I was born on August 11, 1962, at 6:20 a.m. There’s nothing particularly interesting about that, but I do like my birthday. I’ve always thought of it as MY day. I feel bad for people who share their birthdays with other big events. I’ve had friends born on Christmas, New Years Day, Pearl Harbor Day, Independence Day, Bastille Day—you name it, not to mention the unfortunate multiple-birth siblings of the world. My own parents shared a birthday!!
I don’t require a lot for my birthday. I don’t need presents or cakes or cards, even though I always get something. Then again, if I got NOTHING, I’d probably pout. Mostly, though, I just enjoy knowing it’s my birthday. It feels like I can do anything I want on my birthday, but I can’t. I usually work on my birthday, and I don’t want to do that.
Oddly though, I don’t remember details of many of my birthdays–I’ve had quite a few after all. My best birthday was probably No. 8. We were on vacation at Yellowstone Park. I got a Pete Rose baseball bat (still have it, by the way) and a baseball glove (chewed up by a dog long ago). My Aunt Norma gave me a collection of things she’d seen me beg for at various gifts shops around the park. The bag of marbles was the best.
Of course, my birthday isn’t the ONLY thing that ever happened on the 11th. When I was small, I learned from the back of a baseball card that outfielder Vada Pinson was born on August 11. Vada Pinson is largely forgotten, but he was one great ball player. That’s my earliest memory of realizing that I couldn’t lay exclusive claim to 8/11. Nevertheless, I’m glad I don’t share my birthday with a bunch of significant events. I remember a kid who was visiting his grandparents in my neighborhood when I was a wee lad. His name might have been Robert. He was also born on August 11. I didn’t care much for that. My friend Jamie was born on August 12, and I kind of liked that for some reason. Up until his death a few years ago, we would call each other on the 11th and 12th with happy birthday wishes.
So, what’s the point here? Oh, my birthday. I did a little digging to find out exactly with whom and what I share my day. Here are few things:
Fred Smith, founder of FedEx, was born on the 11th. My middle son works for FedEx.
No less interesting is the fact that steel magnate Andrew Carnegie died on the 11th. My oldest son graduated from Carnegie Mellon University.
The Apollo 11 astronauts left quarantine on August 11, 1969—my 7th birthday–three weeks after they landed on the moon. They landed on the moon on July 20, 1969—my wife’s 7thbirthday! Mind. Blown.
Another oddity: Steve Wozniak was born on this day, and I own an iPhone.
The Cincinnati Reds retired Johnny Bench’s number on my 22nd birthday. Bench was my favorite player.
The Green Bay Packers were formed. Totally unrelated, but Al Qaeda was also formed on my birthday.
The ill-fated Weimar Constitution was declared. That didn’t sit well with my bellicose German relations.
Babe Ruth hit his 500th home run on August 11.
Jackson Pollock died.
TV talk show host Mike Douglas was both born and died on the 11th.
Hulk Hogan: August 11 birthday boy.
Then, there’s poor little Guttorm of Norway who died on this day. I don’t know how they know the exact day someone died almost 1000 years ago, but Wikipedia says so. Guttorm was the King of Norway, but he died at four years old. Evidently, his taking the throne led to some manner of strife with a guy named Haakon the Crazy, who sounds like a bit of a troublemaker.
So, now we know a few other things about August 11. These things may be of interest only to me and the few others who share my birthday, but it’s MY birthday, so I can write about them if I want.
(Author’s note: I wrote this over a sixteen-month period. It is too long and needs a stern editor. It isn’t dramatic or particularly compelling. It’s just a story about have cancer.)
I have cancer. I’ll repeat that. I have cancer. The tumor is dying, but it’s still considered active. Regardless, it’s not a cancer “scare,” although it is quite scary. It’s the real thing—a malignant tumor in my prostate gland. Medically, it’s an adenocarcinoma. Cancer.
I was 56 when I was diagnosed, not particularly young or old for prostate cancer. I found out in July of 2019. I got a phone call, and the doctor said something to the effect of “We have your biopsy results. You do have malignant cells in your prostate. It’s a low to intermediate grade tumor. It’s very slow growing, but at your age you probably want treatment. We’ll call you back today for an appointment to talk about it. Any questions?” Despite having rolled around numerous nightmarish scenarios for four weeks, I really didn’t have any questions. My only thought at the moment was “Huh. Well, that’s weird.”
About a month before my biopsy, I had my annual physical. By “annual,” I mean the physical examination I have every few years. My last one was four years ago. In all humility, I must say that I am in tip-top physical condition–so, why go to the doctor, right? Apparently, most men my age are big messes. Okay, so my cholesterol should be a tad lower. Oh, and my PSA level was elevated—two and half times higher than before.
You get reserved parking, which is nice.
PSA. Prostate Specific Antigen. Long story short, it’s something produced by your prostate gland for various reasons. One reason is cancer. Mine went up a pretty fair amount in four years. I also had my prostate examined. It’s examined by something called a “digital rectal examination.” “Digital” doesn’t have anything to do with any sort of high tech diagnostics. It’s “digital” as in “finger,” just in case you aren’t aware of how it works. So, after my PSA test and DRE, my doctor thought I should see a urologist for more blood work and, of course, more DREing.
So, I saw a urologist. Great guy. I’m pleased to report that my prostate gland is remarkably small for a man my age. In fact, my urologist says that it’s the “prostate of a 20-year-old.” I guess he means a 20-year-old with cancer, but still…. My incredibly small prostate was something of an indicator of cancer, believe it or not. The increased PSA could have been caused by an enlarged or infected prostate. Mine was in pristine condition.
I’ll admit something. I didn’t know much about the prostate gland until all this. Given my age, I knew well the hideous DRE, but I really didn’t even know precisely where the prostate is located. Now, I know WAY more than I ever thought I would. Naturally, I have thoroughly searched the internet for every hideous prostate cancer story I can find. Did you know that Frank Zappa died at 51 of prostate cancer? Bill Bixby was 59. Gary Cooper was 60. Basketball player John “Hot Rod” Williams was 53. Then again, a lot of really old guys die of prostate cancer, too. Dennis Hopper, for instance. He survived the ‘60’s and countless drug-fueled adventures. He didn’t survive this, though. There’s even a Wikipedia listing people who died from prostate cancer. I’ve studied it. Intently.
Men, if you live long enough, you’ll have prostate problems. You’ll probably have prostate cancer at some point. Like all cancer, the keys are: 1. When you get it; 2. When you find out you got it; and 3. How aggressive it is. Unlike some cancers, it can be treated. Like all cancers, if you wait too long to find out about it, it can also certainly kill you.
Well, my cancer wasn’t going to kill me, at least not any time soon. I was repeatedly assured of that. My oncologist even said, “You’re not going to die from this.” I really appreciated being told that, even though I was able to convince myself that I still might be dying.
In addition to the blood tests and DREs, I also had a biopsy. It was unpleasant. As with all prostate-related procedures, it involved rectal probing. Basically, a metal rod is inserted, then your prostate is located by ultrasound through the wall of your large bowel. After that, a needle is shot into your prostate numerous times to take tissue samples. All in all, it’s pretty painless, as rectal probing goes. Oh, there’s some revolting bleeding that goes on for a few days, but it’s not that big a deal.
It’s biopsy time.
All this happens, and then they tell me it’s cancer. It gets a Gleason Score which is a complicated scoring system using charts that get cross-referenced to give your grade. It’s all rather mechanical. More good news. My score wasn’t too high. Low to intermediate grade adenocarcinoma. That means it’s all inside the prostate—most likely. Now, you have to figure what to do.
This all sounds pretty positive, doesn’t it? Well, it is given the context, yet it was still terrifying. Even though there were some pretty strong indications before the biopsy that I had cancer, I still didn’t really think I had it. It just didn’t seem like something I would have. I’ve never been hospitalized for anything. I’ve never had surgery. Or a CT scan. Or an MRI. The only broken bones I’ve had were two small stress fractures on the top of my right foot about 20 years ago.
After the news sank in, I began to consider that this is the end for me. I’ll find out it’s some sort of unmanageable cancer that runs wild. I was reminded of my wife’s grandmother who liked to regale us with dire stories of her friends who were deathly ill. Once asked her what type of cancer one of her unfortunate friends had. Granny said: “The fast-eatin’ kind.” I figured I had that, too. Like most things that terrify me, it actually never happened. Mine was the “slow-eatin’ kind.” Regardless, there’s still a ton of stress. It’s just weird to think I have cancer. For example, when the dentist asked if I’d had any changes in my health, I had to say “Oh, yeah, I have cancer.”
In the majority of cases—mine included—prostate cancer is slow-growing. I could go a number of years doing nothing before I have major problems. That’s actually one option. Do nothing. Monitor the situation and then act when necessary. That approach wasn’t recommended for me, because I’m relatively young in the prostate cancer world. Plus, I wouldn’t deal well with the stress of being checked every six months or year. So, I had to pick a treatment option.
My choices were radiation, surgery or something called HIFU (High Intensity Focused Ultrasound). HIFU wasn’t covered by insurance, so it was a nonstarter. There are three kinds of radiation treatment: 1) External beam; 2) seed implantation; and 3) CyberKnife. Surgery is just what it sounds like. They cut out your prostate gland. My decision came down between CyberKnife and surgery. I’m not a good candidate for the other radiation treatments for a number of reasons. That’s good, because they’re really intense.
Surgery is the most conservative approach. You cut it out and have thorough pathology done on the gland and know exactly what you’re dealing with. As you might expect, though, there are some real negatives, too. How about walking around with a catheter for at least a couple of weeks? Bladder leakage for some period time or forever. Possible impotence. These are worse case scenarios, of course, but the doctors are blunt about the possibilities. If it came down to courting death or dealing with all this, I wouldn’t have hesitated on the surgery. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case with me. Side effects aside, I’m not real keen on being cut on unless it’s necessary.
I chose CyberKnife. CyberKnife is a high-intensity radiation beam that targets the prostate and then “slices” the tumor up. The goal is to kill it. If it doesn’t not kill it, you want to at least slow it down enough that something gets else you first. Why do this? Turns out I’m a great candidate. I’m very fit. I’m not overweight. My tumor is small and low to intermediate grade. Everyone was quite confident about the treatment.
Of course, this isn’t without its own side effects. There’s fatigue for a two or three weeks. or so. There are the dreaded “frequent loose stools.” The GI issues were minor–more annoying than anything else. All things considered, it’s not so bad.
Your author positioned to begin his fifth-and last-CyberKnife treatment.
So, I had the treatment. I laid on a table and a huge piece of equipment moved around me for about 45 minutes. I had to lie perfectly still. I listened to music. They put a warm blanket over me. Not bad, right? Well, it was a tad scary. In fact, I almost hyperventilated before the first treatment. While I was lying there, it suddenly struck me that I must have something seriously wrong with me. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be doing this to me. Plus, everyone was REALLY nice to me. This is how all patients should be treated.
I forgot about the enemas. I had to have one every morning before my treatment. I had to do it myself, which is preferable I suppose. After a while, one more thing up in there is no big deal. I also had to go on weird “low residue” diet which was about as bland as it sounds.
The treatments were weird. I didn’t feel anything. It didn’t seem like anything was happening, but I knew it was. I knew because no one could be in the room with me while it was happening.
There were side effects. Fatigue was the major one. A couple of days after the last treatment, I started hitting a wall in the afternoon. I’m an active guy. Crazy active. I work out every day, and I did so after my treatment, but I had to work around the fatigue. When it hit, it was like catching the flu in about five minutes. My legs would die. I’d be sleepy, almost achy. It passed after an hour or two, quicker if I could grab a nap.
It took a couple of weeks to start feeling better, but I did. By Christmas, I was hale and hardy again.
There were some urinating issues. The less said about that the better, but it wasn’t so bad. I took one one pill a day for that, and it helped.
So, here’s how we got here:
June 11, 2019: I have my periodic physical. Doctor calls later in the day to talk about my PSA level. It’s not good when your doctor personally calls you on the same day you have a physical.
July 8, 2019: Biopsy.
July 16, 2019: Biopsy results.
August 21, 2019: Meet with urologist to discuss options.
September 12, 2019: Meet with surgeon to discuss surgical option.
September 26, 2019: Meet with radio-oncologist to discuss radiation treatment. That same day, I decided to go with CyberKnife.
October 28, 2019: Fiducial markers inserted into my prostate. These are four pieces of gold about the size of grains of rice. They put in through a needle—again, more rectal probing. These markers make the prostate–and tumor– easy to locate. Unpleasant, but as cancer treatment goes, not that bad.
November 11, 2019: X-rays, CT scan and MRI to prepare a treatment plan. My markers are located and something of a map is created for the CyberKnife to follow in zapping my prostate.
November 25-27 and December 2-3: Treatment.
My diploma
Not much happened after that. I saw my urologist on March 11, 2020. Good news. My PSA level was cut by a third. The doctor and I also talked about this new virus “COVID-19.” He said it looked like really serious stuff and that I should be sure to frequently wash my hands. It sounded like we might be in for a rough few weeks.
Another physical in June 2020 (those will be ANNUAL from now on.) More good news: PSA level cut in half. Then, a follow up visit to the oncologist. He says I’m right where I should be. He’s confident the tumor is dying. I have one more appointment in July 2021, and he expects to release me from treatment. Whew.
In September 2020, I went back to the urologist. By the way, you can’t have a prostate exam during a telehealth appointment, so it had to be face-to-face, or something like that. PSA has fallen even further. Doctor says I’m clearly on my way to full recovery. He took me off my prostate medication.
So, that’s cancer my story (so far). As comic Norm MacDonald says, the best news you get from a doctor is that nothing is wrong with you…YET. Mine isn’t a dramatic tale of survival. I wrote this so I could remember it. The fog of time obscures a lot details. Plus, I want to share it with others who might be in the same situation.
Fifteen doctor/clinic visits; seven prostate exams; seven enemas; one biopsy; one procedure to implant the fiducial markers; and five radiation treatments: Not so bad as cancer treatment goes. Yet, I’m pretty that’s more medical treatment than I’ve had in test of my adult life.
I also learned a lot. In the past, I would hear of people with “non-serious” cancer and think “Well, that’s unfortunate, but it sounds curable. Good for him.” I don’t think that way now. It’s a chilling to be told you have cancer. It’s scary. It’s confirmation of your expiration date—if not now, it’s coming.
I also appreciate doctors and science in a new way. I’ve lived my whole life in Kentucky, and I love it here. Unfortunately, during the COVID pandemic, I learned that many Kentuckians don’t care much for science. They also come up with their own science. If you want to become a fan of science, get cancer. You’ll be all about science then. You won’t be looking for memes or your politicians to tell you what to do. Doctors will do quite nicely.
I can’t overstate how well I was treated. All my questions were answered. If I called, someone PROMPTLY called back. Everyone was nice. The way I am, it made me think I might be really sick. Why else would they be so nice?
I was likewise impressed by the effort to fully educate me. I got recommendations along the way, but the choices were mine.
Big thanks to my primary care doctor Dr. Eiyad Alchureiqi at Lexington Clinic; Urologist Dr. Stephen Monnig at Lexington Clinic; Dr. Alan Beckman, my radio-oncologist at Baptist Healthcare. They and their staffs were top notch from start to finish. My wife, too, deserves HUGE thanks. She was optimistic from start to finish. I needed that.
Here are few lessons I learned:
DON’T tell a cancer patient about that person you know who died of the VERY SAME THING. No one wants to hear that. Your medical opinion is also not likely to be well-received. Okay, so you know a guy who had the same treatment, and it failed miserably. Keep it to yourself.
DON’T tell a cancer patient that he or she should have opted for some other form of treatment. He or she is making a decision based on the available information. Don’t invite second-guessing.
DON’T pry. Here’s the best thing to say: “How are you?” If the person feels like telling you–believe me–you’ll find out. If I feel like telling you that I’m have trouble peeing, I’ll let you know.
DON’T pander. “I’m sure you’ll fine” and the like really don’t mean anything. Unless you’ve had experience with a similar situation, you don’t know if someone will be “fine” or not.
DO be empathetic. I tend to dwell on myself which results in nothing good. This flaw was especially acute after my diagnosis. No matter how bad something seems, someone else has it worse. Just sit in the waiting area at a cancer center, and you’ll see. Think about others. Consider what you would do if you couldn’t get treatment or it didn’t work.
I’ll never look at people with cancer the same way. Cancer is like surgery. “Minor” cancer is someone else’s cancer. I’ve even heard people saying that cancer can be a blessing. I don’t agree, especially for the many folks I’ve known who have been seriously ill or have had debilitating forms of treatment. So, if you have or had cancer, I have, too.
I grew up in Loyall, Kentucky, a small town about which I’ve written before. Loyall, so the story goes, was named after an executive for the Louisville & Nashville Railroad which built its switching and maintenance yard in Loyall. I suppose that’s true, although I’ve never met anyone named Loyall nor did he leave any descendants in my hometown. Then again, it might just be a misspelling of the word “loyal.”
Loyall is in Harlan County, tucked in the southeast corner of Kentucky on the Virginia border. Bell County, to our south, is all that protects from Tennessee. As I grew older, I met many people from other small towns and visited quite a few such places, too. Loyall wasn’t much different than these other places. People knew their neighbors, went to school, gossiped about each other and did all the other things people do.
For most of my childhood, the posted population of Loyall was 1100. I have no idea if that was even close to accurate. Honestly, it didn’t seem like that many people lived there. We had one main street, one red light, a few small grocery stores, a school, a full-service gas station, barber shop, post office and an honest-to-goodness corner drugstore with a soda fountain. We even had a movie theater and drive-in restaurant. The L&N yard, though, is what dominated the town.
The Loyall Yard was built in the early 20th century to accommodate the burgeoning coal industry. It was a switching yard with multiple tracks, a turntable and mechanic’s shop. By the time I came around, the maintenance folks had all moved over to the L&N yard in Corbin, Kentucky. The Loyall Yard was still a big deal. Trains ran in and out of it day and night.
Until I was about 12 years old, I lived about 200 yards from the railroad track and a crossing. If you lived in Loyall, you got used to two sounds: 1) trains slowly moving in and out of the yard; and 2) the ringing of the crossing bell. To this day, I think I could fall asleep with a bell ringing beside my head.
In my memory, everyone in Loyall worked at the yard, although that’s not really the case. My parents didn’t work for the L&N, but my Dad’s brother Jack did. Uncle Jack told me that I could identify the old men who used work as couplers in the Yard by their missing fingers. My Dad told me to ignore that “foolishness.” Frankly, I don’t remember a bunch of finger-less old men in Loyall. I was terrified of people who had missing limbs, fingers, etc. I would remember these dudes if they had been hanging around.
We were accustomed to trains but only coal trains. When my family went on vacation, I was intrigued by trains pulling tank cars, flat cars and even the occasional passenger train. Our trains consisted of a couple engines, coal hopper cars and a caboose.
This is all a long way of saying that we knew about trains. We knew people that worked on them, engineered them and road the cabooses. Of course, we also knew the people that mined and loaded the coal that went on those trains. It would have taken a lot for a train to get our attention. The United States Army took care of that in 1970.
I was eight years old when the Nerve Gas Train came to town. That’s not a typo—it was a train loaded with freakin’ nerve gas! I remember my eighth birthday. I was at Yellowstone National Park with my family. My Aunt Norma surprised me with a cake. She also surprised me by buying every piece of junk I had begged for in every store and gift shop we visited. She gave me a bag of marbles, jacks and sundry other items. My parents gave me a baseball glove and Pete Rose bat—that was the summer I became a baseball fan. I still have that bat, but I digress.
I need to digress again. I was a worrier–yes, even at eight years old. What does an eight year old have to worry about? Lots of stuff. I hated school, so I worried about that. I was scared of storms, so I worried about those, too. I worried about being so small and skinny, even though most of my friends were, too. Oh, don’t forget people with missing fingers. I was scared of my great-grandmother because she had a glass eye. Really, it was a sort of generalized brooding which occasionally focused on specifics worries, both real and imagined. Needless to say, the thought of nerve gas train was worrisome.
How did we get a Nerve Gas Train? That’s a fine question. I’m not real sure, but I have done some cursory research, which I’m sure some Harlan County historian will quickly correct. It seems that the United States Army had a large cache of chemical weapons, including nerve gas. As we’ve learned over the years, disposing of such weaponry is not nearly as easy as making it. We know that well here in the Commonwealth of Kentucky where we maintain an enormous stockpile of such weapons in Madison County, some 120 or so miles away from Loyall.
The Bluegrass Army Depot stores such delights as sarin gas, VX and mustard gas. “VX” is shorthand for “venomous agent X,” a nerve agent. It sounds like Dr. Evil named it. I suppose it’s so deadly that no one could come up with a more appealing name. I guess the Nerve Gas Train had goodies like that on board.
In 1970, the Army came up with a plan to dispose of some of these weapons by dumping them in the Atlantic Ocean. I know–that sounds like a plan that Wile E. Coyote or a dull-witted high school sophomore would come up with, but it was a plan. Soooo….they loaded a bunch of them on a train.
That’s how Loyall got on the path of the Nerve Gas Train. Boy, were people excited. It was in the newspaper. We talked about it at school. People said that even a small leak would likely wipe us all out. If the train wrecked? Cataclysm. We occasionally had train derailed. We even had a disastrous head-on collision near Loyall once. There was even loose talk that the Soviets would love to sabotage the train. We were quite ready in Harlan County to take the Red Scourge. There was some real potential here. People were excited.
I’m serious. We were excited. Okay. They were excited. I was more terrified. I envisioned a train pulling flatcars loaded with Saturn rockets chock full of venomous nerve agents. For some reason, my mind’s eye saw them steaming with toxic vapors. I hadn’t been this worked up since a rumor that a busload of hippies were coming to town. (By the way, they didn’t, much to my disappointment. I always liked hippies.)
We were like the citizens of Mayberry on The Andy Griffith Show awaiting the arrival of the gold truck! Unlike Mayberry, though, our shipment wasn’t supposed to be secret. I don’t remember anyone holding up signs, but they should have.
So, what happened? The train came through town. People gathered at the railroad tracks and watched. My father mocked them, of course, pointing out to me that it was just a train and no big deal. I saw it go by. No Saturn rockets. No steaming canisters of deadly gas. Not even the smallest leak. No one collapsed and died. No derailments or collisions. No Russian attacks. As far as I know, no one in the county was harmed in any way. It was just a train pulling some nondescript cars.
Here’s a link to podcast discussing the Nerve Gas Train. According to these guys, it carried sarin gas which is neutralized when it comes in contact with salt. That explains the dumping in the ocean. Apparently, there were troops on the train, ambulances and decontamination equipment. I don’t remember any of that. Sound pretty cool, though.
So what? We liked it. It was something to do. Not everyone sees a Nerve Gas Train, and I did. Or at least I think I did. Like I said, I was pretty terrified. Maybe I stayed in my room, and through the fog of time now believe I saw it. I like to think I did.
History tells us that John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich, had a habit of dining on salted beef between two slices of toasted bread while at the gambling table. Hence, the sandwich was born. It was such a great idea that it was named after him! I know a lot of other foods are named after people, but it’s still impressive.
Like any right-thinking American, I enjoy a well-made sandwich. I even enjoy a poorly made one as long as it has tasty ingredients. Bread, meat or a reasonable facsimile, veggies, optional condiments–all in a handheld form and easy to eat. It’s dining simplicity as its finest.
Here in Kentucky we eat hot browns, which we call sandwiches, but they really aren’t. White bread, layered with turkey, cheese sauce, bacon and tomato and then broiled until hot and brown. It’s what’s called an “open-faced sandwich,” which is no sandwich at all since you can’t pick it up. If you eat it with a fork, it’s not a sandwich.
You can put any kind of meat or meat product on a sandwich–turkey, ham, chicken, bologna, roast beef, liverwurst, Spam, pastrami, salami, all manner of fish, olive loaf–you name it. When I was a kid a neighbor offered me a souse sandwich. I declined. If you are familiar with souse, you know why. If you aren’t, click here. Get it, now? The same neighbor once asked my brother “You wanna mater sammich?” He declined. Offering someone a sandwich is a friendly gesture for sure, even if the “sammich” in question is itself questionable.
I’m not sure a tomato constitutes a proper sandwich. It’s like a partial sandwich. When my wife was a kid, she ate mashed potato sandwiches. That just seems wrong to me. Mashed potatoes should be eaten with your sandwich, not on it. Just because you call something a sandwich does not make it so. Perhaps not coincidently, my wife is the only person I know you does not like sandwiches. Somehow, we’ve remained together.
I’m not suggesting that all sandwiches require meat. You can have a cheese sandwich, even though the meat is missing. Even better, you can fry it in butter and call it grilled cheese. Grilled food is healthy, right? I ate a grilled cheese sandwich with country ham, bacon and pork rinds on it. I still considered it merely a grilled cheese sandwich. The angioplasty was extra. Eggs also make for a good sandwich. Fried or scrambled–it doesn’t matter.
Peanut butter and jelly is perhaps the greatest American sandwich. It must, of course, be grape jelly. Anything else is an abomination. Elvis loved fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. My elementary school served fabulous peanut butter sandwiches. I asked my mom to get the same kind of peanut butter. Mother, a home economics teachers back when there were such things, groaned and gently noted that this “peanut butter” was cut with copious amounts of corn syrup to make it stretch further. We weren’t doing that in our home. Oh well.
I’ll admit to being a bit of a purist with my sandwiches. Nothing too complex for me. The simpler the better. If I want a complicated meal, I’ll order one. There’s nothing more disheartening than to approach a sandwich shop counter anticipating a simple and tasty ham and cheese sandwich, only to see this on the menu:
Ham & Cheese: Organic, free range ham topped with aged Alpaca cheese, persimmon dill chutney, pickled capers and sesame cayenne mustard. Your choice of zucchini, rutabaga or Belgian flax bread.
What the hell do I do now? My ham sandwich is lost in an olio of ingredients which render the ham an afterthought. I can only awkwardly order the sandwich like this:
“I’d like the ham and cheese, but I just want ham and cheese on it. And do you have any other kind of cheese and maybe some regular whole wheat bread?”
Now, I’ve ordered a sandwich which isn’t even on the menu. Oh, they’ll probably accommodate me, but I’ll be judged. Plus, I’m sure they’ll spit on it. Let’s don’t even discuss the likelihood of the order being totally screwed up, too. Don’t do this to a sandwich. Keep it simple. If someone wants to befoul it with all manner of toppings, make that an option, not part of the basic sandwich.
While we’re at it, consider condiments. Ketchup (or catsup for the more refined of you), mustard and mayonnaise are the bellwethers. Heinz makes the only ketchup acceptable to my palate, but I never know what brand is on a sandwich. Fortunately, ketchup doesn’t go on very many sandwiches, even though it’s quite tasty on almost everything. Mustard is great for ham sandwiches and a must for a fried bologna sandwich. Beyond those, it’s a tad questionable.
Mayonnaise is the most frequently used condiment. I must now–publicly and definitely–state my objection to this practice. Mayonnaise consists of oil (why eat oil?), egg yolk (okay but the grossest part of the otherwise fine egg) and vinegar (completely grotesque). How could combining these elements create an acceptable sauce? It’s like 80% fat! Why not just smear lard on your sandwich? (Ooh, that’s not a half-bad idea). People try to make it better by adding spices like cayenne pepper or something else to mask the taste. Then there’s Miracle Whip, which is kind of like mayonnaise, yet somehow different. It’s called salad dressing, even though I’ve never seen it put on a salad. If you want to make sure that I don’t take a bite of your sandwich, drench it in mayonnaise. And don’t tell me to scrape off the mayonnaise. That doesn’t work. Mayonnaise residue remains.
Let’s be clear about something else. Hamburgers aren’t sandwiches. They are burgers. How do I know this? Because they have meat patties on them and are served on buns. True, a sandwich can be served on a bun, too, but it is the basic pattyness of the burger which distinguishes it. I’ll grant you that if one were totally insane and served a meat patty between two slices of bread, it might be a sandwich. Might. I once heard an older person use the term “hamburger sandwich.” I wanted to punch her in the throat.
Onions are another issue. Understand that onions themselves–unlike, say, Brussel sprouts–are okay and can add a lot to many dishes. Why pile raw onions on a sandwich? You may as well have an onion sandwich. What–the taste of chicken isn’t good enough for you? Are you so utterly demented that you think it should taste like onions? Don’t just randomly throw onions on a sandwich. For God’s sake, at least tell a person before doing it.
Unlike onions, pickles have no redeeming value. I know, I know…you LOVE pickles, right? Well, good for you. They’re awful. I surmise that at one time cucumbers were plentiful and there wasn’t much else to eat. Since cukes won’t last forever, someone decided to preserve them and add a little flavor to them. Hence, we have the pickle. It was better than starvation, I guess. It was a bad idea then, and it’s a bad idea now. Removing them for one’s sandwich does little good because of the pervasive pickle juice which saturates the bread and anything else it touches. Everything ends up pickled. Here’s an idea: just soak your sandwich in salt water and vinegar and dig in.
Tomatoes. They’re terribly offensive to me. Now, do NOT tell me that if I love ketchup, I have to love tomatoes. Ketchup is chock full of sugar and/or high fructose corn syrup (which, by the way, is the BEST kind of corn syrup) and flavorings and whatnot. Also, that gelatinous, seedy, embryonic goo is removed from ketchup. The tomato adds nothing of value to a sandwich, unless it’s a tomato sandwich, which we’ve already dismissed as a non-sandwich. Ugh.
As an aside, have you eaten a sugar sandwich? Years ago, I read a story about a boxer named Danny “Little Red” Lopez. He was so poor growing up, that’s what he ate! I’d try one. No onions, tomatoes or pickles, please. Hold the mayo, too. But I digress.it’
How about cheese? Like any patriot in our great country, I’m fond of American cheese, but I’m no xenophobe. The Swiss gave us both tremendous pocket knives and damn good cheese. Cheddar, mild or sharp, is always a winner. I don’t know what Monterrey Jack is, but I like it. I grew up eating Government Cheese, a dazzling cheese product that goes good on everything. Of course, we can’t leave well enough alone. Gouda cheese is now offered. How about Edam, whatever the hell that is? Bleu cheese? Hell’s bells, is that even cheese? It’s more like something you’d discard in the cheese-making process. Provolone is a little weird, but I can handle it. Mozzarella is good is a sandwich– a meatball or a chicken parmesan sandwich. Oh, and speaking of parmesan–it’s technically a cheese but more like some kind of seasoning. That’s why it generally it isn’t offered on sandwiches.
I almost forgot about bread. Look, bread is bread. Let’s don’t get too creative with it. White, whole wheat, multi-grain, maybe focaccia–we don’t need more choices. Options with seeds or odd colors or shapes don’t enhance my experience. Rye bread is weird, probably the result of some ill-conceived bakery experiment. Edible? Yes. Better than normal bread? No.
It’s starting to sound like I don’t like sandwiches. Maybe I don’t. Then again, consider that John Montagu had a storied career in politics and the military, yet he remains best known for eating salted beef between two pieces of toast. If such simplicity was good enough for the Earl himself, it should be good enough for all of us. Now, go make me a sandwich.
I hesitate to do this, but I must. It’s time to lay down the law for you people. You need a set of rules for your use of social media. I’m not so much concerned about how you interact with each other. My concern is more personal. It’s about how you can better interact with me. After all, that’s what important here.
A few years ago, I prepared a simple users guide for newcomers to Facebook. I must say that you failed miserably in following my advice. I am undaunted. My enjoyment of social is important to all of us and certainly worth preserving. Let’s get started.
TIMELINE CLUTTER
If I follow you or we’re friends on social media, your posts appear on my timeline. Think about that. I see what you post. You may not have thought that through. Your memes, photos, status updates and sundry ravings all pass before me. Let’s try to keep it entertaining.
What do I like? A lot of things. Babies are cute. Most small kids are, too. Jokes are good, too, as long as they’re funny. I like a clever pun. Pictures of you are okay, too, but try to make them interesting. Your selfies get tedious, unless you’re really attractive. It’s best not to risk it. Let’s keep it PG-13, too. There are other places to go on the Internet for more “mature” material.
There are many things I don’t need to see. Abused children and animals top that list. If there is a person who must see photos to know these things are bad, that person is either stupid or insane. As far as you know, I am neither of those. Oh, and no one needs to see dead people. People who want to see pictures of dead people are dangerously disturbed. Don’t indulge them.
I know what you’re thinking: I’m unsure of what to do. What if my posts aren’t entertaining? There are three categories which never fail to entertain me:
Baby Pandas
Post a picture of a baby panda or multiple baby pandas. I’ll like it. I might even comment on it. Here’s one:
I’m smiling. Don’t confuse Giant Pandas (the adorable ones) with Red Pandas. According to my research, the Red Panda is a weasel-like beast, a kind of tricked-out raccoon. I’m not saying that they don’t have their merits, but they aren’t cute enough to entertain me.
Monkeys Riding Dogs
Several years ago, a friend of mine posted a video of a monkey riding a dog recorded by him at a minor league baseball game. I laughed. I LOL’d, as it were. Here’s a picture of monkey riding a dog:
I just laughed again.
I realize not everyone likes monkeys riding dogs. Here in Lexington, Kentucky, our local minor league baseball team actually cancelled a dog-riding monkey show because people complained. I guess it’s not good for the monkeys or maybe the dogs. I disagree. I’ve watched those videos. The monkeys are clearly having a blast. As for the dogs, they seem fine. Dogs are pretty affable, you know. It’s not like they’re riding Maltese or Chihuahuas. If it were apes, there might be a point. Apes are big and can be dangerous. Besides, we humans ride horses. We even race them, and I’m not 100% sure the horses even know they are in a race. We are in no position to judge monkeys–or dogs, for that matter.
Cars Hitting Buildings
I’ll admit that this is a little odd. What can I say? I’m a fan. I live in Lexington, Kentucky, a city which has an usual number of car-on-building accidents (if that’s what they really are). I’ll just say it–I am the one who first identified this phenomenon. It happens all the time here. Here’s a typical post:
I don’t know why this happens, but it entertains me, and that’s the point. One rule–don’t post about one if someone gets killed or seriously injured. The humor is in the property damage. Some folks are so kind as to post these and tag me so that I don’t miss out. Those people get it, and I like them for it.
POLITICS
As much as I dislike the topic, I must mention politics, specifically your politics. I’ll be blunt: No one cares about your political views. By “no one” I mean me. I once mentioned this in a Facebook post. One “friend” commented that I was wrong and that all his friends were very interested in his views. This same guy later called me a bigot for saying that the presidential election wasn’t the end of the world. It seems unlikely that he actually has any friends. I certainly can’t be counted among them.
I want to be clear about something. I’m not saying that you can’t post about politics. Of course, you can. That’s what the blocking and unfollow functions handle. I don’t have to see them. Prattle on if you must. Where we need to be careful is on commenting on my posts. I rarely say anything political. If I do, it’s fair game. Comment all you want. What you musn’t–nay, can’t–do is make a political comment on a decidedly non-political post. Here’s an example. Let’s say I post this status:
Wow. I can’t believe this warm weather we’re having.
This banal post doesn’t even merit a comment, unless you want to point out that where you are is actually quite cold or some other such equally uninteresting comment. Here are examples that won’t fly with me:
If Trump has his way, global warming will make every day like this.
What I can’t believe how great it is to have Trump as president. I don’t even care about the weather anymore.
The rule is simple: If my post is not political on its face, your comment cannot be.
RELIGION
Unlike politics, I have no problem with religion. I like all kinds of religions. Like Thomas Jefferson, I don’t care if you worship 20 gods or none. Good for you, I say. It’s important, though, to keep it to yourself most of the time.
As with politics, I’m not too concerned about your posts. I can’t force you to be entertaining. The same rules about political comments apply here as well. If I post about a recent sporting event, I don’t need to be reminded that God doesn’t care about it. I also don’t need a bunch of Bible passages cited or quoted. Believe it or not, I know a lot about that stuff–probably as much as you do. You’re not really teaching me anything.
A lot of people ask for prayers on social media. I’m cool with that. Pray for me, too, if you want. One caveat: I can’t participate in “unspoken” prayer requests. You know the ones:
I have an unspoken prayer request. God knows about it.
I don’t know what you’re asking for here. Maybe you’re calling down a curse on me or praying for something like the eruption of a super-volcano. God knows I can’t have that on my conscience.
As much as I am uninterested in your religion, your views on the religion of others is even less compelling. Resist the urge to deride anyone’s religion on my pages or walls or what have you. This is particularly applicable to my atheists friends–and I have quite a few. You folks tend to be very proud of your non-beliefs. Hey, I would be too if I were confident that all the many religions are wrong. Nevertheless, you must resist the urge to continually remind us of your superiority. Careful now, don’t do it in response to this, either.
I’ve not covered everything–sports, for example. It’s annoying when your favorite team wins and you act like you actually contributed to the win. I do the same thing, so I’m not exactly on the high road with this one. Likewise, we carry on about what fabulous, sainted parents we have, forgetting that we know people whose parents were little more than monsters which could procreate for some reason.
You’re probably wondering or perhaps even saying aloud: Why should I care what his clown thinks about what I do on social media? That is, indeed, a valid and thought-provoking question. I suggest, however, you consider that if you can make one person happy every day, you have not lived your life in vain. If that one person is me, we both win.
Let’s talk about Hell. Oh, I’m not interested in debating whether there actually is a Hell. If there isn’t, I wasted a lot of time of being terrified when I was young. Now that I’m older, I figure the die has been cast, and I’ll just have to see what number comes up.
We know from the writings of Dante Alighieri and John Milton that Hell is no fun. I wouldn’t suggest otherwise, despite the insistence of my favorite band AC/DC that “Hell Ain’t a Bad Place to Be.” Oh, hell, no, unless you’re a hellion. Then it’s probably hellacious.
I say the word “Hell,” but I rarely write it. It just doesn’t usually fit in legally writing or correspondence. I’m always torn about whether to capitalize it. It’s a proper noun, I suppose. Then again, capitalizing it seems to give it more dignity than it deserves. I have elected to capitalize it when discussing the place (you know, lake of fire, brimstone, eternal torment, etc.). I don’t capitalize it when using as just a regular curse word unless the context requires it. Fortunately, I rarely write curse-filled missives. By “rarely” I, of course, mean “frequently.”
I grew up in a home where you didn’t say the word “hell,” unless you were my Dad and, even then, only when you were really mad. Until the day she died, my mother chose to spell it out–H-E-L-L–rather than ever say it. If you wanted a one-way ticket to Hell, saying it would get you to the front of the line. Needless to say, I got over all that at some point.
For Hell to be such a bad deal, we like the word “hell” or at least I do. We can have a hell of a good time. Some things hurt like hell. As bad as Hell is, you sure as hell don’t want the hell beaten out of you. I’ve raised hell. “Oh, hell!” perfectly sums up some situations. I know people who say “Holy hell!” I don’t know what the hell that means.
It’s a hell of a thing, though, how it’s used. “Hell’s bells” is a favorite. Are there bells in Hell? Maybe they ring all the time just to add to the general misery. There may be no better curse than the classic “Go to Hell!” Those three words pretty much sum up one’s feelings. You’re telling someone go to worst place there is. “Go straight to Hell!” is even worse. You’re not countenancing even the possibility of avoiding the trip by some last ditch effort at salvation. You can go to Hell in a handbasket, too, which makes no sense but sounds horribly unpleasant.
Sometimes, you have to give people hell. Of course, you’re liable to catch hell, too. Hell fire, you might end up going hell-bent for leather. There’s no way in hell to predict. Of course, we’ve all been through hell at some point in our lives. It’s a hell of a thing when you think about it.
There are people who live in Hell’s Kitchen. I’d say most of them are Hell on wheels. What exactly does that mean, anyway? I guess the idea that Hell could be mobile and roll about is pretty terrifying when you think about it. It’s easy to see how all hell could break loose under those circumstances.
There can be hell to pay. Or some things play hell with you. You can have a hell of a good time, but remember–the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, which shouldn’t be confused with the Highway to Hell, another fine AC/DC tune.
It gets hotter than Hell around here in the summer. Sometimes, it’s hotter than the hinges of Hell. Of course, it’s been cold as Hell, too, whatever that means. One day there will be a cold day in Hell. On that day, a hell of lot of things are going to happen that people didn’t count on. Same as when Hell freezes over.
I’ve been all over Hell and half of Georgia looking for my car keys some mornings. I’ve walked through Hell on few occasions, too–just for the hell of it, of course.
I’ve had bad days, and then I’ve had some days that were shot to hell. You know those days–they end up in a hell of a mess. You don’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell on those days. You better run like a bat out of Hell. The hell with all that.
I guess it’s time to get the hell out of Dodge before there’s hell to pay. See you in Hell.
Everyone knows I love being an American. As I write this, Donald J. Trump has just wrapped up two weeks as President of the United States. Weird, right? In that time, he has threatened such diverse enemies as Mexico and Chicago, Illinois with intervention by “troops” and “feds.” Since the President makes most of his announcements via Twitter, we’re not sure what any of that means, but we know he’s serious. Hell, he seems serious about everything. He doesn’t seem to be a fellow who enjoys a good joke.
In years past, I have beseeched our leaders to crush our international threats, primarily Canada and the allegedly “Great” Britain. I even went so far as to draw up complex nation-building plans. My warnings went unheeded, and today we remain at the mercy of our Anglo overlords. Many have no doubt wondered why I haven’t addressed the third side of the Triangle (or “Tri-Anglo,” as I call it) of Terror, the demon state Down Under.
The so-called “Commonwealth” of Australia is an island nation located somewhere way far away from civilization, unless you call Papau New Guinea and New Zealand civilized. Maybe it’s not island, just a small continent. In any event, Mr. Trump had a heated phone call with the Prime Minister of Australia–whose name escapes me–about an agreement for America to accept refugees from Australia. According to Presidential tweets, this agreement is “dumb” and he’s not having any of it. If I know Mr. Trump–and if I don’t, who does?–he won’t stop there. I’m still uncertain if he knows who our friends are, but he knows our enemies. In fact, no President in recent memory could make enemies faster.
With President Trump in office, I have new hope. Australia is as good a place as any to start. I say accept every refugee we can hold from Australia, as long as they aren’t actual Australians.
I know what you’re thinking: Hey, those Aussies are like Americans. A lot of them are blonde. They speak English. If you’d bother to even lightly scratch the surface, you’d see this for what it is–a subterfuge hiding threats to our very way life.
A common and deadly conceit lulls most Americans into inaction when it comes to foreign lands. We believe that foreign people must look and speak differently in order to be threats. While these are certainly telling signs, they tell only part of the story.
Any similarities between Americans and Australians are mere historical accidents. Like the United States, Australia was founded when England sent its undesirables to another continent. In the case of Australia, they were really undesirable–mostly a bunch of convicts. The Brits probably thought they were sending them to Austria where they would fit in. Regardless, they ended up being shipped off just about as far away as possible. Shouldn’t that be a clue, people? On the other hand, our country was settled by a bunch of buttoned-up, glum religious nuts. That alone makes us superior and them a dangerous criminal element.
Here is Australia:
Major cities include Sydney, Perth, Melbourne and Brisbane. It speaks to the intellectual paucity of the inhabitants that they soon exhausted real names and simply made up names for other cities and towns. Thus, the land is littered with names such as Wollongong, Dubbo, Wagga Wagga, Bong Bong, Cock Wash and Mount Buggery.
What I know of Australia comes from movies and Wikipedia. It should come as no surprise that I’ve never been to Australia nor do I intend to go. Let me explain.
As we examine Australia, let us consider the three characteristics which make any country worth its salt: 1) Its language; 2) Its sports; and 3) Its people.
LANGUAGE
Australia has no official language. Think about that. What kind of savages can’t even settle on a language? Most Australians speak English, which will come as quite a surprise to you if you’ve ever heard any of them speak.
To be precise, they speak “Australian English,” which combines normal English with an accent that can only be attributed to the country’s well-known love of alcohol. They sort of sound British but not really. Where the Brits sound haughty and intelligent, Aussies come across as menacing and quite possibly insane. “G’day, mate!” is an acceptable form of address as is vomiting on the ground when staggering out of one of their many road houses. Here is a typical Australian exchange:
Bloke No. 1: G’day, mate. I’m stoked to hit the turps, but I’d need a mate’s rate for a slab.
Bloke No. 2: Fair dinkum. I’ll drink with the flies. You gotta make a quid.
Bloke No. 1: Everything’s costing big bikkies. It’ll come good once I give it a burl.
Bloke No. 2: Good on ya.
Here’s a pointer when trying to interpret their speech: Just assume they’re talking about drinking.
I will admit that Australia gave us Mad Max, and that’s no bull dust as they might say. When the original Mad Max was released in the United States, the dialogue was re-dubbed into English. That’s right. English was dubbed into English. That’s all you need to know about this “language.”
SPORTS
Three popular sports in Australia are cricket, Australian Rules Football and something called net ball. The irredeemable nature of the culture of this nation is best explained by a brief description of each.
Cricket combines croquet with the more boring aspects of baseball. The pitcher is called a bowler. They throw the ball and one-hop it to the batter. The batter hits it with something akin to a flat-sided baseball bat. Players run back and forth and scores (runs) are made at some point. After several hours, the game or match or whatever the hell they call it mercifully ends.
In the nascent days of ESPN, the Worldwide Leader didn’t have rights to baseball, basketball, football or any other sport followed by the modern world. As a result, it broadcast Australian Rules Football. Like cricket, it combines several perfectly sane sports into one. American football and soccer with a touch of rugby (okay, that one’s not sane) are rolled together in face-paced game which appears to have no rules whatsoever. The only redeeming feature is that it is often violent. I have no proof that the players are all drunk, but they should be.
Net ball is a game where a metal hoop is secured to pole, and players try to throw a ball through the hoop. The hoop has a net attached for the ball to pass through. Sound familiar? You might call it basketball, if didn’t look like this:
Seriously? I watched it on TV once. Once. No dribbling. Awkward passing. White people. That’s right. It’s 1930s basketball played in the 21st century.
THE PEOPLE
I’ll admit the we have common ground with the Aussies. We, too, weren’t welcome in England and had a God-given right to terrorize and subjugate the native dwellers in our new land. That’s where the similarity ends.
Coming from the questionable gene pool of convicts, the degradation of the Australian people is etched into their leathery, sunburned faces. True, they gave us Mel Gibson, a handsome man by any standards. Despite our best efforts, they haven’t had the common decency to take him back.
The native Australians are the Aborigines or Aboriginal Australians. They were there first. They’re now relegated to what they call the “Outback.” Outback is another word for “barren wasteland.” It’s kind of like a gigantic American Indian reservation. One place they live is called Anangu Pitjantjatjara Yankunytjatjara. Okay. I guess they came up with that on one of their famed benders.
Their idea of a good time is to drink beer until nauseous. They eat things called quandog, muntries, goanna and witchetty grubs. Are these plants, animals or something else? I don’t know, and I’m not interested in finding out. They love vegemite, a goop they spread on toast. Vegemite is made of leftover brewer’s yeast combined with vegetable and spice additives. It is described as salty, slightly bitter and malty. Yum. Politics aside, President Obama summed up this delicacy with this reaction:
I know little of their undoubtedly bizarre religious practices. I recall reading somewhere that they have a high percentage of atheists. What does that say about a land so vile that it destroys one’s belief in the Almighty? Nothing good, that’s for sure.
I know nothing of the literature or art of Australia. That’s just as well.
As noted above, Australian cinema gave us the Mad Max films. That’s good. If you want to know what Australia is like, just watch one of those films. They could be documentaries as far as I’m concerned. The latest one didn’t even star an Australian. Brit Tom Hardy and South African Charlize Theron were the stars. They didn’t have much dialogue but at least I understood it.
What about their music? AC/DC, I’ll give them that one. Angus and Malcolm Young grew up in Sydney, but they were Scots. What about Men At Work, the band with the popular 1980s song “Down Under?” True, they were an Australian band, but lead singer Colin Hay was also Scottish. Seems Australian music is more properly Scottish music.
Back in the 1980s, they sent us their most famed comedian–Yahoo Serious. Yes, that was his name. He was just about that funny, too. We sent him back. Here’s an Australian joke:
What’s the difference between an Australian wedding and an Australian funeral?
One less drunk at the funeral.
They have all manner of odd animals. The emu is a bird that can’t fly. The koala is a bear that’s really a marsupial. It’s like a raccoon or some other varmint. Of course, the place is lousy with kangaroos and crocodiles. I know that doesn’t have anything to do with the Australian people, but it’s worth nothing for some reason.
Queen Elizabeth II is the not only the Queen of England, she is also the Queen of Australia. Why? Who knows. Her reign there makes as much sense as it does in England.
WHAT NOW?
You may be surprised that I do not advocate immediate military intervention in Australia, as I have with Canada and Great Britain. The Brits took care of this problem for us by sending these misanthropes way the hell to the other side of the world. I’ve looked at a globe, and I’m not even sure you can get to Australia from here.
We don’t have to do anything. Iran recently tested a missile, and the President put them “on notice.” Let’s do the same with the Aussies. You’re on notice, you Foster’s chugging, vegemite-eating bunch of convicts. So, there.
Step out of line, and we’ll build a gigantic sea wall trapping you on your island Hell. Oh, and guess who’s paying for it? You’ll all be living out in Woop Woop then, mates. Until then, hooroo!
Someone recently asked me why my flood of postings has slowed to the mere occasional drip over time. One answer would be that I have written all that I know to write, and it is time to move on. Not true–c’mon, isn’t obvious that I know a lot of stuff? Perhaps I burned out on my blog. That’s a good theory but also untrue. The truth? Writer’s block. That’s a real thing. In the 1960s, writer Joseph Mitchell wrote a fascinating book, Joe Gould’s Secret. Mitchell then spent the next 30+ years going to his office daily without ever publishing anything significant again. Scott Fitzgerald suffered from it. So, too, rumor has it, that Herman Melville quit writing for the same reason. I’m in good company it seems.
I don’t know when or how it happened. It didn’t affect my work. I’m a lawyer and frequently write. Legal writing, though, is a bit different. I regurgitate or recast facts and apply existing law to them. It’s more analysis than entertainment, if one can call what I’ve done here entertaining.
How could this happen to the author of the seminal work on small talk? My screed against Aunt Bee is so legendary that I’ve received emails from people both agreeing with and castigating me. I don’t even know how these people got my address. Who else would posit the theory, as yet unchallenged, that Dennis Rodman was, in fact, the President of the United States? My most popular piece, with almost 30,000 views, is about my hometown. It prompted this comment:
A man or woman who can stir this kind of fervor in the reader cannot be silent–or maybe he should remain forever silent.
Over the years, this silly blog has viewed tens of thousands of times. Just today, someone in Sri Lanka looked at it. Why? I don’t know. I might not be Stephen King, but people do look at this. I guess anything on the Internet is worth at least peak. Hey, people get bored in Sri Lanka, too.
Over the last couple of years, I started many posts only to give up and delete them. I just hit a wall. That’s the block. Imagine you are reading something, hit a word and you can’t read anymore. You know you can read but you still can’t. The words are there and you recognize them, but they don’t make sense. That’s writer’s block or something like it.
It’s frustrating. I was BLOCKED during the Trump-Clinton election! Donald Freakin’ Trump ran for President–and won–and I couldn’t come up with a single interesting post! Maybe it’s just as well. I’d hate to be subjected to a vicious tweeting or find myself on the wrong side of the Trump Wall in a few months. Folks who love Trump do NOT like jokes about him, almost as little as he himself likes them. (I can almost guarantee at least one nasty comment about how they do like jokes about him and that I am a socialist.)
Now that I’ve written this, I’m on my way back. It’s short and–for me–relatively concise. That’s a start. I’ll take it.
So, like person on an all-kale diet, I’m starting feel unblocked. A have a few ideas now. We’ll see what happens. Time will tell. In the meantime, peruse my archives. There’s something there for everyone. And more to come…
As I write this, it’s been almost two weeks since Brexit. I initially called in the Brexit but was quickly rebuked for doing so. Brexit occurred on June 23, 2016. On the off-chance that future generations have electrical power to access this blog, they will doubtless be horrified by my rudimentary understanding of this cataclysmic event which will have been taught in all schools, if they are any schools in the future. By the time you read this, Europe will have descended into total chaos, cannibalism will be commonplace and the United Kingdom will have been discarded in the ash bin of history. I write this for my contemporaries in the hope that I can explain what happened and what is to come.
WHAT IS BREXIT?
It is the BRitish EXIT from the European Union. Get it? BR-EXIT? It’s a clever portmanteau borrowed from the earlier Grexit, which was the GREEK withdrawal from the EU which didn’t happen. Brexit is actually just a vote which took place in the United Kingdom on June 23, 2016 to approve the UK’s leaving the European Union. By the way, the United Kingdom is made up of a bunch of countries besides Britain or Great Britain or England or whatever the hell they want to be called. This should be called Ukexit, but that sounds too much like a Baltic country. Plus, that has the added disadvantage of being pretty much unpronounceable.
2. WHAT IS THE EUROPEAN UNION?
That’s a damn good question. The European Union (EU) is a politico-economic union of 28 member states that are located primarily in Europe. It has an area of 4,324,782 km(1,669,808 sq mi), and an estimated population of over 508 million. The EU has developed an internal single market through a standardised system of laws that apply in all member states. EU policies aim to ensure the free movement of people, goods, services, and capital within the internal market, enact legislation in justice and home affairs, and maintain common policies on trade,agriculture, fisheries, and regional development. Is that clear enough? HAHAHAHA! I copied that from Wikipedia. I have no idea what any of that means.
3. WHERE IS EUROPE?
All the way across the Atlantic Ocean but before you get to Russia. England is actually an island, and I’m not sure it’s really part of Europe (with or without Brexit). Spain, France, Italy, Germany, Greece, Austria, Hungary, Belgium, probably Switzerland and Portugal and a lot of other countries are over there.
4. IS AMERICA PART OF THE EU?
Another excellent question. The simple answer is “no.” If you Google it, you’ll see that America isn’t in Europe. Oddly enough, some members of the EU aren’t in Europe, either. Americans aren’t going to be part of any such foolishness as this. Remember, too, that we made our own exit from Europe in 1776. Nevertheless, we should go ahead vote to exit the EU right now, just to make clear that we’re not going to be part of these shenanigans. Before we get too high and mighty, bear in mind that we are about to elect either Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton president. Maybe we should vote to exit our own country.
5. NOW THAT BRITAIN IS GONE FROM THE EU, WHAT HAPPENS?
Whoa, whoa. No one has left the EU. The UK only voted to leave. Oh, and the vote isn’t binding. It’s more like a strong suggestion. It’s like telling your wife you want a divorce. Well, hell, so do a lot of people, but you have to take some action. Now, they have to work out the details. Or not. They can always decide not to do it. That’s right. They can stay in or leave. Pretty much the same position they were in before the vote.
6. OKAY. ASSUMING BRITAIN EXITS THE EU, WHAT HAPPENS?
Hard to say. People who fear an apocalyptic one-world new order say it’s all good. Those who embrace a world economy say it’s bad. Young people hate it. Old people like it. Scotland hates it (for the most part). A bunch of things will happen. The British pound (that’s their goofy money) will suffer or not. The UK will break up or stay together. Germany will probably try to take over the world. (That’s not really part of Brexit. It’s just something the Germans like to try every now and then). People will buy gold, because that’s what people do when things happen.
7. WILL OTHER COUNTRIES VOTE TO EXIT, TOO?
That seems doubtful mostly because there’s no cool names to use. France would Frexit. That’s okay, I guess. Germany would Gerexit. No good–sounds too much like Jurassic and they don’t want litigation with Steven Spielberg. Spain with the Spexit? Nah. The names for the other countries are equally uninspiring. They’ll all have to stay put.
8. HOW DOES THIS AFFECT AMERICA?
Ah, this is perhaps the most important question. The immediate effect was twofold: 1) the stock market dropped sharply; and 2) millions of Americans went on-line to find out what Brexit means. I was told by three people that the stock market would drop at least 20% in the next week and that it would take years to recover. It dropped a few percentage points and recovered in a week. So, I guess you never know about Brexit. I’ve been told that it’s a sad time for Anglophiles (who, by the way, are not people with sexual interest in geometry). The dollar is now worth more in England, which would be great if they sold anything I like. It might be a good time to hire a butler or a chambermaid on the cheap.
9. WHAT HAPPENS TO THE EURO?
The Euro, of course, is the EU’s weird-ass money. I guess Euros are kind of like dollars but with pictures of foreigners on them. Get this–England doesn’t even use the Euro. Why are they bitching? They still use pounds and shillings and farthings and quid and other dubious forms of currency. Regardless, the Euro will most certainly be affected, more or less, to some not inconsiderable extent. It definitely bears watching.
10. WHAT DOES THE FUTURE HOLD?
The future is a frightening place, full of great possibilities and even greater dangers. Your greatest failures always lie there. I am a male in my 50s. With rare exception, people my age view the future through a prism of despair. The world is falling apart, young people are useless and the future is bleak. In another, they have become their parents.
Things will happen. People will claim to have predicted these things. Blame will be assigned and credit taken. As the old song goes, “There’ll always be an England.”
When I was a young lawyer, one of my aged partners suggested that our firm should be like the “Athenian youth” and strive to leave the world a better place for our having been here. That is certainly a laudable goal. Who among us doesn’t want to make a difference? Too often, we while away our time on personal, even selfish, pursuits. I hold to the belief that each of us in our own small way can make a positive difference in the world.
You make think it unrealistic to expect to impact the world as whole. You may be right about that. After all, many of us have limited skills and even more limited work ethics. If our efforts require much in the way of ability or effort we likely will fall short. Do not despair. There ways–simple ways, in fact– each of us can make the world a better place. If we can have a positive impact on just one person, we will have made a difference.
The person with whom we should start is me. That’s right. I deserve a better life as much as anyone, maybe more. If you can do even one thing to make my life easier, you will not have lived in vain. You will have helped me. I can think of nothing more commendable.
Here are five things you can do, starting today, to improve my lot in life. Let’s get started
DON’T DRIVE A CAR
The environmental damage from automobiles is well-known. Even electric cars require all manner of minerals for their construction, the mining of which is always controversial. If, like me, this doesn’t persuade you in the slightest to give up your car, consider the effect of your car on me.
Maybe you’re one of those people who always drive 10-15 mph below the speed limit. You’re annoying me. When you look in your rear view mirror and see the line of traffic, just assume I’m in that line. Why inconvenience me? I have to be somewhere–and soon. Besides, the way your drive, you’re close to walking anyway. Just go ahead and hit the pavement.
Even if you drive at normal speeds, you still need to park that car. Traffic stresses me out. I have places to go, things to do. Put bluntly, you’re in my way. Public transportation is perfect for you. Better yet, stay at home. What is so horrible in your home that you are compelled to leave it? Stay there and address your disturbing domestic problems.
Speaking of parking, if you drive you will eventually park somewhere. I need that parking spot.
Of course, some of you drive for your livelihood. By all means, continue to do so. You may be delivering something I need. Plus, someone must provide transportation to those who no longer drive. It certainly won’t be me. I’m busy trying to get somewhere.
2. DON’T PLAY THE LOTTERY
All over our great country, there are outlets available to buy lottery tickets. PowerBalls, MegaMillions and other variations beckon. The dizzying selection of scratch off games sit spooled like toilet paper waiting to be ripped loose by cholera-ravaged unfortunates. Riches await. Our nation’s vast network of convenience stores are the prime culprits in separating you from your money.
We all know that the odds winning big in the lottery are astronomical, on par with getting a chance to walk on the moon. Every day, untold thousands of people waste their hard-earned money on these games of chance which amount to nothing so much as a regressive taxation system. (Honestly, I have no problem with a regressive tax. The progressive tax system has never done me any favors. That rant will have to wait for another day.)
These are compelling reasons to avoid the lottery. The most important reason, though, may be less obvious. The next time you are purchasing your tickets turn at look behind you. That is me standing in line. I have patronized this convenience store for–you guessed it–the convenience of it. I know that prices are higher than at the grocery store, often considerably so. I have selected this store for the speed and, again, the convenience of it.
You, guided only by your avarice, have robbed me of the one commodity I value at that moment–convenience (are you sensing the pattern yet?). In fact, there is nothing more inconvenient than to stand in line with a cup of coffee while you negotiate a transaction only slightly less complex than currency arbitrage.
The odds of your winning the lottery are remote, at best. The odds of royally ticking me off, though, are virtually certain. Please, move along.
3. SPREAD THE WORD–SOMEWHERE ELSE
I have no problem with your religion, unless you use it do great harm to others. Even then, my problem is likely to be with how you practice it, not the faith itself. Regardless, I don’t want to hear about it. This comes from someone who has always been fascinated by religion. I’ve studied religion from various perspectives, both the faithful and skeptical. If I’m curious, I’ll get the information.
When you want to tell me about your religion, I’m very likely to be somewhere between disinterested and down right hostile. This is true even if I agree with your views. Why am I so obtuse? Religion (or spirituality, if you prefer) is a matter of faith, not argument or persuasion. Nagging or yammering at someone won’t bring him around to your views. When that someone is me, it may cause the person to adopt contrary beliefs simply to frustrate your efforts.
You might assume that I am directing this solely at Christians. You’re wrong. If, like me, you are an American, you probably live in America where most people claim to be Christian. Naturally, most of our contact is with Christians. Regardless, I implore people of all religions to follow this lead. For example, if you are Hindu do not concern me with your views of Vishnu or Shiva. I know a Buddhist, and I sincerely hope that he does not tell me of the proper path to the Middle Way. I’m comfortable with where I am, leaning much more toward indulgence than asceticism.
Nor are you atheists excluded. As a matter of fact, you’re especially not excluded. I know you’re proud to be an atheist. Consider me to be on a “need to know” basis. I have no need to know. Here’s idea: Find a vegetarian and you two can “one up” each other on the solid, empirical grounding of your views.
At this point, some readers are preparing comments to enlighten me on why they will not be silent. You’re really missing the point, which is simply to make things easier for me. Your comments won’t do that. Plus, I’m not asking you to be silent. Just be silent around me, and assume that I am always around.
4. VOTE YOUR CONSCIENCE–QUIETLY
Everything I abhor about hearing about your religious views applies with even more force to your politics. Unlike religion which is driven (mostly) by genuine belief, political drivel is often impelled by the desire to be in the know and perhaps a bit smarter than others. These are repellent characteristics. More importantly, they annoy me and can diminish my enjoyment of such important pursuits as surfing the Internet and mindlessly watching television.
I’m well aware that there is only so much I can expect here. Politicians and talking heads are inescapable. But, ask yourself: “With all this political discourse, what could I possibly add to the conversation, given my obvious limitations?” I’m sure you’ll agree that you run a much greater risk of annoying me than contributing anything meaningful.
If you are truly committed to improving my life, you will take this to heart. That door you knock on with a fist full of campaign literature could be mine. It could be me who reads one of your wrong-headed screeds on social media. It’s not that I don’t respect your views (which I may not, of course). It’s just that I don’t care. Isn’t it unfair and more than a tad selfish to inundate me with tripe that only you and others care about it? You’re better than that–or at least you should be.
You’re angry about the state of the world. I get it. If I were you, I’d be angry, too. But I’m not you. I’m me. It does no good to have two of us angry.
5. RAISE YOUR OWN FOOD
Modern agriculture has changed the world. We feed far more people than was thought possible even a generation ago. Our grocery stores brim with foods of all kinds. Sadly, the price we pay is high one.
Additives, preservatives, chemicals and the like endanger our food supply. Our farm animals are fed steroids. Genetic modifications have made many foodstuffs risky. Most important in our daily struggle is the cold, hard fact that I frequently go to the grocery store to buy this stuff.
I like my food chock full of preservatives. I want it preserved as long as possible. Chemicals don’t bother me. I like huge, mutated chickens pumped full of steroids. I want my beef dyed red. I want my fruits and vegetables sprayed down with insecticides. I don’t want to eat bugs. In short, the modern grocery store is exactly what I want. You, on the other hand, need to make changes. Why?
You’re the person with 11 items when the sign plainly limits the checkout lane to TEN FREAKING ITEMS! You position your cart in the aisle where I can’t get by on either side. You pay with checks, like some troglodyte who just emerged from his subterranean lair. Why not see if they’ll take pelts? You use coupons. Think about this: If you need to use all those coupons, isn’t it just possible that you can’t really afford to buy food in a store?
Grow your own food. Raise chickens. Buy a cow. Even a modest quarter acre lot will accommodate at least a couple of cows. Get a hog. Grow something. Your ancestors foraged for their food. Get off your high horse (you can eat those, too, by the way) and quit acting like you’re better than your kinfolk.
Since you won’t be driving a car, raising your own food makes perfect sense. It will be convenient for you and, critically, ME. The world will be a better place–at least for me.
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