Books I've Read

Many years ago I acquired an old green canvas covered military ledger book in which I began to compile data and lists.  A list of vehicles I've owned.  A list of my favorite movie stars.  Another of my favorite adult film stars.  A list of my firearms and amounts of ammunition for each.  A running wish list of things I'd like to own someday with items like "40 foot houseboat" and "12 gauge Weatherby over/under shotgun" on it.

By far the largest list was the one cataloging all the books I've read since about high school.  The first pages were done from memory and in, no doubt, incomplete.  But then I listed all the books I have in my possession that I've read.

Now, as I complete a book, I go to the list and update it.  It's grown to over 400 titles and gets about one new addition each month.  Not a voracious reader but a consistent one.

I have no idea why this info might be worth recording but, if I ever save the world from destruction, this will be the kind of stuff historians will write about.  It will be in my museum library and bookstore.

The Wonders

There should be a reunion film of "The Wonders."  It takes place 20 years later and showcases a reunion appearance put together by Lenny in an attempt to bolster his failing casino.

The film was released in 1996 and is 22 years old.  The actors have all aged 22 years since and should play as the same age they are... 22 years later.  If the film was set in 1963 or 64 then the sequel should take place in 1986 or 87.  It would highlight and lampoon the Yuppie era of the 80's.  Brick phones and bag phones.  VCRs.  MTV.  New Wave.  All visualized with the same attention to detail as the early 60s was depicted in the original film.  Chrysler station wagons.

That would make Jimmy a member of "Jimmy and the Heardsmen" or perhaps he has begun his career as a producer.  T.B. Player would take a break from his construction business to appear but have some problems with alcohol and be a "crazy Vet" from his tours in Viet Nam.  Guy and Faye could come from the Music School they founded and there could be friction between her and Jimmy as a subplot.  Lenny, of course, will be the central plot pivot character and build the sequel around his attempts to put together a Wonder reunion concert at his hotel and casino while his marriage to Kitty humorously unravels.

Tom Hanks could make a cameo as a now openly gay senior semi retired power mogul who has regular contact with Jimmy in Jimmy's capacity as a record producer.

Phil Horace could surface as a down on his luck type looking to manage them again if they would consider a reunion tour.

Tina and her 3rd husband could appear in a cameo.  Scott Wolfman Pell might appear as a struggling session player looking to cash in and unseat T.B. as the bass player. 

Chad and Darlene (Guy's sister) could be married and running Patterson's Appliances with Mr. and Mrs. Patterson retired to Florida.

The possibilities are endless.

The Never Discovered

There should be a band in Nashville made up of singers and musicians who have never made it.  They can sing and play but they just can't seem to get discovered.  They should form a group or groups and pump out their music on the internet for free.

They should call themselves "The Never Discovered" and they should only allow members to be in the group on condition of not being able to get a deal with a label.  If they do, they are immediately booted from the group.  Sort of like "Menudo" except it's for talent not age.

Marriage... None of My Business

I'm occasionally asked whether or not I support gay marriage.  If I say "Yes I do." I'm going against God and nature.  If I say "No I don't."  I'm a bigot and a homophobe and tough shit anyway because the Supreme Court says it's legal so... up yours hater.  I usually say what I really think which is, it's of no importance whether or not I support gay marriage.  It is more important to ask if a gay couple's church, synagogue, temple, shrine or other religious institution supports it.  Why?  Because marriage is a construct of religion, not anthropology, sociology or government.

That last one... the government... is especially true.  The government should have NO business deciding who should or should not marry.  They wormed their way into it during the days of the industrial growth of the U.S. and its corresponding population boom.  The government wanted to ensure "morons, idiots, defective or retarded persons" along with other vaguely defined "low grade persons" did not marry and breed because, remember, in those days the vast majority of breeding was done shortly after marriage.  It was the societal stigma of sex/childbirth out of wedlock that sent folks running to the preacher to get hitched and sanctify sex.  All you needed back then was a preacher, priest, rabbi, imam... what have you, and you were set.  

Problem was, there was no check on who was fit to marry and breed.  Congenital birth defects could be passed down.  Relations as close as first cousins could interbreed, causing increased birth defects and genetic weakening.  Diseased persons where marrying and passing the diseases to their offspring.  These children were then perceived to weaken the broad health of the American public and burden the social infrastructure, primitive as it was.

So the government saw fit to step in an apply rules to who could get hitched.  Tests had to be run.  Medical exams administered.  Intelligence tests established.  This led to the issuance of marriage applications turned (hopefully) into marriage licenses which could be taken to a religious leader empowered to perform marriage rites or to a Justice of the Peace for the secular.  This was how government wormed its way into a practice that is not theirs to administer.

That didn't matter.  Once you turn on a government function, you can never seem to turn it off.  More insidiously, once the government set the precedent of being the decider of who gets married and who doesn't, they also became the place to go to appeal unfavorable marriage bans.  Long held societal bans on same sex marriage or polygamy began to be questioned and the government became the authority on permissible marriage arrangements.  It also began to codify preferences for married people.  Ostensibly to bolster the institution of marriage and a corresponding uptick in the population of native born Americans.  This manifests itself in legal protections, tax benefits, child subsidies for families... on and on.  Others that were banned from legally marrying but who lived as married, wanted some of those cookies and treats as well.  Most of my experience watching the debate for legalizing same sex marriage appeared less about validating love and devotion through a societally sanctified bond as much as it was about tax breaks and incentives.  

Stay Off Social Media... The "Fame" is Not Worth the Peril

Roseanne Barr went down in flames yesterday after tweeting a racially charged post about Valerie Jarrett.  The event was so minor and its consequences so major; not just to her but to the cast that was forming plans to make a living from the work her new show provided.  It's all so tragic because it was SOOOO avoidable.  Stay off social media (says the guy putting this out for the world to see on his weblog).

We are ALL guilty of the most ill-advised, stupid, thoughtless remarks but they usually go out from our mouths to the ears of just those few who were standing with us when we said it.  Tweets and Instagram, and Facebook posts of those same dumb things go out for the whole world to hear.  

There are some photos in an album in my den.  They are from my days as a young soldier and some are gross.  Some are obscene.  Some are in very poor taste.  But they are private and not out on the web for the world to see.

Our pathological need to have the world hear us has driven us to post automatically.  Like a Pavlovian reflex.  It's caused criminals to post videos of their crimes.  It’s made people boast of their bad behavior, not realizing it only makes the bad behavior look worse because you seem so proud of it at the time you sent out a video of your account of the incident.  

It’s different from the things others record us doing.  Road rage recorded and broadcast that becomes admissible in court.  Domestic disputes filmed by neighbors.  Quarrels between neighbors.  Dad picking his nose at a ball game.  These are bad but they are the risk we must take when we go out into the world where everyone can record everyone else.  I’m talking about the self-inflicted wounds like Roseanne's.  Or Anthony Weiner. Or any of another hundred that happen monthly.

Just stop and think.  Not EVERYTHING we do is share-worthy.  Not everything you have to say is anything others would want to hear.  Stop falling on your own sword.  Because the PC monster is now roaming the street looking to bring you down.  We grew it in a lab of teaching our kids to be unforgiving of others shortcomings.  It grew large and ravenous in it's cage as they grew into adults filled with a sense of self righteous indignation at the ills of every institution or person around them.  It broke out of the lab and began roaming the streets devouring any and all that carried the faintest trace of flaw in character as these people became rigid and unforgiving in their assessment that we should all be judged and hounded for the worst aspects of our character.  No matter how many poor people we feed or how many orphans we clothe.  Not matter how many good deeds we do... if we ever said the word ni**er when angry or upset (especially if it’s recorded) we are DONE.  Just ask Paula Deen or Michael Richard (aka Kramer from Seinfeld). 

20 years ago, Carl was responsible for genetically engineering a girl with narcotic blood. Now he's brought her home - and the boundaries between love and addiction are becoming increasingly blurred.

Director:

 Charly Cantor

Writer:

 Charly Cantor

Stars:

 Adrian Rawlins, Lee Blakemore, Phil Cornwell |See full cast & crew »

I have a twist on the Mimosa (that brunch favorite made from orange juice and champagne). Try Tang instead. Tang-pagne.... Hiding your morning buzz behind delusions of training to be an astronaut.

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It's better for a Super Killer to look like a Youth Pastor.

All you bearded, tat-canvases in your profane, ironic, patriotic, super tight tshirts need to look at this guy and realize that bravado and bad-ass both Start with a "b" but are otherwise world's apart. This guy in a flowered Hawaiian shirt and slacks could pass through any airport in the world by looking like a middle school teacher then initiate a coup, rescue hostages, call in missile strikes, assassinate officials, sabotage critical infrastructure and capture vital intel. Then he could exfil back the way he came and no one would ever know. You bacon, bourbon, bullet, boobs types can't go to the mall without drawing fire. You might as well have your 214 tattooed on your forehead.

Turns out there's a hell of a military career behind that Mr. Rogers smile.

About this article

The nice old man in the popular military meme is actually operator AF

We looked up the man behind the popular military meme and it turns out, he was a top tier Delta Force operator.

My Ship Sank From Beneath Me. I Find Myself Washed Onto a Terrible Cold Shore, Facing a Dismal New World.

What makes a home?  If it's a single place where you keep your things and I keep my things in a few places, does that mean I have no home?  Does it mean I have a home at each of those places?  Even at Clutter Closet Mini Storage?

Is home where your people are... your family?  Then my home is also in multiple locations.  With both my step children and their families.  Or whatever apartment, in whatever city Rebecca is living in and is willing to let me crash in order to not feel bad about making me a homeless vet.  Is home where you spend most of your time?  Then it's the barracks on Camp Robinson Arkansas where I set down my suitcases each Sunday night and from which I pack up those same bags, then load them back into my truck for the return drive to Alabama each weekend.  Or is the truck itself my home since it's where I keep my most-often-used, common possessions?

Home may not actually exist for me.  At the age of 50 I find that fact an unpleasant development and one I never saw coming.  I thought I would be settled someplace with a nice, spacious home filled with the comforting bric-brac of a long life accumulated around me.  Working in my shop while my wife worked in the kitchen or with her friends.  I expected to be visited by shouting, scampering grandchildren and travelling around the country in an RV.  Instead I find myself a gypsy, living out of a pair of suitcases and rolling the miles under my wheels each week like some traveling salesman.  It is unbearably sad to me.

It felt like my life was a ship.  I was the Captain and all my possessions were the cargo.  My crew were all my family and passengers were my fiends.  My ship did not always sail. In fact I often preferred it lolling at anchor is some calm safe harbor.  But one day a storm came, as they often do.  My ship was rocked and tossed and the chain holding me fast to the mooring strained, again, as it often had in the past.  This time however, the chain broke and the ship of my life was tossed bow to stern, yawing and pitching until it began to founder.  With alarming speed the ship began to take on water... debt worries, neglect, alienation of affection, loss of sexual desire, mistrust, resentment, anger... each a wave that washed over the decks and poured through the hatches.  Finally my ship sank out from under me.  I felt my feet leave the deck for the first time in 20 years.  I flailed.  I struggled to keep my head above water.  I choked and grew exhausted.  And, once for a desperate moment, I let my head slip below the waves.  Considered letting a gun barrel rest against my temple.  Just let go.  You're too tired.  Too cold.  Just let the water pull you down.

But I didn't.  Thoughts of the people who still loved me kept me treading water.  And eventually I made my way toward land far in the distance.  I touched bottom, struggled through the surf and collapsed on the shore of a strange, cold, dreary land all gray and dark and misty.  Shivering I crawled off the rocky beach and lurched to my feet swaying and weeping.

And why?  Why did my ship sink.  What was so powerful about this particular storm that it sank the ship of my life?  Because my partner in life... my Admiral... my wife... opted to take another course.  Choosing to follow some undeniable pull in another direction, her midlife crisis carried her away from me.  It was a massive tidal wave in the form of adultery.  She had become another man's woman.  Time will tell if it is the worst or best thing that ever could have happened to me.  For now... it seems dark and hopeless.  It seems as though the world is no longer vast and the far horizon beckoning.  Now it seems the world has grown small and dimly lit.  It's like I've wandered off the shore, up over the gritty dunes and found myself at a train station.  A long line of grey, dingy passenger cars are lined up at the platform behind a smoking steaming behemoth of a locomotive engine.  Hoping it might take me home I climb aboard.  The train pulls out yet I do not feel hopeful.  I feel as though my destination is an even darker, more hopeless place.

My life now seems like a dismal, grey, and barren rolling landscape viewed through the dirty cracked window of a train coach compartment.  I feel as though I have resorted to tapping on the walls to try and reach others in other compartments on that same train.  I hear their muffled voices through the walls.  I feel the the thumps and scrapes of their movements but, no matter how much I tap, or even pound on the walls I can't get their attention.  I wrench the door handle to get out of the compartment.  I bang on the door and shout to be let off... to be allowed to go back to where I started but no one comes... the door is locked.  I am trapped on this dismal grey train... rolling through some desolate world populated only by other broken, wounded, travelling companions.  Heading for some as yet unknown destination.  I have even thought of breaking the window and jumping from this train... consequences be damned.  Instead I fly around my compartment screaming for someone to let me off... someone to even notice I'm here.  I'd settle for the comfort of another traveler to share my fear, pain and loneliness.

Can the Sun Come Out and Warm My Soul?

In my dark and lonely world I have begun to try and find my way.  I have stood up on shaky legs, swayed from the effects of the blows I've taken and tried to walk forward.  As I stagger through this world of loneliness, pain, anger and grief  I see others out of the corner of my eye.  Furtive figures moving far back in the shadows and I stop, calling to them.  "Please.  Who are you?  Can you help me?  I'm lost.  I want to go home."

Most dart away, leaving just swirling mist to mark their departure.  Some will step timidly out into the pale gray light and approach.  I reach out to them and often find that they are an illusion of smoke and light, insubstantial.  Others are not what they seem.  They drop their hoods and raise their faces to expose gaping jaws and sharp teeth.  I back away, turning to flee farther down the broken, rocky trail... staggering and stumbling

I reach and fail to connect.  I reach and then recoil.  I reach and grasp only empty air.  It seems so hopeless.  It seems so sad, that I am doomed to wander this place alone.  And just as all hope seems lost, I hear a voice.

It's small but strong.  Clear and distinct but just on the edge of my hearing.  I turn my head and scan the shadows, straining to see back into the dimness amongst the trees.  Is that a faint glow I see?  I edge into the woods, head down passing beneath and around the grasping branches.  Yes.  Their IS a light ahead.  The voice is coming from there.  Its clearer now... louder.  As I approach, a clearing opens before me and in the center sits a woman, her legs tucked beneath her, dressed in a simple peasant skirt and a plain white blouse open at the throat.  She sits facing away from me, staring into a small pool, watching her reflection and singing softly to herself in an angelic lilting voice.  I approach and murmur a timid "Hello?"  She turns and her radiant beauty strikes me like a soft velvet blow.  I take an involuntary step backward.  She is stunning, striking... I am rendered mute... literally dumbstruck.  I stare, in awe of her.  She smiles and my heart trip-hammers in my chest.  She speaks, her voice soft yet strong like a whisper that seems loud because it's close to your ear. "Hello.  Are you lost?"

"Y-yes."  I stammer.  "I am."  my voice quivers on the edge of breaking.

"Come sit with me." she beckons, raising a hand, palm up, inviting me to take it.

I hesitate.  "I can't."  I mumble.  "My hands are dirty.  I'm wet and cold and I don't want to get you muddy."

Her smile widens.  "Don't be silly.  Come."

I shuffle forward, suddenly feeling very large and clumsy and oafish.  Very aware of my grimy face and my stubbly beard... my muddy wet clothes.  With a trembling hand I reach out and put mine in hers.  Her warm soft hand closes around mine and she gently pulls me down beside to her.  I slump, thumping down next to her and she puts her other hand to my cheek.  "You're okay now.  I've found you."  Her smiling face and radiant beauty threatens to overwhelm me.. I feel as though I might pass out.  I can feel my heart pounding in my ears.  I begin to tremble all over. 

"Shhhh.  Rest now. I've got you."  I lower my head to her shoulder and the tears come, unbidden and burning in my eyes.  She folds her arms around me and rocks me gently speaking calmly, soothingly in my ear.  I feel the grief and loss and sorrow wash out of me, through her and up into the sky.

A small patch of cloud clears away in the cold wind and a shaft of warm, bright sunlight falls upon us.  I have found her.  I have found the way home.  My soul can rest here until I am strong enough to rise and join her.  She will lead me home.  I will follow.  Wherever she goes, wherever she is, that shall be my home.  She shall be my home.

FOUND YOU AT LAST!

I have finally tracked down this book.  I had read it as a teenager and remembered many of the plot points.  I remembered the main character's last name, Belson.  I remembered a scene where he steps out of his spaceship on a new world and puts his foot on the grass... which begins to scream from his crushing weight.  I remember the bleak world of 2063 where all fossil fuel is gone and uranium is also running out.  I recall the strange new element he discovers that is only radioactive in zero-G and how it makes him the wealthiest man on Earth.  Alas, I could never remember the book's title or the author's name.

Today I was doing a Google search for keywords "Belson," "screaming grass" and "depleted resources" and was taken to a thesis paper that references these words in a critical analysis of... Lo and Behold!  The Steps of the Sun by Walter Tevis.  That title on Amazon led me to this cover which I remember distinctly as one cool piece of sci fi novel cover art.  It was so impactful I copied the style of drawing and it became part of my own rendering style.

Now I can scratch one more enigmatic mystery from my past off my list as solved.  Now if I could only find that paper sack filled with eight rolls of 35mm film from our family vacation to California in 2000, which I lost and fear I may have accidentally thrown away. 

The Thin Skin and Dour Persona of Popular Culture

    I miss the days when it was okay to celebrate caricatures.  Not stereotypes... not bigotry... not insensitively mocking or shaming others... just being okay with caricatures of people.  Hooting Indians, gun slinging bowlegged cowboys, air headed gum chewing blond showgirls, sombrero wearing Senors, sassy "honey-chile" drawling big bottomed black ladies in big church hats, or hysterically flamboyant gay men.



    The vein of offense that runs like a raw nerve through our cultural discourse makes it a capital offense to poke good natured fun at any of the myriad humorous characteristics common among any particular demographic. 


    In the 60s and 70s Chief Nock-A-Homa was a fixture of Atlanta Braves baseball who would come out of his tepee in full feathered headdress and buckskin regalia to dance a war dance each time a Brave hit a home run.  He's long gone because it was offensive to some. 


    Aunt Jemima pancake syrup bottles used to be shaped like a glass depiction of a large black woman in a kerchief.  That went away as racial stereotyping.


    I remember a Little Golden Book called "Little Black Sambo" that was a favorite of American children in the 50s through the 70s.  So popular it spawned a home cooking restaurant of the same name.  Now it is even hard to find any record that the book even existed at all; let alone a copy of it. 


    Johnny Reb's chicken and barbecue was an icon on Hwy 19 in Union City Georgia in my childhood. The 30 foot talk Confederate soldier holding the Stars and Bars could be seen from a mile away.  Torn down as horrific and offensive.


    Uncle Remus characters where a staple of Six Flags over Georgia when I was a kid.  The Disney classic film depiction has been locked away in the vault forever.  Obtaining a poorly duped copy of it is like buying black market silk stockings during the Great War with lost of low voices and winks and nods as money is slipped into palms and a bootleg DVD is slipped into a plain paper bag and placed under your coat as you slip out the back door of the bookstore.


    All these things are gone now... sacrificed on the altar of political correctness.  We've become so conditioned to assume the most negative possible intent in every interaction with our fellow man that we have made our imagery bland, banal, and innocuous... and the world is a more homogeneous, less colorful, less vibrant place for it.

Keep Scary Guns Away From Our Oversized Infants

Certain types of guns are just too dangerous for 18 to 20 years olds to possess.  "Assault Rifles" such as the AR 15 or Mac 90 or AK 47 are evil looking instruments of death and mayhem and these doltish tots are unable to safely be in their presence.  I suppose the list could be exhaustive based on how scary looking the firearm is.

Okay... fine.  Let's apply the same criteria to other items even more deadly than these scary rifles.  Any car with and engine over 4 cylinders.  Or any car capable of speeds in excess of 70 mph.  Put governors on them to keep the speed down.  Criminalize tampering with those until age 21 when they are able to be responsible.

Criminalize text messaging.  Aside from the danger it creates it also makes kids inattentive and dumb.  They can install those apps on their 21st birthday.

Force children to be friends with unpopular kids.  Make it mandatory and treat it like community service.  Say.... 8 hours of being friends with that oddball kid that sits in the top right corner of the bleachers at Assemblies.

Create a new government agency responsible for evaluating families for effective parenting and give them enforcement powers to compel compliance with federally mandated good parenting guidelines.  The use of fines and or imprisonment along with the removal of children from noncompliant homes for placement in approved foster homes should be encouraged.

These measures can be implemented alongside those other highly effective efforts like maximum speed limits, making drugs illegal and laws against underage drinking.

Never Say Never

There are those who said, with absolute certainty, Donald Trump would never be President.  I now hear others say Oprah Winfrey could never be President.  Be very careful predicting the future.  Never say never.