What's in a Name?

This one, by My Standards will be brief.

I sometimes pay attention to the world and notice things.

Things that, if one were as weak as I, could be consternating to ones self.

Like the labels on commonly used products (eg. see above).

In no particular order, then:

"Heavy Duty Mayonnaise".

I was recently having a "Sunday Brunch" alone (as I often do - not Sunday Brunch - but alone -That being the subject, perhaps of another blog).

I was sitting at the counter, out of kindness to the proprietor, so as not to take up an entire table for four as a single customer.

As I sat at the counter waiting to be a second-class customer, I had a "good view" of the kitchen.

There I saw it. A roughly 5-gallon bucket - empty - and therefore likely to have a second life in some other (hopefully more honorable) use - that had the "Sysco" moniker diagonally in the upper left corner.

The label read: "Heavy Duty Mayonnaise".

Now, what the *#^! is "Heavy Duty Mayonnaise"? Can you lube your tractor after a hard day in the field with this stuff?

Is it even Digestible?

I met this guy who works (or worked - I don't know with the present economy and all) for a major food products distribution firm in competition with Sysco. Companies like this are the reason that all food tastes the same, no matter if you got it in a Chain Restaurant, a hotel dining room, a hospital, at an airport, or on a a ship or an aircraft. It is Fabricated Somewhere. And I can "Absolutely Guarantee" that this . . . well, this . . . "Stuff" was not made by Elves in the Black Forest in Germany, or any other exotic scenario you made have imagined in your past.

These outfits can guarantee - reliably - the consistent mediocrity that Americans demand (and that we are teaching the rest of the world to embrace) as well.

At any rate, when I asked this guy about "Heavy Duty Mayonnaise", he immediately knew about that of which I spoke:

" 'Heavy Duty Mayonnaise' is like 'Regular Mayonnaise', but more 'Heavy Duty' ", he said.

Interestingly, I had already surmised as much.

"Curiosity Killed the Cat", but at peril of my life, I Pressed On.

"Does it stand up to tougher things? (although I was having trouble imagining, much less listing the things up to which mayonnaise might be required to stand) Or last longer in the intestinal tract? Or what?".

And again, although feeling "Stupid" for doing it, I yet again asked if one could lube his or her tractor with this stuff, or a piece of heavy road equipment or such other machinery?

He then allowed that "Heavy Duty Mayonnaise" had more of the "Bad Stuff" in it than does "Ordinary mayonnaise", and was used by restaurants that knew that "things that are bad for you" really sell.

And "things that are really really bad for you" really really sell.

A "Conspiracy Theorist" then would have you believe that a consortium of cardiologists and heart surgeons invented and are invested in "Heavy Duty Mayonnaise".

Now, on to one of my favorites:

"Professional Toilet Tissue" (please see second picture above - at the beginning!).

One day, I had a problem at work.

This is definitely one of those situations about which one should relate that "A friend of mine had this problem . . .".

But well, it was Me. But I swear (or affirm) that I was not alone in this misery.

We all (bless our cotton socks) got food poisoning from a catered lunch. So much for "Safety in the Workplace".

There are five restrooms in my place of employment, but no one knows about any more than four of them. In this situation, a person with knowledge of the "Fifth Rest Room" would be "Golden".

I was, and today still remain one who does not know of the "Lesser-Used" restroom.

And the only people that knew the Secret Location of the "Fifth Rest Room" were not present or were (apparently) unavailable by home phone or cell phone. Consequently, getting a chance at one of the known existing restrooms involved a certain "jockeying for position" by people in no shape to make sudden movements or engage in "full contact" competition for the limited seating at this particular venue.

In spite of the above facts of the situation, some of this activity did ensue. And, as can easily be imagined, it "Wasn't Pretty".

But, also in spite of all this, and in such a desperate situation, amazingly I found a way into a vacant "Rest Room" - an Occurrence of Sheer Providence.

I quickly "rearranged certain articles of clothing" so that I could rightfully assume my place on the throne, and then did just that.

Soon, however, I was in search of the seat belts that clearly must be attached to this thing.

But, of course, there were none.

"Blatant Negligence", I said (possibly out loud). I was, of course, referring to the manufacturer of the porcelain on which I rested - when I wasn't flying around the room . . .

At this moment, in this situation, in this misery the forgoing remark seemed, to me, to be rational. Why had not the manufacturer anticipated this sort of scenario and installed - as standard equipment - something as simple as seat belts on this commode?

It's not like I was asking for a shoulder harness! Or airbags!

It's just that, in this condition, I didn't want to fly around the room!

Perhaps, someday, the technology will be developed to allow individuals to fly around a room in a pleasant way, and if this were to come to pass, I might well embrace it.

At this time, however, in this situation, in this misery I was Loaded for Bear and wanted to contact a lawyer. And, at the time, this too seemed rational.

I am healthy now, and I can tell you that it is Never Rational to desire dealings with a lawyer.

Never.

Meanwhile, back in the restroom . . .

I thought the Apocalypse was over, and gazed to my left in the direction of the toilet tissue dispenser. There was, predictably, a gray paper cylinder firmly mounted on the spindle of said dispenser, ergo no #*&$ toilet tissue.

Being one not to panic, I made a visual survey of the room. There - just out of reach - was a package identical to the second picture at the beginning of this piece.

A roll of "Professional Bathroom Tissue".

Now if anybody was in need of The Highest Quality Bathroom Tissue on the Planet, it was, at that time, in that place Me!

How comforting to know that in my desperate situation, I had at my disposal the finest equipment with which to deal with the crisis.

Although it was out of reach, through some compromises involving the jettison of some garment, I was able to secure the wrapped-up roll of TP.

I opened the wrapper, which was apparently glued to the roll, in under 20 minutes.

I, at about that time realized that there had been a building noise from the door of my quarters (This was MY REAL ESTATE! At least for now!). I started to see what appeared to be the business end of a fire fighter's axe just barely - almost imperceptibly - breaching the inside surface of the heavy institutional fire door to MY THRONE CHAMBER!

I worked the wrapper, and with each loud sound, the breaching of the fire door became less imperceptible.

Finally, the wrapper was off. But the outside of the roll of life-saving toilet tissue had no "end". Worse than a new roll of tape.

Where to break through? Under this sort of pressure, I understandably tore through the outer layer of this Holy Roll at some arbitrary place. The Holy Roll seemed to unravel in both directions, but then it was apparent that this layer was glued to the next several inside layers.

More tearing away at the roll, more splintering of the fire door to the chamber.

Finally, after tearing the roll to approximately half of its original mass, I found a loose end that allowed me to unroll the bathroom tissue and attempt to use some for its "intended" purpose.

Apparently, my idea of bathroom tissue's "intended" purpose differs from that of the manufacturer.

This stuff had the surface characteristics of #120 grit sandpaper.

And, as if that were not enough, it took about 30 linear feet of this stuff, per pass to be thick enough to "safely" do the job.

A short time later, I ran in to my friend in the food services business. He was, it turned out, smart enough to survive amidst layoffs, etc. in a nasty recession.

I related part of my recent experience to him (mostly the description of the "Professional" bathroom tissue).

He said, "Oh, yeah! That's just a euphemism for 'Institutional' or 'Public Rest Room' toilet paper.

It's used by restaurants, large employers, football stadiums, and so on."

"But why is it so horrible?", I asked. "They can't possibly mean to make it that way."

"So people don't steal it, and so people don't use the public bathrooms so much. Less cleaning and maintenance, you see."

It's all about the money . . .

Peace

Darwin's Grave

Charles R. Darwin was buried in Westminster Abbey, London, UK in April, 1882. He was buried along side such other folks as Sir Isaac Newton ( the "Gravity Guy" ) and some other very smart people. I will not list them all here, but with a few quick Internet searches you can acquire the names of others buried there. Apparently very prime real estate.

I am in no danger of being buried in Westminster Abbey.

Having said that, I will abuse you of my First Amendment Rights and speak my piece.

"This is My Blog, and I'll Rant if I Want to . . .". (Sing to the the tune of the Great Oldie: "It's My Party, and I'll Cry if I Want To").

Mr. Darwin was the author of numerous works, including, but not limited to On the Origin of Species and is considered the Father of the "Theory" (now more-than-proven fact) of Evolution.

If you are a fan of the "Creationist" faction, you may stop reading here. Or you may not.

Your call. It's America after all. I have the right to Free Speech, and you have the right to stop reading Right Now, or for that matter, to not read my blog at all, or to not read anything that does not jive with your Correct View of the Universe ( Do you even believe that there is a Universe? ).

In not reading this, you would not be alone. People are staying away from my blog in droves.

This is not unusual, so I don't take it personally. It is estimated that there are just over 100,000 bloggers on the 'net, and it is also estimated that - in 98% of the cases - the only readers of the blog are the authors and their mothers.

But then in a world of 6.5 Billion people, one must admit that the "Blogger" is quite rare.

On ebay "rare" goes for a lot of money. It doesn't seem to matter whether it is a previously undiscovered Picasso painting, or 19th century lint. If it is rare, it sells for big bucks.

Haven't made a penny on this blog.

But you must admit - if you are reading this - that you have not spent a penny on this, either.

At any rate, we should return - without financial obligation - to the subject at hand: Darwin's Grave.

It would seem that in the not-too-distant past, some Church Officials associated with the Abbey began to notice and report vibrations felt, and occasional unusual sounds heard in the vicinity of the Grave of Darwin, or at least from the vicinity of his close neighbors. These things were very subtle - often two persons present in the area disagreed as to whether or not the phenomenon actually happened.

"Did you feel that?"

"What? Did I feel what?"

Or, "Did you hear that?"

"What did you say? I could not hear you, My Good Man."

These scenarios continued to occur, and with increasing frequency. A High Church Official with something of an educational background in Science, and definitely an enthusiast in regard to the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle ( of "Sherlock Holmes" fame ) made some observations:

Those that reported hearing unexplainable sounds in the immediate area surrounding the Grave of Darwin tended to be younger and own expensive high-end home audio equipment, and pride themselves in their ability to hear subtle differences in home electronics, and more so the difference in speakers, the best of which were invariably British (B&W and KEF brands being preferred).

Those that reported hearing nothing had generally served in the military - in the Artillery or the Royal Navy on a gun ship in the Second World War. Many of these were also quite frugal by nature, stretching the useful life of their hearing-aid batteries to the limits.

Likewise, those that reported feeling vibrations generally wore very tight, hard-leather-soled dress shoes, while those feeling no vibrations were generally wearing comfortable, practical, thick rubber-soled shoes.

To further test these initial observations, the High Church Official authorized a scientific test of the premises. A Master Builder of Houses of Cards was located in the Financial District of New York, NY. His fee for such an act he voluntarily waived, as he was still slowly descending through the atmosphere under a parachute - in a particularly appealing shade of Gold - and he consented to construct - without adhesives or trickery - structures uniform in design of common playing cards within a 45-foot radius of Darwin's Grave, at uniform intervals. This had to be accomplished late on a Saturday night, when it was less likely that the front door would be opened and a tourist, or an Episcopalian - looking for Darwin's Grave or a Church Service - might upset the quiet air or cause unusual vibration by actually coming in to a Church. These things could well contaminate the Scientific Proceedings.

Over night, all of the cards fell down.

Well, as I understand it, the Deacons of the Abbey decided to put this whole debate to The Ultimate Test, and hired Seismologists to monitor the situation.

After this, things get really technical. Not being a "Technical Guy", I will not bore you with the details - nore could I, as I could not adequately explain them, because they are Technical Details.

The upshot is that these Seismologists - who measure vibrations in the ground and try to predict earthquakes and are sometimes lucky enough to be right - used Ultra-Sophisticated Instruments in the vicinity of the Grave in Question.

What these Seismologists found was that there were definitely vibrations - and even sounds - emanating from the area of marble directly above the Burial site of Sir Charles Robert Darwin!

What's more, there was a very specific feature to these phenomena.

"There is a certain [ albeit vanishingly perceptable ] component to these seismologic findings." British seismologist and pub-frequenter Sir Nigel Lemmingsbreath said, "There appears to be a Rotational element here."

"So . . . Sir Charles Darwin is Rolling Over in His Grave?" a friend of mine ( I do have friends! ) asked.

"Yes, yes my good man! Why do you represent yourself as so astonished?" remarked Sir Nigel.

"I always believed, Mr. Lemmingsbreath, like everybody does that dead people do not move under their own power. There must be, if this Seismologic Thing is true, some other force at work, like magnets or gravity or something.", my friend said.

"Please call me 'Sir Nigel.' " Mr. Lemmingsbreath said, I think believing that he was generously allowing my friend to be (relatively) familiar with him.

So, Sir Charles R. Darwin is rolling over in his grave.

Why is that?

" It is, my Good Man, the Bloomin' Idiots.", asserted Sir Nigel.

In the interest of Time and Space, I will distill the conversation that ensued:

Lemmingsbreath's theory is that Public and Social Policy, as well as The Practice of Medicine has allowed the flourishment and perpetual reproduction of those categories of homo sapiens that would never have reached reproductive age or those that could never get by at all without not a little amount of help from their "Friends".

Government Institutions and the Medical Establishment act every day to counteract the forces of natural selection, according to Lemmingsbreath. His assertion is that while all of the Other Living World evolves, homo sapiens do not. He feels that, if anything, the human species continues to Devolve.

Hence the Rotational Vibrations detected in Westminster Abbey.

So, there you have it. So simple, an Intellectual could understand it ( unlike car - or health insurance in America ).

I have a friend who is Actively Engaged in the Practice of Medicine. He related a story to me about a woman he saw in his office:

This woman was pleasant enough. She pushed a broom at a public school ( custodial work ) and, occasionally, drove a school bus to make ends meet. All at minimum wage.

She had visited the Community Health Center and had gotten a "Flu Shot" ( vaccination against Influenza ) two or three days before, and had redness, swelling and pain around the site of the injection.

This is a normal, harmless, albeit not universal reaction to such an immunization, and patients are forewarned of this fact before administration.

Well, this woman decided that she needed a "Blood Cleaner", and so went to a local Natural Foods and Supplements Retailor. There she purchased ( at the price of $27.99 ) a "Blood Cleanser" with a name my friend could not remember.

He does, however, recall the Main Ingredient listed on the label ( the Other Ingredients, being recognizeable to him were trivial, unhelpful but harmless, and unimportant ):

Turkey Tree Bark Root.

Having never heard of such a substance, or for that matter such a tree, my friend did a little research. Actually, quite a lot of research because the name of this tree does not show up with any frequency in the literature, or even on "Google".

As it turns out, the "Turkey Tree" actually exists. This tree produces Brown Turkey Dates, and so it is a "Date Tree".

That would be a tree that produces Dates - a fruit, not an Escort - and is generally not called the "Turkey Tree", but the "Turkey Date Tree".

If you want to get into this a little more, my friend recommends that you do a search on the "Turkey Date" rather than looking for "the Tree" ( Although searching Google for anything including the word "Date" can be dangerous and obviously at your own risk ).

As far as my friend can tell, this tree originated in the Mediterranean area and spread to Northern Africa, or, perhaps, the other way around. It is now grown in Southern States in the USA, and can be ordered on the Internet.

Be sure, if ordering such a tree on the Internet that you live in a Semi-Arid Climate ( 12-or-less inches of rain per year ), and that Winter Doesn't Happen.

Then, and only then can you be happy and at peace with your "Turkey Tree".

And get Dates.

It's all about the Fruit, right?

The Tree does have a Scientific Name - Ficus carica - and so it must be Real.

But "Bark Root"? Is it the "Bark" or the "Root"? What is this stuff? Is it even safe to take?

I found this so interesting. After two or three days, her reaction to the immunization was improving - something that was going to happen anyway, and something that meant she had a good immune system.

But, to her, the improvement was because she was astute enough to acquire the cure for "dirty blood" - something for which she had to work for nearly seven hours to purchase.

My friend felt bad for this lady. He attempted to counsel her on the falacies of "Health Food and Herbal Supplement" stores, and did not bill her for the visit, but she remained unstrayed and unconvinced.

My friend could not figure out why this woman came to see him. Nore can I.

Perhaps there is a reason for such people to exist, and perhaps the perpetuation of such people is in the best interests of the "Intellectuals" in the world.

If there were no "stupid" people in The World, then there could not be any "smart" people - they need the comparison to stand out, and to become wealthy ( if they so choose ).

Reflecting on all of this over some beverage, my friend and I decided that maybe we were the fools, and so came up with this Plan to Become Rich.

We would, borrowing money ( if necessary ), purchase a railroad grain-car full of Metamucil ( ground-up psyllium seed - Pure Fiber ), and about a half of that much Magnesium Oxide.

We thought that would be about the right ratio. I mean of fiber and magnesium oxide ( related to the Active Ingredient in "Milk of Magnesia" ).

Buying the Raw Materiels in this quantity would be cheep.

If we were to combine these two ingredients in that ratio, and package it in 8-to-12 ounce containers ( yet another expense ), we could promote it on the Internet, or sell it more copiously through Very Late Night Infomercials on television as a Cleanser - for the "very reasonable price" of $27.99 (for a month's supply ), plus an unreasonable shipping-and-handling charge that only sleep-deprived-lesser-intelects would not notice until the Credit Card Bill would come through ( a Month Later ), and, maybe these would not be noticed - not even then.

About what which we would be Cleansing we would not need to be specific.

People feel a need to be Cleansed. We would be performing, then, a Public Service.

And we could legitimately Unconditionally Guarantee that Evereyone who took our product would feel "Cleansed".

To go one step further down the "Greed is Good!" thought process - we could produce the "Totally Organic" version of this "Cleanser", and sell it for $37.99 - easily.

We would simply add "a measure" of Grass Clippings ( and in this, for obvious reasons to Suburbanites, we could be Quite Generous in "the measure", thus saving on the amount of "Active Ingredients" and selling more because "Cleansing" would require more product [Although I don't know this to be a fact, having never voluntarily ingested grass clippings - maybe they have good fiber, too.] ).

So then, maybe a lot of grass clippings. My friend and I have a lot of grass clippings at times, and Recycling is Good! Right?

No! No!

My friend and I decided ( after many days and more of some beverage ) that, in all good conscience, we could not willfully carry out an act that would actually and measureably increase the seismic activity at Westminster Abbey.

It is, after all, a Very Old and Historic Building.

And then there's this thing about the Hippocratic Oath . . .

Peace

Rudeness Automated (or "Who's Going to Pay for My Social Security?")

"In Olden Days, the six-shooter sidearm was as common as the cell phone today.'

"And equally as annoying when it went off in the Theater."

- David "Grasshopper" Carradine

Ponder that.

Every generation has Complaints of Great Magnitude. Time moves on, and "Progress" progresses. It is remarkable how similar our complaints, when boiled down to their essence, duplicate those of a generation ago, or those of antediluvian times ( Cliff Note: Those times are before the American Civil War, or to which one of my diverse group of friends refers as " The War of Northern Aggression". He is "Definitely From the South". ).

Technology, however, has solved all of that for us. Isn't Science Grand?

A cell phone being as egregious as a hand-held, single-action, revolving multi-chamber repeating firearm ( developed circa 1850s - in its time, a New Thing and "The Cat's Pajamas" )?

You betcha.

Work with me here - "I can explain . . . "

I ride motorcycles. While I allow that this activity is not risk-free, many other activities are not without their risks as well. Some activities, one must admit - such as riding horses - are far more dangerous, if one is going to be objective about it at all. The fact that horses are more dangerous than motorcycles becomes apparent if one reviews the available data ( certainly in consideration of injuries or severity of injuries per "passenger mile" - "passenger mile" being defined as, in the case of motorcycle travel, the total number of miles ridden by a population of motorcyclists multiplied by the number of motorcyclists, whether pilot or passenger, riding these miles, or in the case of horses, simply the number of miles that the horse let you stay on its back - usually a much smaller number ).

Or the risk ratio between riding motorcycles vs. riding horses can be inferred, or even deduced from observational data. For example: I have never seen a motorcycle "pop a wheelie" spontaneously when a gum wrapper blew across the road. Nor have I seen a motorcycle, parked at the curb, spontaneously start itself up and jump the curb, running over those unfortunate beings on the sidewalk.

But we were considering cell phones as compared to sixguns.

Clearly, any one of us could imagine, and I have certainly experienced situations in which the use of a cell phone while performing another task - such as navigating a 2-and-1/2 ton SUV on a main arterial highway in a major metropolitan area - may, albeit unintentionally, be the unjustifiable use of lethal force. Especially to a motorcyclist.

As a motorcyclist, I am a little sensitive about these issues. I recognize that I am in the minority in this case, not of the motorcyclists, but of the technology-embracing population.

The fact is: No matter where I ride, the era of the cell phone has added a new level of challenge ( Read: "Risk" ) to this ( riding motorbikes ) pastime.

But let us take a look at not just the dangerous ( as that term deals with obvious things such as death or dismemberment ), but to the annoying and ultimately "Detrimental to Society" effects of technology, including, but not limited to the cell phone.

First, some background:

The First Phone Call in the History of the World was made on March 10, 1876 by Alexander Graham Bell to his assistant, Thomas A. Watson. It may have been - the transcript of that conversation being subject to some interpretation - simultaneously the first "obscene" phone call of record:

"Mr Watson — Come here — I want you."

The guy ( Tom Watson ) was just in the next room.

At the time, this was a Toll Call ( for the younger audience, sort of like "Roaming Charges" today - it cost money ).

In the present time, if one wishes to avoid the humiliation of inadvertently making a call that could be considered "obscene" by many ( including, but not limited to the FBI ), one should avoid returning calls on their "Caller ID" ( more on this technology later ) to any numbers beginning with an area code beginning with the numeral "9".

Apparently, then, technology has "progressed" to the point that we need advice as to how to avoid it. And I've just given you some. Free , Gratis, and for Nothing.

A little more background, so that we might compare experiences of old with the Modern Era of Communication:

In times past, say the 1950s and '60s, in order to place a telephone call, one would actually walk to the location of the phone, as the phone, being tethered to the wall by a hard wiring system without which it would not work, was certainly not going to come to you. Then, one would pick up this certain part of the phone. I can't remember for sure what that part was called, but you didn't pick up the whole phone, just this one part of it. The hand-held part was then oriented so that the speaker was aligned with the dominant ear ( most people have a dominant ear for neurological reasons, but sometimes the default is the ear that can hear ) and the microphone was aligned with the mouth.

Are you with me so far?

One would, after hearing a steady tone, actually dial the desired phone number on a round wheel-like thing with holes in it on the base of the phone. After hearing some ringing, indicating that a phone on the other end was ringing, one might hear the word "Hello?". If you never heard "Hello?", the person you were trying to reach was not at home. That simple. Your feelings were not hurt, and you had the option of trying again at another time when somebody might be home.

To receive a phone call, all one had to do was to be at home, pick up the hand-held part of the phone when there was audible ringing ( an actual bell was used to make this sound ), orient the piece as noted above, and say "Hello?". Most people, if at home and hearing ringing would do just this, without necessarily worrying about who was calling or if they wanted to talk to that person.

There were some other quaint aspects to this system, like having to remember, or at least write down people's phone numbers for future telephonic contact. Or look up the number in a book that was put out periodically.

Sometimes, when you placed a call, you got an intermittent tone - the "busy signal" - and, without further analysis of the situation being required, you knew two things: 1) The person you were trying to call was at home, and 2) That person was on the phone with somebody else. The option remained to try to call at another time.

Over time, various developments, or "Progress" came to telephonic communication, presumably to make such an activity easier, faster, or more accessible. While some of these developments may be good, I would make the assertion that communication has been complicated and made more frustrating in the process, and common rudeness more common.

One good thing is that at some point, the government decided that the citizenry could actually be trusted to own a telephone. Previous to that, they had to be rented from The Phone Company ( there was only one ). To The Phone Company's credit, the rented phones were built like tanks in the old days, and there are stories of elderly customers given to longevity who continued to rent the same phone for 70 years. There was a 101-year-old lady who had spent $875,000 renting her phone before she died, and the great-grandchildren were understandably pissed.

Other developments in telephony came that may be, at best, a mixed blessing.

While certainly not an exhaustive list, these milestones of progress include:

- Touch-tone dialing

- Speed-dial

- Answering machines

- Voice mail

- 800 numbers

- 900 numbers ( see warning above )

- Fax

- Call waiting

- Caller ID

- Caller ID Block ( a byproduct of the "arms race " in telephone "Tag" and other telephonic games )

- Caller ID Block Block ( this blocks incoming calls whose Caller ID has been blocked - Is that cleaver, or what? )

- Call forwarding

- Call rejection ( and thus, personal rejection, if you are the caller )

- "Mobile" phones, originally the size of a suitcase

- Cell phones, now so small that one my age must wear reading glasses to see them, and enlist the services of a small child, or at least someone with very small fingers to "dial".

And, my personal favorite:

- Custom ring tones

The list goes on.

A female friend of mine relates an experience she had in her gynecologist's office. The nurse had just had her "assume the position" for her Pap Smear. As her doctor picked up the speculum and began to move in, his cell phone WENT OFF - and LOUD!

The doctor's custom ringtone? Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries". Now that really sets the mood, doesn't it?

A while back, I was at a funeral. Because of my line of work, I am expected to carry a cell phone and beeper at all times. Out of respect for the departed and their family, I set both of these modern marvels to the "Silent" mode - on "Vibrate". In this way, I could remain available for contact without disrupting the proceedings.

At a particularly poignant part in the eulogy, "Salsa" music broke out - and, of course, LOUD! Somebody else's custom ring tone.

And, as this were not enough, after digging through her purse ( a place that I would never go ) for an eternity, the woman actually took the call!

Now I was feeling all superior, what with having the couth to set my communication devices on "Silent/Vibrate" mode, and proud of myself for figuring out how to do this on my first try. I really don't much enjoy some of the newer electronic devices that have 674 menu options all operated by 2 buttons, but, by golly I got it right with my cell phone and beeper. And of course, both of the devices on my belt - beeper on the right, cell phone on the left - had fresh batteries for reliability's sake.

After the commotion settled, the eulogizer resumed speaking. At the end of his remarks, he asked for a moment of silence.

Apparently, at another location, a crisis had developed, and two people present at the scene felt very strongly that something very bad was going to result absent my immediate input. Availing themselves of the technology at hand, one paged me on my beeper, while the other dialed my cell number.

Not everybody knows this about me, and I hesitate to share it, but unfortunately, I am very ticklish.

The two devices on my belt, receiving radio signals simultaneously at the peak of the pregnant silence requested by the solemn eulogizer, caused me to jump up, do a little dance, and let out a sound that I am unable to describe, and again, LOUD! Nobody heard a phone or a beeper, and so it was assumed that I was merely competing for the "Most Inappropriate Behavior" Olympic Team, and that, for this Team, I was a sure bet.

Recently, I attempted to make a call from my home phone. After numerous rings, I realized I had misdialed, as the party I was calling should have answered immediately. So, of course, I hung up.

Moments later, my phone rang, and being old-school, I actually answered it.

"Who are you?", a voice demanded ( a female voice, I believe, but then one can never be sure ).

"Whom are you calling?", I replied.

"Why did you just call me?", the voice again demanded.

Realizing the "Caller ID" scenario that had just transpired, I said "I'm sorry. I dialed the wrong number."

"What an A$#%&*e!", she said, and hung up.

I guess this is how people use modern technology like Caller ID. This "lady" saw my phone number on her Caller ID - not my name, mind you - I have that blocked ( I do employ some of the weapons and tactics developed in the Arms Race of Communication ). Not recognizing the number, she decided it was her prerogative not to answer. Then, within seconds, and being unable to carry through a vein of logic, she dialed me back so she could interrogate me. More than likely, she executed this call with a stroke of a single button.

Young people have mastered all of this newer technology far better than those of my advanced age. For everything that they have technology do for them, however, there is some skill or knowledge lost.

Like the ability to make change during a retail interaction without the benefit of electronics. Or the ability to read a map, start a camp fire, focus binoculars, bait a hook, entertain themselves without the benefit of electricity, or walk down a sidewalk without a cell phone up to their ear.

Their feet actually freeze in position until they receive the next call, or can figure out someone else to call. Then, and only then can they proceed down the sidewalk. These same people are under the impression that they can, however, operate a 2-and-1/2 ton SUV in traffic while text messaging or surfing the Internet.

This marvelous technology enables us to be rude more quickly and efficiently to more people and with more impunity - impunity borne of the ability to operate from remote location.

And, it would seem, that this technologically-savvy generation doesn't really need to know anything, aside from being able to navigate a 674-item electronic menu with 2 buttons.

Try this: Ask various Juniors and Seniors in High School ( or college, for that matter ) the following question ( I have actually done this ):

"How many fighter planes did the South lose during the Civil War?"

Overwhelmingly, by far the most common answer you will get is, "200".

Then ask, "Do you know when the Civil War was? And when the first manned flight by the Wright brothers took place at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina?"

Now, you're going to expect that none of these kids knows the last two answers, either. They never studied these topics, or classified History as useless information not deserving of space on their hard drive. But you would be wrong. This intellect thing is not just a matter of memory deficit.

Many of these kids will be able to ballpark the Civil War to the 1860s, and Kitty Hawk to about 1903. If they can do both, repeat the question about fighter planes lost by the South in the Civil War.

Now, the most common answer you will elicit is, "150?".

And these kids are going to be polite and pay my Social Security?

"Thank you for Calling the National Education Association. Please listen to our menu closely, as some of our options have changed. For Membership or Dues information, press '1'. For Political Action updates, press'2'. For NEA in the news . . .'

"And if you would like to speak to a live human being,'

"press: '# - S - A - N - D' ".

Peace

A Brief History of the New World (or Why the West Was/Is Wild)

I was raised in upstate New York, educated there, then worked in the Philadelphia area for 21 years. I am, as they say where I now live, "Definitely from Back East". These facts have been the source of some difficulty in my quest for a little bit of acceptance, but I have had no difficulty in finding tolerance - apparently for my differences. Where I now live, "Different" is "The Same", as many people here, actually most people here are "Different".

For the last five years, I have lived in the Great State of Montana. If you go to the website of Montana (http://www.montana.gov/, or something like that) you will be greeted by an image of the State Seal. If you look closely, it reads "The Great Seal of the State of Montana".

I'm sort of thinking that somebody meant to write "The Seal of the Great State of Montana".

In my humble opinion, the Seal isn't that Great. But the State is. I love Montana ( as did John Steinbeck, who said - and I paraphrase - "For many states I have admiration, even affection, but for Montana, it is true love." ).

I love this stuff, like the "Great Seal", or the sign, hand-painted with a spray paint can on the pavement outside my workplace by a friend of mine - a graduate of Montana State University Bozeman - that reads: "NO! Parking". I wish, for the last five years, that I had carried a camera around to capture all of the signs, plaques, etc. that I have encountered that have misspellings, malapropisms, inappropriate punctuation, etc. that have totally changed the intended meaning of the message. Or the signs that simply say something you don't see that often.

Like the sign on the door of my workplace that has a picture, inside a red circle, with a red slash through it of a Ruger SP101 .357 Magnum revolver with spurless hammer, and the words "No Weapons".

I work in health care, and had never worked in a place with such a sign on every door.

In way of explanation, a resident of Montana may carry a sidearm without a permit just so long as it is in plain view. One may carry a concealed firearm with a permit issued by the Sheriff's Department of the county of one's residence. To obtain such a permit, one must pass a firearms safety course (Hunter Safety would suffice), pass a federal background check, and be photographed and finger-printed.

So if an institution or place of business prefers that you not be packing while patronizing their establishment, they put a sign to this effect on the door. Interestingly, I have only seen this sign on the door to my workplace and nowhere else.

In Montana, it is said that "Gun Control" means using both hands.

But, mind you, real Montanans see the intended message on first viewing the sign, plaque, newspaper article, or whatever else. And it takes them less time to figure it out than it takes me - I have to translate before I can understand. They (the real Montanans) are adapted to their environment, and get on quite well.

These are not unintelligent people, but many more Montanans (by percentage when compared to my experience "Back East") may have varying degrees of Dyslexia, Dysgraphia, Visual Perception Disorder, Auditory Perception Disorder, Attention Deficit Disorder, Attention Deficit/ Hyperactivity Disorder, Depression, Bipolar Affective Disorder, or a variety of these, or other things that "Intellectuals" have decided are "Learning Disorders" or "Psychiatric Disorders".

It should be noted that native intelligence has no relationship whatsoever to learning disability. There are very intelligent people who have learning disabilities. (It is, however, a most cruel myth that all learning-disabled people are of above-average or exceptional intelligence. There are those of above-average native intelligence that are learning-disabled, and those that are not learning disabled. There are also those of lower native intelligence who are learning disabled, and those who are not.).

Some characteristics, such as beauty, intelligence, or strength are in large part hereditary. The rules say we cannot change our (biological) parents, so we are given what we are given, and can't rightfully take credit for possession of these traits.

Some of these combinations may be seen as a "Bad Thing".

They should not. They just "happen", or exist. Nobody's fault. But, unfortunately. there are those in other categories that would exploit the "Bad Combination" people.

Fortunately, these "Bad Combination" people are more tolerated in Montana, or even loved rather than exploited. They fit in here. It has been my experience that there are just not as many Mean People per capita here as I had encountered "Back East".

Why, one might ask, are there so many of these people with the "Disorders" mentioned above - and whom I love so dearly - here "Out West" as compared to "Back East"?

Here, after a long and tedious preamble, we get to the subject matter as stated in the title to this piece.

A Brief History of the New World:

The human species, homo sapiens, got its start in Africa.

Some of these people were wanderers, so they walked up to southern Europe, along the southern, then the eastern coast of Asia, across the Bering Strait (mind you, this was before Global Warming) to North America. This took them a very long time, and they did it a very long time ago. They still got here a long time before the Africans that walked up to Europe and faded.

Some of the early humans in Africa, as noted, walked up to Europe. Their skin faded, and they became Norwegians and Germans and Italians and such.

Over time, some of these people in Europe got itchy to go somewhere or do something else. The ones that actually acted out and moved to North America were not your average bland, careful people. They were a subset of the population that took risks, committed crime, adopted off-beat religious beliefs, were hyperactive, etc..

These people were "one bubble off level", and they moved to the East Coast of North America.

After some time, others emerged on the East Coast that were two or three "bubbles" off.

They moved West, had children who had children, and so on, producing the people that I know and love out here.

There, in a nutshell, is all you need to know about the history of the New World.

And I no longer use a spirit level. I've decided to stay.

Peace

My Father's Ship

My father died six years ago tonight.

He was fortunate, in that he died suddenly, and 21 years later than would have been predicted in the year of his birth - 1922.

He was also fortunate to live 57 years after the largest engagement between the Allied naval forces and the combined Imperial Japanese Navies during the the entirety of the Second World War. This battle was bigger than Midway, and let me tell you, there were allot of chips on the table, and allot of heroism displayed.

Veterans Day has come and passed - November 11, 2007. On this day I reflect on the life of my father, a World War II veteran, his service, and the service of countless others who have served not only our country, but the peoples of the world.

The link below gives some history (and a photo) of my father's ship, the USS Melvin - a Fletcher Class Destroyer - DD 680. It is incomplete, for instance not mentioning the three Japanese submarines she sank in the "Marianas Massacre". The Japanese had been sinking Allied ships attempting to resupply our forces in a shipping lane over the deepest part of any ocean on earth, and with some regularity. The USS Melvin, and others, were deployed to correct this situation. Three subs in five days is not a trivial accomplishment.

Note that this destroyer, about as long as a football field and as wide as a tennis court (pretty much a "canoe" by Navy standards) ( and thanks to my cousin Pete on the dimensions), was the only destroyer to sink - single-handedly - a battleship (the "Fuso") during WW II. She used one 24-ft torpedo - the last torpedo in the group - at an engagement distance of about 6.25 miles and ran a zig-zag pattern in retreat. The ship was out of oil to make a smoke screen.  All of this at about 3:15 in the morning.

All aboard knew that this was a suicide mission, and that the numerous shells fired by the Fuso, each about the size of a trash can and hitting the water within 30 yards to each side of the Melvin would surely do them in as they turned and withdrew after deploying the torpedo. Battleships are about the size of a medium-sized city in Montana, such as where I once lived in Havre, Montana.  The IJN (Imperial Japanese Navy) Fuso was about 20 - times the size of a Fletcher-Class Destroyer, and the USS Melvin sank it. A David-and-Goliath, Loaves-and-Fish sort-of-thing.

My father, Lt. Junior Grade Edward Ludlam Blossom, Jr. was the officer who surrendered the Melvin when she was decommissioned at San Diego May 31, 1946 - nine days after his 24th birthday.

Interestingly, the USS Melvin was named for a Navy officer of the same rank as my father: Lt. Junior Grade. Lt.(jg) John T. Melvin was the first Naval officer to be killed during World War I on the first U.S. Naval warship sunk in World War I (November, 1917).

When I was a kid, I asked my father what he did during the war.

He said, " I ran the movies on Thursday night."

I last spoke to my father on November 11, 2001, at about 11:00 PM. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month - originally "Armistice Day" (after WW I), but we kept having wars, so ""Veterans Day".

My father died suddenly on December 16, 2001.

My father abhorred war and violence, as should we all.

When I was a child, I had no idea that he could have been killed, and that I wouldn't have been born, because, after all, how dangerous could it have been to load a movie projector on Thursday nights?

I guess true heroes don't identify themselves as such.

One should never miss an opportunity to talk with a World War II veteran - they are rarer with each passing day.

For that matter, one should never miss the opportunity to talk with a veteran of any war.

I recently ran across the following remark:

"If you can read this, thank a teacher.'

"If you can read this in English, thank a soldier."


Peace

Learn more about the USS Melvin (as they say on public television) at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USS_Melvin_(DD-680)

Hannah the Newf: October 9, 1995 - March 20, 2007

Hannah

October 9, 1995 - March 20, 2007

Hannah, a most extraordinary Newfoundland dog, died peacefully at my home in Billings, Montana early this morning.

She had suffered a myocardial infarction ( a "heart attack" ) in mid - December of last year, but recovered for a time.

She never quite recovered her legendary strength, however, and was forced to stop using the stairs in her final months.

After much consideration, and consultation with a friend, Amy Lam, D.V.M.,
I decided to provide Hannah with the type of care about which I am so passionate in my vocation:

Hospice.

Hannah was maintained in comfort. It was remarkable that she would still lift her head to me, even after 14 days without food, and 7 days without water.
A tough dog.

Hannah, if human, would have been nearly 92 years old.

Hannah was born in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, her mother from Arizona, and her father a world champion out of one of the two most famous Newfoundland breeders -
Pouch Cove Kennels in New Jersey.

She was black, but with a white blaze on her chest proving her lineage.
One of her relatives won "Best in Show" a few years ago at Westminster.

Hannah served, without compensation, as the model for Captain Meriwether Lewis' Newfoundland Dog, "Seaman", for Montana artist Don Greytak's
series of prints commemorating the 200th anniversary of the expedition of Lewis and Clark and the Corps of Discovery.

She lived in Gulph Mills, PA, then moved with me to West Chester, PA.
There she met her best friend - the late Mr. Murphy - the most exceptional Golden Retriever on the planet, and owner of my best friend, Carol Nevulis.

In February of 2003, Hannah bravely rode 2,200 miles in our Volkswagen Camper, "Miriam" with me when we moved to Havre, Montana. There, she experienced
rattlesnakes, gophers, badgers, coyotes, mule deer, antelope, and even an adolescent mountain lion, as well as temperatures ranging from 47 degrees below zero
to 111 degrees above zero -
all in our back yard!

In her early days, she would come to my office in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania.
She accompanied me on numerous canoe trips in the Adirondacks in upstate New York - Hannah took the bow position,
and would actually help balance the canoe so that I could stand up in the canoe and propel it upstream or in shallows with a pole.
Hannah was an avid walker, and in one day, would do 13 miles - with pack - on the Appalachian Trail in Maine.

She climbed Mt. Marcy, the highest peak in New York State.
There she took a nap on the US Geological Survey marker on the peak. Twenty minutes in to her nap, about 30 Japanese tourists arrived, but being afraid of a 130-pound
dog ( they thought she was a black bear! ), not one of them got to stand on the absolute top of Mt. Marcy.
On this particular occasion, as you could imagine, several hundred photographs of Hannah were taken - photographs that now reside in Japan.

She was also fond of pulling children in a wagon - you could see the excitement in her action when I would pull out the wagon harness or the doggy backpack.
Hannah pulled two children about 3 miles in the annual parade in Havre.
True to her breed - the oldest domesticated breed, and the only truly American breed - she loved to work.

Hannah was gentle and naturally protective ( she never bit anyone, and a two-year-old could walk her on a leash ). She would always position herself between traffic and a child when walking along a road. She always perked up and came to attention at the sound, no matter how distant, of a child crying.
I once found her protecting a nest of baby rabbits outside our home in Gulph Mills, PA.
Not a hunting dog.

She was also brave. She once saved the life of a Llasa Apso being mauled by a 160-lb Rottweiler, intervening without hesitation or command.

Hannah was tolerant of three dog rescues and temporary adoptions that I forced upon her - another Newfoundland, a demanding Golden Retriever, and a neurotic German Shepherd.
She was also tolerant of living with me, spending too many hours home alone during my long work shifts and call schedule.

Hannah was willing to spend her time with me, conducting our lives like an expedition with all of the uncertainty that such involves.

Hannah also had an infinite capacity for sleep, and would always do so in the place most likely to interfere with my passage should I try to change location.

She looked beautifully, peacefully asleep this morning.

I thank you all for indulging me in this reflection on an incomparable being.

meb

Acquired Optimism

I recently had a discussion with a friend in which he allowed that he had read a book about acquiring, or learning Optimism.

Now, one of the reasons that this man is my friend is that I would never - at least previously - characterize him as an Optimist. I have always found him to be much smarter than that.

He went to an Ivy League school ( not the best one - I went to that one - Hah! ), has an advanced degree, and is the best at what he does in four-or-more states. He works in a human service field, and has never compromised the people he serves because of a personal belief or trait that is anything but Optimistic.

My friend shows up to work every day (a fact that, one could argue, given his line of work, is evidence of at least a modicum of Optimism) and does his job. He does it well, with skill, attention to detail, compassion and humor. Alright - the humor is at times a little dark.

I don't know if this book was a gift or if he purchased or borrowed it. I do know that it would be found in the "Self-Help" section of the bookstore. I think he gave it a serious read with all intention of "improving" himself in a given aspect.

A sort-of "Cliff Notes" piece about this book, and another (probably a re-hash of the first) by this author can be found at the following link:

http://pos-psych.com/news/doug-turner/2007011536

There are numerous other links at this site, possibly including information on how to acquire the author's books. The site itself is called something like "Positive Psychology News Daily" - I don't know, but I think it may have ties to a cult or something. Prophets and profiteers have been pushing "The Power of Positive Thinking" since the beginning of time (Witness the existence of Amway, Mary Kay, the Branch Davidians, etc.).

At any rate, peruse the above link at your own risk. If you are going to get caught up in its content and chase down its every link, you need not return to this blog to finish reading this piece. I will be unable to help you.

After reading this book, my friend came away with a few points.

The book listed and scored various characters through history as to their degree of Optimism or Pessimism, then noted how things worked out for these individuals.

My friend related that Optimists, when compared to The Others, were more successful (however one would choose to measure that), made more money, had bigger houses, more beautiful spouses, etc. . They also were healthier, had fewer infections, less cancer and lived longer. Quite a bit of benefits to this Positive Thinking thing.

And what possible benefits befall the Pessimist you might ask?

As it turns out, the Pessimists were right more often.

While this may not seem like a whole boat load of benefit when compared to the Utopian life to which the Optimists are obligated, there are those to whom being right is very important. My friend, it would seem, is just such a person. It is an element of his personality. And, bless him, he is not arrogant about it. On the contrary, a gentler or more humble person you will not find. But he is right allot.

My friend, I believe, did not think he benefited much from this read. He did not think that he learned or acquired optimism, but I think he's OK with that. Perhaps he would find the conscious and premeditated act of changing his thought processes - so that he would be wrong more often - counter intuitive.

We are all the victims or beneficiaries (I suppose the Optimists would say "the beneficiaries or victims", reversing the order, or leave it at "the beneficiaries".) of our heredity and our experience, our genetic makeup and our environment. I will be the first to acknowledge that there will be those that disagree with this theory about the interaction between gene and experience. These people are called "Optimists".

My point is that there are different sorts of people in this world, and some of their views and methods of life are ingrained in them from the get-go. The difference between, for example, the average citizen and a fighter pilot is that when faced with a seemingly dire situation - say being in an aircraft in a steep dive at high speed, 10 seconds before impact with the ground - is that the average citizen is going to say something like "Oh my God! We're going to die!", while the fighter pilot would say "I still have 10 seconds to work on this problem."

These two types of people have a fundamentally different take on life.

But who, in this scenario, is the Optimist? And who is right?

Another friend (Yes, I have more than one!) points out the paradox in the relationship between being a Cynic and being a Pessimist. On the face of it, both are considered "Negative People". But they are not one-in-the-same.

The Cynic - the Negative Person - is the one pointing out what is wrong in a given situation, with a given policy, approach, etc.. Many find such people to be distasteful, and feel that they should just knock off the bad attitude, or simply just shut up. Far better to be a Positive Person, to accept things as they are, and realize that things are not going to change. "Don't worry - be happy!". Positive People also believe that being Positive is a choice one makes, while Negative People do not feel the opportunity to choose at all - another difference between these types.

The Positive Person vs. the Negative Person (the Cynic) - who, then, is the Optimist? The one who believes that things cannot change, so be happy about it? Sounds Pessimistic to me.

Or perhaps the true Optimist is the Cynic, who takes the time and the effort -at some peril of infection, cancer, shorter life, or passover for promotion -to point out that which is wrong, in the belief that things can be made better.

As for myself, I am not sure I can buy into this thing about relentless positive thinking being entirely a matter of choice. And even if it were, I am not sure that I would always choose it.

There is some value in being prepared for a less-than-optimal outcome - avoiding physical or psychic hurt, avoiding disappointment, etc., but in the statistically less-likely scenario where things turn out better than I had predicted, I am more than willing to be happy that I was wrong - just so long as it doesn't happen too often.

"I cannot prevent the rain. But I can carry the best umbrella."

- Author Unknown (at least to me)

And the best umbrellas, the Brigg brand, made by hand to this day in London, always seem to be black, don't they?

And finally, yet another friend provided me some years back with another quotation, author again unknown to me:

"A Cynic is nothing more than a disappointed Idealist."

I agree. And for that I will never apologize.

Peace