Category Society

Three on a Match

Michael 3 Comments

I just finished rereading a Phillip Marlowe mystery. Philip Marlowe is the hard boiled detective invented by Raymond Chandler in 1939 in the novel The Big Sleep. You might have seen Humphrey Bogart play Marlowe in the movie version. If you did, you saw a man do some serious detecting. And some serious smoking. Well, it was the time. Between the wars. A manly man. In a manly field. Doing a manly job. Smoking like a man.

Last week one of the movie channels replayed the 1985 film, St. Elmo’s Fire. A bunch of kids just out of college, working their entry level jobs, drinking their every level cocktails, loving and hating their entry level lives. And smoking. Wow, they smoked a lot in that picture. When they drank they smoked. When they partied, they smoked. When they drove, they smoked. When they danced, they smoked. When they attempted suicide, they smoked. When they thwarted suicide, they smoked. When they broke up they smoked. When they made up, they smoked. I don’t remember if they ever ate.

I mentioned a couple of posts ago that I had been watching Bond, James Bond movies during a month long marathon of the classic spy stories. One of the things about the early 1960s offerings that you might notice is how much they smoked. Everybody smoked. The spy, the counter spy, the henchmen, the femme fatale. Bond, James Bond. Everybody smoked. Some of Bond, James Bond’s best secret weapons were built into cigarette lighters. Others into cigarette cases. Some even into cigarettes.

NoSmokingFrom the 40s through the 60s to the 80s, everybody smoked. By the time we got to the 2000s people just stopped smoking. Movies today even have disclaimers at the end of the credits stating nobody, but nobody involved in the production of the just viewed movie got any financial, moral, or athletic support knowingly, unknowingly, or even accidentally from anybody, any corporation, or any organization supporting or even involved with the tobacco industry. Often the disclaimer is more prominent than the notice of what type of camera used to shoot the film and the union local responsible for driving the caterer from location site to location site.  In the most recent Bond, James Bond volumes nobody smokes. Not in the bars, not in the casinos, not on the stakeouts. Not just the spy and the supporting spy people. No body. No where. No Smoking. They must have all gone cold turkey.

Amazing the strides they made in 20 years. The Surgeon General would be proud of Mr. Bond, James Bond. Now if we could just get him to drive a little safer.

 

Conserving Matter

Michael Leave a comment

As a scientist, one of my personal commandments was thou shalt not deny the conservation of matter. What we have we always had and always will. Never more. Never less. Always was, is, and will be. It can change, but it won’t disappear. It might look new, but it’s only rearranged. Ice melts into water, water vaporizes into steam, steam condenses into water, water freezes into ice. Always there, always the same, even when different.

Sociologists have their own sort of conservation of matter. Everybody we have is every body we will have. Old people move from the cold of New York to the warmth of Ft. Lauderdale. Immigrants from Caribbean refuges move from south Florida to Chicago to open diners specializing in arroz con gandules. Bright eyed 20 year olds move from Naperville to the seek fame and fortune in Manhattan.

Now, economists want to horn in on the fame afforded to our anything but fortuitous conservation of matter. You’ll recall the landmark post uploaded to this very blog not even some 30 months ago about the ever increasing sizes of American sizes. (If you don’t, you can read it here. If you do but don’t recall it as “landmark,” then you must have a pretty low opinion of yourself reading such drivel. If you do and you do recall it as “landmark,” have I got a bridge to sell you!) To refresh your memory, there is no more small or medium in American. It’s all large, extra large, and full size. This would seem to contradict the natural order of the conservation of matter. Where are the extras going into the larges coming from? In a word, coffee.

Coffee? Yes, coffee. For some time coffee package sizes have been dwindling before our very eyes every time we bring them (our eyes, not the coffee packages) into a grocery store. Years and years and years and years ago, and a few more before that, the standard coffee sizes were one pound cans or bags (for single coffee drinker households), two pound cans (for those teetering on the brink of narcolepsy), and three pound mega-cans (for households with small children). (If you ever had small children you understand that.)  The three pound cans disappears years ago replaced by 36 ounce canisters and the one pound varieties lost 4 ounces to become sleek 12 ounce bags. Now the largest single size container of coffee you can buy is a 30 ounce plastic jug, the small choice is a mere 11 ounces (8.4 to 10 ounces for designer brands and flavors), and medium has disappeared altogether.

So you’re going to say that you don’t drink coffee so your matter is indeed growing every time you order a large sweet tea or test drive an extended cab pickup. No, no, no. You might not drink coffee but if you’re partaking of the classic American coffee break you’re part of the proof of the hypothesis, eating one (or maybe two) out of a pack of 21 prepackaged cookies that used to come in cartons of 24, or one of a new baker’s dozen of donuts that now total a mere ten. Crackers that used to be sold in 12 ounce boxes are now 11, and cream cheese for your bagel is in a 6.5 ounce container when once it was 8.

So there you have it. The modern iteration of that most ancient of all absolutes. Everything indeed is as it once was, merely changed.

 

Let the Better Love Win

Michael 5 Comments

If there was a movement started to celebrate those who believe in, actively participate in, and fought for human trafficking and slavery, would you support it? What about if there was a movement started to commemorate those who fought for their country bravely and without concern for their own personal safety because it meant preserving their family’s heritage and the only way of life that they knew?

What would you say if somebody you didn’t know said you had to change your name? Move? Forsake your parents and grandparents?

What would you do if somebody you trust, somebody whose opinion you value and word you accept unquestioningly, were to blatantly lie to you to make themselves look good in front of others.

Unfortunately, there’s a very good chance that you’re the one supporting the movements, doing the saying, or being the liar. Particularly if you’re an everyday, ordinary, middle of the road, try to do all the right things, unextreme American.

Those two movements I brought up. They are actually happening, right now, right here in the United States. The Civil War was fought because one side wanted to keep slaves and the other did not. It’s really just that simple. And it had been going on since before the signing of the Declaration of Independence almost 90 years previous when the southern colonies coerced the northern colonies to remove anti-slavery rhetoric from the document in exchange for their ratification of it. But those who fought the battles some 90 years later didn’t consider owning people unusual or even questionable. It’s what they and their families had down for as long as they had been Americans. All those monuments that have become this month’s flash point celebrate those who fought to continue slavery. They also celebrate somebody’s great grandfather’s younger brother who died from infections grown in wounds suffered when he was trampled by a regiment’s cavalry unit defending his family’s right to live the only life he ever knew.

In our efforts to “not offend” we have sanitized all heritages, all history, all family. Somebody, probably not someone whose roots are indigenous to this continent, decided those people will be called “Native Americans.” Someone, probably not somebody whose roots hail from the Far East, decided those people should be called “Asian Americans.” Somebody, probably not someone who never set foot on Africa, decided anybody with dark skin regardless of their country of origin should be called “African American.” If we are truly honest, and our parents or grandparents came to America from Italy, or Germany, or Poland, would we be happy calling ourselves “European Americans?” Why should a proud decedent of the Lakota, or The Navajo Nation, or Japan, or Cameroon not be allowed to celebrate their heritage and call themselves Americans and still respect their true heritage.

So many are calling Charlottesville a hastening of America’s downward spiral into unrestrained racism. Actually, that spiral began not last week in Charlottesville but last century in Selma, when a big chunk of our populace had to demonstrate to get the recognition of people, equal in all respects, that a civil war was fought for and a presidential proclamation declared them to be 98 years earlier. We passed laws and called them “equal rights” but actually fostered inequality and spent more time debating what constituted equal than time spent on living right.

UnhateFacebook profile pictures are sporting “We will not let hate win” banners above posts that call those who don’t agree with them “bat shit crazy.” We openly claim support for tolerance yet openly refuse to make allowances for anybody who didn’t vote the same way regardless of which way that was. We justify our remarks by standing behind the First Amendment but tell others what is and isn’t allowed and don’t extend the courtesy to anyone whose speech is different.

St. Augustine said, “There are two loves, the love of God and the love of the world. If the love of the world takes possession of you there is no way for the love of God to enter you. Let the love of the world take the second place and let the love of God dwell in you. Let the better love take over.” This works regardless of what you call or believe your God to be: a heavenly being, a force of nature, a guiding spirit, omniscience personified. There is a greater force and there is an earthly force. You can believe in both, you can honor both, you can love both. You should love both. But the love of our guide should light our path. The love of the world should invite others to join us.

Unfortunately, we don’t seem to be expressing any love lately. You can’t say hate won’t win if you’re doing some of the hating.

 

Those Were The Days

Michael 1 Comment

I’ve been spending the past several evenings watching Bond, James Bond movies going all the way back to the first offering from 1962. I was reminded, happily reminded, of how courteous people were back then. Everyone dressed well, everyone said please and thank you, everyone treated each other with respect. If I hadn’t lived through it myself I would say this was a romanticized version of mid-century life, but it wasn’t. At least it wasn’t where I lived and that wasn’t London, or New York, or Kingston, Jamaica. Nor was it spent in high class casinos, private clubs, or Caribbean resorts. It was a dinky little steel mill town in Western Pennsylvania and people still dressed well, said please and thank you, and treated each other with respect. If it had been sunnier more days than it was it could have been the set of Leave It To Beaver.

I was just about to type that the movies are part of a month long festival of sorts courtesy of the Starz/Encore networks. That’s not quite true. The movies are indeed part of a month long Bond, James Bond celebration airing on the Starz/Encore channels but they are there to see courtesy of myself by way of my monthly cable bill. And I think that is part of why I miss those original days of Bond, James Bond. No, the cable channel wouldn’t have paid for my movies back then. We all know there wasn’t cable then. Movies were at the theater. Where you dressed for the day out, said “please” when asking for a ticket and “you’re welcome” in response to the “thank you” the cashier would cheerfully tell you. Where the movie, popcorn, soft drink, and bus fare to get there and back could be had for the dollar bill mom gave you and let you keep the change. Today that 1962 fifty cent movie is included as part of my $140 monthly cable bill. And I have to provide my own popcorn and drink.

MarqueeThe last time I went to a Bond, James Bond movie at a theater it cost me $9.50 and when I passed over my $20 bill I got a ticket, the wrong change, and a “there ya go.” When I pointed out the error I was rewarded with the insipid “my bad.” At the concession stand I spent $7.50 for a soft drink, the required purchase to redeem my FREE POPCORN! coupon, during a wordless transaction other than my “small popcorn and Sprite” at its beginning and my “thank you” at its conclusion. (I’m still not sure why I thank the seller when I purchase something. Please tell me I’m not the only one.)

Even ignoring the almost 27 fold increase in the monetary outlay, it wasn’t a pleasant experience. Oh it wasn’t unpleasant. Nobody tried to pick my pocket, the crowd in the cinema was mostly quiet, and I didn’t spill my sticky soft drink onto my lap. Conversely, nobody said “excuse me” as they climbed over the lady in the row in front of me to get to the only seats that would satisfy them, nobody apologized for knocking the sticky soft drink into the lap of the unfortunate lady who was climbed over, and almost everybody dashed out of the theater as if someone actually yelled fire at the movie’s end. The niceties that were there in Those Good Old Days weren’t there and probably will never return.

If you should be unfortunate enough to ever mention this, particularly if you ever mention this to someone whose only experience with those late-50s early-60s days were through old movies or syndicated reruns of the Beaver, you may be rebuked for your naiveté and wistful but obviously wrong recollection of a time that wasn’t. But for me it was, they were, and it still is not a bad thing to aspire.

And now I have to run to the store and pick up popcorn for tonight’s showing. If I’m lucky, I might find a coupon.

 

Give Me a Break

Michael 2 Comments

Everything starts to run slower every now and then and can be fixed if you unplug it then plug it back it. Even you. This sage advice is brought to you by the people who marketed the first home computers way back in the dark ages, like 1970something. That it’s still true today isn’t surprising. That you need to unplug even from unpluggedness isn’t something I would have before imagined.

When I was working I always looked forward to time off. Not a day or a weekend. Not a week around the holidays when you worked harder at cooking and cleaning and then celebrating and recovering than you did before taking the time off. Real time off. A week on a beach on an island that has spotty cell coverage and Wi-Fi is something you ask when questioning the use of the 21st letter of the Greek alphabet. That kind of time off.

If you’re still of working age I strongly urge you to consider using some of your time for actual time off. Even if it is just a day or a weekend, make it a day or a weekend of unpluggedness. Maybe you can use it to come up with a better word than unpluggedness. Lexicologists excepted. And if you’re still working then by all means take a break from not working.

Here’s my logic. As I said, when I was working I looked forward to my time off. I also looked forward to going to work. Yes, I was one of those people who loved my work. I didn’t mind if I was in early, worked through break times, worked late, worked extra, or covered others. Preferably not all in the same day but if it happened I still made the best of it. But even though I was doing what I loved I wasn’t going to be fooled into believing that sampler waiting to happen “when you love what you do you’ll never work a day in your life” resembles truth. Doing anything well, even something you like, takes work. That’s how you get good at it. And work, even at doing something you like, is tiring. Exhausting even.

You need that break from work to recharge so you can do it again. That’s why so many companies have a “use it or lose it” policy regarding vacation time. No, it’s not so they can work you to death and then not give you what (you think) you’re entitled to. They have it so you’ll be forced to take time because so many seem to think that by denying yourself time off you’ll make it look like you’re such a great worker they can’t do without and you’ll never get let go. Actually, not taking time off only means you get burned out, end up doing a half-assed job, and get let go. That’s why I insisted those who worked in my department took their time off even if I had to schedule it for them myself. That’s also why, having managed to work myself up to a position of getting rewarded with 5 weeks of available time off each year I took as many of them as I could, often within a day or two of all five weeks. It might be why I enjoyed what I did. Because I took the time to recharge. Even when I was just starting and got all of two weeks vacation, between taking time off for the holidays and family activities, I always tried to take a couple of days off to just be off.

Now that I’m not working every day should be a holiday, right? Well, not so. You know that not working was not originally my idea. Those guys called doctors as well as those body parts called mine got together and decided it was better for my health, wellbeing, and continued living to start taking time off on a more or less permanent basis. Not working has not been fun, and I was sure it was because I wanted to work.  Ah, but I was wrong.

Perhaps at the beginning of not working, not working was not fun. But I’ve been not working for 3 years now. I should be used to it. Used to it I am. Enjoying it I am not. That is until I “took time off” from being off and started doing new things out of the routine that I had established in lieu of working. It really doesn’t matter what the routine is; what matters is that it is a routine. It was going to work at not working. But in the last 2 months I took a break from that. I didn’t a adhere to the routine, and I feel more refreshed, more positive, and more anticipating of returning to, you guessed it, my new old routine.

If I can keep taking some time off from myself like that more often, I might get used to this not working thing.

 

Those Who Should Know Better

Michael 14 Comments

Ok, you’re going to need a little background for this. At times I’ve written about having kidney disease and going through dialysis. You might recall other times I’ve mentioned some unspecified rare disease. And then once or twice I talked about cancer. So if you sometimes get confused I can understand that. Some of my best friends get confused regarding what’s going on with me. Apparently so are some “experts.”

For the record, it all started about 15 years ago when I was diagnosed with Wegener’s Granulomatosis. Wegener’s is an autoimmune vasculitis that affects the smallest of blood vessels and the organs they occupy – most notably the kidneys, lungs, liver, and sinuses, in my case the kidneys. There is no cure but it can sometimes be controlled with combinations of chemotherapy, immunosuppressant, and steroid medications.

After 10 years of treatment with methotrexate and prednisone, the working parts of my body decided they wanted some attention and got together to vote on who would revolt. My bladder either won or lost depending on your point of view and grew cancer.  One year and four operations later I was pronounced cancer, and bladder, free and the proud owner of rebuilt body parts fashioned from other body parts that to this point had done not much more than the jobs they were originally intended.

In the process of trying to create a recoverable environment for my post-operatively rebuilt body I had to replace the drug therapy that was so far managing to keep the ravages of the Wegener’s at bay but now not such a good choice in a body now equally desperate to keep other cancers at the same bay. While that search was underway the dastardly disease took advantage of the temporary unprotected kidneys and put them into a (hopefully but who are we kidding) temporary shut down and put me in a chair at the local dialysis clinic.

And that’s how I came to be an unplanned early retiree with a handicap placard hanging from my rear view mirror. But “who are those who should know better?” you asked. Good question.  Why, the health care “experts” of course. I’m allowed to speak of them with disdain because I was a health care expert for close to 40 years before my unplanned early retirement. And those years included years when experts in health care were the ones educated in and actually providing health care.

Recently I had to complete some paperwork for the government’s end stage kidney disease program including what led me to be on dialysis. As in the past I check “other” after not finding in among the pages of pre-selected options and entered Wegener’s. It was rejected because there is no such condition in their database of diseases. Since I have it know for sure there is but I also know for sure it’s also known by another name, Granulomatosis with Polyangiitis, I questioned the explanation. Even if you’re being paid by the letter you have to agree that Wegener’s is an easier fit for a government form. And that’s why I had always fit it. So I called the help number for some help and asked what I had done wrong. I was told we’re not allowed to call it Wegener’s anymore because that doctor who discovered it “was a Nazi you know.” So all traces of his name have been removed and it is disallowed from official use. I wouldn’t have minded if at least they would have matched the funds it took to rename everything for “official use” with perhaps some official research.

But those are government people who are used to doing stupid things. Or things stupidly. But…there actually are others who should know even better even. Those are ones who bring me my tri-weekly adventures in artificial kidney function replacement. Or dialysis if you prefer,although personally I don’t prefer dialysis.

At the corner kidney clinic they posted a new “let’s raise everyone’s spirit” poster. On it is a classic pie chart with the legend, “ONLY 7%!” It goes on to explain that “You spend only 7% of your week in dialysis. The other 148 hours are yours to do the things you like!” Really. That sounds like something that someone who doesn’t know what dialysis does to a body wrote. Not a national organization responsible for 290,000 dialysis patients. (Source: that company’s website). That 7 percent might account for the time that you are actually having your blood circulate through the machine taking up the 10 square feet next to your chair. Not the time it takes for a nurse to do a pre-dialysis assessment and then physically connect you to the machine by way of two needles about the size and diameter of a Bic pen stuck into your arm. Not the time for a nurse to physically remove you from the machine by withdrawing the Bic pen like needles from your arm, for the bleeding one would expect for two holes the size of Bic pens in your arm to stop bleeding, and then to go through a post-dialysis assessment (all about another hour). Not the time it takes to get to and from the dialysis clinic (roughly another hour for me). Not the time it takes to physically recover from the actual process (in my case 10 to 12 hours).

So if we consider the time to get on dialysis, get off dialysis, go to dialysis, and recover from dialysis I actually have 10 hours a week to do what I like. I like to sleep about 8 hours a night and I like to eat at least 2 meals a day so I’m down to around 33 hours a week I can call my own. Almost a whole day and a half! I wonder if they would notice if I would “edit” their poster at the clinic.

PieChartHD

My revised pie chart

Well now you know who those are who should know better. A government who is more concerned with what to call diseases than what to do with the people who actually have the disease and the people who are supposed to be minimizing the effect of a disease on the body but are clueless about how to minimize the effect of the disease on the person.

Boy I feel bad for the poor soul who I might run in to today and says “Hey, how ya doing?” I might actually tell him.

 

Unpriortizing

Michael Leave a comment

I wrote today’s post in a state of righteous indignation. I would proof it but if I did I’d probably start to feel bad and change this phrase or that word so I don’t offend anybody. It’s not much of a gift but it certainly is a curse. So I’m not going to proof it and hope all the words are spelled correctly, the grammar is recognizable, I keep my comma usage appropriate, and most of the tense agrees. If I screwed up anywhere, sorry about that. If I do happen to offend you in my state of righteous indignation, sorry about that. This was about pleasing me this time. I know. Unconventional at best. Sorry about that, too.

Unprioritizing

Three things happened that I read about in the paper last week. And one thing happened that I did. They all have something in common. The three things I read about were that the U. S. Supreme Court ruled that a preschool is eligible to apply for and receive a state grant for playground resurfacing, announcers for Great Britain mass transit stations have to begin announcements with “Good afternoon” or “Good evening,” and my state’s legislature recessed but passed a budget on time. The one thing I did was I locked my car in the Walmart parking lot. What do they have in common? None of them made any sense.

The state assembly recessing with a passed budget is both true and false. It’s true in that they did pass a “budget” before the July 1 deadline, unlike roughly half of the states’ legislatures held to a similar requirement. And they were more than happy to include that little tidbit in the press releases announcing the passed “budget.” The problem is that the “budget” is only the spending part of the plan. It should be called a spending plan but then they would have to stick around until they came up with a way of paying for everything they plan on spending. So they changed the name, or the rules, so they along have to pass the spending part by the budget deadline. I haven’t worked for a couple of years but when I did I had to submit my planned revenue, and how I was going to achieve that revenue before I was even allowed to start thinking about how I was going to spend that money. Even doing a home budget, I have make the money I want to have next month before I can spend it. Isn’t it time that we hold our governments to the same standards we hold ourselves? Oh, in case you’re wondering, no, they didn’t pass the revenue bill before adjourning.
Source: Any newspaper in Pennsylvania

The mass transit operator Transport for London has instructed its staff, and rerecorded their automated announcements, to use gender neutral terms and phrases like “Good morning everybody” rather than “Ladies and gentlemen “ so everyone will feel welcome. I’ve never been on a London subway train but if it’s like any of the ones I have been on in New York, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, or Washington DC, or any of the surface transports in hundreds of different cities in several different countries, hearing “Good morning everybody” isn’t going to make me feel all that welcome. Making certain I get off the train with the same amount of money in my pocket as I got on with (which didn’t happen in Washington), making certain I get off with the wallet that I had when I got on (which didn’t happen in Philadelphia), making sure I actually know where to get off by having station announcements that match the station names (which doesn’t happen in Pittsburgh), or making station announcements at a volume that is audible and understandable, or at all (which never happens in New York) would make me much happier. If you do want to call me something, I don’t want to be just a part of “everybody,” I sort of like being called a gentleman. Shouldn’t I get to feel welcome also?
Source:  The Independent, ESI Media, July 13, 2017.

So what’s wrong with an organization that cares for children receiving grant money? Because it’s Lutheran. Opponents said if they received state money it would violate the separation of church and state. The Court ruled that not giving them the opportunity to apply for such grants is a violation of their right to freedom of religion. What doesn’t make sense about that? Nothing doesn’t make sense about the decision. What doesn’t make sense is that the Supreme Court has to listen to arguments about that. What are the opponents afraid of? That the children while riding a swing will decide they believe in God, or that nature is a cool place to play, or that the teacher is a fun person, or “look, a bird!”? The First Amendment has only 45 words. Isn’t time we stopped second guessing what they meant when they wrote them?
Source: Catholic News Service, June 30, 2017.

I know, I’m getting old and turning into a cantankerous old coot. It’s one of the benefits of having been able to hang around for enough years that I actually have cantankerous in my vocabulary. It  makes me scratch my head and ask,” What’s wrong with the picture? These pictures, even? What are the priorities here? Making sure we don’t influence children in their lifetime journeys toward if, how, or when they may want to worship some supreme being? Or not? Or making sure children don’t get hurt when they trip on a pothole in the playground? Being certain that we don’t offend some group of people who aren’t certain if they are being offended until some other group might think they are being offended so we pick our words so carefully we barely recognize that there are actually people in the group? Or being certain we get our passengers to their destinations quickly and safely? That we follow the letter of the law and adhere to all deadlines and instructions or that we keep our power to change the definition of deadline or that which is deadline dependent? Or that we do what’s right and honorable and don’t spend money we don’t have, especially when it’s not our money anyway? I have the answers. But nobody is asking me the questions.

Oh, what does locking my car in Walmart’s parking lot have to do with misplaced priorities? It was the convertible. With the top down. And the alarm off. I know. I’m getting old and….. ok, I’m just getting old.
Source: Me.

 

Happy [fill in the blank] Independence Day

Michael 3 Comments

Boy: Grandpa, did they have the fourth of July in Italy when you were growing up?

Old Man: Yes. In fact, they did. They have the fourth of July everywhere!

Ok, it’s an old joke. But actually, they do have a fourth of July, or more accurately a Fourth of July, or most accurately an Independence Day everywhere. No matter where Flagyou are reading this, sometime in the past, sometimes a quite distant past where you are isn’t what it used to be. Every nation on Earth at some time wasn’t. And a surprising number of when they became what they are happened in July.

There is our American Independence Day tomorrow on that at least here famous Fourth of July, commemorating when we told the English Crown that we would rather suffer through a couple hundred years of taxation with poor representation than another day of it without any representation.  The actual independence came five years, three months, and 15 days later when the British forces officially surrendered. All those Americans reading this, you knew that, right?

A couple of days ago, July 1 actually, our neighbors to the north celebrated Canada Day.When I was going to school it was known as Dominion Day (and probably was to a lot of Canadians back then also) and we were told it was the Canadian IndependenceFlags Day. What did we know? We’re Americans. I later learned that it actually commemorated the combining of New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Quebec, and Ontario into the Dominion of Canada, presenting a stronger unified border against the United States just in case the politicos in Washington having just reunited the states after the American Civil War might have designs on taking those Canadian provinces for their own. Our own. Somebody’s own. I found that out when the British Parliament declared Canada to be an independent nation 115 years later.

Another thing I learned in my American schooling was that July 14 was France’s Independence Day on what we were told they call Bastille Day. And in fact July 14 does commemorate the storming of the Bastille and the uniting of the French people against the monarchy in 1789. The French Republic was actually established on September 22, 1792 which like our October 19, 1781 doesn’t seem to be celebrated. Now you could say that all that isn’t really independence as much as a changing of the guard. For the real French Independence you have to go back to 481, give or take a couple of years, when the Kingdom of the Franks was founded by Clovis I with land taken from the Roman Empire.

WorldWhatever misconceptions I had of these days they were still momentous days in the formation of what nations share our terrestrial home today. But there are a lot more nations celebrating freedom this month. Twenty-one other nations from Algeria to Venezuela. (I was hoping when I did my research that I find Zimbabwe gained their independence from Great Britain in July but alas, it was actually on April 18.  But it would have made such a great sentence!)

So wherever you are, chances are pretty good that you or a nearby neighbor is celebrating something this month that made somewhere literally somewhere.

Happy Blank of July!

 

Lost Luggage

Michael 10 Comments
The past couple of weeks I’ve had an issue finding something that I wanted to write about. This week was quite different. I just have said to myself, “Self, now that’s blogworthy!” at least a half dozen times. And even though I took a couple of those ideas and fleshed them out to full fledged posts, none of them are what you’re about to read. Umm, assuming you’re going to stick it out here with me and keep on reading.
Sunday afternoon I was hanging around, feet up, relaxing for all the world to see, and catching up on the day’s email, which included a few new posts from the myriad and eclectic selected blogs I follow. Among those was the newest post by Nicole Sundays. If you’ve not read her yet you should go over and see what she has to say. Nicole reminds me of the daughter I never had. Now there’s nothing wrong with the daughter I do have. In fact, I am quite fond of that daughter and I would never trade her in. But…sometime I just don’t understand how that creative, confident, successful young woman got that way from my attempts at child rearing. Fortunately she has. And fortunately I’ll be well (hopefully) taken care of in my old age. Older age. But I digress.
In this week’s post, Nicole tells how she “lost” her luggage and the resumes she carried with her saved her from having to replace a replaceable suitcase. There’s a lot more than that, a lot more, and you need to head over there to read the whole thing (https://nicolesundays.wordpress.com/2017/06/25/i-became-a-security-threat-how-was-your-weekend/) but that one little subplot reminded me of a piece of lost then found luggage. Except it wasn’t “lost” in the way she “lost” hers, it wasn’t my suitcase, and it wasn’t a resume that found it. See how similar a tale this is going to be?
To make a long story longer, let me start at the middle. I had returned from a business trip to Las Vegas. Yes, a business trip. Really. Yes. While I was there, although I always made sure to carry them but never sure why, I handed out no copies of my resume. I did however hand out many business cards. That’s how I remembered that it was a business trip. If it was a pleasure trip clearly I would have carried pleasure cards. Anyway, I had returned a day earlier when I received a phone call from the airline I returned on, one of the more than several that is no longer flying the friendly skies. The call was more confusing than it had to be, especially considering that I hadn’t had any sleep since I returned even though it was the following day because the flight I had returned on was a dreaded red eye and although the day I left was indeed the day earlier, the day I landed was the day after that. Had I gotten any sleep since the time I boarded I might not have have this story to tell.
BaggageClaim
My recollection of the exact call and subsequent events is a bit fuzzy now some 15 years later but it was fuzzy to start so I don’t feel all that bad about it. I received a call saying they were holding my suitcase at lost luggage and would I like to pick it up or have them deliver it either to my home or place of work. I might have been still a bit tired but I was certain I had not lost luggage nor filled out a claim for same. I conveyed this information to the caller and had it confirmed that indeed I had not filed a claim but just the same, they had my suitcase. But I didn’t lose a suitcase, all my suitcases (which totaled one for that trip) made the trek all the way home. Actually, all the way to my office since neither if us actually made it all the way home yet.
Here it gets even fuzzier as the gentleman on the phone who sounded like he had made many similar calls during his (hopefully) brief career as a lost luggage specialist, and sped through some details. Either that or I zoned out on his explanations and sped through them on my own. The gist was that the case had not a luggage tag (which I thought was required), and the claim check tag was rendered unreadable by the security personnel who forced the case open, but within was one of my business cards. Here I wondered if I had unknowingly been cast in a new crime scene drama for prime time TV and if so, would I be paid scale even though I didn’t (and still don’t) have an Actors Equity card.
At this point I really just wanted to get off the phone and see if I pushed the two visitor chairs across from my desk together would they be comfortable enough for a quick midmorning nap. I cut to the chase and asked, just hypothetically, since they got this thing opened, what did they find therein besides yours truly’s card. I expected to hear the litany traveler detritus that we all relegate to checked baggage but instead heard, “a pair of shoes size 11, a white necktie, two paperbacks (I don’t recall the titles if they had been mentioned) (I remember the shoe size because it wasn’t mine), and a money clip.” Apparently it was in the clip’s firm grasp that was my card along with the receipt for a restaurant where someone had lunch the previous afternoon, a folded tourist map of the Las Vegas Strip, and an unused return ticket for an airport shuttle service. None of the itemized contents interested me although I could have used a white tie and I told my caller this. Not about the tie though.
“So, for the record, you’re saying that you don’t want to reclaim your property.”
“No, I’m saying it’s not my property,” probably while stifling a yawn and continued, “but if it makes you feel better, I don’t want reclaim whoever’s property you have there.”
“Very well sir, then” the soon to be though he didn’t know it yet unemployed luggage owner tracker downer said, “have a good day.”
A couple days later I was out shopping and picked up a white tie.

Sad Sack, Seemingly

Michael 4 Comments

At first I was somewhat despondent. I have Resting Bitch Face and the only male counterpart reference is so vile sounding that I won’t even repeat it here. On sure, some people call it Bitchy Resting Face and you can consider “bitchy” to be gender neutral but let’s be honest here. Bitchy is as gender neutral as flight attendant. No matter how forward thinking you are, in your head that person is still a stewardess. Sorry. That’s just the way it is.

So now that we have that out of the way, back to my problem. I will be any number of things, even some of them unpleasant. I have been any number of things, even some of them unpleasant. But I will not be a bitch. And I certainly will not be that other vile thing! So I began my search for a more acceptable, maybe even gender neutral since that’s all the rage now term for this condition. And here’s what I decided.

There’s is no such thing! Oh sure there are some of us that in our resting state don’t smile at everybody like a demented psychopath. That’s because we are not demented psychopaths. And unless you are a demented psychopath, you are not walking around with a constant grin plastered across your face either. Nobody is. Except for maybe the occasional demented psychopath. But for the everyday any old normal person, spending some of your time, most of your time, in a state of “This is me, not doing anything,” is RBFnormal. Everyday normal.

Anyway, the Resting Bitch Face is a myth. It could be an urban myth but it is just as mythical in suburban and rural areas so I’m going to call it just a plain myth. Right up there with Scottish lakebound sea serpents, cold climate residing evolutionary missing links, and honest politicians. Of any party. Worldwide. Ever. And that includes that one not in office too. Any office. Worldwide.

The Resting Bitch Face myth has been perpetrated on the public by the publicists of celebrities caught by paparazzi in their natural facial expressions shared by the entire world when they aren’t thinking of anything in particular. A sort of normal, not much happening state of mind transitioned to the facial muscles and outwardly displayed as “Yep, this is me doing nothing just like any old normal person.” In order to make it appear that their clients are not just any old normal people, the publicists came up with Bitchy Resting Face lest you start asking hard questions in social media like “What’s wrong with her (or him)? She (or he) just made 45 bazillion dollars on that last movie that wasn’t even funny and 10 of those dollars were mine! She (or he) laughed all the way to the bank; she (or he) should still be smiling about it!” And if you should ask that question, now someone can reply, “Haven’t you heard? It’s Resting Bitch Face (or Bitchy Resting Face for the ‘or he’s’).”

The only problem with that is that, unlike designer sunglasses, monogrammed jeans, or logo-festooned cell phone accessories, the PR teams couldn’t license that face. Everybody has it. That’s what got them in this in the first place. But then, being what they are and all, the publicity cadre did it again. They knew soon the more fanatical fans (is that redundant?) would adopt Resting Bitch Faces (or Bitchy Resting Faces for the ‘or he’s’) as their own default facial expression. Not that they didn’t already but now had a name they could use in their social media accounts. The fans then could proudly claim to have the same condition as their favorite unsmiling objects of their fanaticism. The only way to differentiate the real celebrities from the celebrity wannabes was in accessories. Everybody has a face. But not everybody has $59,000 sunglasses. Nor can just anybody afford $59,000 sunglasses except for those who recently made 45 bazillion dollars. But everybody could afford (sort of) $175 knockoff sunglasses. And thus, the ultra-designer sunglasses industry was founded.

Now I already own sunglasses that I got at the dollar store. So when first I was despondent about my at rest appearance, I now no longer exhibit outward signs of unhappiness. Actually, if I had exhibited outward signs of anythingness I wouldn’t have even started this post, but once I rationalized the actual absence of any such condition marked by outward signs of nothingness falsely identified as anything, my outwardness took on a decided somethingness. One great big smile from pocketing $174 in change.  🙂