I awoke this morning with a tremendous pressure on my brain. It was as though something needed to escape… an embolism of good intent swelling against my better judgement. It was insight that had to be shared. It was a Chronic Advice Fart.
More than half of the population of the USA believe in the existence of life outside of our little blue marble. For scientists, the definition of “life” includes microscopic critters that they would wet their khakis to discover. If they found a two micron wide fossil of mold in the frozen poles of Mars it would change everything we know and believe about our universe.
My wife and I, however, have all the evidence we need and it is on clear display just 25 miles outside of Las vegas. Since neither of us are ‘scientists’, our vision of life outside of Earth includes a spaceship, funny humanoid shapes, and of course a British accent. All aliens have British accents. I don’t know why extraterrestrials have British accents, because as I’ve clearly stated, I am not a scientist. Continue reading
Men through the ages have had trouble asking for directions. The Oregon Trail was blazed by rugged men… who were really on their way to Mexico.
I can see a long-suffering conestoga-riding bonnet-clad wife saying, “But Meriwether, please just pull over and ask!” But the intrepid Meriwether knew a guy who knew a guy who knew an Indian who knew a shortcut to the Aztec riches… and so Portland, Oregon was founded.
But today this has all changed thanks to Global Positioning Systems (GPS) or SatNav for you European types. These are such wonderful devices. They are an indispensable aid to travel in so many ways. However, they probably shouldn’t be used by male persons. Continue reading
Give a man a roll of duct tape and he can fix stuff. Teach a man to use a roll of duct tape and he can rule the world.
Men like to fix stuff. I say men, because women tend to hire professionals to fix stuff. Women are no fun.
This was illustrated in my life by two recent events. First, my good friend Jim sent me a link to his favorite site where many manly do-it-yourself repairs are shown in all their glory. We’ll get to that a little later… Continue reading
I have been nominated for two Versatile Blogger Awards. This comes as a shock to me because a) why does anybody actually read my blog? and b) why would they think it’s good?
However, I’ll accept this honor because in writing this blog I have come to respect bloggers more than I can express. Writing a decent blog is not that easy. When I started out just a few short months ago I was full of ideas and they poured out. Then they dribbled, then sputtered, then dripped like a toddlers nose. It turns out I’m not that creative. Who would have guessed?? (Be quiet, Debbie!)
There are 23 zippideezillion blogs out there. There are more blogs in the blogosphere than people in New York City. Like the population of New York, the blogs are varied and colorful. Some are celebrities who live fascinating and popular lives, but most are just folks contributing to their little corner of the community. Most blogs are like the little mom and pop diner in the Bronx that only has six tables. Not everybody knows it’s there, but the ones that do, are loyal and stop back regularly. That’s what I want to be. The little diner that has really good pie.
About twenty years ago I started working on our family tree. I used some hand written genealogy papers that an uncle had put together in 1973. I bought the latest and greatest software of the time which, by todays standards, wasn’t very sophisticated. However, it organized the information and allowed for editing. That was far better than paper and pencil. As genealogy software improved I would buy the new versions every five years or so, and luckily the powers that be came up with a universal data program that transferred easily from program to program.
Most of the best genealogy information comes thanks to the Mormons.
These folks may not have invented genealogy, but they sure have perfected it. They are also happy to share. In the early, pre internet days I would go to the local Mormon temple and go through the microfiche record files. This was mind numbing work. Hours would go by and I would be lucky to find one tidbit and then print it out. I went to libraries and wrote off to different states to order copies of records, hoping they would be relevant. I got information from relatives that was primarily based on memory. Written records were few and far between.
I am getting a little tired of hearing, “Hey Alan, you really need to get a life.”
I take exception to this opinion of my life, or lack thereof. I have a full life with many varied, though some might say, arcane interests. I am retired so this gives me time to ponder many of life’s mysteries. I don’t mean mundane topics like “what is the nature of god?”, “peace in the middle east”, “why are we here?” or “the economic crisis.” I mean transcendent questions like, “where do dust bunnies come from?” and “who ever convinced women that brightly colored polyester stretch pants look good?”
In order to appease the folks who think my life is a hollow empty shell, here’s a list of topics and activities, buttressed with photographic evidence, showing my full and enriching life. Prepare to envy me!
I am cradled in the arms of Morpheus, fast asleep, enjoying my favorite dream. I am surrounded by a bevy of scantily clad supermodels. If this is a dream I wonder why they’re scantily clad . There are no rules to a dream so shouldn’t they be completely UN-clad.
Surely it’s acceptable to be frolicking with naked supermodels if it’s a dream. That’s not cheating? Right? Right?
(Maybe I need professional dream interpretation help.) In the midst of my pathetically chaste dream I hear a rumbling and hacking rising from deep within my subconscious. I wonder if one of my still not nude supermodels is about to lose her lunch because she now realizes who her fellow frolicker is. Maybe this is actually her dream and she’ll wake up and tell her friends about the nightmare she had.
So I hear this rumbling, hacking, guttural sound mere inches from my head. I awaken just as one of our sweet and loving cats hurls what appears to be several days of worth of animal by-product and tuna bits onto my pillow. The warm, piquant liquid cascades across my pillow.
My question for you is this: What would a sane, normal, well-adjusted person do in this situation? Continue reading
I’ve been thinking about slavery a lot lately and wonder what the big deal is. I’m certainly not suggesting slavery again for African-Americans. They’ve taken their turn. I think we can find other candidates. How about Mexican workers (and by “Mexican” I mean anybody originating south of Brownsville, TX). They are only about $5.00 an hour away from being slaves already. If you exchange the $5.00 an hour wage for room and board, you’re pretty much there!
Let’s set the stage. I’m a man. I’m married to a woman. She is caring, intelligent, compassionate, beautiful (insert more superlatives here) but ultimately she is a woman. For my younger readers who are just starting out on the first of their many relationships you may learn from my experience. This is my third marriage. This one has lasted over twenty years. The first two? Not so long-lived. Why? Because I had not perfected my mental editing software. Just like I try to go back over these posts and check for glaring errors, so men must check the words that are about to tumble out of their mouth for glaring errors. To continue the analogy, when I’m typing this post I know I won’t accidentally type great profanities or libelous sentences. That’s the easy part. But little errors of grammar and syntax slip through that might to irritate some peoples to see. (See?)