused, but then I heard her barking and growling viciously. I found my way to her and she’d treed a big ugly Infantryman and wouldn’t let him go. He tried to outsmart Helga, but she anticipated his every move. I never saw her bite him but there was a tell-tale thread of Army green hanging from her fang. When I led her away, she kept staring back at the soldier, psyching him, and me out.

I decided Helga wouldn’t run for reelection. I asked around and a young naïve family came to meet her. She took up with them immediately and merely nodded at me as they walked out of my life. I guess she failed at the loyalty factor, but nobody is perfect. I don’t think that attribute won’t be a deal-breaker for the senate.

In closing, I know the breed and the character of Conan. I also know the breed and character of our senator. I choose Conan. He or she will bound right into Washington, tree the problems, and maybe take some hats and sodas.

To summarize, dump Durbin. Vote for stamina, strength, smarts, and loyalty. Vote “Conan” for US Senator from Illinois. Well, maybe not loyalty, but I bet she can get save us from bankruptcy, just like Rin Tin Tin did.

Fini.

You can contact Charlie via email at geezer.rocker@gmail.com or by mail at PO Box 378, Norris City, Il 62869. He’ll answer if he’s not treed.

BMI (Body Mass Insanity) By Charlie Melton

Epiphany: A sudden realization, an intellectual breakthrough. Figuring something out after a long time of not trying to figure it out.

I had an epiphany. I have them pretty often now that I’m in full-on Geezer mode. I frequently have inspirational thoughts while eating pie when the flaky crust and sugary filling piques my blood sugar, which would make it a “pi-epiphany”. I have a theory that I’m most creative when my AIC is over 6.8, but more about that later.

Here’s my brainstorm: I have been on a diet pretty much all of my life. Scientist would say that I have a BMI (Body Mass Index) that’s too large. My Grandma would say I’m healthy. I’m so healthy I can’t see my toes. Over my lifetime I’ve probably lost a ton of fat and hair, or more.

Here’s the thing; I’m still fat. If I hadn’t dieted I’d be fat. Maybe I’d be so fat I’d be dead, but then I wouldn’t be here to talk about it.

When I was about 13 and discovered girls (they’d been unknown to science before then) I decided I wasn’t good enough at my current weight so I lost pounds. As I recall, I lost weight by cutting down on the bacon and Captain Crunch cereal. I lost the weight but I still wasn’t good enough for the girls, so in retrospect my efforts were wasted. I was effectively planning a party nobody was going to attend, so to speak.

As a teen I didn’t have to lose weight to get in the military because I had a “job” that consumed calories via “forced labor”. I entered the Air Force slim and gave that up pretty quickly. When I discovered SOS and never-ending donuts, bacon and sausage I forgot about losing weight. Then the Air Force leadership decided to lead.

Some sadist decided that Air Force mechanics had to maintain weight and fitness standards. It was all part of the “fly-fight-win” junk the ne’er-do-well officers came up with. Anyone with half a Twinkie knows the real mission was “eat, nap, repeat”. Anyway, due to the officers meddling in grown-ups business, we had to start weighing in. The standards were ridiculous. I spent a full week before each weigh-in preparing. I went to the base gym for my special workout. Each BMI reduction cycle was 15 minutes on the stair stepper, 15 minutes in the sauna, and 15 minutes watching the ladies aerobics class. The I repeated each cycle until the gym closed. I could lose 15 pounds in a week.

We were also allowed a 3 pound deduction for our uniforms. I whittled my uniform down to 2 pounds by cutting my pockets out, wearing thin socks, and leaving the t-shirt, belt, and lunch box at home. It was all very scientific. It only took 2 days, 3 visits to the chow hall, and a gallon of sweet tea to gain it all back. I figure over the span of my career I lost the equivalent of a larger person or three.

Speaking of losing larger persons, take my ex-wives. Please. Part of my fitness scheme reflected my marital status. When I thought the relationship was going well, I gained weight well. When the relationship was going poorly, I gained weight poorly. After every divorce, of which there were several, I lost about 50 pounds. I didn’t really plan that weight loss, it just happened. Now that I think about it, maybe it was subconscious. I spent a lot of money on lawyers, so maybe I subconsciously compensated by not buying food. Yeah, that’s it. As a matter of fact, I bet that my current Body Mass Index reflects that I’m secure in my marriage. Because I’m secure in my marriage I don’t have to pay a lawyer and I can buy the good vittles.

Maybe I’m off base there (pun intended). Each time I retire, which currently totals 3 times, my income goes down but my weight goes up. Now I’m really confused. It’s almost like my activity level influences my weight, even though that can’t be true. I recently lost 75 pounds of which I recovered about 30 pounds, so far. During that flux, I’ve stayed active. I still brew my coffee and work the remote control with abandon. I still walk all of the way to the truck when I go to the diner. It just doesn’t make sense.

Perhaps I have one of those weird metabolisms that convert unused food energy to fat. I bet my genome is set to “astronomically high BMI” so that I can survive worldwide famines and messy divorces. Maybe, just maybe, I’m like I’m supposed to be. I’m “working as advertized”.

Now I feel better and can end this Body Mass Insanity. I can concentrate on more important things, like pie and Netflix.

Fini.

Catch Charlie daily wherever fine pies are sold. Stayed tuned for his upcoming Podcast, “The life of pie”, or “My most unforgettable cobbler”.

Phone Stupid By Charlie Melton

I feel like I’ve told you this before, and in a way I have. It’s the same sort of stuff over and over. A while back I told you how my Grandson “accidently” punched his TV because he was mad. The truth came out that he really punched to see if he could break it, and he could. I wrote about the multiple days, multiple miles, and multiple nerve pills it took to get the TV replaced with the “Easy, No Risk, Breakage Warranty”. I swore I wasn’t going through that again. The kid thought I was stupid for being upset about it. After all, I have no purpose in life than to clean up after him.

I just went through that and more, but this time it was with a phone. I’m upset because, I’m stupid.

A couple of years ago we got the boy a phone. While it was an iPhone, it was the cheapest Apple device ever made. I think it was the coal powered steam-punk phone. He survived and successfully followed the “US Grandparents Code of Phone Rules” He did well except for when he used it on Facechat and offered green cards to random Russian women. I think the term for that is “Catfishing” but I can’t be sure, because, once again, stupid.

Since he did well and ICE never called us, we upgraded him to an iPhone X. That’s a fancy moniker for $780 we’ll never see again, but hey, I live to serve him. We bought him an expensive high-dollar impact-resistance phone case. The rule was that the phone never, ever, under any circumstances, came out of the case. As added insurance we bought the “added insurance”. All of these add-ons brought us up to around $1,000, or a month’s pie allowance. I was happy to get it for him, because, I’m stupid.

So about a minute into the new phone, we inexplicably removed the phone from the case. We showed our friends the phone out of the case and pretended to throw it. Then, we dropped it and broke it

After my blood pressure went below the danger zone I started the process of getting it replaced by the added insurance. Question #1 was “Is the front glass broken?” I answered yes, and found that was a $39 fee to get it replaced. I was angry and told the boy he was paying it out of his allowance. Question #2 was “Is the back glass broken?” I didn’t even know a phone has a back glass, but I looked and it does, and it was shattered. When I answered yes the fee went up to $200. I had to take a long peaceful walk because, I’m stupid.

Two days later, and $200 poorer, we got the replacement iPhone. After completing his remedial phone training we were good again, or so I thought. Then again, I’m stupid.

A few days later the Grand-kid decided to put his phone up early in the evening. I should have been suspicious. When he didn’t grab it the first thing in the morning I knew something was wrong. Even though I’m stupid, I got him to admit that he dropped the phone in the warm, soapy tub and it stopped working.

After cooling my temper with an even longer walk and significant time in the Bible, I started working on the phone. The company says that it’s waterproof but nobody told the phone. Two days with the phone in dry rice didn’t repair it. I contacted the “added insurance” company and they sent us a new phone, no charge.

We got phone number 3, which worked. My head still throbbed a bit, but things were OK. I followed return instructions and put the bad phone in the pre-paid mailer. It said to put it in a mailbox, and I did because, I’m stupid. Luckily I took a picture of the tracking number on the package.

A week later I got a reminder call that I had to return the broken phone. I’d done that, but checked the tracking number to see where the phone was. It was nowhere. It didn’t exist in the mail universe. I called the post office, but they couldn’t help me. Days came and went as I checked the tracking number almost constantly waiting for it to pop up. It didn’t for weeks.

I called the “added insurance” overlords who only knew that I owed them a phone or $780. I appealed to their sense of humanity but I don’t think they have any. I hoped for the best because I’m stupid.

Eventually I did a lost-mail inquiry. A week later it came back that I had to supply more information, which was the stupid color of the stupid phone. I guess they have lots of phones in limbo and they want to make sure they get the correct one. I provided the color and waited for a response.

The lost mail report hasn’t been resolved but somehow the post office in Memphis scanned my package. How it got to Tennessee without leaving Illinois I’ll never know. Three days later the packaged phone was delivered to Nashville, which is like 7 inches from Memphis.

None of this makes sense to me. I don’t know why a teen even needs an expensive phone. I don’t know why a teen won’t guard it like it’s the Holy Grail. I have no idea why packages disappear, only to surface in weird places. I have no idea why it takes a package weeks to go a couple hundred miles. I mean, if I’d walked it to Nashville I could have gotten there and back with time left to get shot and robbed in Memphis.

I don’t understand any of this because I’m stupid.

Incidentally, I’m still waiting on a release from the insurance. This story may never end.

Fini.

Inclusive Celebration of Nothing

Late one night when everything was quiet, on a weird Pacific coast, Christmas was declared public enemy #1. They also learned that white folks are bad. Even writing in capitals is considered “aggressive”. Now my favorite thing in the world is on the chopping block. Wait, pie is my favorite thing and it’s OK for now. Sarcasm, my next favorite thing, is considered verbal violence. Sarcasm has been targeted as violent speech that could make someone get confused or cry. Before sarcasm is outlawed, please follow along. Not that I’m trying to oppress you, if you choose to read along it’s quite alright. You’re in charge of whatever you want to do.

I can’t believe we have to talk about this again. Every winter I have to remind everyone that we rural white cisgender deplorables have got to stop believing anything except our own unworthiness. It’s not acceptable to offend anyone, except for us. We deserve it, because. Just because.

“’Twas the night before Christmas” is a time-honored poem. That’s a problem. Christmas isn’t inclusive, and we have to be inclusive of everyone. What about the Grinch, an obvious victim of years of bullying because his “whiteness” wasn’t showing like the Whoville Christmas racists? How about bad boys and girls? If a child dares to be different from the ruling elite’s ideal they’re labeled as “naughty” They get switches which are violent by design. Even worse, they get vile coal that spews AlGore gases and nasty global warming.

Christmas has to become “Inclusive Celebration of Nothing”, abbreviated as ICON. It’s the only thing that’s fair.

The poem continues, “And all through the house”. Really? How about apartment dwellers? They’re excluded? So we ignore the homeless and nomads in yurts? This is disgusting. Just stop it.

While we’re at it Santa Claus, a.k.a. Saint Nicholas is not acceptable. As a Cisgender Republican white male he’s what privilege looks like. The “saint” in his name is all up into Christianity and the churches will be labeled as hate groups any day now. Even the Ermine fur on the Santa coat is destructive. The poor weasel is trapped and skinned to benefit a fat white NRA member that goes into homes without a warrant or probable cause. To be inclusive we need a transgender, undocumented, non-denominational homeless person of color to be the symbol of ICON. A rainbow hued sustainable hemp suit with glitter will be acceptable to replace the hateful red and white Santa suit.

Reindeer are enslaved and forced to emit greenhouse gases while pulling an unlicensed non-sustainable overloaded un-airworthy vehicle. The sub-species of flying reindeer are extremely rare and making them fly around the world is cruel. It’s as cruel as making horses pull open sleighs. It has to stop. We need to get Tesla or Toyota to provide a Green vehicle to deliver appropriate gifts.

So what do we need? We need an inclusive holiday. Wait, holiday is wrong. It comes from “holy” which would mean someone is unholy, which we can’t imply unless the unholy are white Republican heterosexual NRA members. Let me rethink this.

I’m picturing a library-card-carrying drag queen in a hemp dress. Rue Paul will make it fabulous. He’ll ride in a rainbow colored Prius with the license plate ANTIFA-La-La. Without pre-notification of parents it’ll bring the gift of choice to all children, every old creep that identifies as a child, and boys in dresses. He’ll be good to them regardless of their behaviors. I’m sure he (she) knows that even the most vicious criminals will be nice if we’re nice to them so they get goodies too. Trans-o-Clause can even pick up the guns from white people while out delivering LGBTQIA goodies and great feelings.

We’ll all get behind this. OK, maybe everyone will appreciate this except for the unenlightened Christian white people. They resent using their whiteness to pay for everyone to be included. White exclusion is OK though, because. After all, Scrooge was a white conservative and everyone knows it.

In closing I just want to say “Happy ICON” or “Have a merry Inclusive Celebration of Nothing and to all a good night”. That is, unless you don’t want to have a good night. As long you feel good or however you want to feel. You choose.
Good night. Maybe that’s not inclusive enough. Happy times to you. No, that discriminates against the bi-polar in their depressive phases. I know. How’s this?

“Whatever”. To you and everyone in this ICON season I say “Whatever”.

While we’re at it, I want to apologize. I want to apologize for being a white guy. I want to apologize for being a guy and liking girls, which makes me heterosexual cisgender. That’s different than pansexual which means you really like cooking utensils. I want your forgiveness for expecting people to follow laws and to put forth effort to get things they want. Mostly I want to apologize for the violence of sarcasm. But I’ll never apologize for pie. I draw the line at pie.

Fini.

Fuzzy Math

Everyone says numbers are specific. Numbers are definitive. I say bull. Numbers are flexible and easy to manipulate. So who cares? I do, because, Class 1 Nerd.

Fuzzy math is related to fuzzy logic and fuzzy set theory. It’s not related to fuzzy peaches or fuzzy-wuzzy, who was a bear. In that case, he somehow had no hair, which makes no sense. He wasn’t fuzzy, was he?

It’s like money is money. A buck is a buck, unless it’s a sawbuck, which is more. To everyone, a fin means you’re swimming in moolah. Not so. In the Air Force my boss got all new office furniture while there was no money for tools or safety equipment. How is that possible? It’s different money. It looks the same, and has the same denominations, but it’s very different. You can’t spend office money for other things because the universe will implode. The Federal numbers are so fuzzy I don’t even think the accountants know what to do. It’s like the old accounting joke. “What’s 2 plus 2? It’s whatever you want it to be.” As another example, when the Arkansas Two were legally running the show, the military had no moolah for anything including equipment used to defend our other money. When dignitaries were coming to the base double-pinky-swear-secret money paid for custom landscaping on base highways and byways. After the 7 minute visit, more secret money paid to remove the landscaping. Why remove it? Obviously, because we had no money. Duh. Fuzzy math was doing its special job.

I was working at a healthcare center and we found some money to pour a concrete patio. Patio money is not like any other money anywhere, so it’s sacred. I called around and a local guy said he could pour the concrete in a couple of days. We shook hands so the deal was binding. By my watch it was 2 weeks later when I called. He assured me he’d be there in 2 days. His numbers must be different than my numbers because after 5 years he has yet to show up. I also made a deal with a plumber to give a bid. He also said he’d be here in 2 days. His 2 days must be infinity because I haven’t seen him in my idea of what’s 2 years.

Everyone in my family has what we call a “phone”. We use the phones to do chores and to ignore each other. A dead battery is almost as bad as being really dead. Once again, the numbers are flexible. My wife will be on her phone watching cat videos or Googling how to torture a husband. She’ll get in a panic because her phone is going dead. She’ll try to get the charger from me. When I ask how much battery charge she has, she’ll say “Just a few minutes. It only has 33% left.” In this case a third of a charge equals nothing. I tried to explain to her that 33% is a lot. That much gas in the tank can get me to the Cardinal café about 80 times. That’s like 4 days or more but she doesn’t agree that it’s a lot. For my Grandson, who’s busy discovering trucks and girls, his charge is entirely different. I’ll ask him how much of a charge he has. He’ll say “I’m good. I have 4%. I can text like 8 girls and shop for really big tires. No problem.” As you can see, the numbers in the smart phone Galaxy are not specific. They’re so fuzzy I don’t even know how iPhone at all. I need to write a sad song like the one Samsung. The differing ideas about what constitutes a charged battery makes me all Google-eyed and I want to face-Palm. Really, I got a million of them.

A buck is not a buck, and a day is not a day. A mile-per hour is not a MPH either. I can be pretty sure that I’m going around 55 miles per hour. While I can’t be completely sure that’s my speed I’m pretty sure. I can’t watch the speedometer all of the time because that’d be distracted driving. It’d distract me from tuning my 8-track player and setting up the phone hands-free functions as required by state law. So when the trooper tickets me for going 88 in a 55, any judge can tell that the numbers are so variable there’s no way they can punish me for speeding. Now, if the judge had a different idea of miles and hours, anything can happen. I mentioned that to our circuit court judge, and he’s going to get back to me in a couple of days. He said he’ll give me a call if can find the correct money to charge his phone up past 66%.

I’ve proven without a reasonable doubt math, and even numbers, don’t tell you anything. If numbers were useful you could compute things like, “How high is up?” You know everyone worries about that math problem because every day people say, “What’s up?” Nobody knows.

P.S.: I computed a solution for “What’s up?” The answer is “halfway times two.”
Fini.

You can contact Charlie via email at geezer.rocker@gmail.com or by mail at PO Box 378, Norris City, Il 62869. His “Geezer Rock” books are available on Amazon.com if you have the right kind of money and the right time.

Dance Before It's Too Late

We were on the way home from the doctor in Mt Vernon. The trip home has almost an hour of uninspiring landscape. Less enlightened people may say the trip is full of barely tolerable scenery, depending on the season and how many suicidal deer are along the route. The radio was in the throes of another nauseating political episode, so we turned from Fox News to “Old People Songs” on XM channel 1960-something. The song “Why Don’t We Just Dance” by someone I never heard of came on the radio. I thought “Why not, indeed.” I pulled over and we got out of the Jeep at the intersection of Highway 142 and County Road Dirt. We danced. For 2 old people on a unpaved road littered with Huck’s cups and desiccated raccoons, I think we danced pretty darned well. We danced well enough that no Geezers were hurt in the production of dancing. I’m confident a few motorists were sure we’d lost our minds, and they’re probably right. Thankfully nobody called the Sheriff or the Geriatric Bingo Bus to take us to “The Home”. When it’s all said and done, it was fun. It was the most fun I’ve had since I received my first social security check. It was almost as fun as when there was pie at the free ham and bean dinner in town, but that’s another story.

We told a few people about our breech of common decency. Reviews are mixed. Some of the females we know think it’s sweet but they’re uneasy that we danced on a county road. The guys don’t care much. Our adult children are calling somebody in authority. Mostly, people think it’s “troubling” because it’s unusual behavior. Is this an indication of a problem?

A few years ago we took a ballroom dance class through the junior college. It was remarkably fun after I gave up on appearing to be dignified. It’s amazing what you can enjoy when you embrace your geeky side.

Somewhat late in the “situation” I wondered what our Baptist Church has to say about us dancing. I remember reading in the old records from a local church that one of my ancestors was “removed” from the congregation for dancing. There were no other details so I don’t know if maybe he was even more uncoordinated than I am. I hope he wasn’t a male exotic dancer, because my identity couldn’t absorb that.

Regardless, the church is central to our lives. In our church there’s a large framed print titled “Church Covenant”. A covenant is an agreement or a contract. Biblically, a covenant is an agreement between God and His people. Anyway, being a Nerd 1st Class, I (of course) have a photograph of our Covenant on my phone. I read it and it says a lot of things. Mostly it has statements of intent for the church to further the kingdom. There is no ban on dancing, even bad dancing, so as far as our church is concerned we’re good.

Carrying on as a Nerd, I researched the ramifications of dancing on the internet. I consulted the irrefutable “Psychology Today” because they know stuff and website access is free. If we eliminate the big words I don’t understand, it comes down to “dance is good”. Through scientific tests that I can’t even pronounce, it’s been determined that dance requires the brain to control about 600 muscles. The activity is good for your muscles, your heart, and your balance.

Studies on music and movement show the brains of two people dancing tune into the same frequency and their brain waves synchronize. In my mind my wife and I were more in sync while dancing than when we’ve done anything else together, except for during dessert time. For that few minutes we were truly one flesh.

With the exception of where we chose to get our groove on, I can’t find a reason to not dance. It appears as long as we’re not lascivious, the church doesn’t have anything to say about it. The physical benefits and the psychological upside is a good reason to dance. What more do we need?

Well, there’s one more thing. Saturday night we were leaving our village festival when the singer of the band asked for people to come up and dance to a slow, romantic tune. We tossed our lemon shake-up cups and the bones of the funnel cake into the trash can and danced. When we made a turn without injury I saw our grandson. His face was bright red and it looked like he was going to die if we didn’t stop. We continued until his embarrassment completely consumed him. As we walked to the car he yelled, “I can’t believe you did that. You embarrassed me in front of the whole town. My life here is over.” What a gift he gave us. His agony is the best reason to dance, and dance often, and dance in full view of everyone. His agony is our joy. He can even complain to our adult children so they can bond over our misdeeds.

I hope we dance.

Fini.

You can contact Charlie via email at geezer.rocker@gmail.com or by mail at PO Box 378, Norris City, Il 62869. You should buy his books “Tales From Geezer Rock” and Geezer Rock Daily Demotivational” on Amazon.com because Daddy needs a new pair of shoes. Dancing shoes.

VW Microbus

We were working on our 800th doctor’s appointment of 2019. We were declared healthy enough to leave and have unhealthy food and dangerous drink. When we came out there was an early 60’s VW hippie van loitering in the parking lot.

The Volkswagen van, or microbus, was well known as an underpowered, unheated, tin box full of bumps and rattles. There’s nothing comfortable about those utilitarian “go-slowers”. Even when brand new they were way behind the technological curve. They’d be useful to sit in to ride out a mild rain if there was nothing better available. Things that would be better would be almost anything, including a blue tarp, trash bags, or a cardboard appliance box. Still, it held fond memories. I remember racing away in one at nearly half of the speed limit. I remember being so cold inside of one it’d been warmer to roll down the windows and let the snow in.

Still, the feeling of being in touch with the road and the wind was exhilarating. Even with skinny tires that followed every crack in the asphalt, driving barbaric vehicles was fun. I guess it would be closest to zip-lining or hang-gliding. Maybe it was more like crawling in a rusty barrel and having your brother push you down a hill and over a cliff.
I found myself feeling nostalgic for that pure thrill of motoring.

I walked to our new Cherokee. The door was locked but the Jeep recognized me and the fob in my pocket. It automatically unlocked the door. Come to think of it, it’s impossible to have OCD and a newer car at the same time. My OCD includes a fear of losing things and a phobia about leaving doors unlocked. When my OCD flares I lock the vehicle, walk 5 steps, and then go back to make sure it’s locked. The car unlocks because I’m near the door and the door has a sick sense of humor. The only way to confirm the door is locked is to stash the fob 25 feet away from the car and then try the door handle. Then I have to run back to the fob to make sure thieves or packs of rabid raccoons haven’t stolen it. Then I have to check the door again. You get the idea.

Unlike the VW with the ignition key you have to jiggle to fire up the engine, I only have to push a button to start my new ride. The Jeep fires up the TV screen, adjusts the temperature, and focuses the back-up camera. With power windows, cruise control, XM Bluetooth, and 18 way auto-adjustable Shiatsu saddle, driving is barely an activity at all.

Instead of paying attention to driving I lost myself in the “old man zone”.

When I was an obedient child the parental supervisory units would leave me at home alone because I was so obedient. As soon as the car rounded the curve I’d head out to the pickup truck. It was a 40-something Dodge with a split windshield and split
personality. It took a lot of effort but by setting the choke, turning the key to “on”, pumping the accelerator, and pressing the starter switch the beast would sometimes start. Grinding the stick into the low range, feathering the clutch, and praying got the truck moving and we were off. I felt every bump and every rock on the oil lease roads. Even at 15 miles an hour the bone shaking ride was wonderful. I was careful to get the truck back in its exact spot before the groceries came home, so I got to drive without suspicion.

When I was old enough I acquired a 1955 Buick Special. I had a radio and an automatic transmission. The shock absorbers had quite absorbing years before but I didn’t care. Unlike the VW bus it had heat and it flew like the wind. It was pure and joyful to drive it.

Maybe the thrill of simple motoring is akin to the pioneers firing up their prairie schooners and feathering the clutch to settle new lands and create fabulous medical plazas. Maybe it’s just nostalgia for simpler times when we were broke and couldn’t afford XM Bluetooth.

That simplicity and freedom must be why people like to ride motorcycles. I’ve never ridden one, but I assume the wind in their hair and bugs in their teeth endears the cyclist to the cycle.

Whatever the reason, I miss the simple motoring. I’d like to be able to roll my window down an inch without tapping a button 14 times while being unsuccessful in opening it just a bit. It feels good to downshift to roar up a hill. It can even be fun freezing a little in the drive-through.

Definitely, we need to get rid of the fobs and the other modern conveniences. Living the nostalgic life is nice. The bumps and cold builds character.

I’ll keep the XM radio though, I’m nostalgic for the oldies stations.

Fini.

You can contact Charlie via email at geezer.rocker@gmail.com or by mail at PO Box 378, Norris City, Il 62869. You should buy his books “Tales From Geezer Rock” and Geezer Rock Daily Demotivational” on Amazon.com.

Meeting Relations

We’re like a lot of families that have a number of step-parents and step-grandparents and sort-of-cousins and others I don’t know how to define. As part of this family dynamic the Grandson we’re raising has family in rural Missouri. He doesn’t know them and I was afraid I was negligent in exposing him to his roots. When we got a call from them out of the blue, I felt it was a sign that I needed to make things right.

The grandparents in Missouri hadn’t seen the boy in 8 years or so, and I thought they must be yearning to see him. They have financial and transportation issues, so I tried to save them the trip. They seemed grateful when I cheerfully offered to bring him the 200-odd miles to visit. That was my first mistake.

The boy wasn’t too hot on the idea of meeting his other family, but I convinced him it would be emotionally rewarding. That was my second mistake.

In preparation for the trip, my wife went through the million or so pictures that all grandmothers seem to have. She picked out a couple of dozen photos of highlights from the years we’ve had the boy. I bought a respectable photo album and we made a nice gift book for the other grandparents. We even paid too much to get them a nice print on glass. That was our third mistake.
On the fateful day we left at darktime so we could be in Missouri early. We frequently called and texted our progress towards the meeting place, their hometown McDonalds. We arrived tired but on time. That was our 4th mistake.

It took them roughly 30 minutes to make the mile from the house to the restaurant. Still, we remained upbeat. When they arrived I introduced the boy to his family and he presented them with the gifts. They barely looked at them. They didn’t thank him, or us. Still, we persevered, which continued our streak of mistakes.

After a couple of hours during which we did the talking and the other family merely breathed, we announced we were leaving. Nobody seemed to care, least of all the other family. We started back from the worst reunion ever. We made it home tired but demoralized.

Being the 21st century, I checked Facebook to see if the “others” had a reaction to the visit. There was no mention of their spending time with the long lost grandson. Interestingly, the did post in great detail their trip that same night to Fenton for dinner and a movie. Remember how they were strapped and we saved them money by going all of the way to their town? Their trip to Fenton was about the half-way point to our house, so they could have saved us time, money, and discomfort.

My wife keeps telling me we did the right thing. I’m not convinced. My “theory of mind” was that they would feel like I would feel. I was very wrong. What I cared deeply about they didn’t care about at all. I’m not seeing how I was morally correct or even morally relevant.

Doing for others and helping others is nice, right? It’s selfless, right? I’m not so sure. If what I did was selfless, why was I looking for an emotional payoff? I guess I’m selfish because I want my good works to be acknowledged. In our situation I was feeling all holy like the New Testament Pharisees. Maybe I was effectively saying, “Look at me, I’m doing a good thing. Admire me, because I am better than you people.”

Maybe my wife is right when she says, effectively, “Do what’s right and shut up about it.” She also said that we taught the boy how to be giving and to do the right thing, whatever that it.

Maybe I’m all bent out of shape because I got them completely wrong. Maybe I forgot to ask what they wanted. Maybe I bullied them into a visit they didn’t really want at an inopportune time and place. Maybe I need to get off of my high horse.
So were our actions the right things? I have no clue. I do know that if there’s a future visit, I’m not going any further than McDonalds. But I’ll try to be on time. They can take their own pictures.

Fini.

It will feel right to shop on Amazon for the “Geezer Rock” books authored by Charlie Melton. You can always email him at geezer.rocker@gmail.com anytime.

Breaking: Diary Daze Exposed

(The following is filed under the heading “Things the Authorities Don’t Want You to Know.” Read on, good citizen, because you can handle the truth. You deserve the truth, and we are in the truth business.)

Another annual celebration is upon us. Each fall we gather to celebrate our affinity for whatever we admire in our culture. Most towns celebrate some heirloom crop that saved them from being annihilated by roving bands of rabid Koala Bears or crack-smoking zombies. Some towns pay homage to mythical stubborn 4-footed hybrid beasts of burden (How silly is that? Everyone knows hybrids can’t reproduce, so where would they come from? It can’t happen). Other hamlets admire sweet and savory desserts in a baked flaky pastry which some people call “pie”.

For some communities a festival is just another excuse for a party. The town of Millstadt has a festival almost every weekend during the summer. They gave up on trying to name all of them, and by July they just yell, “Beer!”. Other citizens know it means there’s an impromptu festival, and immediately go to the city park.

Here in Norris City we have “Dairy Days”. We celebrate at the end of September. The date was chosen because that time of year the weather is anybody’s guess. The temperature can be anywhere from swelteringly jungle-like to Antarctic bone-chilling cold. Torrential rains may or may not occur. This unpredictability adds to the excitement of the festival.

Our “Dairy Days” tradition has a curious and interesting origin. This is the only place you’ll get the real truth, so accept no imitations. Remember, you heard it here first.

Let’s break it down. We’ll start with the word “Dairy”.

Dairy was originally the word “Diary”. It described a place for and an enterprise involved in the business of milk. Key to this enterprise was the “Milkmaid”. They spent long hours at work without the benefit of the smart phone and were typically bored. They started the tradition of writing their thoughts, hopes, and dreams on the sides of cows in charcoal. The more narcissistic ones would draw their own portraits on the cows to show others how pretty they believed themselves to be. Other milkmaids would mark “like” on the cow rumps. The diary musings jotted on cattle gradually became synonymous with the milk operation as a whole. By the 4th century, milk at the Piggly Wiggly and MegaLoMart was always trucked from a “Diary”.

The “Diary” changed meaning when paper was invented. Milkmaids found this new “paper” was easier to write on and more permanent. The milkmaids also found that while it was very difficult to preserve a rose by pressing it between 2 diary cows, bound paper excelled at that task. Diary came to mean a bound book of illogical female rants and detailed plans for control of mankind.

The term “diary” evolved away from the milking operation so the easiest way to rename milk stuff was to change the order of the letters to “dairy”. They already had the letters, so it was easier to use the ones at hand. It also had the added bonus of confusing people, and who doesn’t enjoy that?

The term “Days” normally describes multiple cycles of the clock from daytime to nighttime. This is not the case in “Dairy Days”. “Days” was actually the word “Daze” but spelling was a problem before the spell checker was invented in 1492.

“Daze” was used to describe a person in a drunken stupor. It also came from the dairy (former “Diary”). Our indomitably-spirited milkmaids found that by introducing yeast into a skin bag of milk it would ferment into an alcoholic beverage. They call this Kefir or Kumis. (No need to look it up, because., would I lie? I would not. You know it’s true because some people would try to make alcohol out of anything.) By consuming the drink while they were writing on the sides of their cows they became lethargic, happy, and in a daze.

Incidentally, the skin bags of fermenting milk had to be mixed frequently by being jostled to circulate the little alcohol-making critters in the milk. To make sure the milk wasn’t forgotten about, the skin bags where hung in plain sight by the door. Every time a person went by they would hit, or knock it, to keep it mixed for proper conversion of the milk sugar to alcohol. That is how we started the tradition of knocking on a door. If you didn’t knock the milkmaids would be stuck being sober and would write hateful things about the other milkmaids, which could get them un-friended.

In summary, “Dairy Days” isn’t what you think it is. You think it’s to celebrate agricultural bounty and to honor Dairy Queen. You are wrong. It’s a celebration of bored women with nothing much to do but get drunk and write their thoughts down. Remember while you’re eating your corn candy, funnel trans-fat, and cotton dogs.

Fini

Focus: The Important Things of Life

“A spoon, a spoon, my kingdom for a spoon.” (Richard III, William Shakespeare)

At about 11 o’clock last night I got out my personal salt shaker and it was almost empty. This may have happened to you, and if it has you know how horrible that is. Salt is so important, the Bible talks about it all of the time. Since retirement I’ve paid close attention to the important things in life, like the condition of my condiments and the cleanliness of the outside trash receptacle. I don’t want to die and people to say things like, “he was a good guy but his salt and pepper shakers were in bad shape. Did you see his trash can? Horrible! To avoid that, I take care of the important things in life.

I yelled from the kitchen, “Who’s been using my salt shaker?” The wife sounded guilty when she said, “What are you yelling about?” I repeated, “Who’s been using my salt shaker? It’s empty and I know I didn’t use all of the salt. Did you use it?” There was no response so I yelled again.

The grand-twerp interjected from his room. “Shut up about the salt shaker. I’m trying to sleep. I have a test tomorrow.” Like all teens, he doesn’t understand the important things in life.

I felt my blood heat up a bit as I filled the salt shaker. I looked over at the dining table and that salt shaker was half empty too. Nobody can do anything around here. I have to do it all. Even the pepper was low. Grrr.
As I did the chores that had to be done to I went over this domestic purgatory we men can fall into. Here we are, eternally marginalized for not picking our socks up and not putting the toilet seat down while spices and rubbish cans go un-filled and un-cleaned. I mean, she could fill the salt shaker. I put the stupid toilet seat down all of the time even though it really belongs up. Everyone knows the seat goes up unless you need it down temporarily. I called out my logical argument but she doesn’t do logic. She gave me that girl-attitude and said “Forget the stupid salt shaker. I’m going to bed”, and she did. I don’t know how wives can sleep at a time like that.

It’s like that all of the time. I got a little verbal at a local restaurant because they didn’t give me a spoon with my table service. Everyone knows that table service is a knife, fork, and spoon. It’s important to have all three. The whole family acts like I’m an idiot because I can’t enjoy my meal without table service. Eating without the proper tools is like going on a trip without 3 different types of maps. You won’t be able to get where you’re wanting to go, in this case, the bottom of the bowl. Does the family care that I need full table and map service? They do not.

Some of you may not pay attention to salt shakers and spoons and maps. I’m here to tell you that you need to pay attention, because your life may depend on it. Let’s say that you’re in your recliner watching “American Hot Rod” or “Shade Tree Mechanic” while you enjoy a big bowl of popcorn. Suddenly, the door flies open and a masked Anti-Fa Liberal Vegan breaks in and starts to hit you with his man bag. If your salt shaker is full you can fling it in his eyes. That’ll make him cry while you get up and slap him into next week. When you send him packing you can tell him where to go and give him the map to get there

Most of you worry about the wrong things. I bet many out there are absolutely frantic about crime or nuclear war or Ebola. You can’t do anything about any of those things, but you can clean your dumpsters. Cleaning it may not stop crime but it will stop the bad odors and flies. Flies are eaten by frogs which are full of diseases. Frogs give you salmonella and probably all kinds of warts. When you get warts all over your hands nobody will want you to use their spoons, so you won’t be able to enjoy your food. See, it’s all related. These things matter more than you know.

To summarize, I hope you all get with the program and realize the things you ignore may be the most important things in your life. Don’t expect the spousal unit or the teen mutant to help, or even understand your burden. Knowing is burdensome in itself but someone has to be aware and take care of the important things in life. It’s the map to being the salt of the earth.

Fini.

488 Days

488 days. That’s the time I’ve been on a weight loss trip. That’s how long I’ve been on a magical journey keeping my doctor and family members off of my case, man. That’s about 16 months, give or take a century. My daughter says that I’ve hung in so long because I’m stubborn and I have OCD, but I’ll never listen to that crazy talk. Never.

My doctor, whom I’ve previously outed as a “Health Nazi” put me on that OCD journey. She said “blood pressure, blah, blah, diabetes, blah, death. My beloved, the pie keeper, interpreted for me. “If you don’t lose weight, you’re going to die and never watch Star Trek again. Now I understand but it’s a real drag and they’re bringing me down, man. Like you crazy kids say, it’s not groovy.

Because I keep up to date with all of the newest trends I macraméd a righteous plan. It’s totally tubular. I knew that I wasn’t staring at my phone often enough. I needed to fix that along with my weight/health issue. I snooped around and found what the kids call “apps” to track food and exercise, whatever that is. Don’t confuse those with the app that tracks everywhere you go and everyone you talk to. That app is called “Crazy Ex-girlfriend” or “Google”, which will lead to Skynet and the end of mankind. This free app isn’t that intrusive. You have to pay extra to be betrayed by techno-nerds and the military-industrial aristocracy.

The app I chose is called “Lose It” but there are a bunch of others. You enter your weight, how much you want to weigh, and how fast you want to get there. It computes how many calories to eat a day. It even gives you extra calories if you “exercise”. Exercise is a term I’m unfamiliar with so I skip that part. I’ve heard that exercise is conducted by a group leader called an “exorcist” and it makes you tired. I’m not a fan.

Using microscopic virtual keyboards I type in everything I eat. If I eat a piece of baked chicken, the app knows how many calories and grams of nutrients that it has. It deducts those calories from your total, and so on. If I dive into a bushel of lettuce and lawn clippings, my calorie counter doesn’t move. If I eat a bacon double lardburger and a proper slice of chocolate pecan pie with whipped trans-fats, the app shows I can’t eat anything else for fourteen days. If cream pie happens, the deluxe version of the app calls the ER. It informs them I’m coming in with clogged arteries. If I eat that way 3 days in a month, it automatically schedules my funeral with the closest mortuary. I think it does that.

I always get up early so I can gloat about not having to go to work. Gloating puts me in a happy mood so that I get a good nap. “Lose it” app overlords know that I’ve moved to the coffee pot so I start getting phone reminders to type in what I’ve eaten. The only way to shut it up is to enter the oatmeal or eggs or Snickers bar frittata that I ate. I don’t dare ignore it. It could be connected to a NSA killer drone or even worse, an employment agency with job openings. At the end of the day my calorie intake should equal the allotted calories plus or minus a celery stalk. It also keeps track of carbs and scientific stuff for you techno-hippies.

In the 488 days I’ve been tracking my food, I’ve lost 65 pounds, more or less. More specifically, I lost the weight within 310 days, and have maintained it since then. I’m slim enough now that if I were still in the Air Force I could almost wear the uniform without busting at the seams. My stats have gotten close enough to normal that my Health-Nazi has moved on to other victims.

The app can’t make me younger or more pliable by society. It also won’t make me fit into skinny jeans and crocs because it can’t make me that stupid. Your results may vary.

I know you’re digging this crazy vibe I’m throwing down. If a corpulent pie-swilling omnivore can lose a couple of pounds, you can dig it too. If I can obsessively record every bite I take, so can you. If I can spend every free moment staring at my smart phone, I bet you can too. 488 days is just the beginning.
Peace, man.

March For Life

A monumental but unreported event played out in our nation’s capital January 18th. Tens of thousands of people marched for life. Thousands upon thousands of people marched in the cold hoping to preserve life for the most innocent in our world.

I have my own feelings about abortion. In 1973 I was in high school and had to tell my Mother that my girlfriend was pregnant. Mom threw a fit. She demanded that the baby be aborted. I was horrified. I was 17 and had no idea what to do with a baby but I couldn’t imagine my child being slaughtered.
Whatever her motivation was, my girlfriend kept the baby.

In spite of my horror at the suggestion of abortion I eventually bought the lies about women’s health and women’s rights. I nodded my head in agreement when people said “It’s a woman’s right to choose to terminate a pregnancy”. I agreed that abortion is “women’s health”. I even donated out of my paycheck to Planned Parenthood, the primary abortion provider in the country. I believed they were pro-family. I drank the cultural Kool-Aid but I couldn’t resolve myself to the paradox. How can we call the unborn “fetal tissue” and eliminate it when it’ll become a child at an indeterminate point in the pregnancy. How can we make a distinction that isn’t distinct? How can we tolerate the death of millions of innocents?

Not everyone has drunk the death-cult Kool-aid.
On the 17th of January thousands of pro-life advocates gathered in Washington, DC preparing to march for life the following day. The event hasn’t been properly reported by the opposition, which most people call the “Network Media”. The only reason I knew about it is because Angela Ann, the niece of my wife, posted on Facebook she was attending.

Last night on the NBC evening news the March for Life was mentioned in passing. They announced it as “anti-abortion”, instead of “pro-life”. According to Angela Ann a small Native American event at the Lincoln Memorial was covered more thoroughly than the March for Life. My search of NBC news found the Pro-Life March far down the page hidden between a story on the upcoming lunar eclipse and a movie review. Some coverage said “thousands” marched. CNN said about a thousand people showed up. Pro-life sources have video showing hundreds of thousands marched. Many say the crowd was even larger than the 650,000 that attended the 2013 march. Reviewing the March for Life Facebook page reveals many groups and too many banners to count. “Students for Life” time-lapse video of the march is awe-inspiring. I’ve never seen a crowd so huge.

It’s not only the churches and Christian groups that are involved in the pro-life march. Secular groups are involved in the pro-life movement as well. In 2017 the American College of Pediatricians stated, “The predominance of human biological research confirms that human life begins at conception—fertilization. At fertilization, the human being emerges as a whole, genetically distinct, individuated zygotic living human organism, a member of the species Homo sapiens, needing only the proper environment in order to grow and develop. The difference between the individual in its adult stage and in its zygotic stage is one of form, not nature. This statement focuses on the scientific evidence of when an individual human life begins.” Perhaps the science has swayed non-religious groups to become pro-life. These include pro-life Libertarians and humanists. There are also pagans and atheists that have become pro-life.

In January of 1973 the Supreme Court ruled against the state of Texas law forbidding abortion. Their ruling effectively legalized abortion nationwide. One year later the first “March for Life” was held. It continues in January of every year. Marchers come from all over the country. Angela Ann and her daughter are just 2 of many that make the trip from St Charles County, Missouri. She’s attended several times with others representing the Lutheran school in their county.
I don’t know how many children have been saved by pro-life activism. I do know that millions of children have died from abortion. I think that many of the women that have had abortions have psyches that are permanently scared.

Mother Teresa said “Any country that accepts abortion is not teaching its people to love, but to use any violence to get what they want. That is why the greatest destroyer of love is abortion.” She also said that abortion is a war against women. It’s time to cough up the Kool-aid and understand we’re being lied to.
Thank God my child was born a healthy, beautiful girl. I had no clue what to do. It was a bad time in my life to have a child. It was inconvenient for the mother and she ran off, leaving my child with me. Somehow my daughter survived and is an intelligent, productive businesswoman with 2 wonderful sons. Women’s health lies could have eliminated them and every generation to come. The “women’s health” lies have eliminated countless others.
I pray that some day we don’t have to march for life. Maybe someday we’ll protect children.
Fini.