writing

Three Sentences Revisited

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Ai employees are warning us of impending doom in the near future and politicians are calling for legislation to prevent it. So our Executive branch of government meets with a band of Ai executives and allows Ai companies to regulate themselves. Anyone know a good third sentence?

In our country’s news dissemination history, there were only a few news outlets so we all listened and talked about the same news, often with different opinions. Now, in the modern world, we can seek out a news source we like, leading to characters of all kinds pushing “news” they know we want to hear. Any wonder why we are such a fragmented society?

Are you afraid to fart in public? Yes? That makes you a private tutor.

Aging is all about loss, acceptance, and adapting. Middle of the night sleeplessness used to be about career, romance, cars, and sports. Now, wakefulness is prolonged by what is the next thing to be “gone” from life, lost. And will I be able to make myself see it as good thing to lose.

Teeth. With all the sophisticated engineering evidenced by structures like the eyeball, why do teeth rot? Why are they not titanium?

Television–or any image viewing—has gotten more complicated than a Rubik’s Cube, and more expensive. Who needs 150 channels? When someone comes up with an “a la Carte” way of selecting channels, they may make millions.*

Healthcare is beyond explanation, these days, and should be treated differently than television streaming selection. It falls under the Declaration of Independence stated right to pursue “happiness”, and you shouldn’t have to take a moment to select a health care provider as you suffer a stroke and are taken away to the hospital. Free Market be damned.

Relationships should be outlawed due to the potentially prodigious amounts of fraud and deception involved in courting, wooing, uniting, and breaking up. In 74 years (yes, I had a relationship as a baby) of personal experience and anecdotal collection, finding two people who are honest in every stage of a relationship is impossible. Most relationship fraud is by omission, not commission, and is often a result of changes brought on by natural life progressions (see paragraph 4) and “Tribe over Truth” dynamics.

Guns have reached the point where no one cares about trying to regulate them, anymore. Manufacturers flooded the world with guns in response to hysterical future and present gun owners’ worries their guns would be taken away. We should research and decide if it would prevent harm to innocent children and spectators if we returned to the Old West style of gunplay, with open, visible holsters and High Noon gunfights.**

To my limited knowledge, guns have never been legally taken away from an innocent citizen, though sometimes they should be. We err on the side of the rights of gun ownership not public safety when we debate guns. At least, make laws to severely punish “lazy” gun owners whose kids bring their weapons to school for “show and tell”.***

On a lighter note, Daily Savings Time is about to happen. It has very little effect on me but some people have strident opinions. Surprise, I don’t. (Please look up the definition of “strident.”)

Another stolen joke: I entered ten puns in a Worst Pun Contest. Did I win? No pun in ten did. If you don’t get it…

*Sling had inexpensive “by the day” passes that made TV life easier. It worked great. They stopped it recently, without warning.

**Imagine a UFC style of settling arguments. We could have national Gun Fight Tournaments by age group and caliber of weapon. Healthcare suppliers could build and name Gladiator-type arenas with sand floors to soak up the blood.

***Several cases recently in the news feeds, which can’t be trusted, anymore. Ai slop. But sometimes true.

Common Sense? Civility? Compassion? Crap

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What a world. When a young man, I conducted serious conversations by mail.* Old USPS mail. Not “E” mail. A normal, lucky conversation span was send a letter on Tuesday, hope a local person gets it by Wednesday, hope they respond by Thursday, mail it on Friday, and I get an answer by Monday. When I used the phone, someone at the receiving location had to hear the landline ring before any conversation started and several tries had to be made before someone was near enough to answer. Even then, a father or mother might not have gotten the correct message to the son or daughter because of forgetfulness or old-fashioned parental caution. An aged parent or grandparent was always a crapshoot, especially if they asked you to repeat words.

These days a text, call, or email gets from my Personal Communicating Device (PCD), either a tablet, watch, laptop, or phone (TWLP pronounced twelp), gets to the receiving PCD, instantly*.

In all cases, however, the receiving party of any mode of communication has the power and the right to respond any time they want and in any way they want. Mailed letters were often responded to by a landline phone call with the accompanying requirement of me or another human being near enough to be an “answerer”. Thank God for answering machines, though they did add another level of doubt about the accurate receipt of the message by the intended. New, modern TWLP communications can also be responded to by the receiver in the way the receiver chooses, unless specific instructions say otherwise.

Modern or Old Fashioned, there is/was always an implied contract about what was required by both sender and receiver. Sidebar: In management schools and marriage counseling sessions, I learned about The Black Box (TBB) in the middle of all normal, human communications. Speaker A says “X” into TBB but there is no guarantee Receiver B hears “X” coming out of TBB.

Understanding TBB is the main impetus for the terms of the contract: the original sender is expecting an answer from the original receiver, unless otherwise clearly stated or dubiously implied. Note: subsequent communications can be outside the contract. especially if a responder enjoys sending insipid, repetitive texts.

“Ghosting,” per Google, “is when someone suddenly stops all communication and ignores all further attempts to connect without giving warning or explanation.” Ghosting has infected communications since we started talking to each other, and was easier—and unnamed–in the old days. Mail “didn’t get to me” or “I didn’t hear the phone ring” were rude, but still possibly innocent explanations for missed messages, especially given the time frame. Theoretically, a mailed letter or phone call could even be forgotten by the sender, himself**, without noting the lack of any response if enough time elapsed.

So what’s the harm in ignoring a received communication?

I’ll tell you. Forget about the “contract”, and think about the sender. It is a civic and societal duty to respond, period. It is also compassionate to respond, especially in romantic—or potentially romantic—situations. Especially if you are the “dumper” in a relationship and the “dumpee” is ignorant of his/her/their “mistakes”. The internet is full of stories about partners and spouses ghosting each other with dramatic and sometimes mortal consequences.

Common sense: communication can stop the drama.*** We won’t mention the Golden Rule, but imagine if every relationship had a breakup clause concerning implied communications based on the Golden Rule. And everyone obeyed the clause.

To all ghosters: how would you feel if you were the ghostee and someone did it to you?

You’d feel like crap. Please feel that when you ghost, too. Or worse.

*Indicators and notifications say so on my TWLP.

**Or herself. Or themselves.

***The sad thing about rules concerning society and common sense, is the number of odd humans who have no regard for either. If your partner or spouse is “out there”, all “contracts” are voided. But do NOT abuse this exception.

What Can We Do?

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The world is—and always has been—a crazy place. In 1970, for instance, when the world was going to end, I considered The Peace Corps and other similar agencies for a career where I could fix all the world’s problems. But nothing happened.  The intense mix of problems and where to start fixing them was too big, too hard. Since I was young and immature, my non-decision was it was too hard to do anything at all. I hopped on my motorcycle and took off, looking for drugs, sex, and rock and roll* to cover-up the disillusionment, and my failure to address it.

That same d-word is being used a lot, these days, so here are some things to help you cover it up.

Give blood. I won’t explain it here, but command you to download the Red Cross Blood Donor App and research it for yourself. This is the minimum you can do without effort. Go lay down, drip blood into a bag, grab a free snack, and go home. Just do it, with apologies to you-know-who for the phrase. If you’re afraid of needles, get over it, you wuss. Imagine the poor, unfortunate, dying patient your blood may help and stop being so self-centered. It isn’t about you. Wuss.

Don’t believe everything you read on the internet. I know, it’s hard to get real news then, right? Hard to be informed. But this is a math problem. Right now 60 percent of the internet is fake, wrong, or intended to fool you. Do you know the difference? No. Don’t say you do.

Don’t have an opinion. Opinion has been part of life for all my 74 years so…my opinion is don’t have an opinion. If we don’t know the truth about anything, why are we so sure about anything? Public discourse is littered with opinions from people who—after questioning—can’t say where, who, or what they learned their opinion from.** It’s mainly a MAGA/Republican thing, but Democrats have caught on and are rapidly ramping up to do the same thing: manipulate the public. Us. Forget who is doing it and just keep this thought in mind every time you read anything: What are they*** trying to do to me, now. It’s not a question but a statement.

Finally, take pride in being who you are and doing what you can do. Buying a fuel efficient car. Turning off lights. Saving water. Rescuing pets. Helping a friend, neighbor, stranger feel better about life, or just help them get in a doorway or up a flight of stairs. Stop being an ignorant consumer, how many pairs of shoes do you need? Look for God everywhere and don’t be ashamed to admit it.****

Crap, I need another “finally”: you are the master of your domain. If you’re unhappy, depressed, or disillusioned, it sometimes requires an internal examination and adjustment. It’s not always the big, bad world’s fault.

And if none of this helps, talk to someone. There are lots of good therapists and counselors waiting for your call. Find a living, breathing, caring human who will listen and remind you what really matters: you get one chance at life. Don’t let the world try to prevent you from giving it your best shot.

*Not really. Just an apt phrase for the time. Sex, yes, but no drugs and one certainly didn’t have to look for “rock and roll” in the 70s. It was blaring from every car, transistor radio, and Ed Sullivan Show. Don’t bother googling.

**Yep. That is a preposition and that is the end of the sentence. I could easily have rewritten the entire sentence but I don’t want TO. Shoot me.

***”They” is anyone with an interest in getting us and others like us (?) to believe and behave a certain way. Watch sports opinion shows for non-political examples. You’ll gag.

****This has nothing to do with religion. I should use a lower case “g” for God, but have respect for Them all, so upper case it is.

Why?

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There is never any shortage of subjects to write about. Or talk about. The world today is ludicrously different from the world of my younger years, but the amount and scope of problems are about the same.

In the 1960s*, the war, civil rights, women’s right, climate change (yes, way back then), voting rights, tree-hugging, love, sex, algebra, the Exquisite No Bra, the end of The Bullet Bra, there was just so much to worry about that old people often warned me the end of civilization was near.**

With the young deaths from The War, the riots in the cities, and an older generation intend on making my cohorts and I toe the “shorthaircutcleanface” regimen from the 1950s, it did seem like The End was near. My father personally offered to end my world if I did not get my haircut.

Ah, good times. One good thing about my father is he loved bars/taverns. If we were with him, we loved them, too, especially the patrons who felt it was the right time for me and my brother to learn the evils of alcohol. And pickled eggs.

Flash forward to the present and what are we worried about? The End, still. Our Democracy is threatened, again, our natural world is at peril, still, and our capacity for destroying each other has increased. We can kill people from afar with effortless ease and without the time-worn threat of nuclear involvement. Through Ai, we can even wipe ourselves out with a “fox in the henhouse” attitude that seems to enjoy the eggs without regard for how long they may last.***

And we can instantly tell someone they are a butthead from long distance. We can even put it in writing so the butthead can review it at his/her/their leasure. ****

Soon, the magic of Quantum Entanglement might make it possible to insult the butthead face to face and beam back home before they understand what butthead means.

Here begins an age-old problem. This essay was started with the best to intentions and clearest of “point to be made”. But you can tell by the footnotes my brain has taken the nearest exit from the constructive, intelligent speed of the super highway to the slow-paced, drowsiness of memory lane. A cogent, pithy, well-thought-out essay is now as extinct as a pterodactyl. (Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl go to the bathroom? The “p” is silent.)

What do you call a person who can’t fart in public? A private tutor. Hope you don’t have to think about that one.

Or anything else. The World is The World and it has been for billions of years. Can we do anything to change it? Or course we can, look at history.

But can we do anything to change it and make it better? More livable for all? Happier for at least The Majority? Even if we change the world for the better how long will we be able to enjoy it?

Meh. Let’s say not long, and believe there is life after death, a better life, a fuller, life, an easier life with no Ends to worry about.

There was an advertisement for a self-help book “How to Solve 50 Per Cent of Your Problems”.

Ever the optimist, I bought two.

Full disclosure, if I ever write a joke of my own I will make sure you know it.

*Conveniently forgetting pre-1960 years of farming, using a baseball bat with the wrong grip, trying to shoot snakes with a cap gun, building snow forts in snowbanks as the plows were still running, and—you get the point: stupid kid.

**Apologies for mentioning the bra controversies but it was puberty and my mother bought all my clothes from the Sears Catalogue, so fashion (ahem) intrigued me.

***Pardon me for kind of enjoying this symbolism/metaphor/mini allegory.

****Yes, I do do this. Do do. Ha.

What To Say, What To Do

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What in the hell* is happening to the world? Excuse me while I sputter and mumble and collect my thoughts.

DJT has renamed another geographic entity. Apple and Google both said they immediately adjusted their maps to record the executive order. My google maps used both names with Lake America from a distance and Lake Ontario when I zoomed in. But the dual names lasted only 30 seconds before Lake Ontario disappeared. For good. What in the hell? FYI: we still have the Gulf of America.

Is there a Trump supporter reading this who can explain Trump’s need to rename everything? Is he marking his territory? And how much do these name changes cost? And how much will it cost to change them back? And who pays???

Bah humbug. Let’s ignore DJT and move on to better things.

I’ve complained about drivers not using turn signals, but it might be me that is in the wrong. As an older American who tries to ignore news, I’m wondering if our traffic departments have announced a new way of signaling turns. Maybe an executive order from someone? The new way I’ve seen many times today is to signal a right hand turn by getting as far left in the road as possible. And to make a left hand turn, get as far to the right as possible. Who says an old dog can’t learn a new trick. I have adopted the new system enthusiastically. ***

The memory supplement ads are interesting. Wonder how many watchers tell themselves “Hey, I need that stuff” and then forget to get it when they’re out shopping.

There was finally an ad for one of my diseases.** A gray-haired photographer says he was going blind until he started taking the drug in question. Now he’s back behind his camera taking pictures…and smiling.

With much of America in a bad mood maybe we should all take any drug advertised on television and start smiling. There’s an evil soft drink commercial where young people do nothing but smile and laugh as they hold bottles of soda upright, with the labels facing the camera.

The truth is finally making it into advertising, at least for Airline ads. I wasn’t going anywhere, but was curious about current airline fares. 30 minutes after I emptied my online cart and logged off a certain airline’s website, I got a TEXT: buy your tickets now before dynamic model pricing raises the fare! I’ve paraphrased because the text disappeared. Google Dynamic Model Pricing if you haven’t read my previous essays about it.

Under the Are They Listening To What They Say, heading: The current administration has “Special Envoys” flying all over the world to broker peace in some of the areas engaging in war-like activities, some of which have been going on for years. There may even be a Board of Peace meeting somewhere. A reporter had the chance to ask one of the “Special Envoys” about the success of the Special Envoys, since there are active hostilities in Ukraine, Gaza, Iran, The West Bank, Lebanon, Yemen, and The Congo. According to the Uppsala Conflict Data Program (UCPDA) “there are 65 active armed conflicts involving states, which is the highest recorded count since 1946.”

In response to the reporter’s questions one Special Envoy said they are “working hard” for peace per the instructions of President Trump, and “I can’t guarantee success, but…we are going to do everything we can…to try and make progress.”****

One of the Special Envoys has been working hard for peace since 2024. An additional Special Envoy joined the team in January 2026.

An old Trump-supporting friend of mine argued there would be no wars under Trump. “He ends wars, unlike Obama and Bush.” There might be a Nobel Peace Prize in there somewhere.

Enough. It’s time to take a nap and stop thinking.

*Per Google: ”’What in the hell’” is a rhetorical question expressing extreme confusion, surprise, or anger. The word hell has been used as an emotional intensifier…for centuries.”

**To paraphrase Will Farrell in the movie Elf: “I know that one!”

***Text book example of passive-aggressive language.

****The entire, complete quote is available online. It has been edited here, for brevity, not to change meaning or context.

The Internetmess

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Journalism training taught me to report the who, what, where, when, and how (herein referred to as FACTS) of a story.* Old time newspapers, with limited paper size, required FACTS to not only be in the story, but to be reported in a certain size to “fit” the story into the paper. Many a time an editor asked me to “cut” a story, to remove words, so the article would fit in the inches of space between the advertisements and other stories. Picture a tetris puzzle game**. The publication of a story—and its placement– was sometimes decided more by its size than its subject***. The need to fit into a certain space inspired reporters to write clearly and directly. Adverbs, adjectives, pronouns, articles were removed and deemed unnecessary, to make room for FACTS.

In our modern internetmess (sic) news supply, however, not only are FACTS hard to find, but they are often buried at the end of a large, cleverly disguised unrelated mashup of opinion full of adverbs, adjectives, heresay, rumors, and bullshite. And when reading the crappy story, finding FACTS is not only a chore, but also a waste of time since there might not be any. Internetmess headlines are often not about the story they are heading but a clever way of getting you to click on the story. Old style newspaper headlines were meant to grab attention, too, but there was a skill to writing a snappy, short headline that lured you into reading a longer story full of FACTS. Most legacy media sites still have dedicated headline “writers” whose job it is to get readers to actually read the FACT-based stories competing for time and space in old newspapers and new 30 minute news broadcasts.

But, alas, that is all in the past even with unlimited internetmess space probably a blessing. The internetmess has unlimited room for FACT-based stories and articles, with 24 hour publishing deadlines. Which means there are no deadlines. No more “Hold the presses!” shouts by editors as new stories suddenly “break” before a printing or televising deadline.

But is FACT-based journalism popular in the new unlimited time and space?

You might think “no”, but you’d be half-wrong. FACT-based journalism is still out there, but the supply of critical thinkers looking for it is dwindling fast, as immediate gratification from click bait and sensationalism suck away at readership. When I begin my morning news search, I am immediately bombarded with features about naked woman, ex-boyfriends murdering the ex-girlfriends, who-said-what-about-who rumor-reporting, look-what-stupid-shite-happened-in-sports, and any political story slanted to what the internetness thinks is my political persuasion. Some of these are even Ai generated, untouched by human hands or minds. My toast is gone by the time I’ve sorted through the mess and found a report or story worth reading. Breaking News: I get more toast!

Ah, but there is the problem, isn’t it. What is worth reading? What is worth?

The problem is not the internetmess. It is the people who live in it, and it looks like it will be a long time before old-style, FACT-driven journalism returns to popularity. Hope I live long enough to see it.

PS Has everyone noticed how broadcast journalism news is always “breaking”? And why do all the primetime announcers tell the stories before turning it over to the “field reporter” who says the exact same thing? Actually, I’d rather hear the same story twice than hear an advertisement. Bet broadcast news will soon be 5 minutes of news and 25 minutes of ads.

There must be a reason, too, why there are so many drug ads in network news shows. Any one know the reason?

*Except when writing an “essay”, or lengthy opinion blob.

**And those old “sliding tiles” puzzle games where you moved one tile at a time to complete the puzzle. You had to see many moves ahead to be successful.

***Unless it was a really, really important story. Remember: Hold the presses?

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.