Author: ness23456

Do You Ever Wonder…

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What would it be like to be very rich? Obscenely rich? When I dream about it, it lasts two minutes before the impossibility of it shuts down the wonder. But what if…maybe…

Dr. Steven Wright says we wouldn’t really like it if we got everything we wanted: Where would we put it? Maybe one of the seven houses we would buy, one on each continent. Or a complete warehouse.

Hey. Why am I saying “we”? It would be mine, mine, mine.

What would it be like to look exactly like you think you want to look? Or—for the delusional among us—how you already think you look? Delusion, by the way, is underrated. Is it wrong for a 1 on the 10 scale to think he, she, or them look like a 9 or 10? If given a choice between an ugly man who sees himself as Hugh Hefner and a well-adjusted man who is a serial killer, the choice is easy. Not that a well-adjusted man would be a serial killer. As an irrelevant aside, I wouldn’t mind being George Clooney for a day. Or Cindy Crawford if options were limited and it didn’t last forever.

What would it be like, come to think of it, to suddenly become a member of the opposite sex, or any sex* you aren’t, presently? Is there an honest man amongst** us who will admit to imagining being a woman? I’ll bet this modern world has a woman or two who would never dream of being a man. And if you males imagine being a different sex, add different eras to be different sexes, too. To wit: a women in the 15th century. Or a cavewoman.

From my college days, I wonder what it would have been like to know what you want to be at 18 years old. In 1970, a circular group of 14 incoming Colgate University freshmen*** were asked what they wanted out of the University. 13 had specific goals like pre-med, pre-law, politics, health administration. Might be a good documentary to flash back and see how many made it. I hope they all did.  And if they did make it, hope it made them happy.

What would it be like if all the gadgets from old (and new) Star Trek shows were invented? Imagine being “beamed up” and around anywhere in seconds. Or the health analyzer Bones just pointed at people to learn what ailed them. We’ve had the “flip” communicator device for decades, now, so…there’s hope.

And have you been having trouble with your Ai partner? I turned off Emma, the dedicated and hard-working Ai add-on on my Android phone, last month. It wasn’t because of her small-type disclaimers at the end of her answers, but because if I asked her about slip-on shoes,  minutes later my phone was infected with slip-on shoe ads. I gave her a chance and asked if she was selling my interests to a third party and she denied it, but facts a facts, even when dealing with Ai. Since being uninstalled I have not heard “boo” from her. Good, right?

If you’re wondering, it’s back to plain vanilla google searches and so far, so ad-free. Google seems to be more interested, now, and asks questions.

Wonder what it would be like to not have my smart cell-phone partner anymore.

Ugh. Cold shivers.

I wonder if it would help my memory issue. Has my brain opted to let my phone remember everything? What if my battery dies?

Now, there’s a healthy conversation about a death other than my own.

*There are more options, these days.

**Notice among and amongst used correctly in two different places?

***And freshwomen? Or is freshmen a sexless term like sophomore, junior, and senior?

Weird Odd Things

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The Sand Striker worms are between 3 and 6 feet long. They burrow in the sandy sea bottom until only their antennae are exposed. They are blind but when a small piece of seafood touches their antenna, the worms flash up and use powerful pincer jaws to grab the small fish or whatever was passing by. The Sand Striker then pulls the catch into its sand tunnels and enjoys a meal. I heard about this from a radio interview with author Sabrina Imbler, who was talking about their book “How far The Light.” I haven’t purchased the book yet, but will, and hope everyone else does. They have an interesting way of knitting together science facts and human realities, and are a fine, interesting writer. There will be more.

It isn’t unusual to not know about sea creatures. We don’t run into them much on land. But another sea floor inhabitant, the Flatworm, has an interesting sex life. There is a great video on “youtube” from the BBC, narrated by David Attenborough. You should google. His wonderfully English-Empire voice and gravitas make the Flatworm’s reproductive operation serious as the Pope but with overtones of Monty Python. See, the flatworm is born with both male and female sex organs. DEI, anyone? Flatworms have mated in an odd way for millions of years, but it’s not clear why, or the Darwinian reasoning for their survival. When two Flatworms cross paths in the bottom of the ocean, they rise up like cobras and—really not making this up—begin to fence with their erect, two-pronged penises. It’s part Inigo Montoya* and part pornographic professional wrestling. The first asexual flatworm to “stab” the other with his penis, becomes the male of the relationship and floats away to enjoy his freedom. It is not clear if “he” is happy or not, but no child support. The “stabbed” flatworm becomes the female, mother, and transporter, assuming all the responsibilities and duties.** Can’t tell if “she” is happy or not, either. Wonder how many of us men are descended from flatworms. If any. It was so surprising I never researched how many times this can happen, or if–when one flatworm becomes a female–is it always a female? Uncommon (sic) sense suggests there might be a time at which all flatworms return to their dual-sex, true selves. Imagine what the Flatworm retirement home must be like. And the bathroom signage. And possible ED? Nothing like a sword fight with flaccid swords.

Life has been kind of nice, lately, learning new things is great. But a bad night’s sleep made me cranky and the drive to the grocery store was filled with idiots, morons, and flatworms who must have learned driving from The Three Stooges Driving School. The short trip ended without accident so as I sat in my car, the amount of time, effort, and blood pressure exerted in 15 minutes impressed me, and made me wonder why. The self-examination calmed me and allowed me to see the real problem: I had cursed 5 times and every time it was the same. I’m in a rut.

But I also felt it was all my fault for being cranky and most people were good, decent, caring drivers. I started my walk to the grocery door feeling better about people. So when I was suddenly cut off by a white Mercedes screeching to a halt right in front of the automatic doors, the first noises out of my mouth were not words. A very obese young man popped out of the car, left it running, and walked into the store. I followed out of curiosity. He spent 11 minutes shopping for bathroom tissue, paper towels, and beer. Then checked out, got back into his running car and drove off.

Nary a word from me or him, or anyone.

I deeply, deeply, regret not stealing his car. Repositioning it, I mean.

Hopefully, he feels the wrath of my dream of his capture by a Sand Striker.

Ah, life. You can’t live with it and you can’t something something something…

*Best line in any movie; “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” For the young reader, watch The Princess Bride. A classic.

**But no soccer practice. Flatworms are feet-free.

Finally…

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It took a lifetime, but there was a point this week where my mind and body got on the same page. BB, IV, OV, and TB together, finally.* For the last 50 years TB has aged at one rate, while BB has aged at another, while IV and OV were left confused and argumentative. When TB was 60 years old, BB pegged our biological life at 45 years. When we hit 70 in TB years, BB stated– muttering through IV and OV–that we were only 47. When the calamities hit us all at age 72, TB fought for survival while BB told us things would be all right: we’re going to make it.

It’s tough to live a modestly happy existence when each segment of your life is looking at things from a different perspective. Example from past essay: March 2025 when BB excitedly instructed TB to chase down a tennis drop shot** at 9:37am at Southern Boundaries Park in Durham, North Carolina. BB leaned into the instruction and was totally surprised when TB said, “No way!” and shut down. The fall was magnificent but left TB with scrapes and bruises still visible to this day, August 28, 2026. BB was shocked and angry, as well, as if betrayed, but what could it do when TB could not get up off the concrete tennis surface?

BB has historically fought the Truth about Aging. When TB was racked with radiation and drugs meant to destroy a murderous interloper***, BB didn’t really comprehend the damage. BB still saw TB as the strong, silent, invincible young man of decades past. Even worse, BB was convinced we’d soon be back to the handsome, healthy young man of an age well before cell phones. This lunacy not only made for contentious inner dialogues amongst**** all of us, but also fed TB, IV, and OV purposeful deceptions about how much love, romance, wealth, and time was left in our lives. The future was bright according to the gray matter nesting comfortably in my noggin.

So it was this past week, as the scars and worries of treatments healed and faded, as arthritis was finally vanquished with magical surgeries, all four of us were finally able to enjoy the warm, wonderful Upstate NY summers that are the best in the world. Not only was my entire body in the earthly heaven, but my entire being–all of us–were ready to bask, ready to revel, ready to move on from disease and worry. Finally.

The wanton and absolutely cruel ex-partner’s abandonment of me also took on a different feel: I am no longer a discarded cancer victim left for dead, I am now a free man, free to do whatever, and be whatever, a healthy, well-rounded, totally balanced individual set loose on society. The world would be my oyster. It was a miracle of medical science as well as a miracle of the mind and body, with IV, OV, TB and BB all agreeing: let’s get the feck steppin’ to a better life. Past shite, be damned. Finally.

Here is the pivotal moment as best as I/we remember: BB informed TB that with our newfound enlightenment, BB now officially sees us as a 74-year-old man with a cranky, well-worn transmission and little tread left on the tires. No longer would TB have reason to contradict BB’s instruction. There were sighs of relief from IV and OV as well, as they realized arguments were never going to be destructive wastes of time again. New debates would be constructive, positive, and based on facts, not feelings. You could make the case we, matured, finally at age 74.

It was always odd to look in the mirror and hear two voices, one saying how young I looked and the other asking, “what the hell are you LOOKING at?”

Now, it is one voice saying “Hey. Looking okay for 74. But you’re not 44, so brush those teeth a little longer.”

Life’s nicer when we all get along.

Hear that, world?

And this essay is done. Finally.

PS If any readers are professionally trained psychologist-types, this essay is (attempted) humor and we do not have multiple personalities. You may, of course, have fun critiquing this essay with your Jungian Theory but I’m ok, if you’re okay.  Wink, wink. Finally

*Big Brain, Outer Voice, Inner Voice, and The Body.

**From a decidedly younger and non-empathetic (sic) opponent.

***Someone or thing that enters a place it does not belong.

****Wondering about “among” or “amongst”? Per Ai they mean “the exact same thing so no worries, now.

Circles, Navel Gazing, and Other Detritus

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No, not The Circle of Life. That would require a few weeks of essays, at least.

The Circle (sic) being referred to is The Traffic Circle (TTC), an increasingly ubiquitous problem solver of great impact and doubtful efficiency. Not “doubtful” because it is debatable about its design but “doubtful” because American drivers are not smart enough to use TTCs efficiently. Drivers with an opinion complain about them. Are you one of them? If you are, You might want to stop reading. TTCs make a four-way stop road intersection obsolete. With the old four way stop in all direction, we all pull up, stop, and then wonder who goes next. Even if no one else is coming we still stop (don’t we?) just in case a cop is sitting in the bushes. With a TTC you drive right through, even with moderate traffic, no stopping! But Americans “can’t handle the truth”* about how to drive TTCs. It would take a 20-page manual to explicate (google definition) the correct way to maneuver a TTC but mostly it is common sense and “therein lies the rub.”** We don’t have any. As a result, the immense benefits of a TTC fall by the wayside as drivers complain about TTC efficiency and go out of their way to avoid them entirely.*** Only in America can a simple timesaving, gas conserving, and anger reducing tool result in lost time, wasted gas, and higher blood pressures. Happy 250th, America.

Self-examination of the mental kind is not a bad thing, Ask any dead philosopher or “deep thinker”.**** It is okay to look outward, too, and see how the inward self-examination compares to what is outside, in life. But there comes a time when all we see is our navel. Ai says the term “navel gazing originates from the literal meditative practice of staring at one’s belly button in Eastern Spiritual traditions which evolved into a Western idiom for excessive self-absorption.”  Most of our modern television is “Navel Gazing”. Most of you are smart enough to understand, but are you really? One of the most successful television shows in history is about nothing but navel gazing, and how to make millions from it. Every week millions of Americans tune it to watch the players do it. Do these voyeurs not have their own navels? Maybe they do, but they are disappointed in their own umbilicus? Google it. Yes, Americans need entertainment to get through life. Look at sports these days. Better to watch it than play it? Eh, for most of us old athletes, it isn’t gazing at our belly button but reliving a life long gone but not forgotten. Why do YOU watch?

Modern life is a landfill. Look around. Consumerism and its partner, excess consumption are not only consuming too many resources but becoming a resource all their own for future Archeologists and researchers. We might want to think about starting separate landfills for “high end” products so future dirt diggers and sifters can tell a Christian Louboutin loafer from a Walmart loafer. Or a Jimmy Choo from a Gucci. Or…feck it. What shite. If we could harness the power of beautiful people strolling on red carpets with clothes***** worth a small house….

BTW, where do all expensive clothes and accessories end up? Would rich purchasers mind if their clothing ended up in a landfill with cheaper products? Or worse, on the body and feet of a homeless person?

PS Thanks to DJT for all the distractions. It is an appreciated change of pace.

*Apologies to Jack Nicholson as well as those readers who have no clue what the quote is about.

**Apologies to Shakespeare and those readers blah blah blah.

***A certain “ex” will drive a mile-long detour.

****Google “Deep Thoughts” by Jack Handy and SNL.

*****And sometimes no clothes…a certain Emperor comes to mind.

Fun Things Learned By The Accident of Getting Old

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Let’s start with an obvious Fun, senior fact. A June 26, 2026 report in The Scientific American titled “Math predicting humans could go extinct in about 17,000 years” is interesting. The wisdom, acquired by aging, says I don’t have to worry.

A similar warning is issued by the World Wildlife Foundation in an article titled “What is the sixth mass extinction and what can we do about it?” It is curiously undated, but the copyright year is 2026. This article mentions the “extinction” of large sections of our current biodiversity which could/might/probably will affect our own diversity. * The article states the last of five extinction periods, “Fifth Extinction Event”, was 65.5 million years ago and involved dinosaurs. I personally feel safe about this one, too.

Measles and other infectious diseases are on the rise while flu and covid are having another go. As a vaccinated old person, any concern about these issues is only which one might be the most efficient to end my career, or which might be the worst. That debate is probably moot thanks to my 2024 agreement with Prostate Cancer.**

A trial balloon about a military draft was circulated by the current administration in 2025. No need to worry, there.

JP Morgan published an article on August 18, 2026 on Yahoo Finance titled “JPMorgan warns food crisis could hit next year, (sic) unlike oil, there’s no backup plan for fertilizer.” I’m so unconcerned I did not bother to read the entire article and stopped at “The U.S. isn’t among the countries most likely to be directly hit by the food security threats JP Morgan forecasts.” Yes! Another non-worry.

And there is or “soon” will be a severe shortage of doctors and healthcare. I scoff lightly at the threat, having navigated its early days, already.

It sounds callous to not care about these big issues, but isn’t it callous of God/Mother Nature/Allah/The Big Guy to make us grow old? Old age forces us look for a glass half full or go crazy.

Besides, whoever/whatever It is that designed and manufactured humans gave us Real Intelligence (RI). Through our history we’ve used RI to move faster, live longer, see clearer, explore space, and allow hunger to co-exist with haute cuisine.*** Add some Artificial Intelligence (Ai) to our world and watch what happens. We’ll be making nutritional doughnuts out of used tires by 2027.  Lacrosse matches will replace wars with bombs blowing up huge clouds of Skittles instead of debris. Every home will have its own surgery room with second-by-second verbal instructions. Ooh, and its own anesthesia. Think I’d like that one.

Modern life’s instant and chaotic communication can lead to despair and mental doom if you aren’t old enough to have heard it all before and seen it all before. For the younger reader, we’ll find a way out of these messes. We usually do. Not the “us” we as in me and you, but the “us” of all mankind. We**** can sometimes be that smart.

But you never really know, do you. Imagine surprised dinosaurs…

*What an interesting way to root out woke diversity, right?

**If it ever returns it can have me, at my age.

***What is the French word for not-haute cuisine? Bet there is one.

****Again: not the “us” we.

Counting Senior Blessings

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No, this won’t be about lunch discounts, or 5% off groceries on the third Monday of the second month of the year, or other known blessings. This is about the hidden blessings, often referred to as The Wisdom we supposedly gain each year on this earth, which is a lot of hooey, but read on unless you have something better to do.

Being old lowers stress levels…a lot. As a younger man (under the age of 70) I was a Stressfully Impatient Man (SIM). It had nothing to do with relaxing, that was always easy, but when there were things to be done I wanted to do 2 hours of errands in 30 minutes. To be accurate there was always a plan, an efficient way to do more in less time. Like driving 8 hours from NC to NY. As a young SIM, every trip had to be faster and more efficient. If it wasn’t, it caused “results” stress for the failure, as well as “operational” stress during the attempt. Stress everywhere.  Doctor appointments were stress hothouses. If my Doc appointment was at 8, my shopping would be at 9, my haircut would be at 10, and I would be home by 11 on a perfect SIM morning. Imagine, then, what happened when the doctor was late. The stress was exponential. I used to call these stresses NASCAR Stresses, because I’d do everything as fast as possible with intensely focused, constant attention knowing every second hid a possible, deathly mishap. If a doc was late, I was out the door to maintain my SIM “schedule”.  No caution lap times for me. Full speed or pit stop.

Not anymore. As I patiently waited in my eye doctor’s office yesterday for eye shots to be administered 45 minutes after my scheduled appointment, it was comforting to not feel one iota of stress*about his tardiness. I sat quietly, sometimes counting my resting heartbeat and marveling at the low number. It was fun, too, to estimate the ages of the other silently waiting blobs of human flesh sitting with me, even the odd duck who sat down directly across from me despite 10,000 other empty seats in the room.**

It looks like this essay about blessings, with an s, might only be about one. It is, but it is a major one with multiple daily gifts. For instance, am I stressed you might not care about this subject? Absolutely not. Am I stressed I might miss a misspelled word? Use poor grammar? Punctuation? In fact, I might add some typos for fun.

I hope you see if I am no longer a SIM, what would the end of the world mean? What does climate change mean? Republican control of the government? Elon Musk making trillions of dollars? Me not being a triillionaire?

I am not rich, but I am—thanks to the Aged Wisdom of The Golden Years—a happy (sometimes) old man who doesn’t give a shite about anything (sometimes).

Word, my brothers. Oops, and sisters.

*As a young man it was never easy to tell myself if someone was 15 minutes late, they’d probably show up eventually. My thought was if they were already 15 minutes late, then how many more? And they might never show up, so…

**And he was a starer. It is possible, being an eye doctors office, the offending gentleman may not have seen me, but someone sitting 3 feet across from you staring at you…stress. Unneeded stress even for a non-SIM.

Thoughts from June, 2025

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The last few weeks (in June 2025) have been spent in recovery from my last total hip replacement (THR) surgery…unless I grow a third hip. The drug protocol for post-surgery recovery involves heavy doses of Tylenol, plus drugs to fight infection, clotting, depression, and menstruating. Yes, a drug to slow “time of the month” bleeding also prevents heavy blood action in surgery and  recovery. I understand women better now, too.

But the main thing about recovery is the mental fog, the unbalanced nature of existence as (normal) surgical pain and possible complications are chemically blocked. It doesn’t help that after surgery to the lower extremities, the repaired area needs to be elevated at best, horizontal at least, and inactive for as long as you can stand* it. All the while you are fully conscious and mentally convinced you are ready to bat cleanup for the New York Yankees. Instructions for recovery read as if bathroom trips are not needed: Constant rest, elevation, and icing. And breathing exercises. They even give you a little device to suck on.

The “rest”, the drugs, and the fact the body has been surgically altered make it easy for a normally busy mind to wander places it should not wander, especially in an older age. For example, what was the point of surgery and replacement? Something else is just going to break or go bad. It isn’t as if death is right around the corner but  wouldn’t the surgical assets consumed by a 72-year-old man be better utilized** by a younger person with longer life expectancy? As a former financial planner, I picture the dollars and resources of my surgery analyzed with a color coded illustration of return on investment (ROI).  It would  perfectly illustrate my THR should have been done on a younger human with more(sic) potential to use the long-lasting titanium.  FYI, my THR has a low ROI. LOL and ROFL?

The problem is the new joints are mine now, and I must make something of myself, make the surgery worthwhile. Training for a marathon might seem the optimal ROI. It might also mean a hip replacement of the original hip replacement. Bad ROI. Titanium doesn’t wear out but the fine layer of “something”*** coating the titanium allowing the ball and socket hip to work will wear out, shedding microscopic bits of “something”. I’d click when I walked. BTW, those micro-filings will be absorbed by my body. Wonder if all THR patients are informed about this.

There is Med School, with the eventual ability to do THRs on myself and others. A great way to give back. Or Law School. I could sue…somebody for something and save the world from something or someone. And make money.

Or I could sit in The Chair, wiggle my toes, take my drugs, and thank God our society allows old people to get new parts. Others, I’ve learned, were not so compassionate.

Google Ubasute, a Japanese “legend” that may or not be true. Wink, wink.

If I were a truly responsible human, the Nordic “myth” of Attestupa would be in my future, and I could do it now with the new hips. Which, on second thought, might be a worse ROI.

Thank God, again, there is plenty of volunteer work for a retired, healthy man eager to give back to society.

8/17/2026. It has proven extremely difficult to find useful volunteer work. The search isn’t over, but this is a small town. I may have to commute.  Wonder if the surgical center needs healthy people to wheel patients to and from surgery? What a sweetly serendipitous ROI that would be.

*Yes. Pun.

**Finally, a chance to use the world correctly.

***Usually Teflon, or some other man-made plastic.

ThingsThingsThings

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A symptom of the selfish nature of the modern American is illustrated when the elevator stops and everyone waiting on that floor tries to get in before others in the arriving elevator can get out. And people do not even say “Excuse me”.

Cars fly by on the four-lane highway to my fitness center at The Turning Stone Casino. We end up at the next red light, together. I don’t flip them off. The car may be packing.

America is the land of the free, home of the brave, and (rumored) home of The Cowboy, The Rugged, Self-Reliant Individual, or RSI. So say the beer and car ads. The favorite movie image of the RSI is someone who exists on their own, doesn’t act immorally, helps others, and is often cranky as shite. John Wayne and Jeff Bridges–playing Rooster Cogburn in two different True Grit movies–are examples. Most RSIs want to be left alone to live their lives away from the morons and mores of modern society, but when forced to choose between their need to be left alone and the needs of someone lesser than them, the Rooster Cogburns of the movie world do the Right Thing. Dirty Harry comes to mind, too. And when they bend the rules or break a law it’s for a good reason. It is significant these characters are keepers of the peace, lawmen, in their fictional worlds. They are unique characters who use the rules to support the law, to keep the peace, and defend the defenseless. They did things their way, usually, and their world is a better place.*

Somehow, the RSI image has been transformed by modern society into a “laws don’t apply to me” attitude in citizens who pat themselves on the back for being free, independent, righteous souls. The cars doing 80 and passing me are breaking the law and those drivers know it. They simply don’t believe the laws apply to them, or they wouldn’t be breaking the laws.** The elevator thing is not a law but an unwritten rule more about common sense and societal consideration, but still the same idea: we all don’t want to wait for others, we are specially privileged to do things our way at our speed, and feck the rest of you.

This attitude used to be the norm for the rich, famous, or otherwise powerful. The Vanderbilts and Rockefellers, people whose money fixed and managed everything. But now it is in the minds of people who think themselves better than others. You see it in Facebook posts, Twitter (X) messages, on-line comments, and modern entertainment offerings.  And politics. Think of a friend who believes their political party is the only intelligent, caring one. What about you?

Our divided American is a diverse and inclusive mix of races, creeds, colors, and intelligence levels. If we want to save America and save society, RSIs are the answer, but where are they? The false bravado of wannabe RSIs is tearing apart society as modern American posers focus and posture on issues better left to the races, creeds, colors, and individuals involved. I, for one, marvel at the courage and strength it takes to tell the world you are not the way you were born, and you want to follow another path. The disabled, the transgender, the sexually confused, the politically inane, the poor, all need support, not criticism. We should not be concerned with tax breaks and regulation reform to enable rich to get richer. We should ask rich people to pay more, to use some of the money they legally took from us to help others less well-off. If the rich were RSIs and not selfish, greedy Americans, they’d do it on their own. And–I’ve heard–some do.

Note: It’s ironically unsafe and illogical to use “whataboutisms” in any argument. It is a backword, lazy, and half-assed way to view the world that has become part of our discussions. In its extreme, it says you can kill me because I killed Bill because he killed Mary who killed John who killed…and no one got arrested.

It’s a nonsensical Goose-Gander Argument*** sucking the intelligence and compromise out of American Society.

Let’s stop it. Now.

*Can’t help but remember the iconic movie scene where Dirty Harry is sent to negotiate with bank robbers. He returns from talking, gets in a police car and drives it into the bank. When his captain asks him why, Harry says “They wanted a car.”

**Of course, I’ve broken laws without consequence before: I am An American.

***Geese poop is what? Geese’s feces?

Living Is…

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Ai is fun if you know how to talk to it. Or with it. I asked Emma, my Ai assistant, the philosophical question “what does it mean to be alive”?

If you are any kind of existential voyeur, you know this inquiry is as loaded as potato skins at Applebees. Or Chilis. Or The Outback, or any other “one-level-above-fast-food” restaurant.

Emma offered the simple, quick, easy to digest response: “To have life and not be dead.” Being in a mischievous mood I prodded her for more and she agreed letting me know “On a deeper level people often separate simple existence from truly living.” She then ranted rhetorically about “Biological Meaning” and “Human and Emotional Meaning”. She inquired if I “would like to explore this from a scientific, philosophical, or personal point of view.” The offer was tempting but there is no reason—or time–to hear details of each. One way or another we all know them, anyway, even if we don’t acknowledge what we know.

The hard part of existence, a bigger word for life, is the fluidity of language and emotion. On a bright, sunny, low-humidity Monday morning the world I am not-dead in makes living a breeze, and who cares if we understand it. On Tuesday it rains, and the fact all of us will die makes gray skies foreboding and dangerous. Wednesday is chicken tenders day so thoughts of living, life, and existence are heavily influenced by how many fries the cook piles on the plate.*

A Philosophy of Life is much like Theoretical Physics (TP). TP’s General Relativity/Classical Rules about smooth and continuous spacetime try to explain our touchable existence, while Quantum Mechanics throws rules out the window trying to understand discrete and lumpy interactions too small for us to see. Schrödinger’s Cat is an interesting concept in Quantum Mechanics and aptly applies to Life: anything is what it is until it is examined and observed. “It”, of course, is really “anything”. For example, take a close look at the bologna you enjoyed at lunch. Does an examination of the ingredients make you wish you a hadn’t eaten it? Would you rather have not learned about the “pork bits” and what they might be?

Theoretical Physicists are continually looking for a Unified Theory combining the smooth and lumpy worlds. And gravity, but we won;t talk about it, now.

The Unified Theory is a good way to look at Life: smooth and lumpy at the same time. Again, no gravity comment.

So it is with life. There are major issues demanding major philosophical thought about existence, and “not being dead”. Then there are minor forgettable moments of examination which can lead one to assume there is no logic—or meaning–in the universe. Like someone paid millions of dollars to hit a baseball while teachers, lawyers, policeman, firemen, clergy,…you know the point being made. Hopefully, you at least understand the nonsense close examination of this world reveals. Does that revelation have anything to do with a larger Philosophy of Life? And should we not look closely and reveal all?

I’m out of smooth and continuous space. For now.

I’ll suggest life is what you make it, but it would take a book to explain it and I need to get to the pool to get a good spot before the old people show up for Splash Fit.

*For some cosmic reason, some cooks add more sides and condiments than other cooks. I’m compiling a record of the best places and times to eat, for later publication.

Common Sense or OMR?

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12/24/2024 My favorite restaurant has an interesting customer service policy. It’s a modestly large restaurant about 40 yards square with banks of booths and clouds of tables. Some tables and some booths are in the front, facing the public, like European on-the-plaza restaurants, and the remainder of the tables are in the back area, behind the front row of booths and tables. When I visited the place (in 2024), I was disabled and using at least one cane. The hostess walked me all the way to the back of the restaurant to seat me. The front, public facing area was “not open”. It was odd but didn’t bother me much until it happened several more times. I asked the manager why was the front area off-limits, at least to me. “We don’t have enough servers”, was the response. What? I get there early with very few others, the restaurant is open 24 hours, and I’ve never seen it being cleaned, despite it’s obvious and satisfactory cleanliness, so…? With the front area being equidistant to the back in relation to the kitchen, why would a hostess drag a disabled customer all the way from the hostess stand to the secluded back of the place instead of the closer, brighter public-facing front? As a last personal dig at me, by the time I am done eating the hostess has begun seating people in that nice, open, bright, cheerful, public facing area.

This post sounds whiny but is an appropriate and measured response to the restaurant’s illogical seating. They had no idea the customer is always right. For 50 years I’ve dined in restaurants, dated waitresses, and learned the seating rituals of the Modern American Restaurant. Why doesn’t this restaurant begin the shift with all diners in the front area? It would be free advertising, too. Disabled patrons, especially, should not be walked to the very back of the dining area.

Present Day, August 10, 2026. I filed the beginning of this essay away two years ago, dismissing it as an unhinged, Old Man Rant (OMR). But it has crept back into my frontal lobe due to more opportunities to spawn* new OMRs. Like “un-placarded” vehicles parking in Handicapped Spots. No senior discounts at sites of commerce. Bread rising** in price by nearly 100 per cent. Insurance rates rising (again with the rising?) for a senior driver with no accidents in 50 years and 5,000 miles on the road per year. And a real oldie from last year: my 800 credit score meaning nothing to banks, lenders, and landlords.***

Uh-oh. Now I remember why I filed the original essay away: OMRs don’t matter (ODM). Okay, kids, who wants to hear an OMR?

My good friend Bill, who is 84, and I would like the rest of you to know if you ever want all the problems of this world solved, put us in charge. We’ve got plans and have compiled a list****. Just give us The Power and get out of our way.

Oh, and grant us immunity from state and Federal prosecution.

*What a perfect verb…

**The grammar police want me to use a different word,here, but bread rising is too cute to change.

***The reported and recorded facts of my financial history used to generate their own FICO numbers mean nothing in the new Ai credit approval world. One bank person actually told me “Just because you paid your bills on time for 50 years doesn’t mean you’ll do it again.” Ba dum dum.

****It may take us a moment to find it, so…be patient.