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.”
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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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