BLAME SCALZI

 Blame Scalzi

For a number of years, I have followed John Scalzi, both on his blog "Whatever" and on Twitter. I do not belong to Twitter, but on his blog page, Scalzi posts (re-posts?) his tweets.  They amuse me.

Because Twitter is currently in the midst of turmoil, and because there are constant rumors about its demise, Scalzi today posted (or re-posted) a cry for the return of the blog.  

How many blogs have been abandoned for how many years?  I last posted over six years ago. Why did I stop? AFAIK, no one read it, and no one missed me. 

So, today, (Thanksgiving  BTW) I decided to see if I could/can/will/should revive it. 

Anybody listening?

Why I Paint My Toes

Why I Paint My Toenails

Why do old ladies paint our toenails?

Yes, it's summer, and we wear sandals much of the time.

But why our toenails? Why not our finger-nails as well?

Look around you. Many of the older women of your acquaintance are wearing polish on their toes, but not their fingers.

WHY??

Our feet don't age.

Our hands now have age spots, raised veins, wrinkled knuckles, SIGNS we are old.

Our feet , at least our tows, do not bear those markers.

My toenails, for the past six or more months, have been glittering silver.

I tell people, "I may not be able to dance, but at least I have twinkle-toes!".

My feet don't show my age.

The rest of my body does.

I paint my toe-nails because it is one part of me that can still not only pretend to be young, but also seem to be so.

Long live pedicures!!

One of those days

Don't ask me why. My lazy bone has come to the fore. I don't WANT to do anything but play dumb games on the computer, read trashy novels I've already read. Drink wine and veg out.
It's summer. I should be over Spring fever. Somewhere, I have lost my ambition, my drive, my willingness to do or be ANYTHING. What causes these major energy-farts, anyway?

I need a new focus. I've done about all that I can with the food pantry. Someone else might be able to stretch it into new directions. I can continue to operate on the same level I now hold it to. But that's about it.

Five years seems to be about my limit at keeping my interest/focus on ANYTHING. Tax Audit, Review, Disclosure, Appeals, Law School , Estate and Gift Tax. I kept changing jobs/focus throughout my career. I'm too shallow to stay with anything long. Except for George. He is the depth to my life.

So I'll post this.

No one reads it, no one follows it, no one knows it's there.

Anonymous on the internet!

The anonymous immortal!

I wish I had thought of THAT as a title when I first wrote on this blog page.

Nothing on the internet is ever lost forever, and no one on the internet knows or cares who I am.

Just another boring blogger. Now, I bet if I googled that, there is such a title. Surely, someone other than I has a similar view of their writing abilities. Must google. Yep. Google Boring Blogger. Page is FULL of links.

Now must try anonymous immortal. Links to anonymous. Group that uses masks in protest. Some of them are "good guys" some not. Depends on your political perspective.

Anyway, so much for my stream-of consciousness drive. (another good blog title). I'll post this, and maybe in anywhere from a day to a month to a decade, I'll post again.

Goodnight, blog

My Life

I brought home some fruit and left it sitting out too long

The next thing you know, I have some sort of fruit flies.

Theses are tiny, gnat-like things. They are generally faster than my ability to swat them, but other than occasionally interrupting my vision, they appear to be begin.

As I recall, fruit-flies have an approximately a 72-hour life-span. Pathetic, no? You are born, you mature, you reproduce, you die. All within 72 (human) hours.

So, compared to some more highly evolved life form, what am I? Perhaps the most significant difference between me and a fruit fly is that I choose not to reproduce.

For all I know, fruit flies have a highly sophisticated social structure, with terrific cultural expressions of dance, music, oration, and other sensory matters we mere humans are not conversant with.

Think about it. What a fruit fly is to us, are we to some larger being? We have studied fruit flies sufficiently to know that they do not construct sophisticated buildings. They do not appear to create anything to affect the next generation of fruit flies.

I am not willing to extend this analogy to ants.

Don't you just love the idea that the entire planet may be the equivalent of some child's ant farm?

I know, I know, that has already been written by much better writers than I.

Still, looking at (and swatting at) today's fruit flies made me think of it again........

Attempt at an Analogy

You have a neighbor you don't know very well. You don't particularly care for him, but mostly, he minds his business and you mind yours.

One night, you hear a big ruckus from your neighbor's house. You wonder about calling the police, but it doesn't seem to be all that serious. Just loud. Very loud. You figure it's his business, it's his life, and you wouldn't want someone calling the cops just because you got a bit loud, would you?

The next day, you see his wife and she has a shiner. Well, maybe you should have done something, but you aren't certain just what. Even if you had called the cops, what would have happened?

Next time happens. The fight is VERY loud. This time, you call the cops. Domestic disturbance, you say. No, not your house, your neighbor. No, you don't know if either of them has a gun. You aren't even certain you know his correct name.

Three or four hours later, the cops show up. There's no noise going on. No one comes out of the house. The husband and wife appear at the door and tell the officers that there is nothing wrong. They would like to know who called, however.

The next day when you walk out your door, they both glare at you. They figure you're the one who called. They don't appreciate it in any way. You've just made BOTH of them mad at you.

What will you do the next time you hear a loud fight?

You talk to some of your other neighbors. They agree that he has a mean temper, and that she is getting the worst of the fights. However, your neighbors point out that although she has made a few half-hearted requests for help, she is unwilling to press charges against him, and she is also unwilling to leave the relationship. Some of your neighbors claim that she is as responsible for the fights as he. Your neighbors say "It's their life. Keep out of it."

What would you do?

Now, replace your neighbor with Syria.

What do you think we should do?

Planning a picnic

So, I'm planning a picnic with some friends.

Menu -

Steak
Orzo salad,
Saute of squash

Sounds simple?

I also have to put together a picnic kit.

Dishes, utensils (including steak knives), table-cloth, napkins, serving utensils, hot-pads, and dishes for the salad and squash.

We're going to the mountains, to a place called Fenton Lake. That is actually a small, fishing pond in the Jemez mountains.

We'll take charcoal, lighter fluid, matches, Large fork, brush to scour grill, paper towels for clean up. I'll have the squash marinating in white wine and spices; and a grill pan.

And of course, wine.

Perhaps two wines.

I may make some stuffed jalapenos and perhaps some stuffed mushrooms for a starter, to go with an appropriate wine. Of course, I'll have grapes and maybe a good cheese for the finish. (may need another wine for that)
Naturally, a good wine with the main course.

Picnics are a lot more fun to plan and do now. Who needs cold fried chicken and paper napkins? (OK, OK, I'll still have paper napkins)

Copola Sofia rose for the appetizer

Copola Roso for the main course (that might change -- must review reds in wine keeper)

A nice, white ice wine (either German or Canadian) for dessert,

Yep; grown-up picnics are a LOT more fun!!

The World is a Better Place

My high-school sweet-heart just got married.

Richard and I went to the prom together, and hung out and dated until I moved to the LA area in 1978.

We were two days apart in age. We used to joke that we would get married on the day between our 30th birthdays.

At his sister's wedding, I danced with his father who indicated he would be very happy if Richard and I married. I replied, "We're too good of friends to mess it up with marriage."

My father told me, "Richard's a very nice boy, but just remember, he's [ethnicity]" Yes, my father was a bigot.

My mother told me, "Richard's a very nice boy, but remember, he's [religion]" My mother was a religious bigot. (I got back at her by marrying a jack Mormon)

What my parents didn't know (and at that time, Richard's parents didn't know either) was that Richard is gay. He came out to me the summer after our second year of college. We had dated the first year, broken up when I went to school abroad, and re-connected when I came back to the States. His coming out to me made our friendship that much deeper. We enjoyed each other's company. We went to plays, to movies, to gay bars, we had FUN. I was his cover. That was when we came up with the idea of marriage between our 30th's. Clearly, if neither of us had found a man we wanted to spend the rest of our life with, we would spend it together.

Then Richard met John. John and Richard were like two halves of a whole. They FIT together. They were an ideal couple. My female roommate and I were their "dates" when straight social situations arose. After all, this was the late 1970's. Gays were beginning to flex their power, but middle-class social norms were still honored.

Two years later, I got married.

Richard and John have been together all this time. The world around us has changed in many ways. They no longer have to "pretend" on social occasions. But still, although they were a couple, they could not marry.

Today, they got married.

I am SO happy. Their love has held them together for over 30 years. Now, legally the relationship between them is equal to what I have with my husband.

Happy, happy wedding day, Richard and John. Your love has stood the test of time and prejudice. May you have many, many years of wedded bliss.

RAIN!

What you're raised with seems natural. What may be natural elsewhere seems strange if you weren't raised with it.

I was born and raised in Southern California. So were my siblings, and unusually enough, my parents. My mother was born in 1917, my father in 1922. They're both gone now, but their childhood experiences were similar to mine, in the way that we were molded by our environment.

Like children everywhere, especially ones who do not travel much, I thought that what I grew up with was the normal pattern of the world.

The thing most people who do not live there do not understand about Southern California is that Winter is the rainy season. Rain may start as early as October, but usually there is little measurable rain until November. After March, rain is not the norm, although there are occasionally some April showers.

After that, IT DOES NOT RAIN IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA. For a period of six to seven months, there will usually be less than one inch of measurable precipitation.

That was the weather pattern my parents grew up with. That was the weather pattern I grew up with. That was what I understood to be normal.

Rain does not fall in the summertime.

After I married, my husband began taking me to other parts of the country. If our trips occurred in the Summer-time, my first purchase was usually an umbrella.

I don't understand Summer rain. In Southern California, thunderheads would sometimes build up over the mountains, but rain did not fall in the valleys. If I heard thunder once a summer, that was an event.

Rain, the rain I knew, fell in the winter, and was generally cold. You bundled up, not only against the wet, but also against the cold of the winter moisture.

Now, I often run out to feel the rain in the summertime. I watch it in a sort of awe. Here, now, the rain comes in showers, short, sometimes hard bursts that may last only five minutes. The long, drizzling soaks of my childhood don't happen with the rain here. Summer rain is different. The sky can cloud up in a brief span of time, bring a measurable amount of rain, and then clear.

And lightening! And thunder! Not an occasional very distant rumble, but big flashes and big, loud bursts and claps.

I have a childlike awe and appreciation of the summer rain. It is (to me) something so totally new and different from anything I experienced before.

It still doesn't seem natural, though.

Three months

Three months of no posts. BFD. My life is not sufficiently exciting, nor are my thoughts sufficiently provoking to either create clamor, or to have their absence noticed.

I lately read a definition of a blog as an on-line diary. When I was in about 2nd grade, my sister was reading The Diary Of Anne Frank. I was told that I was too young to understand it. I was not allowed to read it. Instead of creating in me a desire to read it, I was obsessed with the idea or writing my own diary. BFD. Recording my day-to-day existence as a seven-year-old was incredibly boring. I didn't think about things or ideas. Let's face it, a seven-year-old doesn't THINK about what they are doing or why. (Unless the happen to be extremely bright and self-aware.) My biggest event of the week was going to the Blue-Bird meetings. Even there, what we did or said or thought wasn't enough to trigger anything memorable.

When I was a freshman in High school, my best friend started keeping a "record" (she wrote in the record books that you buy inexpensively at the stationers) I found reading her thoughts fascinating. But I had little desire to record my own. Perhaps even then I sensed that my own thoughts were so mundane that they were not worth recording.

Blogs, letters and diaries that become books, that people talk about, that people read, that actually affect people are written by people who are bright, who are self-aware and who understand how to make the mundane interesting.

I am not one of those people.

My writing is mundane, what I relate is banal. My friends read it out of loyalty, Once in a blue moon, I say something intelligent. Most of the time, it is drivel. If it weren't for spell-check, most of the time, it would be un-readable. (especially when I write after 3 margaritas)

I used to write to my mother once a week about what I had been doing. She died in September. I miss writing my weekly activities. Perhaps now, if I were to blog them I would not keep the severe censors on my thoughts that I did when writing to mother. Who knows? I might write something worth reading.

Potato Waffles!

THANKS, Sara!!

My friend Sara gave me a WONDERFUL recipe. Potato waffles. Sounds weird? Well, think about potato pancakes. Based on how they're made, and how they're served, they are everything from a breakfast dish to a breakfast or dinner side. (And, as a side note -- Coco's does a great Denver-style potato pancake, with minced onion, bell pepper and ham)

So, Sara invented the potato waffle. Mix shredded potato (if not using frozen, GET THE MOISTURE OUT!) minced onion and shredded Swiss cheese. about 1/4 to 1/3 part cheese to potato. Perhaps 1/2 as much onion as cheese. Throw on hot waffle iron and close. Cook 10 minutes, serve.

If you want a more moist waffle, add a well-beaten egg, or even a couple of tablespoons of milk. If you decide to add a bit of flour, add baking powder as well.

Great opportunities for improvisation -- shred in a apple, throw in some green chile, crumble in bacon bits, vary the cheese. This can be a breakfast dish, a side dish, or a dinner entree.

For dinner, serve with sour cream. For breakfast, of course, maple syrup.

The writer John Scalzi recently blogged about the churro waffle (take a crisp waffle, dip in melted butter, coat in cinnamon-sugar) Right now, I find the potato-waffle slightly more nutritious, and slightly less heart-attack inducing.

Odd(?) Thoughts About Gun Control

Like a lot of people, I have been thinking A LOT about the subject of gun control. One of my friends posted on Facebook from the "Being Liberal" web site-- a senior citizen who has to sign at a pharmacy to get psudophedrine for her congestion vs the ability to purchase an unlimited amount of ammunition on-line without any questions being asked.

Clearly, a simplistic solution is to ban on-line or mail-order purchases of ammunition. I have no idea what the consequences and complications of such a matter would be. Possibly, at a minimum, the amount of ammunition that could be purchased in any single transaction might be limited, however, that simply creates a multiciplity of transactions. Not necessarily helpful in any manner.

There was a joke in the paper one morning -- something about Republicans banning sex and Democrats banning guns -- which is why there are more Democrats than Republicans.

However, that joke made me start to think. We can no more ban guns from our society than we can ban sex. What we need to do is learn how to address the dangers and consequences of each in a manner that overall creates a safer society.

Ideal sex education starts in the home. A child is taught the truth about their body. They are taught the meaning of privacy, the propriety of touching by others. They are taught that they have a right to say "no" to someone who wants them to do something they do not want to do.

In school, they are taught the facts and truth about sex and reproduction. Again, consent is stressed. As well as learning the facts, they are given access to the tools to protect themselves from unwanted consequences. One of those tools is the right to say "No" Other tools are safe, effective and available contraception methods. A recent study showed that where teens are given education and free access to effective birth control, the number of teen pregnancies and abortions plummeted.

In countries where children are given sensible sex education and access to reliable contraception, the teen birth rate and the abortion rate are far, far lower than in our country.

So what is the connection between birth control and guns?

I was raised around guns. From an early age, I learned that guns were respected, that guns were dangerous, and that until and unless I knew absolutely what I was going to do with them, I sould leave them alone.

I was taught that guns could injure (at best) and kill. My family hunted. I understood waht a dead animal was. By extension, I understood what a dead person was. Dead doesn't come back. Dead has to be taken care of. (I still feel that one of our society's problems is that we frown more on eating a dead person than on killing them in the first place)

Video games and movies show a lot of death of people, but do not deal with the consequences of death on the survivors. Perhaps there needs to be a movement to change that, to have consequences be a part of the entertainment experience.

If sex education is taught from an early age, when the hormones kick in, the child knows what is happening. They don't "discover" sex. It is a part of the world in which they have been raised.

If guns, gun safety, proper gun handling were taught from an early age, children would not "discover" guns.

If children are raised with an awareness of the consequences of mis-handling/abusing/playing with guns, they would be less likely to take reckless action.

And just as some women (and men) are taught methods of physical self-defense against unwanted sexual advances, children (and adults) could also learn certain self-defense techniques. "Drop and play dead" kept one child in Conneticut alive.

Another thought comes from the chart floating around on the web about cars and guns. Would it place an "undue burden" on the State to license people to own and use guns? It is conceiveable that guns could be registered in a manner similar to autos. This would possibly pay the State the cost of the paperwork. If EVERY gun were registered, if EVERY gun owner were licensed, it would not limit the number of guns one could own. Does requiring licensing "infringe" on the right to own a gun?

Yes, I definately believe that children need to be taught, from an early age, what guns are, and what guns can do. I remember when I was in my early teens, my uncle showing me a pistol. It was small, it was lightweight, it fit into my hand. "Is it loaded?" I asked. "A gun is ALWAYS loaded." he replied. THAT is a lesson we all (children and adults) need to learn. Every gun is always loaded. Treat it as such. If you are wrong, the error can be quickly fixed.

Gun education and sex education are clearly subjects that should be taught in school, from the begining.

Trying to Grasp

You can't write pain, you can't write horror, you can't write stupidity, you can't write evil. At least I can't.

You try any and all coping mechanisms you know, and a few new ones.
WHO KILLS FIRST GRADERS??

AND WHY???

You flame, you scream, you shout, you pull your own hair. Because you CAN'T grasp the totally of the thing. ABC news closed with a reading of the names of the dead. CHILDREN he killed CHILDREN.

You read, you watch the news, you try to ponder. Talk of gun control. It will never be more than talk. By the time any legislation might be drawn up and any action taken, enough time will have passed that the powers that control such things will be back in control. I imagine them now, sitting at their computers, pondering.

"Guns don't kill people, People kill people" Start from there. The problem is not the number and availability of guns in our society. The problem is guns getting into the wrong hands. Too many guns are stolen, too many guns are in homes where someone (who is not the registered owner) can pick them up at any time.

A painful essay/blog posting by the mother of a child who is mentally ill. Yes, better treatment and understanding of mental illness IS part of the problem. But it isn't all.

Please, tell me why automatic weapons are available in our society. Hunting? Once the prey hears one shot, how many more will you be able to squeeze off while it is still visable? Sport? Does the Olympics have accuracy with automatic weapons as a competition? Protection against an armed intruder? If both of you shoot 50 rounds at each other, who wins?

The United States no longer relies on a militia. We have a standing Army. We also have Reservists, and we have a National Guard. By the way, none of those individuals provide their own weapons.

We have evolved since the 18th centurary. EXCEPT in our desire to have bigger and better weapons than our neighbor.

Like everyone else, I have questions, but no answers.

Maybe Less

I haven't posted since my mother's death. I haven't felt the need to. I thought I might, I felt that I had been using my weekly letters to her to channel the ideas that I would otherwise post here. Not so.

I realized, browsing around the web, that I am merely one of millions who blog, who tweet, who share their lives with others they may not even or ever know. So?

I know that I am not a great writer. I am not even a commercially successful writer, nor do I aspire to be so. I only occassionally reach a good quality in my writing. Most of it is mundane, and inane.

And that's fine with me. My writing reflects who I am. Mundane and inane are good descriptions.

But I read other blogs. Someone removing their (almost) adult child from an abusive relationship; a parent whose child was on a school trip to the Korean War memorial when one of the soldiers pictured there rolled up in his wheelchair; big things, important things.

My life is not important.

I said, before my mother died that I did not know when I would be ready to write about my mother. I believe that the answer is never. My personal relationships are just that - personal. I have neither the need nor the inclination to place my personal feelings on display.

I had thought that I moght start positng more after my mother's death. Now, I believe I am likely to be posting less.

I will still find the occasion to discuss food and cooking. THAT is important. But my life, my actions, my thoughts, my feelings. They are MINE, and I will only share them whith whom I wish, when I wish.

Now that mother's gone....

In late December of 2010 or January of 2011, I visited my mother. She had been moved into an assisted living unit, out of independent living due to several falls she had taken. We (her children) also got an agent to handle her mail.

Mother was extremely generous with worthy causes, or causes she believed were worthy. This generated an incredible volume of mail. Every day, she would receive ten to fifteen "gimmee" letters. She sponsered a child in Ecuador through "Children International" She sent money to buy craft kits for hospitalized veterans. The list was extremely long. But mother was getting overwhelmed by the mail.

Many of the charitable causes would send small amounts of cash (usually a nickle or so) She felt guilty about keeping the money. We had solved that by having her put it in a particular holder, then annually, donating that amount to the Salvation Army or the Goodwill.

While Father was failing, Mother took to shopping by catalogue. This is extremely convenient, except that every catalogue company sells their mailing lists to every other catalogue company. She did have sense to toss out about half of the five to ten catalogues she received every week.

Then there were the political solicitations. I truely believe that some levels of solicitation are so venal that they pull down the image of what ever cause they are soliciting for. Even as she was slipping, Mother felt many of the political solicitations were close to frauds.

Anyway, we got her a mail agent and moved her into assisted living.

She had been there approximately two months when I visited. She went to open her mail box and there was nothing in it. She complained. She felt that it was hardly worth having a mail box if she didn't get any mail. I told her I would write to her.

Flash-back. When I was growing up, my mother's oldest sister lived in North Carolina. Every week, Aunt Margaret would write - single-spaced typed on both sides of a sheet of paper-- a letter telling us what she was doing that week. They weren't deep, or profound, just newsy and close.

I decided to try to do the same. Almost.

On January 10, 2011, I wrote Mother her first letter from me. I used bold print and an enlarged font. I wrote two pages, since I felt the spacing took something away from the content.

I was shortly informed that Mother did NOT need large font or bold print in order to read!

But from there on, I did my best to write to her every week. It was my Sunday ritual. I would keep a note of what I had done during the week, and on Sunday, I would write my "motherletter"

The ones from 2011 are in a file "motherletter11" There is a gap from August 7th to September 18 when I went to Minnesota. During that month, I sent her hand-written cards and notes. I tried to send those twice a week. I remember the exercise of hand-writing and making it legible. It's an amazing exercise. I highly reccomend that you try it.

Once I got back, the weekly routine continued. My brothers and sister started giving me grief. Mother always mentioned that I wrote to her weekly. Mother was always good at the subtle guilt-trip.

Week by week, I continued. The only times I missed were the weeks I was actually out visiting her.

My sister commented "Oh, you have a regular routine. It's easy for you to remember what you've done." I showed her the scrap paper on which I kept notes of my activities for the week. I tried to put something different into each food bank occasion. I tried to make comments not just about the weather, but about things happening socially within the community.

It did mean a lot to Mom. I was told that sometimes she would read my letters aloud to other residents sitting in the front lobby. My letters served as a diversion, when Mother would be about to go out on one of her un-directed jaunts about the property, a letter from me would hold her in place until the next planned activity.

After my last planned trip, I wrote to her as soon as I got back. That was on Wednesday, the 12th. I wrote again on the 16th, and then would have on the 19th. But she had a stroke.

My last two letters to Mother were in her room, un-opened.

Now that Mother's gone, maybe I'll blog more often

A Camus Muse

My mother is dying.

For some reason, writing that makes me feel like the opening line of "The Stranger" "Mother died today." There's a certain stark reality. An acknowledgement and acceptance of the inevitabilies of life.

My mother is dying, and I am going about my normal routine.

I am also preparing to go to where she is (some 900 miles away) and dispose of or take or sort out for other family members many of her possessions that remain.

Mother has been in assisted living for the last two years.

That means she has been living in a room the size of most motel rooms. The closet is perhaps larger. She has her own furniture. Her own knick-knacks, her own things around her.

But not now.

Mother has had a stroke. She is now in a "skilled nursing facility" They check on her every two hours, making certain she is still alive. All of her medications have been discontinued, except for those which will keep her relaxed, make her feel comfortable, ease her passing.

Hospice services have been called in. She will not be alone.

Life reduced to plus or minus. Meaning reduced to items and the memories attached thereto.

It is inevitable. Death always is. Mother had 95 years, most of them good. I joke that her warrenty has expired and there are no more replacement parts. That may seem slightly sick, but it's quite, quite true. How many people live 95 years?

When she turned 90, I called her "A chronological over-achiever." She was pleased. She said she had not been considered an over-achiever before. Mother was/is modest. She never bragged of her own accomplishments. She was quiet, a follower, not a leader.

I'm not ready to write about her yet. I do not know if I will ever be ready.

Until tomorrow, since somewhere around Spring of last year, I have written her a letter every Sunday. I don't know when my last letter reached her, or if she ever knew. She talkded about my letters the last time I saw her (two weeks ago)She didn't know who I was, in person, but she told me her daughter, Robin wrote to her every week.

No more relplacement parts. It's time for her to go.

Brains?...What brains?...Who needs brains??

Story on-line today. An NFL official who was supposed to be the side-judge in today's Saints game has been removed after his Facebook postings reveal that he is a big Saint's fan.

I am astounded that people are constantly shocked and suprised that things they post of Facebook are found, read and acted upon by employers, friends, former friends, former spouses, etc.

This past week, the story was that a woman got a "potential friend" link form Facebook that showed he husband in a pose as the new groom with another woman. Facebook thought she might like to be friends with the woman since they were both friends with her husband. He has plead guilty to bigamy, the second wife's marriage has been annulled, and the first wife is filing for divorce.

It's not merely teenagers who post without thinking of consequences.

We just might have to re-institute the old, 50's creed of "If you don't want your mother to see/know/comment on it..."

I believe we tend to think of Facebook as ephemeral, a posting being something of a moment's occurance, a brief, fleeting thought or feeling. It's NOT. Even though you and your friends and family may have made a hundred or more posts since that ONE, it's not gone, and if it could hurt or embarrass you, it won't ever, ever be forgotten.

It should make biographers in 20 or so years very, very happy that everyone posted their innermost drivel on Facebook. No more wondering if the writer invented the anecdote to show the person's development. No, the subject will have created and memorialized the anecdote himself.

No antidote for the anecdote. My brain is already spinning with malicious thoughts.

And I have posted this, to remain forever.

My excuse?

I'm old, I'm boring, I've never accomplished anything of significance (nor will I) and no one is ever going to care what I did or said on the Internet. But if you have dreams, if you have desire, if you have ambitions, (basically, if you're under 40) BEWARE!

NEW! IMPROVED!! UNUSEABLE!!!

NEW! IMPROVED!! UNUSEABLE!! Some idiot decided to "improve" our blogging and posting. I went in to review a prior blog post I had made. I came to a new format that so far I have been unable to fathom. WHERE ARE MY PRIOR POSTS!? (and why doesen's my keyboard have and intero-bang?) I DON'T LIKE IT! However, there is NO place to post feed-back to the blog-masters. Our masters are all-powerful. We are merely here to provide worship to their idols.

Celebrating Sara

My friend Sara called me yeaterday afternoon to come over for a drink. She had gotten back from her annual appointment with her onocologist. Good news!

She's STILL cancer-free.

Twenty years ago, she had breast cancer. Ten years ago, she had ovarian cancer. Two cancers, both caught early, both treated agressively, and she's STILL cancer-free!!

Believe me, THAT is something to celebrate.

What does it mean to me?

I only met Sara seven years ago. It means that if she haden't been smart enough to know there was something going on, if she hadn't been smart enough to go in, get diagnosed, and follow the doctors' orders regarding treatment, I wouldn't have a best friend to cook with, to drink with, to laugh with.

Sara and I celebrated last night. I'm still a bit queasy this morning, but it is well worth it!

Late March, early April next year, I want to get drunk and celebrate Sara again!

You are What you Write

"Lives of famous men remind us
As we history's pages turn
That we oftimes leave behind us
Letters that we ought to burn"

I don't know who wrote the above doggerel, I remember reading it and memorizing it when I was in grade school. I suspect it was written in the late 19th or early 20th century.

But I got to thinking about it as I read of people who get into trouble for postings on Facebook. Then there was ex-Congressman Weiner and his infamous tweets.

It used to be that what you wrote was (generally) between you and the person you wrote it to. True, if either of you became famous, and if either of you had saved the correspondence, it could well show up on the best-seller list someday.

But the mass of us (those who 'lead lives of quiet desperation') did not have to worry about our private correspondence becoming public.

Today, we have the Internet. Someone has the ability to capture every keystroke you have ever posted. Your e-mail, your tweets, your texts, your Facebook postings.

100 years from now, you too could be featured in "What were they thinking? -- The postings of the early 21st century" Those will be the totally off-the-wall items that you write.

Some student of gerontology will mine the postings of those of us who grew up without the Internet to see how we adjusted to new technology. Another sociologist will do a thesis on the uninhibited postings of those who never experienced social filters on their lives.

Paper and pen fade in time, deteriorate to illegibility, break down to dust.

But the Internet (we are told) endures forever.

Are State Lotteries a Swindle?

I'm not talking about the astronomical odds of winning. I'm talking about the basis used to justify State lotteries.

I remember before California voted to allow a state lottery. "The profits will go to education." The long-starved schools of California would get money from the state Lottery. Programs that had been cut would be resurrected. Field trips, bands, clubs would once again be available. It was an exciting promise.

The reality? The State legislature cut the education budget since, "They're getting money from the Lottery" Schools are just as financially starved (if not more so) than they were before the lottery was initiated.

I moved to New Mexico. Here, the lottery proceeds are not given to the schools. Instead, there are "Lottery Scholarships" If a student graduates from a New Mexico high school and attends a State supported higher education program, so long as they maintain an acceptable grade-point average, the state pays their tuition from the Lottery proceeds.

Better system?

Not yet.

The State legislature cuts funding to higher education, forcing the colleges to raise tuition. Last week, it was announced that if the tuition continues to increase at the current rate, in less than five years, the Lottery funds will not be sufficient to pay the tuition of all of the qualifying students.

Lotteries were promoted as providing suppplemental funding for schools. Instead, state lawmakers have found a way to justify cutting the amounts schools receive because they also receive "lottery money"

I don't know if this is happening in other states. I suspect that it is.

If so, we were all scammed by the lottery promoters. We were also scammed by our state legislators, and by ourselves. We thought that the lotteries would give the schools "something for nothing" Instead, the legislators are using the availability of lottery money to "keep taxes low" while our children suffer.