Squibbage

A Stickler's Notes

2010-10-31T12:08:00.000-07:00

Idiotic Idioms for 2012

The main takeaway for the year? Never use an idiotic expression like "takeaway."

Can you possibly listen to a discussion show for more than a few minutes without hearing some moron say "takeaway"? No! The expression has become the media's new darling, putting "at the end of the day" temporarily in the back seat.
     If you really want to distinguish yourself as a hopeless hack, a miserable excuse for a wordmeister, here is the phrase to use: "And the REST is history!" While you're at it, work in "The good, the bad and the ugly." Not only do professional writers and speakers use these trite expressions every day, they use them with gusto, as if they bound out of bed every morning thinking, "Maybe today I'll get to use 'the rest is history' again!"

I'm a grouch when it comes to the fads and crazes that sully my language. "Iconic" is the rage at the moment. The word went viral practically overnight. Anything vaguely recognizable is described as iconic. I defy you to pick up a publication or view a blog without seeing "iconic" all over the place. The word has been sucked dry of meaning. Don't we know that the Statue of Liberty is pretty iconic without having to be told?
     When an expression goes viral, people are so full of themselves when they use it. They act as if they invented it.* I'm hoping the frenzy over "iconic" dies down soon so we can move on to the next phase: "Iconic" becomes just another trite expression like "at the end of the day."
     I used to delight in finding new words. When I discovered "quintessential," I thought it was a very cool word. Not just essential, but QUINT essential. (Or PEN ultimate. OoOooh!) Then I found out everyone was using it. Sorta takes the fun out of it, like hiking to a favorite camping spot only to find it overrun by a Shriners convention. A word like quintessential shouldn't be used every chance you get. It should be saved for a really salient sentence that cries out for just that word.
     That's what the fad talkers don't get. There's an art to using words. A chef doesn't load up every dish with his favorite spice. The more a word is overused and overused and overused the less power it has. Yeah, it loses its panache. So that word becomes passé and the crowd moves on to the next "famously."
     No offense to those who delight in using the latest fad expression every chance they get. I'm sure it's a lot of fun, like the Macarena. This is just my humble protest against the clutter of garish verbal signage along life's scenic highway. For me the enjoyable speaking and writing is blessedly free of trendy buzzwords and catchphrases. I'm just an unknown blogger. Many of those who overuse and misuse fad expressions are highly paid writers and speakers. So who's the smart one?
     Listing all the nonsensical expressions that have piled up over the years is an endless project. (One just popped up: Anyways. Why is everyone suddenly adding "s" to anyway?) Here are a few that just won't go away.

     *Like the folks who reply to "How are you?" with "Oh, can't complain. Nobody'll listen anyway! Haha!" (giggle-giggle)

First Ever
What do you call an instance that precedes the first? When is the first not first enough? “First ever” is now the popular way to designate a first occurrence that might be confused with other first occurrences that are identical in every way except that they are only the first. Referring to the first man to walk on the moon, for example, might leave some wondering if you actually mean Neil Armstrong, the first ever, or the one who was merely the first, whoever he was. Some Russian?

     “I thought I was your first lover.”
     “I said first, not first ever.”

Related to first ever are “very first,” “very best,” “very latest,” and “right now.”

Mandatory adornment
The trend is to dress up the language with useless adornment. “First ever” joins a growing list of adornments that have become mandatory. It is no longer enough to say “first” and let it go at that.

What a difference "different" makes
Another mandatory expression is “different” when you talk about multiple items or events. You can’t just say “I applied for six jobs last week.” Someone might think you applied for the same job six times, so you have to say “six DIFFERENT jobs.”
     Different is related to separate. Trendy talkers need to clarify that things that are normally separate are indeed separate. "The bank has been robbed on four separate occasions." Thanks for clarifying that the robberies weren’t simultaneous. “Three separate witnesses gave the same account.” No Siamese twins watching?

A little BIT
A little of something is a small amount. So is a bit of something. What is a “little bit”? When people say “a little bit,” do they mean a teensy-weensy amount? Isn’t that just too cute?
     To either/or questions, the usual answer is “a little bit of both.” For example, was it talent or hard work that made you the success you are? A little bit of both is only two little bits. That leaves lots of other bits, perhaps some big ones, to explain the success.
     "A little BIT" is related to each and every. Boobish babblers who don't comprehend the meaning of "each" or "every," may surmise that they are not all-inclusive. They may think "each" means "most" or nearly all. Better be safe and throw in "every" just to cover anything "each" may leave out.

Same exact/exact same - According to fad talkers, "same" is loosely defined. It could mean roughly or about the same. You have to clarify: EXACT same.

Painfully shy - The only kind of shy there is these days.

Whether (OR NOT) - "The judge will decide whether or not to allow the evidence." Few can resist saying “or not.” Most of the time, you don’t need to. The purpose of the word is to indicate alternatives; “or not” is conveniently built in.

All New! Whooptidoo!
What’s newer than new? Can something be both new and not new? Apparently it can, because something merely new, not all-new, is deficient in newness. It may only be partially new and certainly nowhere near as new as all-new.

     “I see you have an all-new Toyota. Congratulations. How all-new is it?”
     “I just drove it home.”
     “It must be all all-new then.”
     “It’s completely all-new, yes.”
     “That’s good. You wouldn’t want to be stuck with one of those new cars, one that isn’t all-new.”
     “Right. I’ve heard about them. They’re all-new except the air in the tires, which is only new.”
     “Dreadful.”
     “They can’t put that over on me. I have a sworn statement from the dealer that the car is completely all-new.”
     “All-new oil? You have to watch that. Sometimes they try to slip you oil that’s just new.”
     “No no. The oil is all-new, the whole car is completely, totally all-new.”
     “Glad to hear it.”

“All new” first captured the imagination of rhetorical cutups when Hollywood writers went on strike in the mid-80s. Producers of TV sitcoms were forced to churn out shows reconstructed from old episodes. When the strike was over, new episodes were hyped as “all” new, to distinguish them from previous episodes that were merely new but contained recycled material. Calling them “all-new” was nonsense, of course. Had they been literally “all-new” the shows would have featured a new cast, new sets, even new characters. “All-new” may go down as the most annoying rhetorical gimmick of the century.

My alternative: Everyone say spankin' new!

Literally
“Literally” is the perfect big word. Four syllables. No one is really sure what it means, so you don’t have to worry about committing an embarrassing gaffe.
     Literally makes you sound smart because it the word itself sounds smart. It's a cousin of "literature" and what could be smarter than that? It brings forth images of books, heavy volumes, libraries. It's also related to "literate," which is how we want to sound, not illiterate.
     You can literally toss this word into almost any sentence. Many people use it to emphasize a figure of speech. Something makes you angry. “When he insulted my mother, I blew up.” To sound smart, you say “I literally blew up."
     Americans rely on mimicry for vocabulary-building. They hear a catchy word and start using it. They like the way it sounds. It’s cool. Who cares about the definition*? “I was literally torn.”
     People have fallen in love with the word and want to use it every chance they get. It has become a junk word, meaningless filler to keep your mouth moving between phrases. Literally has become a synonym for “actually” or “virtually” and is almost never used correctly. It is possible to go a lifetime without ever using “literally.” But who can resist? It makes you sound like a card-carrying member of the intelligencia.
     A cousin is basically. The word is not just basically useless, it's useless any way you consider it.

*Anniversary, for example. Mindless manglers are trying to create a new definition: "This marks the one-month anniversary of the tsunami." Only an imbecile could talk like this without feeling embarrassed.

Random! OMG!
The under-30 crowd has adopted "random" as the all-purpose word to toss willy-nilly into a sentence when a better word doesn't spring to mind. Or if you just want to show that you are cool, hip and with it. "Mom, you are so random!"
     Random apparently now refers to things that are unexpected, unlikely, unclassifiable, unexplainable, or nondescript. A non sequitur or off-topic comment is considered random.
     "I was just randomly driving around one random Friday night when I saw this bar in a random strip mall. I went in. The music was random. The people were random. A random waitress brought me a random drink and said someone had bought it for me. Two random chicks! Totally random!
     "When I left, a random dog ran up and bit me on a random leg. I found a random clinic and got my random wound treated. What a random night."

That said/that being said
Like literally, a handy conversation-filler, something to make you sound like a smarty pants.

If "that said" had been popular in Shakespeare's time:

          How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
          Seem to me all the uses of this world!
          That said, what's for lunch?

Uniquely unique
     “How unique is that, Bob?”
     “It’s very unique, Jim.”
It would be nice to have a word that means the only one of something. Long ago, unique supposedly meant that. So good a word was unique that it became immensely popular, like literally. People wanted to use it all the time, not just on unique things. The word became less unique. Now unique is a synonym for distinctive, unusual, or rare. The strength of the word has been diluted to the point that anything described as unique is probably common.
     When a word is neutered by overuse and moronic misuse, maulers of the language must give the word a boost--”very” or “most” unique. Since anything slightly above average is now iconic, something truly iconic sends the twitterati scurrying for superlatives: "legendary icon," for example.

Infer/imply
The words once had different meanings. Dictionaries now sanction their use as synonyms. A wife can infer infidelity from the lipstick on her husband’s collar. When she says “Tell me where you really were last night,” she implies that she doesn’t believe his alibi. He can correctly respond: “Are you implying that I wasn’t playing poker with the boys? What leads you to infer that?"

Gee, thanks...

We should all be thankful for vital information trendy talkers give us. Every day we hear on the news about a "brutal" murder. They do tend to be brutal. Why do you suppose thoughtless yackers are compelled to remind us that murder is, indeed, brutal? Do they assume their audience is as stupid as they are?

A.M./P.M.
- The robbery occurred at 3 a.m. this morning.
- Sunset is 7:24 p.m.
Otherwise, how would we know if it was morning or afternoon?

Considered extremely dangerous.
The manhunt is on for a rampaging killer. They always announce the suspect as armed and “considered” extremely dangerous. Like rain is considered wet?

Tough battle. - “Battle” simply isn’t good enough for today’s manglers, even though adversity is inherent in the word. How could it be a battle and still be easy? Also “difficult struggle,” the type experienced by so many celebrity “survivors.”

Tragic accident.
It’s hard to imagine an accident that results in serious injury or loss of life as not being tragic, but you can always rely on news entertainers to remind you that horrible accidents are, indeed, tragic.

Enough Already

A-MAZ-ing - I never thought I would long for the days when "awesome" was the rage. "A-MAZ-ing" gets sapped of any impact when applied to just about anything that warrants approval: "A-MAZ-ing haircut!" "A-MAZ-ing toothbrush!"

We caught up with...
This one was trite 25 years ago, but you still hear it surprisingly often. You picture the reporter chasing the newsmaker across continents, dashing through airports, commanding cabs to follow in wild pursuit. Perhaps the newsmaker gained prominence with a meteoric rise that is credited to a herculean effort. You “catch up” with a newsmaker by telephoning her publicist to arrange an interview.

Speaks volumes - "Israel's silence on Syria speaks volumes." When I hear this precious term, my sour look speaks volumes for my disdain.

Last known whereabouts
“What were his last known whereabouts?”
“Search me. I only have his last unknown whereabouts.”
“Lay ‘em on me.”
“Last time he was unknown to be somewhere, it was Third and Main.”
“Got it.”

Level playing field - We’re constantly hearing about people struggling to overcome slanted playing fields. It’s an absurd analogy because an uneven field hinders all players equally. Golf courses, for example, are deliberately hilly, twisted, and tricky (a terrible injustice). If baseball were played on hillsides, which team would be unfairly encumbered?

As soon as humanly possible - Divine intervention never seems like a possibility, but they keep saying this anyway. If the task were left to robots or monkeys, might it be done sooner?

Heinous crime - People can’t resist using this pompous expression. They can’t pronounce it (rhymes with anus), nor do they seem comfortable using it. Rightly so. It’s a lousy word and everyone should drop it. Heinous began to be popular in the ‘60s, about the time the Kennedys’ mispronunciation of “clandestine” caught on. Before the Kennedys, no one said clandestine. They made it rhyme with Palestine which was wrong, but dictionaries now sanction it.

Hands down - How did this get so popular with the younger set? They usually shun old-school expressions. My guess is they don't realize it's old school. They think it's something they invented, like oral sex.

Go see/went to see - What did you do Friday night? "We went to see a movie." Why is it never "we went to a movie," or "Do you want to go to a movie?" It's always "go see." I've even heard "We're going to go see a movie." I'm puzzled how these get started, but once they do, there's no stopping them.

Remains to be seen - “Whether the players and owners come to terms or not remains to be seen.” We don’t need to be told that we must await the outcome of a future event before we can “see” what happens.

Window of opportunity - The more I hear about all these hackneyed windows, the more I want to throw myself out one.

One of the only
- He was one of the only men to attend the women’s conference. “The only” is not a collective expression. He was one of only a few.... (please, not a VERY few)

Free gift
“Here’s your birthday present. No charge.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s free.”
“Of course it’s free--it’s a gift isn’t it? Are you trying to spoil my birthday?”

You can sometimes get a free gift at a sales event. When a merchandiser has an ordinary sale, it’s nothing special. The really good bargains come only at sales events. A very special all-new first-time-ever sales event is where you get the most spectacular savings. Hurry!

Foreseeable future
“Are we going to Mars?”
“Not in the foreseeable future.”
The speaker means he doesn’t expect it to happen soon, hasn’t consulted a psychic, but saying so doesn’t sound pretentious enough. In the same category is the pretentious a tendency to, which doesn't have the gravitas that "tends to" does.

Quite frankly - Another that has caught on although it serves no purpose except to make the speaker pompous.

Grisly find - Newscasters rejoice at the chance to use this expression, always to describe conditions that any moron knows are grisly. If someone is beheaded, dismembered or disemboweled, what do you expect the find to be--pleasant? To give grisly a rest, they sometimes switch to gruesome.

Visibly shaken - Angelina Jolie visits a camp for refugees from Rwanda and is visibly shaken by the suffering. When was the last time you heard about a newsmaker who wasn’t visibly shaken upon seeing conditions that would disturb anyone except the catatonic?

Visual description/physical description - “We don’t have a visual description of the suspect.” How about a description of his emotional state?

Physical body - I’m not sure why it’s necessary to point out that a body is physical, but you hear this surprisingly often.

Near brush with death - Brushes with death at safe distances are all too common.

Problem areas - Problems? We don’t have problems, only problem areas.

Pinpoint the exact location - Pinpoint sounds pretty exact to me.

But I digress - Adorable! Purposely stray off-topic just so you can use it!

Frequently asked questions - “Frequent questions” is better, but who can resist the urge to toss in an extra word? It can’t be a question if it isn’t asked.

Unanswered questions - “There are still many unanswered questions surrounding the disappearance.” If the questions were answered, they wouldn’t be questions anymore. It isn’t necessary to point out that the questions have not been answered, but superfluous words always sound better.

Period of time - “I never thought it could happen in such a short period of time.” Drop “period of” and you have a much more forceful statement.

Particular - “This particular instance.” Another junk word.

The 800-pound gorilla rears its ugly head with alarming frequency. How does he manage to sneak into so many rooms? Is he officially 800 pounds or is he sometimes a thousand? We need a ruling from the Cliché Ministry. The presence of a large hairy ape in the room should serve as a wake-up call for those who have become complacent about the wanton sterilization of our language. The fact of the matter is, next time you see any gorilla in the room, regardless of weight, run like hell. It's a no brainer. Sick of the 800-pound gorilla? Try the elephant in the room. So fresh and original. How about the 300-pound hack in the room?

White powdery substance - This gets to the marrow of our problem with trendy expressions. "White powder" won't do. It's too simple and direct. "Powdery substance" sounds more precise but it's actually vague. If not powder, what is a "powdery substance"? Something between sand and baby powder? Why create vagueness? These expressions are part of the trend to clutter the language, to both dress it up and weigh it down. Most of the examples in this squib relate to the same notion: The English language is improved by fog and murk, by tacking on filigree.

In circles that strive for a pompous tone, British affectation is called for: Amongst, whilst, amidst, betwixt, etc. Writers and speakers who want to be taken seriously should shun these. You'll sound pretty silly when you try to dress up your prose with acrost. Americans using Britishisms like "bum," "telly," and "loo" sound pretty ridiculous. I don't expect many readers to tell me this observation is "spot on," however.

Sting operation - If only they’d thought to name the Paul Newman-Robert Redford film The Sting Operation.

Phenomenon/phenomena - Pretentious prattlers often use the plural (phenomena) when talking about a phenomenon.

"A" paparazzi - Paparazzi is plural. Paparazzo (singular) is the name of an annoying news photographer in the immortal Fellini movie La Dolce Vita. Anyone who says "a paparazzi" of course would have no interest in a Fellini movie. Woody Harrelson: "With my daughter at the airport I was startled by a paparazzo who I quite understandably mistook for a zombie." (my italics)

Pre-order! OoOoh!
Nothing gets ordered anymore. It's all pre-order. People think OoOoh! Special handling! No, there's no difference between order and pre-order. When an item is not in stock, or if you want to take delivery later, you order it. “Pre”-order is just another idiotic expression some nitwit dreamed up. Soon customers won't be satisfied with a mere order.

     "We're out of stock. I'll be happy to order it for you."
     "NO! I want a PRE-order!"

     Pre-order of course is related to pre-plan and pre-approval. “We would like to talk to people who have preplanned their funerals.” All planning anticipates events or conditions. “Pre” or “advance” planning sounds better to thoughtless yackers even though there is never a need to distinguish them from spur-of-the-moment or retrospective planning.

Location, location, location - Revulsion, revulsion, revulsion.

Happy belated birthday - When someone I know says this, I think "I know he's not stupid. What's the matter with him?" When you look for a greeting card wishing someone a belated happy birthday, they're hard to find. It's all "belated birthday," another sure sign that America's collective IQ has taken an alarming nosedive.

Survivor - A favorite way to describe someone who has come through hard times. The word fetches images of months at sea in a raft, but it can mean anything from cellulite to a bad hair day. There’s nothing special about non-celebrities (“average” people) surviving the myriad horrors of everyday life, things that would make the average celebrity a basket case. A celebrity, on the other hand, is revered for “surviving” so punishing an ordeal as getting rich playing a famous role and then being typecast. Tough battle!

Up and running - Ultra-trendy. “We want to have our facilities up and running as soon as humanly possible so we can hit the ground running and get up to speed.” As with many such words, it’s hard to remember what we said before “up and running” became the rage. Probably something mundane, like “working,” or “back in service.”

Decision-making process - “She wants to be included in every step of the decision-making process.” There’s no need to point out that it’s a process. Try “She wants to be involved in decisions.”

deepest sympathies, condolences - The sypmathizer wants you to know that his sympathies couldn’t be more heartfelt for you, whereas for others his sympathies might only be superficial.

Where you at? - “It all depends where you’re at. ” Nearly everyone, it seems, must use “at” with where. In the underground, we still say “Where are you?" or "Where you are."

Watchful Eye - "Under the watchful eye of sheriff's deputies..." All those eyes, WATCHING through ever-present windows of opportunity.

End user - It has now become necessary to identify the ultimate user of a product as if the item has passed along a chain of users. When you by a new car, for example, you are the user, period. No one has used it before you. Fanciers of trendy techtalk, however, will insist upon calling you the end user. The same applies to “end result.” There is seldom a need to distinguish a final result from a succession of results along the way.

Route/rout - "Get your kicks on Route 66." Only a select few understand that "route" rhymes with "shoot" not "shout." En route - "En" is pronounced "on." Got it? There IS a rout (rhymes with shout). It's a lopsided victory (sports or military).

Marley & Me - Did the author make a mistake when he gave the book its title? Shouldn't it be Marley & I? How did so many manglers get this wrong? To avoid a glaring mistake like "Suzy and me will be there," most people fall back on the idiot-proof "you and I," as in "Just between you and I." It's become so ubiquitous I'm sure dictionaries and grammar texts will sanction it. Meanwhile, here's the final authority on "I,me."

The Situation Room
The classic situations: win-win, no-win, win-lose, no-win, no-lose, and various confusing combinations. Handy expressions for people who don’t like to think about what they say. Only chronic abusers of English can explain why “crisis” or “emergency” are such weak words that they need the help of “situation.”

Lake Superior State University Banished Words - Lake Superior State practically invented Cliché-bashing. I submit new words every year but the bastids never take 'em. So I wrote a squib instead. They disappointed once again with their 2012 list (for 2011), which didn't mention "takeaway," by far the most egregiously overused expression of the year.

We welcome your comments!

Click to weigh in! What idiotic expression are you sick of?

Stockholm Syndrome

2010-05-04T09:56:00.000-07:00

After his ordeal, Griffin not only had a criminal record but he was a marked man with Smedley and his outlaw biker posse. He was dogged by worry that the owner of Sid Vicious would exact a terrible revenge. Upon his return to the dog park, he was greeted with glares and stares from the assembled dog lovers. They gestured in his direction. He could see them mouthing expressions of disdain, their faces twisted with hatred. The dogs, meanwhile, went about their sniffing and romping. A group of women prevailed upon a muscular young man to approach Griffin. Before he could enter the confines of the park, the young man cut him off. He obviously was a veteran of pumping iron. He had the menacing demeanor of a kick boxer or a mixed martial arts fighter. His cocky swagger signaled assurance that he could back up his request with a savage beating.
     "I'm going to have to have to ask you to leave," he said.
     "Leave? Are you crazy?"
     "I'm speaking for all the regulars here. We don't want your kind."
     "My kind? What kind do you think I am?"
     "A cruelty offender. Everyone knows. Get lost."
     "Cruelty? What cruelty? What the hell are you talking about?"
     "We saw what you did to Pookie-Poo. Everyone did."
     "I was trying to save Pookie-Poo from being eaten."
     At this, the young body builder let out a derisive snort. "Yeah, right. THAT'S how you're spinning it? Listen, pal..."
     Griffin's dog Charley, meanwhile, was oblivious. His attention was on the pack activities in the off-leash area and the myriad doggie scents wafting his way.
     The martial arts expert had the situation well in hand. When she saw that Griffin wasn't going to pull a gun or freak out in some distasteful fashion, one of the women joined in the discussion. "You've got some nerve showing your face around here after what happened. Pookie-Poo was traumatized."
     "He would have been a lot more than traumatized if--"
     "--We want you out of here." She threatened to call the cops.
     Griffin was alarmed. His probation required that he stay away from dog parks. For the good of Charley, he violated his probation. The judge didn't want to put Charley in the pound because he probably wouldn't be adoptable. "Charley is probably a basket case, but he appears to be devoted to his person," the judge said at Griffin's sentencing. "It's the canine version of Stockholm syndrome," the judge added. At the start of the trial, Griffin's bloated attorney moved that the judge, a Poodle owner, should recuse herself. The judge gave the attorney a derisive snort. "Denied" was all she said. Griffin suspected the judge of being a Caninist.
     Another condition of Griffin's probation was regular monitoring by the Humane Society, but Griffin wisely chose not to mention his criminal status to his accusers.
     "Look at Charley," Griffin offered. "He's happy. Not a scratch on him." To prove that he was on the best of terms with Charley, he knelt and patted him. Charley responded waggingly.
     "So what! Have you heard of Stockholm syndrome? Let him lick your face." Mention of Stockholm syndrome gave Griffin a start.
     "Charley doesn't lick faces. Not every dog is a face-licker."
     "You're full of shit." She knelt and called to Charley. The hound bounded over and joyfully licked her face. "See? You think he loves you but you're just holding him hostage. He won't even lick your face! Case closed. That's why we're working to get him away from you." Griffin guessed this was an empty threat, but he had to tread lightly. If one of the dog lovers decided to contact the authorities, there would be serious trouble.
     As the discussion continued, Griffin was surrounded by dog lovers and their dogs. The pets showed their teeth and snarled at Griffin. "Grrrrr," they said. Charley hung his head. He couldn't understand why his former pals had turned against him.
     They'd probably cut him some slack, Griffin thought, if only they knew he was the caretaker of a remarkable dog that had survived a gassing. He could match kindness credentials against any of these jokers.
     Griffin had no choice but to retreat. There was a round of applause from the dog lovers, who gave Griffin a final evil stare. The dogs had a final growl. The young martial arts expert puffed out his chest. Someone called out, "Good riddance, Chainsaw Guy."
     Griffin was used to taking insults from dog lovers, but "chainsaw guy" was a low blow. The judge had also used that against him. (Prosecutor: "Tell the court why you're known as the 'chainsaw guy.'") The chainsaw incident was a horrible accident, nothing more.

                                                                                     ■

For several years, Griffin had to stay out of his own back yard. The neighbor's angry dog went ballistic over any sign of activity from Griffin's side of the fence. Griffin had the impression his neighbor used his dog solely as a cheap home security system. As far as Griffin knew, the dog never left the yard. It may have been chained. The frenzied barking made it uncomfortable for Griffin to spend time in his nicely-appointed back yard. The only time he spent there was for routine gardening chores, and to clean up the dog droppings his neighbor threw over the fence into his yard.
     He had never seen the neighbor. He assumed it was a man. He never seriously considered confronting him. Someone who would throw his dog's droppings into a neighbor's yard could be any kind of wack job. The only outcome he could imagine was a sucker punch to the face, shattering his teeth. Griffin had to content himself with gathering the droppings with a shovel and launching them back over the fence.
     Charley used a dog run on the side of the house away from the rogue dog. The crazed beast made his living barking. He spent the day barking just to keep himself company. He didn't even take the ten minute breaks he was entitled to under his guard dog contract with Canine Local 38.
     Griffin neglected pruning his tree as long as he could. One day he dragged out the chainsaw. As soon as he stepped foot in the yard, the dog went from routine barking to bloodcurdling barks, growls and snarls. Griffin could see the fence bowing as the beast leaped against it. It gave him chills. As he went about cutting branches, Griffin did his best to ignore Sid Vicious, his nickname for the animal. He had never actually seen the dog. The fence blocked his view. He imagined it to be a fearsome Mastiff or raging Bull Terrier.
     He tried speaking softly to the animal. "Calm down, Sid Vicious." It only infuriated the dog further. He finally got his chance to see Sid Vicious, a muscular Rottweiler with a spiked collar, when the animal came roaring over the fence, sailing through the air in a perfect arc, jaws snapping, mouth foaming, his fangs on target for the veins in Griffin's neck. Holding the chainsaw, Griffin turned to protect himself. The saw ripped into the snapping jaws of poor Sid Vicious. Letting out blood-curdling yelps, the pathetic creature collapsed on Griffin's lawn.
     Griffin called 911. Animal control was dispatched. For several minutes, Sid Vicious suffered. After a bloody struggle, the animal control officer was able to sedate the dog. He tried to contact the dog's owner, but no one came to the door. With no one to authorize medical attention, the animal control officer saw no choice but to euthanize the badly maimed dog.
     Griffin was close to breaking down. He didn't mean to slice the dog's face. It just happened. The animal control officer sought to console him. "If it's any consolation, that dog was a killer. He tried to eat a poor Chorkie."
     "Wonder why he wasn't put down," Griffin said.
     "They said the Chorkie was the instigator. He was harrasin' the big dog. That Rotty mistook the poor little Chorkie for a chew toy. Took him in his mouth and shook him like a rag doll. I got the call. What a mess. You see a lot of sickening things in this business. I guess this Rotty was banned from the park after that."
     The story didn't make Griffin feel any better about killing Sid Vicious, but talking with the officer somehow helped him come to grips with the tragedy. When the animal control officer finally left with the dog's body, Griffin watered the grass, washing away signs of the demise of poor Sid Vicious. A bird picked among the grisly remnants. For the first time in years, there was peace in Griffin's back yard.
     The Chorkie killing had caused an uproar. Dog fanciers gathered for a candle-light vigil. There were calls to ban killer breeds like Rottweilers. When word got out that Sid Vicious had been killed, the dog park was abuzz. Some felt private satisfaction that the death of the adorable Chorkie had finally been avenged, but many others thought Griffin was a monster for taking a chainsaw to a defenseless Rotty. They took to calling Griffin "the chain saw guy."

Griffin was probably the only park patron with fond memories of the Outlaw Reign of Terror. The park had a checkered history, and not only because of the inordinate number of adorable Cocker Spaniels that frequented the facility. It had been an ordinary neighborhood park, founded in the 1940s. Dog lovers and ordinary citizens somehow coexisted in peace, mainly because dogs were not allowed off leash. Owners were expected to maintain control over their charges.
     But the verdant summer lawns were hissing. Dog lovers developed a heightened sense of entitlement. A dog park was not just a nice amenity, it was a right, and not only for dog owners. Dogs had rights too. In addition to the basic rights of food, shelter, and humane treatment, dogs also had the right to romp unfettered by leashes. They were the Caninists, radical champions for the rights of dogs. They didn't believe in leashes, collars, fences, or discipline of any kind. Training a dog, teaching it basic commands like "sit" or "stay" was abuse and exploitation. They objected to the concept of a dog "owner," with its oppressive connotations. The individual responsible for a dog was its "person." They were the first and loudest advocates for off-leash parks, free from the oppressive presence of "haters" (those who didn't have a dog).
     Caninists were fed up with the so-called etiquette that society imposed on dogs. A dog was thought to be unruly and ill-mannered if it jumped on people. That was just being a dog. If people didn't like dogs jumping on kids, knocking them to the ground, it was up to parents to keep their kids away from dogs. They were sick of haters looking down on them. They were opposed to gathering dog feces just because haters didn't like stepping in it. Let them look where they were going! The Caninists maintained that feces were a natural, biodegradable byproduct and good for the environment. Dog haters just used the feces issue as a club to hold over the Caninists.
     In an era of expanding rights for all citizens, the right to a dog park was accepted as God-given. Dog parks proliferated. Ordinary city parks were converted. The park in Griffin's neighborhood was no exception. It was an ordinary park until more and more dog lovers allowed their dogs to run loose. To accommodate them, the city fenced off a section of the park for dogs to frolic off leash. The haters felt slighted. Why had their beautiful park been unceremoniously mutilated? Why were dog owners so special? To their outrage, the newly empowered dog lovers ignored the lawful boundaries and allowed their dogs cavort in the area reserved for haters to picnic and play. From then on, the park was plagued by controversy and neighborhood tensions.
     The park's time of trial came when the city faced a budget crisis. They would no longer pay city workers to pick up feces. Resentment on both sides, hater and dog lover, came to a head the afternoon of the infamous Feces Fight. In a fit of rage, a fed-up hater grabbed a pile of excrement and hurled it at an inconsiderate dog lover. It sparked a near-riot of feces throwing from the two camps. It looked something like La Tomatina. Those who participated in or witnessed the fight were so scarred they couldn't bring themselves to revisit the horrifying scene.
     The Caninists moved in. They tore down the fences. Dogs were turned loose to romp as they pleased. Some were killed by speeding automobiles. The Caninists were not deterred. "Better to die free than live on a leash," they said.
     Fumes from uncollected feces filled the air for blocks. Complaints from neighbors poured into city offices. Through it all, Griffin continued to bring Charley to the park. For the good of Charley, he tolerated the sickening fumes. Griffin sensed that even Charley was not delighted by the oppressive odors. Just when it seemed like things couldn't get any worse, outlaw bikers took over and drove out the Caninists.
     The bikers used the park to exercise their Mastiffs, Rottweilers, Bull Terriers, and other macho breeds. The outlaws appointed themselves overseers and protectors of the park. They drank high-gravity beer from 40-ounce bottles and yelled obscenities at the Caninists. When the Caninists yelled back, the bikers grabbed them and tossed them into piles of excrement.
     Their leader was Smedley. He was a big man with droopy eyes like the actor Charles Laughton. He had an enormous belly like a steamer trunk. A scraggly Rasputin beard draped his chest. He walked with his head tilted back, as if to balance the load. A clump of keys as big a fist swung from his belt. The skin on the back of his neck was bunched in heavy folds. When things met with his displeasure, and they often did, his furrowed face twisted into a menacing sneer. His disdainful comments were delivered with a snarl.
     Griffin saw trouble coming one day when a Caninist visited the park with her two enormous German Shepherds. From the prodigious piles of steaming excrement they deposited, they apparently were very well-fed. The outlaws converged on the young woman.
     "You gonna pick up them piles?" one of the outlaws asked.
     "Fuck off, dirt bag." Griffin winced. "Dirt bag" was one of the worst insults you could hurl at an outlaw. One of the outlaws grabbed her and prepared to toss her into a pile.
     "Tell me why I shouldn't throw you in that steaming pile. Wouldn't you feel bad if I stepped in it?"
     "Put me down, ya big lummox! If you don't want to step in it, watch where you're going. Poop is natural. It's good for the soil!"
     "It stinks."
     "So do you! I'm calling the cops!"
     With a derisive snort, the heartless outlaw tossed her into the pile.
     Griffin knew one day the outlaws would turn their attention to him. He always steered clear of the bikers, avoiding eye contact. Finally, under the influence of too many 40s, one of them turned his fearsome gaze toward him.
     "Where's your pooper scooper?"
     Before he could protest, a couple of the thugs grabbed Griffin and prepared to throw him into a pile.
     "Whoa-whoa-whoa!" Griffin yelled. "Whoa! Wait. I'm on your side. My dog doesn't poop here! He poops at home."
     They paused, holding Griffin like a battering ram, as if ready to bash something with Griffin's head.
     "Turn him loose," Smedley commanded.
     "What?" The bikers were hard of hearing from decades of riding their deafening hogs. They set Griffin upright.
     "You heard me," Smedley lied. "He says his dog don't shit here."
     "You believe that?"
     "Let's hear his story. Your dog got a problem, dawg?"
     "He only shits at home," Griffin said, straightening his clothes. "He's trained."
     "What?" Smedley mostly could only hear the echo of his hog's tailpipes roaring in his ears.
     "I TRAINED HIM. HE ONLY SHITS AT HOME," Griffin repeated. Nearby dog-lovers, cowering in fear that they would be next to be thrown into a pile, lifted their heads to catch any snippet of the conversation that might be heard.
     "You're shittin' me. You can train a dog to do that?"
     "Well, I trained Charley here. I don't know about every dog." Griffin was starting to get the hang of yelling at the outlaws.
     "Teach Bruiser," Smedley said, nodding to a fierce-looking outlaw dog as big as a billygoat. At the mention of his name, Bruiser commenced growling. "Knock it off!" Smedley snarled. Bruiser relaxed and licked his chops. "Bruiser's the smartest dog I ever saw. You won't have no problem teaching him."
     Griffin was reluctant to undertake a dog-training project. But Smedley's menacing presence was a powerful persuader. His thick sleeveless arms were festooned with tastefully raunchy tattoos depicting various sexual proclivities, criminal achievements, drug preferences, gang affiliations, medieval implements of torture, and symbols of alienation from society.
     "I'm not a dog trainer," Griffin said, "but I'll be happy to try."
     Griffin knew he'd have to do more than try, since the bikers would likely beat him to a pulp if he failed. Training Bruiser to shit at home proved fairly easy, even if it meant daily trips to Smedley's house for a while. Smedley's house was pretty much a junkyard with sleeping and bathing areas. Smedley introduced Griffin to Helen, an Amazonian biker mama who looked like should could easily pick up Griffin and throw him. Instead of a handshake, Helen playfully cupped Griffin's genitals. He would have preferred that his member remain neutral, but of course it didn't. It sprang to life, prompting Helen to let out a whoop. "Hot damn! Nothin' gay about this boy!"
     With Bruiser trained to shit only at home, Smedley beamed with pride. He started treating his intelligent dog with more kindness. Bruiser seemed happy too, having mastered a new skill. Griffin became almost an honorary member of the gang. He hung out with the bikers at the dog park guzzling 40-ouncers and jeering lame-ass dog fanciers.
     Eventually the dog park became a utopia for the old-school type of dog owner who welcomed responsibility for their animals. Without Caninists to harass, the park was a little less fun for the bikers, but they enjoyed the goodwill of their fellow dog lovers. Mastiffs and Great Danes frolicked alongside Schnauzers and Jack Russells in blissful harmony.
     The Caninists regrouped. They weren't about to be driven from the park that was rightfully theirs. Since they were respectable citizens, the police took their side. The police were fed up with calls about dog lovers being thrown into piles of poop. Noise ordinances were easier to prosecute, however, so the cops went after the hogs, with their tailpipes that sounded like the wrath of Satan. Many bikers had taught their dogs to ride bitch. Others brought their dogs to the park in sidecars or special coaches that were towed behind their hogs. The dogs were going deaf as fast as the outlaw bikers.
     The Caninists and the cops had the bikers outmaneuvered. They were forced to retreat. The dog park reverted to its former disarry, with poop piling up and pooches marauding through the neighborhood. Complaints from residents again flooded city offices.

The city closed the park. It sat deserted for several months while its fate was debated. A new hero emerged to restore the park to its former glory. She was Maggie Frison-Biché, canine advocate and civic-minded crusader. It was Maggie who organized the dog-loving community to revive the park. She collected private donations for park upkeep. She recruited 200 volunteers to pick up poop, not just for their own dogs but even for the Caninists. Everyone saw the value of pitching in to help if it would save the park. The Caninists agreed to leave the fences intact. Most importantly, the city agreed to convert the park to a dog-only facility. The haters would have to go elsewhere. It was a huge victory for the Caninists.
     The park reopened with its catchy new name, Six Wags. In a flashy ceremony, city officials and dog lovers celebrated.

                                                                                     ■

Griffin made his living as a day-trader, so he had plenty of time on his hands. He came to possess Charley when his forlorn neighbor, Nelson, lost his job and his house to foreclosure practically in one swoop. Before long, his wife packed up and left, taking their young daughter with her. Nelson decided to divest all his possessions and move to Texas where, a relative assured him, jobs were still plentiful and living costs low. By the time his house was picked clean in a liquidation sale, Nelson's dog Charley was about all that remained.
     "Why don't you take him? He likes you."
     "I'm not a dog guy," Griffin said.
     "He's a special dog. He survived a gassing, you know. Yeah, I got him from the pound. I took my daughter Carly there to find her a pet. She couldn't make up her mind. She wanted them all. 'Let's go home and think it over,' I said. The kid who worked at the pound said, 'Well, there is one more. We're really not sure what to do with him.' He took us 'round back. There was Charley giving me this look that reminded me of my dad--very wise but kind of pissed. The story was, he attacked a seeing-eye dog. That's an automatic death sentence. The kid was like 'It wasn't his fault. That freakin' seeing-eye dog was the instigator. They're not all the saints they're made out to be.'
     "So they locked him up in the gas chamber with a bunch of other misfits and gassed 'em. They had a hose hooked up to an old pickup truck. Well, when they opened the chamber there was Charley standing on top of a pile of dead dogs giving a kind of defiant look. The guy in charge of gassing the dogs quit then and there.
     "I wanted to deck the guy for telling such a gruesome story right in front of Carly. She didn't flinch. She just had this look of concern. It made me proud that she stepped up. 'I want him,' was all she said. He's not cute or cuddly, but Carly had to have him.
     "Griffin, lemme ask you. What do you think the chances are of a dog surviving a trip to the gas chamber?"
     "As close to none as you can get, I imagine."
     "That's right. The folks who run the pound called all over. No one had ever heard of such a thing. They all said, 'That's some special dog.'
     "He earned his reprieve. They weren't sure what to do with him though. Your typical adopter doesn't want problems. As far as they're concerned, he's a canine criminal. There's somethin' about him. I think you see it too. I can't leave him with just anyone. I know you'd appreciate him even if you aren't a dog person. He'll grow on ya. My ex wouldn't take him. 'I won't have that freak in my house,' she told me. "He's as good a little buddy as a guy could every want."
     "Since you put it that way, Nelson. It'd be an honor to take him. I promise I won't let him down. I'll give him the best care I know how."
     "I know you will," Nelson said.
     Truth was, Griffin barely knew Nelson. They became friendly when jobless foreclosure victims began clearing out of the neighborhood. Formerly respectable family men, the Great Recession had made them job beggars struggling to keep their visitation rights. First the job, then the house, then the wife.
     They held rowdy liquidation sales, sipping booze from oversized convenience store cups and practically giving away their possessions. Guys gave away or sold golf clubs or table saws for practically nothing. There was a lot of gallows humor, with profanity-laced diatribes against the American Dream. Shattered lives were fodder for acerbic profane banter. When all the homes were foreclosed and the households liquidated, the neighborhood grew silent.
     In his way, Charley was a good-looking dog. He was a wire haired mutt with a stocky build, long sticklike legs, big floppy ears and Andy Rooney eyebrows. He had a very kind face and a scruffy, rust-colored coat. Now that he had a new project, Griffin followed his typical pattern. He learned everything he could about dogs. He bought books and DVDs on dog care and training.
     Charley was a source of endless fascination for Griffin. On trips to the dog park, he spent his time observing Charley and the other dogs the way Jane Goodall watched primates. He watched their rituals and routines. He preferred to keep aloof from the park's social scene.
     Much as Griffin enjoyed Charley's company, he didn't consider himself a true dog lover. He wouldn't allow any dog to lick his face. It was a disgusting ritual. Whenever he saw a dog lick someone's face, he could only think of dogs licking their private parts and even eating their own excrement. He was against the whole notion of "fur children." He couldn't abide baby talk for pets or for people. He didn't want Charley to sleep with him. He didn't allow Charley to beg for treats from the dinner table. Above all, he insisted that Charley refrain from jumping on people. Charley was permitted the occasional woof for home-security reasons, but other than that Griffin discouraged Charley from barking just to be barking.
     Behind his back, dog park denizens expressed the suspicion that something was "not right" about Griffin. Charley was too well behaved. They wondered if Griffin abused the poor animal. When they saw Griffin turn away whenever a dog tried to lick his face, they exchanged knowing glances.
     For his part, Griffin hated Six Wags. He only spent time there for Charley's benefit. He enjoyed the dogs (love was too strong a word), but couldn't stand the people. He would far rather deal with outlaw bikers than typical dog lovers. They tended to be so arrogant and self-centered it was a wonder Maggie Frison-Biché got them to agree on anything.
     Most park goers used dog park time to take a break from dog involvement. The park served as a substitute for the disciplined walk. They dropped their dogs off while they went shopping. They gabbed on their cell phones or engaged with their laptops. The perfumed women who owned trendy breeds (Cock-A-Poo, Labradoodle, Weimerotty, Shar-Pug, Cockerhuahua, Vizslhasa, Shihdoxie, Butterscotch Doberdoodle, Schnippet) were snooty and wouldn't give Griffin the time of day. They didn't love dogs so much as the idea of a dog. An adorable dog was just another fashion accessory. They preferred to flirt with hunky men who used dogs as "wingmutts" or "cleavage hounds."
     Griffin didn't approve of the craze in tattoos and body piercings for dogs. He'd seen some extravagant tattoos on hairless dogs and those with bare bellies. He didn't understand it. How did they get the dogs to hold still for it? Nor could he understand how the dogs tolerated piercings in their ears and tails.
     While Griffin was a grouch when it came to the park's singles scene, Charley loved to flirt with comely Cocker Spaniels. Unlike Griffin, Charley didn't pass judgement on a dog's owner. Charley didn't care if a Cocker Spaniel's owner ignored her dog and spent her time texting. Charley was very tolerant of dog misbehavior caused by their owners. What really bugged Charley was annoying little yap dogs who nipped at his legs. Usually all it took was a ferocious bark and a good chomp to the neck to send the dog squealing. Of course, that could mean trouble for Griffin, his faithful leader. The yap dog's owner could be counted on to cop an attitude when Charley defended himself.

Just as things at Six Wags settled into a comfortable routine, Griffin heard a familiar voice.
     "Hey, Dog Whisperer." It was Smedley.
     "Hey now, Smed. What up!"
     A stir instantly went up around the dog park. Outlaw biker! Griffin saw people tweeting the news. Smedley wanted Griffin to watch his mama's dog while he made the annual run to Sturgis, South Dakota.
     "I didn't know you had a mama," Griffin said.
     "You SONofaBITCH!" Smedley reared back to cold-cock Griffin.
     "Hold on, Smed! Wha'd I say?"
     Smedley grinned. "I forgot you're a citizen. I don't have a mama. My mom--my mother. She needs someone to watch her dog while we make the run."
     Since one of the tattoos on Smedley's arm read "Mom," Griffin wasn't surprised that he was taking his mom on the run to Sturgis. Inwardly, Griffin questioned the wisdom of the venture, but there was no profit in trying to figure out outlaw bikers.
     With a warning about his dreadful anti-social behavior, Smedley introduced Griffin to Pookie-Poo. He was a small fluffy dog with a jaunty, upcurled tail, erect ears, and an inquisitive little face. He greeted Griffin with a snarling outburst.
     Pookie-Poo should have been adorable, but he was just a quarrelsome brat, constantly on the lookout for a chance to unleash his piercing bark. His cocky bearing would understandably antagonize other dogs, but in fact, all dogs antagonized Pookie-Poo. If he sensed another dog, or only just imagined one, anywhere in the Pookie-Poo Universe, he went all Cujo. His people skills were no better. He was a miserable little dog who didn't know how to enjoy life. Griffin hoped he and Charley could fix that. It wasn't to curry favor with Smedley or his mom. He wanted Pookie-Poo to enjoy doggie fulfillment.
     Griffin was beginning to think he had a talent with dogs. He was flattered when Smedley called him Dog Whisperer. Griffin decided to see if he could rehabilitate Pookie-Poo while Smedley was away in South Dakota. Charley was happy to lend a paw in the effort.
     Griffin and Charley put Pookie-Poo through a rigorous program of doggie discipline. They worked the dog on the treadmill. They took him for runs with the bicycle. They took him for long walks past homes where both the resident dog and Pookie-Poo went ballistic. Gradually, Pookie-Poo learned to relax around dog strangers. Griffin went so far as to take Pookie-Poo to the fence to sniff his rival. Pookie-Poo could almost stand it. Sometimes it took him a second or two to pitch his fit.
     The day before Smedley was expected back, Griffin took Pookie-Poo to Six Wags. The only concern was Pookie-Poo's habit of thrashing if his leash got tangled in his legs. Whenever the leash became tangled in his little legs, Pookie-Poo was prone to panic attacks. Griffin decided to watch the situation while teaching Pookie-Poo to tolerate other dogs with no fence separating them.
     Griffin was familiar with a Spanish-speaking nanny who came to the park with two white boys and their big dog, Rowdy. Griffin was proud of Pookie-Poo for tolerating the attention of the boys. He didn't seem to particularly mind Rowdy either.
     Finally Griffin decided it was time for Pookie-Poo to let Rowdy sniff him. As Charley watched, the boys brought Rowdy over. Everything was fine until the leash got caught in Pookie-Poo's legs.
     As soon as Rowdy saw Pookie-Poo start to thrash, he stopped seeing his new pal Pookie-Poo. All he saw was FLUFFY CHEW TOY. He lunged for Pookie-Poo and came away with a hank of fluffy fur between his teeth. Horrified, Griffin yanked Pookie-Poo away from Rowdy by the leash. In hindsight, this was not the most efficient move. He should have bodily grabbed Pookie-Poo. But there wasn't time to think. Griffin was having a panic attack of his own. He was desperate to keep Pookie-Poo out of the snapping jaws of Rowdy. Griffin took the only action that seemed natural. Swinging Pookie-Poo by the leash, he lifted the frantic animal as high as he could. He was mortified to hear the rasping sound of Pookie-Poo trying to breath through his tortured throat.
     Eventually, Rowdy's kids regained control of the beast and took off with their Spanish-speaking nanny. They sensed the potential for trouble, and they wanted no part of it.
     Pookie-Poo obviously was a bit discomfited by the ordeal, but it only took a few seconds for him to calm down and return to normal. It was just another day in the life of an annoying little dog.
     Meanwhile, trouble was brewing. Dog lovers who saw the incident were horrified. A few of them hurried over to Griffin.
     "He's torturing that dog!"
     "Slam dunk the sick fuck!"
     "You're dead meat, dickwad!"
     It turned out that several dog lovers had texted 911. Others furiously tweeted the incident. Soon a contingent of cops arrived with flashing lights and blaring sirens. One of the principal accusers was Maggie Frison-Biché herself. "Arrest that man! He was swinging that dog over his head like a rodeo!"
     It was the kind of horror show only a hardened criminal could appreciate. Griffin was ordered to get on his knees and put his hands behind his head. He wondered why they were overreacting. Then it dawned on him. K-9 officers would make any cop a hard-core dog lover. "Fingers laced together!" The arresting officer screamed, his gun at the ready.
     Frisky off-leash dogs bounded toward Griffin. In this helpless position, with no way to fend them off, Griffin endured the indignity of a joyful face-licking.

Music for Indignity

Smuggler's Blues

2010-04-02T09:21:00.000-07:00

Car Trouble Leads to a Tense Encounter

"An increase in smuggling activities has pushed the Border Patrol to the front line of the U.S. war on drugs." —Customs and Border Protection (CBP) website

Heading north from San Diego on a beautiful Spring morning, my car's clutch began to slip. I eased into the far right lane. There were no grinding noises, no smoke billowing out the back, so I decided it was safe to limp home. As I passed through the inspection station near San Clemente, I saw the dreaded flashing lights in my rearview mirror. It wasn't the highway patrol.
     It was the Border Patrol.
     For good measure, the agent let out a couple of squawks from his siren. I pulled over as quickly as humanly possible. As I rolled down my window, he began to berate me because I didn't pull over fast enough. "Didn't you see my lights?" He stopped short of adding "you moron," but the tone was there.
     They need to allow reaction time for the initial shock. What the hell does the Border Patrol want with me? Do they think I have aliens in the trunk?
     My languid pullover came up again later in the interrogation. Apparently it is a pet peeve of law enforcement that perps don't respond immediately when they get "lit up." The second complaint: Why were you going so slow? I was just following traffic, I said. "You were only going 40 miles an hour," the agent charged. "If I was going that slow it was only because of traffic in front of me." He seemed not to hear my car trouble explanation. He was building an air-tight case. A deranged slowpoke! A plodding pullover!
     40 mph! It was a wild accusation. Even the slowest vehicles ahead of me seldom dipped below 60. It was either a bald-faced lie or he needed to justify in his own mind his perfectly good reason for stopping me. True, I did slow to 40, but only AFTER he lit me up.
     The young agent asked me where I was going, where I had been, and the reason for the outing. He asked if he could "have a look around" in my car. The request got my hackles up right away. Going too slow didn't seem to justify a cop rifling through my personal belongings.
     "If you don't want to consent, that's fine," he said. "I'll call for the canine."
     "Better call the canine," I said. The agent took my license and radioed for the sniffer. I was invited to step out of the car.
     While the agent busied himself inside his cruiser awaiting the results of various criminal database searches, his partner took over the interrogation. The gleam in his eye suggested gleeful anticipation that a major bust was about to go down.
     The second agent was the friendly one, the classic "good-cop bad-cop" pairing. He wore a heavy black vest (Kevlar?) with the legend "FEDERAL AGENT" across the chest. He took me through a detailed interrogation regarding my recent whereabouts, with several attempts to trip me up and get me to change my "story." Where do you live? Where have you been? How long were you there? What were you doing? Where are you going? Do you own the car? Do you own everything in the car?
     Would I have been within my rights to simply refuse to answer? What if, under the pressure of intensive questioning, I had inadvertently misstated some detail of my whereabouts? Would that have justified taking me in for further interrogation?
     While we waited for the canine, I did my best to cheerfully cooperate. Knowing they had no case, absolutely no grounds to detain me, I didn't shrink from a bit of cat-and-mouse verbal sparring with the agent. After the third or fourth run-through of my itinerary, I couldn't resist a bit of sarcasm. "You need to write this down," I offered. He took the jibe in stride. All in a morning's work for the Border Patrol.
     "Do you get pulled over a lot?" Hardly ever, I said. "That's why you need to be more understanding about not pulling over right away. If you don't get a lot of practice, how can you master the proper pull-over?"
     "Still, you should have pulled over back there," he said, gesturing to a place perhaps 100 yards behind us, within view of the Border Patrol station. "It would have been safer." In the grand scheme of things, how could 100 yards make such a difference? It occurred to me that they would have preferred me to stop in front of the station so fellow agents could watch the bust unfold.
     The sniffer arrived, led by his green-uniformed handler. He explained that if the dog "alerted" on anything, I would have to submit to a search. The dog was a scrawny brown mutt, not the typical handsome German Shepherd I was expecting. When I glanced at the dog, the friendly agent had another question: Do you have any pets? Why not?
     In a near-frenzy, the canine worked his nose over the car, sniffing the tires, the bumpers, the trunk, the doors, the hood. He yipped and yelped. Crap! He's alerting on the whole car! I bought my car used. What if it had been a smuggler's ride in its prior life?
     Try as he might, the sniffer came up empty. On his way back to his cruiser, the canine guy shot me an evil stare, as if to say "We didn't get you this time, but your day will come."
     I saw that look, I told my interrogator. "He's not mad," he assured me, "he's just a serious guy." By now, after about 30 minutes, the friendly agent and I were on pretty good terms.
     The first agent emerged from his cruiser and gave me back my license. I was free to go.
     No, I did not say "thank you."

I felt sympathy for the young agent who pulled me over. In my imagination, his pained look suggested a dawning awareness that this wasn't the best crime-fighting move of his career. For good form, he might have just glanced in my trunk and sent me on my way. But once the dance is joined it has to be carried out to its absurd conclusion. Then again, maybe the pained look was just the result of a bad burrito.
     I wonder now much luck the Border Patrol has with profiling slow vehicles. Surely the smugglers are wise to it. I'm guessing even the slow-witted grasp the need to blend in with faster traffic.
     It's scary to be detained by grim-faced officers who have complete power over you and appear to have every hope you will make their day. My retelling of the incident drew a lot of reaction from friends, including "Good for you" for not consenting to a search. Being sarcastic, they said, was just asking for trouble. "You're lucky they didn't plant something," or "They could have hauled you away and beaten the crap out of you."
     I don't harbor any ill feelings against the agents. I'm sure they were following the Drug Interdiction Handbook to the letter. I guess I fall into the same category as feeble old grandmothers who get full body searches at the airport. They may look harmless, but you can never be too careful.

Could have been me.

Milestones of Invention History

2010-02-25T11:01:00.000-08:00

Recent discoveries in the Library of Congress archives have brought to light new details regarding some famous inventions. Even simple inventions like the fly swatter and the potato masher have gripping stories behind them.
     In modern times, people may not realize what a problem flies were in the bygone era. Before air conditioning, people had to leave their windows open. In spite of the best screenage, many homes still ended up with a swarm of 15 or 20 flies buzzing around the middle of the kitchen. The fly swatter was the principal means of dealing with the maddening critters. Fly paper wasn't enough. There were always a few flies that were too smart to land on it. Rural areas with lots of dogs, chickens, horses, cows and sheep, were breeding grounds for flies. You couldn't get rid of 'em. People were too dumb or too lazy to bury all that poop far from the homestead. Pretty soon the spread was overrun with flies.
     The modern fly swatter was invented by the noted American inventor, Samson Swanson. In the early 20th Century, Swanson was a contender for the Olympic fencing team. He was dismissed from the team after he tried to unnerve an opponent with highly disturbing grunts, considered an egregious breach of etiquette in those days. Swanson was a student of the legendary master Italo Santelli (the "Father of Modern Saber Fencing"). Noted for his overpowering lunges, Swanson had great potential as a fencer. The unorthodox "swatting" action he used in dispatching his foes never caught on in fencing circles.
     In dismissing him from the team, Santelli said, "Your riposte is revolting, and that swatting move is way too flamboyant. We don't need your kind."
     Swanson didn't take the dismissal lightly. He formed a troup of barnstorming outcast swordsmen, The Flying Bayonet Brothers, but the show never gained a wide audience. He abandoned the scheme after only a few shows in the cornfields of Indiana.
     In spite of the Olympic incident, Swanson might have been a champion had he not been so easily distracted by the flies that typically buzzed around fencing competitions of the day. Before a match, Swanson liked to clear the area of flies by swatting them with a crude device of his own invention. He fastened a square of fine wire mesh to an old foil and managed to combine fly extermination with his pre-match warmup. "You should patent that," a bystander commented, and a bolt of inspiration coursed through his brain. His venerable mentor must have felt the same way when he developed the famous Hungarian fencing method decades before.
     His Swanson Swatter was an enormous success and earned him royalties sufficient to assure a life of luxury. He retired from fencing to concentrate on a career as an inventor. He hatched a scheme to capture hydroelectric power from home water supplies. Each home would be outfitted with a tiny generator at the main feed. The captured power would be returned to the grid for a credit to the homeowner. In his declining years, Swanson was embittered that his idea was firmly rejected.
     Swanson also developed a red "Assistance Please" flag for restaurant visits. It had a telescoping pole. You would clamp the flag to the side of the table, and extend the pole so the waitress could see the flag. The flag did away with the annoying practice of trying to flag down an inattentive waitress. He was thrown out of several restaurants where he tried it.
     What Sampson hadn't reckoned on was the wait person's time-honored prerogative of deliberately ignoring a table for reasons known only to them. Maybe you remind them of a know-it-all brother-in-law. Or maybe they have unfairly profiled you as a lousy tipper. People who wear Birkenstock sandals, for example, are notoriously chintzy.

Guerrilla Tactics

Flies are fiendishly clever at eluding swats. Properly executed, the hand clap is the most effective way to dispatch a fly (sorry PETA). There's an art to sneaking up on flies. It takes practice. Once you become competent at sneaking up behind a fly, you have to execute a perfect clap. When the fly sees your hands sailing toward it at unthinkable speed, it will hop in the air. At that precise moment, if you have timed your clap perfectly, you will smash the helpless creature in the palms of your hands. That's the principal drawback. You'll want to wash your hands pretty soon unless you think it would be fun to prank someone with a handshake that includes a little something extra.

Here's Merlene Davis's take on the Barack Obama fly swatting controversy.

Notorious Fly Killers
President Obama sparked a national outcry after he swatted a fly on nationwide television.

Coming soon: The Potato Masher

The Most Boring Drive in the World

2010-01-05T12:20:00.000-08:00

What's the Best Way to Occupy Yourself on a Long Boring Drive?

The more you drive, the less intelligent you are. —Miller (Repo Man)

The drive along Interstate 15 between Las Vegas and Southern California has to be one of the world's most boring. The stretch from the state line to the I-215 interchange is officially known as the Mojave Freeway, because it

"stretches over the wind-eroded mountains and the vast, torrid valleys of the Mojave Desert. It roughly parallels the route taken by the Mormon pioneers, who, traveling from Salt Lake City to the founding of San Bernardino, toiled in the heat with their cumbersome, crawling oxcarts." *

It's motoring misery at its most abject. Any sane person copes with the monotony by taking it as fast as possible, around 85-90 MPH, not letting anything slow your progress. Flying along at a good clip, you may suddenly feel like you're coping with pioneer oxcarts. Slowpokes! Don't take your foot off the gas. Just weave through the clods. You'll have some close scrapes, but that's what makes it fun. I've never tried it because I can't handle the stress. I set my cruise control at 65-70 and brace myself for a long battle with tedium. Poking along in the slow lane, anything that catches your eye can keep you from zoning out.

For example, Cave Mountain.

That's some big gob of geological glop in the middle of nowhere between Baker and Barstow. This thing's bound to get your attention even if white line fever has put you nearly to sleep. These hills appear to be slowly eroding into dunes.

Heading out of Vegas, leaving the state line in your dust, zooming up from the valley floor, you may glimpse on the right...

...the impressive Mountain Pass Mine, where they unearthed such rare-earth ores as bastnasite, cerium, lanthanum, praseodymeum, neodymium, europium, yttrium, samarium, gadolinium, dysprosium, terbium, holmium, erbium, thulium, ytterbium, lutetium, and dyspepsium. These ores are essential for cutting-edge science and technology.
With our typical laziness and complacency, the Mountain Pass Mine was allowed to close, leaving China a near-monopoly on the world's supply. Someone suddenly woke up and realized the strategic implications, so now we're scrambling to reopen the mine.
I'm not suggesting any of these points of interest as a side trip or a place to stop along the way. Or even to slow down and look at. As I said, the sensible thing is to take the drive as fast as possible, escape the desert like the hounds of hell are at your heels. These are merely suggested as possible topics to ponder as you fly down the freeway. For example, Yermo.

The Famous Little Town No One Ever Heard Of

It's possible to make the drive time and again without even realizing there is such a place as Yermo. Yermo? What language is that? It sounds like a desolate outpost, a lonely whistlestop. The name of the 4th Stooge? As you whiz by, consider that Yermo is actually noteworthy for a couple of things. The Del Taco fast food chain was founded in Yermo. The original outlet still exists but now it's called the Burger Den. The people who founded Knott's Berry Farm got their start there. Yermo is home to a world-class rattlesnake habitat. Scenes from movies were filmed around Yermo, including Hulk (2003) and Letters From Iwo Jima (2006).

Beautiful downtown Yermo.

California Border Protection Station, Yermo

Unless traffic is light, they likely will wave you through. They would stop more cars but they don't want to be responsible for freeway carnage. With the buildup of traffic on I-15, stopping lots of cars causes a dangerous backup. NASCAR wannabes zipping along at 115 have trouble stopping in time to keep from slamming into the lineup of stopped cars. Those killed would be law-abiding innocents, of course.
The department of agriculture is planning a new, safer station on the approach to Mountain Pass, one that will handle more traffic and somehow alert the speeders that they need to stop pretty soon.
Don't be afraid to admit having fruit in your car. Contrary to popular belief, they don't routinely confiscate produce. They may only inspect it. You don't get in trouble for bringing fruit into California. They don't take you into a darkened interrogation room and work you over for having a papaya in your trunk.

Defunct Water Park

It's hard not to notice the abandoned water park near Barstow. The first thought: What lunatic thought that was a good idea? Was it some sort of money laundering scheme? It's one of those crackpot enterprises that would only happen in the California desert, where the sun bakes the brains of zany entrepreneurs.
Called Lake Delores Waterpark when it opened in the '60s, the facility pioneered the water park concept. It featured innovative thrill rides and a JetSki racetrack. After closing in the late '80s, the park was briefly revived under the name Rock-A-Hoola. It had its last gasp in 2000 and has been gradually dismantled since. Efforts to revive the place have flopped. Too many dreamers ready to pour money down a swimming hole.

The Ditches of San Bernardino County

On one seemingly endless drive, I snapped out of highway hypnosis long enough to notice that there are lots of ditches along the route. Every mile or so, a highway department sign lets you know you are passing over another ditch, such as:

West Valley Wells Ditch	Windmill Station Ditch	Valley Wells Ditch
Midway Ditch	Opah Ditch	Oat Ditch
Bird Ditch	Mobi Ditch	Yermo Ditch
Mescal Ditch	Bangla Ditch	Sonofa Ditch
Tono Ditch	Dock Ditch	Tork Ditch
Case Ditch	Marl Ditch	Sheep Ditch

Why a ditch? Why not a creek? A stream? Who named all those ditches? Why Opah Ditch, not Oprah Ditch? Oh, the questions that can bedevil you as you speed along for mile after monotonous mile. (Much as I would like to take credit for Mobi Ditch, only two of the above names are fictitious.)
As a service to readers, I tried to find out the story behind the ditches. I contacted Caltrans and a two-bit desert historical society. My quest came up empty. The best they could offer is that the ditches were named by pioneer miners and settlers. So how did Caltrans get the ditch names in the first place? Why would pioneers who had plenty to contend with just surviving the desert trek trouble themselves to name some stinkin' ditches? That knowledge is lost to the ages. The old-timers at the historical society are experts in every conceivable facet of desert trivia, but they draw a blank when it comes to names of ditches.
As if to justify his ignorance of the subject, one of the folksy curators said, "Yeah, we don't get out to Vegas much. Pro'ly haven't been there in 40 years."

Zig-zag your way through the slowpokes.

Barstow: Back Door to Big Bear

Barstow is a dreary place, to be avoided if at all possible. I've never talked to anyone who thinks there's much to like about Barstow, even if it is mentioned in the catchy tune "Route 66." If you're hungry, get as far down the freeway as you can before you stop. If you're heading for Vegas, hold out until Sin City. It's not just Barstow. Any stop along this drive is bound to leave you dissatisfied and cranky.
Barstow has one redeeming feature, however: The shortcut to Big Bear. It's a boring drive down a desolate country road, but it shaves several miles off the freeway route. Here's the map. I contacted Barstow's chamber of commerce to suggest they promote the shortcut ("Backdoor to Big Bear"), but they didn't reply. Bastards!

Pile O' Rocks

Victorville: Excelling in Mediocrity

Victorville is a modest desert community at the top of Cajon Pass. It is perhaps most noted for the Roy Rogers Museum. The town had a simple mission: Support the one enterprise, other than gas or food outlets, that might make someone want to pull off the freeway and visit your drab settlement. Victorville failed. A disgraceful record of futility. Obviously a community sadly lacking in civic pride.
     For younger readers, Roy Rogers (King of the Cowboys) was what they call a "matinee idol." That means he was a leading movie star in his day. Rogers was a popular cowboy actor and singer. He starred in "westerns" (aka horse operas), movies about the wild west. Westerns held the public's attention the way medical and cop shows do now. Roy Rogers made a slew of westerns from the 1930s to the '50s. His movies and a TV show featured wholesome family values that have since fallen into disfavor. His sidekicks included his cowgirl wife, Dale Evans, his noble steed, Trigger, and the wonderdog, Bullet. He sang duets with Dale ("Happy Trails to You"). The Roy Rogers fast food chain is named for him.
     Roy Rogers is linked to Victorville because it was a filming location for some of the westerns he appeared in. He had a home in nearby Apple Valley.
     The museum debacle is a double slap in the face for Roy since his principal rival, Gene Autry, still has a thriving museum near Griffith Park in Los Angeles. Like Roy, Gene was a popular singing cowboy of the era. In box office popularity, Gene and Roy were sort of the Tom Hanks and Tom Cruise of their generation. But Gene eclipsed Roy in the production of hit records. Gene's "Here Comes Santa Claus," and "Frosty the Snowman" are still heard. Gene owned TV and radio stations.
     While Gene's business empire far surpassed Roy's, he had his own dismal record of failure to live down. In the 36 years Autry owned the California Angels baseball club, the team did not win a single pennant, though they came tantalizingly close a few times.
     Since Victorville was on the side of a worthy underdog like Roy Rogers, you would think they might have been inspired to rally around their hometown hero. Roy's museum might not have been a fancy-pants institution like the Autry Museum of Western Heritage but it was pretty gosh-darn dandy for a small place like Victorville. But no. They gave up without a fight because Victorville is just a wide spot on the road to somewhere else, without the vision to make something of themselves.
     Victorville has a self-sustaining economy based on consumption. The people who work at WalMart all eat at McDonald's. McDonald's employees all shop at WalMart. The people who work and shop at WalMart and eat and work at McDonald's also shop at Best Buy, and so on. Money circulates through the economy in an endless cycle. The same dollar can be counted as income by myriad enterprises. All boats are floated save one: Roy's modest cowboy museum.
     After 36 years, the Roy Rogers Museum had to skulk out of Victorville in the dead of night. It resurfaced in Branson, Missouri, in 2003. It had a happy home there until it closed for good in 2009.
     With Roy's museum now defunct, the only worthwhile roadside attraction in the area is Elmer's Bottle Tree Ranch on Route 66 in the nearby town of Oro Grande. A visit to Elmer's lets you bypass Victorville altogether, which would serve them right for letting old Roy down.

July 2010 Update: Trigger, Bullet, and other contents of the Roy Rogers collection have been sold at auction, completing the dispersal of a venerable trove. Nice going, Victorville. Your disgrace is now complete.

Probably the most noteworthy Victorville resident was Dock Ellis, one of the most colorful and unconventional players to ever take the diamond. Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, has an excellent article on Ellis. Among his accomplishments: Pitching a no-hitter in 1970 while high on LSD. Victorville is seriously remiss in not declaring Dock Ellis Day. Show some pride, Victorville!

Green Spot Motel Postcard, originally uploaded by The Real Devil Doll.

For you movie buffs, legend has it that the first draft of Citizen Kane was written in 1940 at the Green Spot Motel in Victorville. Orson Welles banished writers John Houseman and Herman J. Mankiewicz to the desolate outpost to shield them from Hollywood distractions (all-night parties).

I don't recommend stopping in Victorville or anyplace else along the World's Most Boring Drive, but if you're the type who likes to explore odd places off the beaten path, try Victorville's California Route 66 Museum (founded 1995), supposedly situated on stretch of the actual Route 66. Now that's a museum Victorville can support! (Talk about an embarrassment of riches! Barstow has its own Route 66 museum, founded July 4, 2000. Barstow wasn't about to let civic rival Victorville get the museumic upper hand. Whatever Victorville can do, Barstow can do better!)

Cajon Pass

Once you fly down the pass, you're home free, ready to join the fracas that is LA traffic. Good luck.

Returning to Vegas from an outing to lovely Yorba Linda, we narrowly escaped a major pileup at the top of Cajon Pass. About 7:30 on the morning of June 10, 2009, a fog bank cut visibility to zero. We slowed down and pulled to the right. Traffic zoomed by as if conditions were normal. Now the worry was being slammed from behind. I wasn't about to mix it up with these maniacs. I found an exit that led to a quiet country road. Seconds later, there was a 30-car pileup. A newspaper story said "a tractor-trailer rig failed to stop in time." That's a news writer's way of saying the idiot driver ignored the fog and kept going full speed. It's no surprise to me. I've seen this behavior over & over. Your typical moron has a hard time taking his or her foot off the gas.

* California: A Guide to the Golden State (1939) Compiled and Written by the Federal Writers' Project of the Works Progress Administration for the State of California

Under construction.

Cognitive Dissonance

2010-01-04T09:28:00.000-08:00

The Politics of Paranoia, or

Put Randy Paul on the No Fly List

It's not terrorists who are out to get you, it's the TSA!

For those who haven't been following the latest in America's inexorable slide toward police state status, Rand Paul was subjected to a harrowing ordeal by TSA officers in Nashville after a body scanner detected an anomaly.
     From Paul's website: "On Monday, Sen. Rand Paul was scheduled to speak at the 2012 March for Life on the National Mall in Washington, D.C., but was improperly detained by the TSA and forced to miss the event." Maybe pro-choice TSA goons, lackeys for Obama, wanted to prevent Paul from delivering his message.
     From what I can piece together from various reports, here's how it went down. After the scanner detected an "anomaly" in the area of Paul's knee, a security officer explained that he would have to "pat down" (touch) the spot. Mind you, this is not an invasive "full body" patdown. It's a quick swipe of the gloved hand over the location of the anomaly. It's the same "patdown" a million uncomplaining passengers ("sheeple" to TSA haters) endure every day.
     Paul then stated he would prefer to walk through the scanner again. He says he stuck out his leg and pulled up his trouser leg for a visual inspection. The officer said that would not be an option.
     The moment a passenger refuses screening he or she becomes a "person of interest." His request for special treatment can't be entertained. They may not be a potential terrorist but someone in charge needs to resolve the issue. Thus began Paul's humiliating ordeal at the hands of TSA gropers. A supervisor was called to deal with Mr. Paul.
     Mr. Paul was placed in a glass-enclosed cubicle probably to await the arrival of local law enforcement to escort the senator out of the secure area. That was his "detention." The senator feels it was improper, which shows he thinks he should be exempt from screening.
     "I don't want special treatment," Paul told Fox News afterward. But in fact, he does want special treatment. TSA rightfully does not allow passengers who have refused screening, even a senator, to just wander off unsupervised.
     Paul states that in the past, he was offered the option of walking back through the scanner. More special treatment. Passengers behind him in the queue are forced to wait. Their luggage, meanwhile, sits out of reach on the x-ray conveyor. Screw them. Senator Rand Paul doesn't want his knee touched!
     Is there anything suspicious about refusing a patdown when you alarm a security device?
     Suppose evildoers* are scheming a way to beat the scanner. They want to perform a real-time test of their ingenious method for concealing a weapon or bomb component. They march through the scanner. Ooops! An alarm. No worries. Just refuse a patdown so security can't detect your contraband. Back to the drawing board and try again. Tweak your method until, voila!, you've devised a way to fool the machine!
     How simple is this? School kids can probably figure it out. So why don't Rand Paul and his dad get it? Who's paranoid--airport security or Rand Paul and his disciples? Shouldn't Rand Paul be on the No Fly List?
     It's a good thing the incident conveniently came along when it did. Ron Paul immediately dropped one of his signature money bombs and raised $250,000 in three days. Paul's crusade appeals to a hardcore group of malcontents, whiners and complainers who see themselves as characters in an Ayn Rand novel.
     I wonder, incidentally, what possessed Ron Paul to drop the "Y" from his son's name. Had the practice been in vogue decades ago we might have had Sand Koufax, Rud Giuliani, or Maur Povich.
     According to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, it wasn't Ron Paul, but Randy Paul's wife who came up with "Rand," inspired of course by libertarian theorist Ayn Rand.
     Paul says the thinks TSA should concentrate on passengers who have flown to Yemen or Pakistan recently and leave everyday Americans alone. So he wants to give TSA new snooping powers? Doesn't sound very libertarian to me.
     TSA haters dehumanize officers with terms like "goon" or "Nazi." Officers are demonized as child molesters and sexual deviants who enjoy fondling the genitals of strangers. They overlook the fact that thousands are military veterans, many of whom put their lives on the line in Iraq and Afghanistan. A considerable number of career officers joined TSA as a patriotic response to 9/11. Many others are retired law enforcement. They think of themselves as dedicated security professionals.
     Calling this caliber of officer a goon or pedophile comes naturally to elitists who look down on military and law enforcement. They figure people join the military or become cops only because they couldn't get a real job.

* I won't call them terrorists because Ron Paul, who wants to abolish the TSA, seems to think the terrorists have all retired and now work as street vendors peddling bootleg DVDs in Baghdad.

Patriotism: A New Definition

Every morning, the first thing John McCain does is thank God he didn't win the 2008 election and get tagged the Great Recession's Herbert Hoover. Next on the agenda: Tune to Rush for any good news on the crusade to defeat Barack Obama. "Good" news of course being a dismal economic report or a sexy disaster like Mt. Rainier erupting. The more human suffering the better.
     Rejoicing when misfortune strikes our country is the new patriotism. When the BP gusher started spilling into the Gulf of Mexico there was unanimous dismay and, in some quarters, quiet gaiety because it was a new headache for President Obama. If the leak turns out to be less of a disaster than initially feared, groans of disappointment will issue from the "I hope he fails" crowd. Since Republicans have exclusive rights to define patriotism, this is the current version, subject to change with their political fortunes. With a Republican in the White House, we frequently hear that it's downright treasonous to disagree with the president's policies.
     The "I hope he fails" contingent has a field day when something bad happens to our country. Positive news brings out the real dismay. As long as things keep going wrong for the president, we win. If something good happens, it's a setback. Since Obama took office, Republicans now denounce major proposals they previously supported. It reduces politics to a knee jerk: Whatever Obama's for, we're against.
     Now we have businesses holding off from hiring because they perceive the president as "anti-business." In spite of the president's best efforts to dismantle capitalism, corporate profits have magically soared to a record high. Since most Fortune 500 CEOs are rooting for Obama to fail, they're not about to help him by adding jobs.† According to Bloomberg, S&P 500 companies have stockpiled a combined $2.4 TRILLION in cash as of February 2011. They are clearly prepared to hold off hiring as long as they have to, until they decide conditions are favorable. Maybe they can hold out until Sarah Palin takes office.
     The best thing that could happen would be another terrorist attack. That might be the final nail in Obama's coffin. It would accomplish more than the fondest aspirations of Republican obstructionism.
     After 9/11, Americans were disgusted to see Muslim fanatics celebrating. American political fanatics may not dance in the streets but their elation over misfortune is no less shameful.

Share the Wealth! After winning control of the House of Representative and several state houses, Republicans have declared a sweeping mandate to refudiate progressive gains since Bush left office. They've jumped on the "share the wealth" bandwagon. The "wealth" they want to share is that enjoyed by public employees with fat union contracts and lavish benefits. They hope to deflect class envy away from the wealthy by demonizing public workers as lazy freeloaders, no better than welfare cheats. If you filter out the typical deception, distortion and disinformation, Republicans may have a point. Not about public employees sponging off society, but the need for a new era of lowered expectations for this group. A retroactive claw-back of rights and benefits is nothing but revenge, however.
     Higher taxes for the wealthy? Class warfare! Stripping public employees of their hard-won collective bargaining rights? "We all need to sacrifice."
     The nation cries out for a suitable scapegoat. Credit the Republicans for unearthing one that can arouse jealousy across a broad spectrum. Public sector largess is the culprit, not private sector penury. Using the budget scare, they are attempting a vast expansion of corporate entitlement while sweeping away a host of hindrances for their wealthy backers: unions, the minimum wage, OSHA, EPA, Obamacare, stimulus spending, infrastructure spending, financial regulation, consumer protection, green energy. The budget scare also gives them cover to zoom their crosshairs on all the familiar targets: NPR, Planned Parenthood, public education, gun control, abortion rights, gay marriage, campaign finance reform, separation of church and state.
     The goal is to create a bonanza by privatizing anything that isn't nailed down (including elections) and get business as far away as possible from pesky public scrutiny. They've armed themselves with pick axes and sledge hammers to pry up things that heretofore were nailed down. Business has always been big on cutting out the middle man, in this case the public. Corporations and lawmakers can do a much better job without the public sticking their nose in, demanding accountability and responsibility. That's so 20th Century. The Chinese aren't bogged down by such considerations. How can we hope to compete? We're inching ever closer to that fondest of Republican dreams: America of the Corporation, by the Corporation and for the Corporation.

Killing of bin Laden: Isn't someone who hasn't served in the military unfit to be Commander-In-Chief? How on Earth did this happen? Only a Republican could be conflicted about an accomplishment hailed as great for America. Something went right for Obama—Dang! Why couldn't it have been a tragic fiasco like Jimmy Carter's failed hostage rescue mission? The Republicans must be wondering what they did to deserve the dirty trick God played on them by letting a foreign-born Muslim socialist who didn't serve a day in the military hog the patriotic spotlight. I'm sure they're busy devising a way to nitpick, belittle, or somehow take credit for the successful operation.

Zero Job Growth--Yay! The Republican strategy of blind obstruction is working to perfection. The jobs report for August 2011 showed zero jobs created. The best news was the loss of 17,000 government jobs. Woohoo! Dragging out the debt ceiling drama was brilliant. The months of uncertainty (which Republicans claim to loathe) created the hoped-for drag on the economy. The only risk is that they might overdo it and put the economy in a pit they can't dig their way out of after 2012. The economy doesn't matter, nor does the country. All that really matters is the Republican (Corporate) agenda. A couple of supreme court appointments alone will justify any damage they do to the country the profess to love.
     The election of 2008 played perfectly into the hands of the Republicans. In fact, a plausible conspiracy theory could be built around the notion that the Republicans THREW the election once they realized the enormity of the financial cataclysm about to engulf the country. They might have told McCain,"Let him wipe the floor with you in the debates. Take one for the Party." When McCain announced Sarah Palin as his running mate, it seemed like a desperate move, but maybe not desperate to win.
     In any case, losing the election could be the best thing that ever happened to the Republicans. No one in his right mind wanted to take on the nightmare Obama faced when he took the oath of office. Let him struggle with it. You don't just snap out of a near-depression in four years. Even Ronald Reagan couldn't have worked that kind of miracle. Meanwhile, we'll make Obama's life miserable. We'll block and hinder him at every turn. Convince everyone that George W. Bush was just an innocent bystander ‡ and play Blame it on the Obama. By stopping just short of wreaking worldwide financial havoc with their manufactured debt ceiling crisis, the Republicans showed they aren't hopeless lunatics. Just functional lunatics.

     †Do you believe the hogwash that American business is suddenly paralyzed by uncertainty? They're waiting for ideal conditions to materialize. News flash: Conditions are seldom ideal. If capitalist chiefs had waited for ideal conditions, corporate titans like Caterpillar, Boeing, Disney, Intel, GE, and Walmart would never have been founded. Too much uncertainty!
     Now were led to believe that all-powerful Captains of Industry have degenerated into Sniveling Wimps wringing their hands over the Obama agenda. If that's the case, they need to man up! Stop whining and start hiring!
     The real reason business isn't hiring is the US economy. I think we can all agree President Obama is no miracle worker. Even if he were, our crippled economy isn't about to magically snap back as it has in the past. There are no bubbles left to exploit. The whole "uncertainty" thing is just Republican propaganda to scare you and me into thinking health care reform is BAD, financial regulation is BAD, and a return to Clinton-era taxation on the wealthy will bring the nation to its knees. Everything BAD for business and wealthy taxpayers must be BAD for you and me. Government takeover of healthcare: BAD; corporate takeover of elections: WOOHOO! As soon as the Republicans "take back" America everything will be peachy again. I hope people who believe that will wake up and realize they are being cruelly manipulated. Thank you. (July 2010)

     ‡ Out-of-control spending and big government weren't a problem when Bush was president. When it's spending WE like, when it's gargantuan government on OUR side, not a problem.

Hidden Danger at the Beach

The commercials for household disinfectants provide a vital public service. They warn against a proliferation of dangerous microorganisms that threaten the health and safety of every child on the planet. One commercial illustrates a telephone seething with nightmarish microorganisms. The phone is just one household object that should be sprayed frequently so kids can't come in contact with those dangerous bugs.
When I see kids playing at the beach, digging in the sand with their little buckets and shovels, I'm shocked that so many parents even allow their kids near the beach. Don't they realize the beach is a million times worse than the phone? Sources of infection at the beach include human and animal feces, bacteria from decaying fish and animal carcasses, sewerage, and medical waste, to name just a few.
A trip to the beach confirms how much the human body can really take. If we splash in the water and walk barefoot, we are exposed to a potential bubonic plague, an HIV epidemic. It's a wonder hospitals aren't overrun when beach weather is nice. How can the beleaguered mom hope to clear a child's body of all those infectious bugs? You can't autoclave the kid, after all. Thank God for those handy wipes and sprays. Too bad those moms in Africa don't have them. It's undeniable that the problem of dangerous microorganisms has grown worse over the decades. Back when I was a kid, in the 1950s, microorganisms were practically nonexistent. Things we touched had only mere traces of harmful bugs compared to today's infestations. In our day, household objects were practically self-sanitized. You never had to worry about touching the phone.

Our Aggrieved Society: Outrage Over Obama's Trash Talk

The president comes in for a firestorm of criticism when he badmouths Sin City yet again.

"When times are tough, you tighten your belts," the president told a gathering in New Hampshire. "You don't go buying a boat when you can barely pay your mortgage," Obama said. "You don't blow a bunch of cash on Vegas when you're trying to save for college. You prioritize. You make tough choices."
     Read the hysterical reaction in this CBS News story. The testy comments of Mayor Goodman reflect a city with a big inferiority complex. Deep down, the city fathers and mothers know that, without the casinos, Vegas is just another Barstow. Not to trash Barstow!
     From the reaction, you would think that Obama took cheap shots at Vegas. He didn’t, however. He didn’t say Vegas is a hellhole, or that its residents are all degenerates. He didn't say people should stay away from Vegas. He put forth the modest suggestion that a weekend in Vegas might not be the best plan for financially-strapped families. The arrogant bastard!
     The president used Vegas as an example because Vegas has spent millions cultivating an image of wretched excess, a place for wild sprees and blowing wads of cash. What other city can lay claim to such a reputation? Maybe Atlantic City, but that august municipality is merely a blue-collar version of Vegas. If you say "gambling" or "casino," Vegas is the first place most people think of.
     Is this too subtle? Maybe Obama gets himself in trouble because his former career involved lectures to legal scholars who could handle subtlety. Nevada's elected officials are not so blessed. What? Did he say something bad about Vegas? I think he did! Let me jump on my high horse!
     A year before, Obama commented during a town hall meeting in Indiana, that corporations shouldn't use federal bailout money for trips to Las Vegas, the Super Bowl or corporate jets. Tourism and casino officials said the comment hurt the city as companies canceled meetings in Las Vegas and rescheduled them elsewhere.
     The Ritz-Carlton at Lake Las Vegas had a convenient scapegoat when its closing was announced in Feb. 2010: Obama! A spokesperson said on local television that Obama had killed their convention business with his derogatory comments.
     Online forums were abuzz with Obama hatred. If anything, everyday residents were even more outraged. Vegas is a hotbed of civic pride. How dare Obama, or anyone else for that matter, say anything unflattering about our beloved city!
     Civic pride is a highly questionable sentiment. It's local patriotism. A case can be made for loving your country and wanting to tar & feather anyone who says it ain't great. But having these emotions over a city seems a bit warped.
     If someone calls your child ugly or slow-witted, those are understandably fighting words. Why get your feelings hurt if someone doesn't like your city? As I pointed out on the Yelp! forum, Vegas doesn't have a Retention Committee. If you decide to move away, people from the Retention Committee won't visit and beg you to stay. Cities don't have retention committees because they don't care if you stay or go. So why such affection for an impersonal metropolis?
     It's all part of the growing sense of aggrievement that permeates our culture. Righteous indignation has become the theme of everyday discourse. Don't just disagree, clobber your opponent with choice expletives. Blister them with a barrage of smack.
     Virtually anything becomes fodder for outrage. For example, do you know that people mistakenly call Sow Bugs “Sal Bugs”? It’s an outrage! How dare they?

Dealing With Raccoons

At some point in your life, you may have to deal with raccoons. The thing to remember is, don't panic.
     My raccoon encounter was in West Seattle. We had a nice basement apartment on a hillside. The view of Elliott Bay was smashing.
     One night there were eerie sounds from the bedroom ceiling much like the movie The Exorcist. It sounded like gremlins playing hockey. It went on for several nights. I cursed our dreadful upstairs neighbors, whom I disliked after I caught the guy stealing my Post-Intelligencer (now defunct).
     Then I happened to notice that the roof of the bedroom was not attached to the apartment above. The bedroom jutted out from the main structure. It turned out that raccoons were living in the "crawl" space above the ceiling. (The space was only big enough for raccoons or other small critters to crawl. I peered in there and saw quizzical beady eyes looking back at me.)
     I managed to locate a government entity (fish & wildlife or some such thing) to help me cope with the situation. This was in the early '80s. I believe that city & state governments are far less accessible now. Even if you could locate the appropriate agency, you couldn't just call them with a question.
     You can catch those raccoons, I was told. They offered to loan me a trap. Use marshmallows for bait, they said. Release 'em out in the country.
     Sure enough, the raccoons were suckers for marshmallows. The trap is a big wire box with a trap door at one end. When the raccoon wanders in for a treat, the trap door is sprung. I took my first raccoon over to Issaquah, which was rural back then. I followed a peaceful country road into the woods. I released the raccoon. He scampered off nicely.
     The raccoons that remained were up in arms over the injustice I had perpetrated on their family. In the night I heard various cries that sounded like the screams of a small child. I continued to catch them. One night a dog came by and harassed the poor critter. You have to guard your catch.
     Finally I caught the whole family: five, including youngsters. When you catch them, they may thrash, growl, and hiss. I suggest wearing good work gloves just in case. When I released the little guys, them seemed happy. I released them all in the same spot. Each dashed away in the same direction. I hope the family stayed together.
     Please don't feed raccoons or try to make friends with them.

Catching Crayfish

They are also known as Crawfish or Crawdads. Since we were country folk, we knew them as Crawdads. While a biologist would probably call them Crayfish, I'm pretty sure people from Louisiana would peg you as a fancypants if you said that in their part of the country.
     Crawdads are easily caught because they are tenacious. For no good reason, they will latch onto something with a claw. Their "claws" are really pincers of course. Cats have claws. If you look up Crayfish on Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, pincers are called "claws." You get what you pay for.
     The secret of catching Crawdads is to take advantage of their tenacious nature. Take a length of string (kite string is fine). To one end, attach of lump of bread. Shape the bread into a ball and squeeze it onto the end of the string. Lower the string into a pond. It helps if you know there are Crawdads in the pond.
     Don't ask how we knew there were Crawdads in the pond (or mudhole) where we caught Crawdads near the country town of San Marcos, California. When you live in the country, knowledge like this gets passed along by word of mouth. The "pond" was a basin of stagnant, murky water. It was definitely not a swimming hole. The local swimming hole was Thibodeau's.
     The Crawdad pond, Thibodeau's, the fields and meadows, the farms and ranches, the mighty Eucalyptus, the two-room schoolhouse, and any anything else charming about San Marcos, have all been filled in, paved over, and bulldozed to make way for the finest in American schlock architecture.
     I heard they were fighting to keep Walmart from building a supercenter, as if that were the last straw, the one indignity they couldn't stomach, like a hooker who refuses to service clowns.
     Before long, you could lift the string out of the pond with a Crawdad holding on. It was as if the Crawdad said, "What's this string doing in my pond? Let me grab it." Then he would promptly forget why he grabbed the string in the first place. But he held on anyway, because Crawdads are all about grabbing things with their pincers.
     I'm not sure if the bread mattered much, but it helped sink the string.
     Since Crawdads are fresh-water creatures, you would think they would be easy to keep as pets. Mine always died after a day or two. It's the main reason I didn't become an enthusiast of the sport of Crawdad catching.
     I only tried eating Crawfish once, at a buffet in Las Vegas (where they were billed as Craw Fish). Besides the opportunity to stuff a lot of food down your gullet, a buffet offers the chance to try foods you normally wouldn't eat. Eating Crawfish involves a lot of peeling for the tiny morsel of meat you end up with. It takes several Crawfish to make even a dainty mouthful. I decided it wasn't worth it. At the buffet, people were lining up to fill their plates with the delicacy, so I was definitely out of step with gastronomic conventional wisdom.
     According to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, Crawfish are shunned by the Jews. They're not missing anything.

Corporate Matrimony

The long-awaited wedding of Gillette and Avon Products took place on Valentine's Day at the Crystal Cathedral in Garden Grove, Calif. The way was cleared for the ceremony when the Supreme Court ruled that corporations have the same rights as individuals.
     "We're overjoyed that the Court finally acknowledged our rights," said Gillette's beaming adoptive parent, Procter & Gamble. "Corporations being born out of wedlock won't be such a disgrace anymore."
     Matrimonial attendants were Black & Decker (groom) and Kimberly Clark (bride).
     The bride was stunning in its gown from No Ordinary Bride. The groom was the perfect metrosexual in a single-breasted black suit and tie by Paul Smith London.
     The reception was held at nearby Disneyland. John Deere and Harley Davidson were seen canoodling in a corner, triggering rumors that June nuptials might be in the works. Since corporations are gender-neutral, nothing will seem amiss about two masculine companies getting married. Playboy Enterprises had too much bubbly and made a spectacle of itself. The company kept hitting on Seventeen magazine. Brinks Security had to intervene. After the dancing started Goldman Sachs was seen making the rounds of momentarily-vacated tables to scoop up unattended swag.
     Following the obligatory appearance at the reception, the newlyweds bolted for the airport and a flight to the Cayman Islands for their honeymoon.

Flattery Works?

Roos Vonk is a Dutch psychology professor. She studied groups of college students for her inquiry into ingratiation. The results were published in a landmark article Self-serving interpretations of flattery: Why ingratiation works in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, April 2002. Her conclusion: people are more likely to like you if you flatter them, even if the praise doesn't seem accurate or sincere.
My real-life experience differs substantially from Dr. Roos's report. Early in my worklife, I made occasional stabs at complimenting female coworkers. My praise was typically greeted with a smirk, a sneer, a shrug, or even a derisive snort. I had the distinct impression they thought I was hitting on them. That was confirmed years later when I overheard two women talking about a coworker.

"He's always hitting on me."
"What's he do?"
"He's like 'you look so nice today' and stuff."
"Gross."

     Ingratiation is the scientific term for ass kissing. I was never good at it. Some places require that you call the chief executive "Mister." I could never bring myself to do it.
     I hate the thought of paying a compliment just to curry favor. My compliments were always sincere, not for hitting purposes. If a woman appeared to have gone out of her way to look nice, I would compliment her. According to Dr. Roos, my targets should have liked me more. They gave no indication that their opinion of me improved one iota. I did have one coworker, Felicia, who responded well to my compliments. She was an elegant and graceful woman.
     I learned one lesson in the art of the compliment. Never say "You look nice today."

"Oh, just TODAY? Any other day not so much?"

I've seen more than one guy walk into that one.
I forswore complimenting female coworkers on their appearance. I probably went two decades withholding compliments. Ingratiating myself to coworkers in other ways wasn't a problem. You could compliment someone on a good spreadsheet or a memo without inviting a giggle or a grimace.
Thanks to the Great Recession, I no longer have coworkers. Dr. Roos's study has made me reconsider my stand. If I ever manage to regain a foothold in the workplace, I may hazard a compliment now and then just to see if my social skills have improved.

Pictured: Roos Vonk (Rose Spark in English). Probably takes compliments well.

Bell's and whistle's are all good

Sometimes a cliché is finally the best way to make one's point. —Boris (Whatever Works)

A few hoity-toity experts like to lecture us about using too many clichés ("wake-up call," "hands on," "level playing field, " and so on). Don't feel bad about using clichés. Those critics are just egghead intellectual types who look down on everyone from their ivory towers. It can be a real game-changer when you stop worrying about clichés and embrace them.
     Clichés are verbal shorthand, the common currency of everyday discourse. It's much easier to use a cliché than to suffer brain damage from composing something flowery that people may not understand anyway. For example, if you say "Our record matches our rhetoric" (for "walk the talk"*) people may be puzzled. What is he trying to say? They may want to throw you under the bus. Literally.
     At the end of the day, it's not going to make any difference that your memo or report is a masterpiece of supple prose if you don't get your point across. Only a legend like Warren Buffet can get away with crafting fresh prose for his annual letters to shareholders. His writing is breezy. He uses fancy words like "Orwellian." He's not a flashy writer, however. His writing is solid, like the meat and potatoes he thrives on. The above example is from his 2008 letter.
     Buffett doesn't want his readers to struggle through a thicket of buzzwords and jargon. Instead of "the good, the bad, and the ugly," he same up with "the great, the good, and the gruesome." But you're no Warren Buffet (with all due respect). Unless you can think outside the box like Warren does, you had better stick with the tried and true verbiage everyone knows and loves.

* Or whatever the cliché is (talk the walk, talk the talk, walk like a duck, talk like a duck, etc.). I never could keep it all straight.

(I couldn't resist misusing apostrophes above. Plural and possessive confusion is rampant, but that's a topic for another post.) January 2010

The Sea Lions Are Gone!

The sea lions that loiter at San Francisco's Pier 39 have suddenly vanished. No one seems to know why. Experts guess that instinctive migratory behavior made them go. Like the swallows returning to Capistrano, the sea lions will be back. Meanwhile, what's so great about those big fat noisy smelly creatures? I guess sea lion lovers are happy that they don't have to join an expedition to some remote preserve to enjoy viewing them. It's a free zoo exhibit right there at Fisherman's Wharf, along with the wax museum. (January 2010)

News story: Mystery Disappearance

Fire "Victims"
Angeles National Forest, Calif.

Survivors of a forest fire near Los Angeles are complaining that the U. S. Forest Service failed to protect their homes. One resident suffered burns because he ignored the evacuation order. In news coverage, he is portrayed as a "victim."
     "A lot of residents are incredibly embittered about the way it was handled," a resident is quoted in the Los Angeles Times.
     Forest-dwellers see themselves as a special class who are owed protection. They think it's up to the Forest Service and taxpayers to assume their risk for living in a fire-prone area.
     Another resident complained, "What will happen next time? Will we be simply left to defend ourselves again?" Anyone who chooses to live in the woods should consider the risk. Don't just assume you'll be bailed out when the inevitable happens.
     Why wouldn't these homeowners set up their own fire-fighting measures? My advice: Use some of that insurance settlement to invest in fire protection.
     Lost in the recriminations is that two firefighters died battling the blaze for spoiled, self-entitled homeowners. (October 2009)

LA Times: Fire Victims Whine

"Duck & Cover" Sneezes

My dad was a loud sneezer. The house shook when he let out one of his signature sneezeclaps. I thought it was hilarious.
     The theory behind a loud sneeze is that you need to maximize its effect. If a sneeze is meant to expel allergens or respiratory irritants, the sneeze should be forceful, helped by an ear-splitting shout.
     I'm not much like my dad, who made something of himself. Loud sneezing is one trait of his that I did copy, well into middle age. That was before I encountered a particularly annoying loud sneezer at work. His theatrical blasts were a play for attention. My co-workers bought into it, with their obligatory bless yous.* He was very taken with himself, especially his boorish sneezes. He made me realize what an ass I was to inflict my own bellowing blasts on others.
     I've resolved to cut back on loud sneezing. I've found that an understated sneeze is just as effective as one accompanied by a showy roar.
     It proves one thing: People can improve their behavior, even ossified old codgers.

*I have never said "bless you" when someone sneezes. It's one of many social skills I failed to adopt.

Much as I'd like to take credit for "duck & cover," I can't. I saw it here: What Does Your Sneeze Say About You? Annoying sneezes are just one sign of an alarming retreat of politeness and courtesy from our culture, which I address here: Courtesy is Contagious

The Now Defunct Museum

2009-10-18T19:06:00.000-07:00

One-Time Icons of American Life That Are Now Obsolete...

. . .kaput, washed up, seen better days, belly-up, burned out, cooked, dead, demolished, done for, down the drain, down the tubes, finished, had it, sunk, totaled, wiped out...you get the picture.
Unlike the Pez dispenser or the Frisbee,* many features of everyday living went the way of the Edsel and couldn't hang on. Youngsters can glimpse this collection to get an idea of what life was like before things started going...defunct!

*Trivia: What was the original name of the Frisbee?

Back to Haunt You
Stuff that faded from the scene... or was replaced by something easier, faster, cheaper

The world is evolving before our eyes. It's probably mostly a good thing. I doubt that even the most nostalgic among us longs for the days of wax paper now that we have saran wrap. Along the way, a lot of good things got shoved aside for no reason other than they were around too long.
     Amusement parks, for example. When they became all but extinct, a new company, Six Flags, had to be created to build a bunch of fancy new ones you had to drive 100 miles to get to. Since amusement parks developed a tacky image over the decades they had to be repackaged as "theme" parks, wholesome family-friendly venues safely removed from urban centers.
     The choices our culture makes aren't always the best. Almost as soon as the last streetcar line was dismantled, that strange "wup" you heard was scores of cities saying, "Oops!"
     Here are some things we should have kept, things we mostly say good riddance to, and things that evolved into something better (I'm sure).

In the 1950s a TV was called a TV "set" for some reason. Perfect for watching Howdy Doody.

Clicker

Dawn of the couch potato age. An astonishing innovation when it was introduced in the mid-1950s, the first TV remote actually clicked when you pressed the buttons. Before the clicker, you had to rouse yourself from the sofa to change the channel or adjust the volume.

Baby Boomer Code:   33-1/3   45    78

Only a baby boomer would understand these numbers (a non-boomer would say "so what?"). Nonetheless, the code has deep significance for those who heard their first Beatles, Stones, and Dylan tunes on a record player like this (purchased at White Front, possibly).

White Front - A fledgling Wal-Mart in its day. White Front is just one of a long line of household-name retailers to go defunct.

Along with the demise of the dime store (Woolworth, W. T. Grant, J. J. Newberry) there were defunct drug stores (Rexall, Thrifty, and Sav-On—more below) as well as former going concerns Montgomery Ward, Western Auto, Alpha Beta, Mayfair, Big Bear, the Akron, the Boys, Food Basket, Hudson's, Bullock's, Buffums, the Broadway, Orbach's, Zody's and Zachary All.
     Although defunct on the West Coast, Piggly Wiggly is still around. Thankfully, our culture hasn't become homogenized to the point that there isn't a place for a store named Piggly Wiggly.

Update 1.16.09: Circuit City joins the ranks of defunct retailers with the liquidation of the entire company, something that isn't supposed happen under Chapter 11. 30,000 people will lose their jobs.
     Who will be next?

     Closed Sundays. It's nice to have the convenience of a leisurely Sunday at the mall. The demise of White Front marked the birth of the modern Consumer Culture. Until the late '60s or early '70s, hardly anything was open on Sunday, the traditional "day of rest."
     Marathon business hours, with stores open 12 to 24 hours a day, were unheard of. In those days, most families had but one breadwinner. The June Cleaver Mom took care of shopping while Dad toiled at his job. The advent of the two-income family forced retailers to accommodate a new reality. A lot of moms, meanwhile, became part of the horde of workers needed for the new, expanded hours that became standard.
     Sunday shopping remains a hot-button issue in many parts of the world. IKEA was fined for Sunday selling in France, which clings to a union-backed ban on the practice. In the United States, Bergen County, New Jersey still forbids Sunday selling.

Sambo's - In its day, a burgeoning Denny's or IHOP. It seemed like they disappeared overnight, one of many thriving ventures (Chicken Delight,* and Vic Tanny health clubs for example) that didn't work out for one reason or another. For all I knew, Sambo's was a takeover target, perhaps devoured by Denny's. Only when researching this squib did I learn that Sambo's was virtually driven out of business because of outrage over the chain's unfortunate choice of a name. According to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, Sambo's was a mashup of the owners' names (Sam Battistone and Newell Bohnett).

*"Don't cook tonight, call Chicken Delight!"

Backyard incinerator - Standard equipment on SoCal homes into the '60s.

Milk home delivery. Newer homes had a receptacle ("milk box") built into the wall, so Mom could retrieve the bottles without leaving the kitchen. The typical milkman wore a spiffy white outfit on his predawn rounds. Milkman was a valid occupation, not a menial job.

Get this: The milk came in glass bottles. The milkman would take the empty bottles back to the dairy, where they were sterilized and used again! Now we have convenient disposable plastic and we have to schlep our own milk from the supermarket. Plastic is contaminating the environment beyond repair, but other than that I think we can all agree that modern conveniences make life far better. Don't they?

Milk box: Straight to the kitchen.

The Good Humor man. The pedophilia craze would make a scene like this impossible today.

Present day ice cream truck.

Gas station attendant. Typically a friendly guy from the neighborhood. He would stride up to your car with "Yes ma'am, what can I do for you today!" Men actually made a living doing this. Gas stations, aka "garages" or "filling stations" had (clean!) restrooms.

Each gallon of gas was noted with a crisp ding! from the pump, much like the correct answer on a quiz show.
     For extra measure, every car that pulled in announced its presence with its own jaunty ding! by driving over the black tube in the driveway, sending a pulse of air that activated a bell inside the station. You can see the tube draped across the driveway in the picture.

This picture has everything but an arrow pointing to "kids in car." Probably about 90% of people born before the '60s remember being treated to a thrilling ride on the grease rack at the local garage. It didn't take much to entertain kids in those days.

Phone booths. They were everywhere. By today's standards, a civilized way to communicate. You conducted your business in private (a feature no longer considered important).

Osborne Computer - Clunky and bulky, with feeble computing power, this machine was a status symbol. Also noteworthy as one of the last computers to use the CP/M operating system, at the time thought to be the likely standard.
     The machine was an improvement over the original "pocket" calculators that would only fit in a very large pocket.

They could only add, subtract, multiply and divide. All that for $200 (a jillion in today's money). They sold so fast stores couldn't keep them in stock.

Old basketball uniforms. Do old school players envy the guys now with their baggy outfits?

Clunky $3,995 "brick" cell phone.

The first cell phones were strictly toys for the elite, or for dudes who seriously wanted to make a big impression. Having one meant you were a mover and a shaker.

                 Stern librarian.

Libraries were once quiet as tombs. Should you thoughtlessly raise your voice, the librarian was sure to give you a good shush! Asking a kid to tone it down these days invites a vicious outburst from the parent.

Movie theater usher. They showed you to your seat with a flashlight.

If you misbehaved, the usher would train his light on you and tell you to knock it off. Ushers had the authority to eject you from the theater. The threat of violent attack makes the job obsolete.

Sandlot Baseball. I spent endless hours of boyhood summers playing workups at Gormley's, the neighborhood empty lot where we played baseball. No one knew why it was called Gormley's.
     Nothing was organized or prearranged. You just showed up. If kids were there we would play catch or shag flies until there were enough players to start a game. You only needed a few. It was called workups because every player moved up one position when a batter was put out (strikeouts were unheard of). The retired batter would start over again in right field.
     You got to play every position. It was a great way to learn the game. It taught us to be flexible, adaptable. It was true multitasking. Not doing a bunch of things ineffectively at once but working at several things until we got them right.
     There were no umpires. No foul-mouthed drunken Little League coach to tell you where to play. No parents screaming every move to make. There were no grownups, period. We didn't have helmets or bases. No uniforms. We resolved disputes among ourselves. Or if not, a kid might go home crying. He probably wouldn't show his face again for a few days.
     Sometimes there were fights, but they weren't serious. We needed each other. We all had to hang together for the game. The game was what really mattered.

We played hardball with wooden bats; no sissy softball. Aluminum bats had yet to be invented.
So what do today's kids have that might be the equivalent of our sandlot experience?

"Lowly" jobs that paid a living wage.

Bus drivers, janitors and cafeteria workers were respected members of the school staff. Mr. Russet, my school bus driver, was a happy-go-lucky guy with three kids. His job afforded him a middle class lifestyle. Economies of scale and cost efficiencies are all well and good but should we welcome the downsizing of our culture?

Night speed limits.
There was this old concept that you should go slower at night. Sorta like the one that you shouldn't follow any closer than one car length for every ten miles per hour of speed. Your fellow motorists will not be happy if you try going slower at night.

A perfect fit through the miracle of modern science.

The foot X-ray machine was standard equipment in shoe stores through the '50s. They were eventually outlawed for safety reasons. The youngster would mount the machine and stick his feet into the opening. Mom and the sales clerk could peer through the other spy tubes and observe what a fine fit Johnny was getting with his new pair of shoes.
     January 23, incidentally, is Measure Your Feet Day.

Tonsillectomy - In the 1950s virtually every kid had their tonsils out, whether it was medically warranted or not.

Primitive Television

TV had a charming simplicity back when it started. Early weather guys used nothing more sophisticated than flip charts. This weather map was state-of-the art. For a while, weather personalities stood behind a plexiglass screen and made doodles of happy face suns, clouds, cold fronts, and rain. They had to learn to write backward for the correct appearance on TV.

Here's Raquel Welch doing the weather in San Diego.

Question: How did they come up with "meteorology" for the science of weather? Apparently, rain drops, snow flakes and hail stones are considered meteors, so "meteorology" is not a misnomer. This concludes the educational portion of the squib.

The rabbit died!

Depending on the circumstances, this was either joyous news or the beginning of a tragedy (and not just for the rabbit).

In a long-forgotten era, adorable bunnies were used for pregnancy tests. It was widely believed that results depended on whether the rabbit lived. A dead bunny meant jackpot!
     This is a misconception, I assure you! The poor female rabbit was injected with a sample of the woman's urine. (No, not at home, the doctor's office!) Then the rabbit's ovaries were observed for telltale changes.
     This usually took a couple of days while those involved either sweated in agony or fretted in happy anticipation.
     Aren't you glad pregnancy tests today are so easy and convenient? Who said modern technology isn't wonderful?

Shell No-Pest Strip. A familiar sight in homes and restaurants in the '60s and '70s.

A rare early example of consumer protection that worked, these were withdrawn from the market amid concerns that they contained a deadly poison. The maker fought requests to attach a warning label. The situation was seen in some quarters as the government overreacting to groundless safety concerns. I had inside information, however: I knew an exterminator who was nervous being around these even for a few seconds.

Telescoping gas storage tanks.

Once a familiar sight in California. They moved up and down with the contents of the tank. They blended into the cityscape so well that nobody noticed when they disappeared.

Semaphore traffic signals.

The change from stop to go and back was announced with a resounding "ding" (a popular sound effect back in the day). There wasn't a yellow light. These quaint signals were hurriedly replaced in the early 1950s.

Manual Turn Signals.

It seems laughable now, but flashing electronic turn signals were a daring innovation in the 1960s. Before that, you had to poke your arm out the window. Turn signals weren't optional then, either. In freezing weather or rain, you had to do it.

Movie palaces. Somehow we've convinced ourselves that multiplexes attached to malls are way better than neighborhood movie palaces, part of an architectural heritage that is being obliterated in the name of progress.

Thank you to readers in Joliet, Illinois who let me know that the Rialto Theater is not defunct. Let's hope there aren't any developers licking their chops over the property as you read this.

Hair tonic.

Wildroot Cream Oil or a tube of Brylcreem. JFK favored the dry look, however. That was the beginning of the end. Along came the Beatles with their free-flowing moptop haircuts and that clattering sound you heard was millions of bottles of hair tonic hitting the trash.

Hats. It seems like everyone suddenly quit wearing hats. As a kid, I wondered why they didn't get all greasy from the hair tonic.

In the mid-50s, people even went to the movies in suits and hats. Women wore furs with the heads of snarling critters still attached. They blamed JFK for killing the hat business too, but that's not true. Hats were nearly gone by the time JFK was elected president.
     Contributing to the demise of hats was a baldness theory that took hold at the time: Wearing a hat makes your hair fall out. No wonder there are so many bald golfers and baseball players.

Reggie Jackson, victim of hat-induced baldness syndrome (HIBS)

Hitchhiking.

The practice of thumbing rides by the side of the road had its last heyday in the 1960s and early '70s. The longhair subculture depended on each other for reliable transportation. Before that, WWII servicemen got around by thumb travel. In those days if you couldn't trust a soldier you couldn't trust anyone. During the Great Depression, it was either thumb a ride, hop a freight, or walk.
     These days the threat of violence is too great for extensive use of thumb travel. (Note: I know, the guy pictured is not traveling in America.)

Keane. Wildly popular artist of the '60s. Touched off "Is this Art?" debates.

Rod McKuen. Wildly popular poet/songwriter of the '60s. A tamer version of disreputable counter-culture poets of the era (Dylan, Ginsburg, etc.). It's an insult to say he's defunct, since he's not entirely forgotten.

One of the all-time bestselling authors, Harold Robbins is virtually forgotten today. Sexually-charged content was a novelty in '60s popular fiction. Racy pulp fiction with lurid titles like Torrid Wench or Tramp Wife (Orrie Hitt), had been around for decades. Along with men's magazines like Adam, Escapade, and Stag, these paperbacks were sold at less-reputable liquor stores and smoke shops. Until Robbins, no major publisher had thought to take smut mainstream. Robbins got filthy rich while fame and fortune eluded scores of deserving toilers in the genre. Robbins's success encouraged revered authors to try their hand, among them John Updike (Couples).

Sav-On drugstores. Sav-On staged a bold comeback after Osco tried to obliterate a name that generations grew up with. It looks as though CVS has finally done the deed.
     Some kids learn nursery rhymes. I learned the Sav-On jingle (sounds like a college fight song):

Sav-On, Sav-On!
Join the Sav-On hit parade,
It's fun to serve yourself and save at
Sav-On Drug Stores, Sav-On Drug Stores
[boom, boom]
SAV-ON!

I saw in a movie that radio waves continue to bounce around somewhere in the universe. I guess that means the Sav-On jingle will go on for eternity. But for us Earthlings, it only exists in the minds of the few who are still around to remember. When we're gone, it will be as if it never existed.

Casting about for an excuse for poor performance, the brain trust at Macy's wiped out such venerable names as the 150-year-old Marshall Field's in Chicago, Meier and Frank in Portland, Rich's in Atlanta, Goldsmiths in Memphis, Bon-Marche in Seattle, Lazarus in Columbus and Burdines in Miami. The rationale: Look at Wal-Mart and Target. All their stores have the same name. That's the secret of their success!

Burdines: Wiped Out. Thanks, Macy's.

August 15, 2008 update: The corporate compulsion to purge the culture of familiar names continues. Long's bites the dust. The venerable drugstore chain, noted for its selection of Hawaiian products, has been terminated by CVS (Corporate Venality & Skulduggery).

Steady job. Between downsizing, mergers, hostile takeovers, consolidation, reorganization and outsourcing, workers are lucky to keep a job for more than a few years. Age discrimination figures to be an obstacle for downsized seniors as employers struggle with the notion that people over 50 retain basic mental and physical functions.

Patty Smart managed to stay on the same job 50 years.

March 31, 2008 update: Aloha Airlines is kaput. A company that would keep the same person employed for 50 years probably deserves to go belly-up. They obviously are not up on modern management theory (employees are the one expendable asset).

Doggie Diner. A fixture for decades in the San Francisco area. Best dogs ever.

Orange groves. A culture says a lot about itself when it decides that suburban sprawl is better than orange groves.

Santa Clara Valley fruit orchards. Silicon Valley was once known as the Santa Clara Valley, home of vast fruit orchards. Between Southern California's orange & avocado groves and Northern California's fruit & nut production, there was more than enough to satisfy our country's needs. Now they are imported green from obscure third world countries and taste like a feeble imitation of the real thing.

It was probably wise to squander these riches since there are no longer enough bees to sustain major agriculture. Besides, aren't vast housing tracts, freeways, and shopping malls better?

Big Old Barn

In a front page article (Sept. 7, 2008), the New York Times reports on the vanishing barns of Iowa. During the Great Depression, barns numbered 200,000 in Iowa alone. Now they're down to 50,000 and disappearing daily. Like many vanishing aspects of American life, our agricultural heritage will never be restored once it's gone. When it becomes a thing of the past, a new theme park will be built: "Farmland."

American Manufacturing. In just a few decades, America went from Jim Crow to the first African American president, something that even the most optimistic among us thought might not happen in our lifetime.

At the same time, we saw America topple from world dominance in manufacturing, something even the most pessimistic among us thought would never happen. With the automobile industry on life support, our agricultural resources largely squandered, the steel industry in death throes, where are the new areas of leadership for America? Science? Technology? Energy independence? Let's hope we don't settle for being #1 in service jobs, fast food, video games, and smart phone apps.

Newspapers

The Chicago Tribune, founded 161 years ago, has gone belly-up. The parent Tribune Company, which also owns the Los Angeles Times and the Baltimore Sun (founded in 1837), filed for Chapter 11. History is being dismantled before our eyes. Once newspapers are defunct, we'll have to reinvent them. According to surveys, most people now get their news online and have no use for a newspaper. Forward thinkers say there's an upside: We're saving trees. Meanwhile, we're throwing out a rich newspapering heritage. Literary legends Mark Twain, Ambrose Bierce, Frank Norris, Willa Cather, Upton Sinclair, Ernest Hemingway, H.L. Menken, Tom Wolfe, and Hunter S. Thompson had careers as reporters.

News flash 2.27.09: The Rocky Mountain News is kaput. Colorado's oldest newspaper, launched in Denver in 1859, has printed its last edition. The Denver Post carries on as the only daily in town. 3.16.09: The 146-year-old Seattle Post-Intelligencer is gone. The San Francisco Chronicle is hanging by a thread. Herb Caen and Charles McCabe are thrashing in their graves.
     I guess I'm just an old fogey. I think the newspaper is one of mankind's great inventions. I can't imagine anyone thinking an electronic device can replace a Sunday paper.

Hunter S. Thompson started as a sports reporter. Literary lions of the future will start as bloggers.

Books

With the advent of the Amazon Kindle and the Apple iPad, experts predict the demise of the book is coming soon to a Barnes & Noble near you. How people think a plastic gadget offers a satisfying alternative to books and magazines is beyond me. Never mind that Apple, Amazon, and other gadget makers will control what you read.
     The word "tome" was invented for mammoth works like Stephen King's Under the Dome, which weighs in at 1074 pages and about ten pounds. To a book lover, digging into a hefty page turner with real pages is one of life's principal pleasures.
     I guess the Kindle offers one advantage--you won't hurt yourself if you accidentally drop it in your lap.

Horse Racing
It isn't a question of whether American racing will become obsolete, only when. The venerable Sport of Kings is too boring for the Twitter Generation. The last generation of racing enthusiasts is dying off. The majesty of the thoroughbred holds no fascination for young sports fans. Gambling taxes and the high cost of admission, parking, and seating are beating bettors. In operation since 1934, Bay Meadows, a major racing center near San Francisco, closed in 2008. The defunction of Bay Meadows follows the death of Ak-Sar-Ben, a storied racing center in Omaha. Tracks around the country are on the verge of a similar fate.
     Enjoy the Secretariat movie. Before long, movies will be all that remain.

Bygone brews. Scores of old trusty standbys for millions of beer drinkers are now consigned to that megabrewery in the sky: Hamms, Falstaff, Pfeiffer, Country Club, Schlitz, Olympia, Rainier Ale (aka "Green Death"), Regal Select, Ballantine Ale, Jax, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Blatz, Blitz, Rheingold, Burgermeister ("Burgie"), Lucky Lager, Stroh's, and Dixie.
     Just because a product has been around 100 years doesn't mean it deserves a place today! It's commercial Darwinism. Only the bland survive. Besides Bud, Miller, and Coors, how many beers do we really need? I understand Rheingold has made a comeback.

This is the Hollywood Freeway going past the Brew 102 brewery. When I was a kid, I marveled at that giant tank of beer. Note the telescoping gas tank.

Conventional baby names. In the movie "Splash!" Tom Hanks asks the mermaid played by Daryl Hannah what her name is. They are standing on a street corner in New York City. She glances up at the name of the street. "Madison!" She replies.

That's where it all started. Madison went from being a wacky name in a movie to now being the third most popular name for a girl. That was the beginning of a trend to give kids imposing unisex surnames for first names: Taylor, Tanner, Fletcher, Spencer, Morgan, Leighton, Faulkner, Sutton, Jasper, Kendall, Chandler, Bennett, Riley, Bentley, Barclay, Brooklyn, Jordan, Hayden, Dawson, Quinn, Nelson, Knickerbocker, Bronson, Logan, Harper and so on. (Isn't it about time for Archibald to make a comeback? OK, I'm kidding about a couple of these. If I've given you the name of your next baby, please donate 50 cents.)
     With the rising popularity of geographic names like Brooklyn, I'm surprised there haven't been more: Poughkeepsie, or example. How about Chesapeake or Narragansett? I think there should be more product names, like Burroughs or Remington. I hear "Dell" is poised to make a big splash on the baby name scene, but my money is on "Hewlett" or "Packard." Gwyneth Paltrow has already taken "Apple."
     America's cities offer a rich lode of potential baby names. Namely, the names of districts and neighborhoods, such as Kensington (San Diego), Richmond (San Francisco), or Fauntleroy (Seattle).
     Back in the day a kid named Madison would have been ridiculed. Now it's kids with names like Nancy or John who are scorned. "Where'd you get that weird name?"

     Newest trendy name: Brooksley. Back when Clinton was president, Brooksely Born tried to sound the alarm about a looming financial meltdown. For her efforts, she was hounded out of government. The name is just too cute not to catch on. Cool new girls' name for 2010: Collins, from the movie The Blind Side.

Cute imports. Before anyone had heard of Toyota, Datsun (Nissan) or Honda, our family was an early adopter of Volvo. Fellow Volvo owners gave us friendly waves. We were like our own little club.

This is the Hillman Minx, one of a tide of models by Peugeot, Citroen, Borgward, Fiat, BMW, MG, Opel, Austin-Healy, Sunbeam, VW, Vauxhall, and Renault among others.
     It wasn't just cuteness that drove Dad to buy a Volvo. We couldn't afford an American car. The undoing of the American car industry began after WWII, when Detroit automakers turned their back on the entry-level car market. That opened the gates to a flood of low-cost imports and a few models developed by fringe car makers in the U.S., including Crosley, Kaiser, Willys, and Nash.

The Allstate, a Kaiser model sold by Sears. Yes, you could buy it through the catalog.

Nash Rambler, cool economy car of its day.

They're Back!
(For the time being at least).

Why gum of all things? As a kid, Blackjack chewing gum was my favorite. There was Beeman's pepsin gum (said to relieve heartburn) and Clove gum, totally defunct, kaput, out of the picture. Now they're back.

Playboy Club. After receding like Hefner's hairline, the Club has come back, opening a swank new branch in Las Vegas. Playboy clubs had their heyday in the '60s and '70s as a hangout for sporty groovers, or conventional corporate guys who aspired to the swingin' lifestyle championed by Hugh Hefner, the ultimate Sporty Groover. In the clubs, these groovy dudes could get a taste of the Hefner lifestyle first hand.

This Wasn't Supposed to Happen
San Diego's Giant Dipper is saved from defunction

Somebody screwed up. The Giant Dipper was supposed to be demolished for routine development that doesn't mean much to anyone. The Dipper, on the other hand, looms large in the lives of many. It was my first "rolley" coaster. Warren Buffett bought stocks with his paper route money. I blew mine riding this dopey roller coaster.
Whoever was in charge of getting politicians in line, for greasing pertinent palms, fell down on the job. Concerned citizens jumped in and saved the Giant Dipper. Now it would be hard to find someone who thinks a condo complex was a better idea.

Pabst Blue Ribbon is Back
Counted out prematurely

Some things go so far out of style they become cool to a new generation. That's what happened to Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, or PBR as it is known to young anti-consumers who shun overly hyped or trendy products.
I prematurely pronounced PBR and other brews defunct because I'm hopelessly out of touch with modern trends. Little did I know that Pabst Brewing Company, in business for 150 years, now specializes in resurrecting forgotten brews such as Old Style, Schlitz, Stroh's, Old Milwaukee, Rainier, Schaefer, Lone Star, Pearl, Colt 45, and Olympia.

Vinyl Records

Vinyl record albums stood about as much chance of coming back as 8-track tapes. Apparently, the anti-consumers that rediscovered PBR have also latched onto vinyl.
     When CDs first came out, audiophiles stubbornly insisted vinyl sounded better. They were dismissed as analog nerds much like fans of the "letterbox" DVD format are disparaged.
     Record albums also had distinctive cover art and liner notes by prominent music critics or famous authors (Stephen King, for example, wrote liner notes for the Ramones). CDs just can't match the fun of unwrapping a new gatefold LP and exploring its features (printed lyrics, photo spread, musician credits, etc.).
     Too bad the resurgence of interest didn't come soon enough to save a few legendary records stores, such as Leopold's in Berkeley.
     A potential upside: If vinyl can make a comeback, so can books.

Pink Floyd, Animals

Tattoos

At one time tattoos were a symbol of rugged individualism and rejection of society's conventional values. Until the 1960s, tattoos were mainly fancied by sailors on leave in foreign lands and by an underground of bikers, jailbirds, deviants and dropouts. In the mainstream, body art was anything but cool. It was revived by bad-boy rockers, then co-opted by fashionistas. Tattoos are now mandatory if you have any hope of appearing cool, one of the in-crowd. Now, it's only rugged individualists who eschew tattoos.

Hats Are Back?
For decades it was all trucker caps and cowboy hats.

Who would have guessed that hats would come back? Every now and then, a celebrity like Johnny Depp makes a daring fashion statement by wearing a hat. Hats are far from being the standard accoutrement they once were, but it looks like interest is picking up. After a few cool guys like Depp and Brad Pitt showed the way, the fashion industry is making a modest push for hats. If tattoos can make a comeback, why not hats?

These Are the Good Old Days
...if you say so...

Since things began to go defunct, it seems like the dramatic improvements in our lives have come at a cost. I'm sure the quality of life in America is better now.

That's what they keep telling me.

Our Sponsor
Your online home for defunct merchandise.

Further Inquiries Into Obsolescence

Ansel Adams' Lost Los Angeles Found - a photoset on Flickr - Unbelievable collection showing long gone LA.

Los Angeles Public Library Photo Collection - Search for more images of long gone LA.

The Obsolete Computer Museum - Stroll down 64k memory lane.

Defunct Gas Stations - Once a familiar site on the American Landscape many of these old Texaco stations stubbornly live on as rusted venues for various enterprises.

The Bad Fads Museum - Browse through the fun and fascinating fashion, collectible, activity and event fads of the last 100 years.

Hippie Museum - A look at the '60s hippie subculture and the era's defunct idealism.

What A View! Home of the Outhouses of America Tour - My boyhood home had an outhouse. I assumed they were defunct by now. Not according to the Outhouses of America Tour, the most comprehensive collection of Outhouses, Outhouse trivia, folklore and Outhouse facts.

Is California Paving Paradise? - One out of every six acres developed in California since the Gold Rush was paved over between 1990 and 2004. Most of it was agricultural land. Read the report to see if there's any hope of saving what's left.

Highway Page - This site covers the design and history of highways, mainly in southern California. It sounds dull, but it's fascinating.

Are people having babies now just so they can give them fancy names? - With the arrival of Knox Leon and Vivienne Marcheline Jolie-Pitt, let's review this latest batch of star baby monikers.

Flickr: Vintage Supermarkets, Grocery & Convenience Stores - Extensive collection with cool shots of now defunct retailers.

Hitchhiking, Backpacking & Budget Travel On the Road - Original stories, travel tips and road culture for hitch-hikers, backpackers and modern nomads. Featuring highway routes, road maps, safety/ legal advice, photos, rideboard and vagabonding techniques for cheap travel in the USA, Europe, and around the world.

Bell Telephone Ring - There aren't many still alive who grew up with this "ring tone." Telephone "exchanges" had names like EXbrook, SYcamore, or BUtterfield.

Air Raid Siren - Harbinger of Doomsday.

Sandlot Baseball - Many of us who grew up during the 1940s and '50s remember our summer days when we played baseball all day long. We didn't have Little League but we were among a group of neighborhood kids who showed up at a ball field, picked sides and began playing a ball game. Today, ball fields sit empty during the summer because young children have to have everything organized for them.

Malls of America - Vintage photos of lost Shopping Malls of the '50s, '60s & '70s

Recent Past Preservation Network - Preservation education and advocacy.

Groceteria.com: Did You Bring Bottles? - Explore the history of the American supermarket.

Amusement Park Classic Photos 1940s-1986 - Some of the parks shown are defunct while others are still active. What was Cincinnati thinking getting rid of Coney Island?

Neatorama - A clever collection of miscellaneous musings, some of them related to defunction.

A Way with Words, public radio's lively language show - The hosts and callers discuss obsolete slang among other topics. A must for anyone who cares about words and how we use them.

Vintage Life Network - Memorabilia from obsolete eras.

BBC NEWS | Oldest English words Identified - Some of today's most popular and useful words are headed for extinction. "Dirty" is a prime example.

Bonus: Who Invented the Skateboard?

It's amusing to see online content stating that someone actually invented the skateboard. I was around when skateboarding started. Here's what happened.
     Like countless kids in the '50s, my dad made us boys a simple sidewalk scooter. It consisted of an old skate nailed to each end of a two-foot plank. Then he nailed an upended fruit crate to one end of the plank. Finally he nailed handles to the top of the fruit crate. The result was a dandy scooter we used to rumble the neighborhood sidewalks.
     For the benefit of youngsters, fruit came in re-usable wood crates about a foot wide and two feet long. It would be years before anyone thought of using cardboard.

The flaw in this design was the fruit crate, which eventually came loose from the plank. Many of us discovered that skating on the plank alone was actually better than the scooter. This is how the skateboard was developed, probably as early as the 1940s. Sidewalk scooters were around for as long as the old steel roller skates that clamped onto your shoes.

The movie Back To the Future features a fanciful depiction of the skateboard's creation. Marty McFly yanks the fruit crate from the plank. In real life, the crate usually just fell off. The movie's writers, Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale, both born in 1951, probably had sidewalk scooters as kids.

A manufactured skate board from the '60s using old-fashioned steel wheels. I didn't know any kid who had one. We all made our own cool boards from scrap lumber and worn out skates.

The old-fashioned metal skates we took apart and nailed to a plank. These skates came with a "key" that neighborhood girls wore on a string tied around their neck. The key was used to adjust the clamps that held the skates in place. The girls either outgrew their skates (became too sophisticated for such a childish pastime), or got new ones. The unwanted skates were a steady source of wheels.
     No, we didn't buy new skates. The culture was a little different. We couldn't pester our parents for new stuff all the time. We were lucky to get new clothes. We had to make do with what was around. I would have caught hell for destroying a fine pair of new skates by nailing them to a board.

Bonus Feature! Obsolete Slang

My parents and grandparents were fond of cute expressions that have faded into oblivion. I don't remember many of them, so I created this list in case someone wants to contribute (comment).

Skedaddle
"He found Weiskopf—in bed with a fifteen-year-old redhead. The girl skedaddled. . ."
—James Ellroy, L.A.Confidential

Wait a Shake - My grandma used to say this, or sometimes "I'll be with you in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

He slid his chalice brisk away, grasped his change.
—Wait a shake, begged Lenehan, drinking quickly. . .

—From Ulysses, the Citizen Kane of books.

Gimme a Jingle
Translation: "call me." Doesn't apply anymore because ring tones do anything but jingle.

Cluck
"MARTHA. What a cluck! What a cluck you are."
—Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

Scissorbill - My grandpa, who spent time hoboing during the Depression, used scissorbill as a synonym for blockhead.

Bread N Butter - Another popular slang expression from the WWII era. Out for a stroll, you said it any time an object (a light pole for example) came between you and your companion.

Shuffle Off to Buffalo
Preparing to leave an old timer might say, "Well, I guess I'll shuffle off to Buffalo."

Gams, aka sexy legs, as shown in this typical pinup photo of the WWII era (Rita Hayworth).

pipsqueak
one that is small or insignificant;

http://www.yourdictionary.com/pipsqueak

yikes
same as wow. seems to be making a resurgence.

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=teenybopper"

teenybopper
Very popular term in the '60s and '70s. Maybe it went out of style because it's based on "bop," a term unfamiliar to today's populace.

We Welcome Your Comments

"Everything I have is obsolete. That's the point."
—Dita Von Teese, burlesque performer and lingerie designer

Feel free to give us your thoughts in the comment area below (down there).

Trivia: The Frisbee was originally called the Pluto Platter.

What's your reaction? Let us know you were here by checking a reaction (below). Check one or all three! Thanks.

How to Deal With a Cranky Senior Citizen

2009-10-11T08:12:00.000-07:00

We'll Soon Be Overrun

The problem of dealing with cranky senior citizens will only get worse in the coming decades. Something like 70 million Baby Boomers have started turning 60. Chances are you will encounter irritable seniors everywhere you go.

Some Helpful Hints for Coping
Appear to listen attentively and be impressed as they unwind a tedious story

Try to be understanding. Senior citizens have plenty to be cranky about. The least of their problems is they could drop dead any minute. Worse, they could be felled by a catastrophic illness that will wipe out their life savings. Those who didn't save enough for retirement (spent too much on their kids) are forced to keep working even though they can't get a job because of age discrimination. And don't forget Alzheimer's. Victims of Alzheimer's tend to be confused about everything, which makes them cranky.

Having to work until you die tends to make a guy cranky.

Keep your cool. Don't take it personally when the senior citizen waves a scraggly finger in your face and threatens to rip your lungs out. Coming from a someone who wears diapers, it is probably an empty threat.
Try to be diplomatic. Gently remind the senior citizen that they are not the only one with problems. Make up a story that your grandfather is rotting away in old age home, helpless as a baby. To get on their good side, say you visit your grandfather every day.
Remind them to count their blessings. Remark on how spry and robust they are. "Aren't you lucky to still be getting around so well!" "You're still sharp as a tack, aren't you?"
Try a compliment. Say something nice about their hair, their pretty eyes, their warm smile. Tell them it's a pleasure to deal with someone so patient and understanding.
Be polite and respectful. When some cranky seniors grew up "respect your elders" was a popular sentiment. They may be resentful that this idea is now a quaint relic of a bygone era. You might get a positive response if you call them "mister," "sir," and so on. "Nice to see you today, Mr. Johnson." If you are used to calling people "dude" or "dawg" saying "sir" may feel awkward. Give it a try.
Try to get them to talk about themselves. Getting them to relive the past may get their mind off their gripes. Ask if they were ever a hippie or were in Vietnam. Ask them about the days before personal computers, cell phones, faxes, and the Internet. Ask them what it was like before pocket calculators, when you had to work out math problems with pencil and paper. Appear to listen attentively and be impressed as they unwind a tedious story.
Try to get them to talk about their kids and grandkids. They probably seldom see their family, but they may welcome the chance to show wallet pictures.
Be cheerful. Say "Isn't it a great day to be alive!?" Try calling them "honey" and "dear." It might get them to lower their guard.
Try telling a joke. Subscribe to a joke-a-day website. See if the old grouch responds to a cute off-color joke.
Offer them coffee and a donut. They might go for a treat that their doctor has said to never eat again.
If all else fails, sucker-punch the old buzzard (see below).
If the senior citizen carries a cane or walker that can be used as a weapon, keep your eye on them if you have to turn your back.

What's So "Golden" About the Golden Years?
Those aren't freckles, Bunky

By the time liver spots show up, your days are numbered. Knowing that you have only a few good years left--if you're lucky--is a grim prospect. At an advanced age, ten years flash by like ten weeks. In ten years you can go from a robust, vibrant specimen to a shuffling, doddering wretch. If that doesn't scare the bejesus out of you, nothing will.
These few final years are considered "golden," which is denial at its most ludicrous. Americans of all ages are in denial about aging. Younger folks ignore it altogether, preferring to think they have won immunity.
Seniors are fed propaganda that there's an upside to getting old and decrepit. We're wiser, it is said. I'm wise enough to know that I have no more wisdom than a 20- or 30-something. I can hold my liquor better but that's about it. The 20- and 30-somethings are sharp. They'll have to be to cope with the problems we've left them.

Denial: A Coping Strategy That Makes Sense
100 is the new 80! Woo-hoo!

Some senior citizens look unkempt, dishevelled. That's because they've sworn off looking in the mirror. Who can handle seeing a scary version of the handsome devil you once were?
Denial might be the sanest response to aging. When you're going down with the Titanic it's too late for a lot of handwringing. You might as well enjoy the fleeting time you have left. Summon the grim determination to get the most out of your few remaining years. Resolve to ignore the fact that you're getting old.

Citi's Cheap Shot
Bosses please note: This is not a typical 60-year-old

I guess the stereotype of the senior citizen as the doddering old fool is no more harmful than the blonde bimbo, the dumb jock, or the socially inept nerd.
As age discrimination becomes more of a factor, however, I get a little sensitive about how seniors are portrayed in the media. Citi's cute father-son commercial irks me. The image of senior citizens in our culture is already pretty well trashed without help from Citibank. News outlets routinely refer to people no older than 60 as "elderly."
The old man in the ad looks closer to 80 than 60. He's so befuddled he thinks he's Norwegian not Swedish. Trust me all you 30-something bosses out there, we're not this far gone.

The Onion's Shameful Slam

If Citi's dreadful dig at seniors didn't mark a new low in degradation of the elderly, check out the Onion's scathing smear, Everyone Proud Of Grandma For Staying Awake.

Growing Old Gracefully

Some of us handle aging better than others. Here are some notable "elderly" folks who are still functioning members of society, not ready for the scrap heap.

I guess no one has the nerve to tell Clint Eastwood he's too old to keep cranking out meaningful movies year after year.

There are so many things to admire about Martha Stewart. She's graceful in many important ways. I know, I know, she's a diva, the original bitch on wheels. The video below with Conan might change your mind.

Warren Buffett - The old boy seems to have his priorities straight. He gets a kick out of being the world's wealthiest man. Just listen to his jolly laugh. It says as much about him as anything. (Aging tip for Warren: Buy some race horses, old man. Fifty thousand sheiks can't be wrong.)

Jack LaLanne (RIP) - It gives you hope to think there's something to smile about when you're 90-something. I was there the day Jack swam from Alcatraz to San Francisco's Aquatic Park handcuffed and shackled, towing a rowboat filled with sandbags weighing 1000 pounds. As Jack staggered to shore, paramedics rushed to the scene, but not for Jack. Someone in the crowd suffered a heart attack. Jack just turned 60; I was a young punk. Now we're both senior citizens.
     Jan. 23, 2011: It was great having Jack around all my life as a role model for when I would get serious and start taking care of myself. Do a few pushups, eat some vegetables. With Jack gone, who'll be my inspiration? In a way, it's discouraging. Living a perfect life, as far we know, he only made it to 96. With my depraved lifestyle, I should be dead already.

Chesley B. "Sully" Sullenberger III. It's widely perceived that old guys are feeble, incompetent. Smashing the stereotype is Sullenberger, 58, the pilot who safely crash-landed a US Airways flight onto New York's Hudson River on January 15, 2009. (details below).

Philippe Petit - That's right, the French guy who did his high-wire act between the tops of the World Trade Center towers, 1,368 feet above Manhattan, on August 7, 1974. He turned 60 in '09. Recent reports say he's raising money for a walk over the Grand Canyon.

Regis Philbin - In the early 1960s, a youthful Regis cut his chops with a late night show in San Diego. He worked in a living-room-sized studio that had maybe two dozen beat up theater seats to accommodate the scant audience. I was in high school at the time. My buddies and I were among Regis's few loyal fans because of his interviews with legendary wrestlers such as Dick the Bruiser and The Destroyer. It was high comedy watching these monstrous hulks demonstrate wrestling holds on poor Regis.
     Regis loved to swap insults with The Destroyer, inventor of the dreaded figure-4 leglock, from which no opponent ever escaped. The Destroyer was given to calling everyone, including Regis, a "pencil-neck geek."
     We were on hand in the studio one night when Regis made wisecracks about The Destroyer's suit. "Sears-Roebuck?" The Destroyer reached for Regis's lapel to examine the label of his suit. Regis fliched. "Idaho potatoes," the Destroyer quipped. A real card that Destroyer.

That's Regis in the burlap suit.

Jane Goodall - Women considering botox or facial surgery should take a look at Jane Goodall. At 75, she's one of the world's most beautiful women. I doubt that Ms. Goodall needs anything artificial to enhance that magnificent face. I think the Nobel committee should also take a look at Goodall as they puzzle over who gets the Peace Prize.

Walmart greeter, 69, dukes it out with 23-year-old, gets fired
(From Our "What if I Can't Afford to Retire?" File)

Millions of Boomers have not managed their finances sufficiently to have money to live on when their efforts are no longer welcome in the workplace. They will have no choice but to eke out a living somehow. The labor market can only accommodate a limited number of obsolete geezers who lack the multi-tasking skills and "energy" to compete with young go-getters. Those who can't compete will have no choice but to hope for a job at Walmart, certainly a step above standing at a stop light holding a "WILL WORK FOR FOOD" sign. The job of Walmart greeter will become highly sought after. Here's a preview of what to expect.
As a shopper in Palm Bay, Fla., left the store, the anti-theft alarm was triggered. Greeter Ed Bauman followed the customer to get his license number. Skyler Lowery, the angry young shopper, took umbrage and threw a punch. Bauman fought back and was fired for his trouble.

In other Walmart News. . .
Greeter learns his lesson: Stick to being a grouch.

In Muscatine, Iowa, Dean L. Wooten, 65, was fired for trying to inject a little humor in his job as a greeter. He doctored his employee ID with this photo and joked that Walmart, in a move to cut costs, had created a cheaper uniform.
According to Fox News:

Wooten said he did not see the harm in the photo, which he said was made by a friend who spliced a picture of Wooten's head onto a shot of another man's body.
"When I first seen it, I pretty near died laughing," he said.

Mr. Wooten shouldn't have been fired but he deserves a good punch in the stomach for atrocious grammar.
For those who see a Walmart career in their future, here is an informative website.

Geezer Bandit

Consider for a moment the desperation that drives a feeble old man to go on a crime spree. It would be fodder for a George Burns or Walter Matthau movie (if either were still alive). Things won't be getting any easier for seniors from here on. Stories like this will become more common. Follow the old geezer on Facebook.
Law enforcement has hatched the theory that the Geezer Bandit must be a young person in disguise. It's inconceivable that a doddering wretch could stage an impressive crime spree.

Our Sponsor

Some Useful Information for Old Grouches

FLOH Club - Tech Support for Old Geezers - America's favorite TV mom wants technology to be simple! Multitalented entertainer Florence Henderson is here to comfort, support, and inspire you as you make the most of computer technology!

Eastwood's termination: 'Somebody got a bee under their bonnet' - Los Angeles Times - After Clint Eastwood learned last week that his friend Arnold Schwarzenegger no longer wanted him on the state parks commission, he spoke with Bobby Shriver, the governor's brother-in-law, who had also been dropped. Somewhat incredulous, they joked about it, each saying the other should be more offended...

Warren Buffett Says His Taxes Are Too Low - Tom Brokaw visits Buffett at work.

Buffett Sings - The jokester gives a stirring performance at stockholders' meeting.

Buffett Laughs - A minute or so in, Buffett cuts loose with his fun-guy chuckle.

MSNBC - Warren Buffett Watch - Keeping track of America's billionaire next door.

Martha the Horsewoman - The video shows how charming the old gal can be.

Jack & Groucho - The amazing thing is Jack & Groucho are about the same age here!

Born in 1947? You're a Baby Boom pioneer, aren't you! - 47 is the quintessential random number. Many have noticed. Many have wondered: why? Many more have wondered: so what? The 47 Society is dedicated to exploring the phenomenon that is 47.

Experts say young folks put off by presence of older people ... - This news item confirms what we already know. People in their 20s want to get away from old farts as fast as they can.

Medical News: White Baby Boomers Cause Rise in National Suicide Rate - BALTIMORE -- Suicide rates have been slowly rising over the past decade largely because of a surprising increase among middle-age whites, researchers found.

Why Clint Eastwood thinks America is full of babies - Tough guy Clint Eastwood believes America is getting soft around the middle - and the iconic Oscar winner thinks he knows when the problem began. "Maybe when people started asking about the meaning of life," Eastwood tells Esquire.

"Elderly" Pilot's Heroics Avert Disaster - A former fighter pilot was hailed as a hero last night after he guided his crippled airliner to a safe landing in the Hudson River in New York, saving the lives of all 155 people on board.

International Longevity Center USA - The Longevity Center's new media guide provides the necessary tools for media professionals to represent older adults and the aging process in a fair, contemporary and unbiased manner.

Psychology Today: Fluke Skywalker: Philippe Petit - High-wire maestro and daredevil Philippe Petit comes down from the clouds. (Daredevil isn't the word for Petit, but the article is worthwhile.)

Negative views of older people may be bad for your health - Don't badmouth the elderly.

Grouchy Senior Citizen Gets Snuffed in Road Rage Incident - OK, a snooty soccer mom cuts you off in her Escalade. Life is short! Don't make it even shorter by making a scene. She might call her husband to punch you out (or worse).

10 Healthy Habits That May Help You Live to 100 - You don't need to eat yogurt and live on a mountaintop but you do need to floss.

The 6 Most Annoying Things About Old People - Blogger takes a dim view of senior citizens.

Authentic Happiness :: Using the new Positive Psychology - Visit the Authentic Happiness website. Answer some happiness quizzes to find out how happy you are (no joke!). This could be your first step in emerging from life as a chronic grouchster.

Signs You Are Officially an Old Fart
Reaching an arbitrary milestone such as 55 is one thing. Old Farthood can begin sooner or be put off until later. Dentures and depends are the obvious signs. Here are some other things to look for.

Tube socks and sandals.
There are few more reliable signs of Old Fart status than the sandals and socks look. It has been co-opted in recent years by young nerdly types.

Email without a computer.
At what point do you scrap your trusty notebook (the grandkids want no part of it--outdated) and get a dumbed-down email terminal?

You swap your normal cell phone for one that's so simple even a senior citizen can use it!

While you continue to lose hair in places you want it, you gain unsightly hair where you don't want it. While male sex organs may atrophy, the nose and ears enlarge to grotesque proportions.

A lot of old geezers seem proud of their bushy eyebrows. They refuse to trim unsightly overgrown facial foliage. Guys like this look pretty funny out in the yard with weed whackers, hedge trimmers, and so on, not realizing their own appearance needs the most attention.

At some point you stop caring about looking cool and go with groovy senior citizen shades.

Galloping Grumpiness
Don't take your perpetual foul mood out on everyone.

"People are just as happy as they make up their minds to be." --Abraham Lincoln

Honest Abe didn't get a chance to be a cranky senior citizen. If he lived by the above advice, he might not have become an irascible old goat like so many of today's coddled curmudgeons.
     Don't get me wrong, there's plenty to be cranky about. I've had a chance to observe my fellow seniors up close, however, and I'm embarrassed by what I've seen. Too many crabby codgers and surly shrews are inflicting gratuitous grouchiness on an undeserving world.
     It uncalled for. It's inexcusable. With time running out on this precious life, shouldn't we be making the best of it?
     We all have a responsibility to make the world a better place. No extra effort is needed to be pleasant and kind. What's the problem?
     I'm as guilty as anyone. I've caught myself being gruff with servers, cashiers, clerks, and attendants. Sometimes their job performance leaves something to be desired (a subject for another entry). Unless you enjoy making yourself and others miserable, being grumpy only makes matters worse. I remind myself to smile and be nice!
     Being a grouch can have nasty consequences. See the road rage link above.

While there's still time, try being Mr. Nice Guy for a change. You'll live longer!

Being a cheerful old geezer is more fun. For example, at the grocery store, I filled out a compliment card for a young whippersnapper who was nice to me. I reported the incident to the store manager, who braced herself for the typical old grouch tirade. When I praised the youngster, it made the manager's day. Try it sometime.

January 19, 1999: A Turning Point For Civilization
How the BlackBerry Rule can help old timers find common ground with youngsters.

Nothing could be more boring than your story about the day JFK, MLK, or RFK was killed.

If you remember only one rule (about all a senior citizen can remember), your communication with young whippersnappers will be greatly improved. The rule is this: Youngsters (30ish or younger) hate to hear anything about the remote past. Ancient history starts on January 19, 1999, the day the BlackBerry was introduced.
A few words into your zesty anecdote about the Peace Corps, they will tune you out. No matter how fascinating the subject is to you, there is no way you can make it faintly interesting to the youngster. Watch how fast their eyes glaze over when you mention the day JFK, MLK, or RFK was killed. Don't talk about the technology that didn't exist when you were growing up, or the social upheaval you have witnessed (see below). They'll zone out. It's not worth the flicker of polite interest we showed Dad when he told his war stories and tales of the Great Depression (walking to school barefoot in the snow).
     If you must persist in ignoring my advice, you need a reality check. If the youngster shows interest, if she laughs politely at your clever witticisms, your droll bon mots, rest assured she is only humoring you. Perhaps you are a potential source of funds, a professor, or someone else she can't afford to alienate. Don't think for a minute she is actually interested. She probably doesn't have a clue what you are talking about.
     Not only are youngsters not curious about the past, they will become annoyed at the suggestion that anything cool happened back in your day.
     A youngster may say they like "old" movies, for example. To you, that may mean classics like Lawrence of Arabia, Easy Rider, or The Godfather. To a youngster, "old" movies are those from their teenage years. If the person is under 30, for example, don't mention Taxi Driver (1976). That's an old old movie, with all of the fascination of a documentary on the Punic Wars. They'll give you a blank look, avert their gaze, roll their eyes, sigh.
     To a youngster, the release date of Taxi Driver alone disqualifies it from consideration. If it's that old, it can't be any good. They will take you to task for talking about a movie from the ancient past. "That was before I was born," is the predictable protest. "Why would I know about that?" Where's the sense in cluttering your mind with useless information?
     In discussing popular culture, don't bother bringing up your favorite books like The Great Gatsby or To Kill A Mockingbird. Because they are relics of the ancient past, books like this are insufferably boring. Most youngsters have never heard of them and will bristle at the suggestion that they are worth looking into. In fact, reading newspapers, books, or magazines is pretty much a foreign concept to them.*
     Don't use fancy words like "acronym" or "flatulence." They'll have no idea what you are talking about, even if they have a college degree.
     That doesn't leave much to talk about, it's true. If you really want to find some common ground with a youngster, you'll have to learn to text or play video games. Don't expect them to meet you half way and watch Dances With Wolves (1990) with you.

* They may grudgingly concede one awesome thing from ancient times: Pre-BlackBerry comics. They're cool thanks to the bevy of blockbuster super-hero movies in recent years.

Gerontophobia
     It sounds like I'm taking cheap shots at the younger generation. My generalizations come from years of working with the youngsters, including 20-something bosses. I may have exaggerated a little to make a point. The point being that Millennials see Baby Boomers as an alien culture. If you meet someone from Bavaria, you might ask them about life in Bavaria. To a youngster, the culture of the 1950s is as foreign as the Lost Tribes of Borneo. Don't expect them to ask, however. Their aversion to pre-BlackBerry America is a sort of generational xenophobia. A youngster doesn't dare admit to his friends that he actually knows who Charlie Chaplin is, for example. They'll fiercely deny any knowledge of Bozo the Clown. It's not cool to know stuff like that. It marks you as a dweeb.
     Youthful dread of old folks is nothing new. When I was a small boy, my mother commanded me to kiss Grandma on the cheek. The leathery, wrinkled skin! The pancake makeup! At that age my eyes were like magnifying glasses. As my lips approached the dreaded cheek, it was like a movie of a lunar landing. The mottled skin, the crater-like pores, came into sharp focus. Music from the Psycho shower scene filled the room. Mom didn't tell me not to wipe my lips! I offended poor Grandma. I came within an inch of a good thrashing. From then on I not only had to kiss Grandma's cheek, I had to pretend I liked it!
     When Beatlemania swept the planet, my parents joined the rest of their generation in dismissing the Beatles' music as just a lot of noise. To them, the only real pop music was tunes from the Big Band era. How could they be so narrow-minded?
     Now the tables have turned. Kids are sick of hearing how great the Beatles were. That's music for old fogeys. When it comes to most rap music, I'm like my parents. It's just a lot of noise. Now that I'm a narrow-minded old fossil, I'll stick to the dreadful music from my era (Neil Young, Dylan, the Clash, Creedence, Midnight Oil, etc.).

     I have a lot of confidence in today's youngsters, in spite of the shortcomings I've noted. I think they somehow will find a way to grapple with the mess we're leaving them. They're not dummies. They just aren't smart in traditional ways old grouches use to gauge intelligence (general knowledge, acting responsibly, basic competence). They are industrious and optimistic. Thanks to the multi-tasking craze their work habits are a bit sloppy. (Multi-tasking is just a byproduct of Attention Deficit Disorder.) When these kids learn to focus their full attention on a task, I'm sure they will make the world a better place.

Geritol vs. Red Bull

In my years growing up, Geritol (as in "geriatric") was one of the most heavily-advertised products. It was marketed to the older set whose get up and go got up and went.
You would think such products would be more popular than ever with the depends and dentures crowd, who need a boost just to maintain a pulse.
But no. Today's energy drink craze turns logic upside down. Energy drinks are the cool lifestyle enhancer for young active adults who should already have energy to burn. They need a potent brew of exotic herbs and stimulants to get through all those extreme sports, clubbing, and non-stop partying. I'm sure they can use the help to maintain a competitive edge over the old farts!

Just a Lot of Folderlol

The senior citizen stereotype is the pathetic wretch set in his ways, hostile to change or innovation. Baby boomers have adapted to more change and innovation than any generation since the Bronze Age. Imagine living through the advent of jet travel, faxes, copiers, email, personal computers, the Internet, voice mail, cell phones, men in space, texting, microwave ovens, stereo, color television and the TV remote. These make good conversation starters with the youngsters in your life.
     "Would you believe, at one time there was no such thing as a microwave?"
     "Wow, Grandpa! How did you cook your Hot Pockets?"
     Baby boomers were also around at the dawn of credit cards, the Pill, voting for 18-year-olds, the civil rights movement, feminism, gay rights, and McDonald's.
     Like my fellow baby boomers, I have adapted quite gracefully to gadgets, new protocols, processes and procedures. When it comes to LOL, however, I'm just an old fuddyduddy. You couldn't pay me to use LOL. I make it a rule never to laugh at my own jokes, LOL. If I think something is funny, I'll just say "that's funny." I don't need those cute emoticons to get my point across. -:)
     Some things aren't LOL funny. They are chuckleworthy (COL) or giggleworthy (GOL). Things can send you into paroxysms of laughter (POL), or they can be So Funny I Forgot to Laugh (SFIFL).

Another one is finger quotes. I would feel like a big jerk flashing dorky bent peace signs to emphasize something I'm saying. I only use finger quotes when I'm mocking people who use finger quotes (like Dr. Evil here).
     Then there's the expression "It is what it is." Is it supposed to be profound? It's the ultimate empy-headed sentiment. I'll always be hostile to the expression because it's the one my 20-something boss used when he fired me.
     "Why am I being fired?"
     "It is what it is." (Cue Dragnet theme)

Strength in Numbers?

In a few years, senior citizens will make up a bigger chunk of the population than any generation since the Civil War. You might think that would be a good thing for old farts. With so many of us around, won't that make the culture a bit more friendly to the elderly?
     Not likely. Senior citizens will drain society's resources like never before. Social Security and Medicare will probably go broke. Decrepit oldsters will swamp our medical facilities. Slow drivers will clog our streets and highways. When they venture out to stores or restaurants, youngsters will be forever tripping over feeble old pukes as they struggle along with their walkers.
     I keep seeing articles that millions of seniors will keep working because they want to "feel useful" or "stay busy." Bullshit. Most of them can't afford to retire. They are irresponsible Baby Boomers who were too busy living for today to think about tomorrow. When they should have been saving for retirement, their disposable income went up in pot smoke. Why should our children and grandchildren bear the burden of their profligate ways?
     They will have to keep working until they die. They will only qualify for menial entry-level jobs typically taken by deserving young newcomers to the job market. The competition will be fierce. Seniors will be blamed for a steep decline in entry-level wages.
     Society will get fed up with all these doddering old geezers who won't just die already. They will be seen as a hindrance to the good life youngsters feel entitled to. Who can blame them? Natural cultural animosity will fester into seething resentment toward the elderly.
     Something to look forward to, eh?

The Death of an Old Friend

Before I understood that youngsters don't want to hear anything from an old fart, I made the mistake of offering a single piece of advice to my young co-workers. I suggested that they save for retirement. "I'll start in my 30s," they'd say, "when I'm making more money. I want to enjoy life while I can. I still have plenty of time." They don't understand that time has a fiendish way of spinning out of control. The earlier you start, the more you'll have at the finish line. It's tempting to put it off until it becomes an emergency. By then, it's too late. When you're in your 50s you won't miss the money you put away in your 20s. You won't look back and say "I was such a fool to save that money. I deprived myself of so much fun." You can have fun and save.
     "Who knows, I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. What good will the money do me then?" Well, you can do, or refrain from doing, just about anything based on the assumption you'll be hit by a bus tomorrow.
     You'll want to have fun when you're old, too. They picture retirement as forced immobilization, anything but fun. As bizarre a concept as it may seem, there is still fun to be had. You need to finance the fun. (Yeah, but it's not really fun. They're just trying to recapture their youth.) As they sail into middle age, people work out a "bucket list" of things to do before it's too late. If you can't finance your list of cool adventures, you're in a sorry state. That dream of climbing Mt. Everest or kayaking down the Amazon may remain just that, a dream never to be fulfilled.

Of course they don't want to hear it. I'm just an old geezer who regrets not saving more. I spent most of my worklife before there was such a painless program as a 401(k). Don't worry, they probably think, I'm not about to make any of your mistakes.
     Now I maintain self-restraint, not only in my dealings with youngsters, but with everyone. Listening is a lost art. People want to talk, not listen. Why waste your breath? Assuming anyone would listen, this is what I would tell a youngster about dealing with old farts.

We all start with a clean slate, full of hope that our life will be a pretty picture. Before long, some of us have created a Ralph Steadman nightmare. Good deeds, clean living and righteousness can't undo it. It tends to weigh on a person.
     Stooped shoulders aren't entirely a physical manifestation of age. The psychic burden carried by the elderly should bend them in half. They may feel they've been shortchanged somehow. They may be roiling with regret and resentment, reliving missed opportunities, poor choices, wrong turns, botched opportunities, bungled endeavors, slights, injustices, humiliations great and small, and a laundry list of unresolved grievances. They may feel hurt at finding themselves among society's castoffs.
     I think of the movie The Mission. Robert De Niro plays Mendoza, a slaver who hopes to redeem himself through a grueling penance. He pulls an impossibly heavy bundle full of weapons up the steep face of a waterfall in South America. He endures heartbreaking agony as he struggles with the bundle. At last, his burden is cut away. He weeps, then laughs. If only someone could cut away the burden shouldered the elderly. No one can. They have to cut it for themselves.

Nearly every day you hear about the death of a famous person, like Jack Lalanne. My earliest childhood memories include Jack Lalanne on TV. I was there when he marked his 60th birthday by towing a boatload of sand bags from Alcatraz to the Aquatic Park in San Francisco. Shackled and lashed to the boat, he pulled it with a machine-like breast stroke.
     Lalanne was like an old friend. Even if I live as long as Jack, which isn't likely, I don't have much time. When I was 30 years younger, the death of a famous person didn't faze me much. Oh, Bob Hope died? Too bad.
     Reminders of mortality now give me a shudder. Other than being feeble, halt, slow-witted, and losing IQ points by the minute, this is what sets senior citizens apart. It's dread of the clock running out. It's my first thought upon awakening. Great, survived another day.

You don't need to patiently listen to old folks relive their glory days. They mistakenly assume someone will find their story as funny or fascinating as they do. Senior citizens shouldn't be pitied or patronized. Tell them to write a memoir no one will read. The blank page or screen will soak up anything they have to say. They can join an online message forum, adopt a moniker like "CrankyOldBuzzard" and post angry rants, flame their opponents.

     Even a good storyteller can't find an audience these days. Mark Twain would be just another geezer on a park bench, sharing it quietly. No 20-year-old can imagine what it's like to be 70. Paul Simon tried. What possessed a man in his 20s to write about the elderly is beyond me. The most he could say was it's "terribly strange." I'll go along with that.

Old friends
Old friends
Sat on their park bench
Like bookends
A newspaper blown through the grass
Falls on the round toes
Of the high shoes
Of the old friends

Old friends
Winter companions
The old men
Lost in their overcoats
Waiting for the sunset
The sounds of the city
Sifting through the trees
Settle like dust
On the shoulders
Of the old friends

Can you imagine us years from today
Sharing a park bench quietly?
How terribly strange to be seventy

Old friends
Memory brushes the same years
Silently sharing the same fear...

Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories; They're all that's left you.

Don't Worry

“Don't worry about me," he said. "The little limp means nothing. People my age limp. A limp is a natural thing at a certain age. Forget the cough. You move the stuff around. The stuff can't harm you as long as it doesn't settle in one spot and stay there for years. So the cough's all right. So is the insomnia. The insomnia's all right. What do I gain by sleeping? You reach an age when every minute of sleep is one less minute to do useful things. To cough or limp. Never mind the women. The women are all right. We rent a cassette and have some sex. It pumps blood to the heart. Forget the cigarettes. I like to tell myself I'm getting away with something. Let the Mormons quit smoking. They'll die of something just as bad. The money's no problem. I'm all set incomewise. Zero pensions, zero savings, zero stocks and bonds. So you don't have to worry about that. That's all taken care of. Never mind the teeth. The teeth are all right. The looser they are the more you can wobble them with your tongue. It gives your tongue something to do. Don't worry about the shakes. Everybody gets the shakes now and then. It's only the left hand anyway. The way to enjoy the shakes is pretend it's somebody else's hand. Never mind the sudden and unexplained weight loss. There's no point eating what you can't see. Don't worry about the eyes. The eyes can't get any worse than they are now. Forget the mind completely. The mind goes before the body. That's the way it's supposed to be. So don't worry about the mind. The mind is all right. Worry about the car . . ."

--Vernon Dickey, White Noise (Don Delillo)

Parting Shot
The AARP Magazine For Old Grouches

Voted off WikiHow
Taken to task for trying to be funny.

I originally posted this squib on a site called WikiHow. A link for WikiHow appeared one day on my email page. I innocently responded to the invitation to post my take on the cranky senior issue. My squib was greeted with a barrage of scathing comments:

     Support deletion. This is extremly mean spirited and sarcastic, and shows no respect for Seniors.

     Don't post joke topics here - this site is not a joke.

     The content is just nasty.

My post was promptly deleted by the self-appointed arbiters at WikiHow. This was before I knew about blogs. No such problem with a blog. True, you may not have readers but at least people leave you alone.

We welcome your comments
Is there a lighter side to aging?

I hope you enjoyed my look at the fate in store for all of us. Let me know your thoughts.

23 Cool Ways to Conquer Boredom

2009-10-01T08:04:00.000-07:00

Avoid Boredom at All Costs

All human endeavors are an effort to avoid or overcome boredom. Healthy responses range from reading a book to sending a rocket to the moon. Unhealthy responses include substance abuse, crime, and war.

Stifle Those Yawns
If you're bored you must be boring

What does a yawn signify? When someone catches me yawning, they are likely to say, "What's the matter? Are you bored?" I always deny being bored, even if I am. I guess it's because someone once told me If you're bored you must be boring. People will readily admit to all manner of nefarious faults, but accuse someone of being boring and you're hitting below the belt.
How can people not be bored? Most of us have mind-numbing jobs to which we travel the same monotonous route day after day. The dreary cityscape never changes. We see the same boring people. They can't help it. They're bored too.

Freud Didn't Tell the Whole Story
Here's what he really meant...

Freud had an interesting theory. He said sex underlies everything we do. He wasn't telling us everything, however. What really underlies all that we do is boredom, either avoiding it overcoming it. Freud didn't want to tell us that because it isn't as "sexy" as the theory behind psychoanalysis. He had to make a living, don't forget.
The last thing a patient paying $100 an hour wants to hear is, "The problem with you is, you're bored. Get a hobby. Find something to occupy yourself and you won't have time to think about your problems."
All human endeavors are an effort to avoid or overcome boredom. Healthy responses range from reading a book to sending a rocket to the moon. Unhealthy responses include substance abuse, crime, and war.

The Boredom Epidemic
Anti-Boredom Websites Proliferate

If you think boredom is just a peripheral issue in our culture, log onto an Internet search engine and type in "boredom." You'll get millions of hits, including organizations devoted to conquering boredom. Supposedly primitive cultures, meanwhile, like the lost tribes of Borneo, have no word for boredom.
When you visit anti-boredom websites, you'll find interesting suggestions for battling boredom, such as pretending you don't speak English when someone asks for directions or using Roman numerals on checks.
These suggestions appeal to me because they're slightly mischievous. They're what I call Groucho Strategies. As you may know, Groucho Marx was a film comedian who used verbal pranks to deflate society's airs and pretensions.

The Lost Tribes of Borneo Don't Have a Word For Boredom

Bliss - a-second-by-second joy and gratitude at the gift of being alive, conscious - lies on the other side of crushing, crushing boredom. Pay close attention to the most tedious thing you can find (Tax Returns, Televised Golf) and, in waves, a boredom like you've never known will wash over you and just about kill you. Ride these out, and it's like stepping from black and white into color. Like water after days in the desert. Instant bliss in every atom.

--David Foster Wallace

Groucho Strategy: The Absent-Minded Asker
How to deal with the boring person who asks a second or third time if you have kids

I have developed a Groucho-like verbal prank to deal with the boring person who asks a second or third time if I have kids. I'd like to say, If you'd been listening the first time we discussed this we wouldn't have to go over it again, but I'm too polite.
     In business (BS) settings, asking about kids is the textbook icebreaker. Some may ask with no intention of actually listening to your answer.
     I tell them about my apocryphal kids, Sandy and Dani. Sandy's the boy and Dani's the girl (an inversion of Grease). Dani is short for Danielle. Sandy got his name because he was conceived at the beach.
     Make them pay for their forgetfulness by throwing in some gory details. Complain about how your kids sponge off you. Say the boy drinks and the girl has a biker boyfriend.
     For some reason, after I tell them about Sandy and Dani, they never ask again.

The Challenge to Keep Your Mind Alive
We teach our kids to give in to boredom

Boredom has become more of a problem in recent years because we teach our kids to give in to it. Family minivans come with TVs for the kids to watch on long drives because it is unbearably boring to just sit and enjoy the scenery. It's less effort to give kids a mental pacifier than to encourage creativity.
     We must be ever vigilant against the evils of boredom. In the battle for perpetual entertainment, no child can be left behind. Under no circumstances should boredom be allowed to sully the innocent consciousness of a child.
     Imagine a parent giving a child this suggestion: "Why don't you look out the window and make a mental note of all the interesting things you see. Read the road signs. You might learn something."
     When I was a kid, we didn't have today's easy antidotes to tedium. I fought it by using my imagination. I pretended I had a ray gun that could slice through anything. As we sped along, my ray cut through trees, telephone poles, buildings, and mountains. I pretended I could sprint alongside the car. With lightning speed, I could dash over the landscape or zip away on expeditions beyond the horizon. I suppose that's a poor substitute for watching the Lion King on a built-in TV, but that's all I had.
     I memorized the routes to various destinations. I called out my Dad when he varied the route.
     "Dad, this is not the way to Disneyland."
     "I know, son. I have to swing by the bank first!"

Take Your Kids on a Boring Vacation
Unstructured time is the mother of creativity.

On a cross-country road trip, Sara Bongiorni's kids learn to entertain themselves.

"Last month, my husband and I completed what some of our friends considered a fool's errand: a 32-day, 5,232-mile camping trip from Louisiana to California and back with three children in our Volkswagen van..." Sara's story

Embrace Boredom

"...the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing..."

That's Jack Kerouac in On The Road. It sounds like he wouldn't have enjoyed being around someone who said something so commonplace as "I'm bored."
     I'm with Kerouac. I advocate being a rugged individualist. Take yourself in hand and fight it! Boredom is as much a part of the human condition as inspiration, heartbreak, or ambition. Relying on your own inner resources to banish boredom is life-affirming. Reaching for a pacifier is the coward's way. Don't be one of those sniveling gadget addicts who feels the onset of a panic attack if they can't be on the phone, texting, caressing their smart phone, or cradling their laptop every minute!
     That's not realistic, though. Let's face it, the tough-it-out approach doesn't work for everyone. Life's too short for symbolic battles. There are worse things than being bored.
     When you're caught yawning and accused of being bored, take the opposite tack: "Sure I'm bored. Aren't you? How can you not be bored."
     If coping with boredom is a struggle, why not just give in? Embrace boredom. "I'm bored and by God, I'm proud of it!" Seek out fellow comrades in tiresomeness, meisters of monotony, tenders of tedium, mavens of miasma.
     Something like 75% of all cell phone calls are made to combat boredom. If you're stuck in traffic, waiting in line, lost in the supermarket, why not give someone a call? Unlike you, they may not be bored, but they soon will be listening to the boring person that you are.

"I like boring things."

Leave it to Andy Warhol to devise a contrarian approach. He was probably one of the least boring people to ever live. Embracing boredom can be a workable strategy.

Groucho Strategy: The Boastful Vacationer
She can't wait to impress you with tasteful travels

How about the Boastful Vacationer, the world traveler who wants to bore you with a snobbish recital of their latest vacation? They want you to impress you with exploits that sound straight out of Travel & Leisure magazine. I like to disrupt their monologue with my own Groucho agenda.
     "We just got back from San Francisco. What a town. Fisherman's Wharf, Chinatown, Sausalito--"
     "Did you get up to the wine country?"
     "Well, no, we were only there a few days. We couldn't do everything."
     "That's too bad. I understand the wine country is really spectacular."
     As my victim runs down the list of all the tasteful things she saw and did, I will dwell on what was missed. "How about Monterey? I hear they have a great aquarium. No? Oh, well, maybe next time."

There Are Easier Ways to Overcome Boredom

Groucho Strategy: The Wait List
A cheap laugh at the headwaiter's expense

What's more boring than waiting for a table at a restaurant? I fight it by giving a false name for the waiting list. My favorite is Hackenbush. Some restaurants want your first name. That doesn't slow me down. I use Hackenbush anyway. If they question it, I tell them my first name is Hackenbush. In LA, use a distinctive celebrity name and watch heads turn when your name is announced: "Spielberg, party of four." At Mexican restaurants, I like to use an actual Spanish word: platano, which means banana. It amuses me to see someone keep a straight face and call out "Banana!"
At business functions, they sometimes let you fill out your own name tag. Don't pass up the chance prank people with a wacky moniker. My favorite is "Morris Teflon," from a Pynchon novel.

Groucho Strategy: The Ignoramus

I like to intentionally mispronounce things to see if someone will correct me. In the Los Angeles area say ROW-DEE-OH Drive for Rodeo Dr. You'll be corrected with a look of disdain thrown in. Use the New York pronunciation for Los Angeles: LOWSS-ANGLE-EASE. They hate it! A nearby bakery shop has an Asiago bagel. I know there's a fancy pronunciation, but I say ASIA-GO just so they'll correct me. Snob appeal goes hand-in-hand with a fancy pronunciation. The A&W fast food chain has cute names for their sandwiches (Papa Burger, Baby Burger, etc.). I refuse to play along. Gimme the $2.79 burger, I'll tell them. "You mean the Papa Burger." You said it, not me.

Iggy's Bored
Catchy pop tune captures the essence of terminal boredom. He even bores himself!

I'm bored

I'm the chairman of the bored,
I'm a lengthy monologue
I'm livin' like a dog

I'm sick
I'm sick of all my kicks
I'm sick of all the stiffs
I'm sick of all the dips

I'm bored

I bore myself to sleep at night
I bore myself in broad daylight coz

I'm bored
Just another slimey bore

Funny Money
Bills from a tablet prank

Make a tablet of bills: Get fresh bills from the bank. Fasten the bills in a stack with binder clips. Glue the top edge. Elmer's or a glue gun works fine.
     Hand out these bills as payment for everyday items. Make sure the person sees you peeling the bills from the tablet.
     I'm not sure why, but this gets a response. A tablet of bills is quite the novelty. They'll inspect the bill to see if it's real.
     I had it backfire once. I tipped a hair stylist with a bill from a tablet. "Thanks a lot," she said, and threw it straight in the trash. Another stylist fished it out. "I'll take it. Thanks!"
     I could see my stylist was getting ticked off, so I gave her another tip with a bill from the wallet. "OK, here's some real money," I said.
     Samantha, the second stylist, thought it was a hilarious prank. She became my new best friend. I ended up going to her for something like 5 years.

The Best of Stuntology
304 Pranks, Tricks & Challenges to Amuse & Annoy Your Friends

Much as I would like to claim exalted status as a banisher of boredom, a terminator of tedium, I am a mere dilettante.

Sam Bartlett has forgotten more about eradicating ennui than I'll ever know. This book is hilarious!

Affect A Lab Coat

Anyone can wear a lab coat. You don't have to have a prestigious medical or CSI job. But wearing a lab coat will give people the impression you're a high-class guy.

Look for a change in how people regard you when they think you're a Nobel scientist.

Did You Find Everything OK?
Pointless questions at the grocery store

When your friendly grocery checker asks if you found everything OK, they don't actually expect a report on your quest to make sense of the typical supermarket's deliberately confusing system of stocking shelves. It's just something they ask to sound friendly. It's not like they will actually drop what they are doing and mount a search for you.

For fun, report your disappointing search results.

"I couldn't find the Hebrew National salami."

"Do you have any ball peen hammers?"

"I looked high & low for Limburger cheese. Are you out?"

"I need ten pounds of kumquats."

They'll just give a blank look, dumbfounded that someone actually takes the question literally.

Do you want your milk in a bag?

They put all your groceries in a sack. Why would milk be a special exception? For more on this topic, please see my colleague Alonzo Garbonzo's discussion on Answerbag.

Try Something Different

Back when airlines offered meals, I requested a vegetarian meal when I booked my flight. At mealtime, a harried flight attendant told me there had been a mixup. There weren't enough vegetarian meals. A female passenger was pitching a fit. No problem, I told her. I surrendered my meal. The look of love she gave me made my day. I thought she wanted to hug me, kiss me, squeeze me. I would far rather make life better for a flight attendant than give her a hard time.
I thought an advantage of vegetarianism was it made you mellow. You don't have meat stirring those primal instincts. You wouldn't pitch a fit. Unlike the lady passenger, I didn't care about the meal. I only ordered it out of curiousity, just to try something different. When you try something new, you never know what it might lead to.

Adopt an NFL Player

If you're a wealthy family with 82 fast food outlets, consider adopting an NFL player. (OK, it probably won't be that simple. The Tuohy family adopted Michael Oher when he was a troubled, homeless teenager).

Boring Links
Write your college thesis on boredom. The material is endless.

"...escape from boredom is one of the really powerful desires of almost all human beings." --Bertrand Russell, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, 1950

"Boredom is a vital problem for the moralist, since at least half the sins of mankind are caused by the fear of it." --Bertrand Russell, The Conquest of Happiness

Bertrand Russell - Nobel Lecture - Don't listen to a mental midget like me. Bertrand Russell is one of the world's great thinkers. See what he had to say about boredom.

Take the Boredom Quiz - This is the boredom proneness scale developed by university researchers in the 1980s.

I Am Bored - Sites for when you're bored - Are you bored? I-Am-Bored.com lists places to go when you are feeling bored.

Song Meanings at Songfacts - Songfacts.com - Song meanings and song information, including album and chart position. Music trivia, title search, lyrics.

MenWhoLookLikeKennyRogers.com - Ever notice that a lot of men look like Kenny Rogers? MWLLKR is a funny, witty, humorous website in honor of Kenny Rogers.

How to Flummox a Telemarketer - Author Lee Ballantyne is taking his time getting on the Do No Call List. "I'm sure I dislike being bugged at suppertime just as much as you do, but I haven't yet signed up... My reason is selfish... it would spoil all my fun."

Shakespeare Insults Dictionary - Visit this site dedicated to William Shakespeare including a Shakespeare Insults Dictionary. Have fun with a Shakespeare Insults Dictionary.Laugh with the Shakespeare Insults Dictionary.

Boredom Patrol: CIRCA - Clandestine Insurgent Rebel Clown Army - The lengths to which some people go to keep boredom at bay. Great source of inspiration for boredom busters.

Fight Workout Boredom - We all experience those moments of utter boredom with our workouts. It happens. We are fickle creatures and we crave change. I am always looking for tricks to bust through those workout doldrums and break on through to the other side.

Excitement, boredom' can trigger arson - Arsonists can appear to be far more "normal" than people think, a psychologist says. A spate of deadly arson fires in Australia may not have been set by a raving pyromaniac. The culprit could have been someone who was merely bored.

trendhunter.com - New trends and ideas.

Doodling While Bored - People may associate doodling with boredom, but new research shows it may actually help your memory!

Skittles Vodka - That's right, Skittles vodka. Trust Squibbage to bring you the latest on the anti-boredom front.

American Visionary Art Museum - Not an anti-boredom site, but an interesting site.

Get Out of Your Comfort Zone
The 4-Hour Work Week: Escape 9-5, Live Anywhere, and Join the New Rich

If you're looking for a guide to help jolt you out of your boring rut, you can't do better than Timothy Ferriss's "Comfort Challenges." My favorite is "Relax in Public":

Once per day for two days, simply lie down in the middle of a crowded public place at some point. Lunchtime is ideal... Just lie down and remain silent on the ground for about ten seconds... It isn't enough to think outside the box. Thinking is passive. Get used to acting outside the box.

No, I never had the nerve to try it.

Timothy Ferriss Bueller's Day Off

Ferris Bueller, the lovable rapscallion of the comedy classic Ferris Bueller's Day off, is based on a concept by Mark Twain.
     In his classic The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Twain gives an early example of outsourcing when young Tom uses reverse psychology to get his neighborhood pals to whitewash a fence for him.
     While Bueller doesn't outsource his chores he is, like Tom Sawyer, a legendary school ditcher/system gamer. As Bueller explains it,
     "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."
     Ferris Bueller is wise beyond his years. And so is Timothy Ferriss. . .Here's the rest of my Review (0 of 3 helpful!).

Case Studies

At one point it appeared that the stock market, barometer of American wealth, could only go up. There were predictions of 36,000, even 100,000 for the Dow-Jones Industrial Average. Why not? Corporate profits were accelerating.
     Executive compensation is tied to stock price. Soaring profits, zooming stock price, ballooning paychecks. The market punishes disappointment. Companies that report earnings that fall a penny or two short of "guidance," or their forecast for quarterly profits, see shares plunge in a vicious selloff. Executive bonuses could wither. Uh-oh, can't buy that summer home in the Hamptons just yet. Dang, stuck with that 100-foot yacht for another season. Shoot, can't buy that resort in Aspen I had my eye on.
     Steady profits are boring. They must skyrocket, set records. Getting rich at a steady clip, having the finer things in abundance, are BORING. A salary of only 50 million is chickenfeed. 500 million--now that's more like it. What was that Costco CEO thinking, only taking a salary of $350,000, with no raise for seven years?
     Everyone shrugged off Enron. Those freaks. Just an isolated case. I'm sure it occurred to some observers that Enron was just the first drop in the coming deluge. We've seen it all before. How could Enron be the only company that wouldn't succumb to the siren song of concocting profits out of thin air? Crackpots on the fringes of finance sounded the alarm. No one listened.
     The guys who destroyed Enron were rank amateurs. The flimflam artists at AIG figured out a way to destroy a company while not only keeping their jobs but their obscene bonuses too.

Boredom in the Suites
A few decades back, the masterminds who make Coca-Cola decided the public was bored with the soda's flavor. So they shitcanned the legendary recipe and introduced New Coke. New Coke was soundly rejected by cola connoisseurs. It only took the company 20 years to admit their mistake. Consumers weren't bored, it was the corporate chieftains. It wasn't enough to just let a money machine like Coke hum along undisturbed. It's boring to earn a fat salary tending a goldmine.
     The overlords of the Sci-Fi Channel became bored with the 17-year success of their enterprise and scrapped Sci-Fi for "Syfy."
     "The brand needed a little refreshing," said a spokesman quoted recently in the New York Times. It's Coca-Cola all over again.
     Let's hope there will be an upside to this meltdown: Maybe the next generation of money moguls will be content to run businesses that just make respectable but boring profits.

A Cup of Adversity for Starbucks
Starbucks is the latest example of boredom in the board room. Over the past few years, the company has endured a humbling retrenchment after decades of hyper-caffeinated growth. Uncertain times in a post-bubble economy have made some of America's leading corporate enterprises freak out. They're haunted by memories of raking in so much money they couldn't count it fast enough. Acquisition and expansion proceeded at a dizzying pace. When it all grinds to a halt, it's too boring to just bide your time and weather the downturn. Typical retrenchment maneuvers don't cut it. It's not enough to lay off a few thousand nonessential workers, close underperforming outlets, then trust your business model to pull you through.
     Shareholders are spoiled by earnings setting records every quarter. They want action! A corporate raider like Carl Ichan could swoop in and remove CEO Howard Schultz, the visionary who led one of the great business success stories of the 20th Century. Desperate measures are called for. Other than normal business cycles of froth and fizzle, there must be some reason our company is floundering. The logo! Let's fix the logo and everything will be peachy again. The new logo, says Schultz, "gives us the freedom and flexibility to think beyond coffee."* The move assures shareholders he is doing something to revive stellar growth. How many millions will they waste retrofitting 16,000 outlets?
     The new logo is part of Starbucks' attempt at "rebranding," a fad that gains traction when a company hits a speed bump on the corporate superhighway. CEOs begin to question whether the business model is still valid. In Starbucks' case, McDonald's and 7-Eleven are capturing a larger share of the designer drink market by imitating Starbucks. Sensing an enduring threat, Starbucks decides they need to be more like the competition. Instead of thinking beyond coffee, Schultz could decide to think more than ever about coffee. He could focus on innovation. He could launch an initiative to improve the stores and upgrade the Starbucks experience. But that would be boring.

*It could be that Schultz is more of a visionary than we give him credit for. Maybe Starbucks was just a phenomenon of the prosperous decades of the '80s and '90s. Rebranding could be the strategy that assures Starbucks survival for the post-Great Recession era. After all, if Sears had rebranded in the 1980s, they might have fended off Walmart and would still be the world's largest retailer.

Logomania Hits The Gap
Gap Inc.'s North American President Marka Hansen had an epiphany last year (2010). Jazz up the logo! Ms. Hansen has departed The Gap after taking over the reins in 2007. When a once high-flying retailer hits the doldrums, boredom sets in like a killer fog. It's not as if the Gap was losing money. They just weren't making it fast enough to keep everyone spellbound. Like so many hotshot executives before her, Ms. Hansen thought a logo makeover would somehow jolt the Gap onto a new fast track. The few remaining Gap loyalists came out of the woodwork to blast the new design. The company quickly reinstated the unappreciated old logo, thought so recently to be an albatross around the company's neck. Until the logo debacle, Ms. Hansen's career had been an inspiring story of female executive success. It took 20 years for her to work her way up through the ranks.

Boring Comments

Don't show off and be witty here. People are trying to sleep.
This post is dedicated to Ron Polonsky, my boring mentor.

Port Orford, Oregon: Where Life Slows to a Crawl

2009-09-30T10:12:00.000-07:00

Don't be in a hurry when you visit. You will miss a lot.

The population has held steady at about 1,200 since 1960. In some ways, a visit to the fishing village of Port Orford is a trip back to simpler times.

Garrison Lake
Who's Garrison?

The lake gets its name from the garrison where the original native inhabitants were imprisoned before being shipped north to the reservation. The Oregon Department of Fish & Wildlife keeps the lake stocked with trout for all you anglers. Impatient tourists zip through town without realizing the lake is even here.

Kayaking on Garrison Lake. It doesn't get much better than this. You probably can't see that godawful subdivision from here. The ocean is just over the dune. The glorious gloom is overwhelming(ly beautiful).

Deer browse freely in the neighborhoods around Garrison Lake. It must be because they have very gentle neighbors. This shot was taken with a simple snapshot camera from a few feet away.

Don't Californicate Oregon
Quick bucks didn't materialize for the developer of this ghost subdivision carved from the woods fronting Garrison Lake. Trees were felled to enhance the view. Rumor has it a name was picked out for the dreadful development: The Stumps.

I hope a special punishment awaits the perpetrator.

Port Orford Has Managed to Preserve Its Humanity

The main drag: No traffic lights and a speed limit of 30 mph. My kind of place.

Port Orford doesn't have traffic signals. The main drag through town has a speed limit of 30 mph. To most of the civilized world 30 mph is insanely slow. Sure, the main drag through Laguna Beach, California also has a 30 mph limit. No one takes it seriously. Port Orford has squad cars for people like that.
It's worth slowing to a crawl for once to admire this unpretentious town. Over the few days I visited Port Orford I found myself wishing it never would have a traffic light. I would love to live in such a place, a place that retains its humanity while the rest of the world cherishes unbridled growth and an ever-quickening pace. Port Orford is a place where you can slow down and enjoy life. People here actually step outside to take calls on their cell phones.

Dimitri's Mural
A mysterious drifter shows his gratitude for the kindly treatment he received from Port Orford citizenry.

Photo courtesy Valerie Kramer, Port Orford Today. Click on picture to view larger image on Flickr.

From Port Orford Today No. 31, August 14, 2008:

"There's a new mural in Port Orford and it has been painted on the west facing wall of the Port and Starboard Restaurant. The story all began when an itinerant sign painter and artist named Dimitri stopped in at the Port and Starboard one night around 11 p.m. tired and hungry. He had walked down from Bandon and was on his way to San Diego. The restaurant part of the business was closed but the bar was opened and Dimitri asked for something to eat though he didn't have enough money to pay for a meal. Manager David Smith told Dimitri it would be an honor to make him a sandwich and feed him while a customer offered to buy him a beer.
"Dimitri found a place to stay across the street at the Madrona 101 RV Park thanks to owner Michael Dodson. It turned out that Dimitri is an artist and itinerant sign painter and next thing up he painted a beautiful nautical themed mural on the Highway 101 facing wall of the Port and Starboard. It features a dolphin, whale, an old sea Captain, a mermaid, a lighthouse and dunes with strange creatures on them. Dimitri had other offers to paint other murals in Port Orford. But once he completed the one for the restaurant he moved on with other goals in mind leaving behind this town a little more colorful.
"Bless you too Dimitri and isn't this a good lesson that what goes around comes around."

This is a perfect Port Orford story. If you spend some time there it's easy to believe people would be that friendly. The mural is the kind of spontaneous fun that can happen in a small town. No permits had to be obtained, no hearings held. They just did it.

The weekly Port Orford Today is a good way to catch up on all PO doings. Every issue is archived online.

Java John's
The view from his living room is spectacular.

The popular hangout faces the wrecking ball after the summer of '08

Java John's is the must-visit place in Port Orford if you can get there around the 7 a.m. opening and hang out with various fishermen, artists, poets, and assorted iconoclasts. Java John himself is your gracious host. As you depart, he will always thank you and wish you a great day.
     The cafe has a relaxing living-room atmosphere. This living room has a fabulous view of the scenic wonders of Port Orford's Battle Rock, the surrounding forested hillsides and the beach with waves gently massaging the shore.
     Java John's offers a Starbucks-like array of coffees and novelty drinks to please diverse tastes. The cafe is easily the friendliest and most entertaining hangout in town. John will show you how to read the tide tables, a subject of great interest in these parts.

     Here's a tip. If you're out for breakfast, get coffee at Java John's first. All of the breakfast spots in town serve lousy coffee. By that I mean a weak, tasteless brew that's essentially decaf. Only Port & Starboard has decent coffee that they grind on the spot. But you can't top Java John's.

Battle Rock Park, just outside Java John's. Yeah, it's gloomy. That's what it's all about.

John says he's barely scraping by. That's not because of any evident shortcoming on his part. He treats customers with genuine care and concern. You can see the pride he has put into his comfy shop. The soft-spoken businessman is also president of the Port Orford city council. He survived a November recall ballot. Controversy erupted over proposed zoning changes at Battle Rock Park.
John says the retail strip that houses his shop will be leveled after the summer of '08 to make way for an upscale restaurant. One of the restaurant's investors is glass artist Chris Hawthorne, who has a studio about ten miles up the Sixes River near Port Orford. John hopes to land a role in the restaurant's operation.
Making John part of the team would be a smart move for the new restaurant. John could train employees in the fine art of serving customers. The service workers in the area could sure use it.

OK, here's Java John's front yard when the weather is "better." That's Humbug Mountain.

The Road to Cape Blanco
It's Probably a Fun Drive at 65 mph. I Wouldn't Know.

The view from the road.

Impatient tourists fly down this peaceful country road as fast as automotive engineering and driving skill allow. Here is a glimpse of what they miss.

Native Curly Horses. The hypoallergenic breed is a rarity in the horse universe.

Elk

Sizable cattle and sheep operations flourish in the area.

Hughes House-Tours are offered on the same schedule as the Cape Blanco Lighthouse.

The End of The Road
One of the Westernmost Points in the Continental US

Cape Blanco Lighthouse-Tours 10-3:30 Wednesday-Sunday. Open Holidays. Closed the day after a holiday. You are not allowed to roam the grounds. You can drive out to the tour center.

The view from the end of the road. People who drive up typically spend about 30 seconds checking things out, maybe a snap, then they're on their way.

Dogfight At the End of the Road
Combat Wings dudes get belly laughs while enoying one of the most breathtaking settings imaginable.

Enjoy a thrilling dogfight. Yes, they deliberately crash into one another!

Port Orford Public Library
The new facility is 4 times larger than the former quarters at City Hall.

The library opened Independence Day '08. Yes, you can get online here.

I'm told that the impressive new library was funded entirely through private donations, including the land.
The former facility, more of a reading room than a real library, occupied a cramped space at the Port Orford City Hall. A modest cinder block structure, City Hall housed not only government offices but the police department.
It says a lot about Port Orford that they would devote precious space to a library. Thanks to about $24,000 in donated material and labor for renovation, the police department is moving into the vacated library quarters, giving city employees much-needed breathing room.

Pacific Wind Riders Association Horse Playday

This 7-year-old prodigy was the star of the day.

Sometimes an unpretentious event like this can be more fun than an organized big-money affair. The horsey wingding was held right in town, at Buffington Park.

B & B Farm Supply
Trader Joe's for Barnyard Critters

There are easily more animals than humans around these parts. That's where B & B Farm Supply comes in. Find it in the hamlet of Langlois just up the road. This store is about as much fun as you can have in a retail establishment largely due to the proprietor, an adorable country gal. She's a backwoods poet and raconteur. I could listen to her all day. I was too shy to get her name, not wanting to put things on a different footing. I was afraid she might clam up.
The store itself is one of those fascinating feedstores you can browse through and marvel at the myriad items and implements farmers need. It's filled with the wonderful aroma of hay and alfalfa. They have a cute cat (17 years old) and a friendly pooch.
The store hasn't been there forever. The building used to house a repair shop for logging trucks like this, one of dozens that rumble through town every day.

Blacklock Point
You Are Sworn to Secrecy

The lady at B & B Farm Supply was kind enough to tell me about this place. The hike in is a flat mile or so. The day we visited, it was absolutely deserted. If you find it, don't breathe a word. Let's keep it to ourselves.

Cars on the Beach--Yuk
Why Are People Allowed to Take Joyrides on These Beautiful Beaches?

Sure, Florida has car races on the beach, but that's Florida. Oregon seems so enlightened.

I thought it was really misguided of Oregon to allow people to joyride their cars up and down the beach. That was before I found out about the Beach Bill and how it happened that Oregon's beaches became public. Not some, but all.
     It's inspiring to think it could happen in the good ol' US of A, so entrenched are the moneyed interests, so willingly do people surrender to the mantra of progress at any price. This is a case where the people won bigtime.
     Motoring on the beaches is an Oregon tradition dating back to the late 1800s when the motors were horses drawing wagons. In 1913 Governor Oswald West persuaded the legislature to protect all beaches from developers by declaring them a highway. The Beach Bill finally assured the status of Oregon's beaches as public property.
     With that perspective, I don't worry about cars on beaches. They're a symbol of an amazing victory for people power.

Check the progress of the Java John's demolition. The retail strip is on the north side of the parking lot just ahead. It looks like new restaurant/strip mall is well under way.

Try These Links
Port Orford Snaps The photos for this post were taken with a simple Kodak snapshot camera. They look far better in full-size format. For example, you can actually see the kayakers on Garrison Lake. Here's the set on Flickr.

Hellish Dec. 07 Storm The Wild Wind Cafe & Bakery shown in the video is now defunct.

Port Orford & Cape Blanco Storm & Weather Updates

Oregon Dungeness Crab Commission Crab season runs December through August. Grab your pots! The Oregon Dungeness Crab Commission (ODCC) serves the crab production industry, the seafood trade and the general public in a variety of ways.

PortOrford.tv Underground television for Oregon's South Coast.

Port Orford Lifeboat Station Museum The Port Orford Lifeboat Station (Coast Guard Station #318) was built in 1934 to provide lifesaving service to the southern portion of the Oregon coast. The station went defunct in 1970.

Port Orford Weather
The Southern Oregon coast is a gloom lover's paradise. Check out today's chances of getting a sunburn.

Businesses Are Going Belly-up. Who'll be Next?
I couldn't believe such a gorgeous woman was serving me coffee at the Paradise Cafe. The encounter ended badly.

My first stop in Port Orford was breakfast at the Paradise Cafe. The young waitress looked something like the actress Winona Ryder. I imagined her as a recent high school graduate working her first job. That would explain her youthful enthusiasm.
     I overheard her tell a customer that she was the restaurant's proprietor! I'm a big admirer of entrepreneurs. I wanted to salute her, to congratulate her enterprising spirit. She seemed so approachable, I risked a conversational gambit.
     "Do you ever watch Chef Ramsay?"
     She bristled. "I don't watch much TV," she said, her tone suggesting disapproval of TV on moral grounds. I should have dropped it, but I wanted her to know I wasn't a typical TV-watching degenerate. I explained that Chef Ramsay's show had a legitimate educational component.
     She backed away like I carried the Ebola virus.
     In hindsight, I guess it was crass of me to mention Chef Ramsay since his specialty is to rescue failing restaurants. I didn't know I'd touched a sore spot. I later found out that two restaurants had only recently gone belly up (as of Memorial Day '08). With the $4 gas slowdown in tourism, who knew where it would end? $5 gas might kill the tourist trade altogether.

Jimi the Artist
Another Pollock?

When I asked Sandee about Jimi, she was quick to respond: "I love him." When I jokingly asked Finch about placing Jimi's works in his gallery, his easy chuckle momentarily deserted him.
     You probably won't quickly forget a visit to the roadside studio of Jimi the Artist. I'm not a connoisseur, so you can't go by my word. I didn't know what to make of the stuff. All I can say is it's something to see. He has an interesting black light room.
     Looking back on my trip, I still think about the wacky scene and shake my head. Jimi's quite the guy. Why he isn't famous like Jackson Pollack is beyond me.
     To find Jimi's studio, you have to go way up the road almost to Bandon. It's on the right, not far past the wildlife safari.

Greasy Spoon Cafe
Who can pass it by?

As soon as I saw it, I had to stop in. On our second visit, some next generation bikers came in. They looked to be 30ish, clean cut, wholesome. They drove those quiet motorcycles that sort of purr. I guess a real biker would say these kids were wusses. They said they were from Montana.
     One of them said, "You can't go by a place like this. You see the sign 'Greasy Spoon' and you have to stop in." Exactly.
     First things first: Don't bother with the coffee. What they serve is scarcely recognizable as coffee. Make other arrangements. Otherwise you can get a good breakfast here. They have mouth waterin' thick bacon.
     But it's really more about the experience, watching the locals wander in to catch up on gossip and so on. People love to come here.

The day I snapped this picture there was a nice little rainstorm going on. "Liquid sunshine" they call it around these parts, as in "I hope you are enjoying our liquid sunshine."
     When I clicked the shutter, someone said "I thought I saw a flash."
     "I didn't hear any thunder," someone replied. I kept quiet. Heh heh heh.
     The Greasy Spoon Cafe is on the way to Bandon, right next door to B & B Farm Supply. A few steps down from B & B is the Langlois Market, known for world-class hotdogs.

Hwy 101 Liquor/Finch's Custom Jewelry
If You Get a Hankerin' for Strong Drink (between 10 and 6)

Finch is a burly biker who looks like he could crush your head like a grape. He has a soothing James Earl Jones voice. When I suggested a sideline in voice-overs and narration, he responded with the easy chuckle of someone who has the world by the cojones. He owns Port Orford's only liquor store, a monopoly guaranteed by Oregon's archaic Liquor Control Commission. The only gripe I heard from Finch is his need to tend the store for 8 or 9 hours a day, six days a week (summer hours are 10-7). I assume Finch isn't comfortable trusting his business to an employee, which is understandable.
     Finch graciously gave me a tour of his operation, including the his-n-hers Harleys parked in a corner of his custom jewelry emporium. The small gallery features paintings by his mother Patricia. He has an extensive workshop behind display cases that hold his jewelry collection. Finch's works would appeal to a broad spectrum of jewelry fanciers, especially bikers.
     With a state-granted monopoly, Finch could easily cop an attitude toward customers. After all, the nearest competitor is in Gold Beach, some 26 miles away. Yet he's very attentive to anyone who walks in, big spender or piker like me. (You can get beer or wine at grocery stores.)
     The Finch you meet at his store/gallery is just one side of this multifaceted hombre. One of the town's leading citizens, he's been a member of the city council since 2004.
     Election update, Nov. 2008: Voters didn't return Milton Finch to the city council. I don't know Finch but my guess is he's not losing sleep over it. He was known to stalk out of coucil meetings muttering expletives. He's still serving Port Orford on the parks commission. Scott Luhr (Little Shop of Horrors), meanwhile was elected to his first term on the council as the top vote getter! (Port Orford has 717 voters.)

The Little Shop of Horrors
A Retired Nurse's Kitsch Quest

There's nothing at all horrifying about this little shop. It occupies an obscure location down a side street and probably doesn't get much tourist trade. It's like wandering into what was called a "variety store" back in the day. The proprietor is another adorable gal, retired nurse Sandee Luhr. When I visited, she was trying to come to terms with being ripped off to the tune of $200 by local shoplifters. She obviously isn't in it for the money but to share her fascination for kitschy merchandise. So you have to wonder: Why? How could they do this to such a kindly person?

Galleries, art shops, antiques and collectibles
Trinkets, souvenirs, knicknacks and whatnots, geegaws, zoozoos and wamwams

Port Orford has scads of cute galleries and trinket shops. Your intrepid explorers were so enthralled with outdoor beauty that we neglected them.
Did I mention we enjoyed the glorious gloomy weather? We reveled in every minute of the rain, fog, the chill winds and the mist.

Postscript: TiVO Travel
How to Have Fun: Keep the Itinerary Tentative

A lot of people make travel a TiVO experience. Fast-forward through the boring parts. What's boring about travel? Well, just about everything when you're fixated on the next stop and where you have to be by day's end.
     Some lay out a strict itinerary, dividing the day into increments that are judiciously alloted to each point of interest. It's sightseeing, not traveling.
     Not that there's anything wrong with sightseeing. You're less receptive to distractions that make travel rewarding, however. You're less likely to hang around for an epic dogfight put on by combat wings dudes. Not on the itinerary. Skip it.
     Port Orford doesn't offer much for sightseers because you have to slow down and pay attention. A lot of what's worth seeing isn't prominently displayed. You have to head down side roads. When people find out you have to travel five miles down a country road to get to Cape Blanco, the TiVO mentality kicks in. Step on the gas! Let's get this over with.

Bonus: The Finger Wave
Driving a nearby country road I had an old codger give me the finger wave.

It's not the act of hostility you might be thinking of. The finger wave is an old-fashioned backcountry greeting used by good ol' boys and gals. It's an understated wave: it just says hey bud, not HELLO IT'S ME! I'M WAVING!
     As your right hand grips the steering wheel, you signal the passing motorist by lifting your index finger. The other driver may or may not notice. Feelings aren't ruffled if the other person doesn't respond.
     The classic backcountry steering wheel grip was to drape an arm over the steering wheel, resting your wrist on the wheel around the 12 o'clock position.

Your free hand might be holding a smoke or a beverage, you might hang your left arm out the window, or put your right arm around your baby. The finger wave probably sprang from this style of steering. You acknowledge the other driver without removing your hand from the wheel.
     Safety concerns might be a factor in the origins of the finger wave. But it's also the perfect understated masculine greeting, similar to the almost imperceptible nod men use to acknowledge each other.
     Today's race car steering wheels make the classic arm-drape impractical, but the finger wave survives on the backroads of America.

Bonus: Keeping Up With the Bandons
Port Orford Comes to Grips With The Tourist Economy

No signals and a 30 mph speed limit are symbols of the identity crisis Port Orford faces. Someday there will be traffic lights. There will be pressure to raise the speed limit to keep up with the times. It's a place that would like to be left alone to go about its business without intrusion from pesky outsiders. Yet, outsiders are desperately needed for the region's survival. Outsiders are needed to bring Port Orford into the 21st Century.
     When you first arrive in Port Orford, people may openly gape at you. You are as likely to be greeted with a sneer as with a smile. While I waited for the public library to open, a city employee came out of the attached government complex and gave me a scowl of contempt. It wasn't the only such look I got from a local.
     The area's friendliness overpowers the suspicion of outsiders, however. A visit to Java John's settles any question about it. You're struck by how easygoing and good-natured people are. Even the grouches don't seem stressed. It's more like misanthropic self-absorption.
     As I said, Port Orford is a town with multiple personalities. There are wealthy transplants from California who cashed in on the real estate bubble. Their showy homes dot the surrounding hillsides. It remains to be seen how many can withstand the challenging winters with icy winds reaching 120 miles per hour.
     There are displaced lumber and fishing workers who inhabit the lowlands. There are service workers who live in trailer parks. There are sizable cattle and sheep ranches. Surrounding Garrison Lake are fashionable lakefront properties mixed with tumbledown shanties, their yards piled high with junk. There are artists, writers, and online entrepreneurs.
     At first it's shocking how different people look here. There are a lot of gray-haired people with deathly white skin. It's what the world looked like before hair coloring was invented. Signs of diversity are virtually nonexistent. A fair number of the men have braided pony tails. Older folks appear to outnumber youngsters by a considerable margin. The 2008 graduating class of Pacific High School numbered 33.
     There are feelings of inferiority to Bandon, Port Orford's neighbor to the north. Bandon has the Bandon Dunes golf course, one of the world's premier golfing venues. Who would have thought a world-class golf course would work on the southern Oregon coast? A crackpot idea when it was conceived, Bandon Dunes has turned Bandon into a glamorous, upscale version of Port Orford. A world-class golf course--why didn't Port Orford think of it? What can Port Orford do to match it? Why not a megaresort on Blacklock Point? The idea is sure to be seriously considered at some point.
     Yes, Bandon is too big and too touristy. It has ugly condo complexes on the beach. It has heavy traffic and lots of signals. But it has jobs and thriving businesses.
     Port Orford has an unselfconscious charm similar to Cannery Row in the '60s before theme-restaurant-style charm was grafted onto its decaying carcass.
     Port Orford faces the same choice. Charm that evolved over generations versus instant "charm" concocted by consultants and designers. A thriving tourist center or a backwater limping along on ailing fisheries and lumber mills. When I suggested to Java John that maybe Port Orford could strike a balance, he cut me off before I could finish: "People have to make a living," he said in a stern tone. He strikes me as one who usually observes conversational niceties. It shows how strong feelings are about the state of commerce in Port Orford.
     Hwy 101, the main drag through town, is pocked with vacant storefronts. Some dilapidated businesses, such as the Port Orford Inn, are prime candidates for demolition.
     In a world that cherishes growth for the sake of growth, a town that hasn't grown at all since the 1960s is a tragic failure. Something must be done. One thought being considered is to develop a shopping district similar to Old Town Bandon, with its cute shops and "sense of arrival." The plan is detailed in a 2006 consultant's report. It doesn't mention Bandon, but it's not hard to guess the inspiration for Port Orford's hoped-for "quaint, pedestrian-friendly shopping destination" (p.51).
     (Whoever says Port Orford doesn't offer a sense of arrival is nuts. I can't remember a better arrival than the one I had when I first pulled into town from Gold Beach. Now this is a nice place.)
     Locals feel that Port Orford, in contrast to Bandon, is too spread out and poorly organized to nurture tourism. That's part of the charm. Port Orford needs to forget Bandon. It will never be another Bandon.

Imagine this beauty rolling up and down the main drag, delivering customers to shops and eateries.

     City fathers should consider free open-air trolleys similar to what Laguna Beach, California does during the summer. The trolley is fun! There's camaraderie among passengers that you don't get in a quaint shopping district like Bandon has.

     The outlook can only get better. Baby boomers will likely revitalize the town. The only concern is that they'll be too much of a good thing. Not all of the 60-something million 60-somethings will seek a sunbelt retirement. Some of these old farts will be drawn to a place of unmatched beauty to spend their "golden" years. In Oregon they'll be called the "rust" years.
     Oregon has stretches of farmland ripe for conversion to vast housing tracts, freeways, shopping centers, and business complexes. Anyone who thinks it can't happen need only look at the horror show that Medford has become.
     Retirement communities don't need proximity to a large city. Builder Pulte's Del Webb division has started a major retirement mecca outside the Nevada town of Mesquite, little more than a settlement in the desert 80 miles from Vegas. Port Orford is close enough to Coos Bay to make a retirement community feasible.
     Just because you can do something doesn't mean you should. The world is full of ruined places that demonstrate this.

We welcome your comments

Secrets of Being Wealthy

2009-09-05T08:23:00.000-07:00

Getting Rich Really is Easy

When Ed told a few of his closest co-workers of his dreams of making a fortune in real estate after attending a few seminars and listening to self help tapes, they listened politely. But behind his back, they were scornful.

Mitch never imagined that he would find the key to wealth while working as a lowly shipping clerk at the Granny Goose potato chip factory in Los Angeles, California.

Like any child of white middle class America, Mitch Egan had youthful dreams of wealth. His mother had always told him, "Someday you'll be rich and famous." As he grew to manhood, he dreamt the dreams less fervently. By the age of 40 he came to realize that the dreams would probably never be anything but dreams. He never imagined that he would find the key to wealth while working as a lowly shipping clerk at the Granny Goose potato chip factory in Los Angeles, California.
     Mitch Egan's golden opportunity came to him not by dint of hard work or scheming or planning or shrewdly investing his meager savings. Mitch came into his chance at a fortune solely because he was such a nice guy who knew how to be a friend. One of his friends, a co-worker, discovered a way to become fabulously wealthy and then decided to let Mitch in on his secret.
     His name was Ned B. Raska, but everyone called him Ed. Ed was not his nickname; people just didn't hear the "N" when Ned introduced himself: "Hi, I'm Ned." He was such an accommodating guy he didn't bother to correct people. "Ed" was close enough.
     Ed was a hero to Mitch Egan and his co-workers at the potato chip factory because he'd made a fortune in real estate and shown up all the doubters who thought he was a crackpot to spend his evenings and weekends at real estate seminars where people were told it was easy to get rich in a week or two. A testimonial tv ad for one of the seminars showed a prosperous looking guy standing in front of a shiny Rolls Royce saying,
"Would you believe that just fortyeleven days ago I was sleeping under the freeway overpass? No job, no money, and no hope. My wife and kids called the cops on me if I came around the neighborhood. My idea of a good time was a bottle of Red Rocket, a cigar butt, and a Hostess Ding Dong. Even then, I always thought I'd be rich and famous. Heck, why else would I come to California? And now here I am rich and starring in a tv commercial thanks to the Cash Gusher Seminar...."
     When Ed told a few of his closest co-workers of his dreams of making a fortune in real estate after attending a few seminars and listening to self help tapes, they listened politely. But behind his back, they were scornful. "A seat at one a them seminars is about the most expensive piece of real estate he'll ever own, ha ha."
     They had second thoughts when Ed showed up at work one day driving a new Porsche. The Porsche was outfitted with state-of-the art electronics allowing Ed to spend his lunch hours keeping tabs on his burgeoning real estate empire. His co-workers became envious. "If he's doin' so good, what's he need this job for?"

Ed gets rich quick with the Cash Gusher Seminar...
...and stages a grand exit from the potato chip factory.

Eventually Ed did quit his job and went on to accumulate apartments and single family homes all over Southern California, all in his spare time, with no money down, following a few easy principles he'd learned with the Cash Gusher home study course.
Ed staged a grand exit from the potato chip factory. He showed up one morning on foot, touching off a wave of rumors that he'd lost the Porsche. At morning break, he attended the regular meeting of the "curb club," as they called themselves, pals from the shipping department who gathered on the sidewalk outside the factory to banter and watch the girls go by. A limousine rounded the corner.
"Well guys, there's my limo," he said, and stepped to the curb. His co-workers laughed, thinking Ed was just being his usual humorous self. But then the limo eased toward the curb like a boat pulling up to a dock.

A gorgeous female chauffeur emerged and held the door for Ed. As his stunned pals watched him climb into the back of the limo, Ed said "Tell 'em to mail me my check, will ya? Not that I'll be needing it. It's been nice knowin' ya. I'll be in touch." And he was gone.

     It was a great triumph for Ed to have so resoundingly surpassed the people at work who assumed they were superior to a lowly shipping clerk. He vowed to never allow himself to become smug about his success. As his work buddies waved from their sidewalk hangout, Ned thought of all the pleasant hours he'd spent there engaging in quality male bonding. He savored the moment. The potato chip factory receded in the distance as the limo propelled him toward a new life.
     Ned's friends at the potato chip factory thought that would be the last they would ever see of him. But Ned didn't forget his roots. When he moved into his Malibu mansion, he threw a lavish housewarming party, to which he invited all his friends, business contacts, and scores of tenants who occupied his rental units from Lompoc to Rancho Cucamonga.
     Ned invited the gang from the shipping department and several of the company's female office workers who had foolishly assumed he would never amount to anything because he was just a jerk in the shipping department. The two friends to whom Ned most looked forward to seeing were Mitch Egan and Wes Konsan. He had worked side by side with Mitch and Wes all those years loading the Granny Goose trucks.
     Wes and Mitch decided to come to the party without dates because Ed had told them the party would be crawling with available women. Actually, Wes and Mitch didn't have much choice because they were both lonely bachelors who had a hard time scraping up dates. Mitch's last date had told him that a hairy chest was one of her primary requirements in a man and that she didn't think she could date him anymore because his chest wasn't hairy enough.
     "But you haven't seen my chest," he protested.
     "I know, but you just don't seem like the hairy chested type. Sorry."

     Wes thought he had surely gotten lucky on his last date when the woman invited him to spend the night at her apartment. Then she proceeded to make up a bed for him on a love seat three sizes too small for his six foot frame. "I'll let you sleep here. I'd let you sleep on the sofa," she explained, "but it's new and I don't want the cushions to get mussed up." He politely made an excuse and went home to his dreary bachelor's digs.

Ned sent a limo to fetch Wes and Mitch. In the limo were two dazzling young women who helped themselves to a magnum of champagne that nestled amid chipped ice in a silver bucket. Mitch judged the women to be barely of drinking age. They introduced themselves as Carol and Ina.
     "We live in one of Ed's apartments," Carol said. "He's a great landlord," she said, rolling her eyes and looking meaningfully at Ina. "Are you guys friends of Ed's?"
     "We go back a long way," Mitch answered in an offhand manner. Although Mitch normally felt uneasy in the presence of beautiful women, it was different this time because Carol and Ina seemed to think Wes and Mitch were bigshot friends of Ed's. Why not play along?

     As the limo streaked up Pacific Coast Highway, the champagne flowed and Mitch began to feel like a different person. Carol and Ina treated his every remark as though it might turn up in a history book someday. Mitch liked to try to impress women with tales of his adventures in Operation Desert Storm, worldwide travels, narrow escapes from death when he was a diamond smuggler, experiments with mind expanding drugs, and his work with handicapped children. It had been a long time since he'd found a woman whose eyes didn't glaze over when he launched into a war story. Mitch couldn't muster a good rap about life in the consumer culture, which seemed to be all that interested the women he met.
     Then there was the problem of his occupation. Mentioning his job title had an all to predictable effect. As soon as he said he was a shipping clerk a woman would announce that she had urgent business elsewhere and walk away. He began calling himself a "transportation specialist" instead of a shipping clerk just so he'd have a chance to tell a war story now and then.
     But Mitch was too honest and well meaning to pretend he was he was something he was not. He liked to think of himself as man of substance temporarily down on his luck (for most of his life). It was comforting to be around two impressionable young women who readily assumed that Wes and Mitch were legitimate hotshots and didn't ask touchy questions about what they did to pay the bills.

Ed throws the greatest party ever
Mitch and Wes see a side to Ed they didn't know before

A uniformed policeman stood at the entrance to Ed's driveway, which was more like a short road. The limo slowed for inspection. The cop nodded to the chauffeur and waved him on. The driveway traversed a sloping pasture and led into a stand of stately oaks.
Broad lawns surrounded the mansion. Although the lawns covered what seemed like acres, they were packed with people. A horse show was being presented. Mitch could see a show ring where horses took their jumps. Jugglers and acrobats performed before small groups. Just ahead, another limo paused at the mansion's main entrance to deposit its cargo of glamor. There were women in party dresses and men in smoking jackets, women in smoking dresses in men in party jackets, as well as women in smoking jackets and men in party dresses. Mitch was thankful he'd worn his flashiest outfit that made him look like a hero from Miami Vice. He'd splashed on plenty of vile smelling aftershave hoping to create an aura of overpowering masculine domination.
     Debouching from the limo, Carol and Ina were immediately whisked into a group of revelers. They were embraced as if long lost and given up for dead. Mitch wondered if they were show biz people. The men were effeminate and gave the women florid compliments. "Love your dress, sugar." "Oh, your hair just sends me." Several people stood where the guests climbed out of the limos and examined each new arrival. When Mitch got out of the limo, he noticed a man turn to his companion while eyeing Mitch and say something behind his hand. Then the two chuckled. He felt certain they had made some sort of snide comment about him. Mitch wasn't about to be intimidated by a couple of prissy clowns who wore pastel yellow sweaters draped over their shoulders, with the sleeves tied at their throats, puffing on silly looking pipes, prancing around in sailing shoes with no socks, with Vuarnet sunglasses perched on top of their heads.
     Mitch turned from the two jackanapes and saw Ed making his way up the lawn from the show jumping ring, circulating through the crowd like a presidential candidate, pausing to shake hands and greet people along the way. He was relieved to see Ed in a pair of bluejeans, cowboy shirt, and jogging shoes. His hair looked better than Mitch remembered, owing to $100 haircuts, and he had a great tan. But he was still the same old Ed. Except now he was accompanied by two lovely young women who seemed to think Ed was somewhere between God and Tom Cruise.
     "Nice to see you," Ed said to a couple. Turning to another group, he said, "Nice to see you. Glad you could come." Then another, "How are you? So glad you made it." And so on.
     Then he saw Wes and Mitch.
     "Wes! Mitch! My best buddies! God, its been ages. How are you?" Mitch thought Ed was overdoing the cordiality but decided to excuse him after lapsing into a brief reverie about what it must be like to have a mansion and scores, possibly hundreds, of guests roaming about. Ed introduced his two young friends, Mary Land and Ora Gone, and then ushered them all toward the mansion.
     "Wait'll you see the place. Have you eaten yet? Let's go to the kitchen and have some of my new ham."
     "New ham," said Wes. "Sure."
     On the way, Ed stopped to greet more knots of people. They responded warmly to Ed's enthusiastic welcome, then returned to the inane chatter that had engrossed them before Ed came along.
On the mansion's vast verandah, a jazz combo lashed out some tasteful licks on alto, piano, bass, and drums. They went through the front door and threaded their way through the huge rooms populated by myriad pleasure seekers. A Gypsy fortune teller held forth in a parlor. A standup comic drew giggles in one of the bathrooms. A contortionist twisted her body in the gym. A magician made merry in the screening room.
     Finally they came to the kitchen where a group huddled near the sink sipping drinks and engaging in deep conversation. Even in a mansion with plenty of room to hang out somewhere else, people will still gather in the kitchen.

Ed had a big double doored restaurant fridge. He reached in and hefted out a platter of ham. Success hadn't spoiled Ed. He still liked to putter in the kitchen with small appliances and slicer dicer gadgets. Mitch watched Ed sharpen a carving knife on a steel sharpening shaft, appreciating his expert handling of the tools. Then Ed sliced off a couple of nice hunks of ham.
     Boy," said Wes, "can Eddie cut that ham."
     A dishevelled young man in a t shirt strode into the kitchen and demanded a helping of Ed's ham. Ed introduced him as Matthew, Ed's advisor on vintage cars. Matthew nodded to Wes and Mitch, muttered a greeting, and belched. Ed forked him a slice of ham and Matthew pounced on it eagerly, smacking his lips.
     "What about the catered food, Matt?" Ed asked.
     "I couldn't get into that patty whatchacallit the duck liver dip. Couldn't get behind the fish eggs either. This stuff sure is good," he said, slurping another bite. "Catch you later."
     When Matt had gone, Wes said, "Matthew chews Ed's ham rather noisily, doesn't he?" sounding a bit like Stan Laurel.
     Ed put his special ham away when a fresh wave of guests stampeded into the kitchen. It was Carol and Ina, accompanied by a guy named Norris. They bounded into the kitchen searching for liquor.
     "Hell, I've got three bars going," said Ed.
     "That you do, Ed old boy," said Carol, "but they don't have any Ouzo!"
     "Ouzo!" Cheered Carol and Ina, already wobbly from booze.
     "Maybe you girls should slow down a bit."
     "Don't lecture me, Mr. High and Mighty," snarled Carol. "I'm having a good time. Ina and I are gonna get good and drunk and we don't care how long it takes us."
     "You're in luck," said Ed. "I happen to keep a supply of Ouzo around for just such an occasion. Go find Ernest or Julio the caterers and tell him I said to give you our best bottle of Ouzo."
     "Ouzo!" Norris, Carol and Ina bellowed.
     "Beware the Ouzo hangover," Ed warned. "There'll be misery in the morning."
     "But we'll have Ouzo, funky music, and dancing boys tonight!" Said Ina as they tottered from the kitchen to track down Ernest and Julio.
     Ed explained that Carol and Ina were celebrating a big land deal they had pulled off after attending a no money down seminar. They looked forward to getting new cars with sophisticated electronics and quitting their dumb jobs in a few months.
     "Now boys," said Ed, "if you'll excuse me awhile, I must see to my guests. Make yourself at home. Browse around. I'll look you up later. There's something I'd like to talk over with you."
     An attendant from the catering company came into the kitchen lugging a case of soft drinks.
     "Do we have many sodas?" Ed asked.
     "About fortyeleven cans, as near as I can tell."
     "Good," said Ed, following the attendant.

Mitch and Wes find out they'll be rich in no time
Ed reveals a dark secret

Wes and Mitch wandered out one of the back doors to the back "yard," another expanse of acreage where a carnival, complete with thrill rides, was installed. The pulsing beat of a rock band could be heard above the shouts of the midway barkers. They made their way along the midway and watched the jugglers, fireaters, swordswallowers, magicians, and flimflam artist work the crowd. Male and female belly dancers displayed their talents, crowing like roosters.

Not far from the belly dancers, a group of men gathered around a stunning young woman who wore a scanty Brazilian bikini. Her name was Carla Forney but everyone called her Kate. She rolled her tummy like a belly dancer, to the delight of the onlookers.

She had exquisite skin, owing to countless hours at the spa and gym. Her swimsuit was made of a flimsy material that hid nothing and actually made what it might have concealed even more tantalizing. Wes and Mitch joined the group admiring Kate. Among the onlookers was a mysterious stranger in a houndstooth jacket. His name was Tana.
     The rock band started to play their version of "Hotel California" and Kate grabbed Tana by the boutoniere and said "C'mon, Tana. Let's dance." Tana was an accomplished dancer and he and Kate got down and dirty, thrusting their hips together and gyrating provocatively. Tana began to peel off items of clothing and several women gathered to observe.
     Mitch felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Gil, a co-worker from the potato chip factory.
     "Anybody got any pot?"
     "Fresh out."
     "Okay, I'll ask a dumb question, at time does the fun begin around here?"
     "Don't be a spoilsport."
     "What's a spoilsport?"
     "Someone who spoils a sport, dummy."
     "What sort of sport? Hockey?"
     "Hockey's not a sport."
     "Tennis?"
     "Eeee!"
     The cry had come from Virginia, who had volunteered to be the subject of the carnival's hypnotist, Del Aware. He had told her a mouse was crawling over her body, accounting for the piercing shriek.
     Now the girl giggled uncontrollably because Aware had told her she was watching the funniest Three Stooges adventure ever.
     "Now you're a bird," he told her. "A homing pigeon. Flap your wings."
     "Why homing?" Asked Virginia, flapping.
     "Because they have that kind out west, Virginia."
     Gil, grinning idiotically, leaned over as if to whisper something to Mitch. "I've got something to tell you."
     "I don't want to hear it."

     Curious about what he wanted to tell them, Wes and Mitch decided to split up and search for Ed.
     Mitch wandered into the kitchen. People still huddled near the sink. Mitch didn't know if it was the same group or a new one. He recognized the two hotshots who had glanced at him when he stepped from the limo. Two women were standing apart from the group having coffee. They discussed household topics such as sewing, cooking, cleaning, diapering, the merits of various nationally advertised brands, and the problems of having domestic help.
     Mitch decided to eavesdrop on the bunch by the sink, but before a single word could drop from the eaves, one of the women broke off her discussion of laundry techniques and asked him, "Do you know anything about cars?"
He sensed that they wanted to recruit him for some chore. "You mean, like repairs?"
     "Yeah, my car is making funny noises."
     "When my car does that, I buy a new one. Doesn't everyone?"
     "Oh," the woman said, and turned to her companion. They started talking about the cute things babies say and Mitch tuned them out so he could hear what the guy in the pastel yellow cashmere sweater draped over his shoulders and the sleeves tied at his throat was telling the group by the sink.
     "Can you believe it?" He said, puffing his pipe. "I wrecked the Alpha. I drove it up on one of those islands in the middle of the road. Didn't even see the bloody thing. Why don't they light those better?"
     "Why didn't you have your lights on?"
     "Let's not get technical."
     Mitch quit the kitchen and found Ed and Wes at the bar in the drawing room. Ed led his two friends out of the manse, down a brick road to the garage, which was actually a large old barn. Ed unlocked the door and, once inside, they were suddenly away from the party noise.

Mitch liked the old barn, with its hayloft, the clutter of tools and equipment. It was dark, but shafts of daylight leaked in and cut through the shadows. Several cars, covered with cloth hoods, were parked neatly in a wide area in the middle of the barn. As they strolled about the barn, Ed spoke.
     "You think I bought this place for the mansion? Not on your life. I fell in love with this old barn. I don't know how it survived. The people I bought the place from called it Grandpa's barn. I guess it had sentimental value for them. I know it does for me.
     "I'm glad we've got a chance to be alone," said Ed. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you guys." He walked over to one of the cars and yanked off the cloth cover. It was a beautifully restored antique automobile.
     "Not bad, eh? Let me know anytime you want to drive it. Seriously. It's great to drive one of these babies down Sunset Boulevard and watch the heads turn. The cars kind of tie in with what I want to talk to you about. There aren't many people I would trust to drive my cars or to be in my house alone. I've got seven off duty cops patrolling this party to make sure everything stays put. Having money makes you get popular in a hurry. And since I didn't have any of these friends before I had money, it makes me wonder who I can trust. I don't have to wonder about you guys.
     "What I'm trying to say is, why not come in with me? Help me look after my real estate empire. I'll teach you everything I know. You can start buying properties on your own in your spare time with no money down using a few simple principles which I'll teach you. What do you say, guys? I can't manage it all by myself. I need people I can trust. I need you guys."
     Mitch looked for a place to sit. He wanted to lean against one of the cars, but how would that look after Ed had just said how much he trusted him? You don't lean on a museum piece.
"Let's sit inside the Caddy and talk it over," said Ed. What insight Ed had. The three of them piled into the front seat, with Ed behind the wheel. The seat of the Great Gatsby Cadillac felt like the most luxurious easychair Mitch had ever sat in. Suddenly he realized that in a single moment his life had changed. He always told himself he needed to get out of the potato chip factory and find a respectable way to make a living.
     As he spoke, Ed gripped the wheel as if steering. He outlined a proposition that would cut Mitch and Wes in for a share of the profit on top of a fat salary that was more than double what Granny Goose paid them. They were speechless.
     "Is that a 'yes' guys?"
     "Hell yes," said Mitch
     "Sounds like a winner," said Wes. There were handshakes and high fives all around.
     "Glad to have you aboard, men. From now on, the sky's the limit. But wait; there's something else. Something I should have told you guys a long time ago."
     Here it comes, thought Mitch. The catch. Welcome to L.A.

"I just want to clear up a small misunderstanding."
Ed's new fishing gear is something to behold.

     "I hope it's nothing kinky, Ed," said Mitch, his mind skimming over the possibilities. Perhaps Ed was a pervert, a Moonie, an environmentalist,
a UFOlogist, a vegetarian, a transsexual, or some equally revolting aberration.
     "Don't worry. I just want to clear up a small misunderstanding."
     "What misunderstanding?"
     "My name. It's not really Ed. It's Ned. With an N."
     "Ned? It isn't."
     "It is."
     "How come you never told us?"
     "I don't know...just never got around to it I guess. Ed's not such a bad name."
     "I'm sure glad you cleared that up, " said Mitch. "Any more skeletons we should know about?"
     "No, that oughta cover it. I just wanted to get everything out in the open so we wouldn't start off on the wrong foot."
     "Thanks for being so honest, Ed I mean Ned."
     "Hey let's take a look at my new fishing gear."

Mitch finishes the night on a high note
It's peaches and cream from now on

With his new partners following him, Ned climbed the narrow wooden ladder to the hayloft. Mitch felt a boyish excitement about climbing up into the hayloft. The smell of the old barn touched off a deep nameless yearning in him. Had he played in such a barn when he was a boy? He had a vague sense that some important part of his boyhood was associated with a big old shadowy barn like Ned's.
     Ned led them to a room with a dusty window. On a table lay an array of new fishing gear. Rods and reels, hooks and lines, lures, flies, sinkers, and a creel.
     "This is my rod," said Ned, picking up a shiny pole. "Like it?"
     "A beauty," said Wes. He took it from Ned and whipped it around in the air like a swordsman testing a foil. The rod made a sharp swishing sound.
     "I've been thinking of naming it."
     "What?"
     "Naming my rod. It's supposed to bring you luck. Lots of fishermen name their rods."
     Naming fishing poles. This was another side to Ned they didn't know about.
     "What would you call a rod?"
     "Oh, I don't know. Name it after a girl, I guess."
     "Long Tall Sally?"
     "I don't know, Ed," said Mitch. "I mean Ned. I seem to be fresh out of clever ideas for names of fishing poles. Unless it's something like Marlin Perkins or Catfish Hunter."
     "Yooohoo! Ed!" It was Ora Gone, calling from the barn door. "What are you boys up to?"
     "We're up here, sweetness."
     "You haven't told her? About your name?"
     "Hey, we're just dating."

     After the news that his life would be peaches and cream from now on, Mitch celebrated. He did the boogaloo with Carla Forney. He had his fortune told by Madame Roux. She told him all his dreams would soon be fulfilled. He ran into Carol, the girl in the limo who was nice enough to listen to his war story. They took a ride on the Ferris Wheel and drank a few boilermakers, depth charges, zombies, and sputniks. It felt incredibly good to be with this eager, sincere young woman. He noticed that the adversarial tone of most of his encounters with women was pleasantly absent with Carol. He felt supremely comfortable with her.
     Mitch didn't want the party to end. He was energized like never before. Every other minute it dawned on him: he'd be rich soon. Anything he wanted. He could do as he damn well pleased. Free at last. He might even make a play for Carol.

After that, the drinks caught up with Mitch and the next thing he knew he was in bed in the dark. He was mildly alarmed, then remembered he must be somewhere in Ed or Ned's mansion. Satin sheets. They felt teriffic. A woman's bed? Had he gotten lucky? For a split second he wondered if enjoying the feel of satin sheets was a manly thing to do.
     He didn't care. Now that he was soon to be rich he could do as he damn well pleased. He buried his head in a silky pillow and moved his legs back and forth under the sheets. Too bad he didn't have a woman to share this with. What had become of his lovely Carol?
     Just before he passed out, Mitch noticed that his hair was damp. Had he worked up a sweat dancing?

So what's the point?
None, really, except that...

...The names of several U.S. states are embedded in the narrative and the names of characters. Mitch Egan = Michigan, for example. See how many states you can find.

OK, So There's No "Cash Gusher Seminar"
So this won't be a total waste, here's an ad for Tony Robbins. Don't be like Mitch, get your act together! Click the picture or link for details.
"One Decision Can Change Your Life Forever!" - Anthony Robbins - Click Here To See Event Schedule!

Tony's the real deal. His program might not make you rich quite as fast the the Cash Gusher seminar, but it's bound to be better since it actually exits!

Feel free to leave a word or two of encouragement...
...or even biting sarcasm. We can take it.

Did you enjoy my little alertness test? Let me know if you were one of the few who caught on to the hidden state names.