Author: ness23456

Soccer? Is it Futbol?

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Is there anyone in America who can explain soccer to me? In less time than a Cricket match?

Soccer is the most popular sport in the world according to “The World Atlas”, with about 3.5 billion fans. Where do you think baseball and American football are in the rankings?

Cricket is in second place with 2.5 billion, followed by Hockey, Tennis, Volleyball, TABLE Tennis, and finally Basketball at number 7 and Baseball at number 8. Rugby and Golf round out the top ten WORLD Sports.  Haven’t found real Football, yet.

Don’t quibble about who The World Atlas is and how they might know these facts. What intrigues me is the constant effort by Soccer to penetrate the United States sports scene. We do not have Cricket leagues that I know of, do we? Any of your office friends play cricket? Talk about Cricket? Is there a relationship between Cricket and the “sounds of Crickets”? Are there Cricket pools? Holy crap. Do NOT google “how long does an average Cricket match last?” A Test Match can last 5 days! Are there food trucks?

Screw Cricket and let’s get back to Soccer. I played a type of soccer in the third grade in the 1960s. Our teachers put up some orange cones, threw a round ball into the middle of the square the cones made, and watched us run around. Then they blew a whistle, and we all went back to our readin’, riting’, and rithmatic. (sic)

I see later versions of this game in a park lately, it being recognizable by the glom of children all running in a group in whatever way the ball bounced. They looked like a school of sardines.

But thanks to “Ted Lasso”, I’ve tried to learn more. I’m also a closet fan of The World Cup (TWC), an event, presumably, where countries field National Teams every four years and play an Olympic style Tournament. TWC began in 1930 and has been played every four years, since, excepting the WWII war years of 1942 and 1946. And every pizza parlor I’ve ever been in has at least one picture of an Italian team that won a TWC, if not all four teams.

AI says there are 193 countries in the world today. Wikipedia says over 211 teams are “eligible” to play in TWC. Interesting numbers needing an entirely different post and explanation.

As I understand it, “QUALIFYING” for TWC is an event all its own, with the world broken up into “6 Continental Zones” where matches are played with the winners moving on to different “stages”. The zones have mostly normal names like Europe, Africa, Asia, South America, but there is also a zone named “Oceania**”. By the time the fateful year rolls around, (currently 2026), 32 teams are left standing to compete for TWC.

I have to stop. Every fact I learn about soccer and TWC, leads to more questions. Qualifying rules, for example, are different from the rules used to play the games in the TWC final “stages”. Why?

          Enough. I’m a fan, and not knowing what the hell is happening is part of the allure of the game. So is the noise I hear when I find a foreign soccer match on TV. It appears all soccer fans are nuts. And noisy. After 125 years of competition. What is the secret to soccer’s massive, long-lasting, fanatical popularity? Outside the United States, that is?

          Sadly, I’m leaving this discussion worse off than when I began. There is still no answer to why some matches are “Friendlies” and others are called “Caps”. Or why there is no accurate, running clock. Soccer matches aren’t over when the clock on the screen runs out, they’re over when the guy running around the field, who never touches the ball, says it is over. Why do they KEEP playing during “stoppage time”?

          Ted Lasso had trouble understanding the soccer leagues where the Champions are the losers from the Premier League or something…And if a talented actor like Jason Sudeikis can’t understand it, what hope is there for me?

          One thing for sure, it will never be called Futbol in my house.

**Think of every small island in the Pacific Ocean: they are all in “Oceania”.

Funny and True Stories from Daily Life

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I was sitting at my favorite money-taking slot machine on the gambling floor of the local casino when this conversation between two nearby strangers happened.

Him: “You come here often?” (Said hopefully, but also shyly.) Her: “Yes. I like these machines.” (Said without hesitation.) Him: “Ever go to Vernon Downs?” (A different gambling place about 5 miles away.) Her: “No.” Him: “Oh. The machines pay better.” Her: “I know! I won a $100 there last week.”

My local Mcdonald’s drive thru voice instructed me to “please pull up to the second pick up window” after placing my order. When I turned the corner there was one unmarked window, one window marked “Pick-up 1”, and the window I went to, marked “Pick-up 2”. I waited until there was an arm waving in my rear view mirror calling me back to “Pick-up 1”. I reversed back to “Pick-up 1” and was told “people go to the other window (Pick-up 2) all the time.” The speaker looked about 13 years old. Me: “Why don’t you instruct customers to go to Pick-up 1?” 13 year old: “That’s a great idea.”

A week later I was back for the really good 2 for 1 breakfast sandwich deal and was told by a familiar voice to “Please pull around to the second pick-up window.”

This next one isn’t funny, it falls under the “Just My Luck” heading. Complicated story, so hang in there. On April 1st my Primary Care Physician (PCP) discussed a colonoscopy. My last butt invasion was in 2021, four years ago and the result was great with a recommendation to have another anus probe “in seven years.” (A great timeline for an over 70 male.) But radiation treatments and chemo in 2023 wreaked havoc on my digestion so as a compromise PCP and I settled on a ColoGuard test…just to see if anything was going wrong, cheaply and easily. On April 14th ( In case you missed it thirteen days later!} someone from the PCP’s office called to schedule a “colonoscopy.” I referred them to PCP’s notes about the Cologuard. On April 15th the Cologuard test kit arrived, but I waited until Monday, April 21 to do the stinky deed** and send it back. On April 22, I found a research study from the University of California at San Francisco claiming “CAT scans and other radiation in the area of the pelvis” might be causing new and different cancers in current cancer patients already being treated for cancers in the “pelvic region.” (Whew.) As a Prostate Cancer patient in 2023, radiation was used in diagnosing and treating cancer in the prostate area which is adjacent to the pelvic area. Very adjacent.

If you’re still with me, here is the ending: On Friday night, April 25 the “Positive” (sounds good, right?) Cologuard test results were emailed to me and said this: “you have a higher than average chance of having advanced precancerous polyps or colon cancer.” Easy to understand, yes? But then, this: “It is not the same as a cancer diagnoses.” Oy.

A safety sign in the pool at the fitness center is loaded with “Pleases”. For example, “If someone is drowning, please call 911.” And if someone is in distress, please call 800-xxx-xxxx.” The last admonition is the best: “DO NOT SWIM ALONE”. (It may take a second to get this one. Please don’t worry, that’s normal.)

There’s more, but it’s nap time. At least I didn’t mention Tr—

** Cologuard sends you a nice set of plastic utensils so you can accurately poop directly into a small popcorn container, add some magic juice, seal it up “tight”, and ship it overnight to their lab. I sent them an email asking how I did, shipping-wise, but no response. Maybe it leaked all over and the “positive” result is their way of getting even…hopefully….Maybe?

Randomies and Bits and Bobs…again

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Yeah, it’s a made-up word. I’ve been watching too much British television. So? Doesn’t it sound right?

I’d like to ignore it but there has been a lot screeching from the Trump administration about upholding the law. Bondi, Leavitt, and et. al., have parroted Trump in the shouting about obeying the law. The irony is lost on them and it’s okay, but sheeesh. Have some pride, for goodness sake. Just think “kettle meet pot, pot meet kettle.” At least be a little quieter and show some humility. An old saying of my father’s comes to mind: “it’s better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool-” You’re a smart reader, you know the rest.

Same with the “liberal bias” nearly everywhere in Trump World. “Fox meet MSNBC, MSNBC meet Fox”. And not for nothing but the “free press” has always been seen as the opposition to the sitting administration. In Trump World Fox is part of the administration so that might be why when the whiners complain of bias in the “main-stream media” they never mention Fox.

A randomy (sic) of note: nearly all of Trump’s Executive Orders deal with, imply, reveal, expose, and try to remedy the insecurity displayed by the MAGA movement. Everything not kissing MAGA’s rings is a threat.

DEI. If you want to see what DEI is, go out to eat in a big city with a partner. Know what the biggest problem will be?: You want Chinese or Italian? Korean? Mexican? Viet Namese? Schnitzel? Creole? Southern?

Or music: Latin, classical, rock, hip-hop, polka, K-Pop, soul, reggae, or any one of the many styles?

And sports fans will rue the day Trump orders all professional sports teams to be made up of only American, white, Christian players. When I wrote this I tried to see how Native Americans fit in it, but, alas. Can you do it for me? **

DEI is all around us. Grow up.

Most Americans, and this includes MAGAs. are incapable of understanding complex issues. That lack of understanding is the major reason we still have big, unsolved problems. The deportations Trump is rushing through, for example. Not one single American thinks deporting bad non-citizens is wrong. Not one. For those that have working minds, the problem isn’t any one individual, but Trump is throwing out so many people, so fast, the only way to get the point about “due process” is if you imagine it happening to you: sent to CECOT by “mistake”. “Administrative error”. The calculus is the same as the death penalty argument: No one is really against the death penalty for someone who “deserves” it, but after so many convictions overturned, for example, do you think it’s possible we, us, America, have executed one, single innocent man?

For some real immigrant fun, watch the Movie “The Gangs of New York”.

Trump’s efforts are being supported by an “the end justifies the means” argument. Again, fine, as long as you are not the one being “ended” by mistake.

In a previous post I mentioned how hard it is to talk with senior people. Another, happier reason not to is how long it takes. Bill (name not changed, there are no innocents) and I often talk before early morning fitness routines about the past. Bill is 84 and has a larger, longer past, but when we talk it isn’t about troubles but about those pasts. He’s 84, driven, successful, gregarious, while I’m lazy, misanthropic, and happy to get by, but the stories we tell are about the same things. And they are all funny…in a slightly wistful, nostalgic way. I’m 110 (sic) per cent sure neither of us exaggerates the stories, but the most important part is this: Bill tells one, I think of two of my own, and I tell one and he thinks of three of his own, and he tells one and I think of ten, and I tell one and he thinks of 20…ad infinitum.

To shorten this story, the pre-workout morning is storytelling and laughing,…with, sometimes, a hint of “did that really happen”? And that “hint” is not about Bill’s stories, but my own, unless he feels the same way and when we part we both go home thinking: “Did I really do that?”

Life is wonderful if you live long enough to realize it, are fit enough to remember it, and find someone who cares to hear you talk about it.

**wonder if anyone is offended

Personal Things. Look Away, if you can

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Older friends have been lamenting being older. Whenever I’m around these conversations…well…

But you can’t change life simply by ignoring it. It is true we change as we age. And especially if we want the impossible: to be left alone and never grow old.

Sadly, the only solution is to not be around “older friends.”

But younger friends…well…

This past Easter was spent with family around the table. Not one was within 20 years of my age. Conversations swirled around things and ideas I’d either never heard of or heard of over 50 years ago. The constant juxtaposition was astounding. It created a hole in the fabric of conversational time where my contributions appeared irrelevant, meaningless, unimportant, and so, unspoken. It was as if there was nothing to offer.

But…so what?

As a young man I never thought I was the center of the universe, but I did matter. Life progressed, things happened, and then life started to wind down. As the “winding down” happened, life was adjusted, tweaked, re-defined, but in small increments. It was healthy, like eating broccoli in small bites. Anywhere the body was, the body adjusted and found ways to exist with some measure of happiness. Purpose, fate, bad luck, God, none of it was ever questioned for a purpose or an expected explanation. The main reason for the acceptance of change was there was lots more time to live, lots more to accept, lots more to adjust to…years more opportunity for hope and improvement.

So, imagine the surprise when you suddenly realize there is no longer “lots more time to live”.

This isn’t about death. For us as young people, death is a far-off rumor with an import never understood until you can figuratively see the whites of its eyes, and the realization it is inevitable takes a little of the sting out of the realization it might be here. And we hope it’s happening is a peaceful event.

But…does it sound like fun wondering if Age-Related Macular Degeneration (AMD) will eventually make you blind and unable to curse the Yankees? Or if a small muscle in the anus (the sphincter) will stop working and make diapers a part of your old age fashion? Is “dribbling” in your future? (Look it up, but for the “non-sports” definition.) Will the bad kind of plaque (Oxford’s good definition: “an ornamental tablet, fixed to a wall in commemoration of a person or event.”) render all these worries moot? Cognitive impairment: a blessing in disguise? Who knew? Even worse, under a certain age who ever thought about it?

Death, then, is not feared as much as slowly, incrementally, dying.

As young people we may have accepted the inevitability of death, but did anything or anyone ever prepare us for the inevitability of “dying”, losing parts of ourselves as if on some sinister, sad, stupid schedule? And without “lots more time to live”?

Give me death when it’s my time but please, fate, stop chipping away at life. I’ll die in peace, without complaint, if God will let me, but if there are other plans, that “schedule”…I’d rather not know.

Crap. That means avoiding old folks who want to talk about it.

Eh. I can live with it. At least until the damn beta-amyloid builds up.**

** Hope you researched the correct “plaque”.

Trump! A little…

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It’s been a while since Trump soiled this spot. I’ve learned to ignore his frantic actions and words, but there is one last thing to say. Or add: he is the most insecure politician, ever. God knows why, but he needs unfettered affirmation from the press, his fans, and the American citizens. Ass kissing is a better description. Thank God, for Fox News personnel. But lately, wow, it’s gone to a new level. In his first term he made a mistake and put people in place smarter than him. He learned and now the only requirement to become a Trump Administration official is how plump you can pucker your lips to kiss his “224” pound butt. And he has physically surrounded himself with gold knick-knacks borrowed from his unlimited supply of shiny bits and bobs probably filling every corner of Mar A Lago. This particular activity should put to rest his “blue collar, working man” appeal. The saddest part is the loss of teamwork. Past presidents may have had some “yes men and women”, but those presidents had enough faith in themselves to listen to others…and learn. Think of the manager of a baseball team not wanting anyone on his team who was a better player than the manager. That’s the Trump Team, these days. If Trump were truly a genius (or a good baseball player), it might work, but he isn’t. The question of the century: how long is it going to take America to see the Emperor has no clothes? (If you are young and wondering “what the heck?” Google it.)

Eh, the Trump part went a little longer, sorry. But…America better wake up and wake up soon. Again, sorry.

I’m contemplating living arrangements…for the rest of my life. The Calamities of 2023 had me wondering if I’d ever see 2025, but, now, all is well. Back to as “near normal” as any 73-year-old cancer survivor can be. My North Carolina home, if I haven’t mentioned it, was sold by my ex-girlfriend last fall as I, in NY, pondered how much longer I might live. She took all the money and the pets and fled to California, out of reach.

So. I’ll be 73 in 2 months, homeless**, alone, and making a decision which would be so much fun if I were in my 40’s. Or 50’s. Anything but 70’s. A small bank account gives me enough flexibility to be free and make any choice…as long as it fits the budget.

North Carolina calls with its temperate weather and many friends willing to put up with me. Florida beckons, as well, with communities loaded with potential new friends. And I have always loved California. For one thing, it is a big enough state for two exes. New York is attempting to sway me, too, with a 60-degree sunny day today, not knowing I have already discovered the weather forecast and snow will be in the air later this week. In Mid-April. NY you never had a chance.

The saddest part is the lack of a partner. There is a point in even a loner/misanthrope’s life where the utility of a loving life partner makes sense. Someone to get the sliver out of the bottom of your foot. Someone to complain to who knows you’re not really complaining. It’s possible to find another, but it will take time to rebuild the rich history the dance of life rewards long-partners with, and there might not be enough time. Odd, but even as a young person there was never a “guarantee” of “enough time”, a thought never even considered in decades past. As young people, we never doubted there would be enough. Now, that time is a blessing, appreciated.

Life Partner? I was just interrupted by a text message. In reading it, the other messages on my text log were at my fingertips. Almost all were from medical personnel or offices. It looked so sad. Looks like the only people who message me are the ones who get paid…

Ah, it’s not that bad. As noted, it is a beautiful spring day. Driving to my work-out this morning, I even complained about “side-face glare” from the sun. It was inescapable. As if it knew every angle to get around visors, sunglasses, body parts, and car-body frames. After inventing new swear words and cursing the low-horizon, hydrogen-burning, retina-searing, center of our universe, the humor hit: hating winter but complaining about side face glare.

Isn’t life wonderful?

**Sorry for the clunky phrasing. I am not without a place to live, I am with out a home: my own, owned, truly mine, home. I rent. Using a hyphen (home-less) might have made more of a mess. Hyphens always do, those little bastards.

Death? Again? Noooo….

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I’m having lots of trouble sleeping. You? The mind races with thoughts about SAD, Trump, America, Social Security, Medicare, apartments, homes, health, and an ex-girlfriend whose hurtful actions can’t be forgiven

At age 73, shouldn’t another word be on that list?

As my mind raced last night that word popped into my head: Death. Wide awake and ruminating away about everything except…death (small d, this time, see the difference?).

The realization mortality was not part of my late night consternation festival kind of made me happy. Maybe, pleased with myself is a better description. Death is a constant companion in old age. When the news reports an actor’s death at 69, or the retired sports star’s life ends at 72, one can not help but think he, me, is lucky to be able to hear the news. Going to bed isn’t accompanied by the hope of waking up alive, but it is a subtext, especially if dying in your sleep is your preferred method of reaching the afterlife.

Sidebar: All morning a thought from last night has been escaping me. An important thought, I thought, but obviously not important enough for me to get out of bed and write it down. In the above paragraph it revealed itself, so I’ll share, plus many thanks to my slowing brain for not deleting the idea and making me work for it. The thought: When you die in your sleep, do you know you’re dying? Or is death just an eternal extension of sleep? Imagine being shot or stabbed, or suffering from a mortal illness. You spend at least a few moments knowing it is the end, don’t you? You may even spend minutes, hours, or days getting ready for the final breath…wishing things were different.

After reading the sidebar, it appears Death/death did enter nighttime, cranial ramblings, albeit, in a Dr. Steven Wright kind of way.

Of course, the whole point of this essay is how funny the mind works so this writing can be accepted as cogent.

Okay, I agree with myself except for the fact “cogent” refers to a well-stated “argument or case, one that is clear, logical and convincing.” So says the Oxford people. But I just read back through this jumble and can’t see anywhere a “case” or “argument” has been made.  For or against anything. Does that make the entire exercise pointless?

Let’s go with a “yes”, because an answer makes a case, makes an argument, and my inability to focus and write an essay sensible and informative suddenly becomes indisputable. I knock over your King.

With a re-read and hindsight, this gibberish fits the style of our modern news, anyway. I’m topical!

And relevant.

The real villain is SAD. “Seasonal Affective Disorder” is a real thing. A long, never-ending winter in Upstate New York is the cause. It’s been over 20 years since my life was “snowed under” by weather that saps the soul, steals the “joie de vive”, and makes an Independent Liberal long for Florida.

It won’t happen again.

My Two Brains

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For many years, now I’ve wondered if there are two brains in the body. You, too?

My vacation to the Warm South was meant to be a break from the Winter North, but also to test hopefully repaired, rejuvenated, and reclaimed physical abilities. It was during this testing, the “proof” of my second brain was finally revealed.

There have always been internal conversations–such as the infinitely confusing argument between doing good or doing bad–but I assumed those discussions were a normal personality abnormality, simple sophistry inspired by too much Devil’s Advocacy during young, formative years. It would go away with time and maturity, and the accumulation of wisdom. But the second brain discovered in North Carolina last week is different, it actually-,better tell the discovery story, first.

Sometime in the mid-morning hours of Thursday, March 27, 2025, I was in a Happy Place: a public tennis court surrounded by tennis players my own age. It was a time to celebrate recovery, patience, and give the beleaguered medical corporate establishment some credit for good work. The early moments were a time full of insults, name-calling, trash-talking, and too many hugs, all of which were greatly appreciated. Sadly, the second brain discovery happened only moments after actual physical activity was perpetrated. Yes, perpetrated. Perfect word for what happened. Look it up.

A now ex-friend hit a soon to be outlawed (hopefully) shot called a “Drop Shot”. For the un-tennis among you, the Drop Shot is a nasty trick played on mature, semi-immobile tennis players by younger, fully mobile tennis players. Given the abundance of gray hair and joint braces this morning, there was no expectation any one of us would ever have to face such a nasty play. I felt especially free from worry as I was recovering, attempting to resurrect my game, and open to any special treatment benefiting my progress. In a later post we will discuss whether or not there is honor among septuagenarians. (Full disclosure, it was our groups lone octogenarian who hit the shot, so I’ve no legal basis for claim, if so inclined.)

The beginning of the unappreciated drop shot was quickly seen by my Big Skull Brain (BSB), and  BSB immediately broadcast the signal to the entire body to move forward at a rapid pace to get to the falling tennis ball before it hit the ground. Perfect. Just right. So far.

But the next thing to hit the ground was me. The “ground”, by the way, in public tennis courts is painted concrete.

If you are at all familiar with the saying “got out over the ends of my skies”, then no more explanation is needed. For the rest of you, as my BSB issued commands, some other, smaller brain not only cancelled those commands, but did it with prejudice. As I lay writhing on the ground/concrete watching the yellow ball bounce next to my skinned knee, a comment between my BSB and the other, smaller brain was overheard. It went like this: “Move? Hell, no. We ain’t going nowhere.”

And thus a mystery was solved: we do have two brains. At least I do. A naïve, uninformed person may say the smaller brain is located in the penis of a male and it is hard to argue they’d be wrong. We will not attempt to locate the female smaller brain or even make the argument the females are equipped with one. Utter discretion. And maybe one is all they need, anyway

That NC morning’s facts are: one brain said “go” and the other said “no”. My big skull appeared to follow BSB’s directive and moved forward. Parts of the upper body followed, but reluctantly, as if the debate between big and small brain was already happening and non-brain parts were confused about which command to follow. The penis theory might be right because the lower parts followed the small brain directive and pretty much stayed in the same spot, leaving my big skull, and upper trunk to accept gravity’s invitation and topple over, risking major injury if no more action was taken. Fortunately, some sort of “emergency” system (a THIRD brain??) kicked in and my arms extended to absorb most of the impact. The upper body rescued itself and rolled over, saving the heart and lungs for later abuse.

It’s as if the small brain was punished for its incalcitrant (sic) actions as most of the medical carnage was done to knees and lower extremities. Take that, small brain. Aside: why do skinned knees take so long to heal?

You can understand how hurt BSB was, but it did a masterful job of pretending not to be hurt and graciously accepted every ounce of empathy.

It was a distracted drive home with the constant stream of debate between brains. I tried not to listen but did hear the word “insurrection” more than once.

The one, major positive about aging is the things you learn about yourself. One positive, now is—with a second brain—all the bad things done in the past are not entirely my fault…are they?

We Are the Experts!

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It’s been great fun since Trump took office, to read local letters to the editors in our local paper. Our city and county are relatively small, but we seem to have an inordinate number of experts and know-it-alls. Is it the same where you live? (I just started reading the local paper last year, when I moved to Trump Country.)

As a natural troublemaker and aspiring (since birth) Devil’s Advocate, parrying with local wits is enjoyable, entertaining, and often enlightening. My only responses are to those who write and profess, or hint at the fact they are smarter than everyone else. The local author who “knows how to solve the immigration crisis”, for example. Or the modest intellect who tries to support an idea using phrases and verbiage “copied” from what ever information silo they inhabit.

Intellectual Curiosity (IC) has been discussed here, before, and it is the root of all the merriment. Anyone who believes in Trump is an idiot. Don’t blow a gasket, yet, because anyone who believes in Biden was/is an idiot, too. Or Obama, Or Bush, Or Clinton. Or the elder Bush. Sadly, I can strike up a spirited and eventually personal debate about any one of them with certain letter writers. You can support them, but you shouldn’t adore them. They’re humans. And don’t give up your IC.

We need to start with the definition, the urban definition, of what politicians are: they are people who want you to hire them for a job. The “job” is not lawn maintenance, but a job where complicated, personal, and impactful decisions about the direction of the city, county, state, and nation (and world?) are decided. And the politicians are asking you to send them to an institution where it takes more than one person’s will to get something done. More on that in a later post.

We vote almost every year for one sort of politician or another and a majority of Americans just don’t vote. In the last election 77 million voted for Trump, and 75 million voted against Trump. According to internet sources, most of the “Voting Eligible Population (VEP)” of the United States, about 89 million people, did not vote. (Note: VEP 244,666,890** per US News. Do your own math.) More people DID NOT VOTE, than voted for either candidate.

A smart person can see neither party presented a candidate that appealed to at least half the population. So, what does it mean when we say we “hate Joe Biden” or we “hate Donald Trump”? Is it a rational hate or a tribal hate?

Got way off track, but the point is most politicians (if not all) spend most of their time trying to convince YOU to vote for them. And once you do, they tend to start looking ahead to the next election. It’s a mistake if anything ever gets down. When IC kicks in, you begin to question the whole system, and not in a good way. Maybe those 89 million people know something.

The solution? Outlaw “homogenous” voting. The two-Party system demands you vote with (or against) one party or the other…no matter the issue! Ever hear of “Majority and Minority Whips? Guess what they’re supposed to do. It really is a wonder the government has survived for 200 and some years.

Mixed in with all this nonsense are the experts and arm-chair quarterbacks who know all about everything. In a local locker room one time, two guys were commiserating about how bad America looks to other counties. “We aren’t respected anymore.” When I asked if either had ever been to another country, or had friends in another country, or could even name another country…silence.

While it is great fun to poke and prod the local geniuses, I’ve been fortunate to never have to express my own opinions. Sounds like a cop-out, right? But my own opinions are not party-oriented or any particular color. And I don’t truly know half of what I say about issues since I’m not personally in the middle of them. I just know what I think I know. I’m not sure, for example, why SignalGate happened, but know we’ll learn more from the fuss after an issue than we knew before, so pay attention. IC.

I am afraid to state my own beliefs, too, because they are too naïve. Too Jimmy Stewart, too “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.” They are easy to make fun of in a world full of experts and internet snipers.

So, I’ll continue trying to pop other’s balloons and wait for the world to get its act together. It’s only been about 55 years, so far, but what else is there to do?

** Numbers for 2024. VEP includes all legal American citizen over the legal voting age. Note that only 160 million are “registered” to vote. A few VEPs might be way beyond that legal age, so…

Back from Vacation, days away, free from you know what…

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Then, my first trip to the news sites reeled me right back into the scrum.

The days were sunny, warm, and intellectually active in North Carolina. Except for the pollen and shady activity going on in the back parking lot of the hotel, it was a great week. Even the drive down and back was okay, far better than the mental struggle it usually is.

So, what harshed my mellow? Fox News. They ran a real, thoughtful, cranky story about a businessman in the south whose pole is too big. (Stop giggling.) And so is what he puts on his pole. Who says so, pink-haired, tree-hugging, liberal elites? Nope. The towns and cities he does business in around the southeast. The southeast. Not typical regulatory-maze country.

Jim, the businessman wants to show his patriotism by erecting giant poles with giant American flags on them. He says he has 100’s of thousands of square feet of American Flags he wants to spread around the country, to honor America, and show his thankfulness.

Jim and the eager beaver Fox news host are astounded that Jim is having trouble with various cities about the poles. And sometimes the flags. It’s a national story of interest, now. On Fox.

And there is the MAGA movement’s mentality in a nutshell. See, the cities and towns have local ordinances about how high your poles can be and–often–about how big the flags (or signs) can be, too. Again, this in in Tennessee, North Carolina, and other southern states Jim didn’t mention. Not your liberal snowflake, woke states.

The problem is that Jim doesn’t care about regulations. Rules are not for him. He’s a self-made man (very commendable, by the way) but for some reason he thinks that grants him the right to do what he wants. Fox’s, eager beaver kind of nods in agreement.

This wouldn’t be such a big deal but it’s Jim’s reasoning that sets him apart: he wants to honor America, not himself, by erecting larger than regulation flag poles and flying larger than regulation flags.

Let’s forget a better use of his money might be helping the poor in his communities. Or contributing to conservative causes and politicians. Or helping feed the hungry. Flags just flap in the breeze. (Unknown, but maybe he does do that kind of good work, too, in addition to his Flag Life.)

But isn’t it a better way to honor America, a better way to thank this country, isn’t it a better thing to obey the rules and regulations of the places you choose to work in, make money in, and live in? Wouldn’t respecting the local ordinances of the town folk be a better way to show your gratitude for America? Be a defender and believer and supporter of the community, not a troublemaker?

Jim needs to hear what he is saying with his words, a constant complaint about MAGA. He loves America, wants to fly flags, for America, honor America…but gosh darn it, no one is going to tell him how to do it. He’s doing it his way or legions of lawyers will become wealthy for no good reason.

It’s the theory of male exceptionalism (no caps on purpose) that dominates the right wing of our country. Rules and regulations are for normal people. Not us exceptional people. Wonder how many businesses in Jim’s home town researched the rules about flags/signs and did it the right way, the way the local citizens and government want? Or maybe they said, “screw it, we don’t need more flags, anyway.”

I like Jim’s idea about spreading patriotism around the United States. But why can’t he do to code? Why does he need to fight for a bigger pole, a bigger flag, than everyone else? Care to guess?

America is what it is because of Exceptional People (caps on purpose): War heroes, explorers, inventors, and the daily Exceptionalism by cops, doctors, firemen, teachers, et.al.

But America has lasted so long, done so well, because we are a nation of laws, regulations, and the stability laws and regulations bring. And Americans believe in law and order. I’ll bet a majority of American drivers obey the speed limit. We all know those exceptional drivers who don’t. Like them much?

Honestly, of all the things to take a patriotic stand on: the height of your flag pole?

Honoring your town and it’s laws is more patriotic than adding a few feet to your pole. (Typed with a straight face. Honest.)

Music. Jackson Browne. The Brothers Comatose. Serendipity.

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The last post about waking up in the middle of the night? Anxious? Distraught? Possibly even in despair? A lead-in to depression?

Ha.

A fortuitous click/flick on a Samsung phone yielded a Youtube video of The Brothers Comatose performing Jackson Browne’s “These Days”.

If you are at all unhappy with life, politics, a cruel ex-girlfriend, or calamities of any kind…find this video. As a strong, modern American, internally fortitudely (sic, for the entire sentence) secure man, I cried. After 10 plays, still crying.

Music has the power, seemingly the duty to save us from…everything. A good poem helps us. A good tune helps us. But a great song? It heals. Alters the mind. Makes life better. Not just better, but wonderfully okay, euphorically livable. Especially in old age.

I’ve written about Jackson Browne (JB) before, and how many males my age grew up with his music, his fantastically, emotionally pertinent music. You can hear almost his entire, 60 year, lifetime catalogue—done by him—performed differently in every decade since 1970. You can also hear most of his catalogue covered by DIFFERENT artists in every decade since 1970. A lot of the great 60’s and 70’s acts have such an emotional power for us, The Aging Man and Woman. For you, it might be someone else. Definitely someone else for you younger readers.

The power of this type of music is amazing, whoever it is, whenever you hear it. God’s gift to us.

“These Days” was written by JB when he was 16 and recorded by Nico in 1967. AI says the song deals with “loss and regret”. I’ve listened every decade, since.

The Brothers Comatose have covered “These Days” more than perfectly, more than respectfully. They turned it into a divine version so singularly apt for the time I accidentally found it, when it was needed most, as if their version was meant for me, alone, at this time in my life. Serendipity. Karma. Providence. (The Brothers Comatose did the same thing to Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon”, a performance I rely on, frequently, for mood settling and the overall restoration of good feelings.)

It is a hope that you, the individual, unique, one-of-a-kind reader, has something similar in your life.

One of the problems, however, is remembering you have this power to turn to in time of need. If I’d have listened to “Harvest Moon”  last night, for example, instead of memorializing my angst in writing, well…

Now I have JB, The Brothers Comatose, and the rest for comfort. How fortunate is that? Bring it on, Trusk…and the rest of life.

JB can be watched from the early days, when he was a young, handsome man, all the way up to now, age 76 in 2025. While interesting to view, does it make JB, himself, sad/happy/unsure to see himself age?

JB’s voice is gruffly pleasant to some, but not to others. It is intriguing, then to hear his songs covered by females like Bonnie Raittt, Linda Ronstadt, Nico, Allison Krause, and AJ Lee. They all—and others—have the power to add emotional depth to every JB song they perform. See Bonnie’s version of JB’s “My Opening Farewell”.

An interesting video, too, is JB and Gregg Allmann “outgruffing” each other on a live version of The Allmans Brothers’ “Melissa” from ten years ago. It is a spectacular live performance.

It’s 3 am and it has taken three hours to type this short post. Damn music videos. It appears there are many things in my life to be thankful for, many blessings to appreciate.

Calamities, Trump, deceitful girlfriend, and every single problem Old Age can throw at me, be damned. Oh, and death. Screw ‘em all.

My new motto? Devour Feculance. (Thank you, Mr. Milchick.)

And thanks to all the great artists who have accepted their gifts and shared them with us, the rest of the world.