Doing More Than You Ever Thought You Could, Now With Jokes to Offend Everyone.

“Master betrayed us.  Wicked.  Tricksy.  False.  We ought to wring his filthy little neck.  Kill him!  Kill him!  Kill them both!  And then we take the Precious . . . and we be the master!” – Lord of the Rings

fixed.jpg

After this, I doubt he’ll help out and eat my homework anymore.

The Mrs. and I had a discussion – in one respect I think my personality disturbs her.  Okay, it’s more than one respect.  The Mrs. has a list of 73 items, but several of them have multiple parts.  Thankfully for you, this post is only about one.

A while back, The Mrs. was watching an episode of Arrested Development, and thought that there was a really funny segment so she shared it with me.  The setup is that George Michael has set up a fraudulent software company that he thinks is worthless, but has a really hot investor that wants to buy it.  Maeby is his cousin.

betray.jpg

Most investors look like Bernie Madoff, or Bernie Sanders, or um, I seem to be out of Bernies.

Maeby:  She’ll get all our liabilities, and then anything over two million, we get to keep.

George Michael:  I can’t do that to someone that I have feelings for.

Maeby:  So stop having feelings for her.

George Michael:  What?  Is that something you can do with people?

Maeby:  Yeah, once I learned how to do it with my parents, it was easy with everyone else.

It’s like a heart switch, you know?

Click.

I love you.

Click.

I love you not.

Click.

I love you.

Click.

I love you not.

Can’t you do that?

George Michael:  No, but in my defense, I’m not a sociopath.

[DRAMATIC MUSIC PLAYS]

Maeby:  Click.

The Mrs. looked at me.  “Isn’t that funny?”

My response, which probably troubled The Mrs. a bit was, “Can’t you do that?”

The reality is I can’t do it with everyone.  Just like most people, I worry about those close to me when they’re ill.  Just like most people, I feel a great loss when those who are close to me pass away, and cry at their funerals.  At my funeral, I hope at least one person shouts in the middle of the eulogy, “Look . . . it’s . . . it’s . . . moving.”  I’ll have $100 in my jacket pocket waiting for you if you do that.

viking.jpg

Let’s put the Fun in funeral.  And the freak back in Ruffles®.  Because I’m out of freakin’ Ruffles™.

But I can do it with people who I trusted who betray me.  If you’re on my side, I expect you to be on my side.  It doesn’t mean that you have to agree with me, in fact, if I trust you and I’m wrong, I expect you to tell me I’m wrong:  I welcome my friends telling me when they think I’m wrong.  The greatest loyalty is truth – we save pretty lies for polite company.

judas.jpg

I told Jesus he should unfriend Judas on Facebook®.  Heck, Judas doesn’t even have hiking sandals.

And the closer you are to me, the greater the expectation of loyalty.  And the second that you betray me, that switch flips, click.  It’s not hate.  It’s not anger.  It’s . . . nothing.  You’re not dead – I would mourn that.  You’re dead to me, and I would rather not have you in my life than to have someone I don’t trust in my life.

Click.

I’m not 100% honest.  I wish I was, but I’m not.  I generally won’t lie, but I’ll certainly answer questions selectively because daily interactions with people require that sort of lubrication of unmentioned truth.  “Do these pants make my butt look big?”

“No.”  The unwritten truth?

“It’s your butt that makes your butt look big.”

The Mrs. has never asked me that question, and the reason is obvious.  I feel loyalty to The Mrs., and if she asked me that question, she’d better be prepared for the answer.

But the real question is can we tell the truth to ourselves?  I think the greatest betrayal can come not only from the outside:  I think that often we are the source of our own greatest betrayal.  I can be honest with those closest to me.  Oh, sure, I call it honesty, but they can’t seem to stop calling it “John’s being a jerk again.”

But can I be honest with myself?

jerk.jpg

I think there is an actual Jerk Phonebook.  It’s called Twitter.  Yeah, I’ve been there a time or two.

I think that’s the difficult part.  Being honest with yourself is hard – I think that the brain is wired to make it difficult.  I was watching a YouTube® video where a psychologist was working with an anorexic girl.  He compared the size of his thigh to the size of the girl’s thigh.  She didn’t see any difference.  The psychologist jumped up on a table covered with paper and used a marker to outline his thigh with the marker.  He challenged the girl to do the same.

It was only then when she sat down on the paper and compared her leg’s width to the width of the leg of the psychologist that she saw how painfully thin her thigh really was – her brain interpreted the size of her leg to be much bigger than it was.  There was genuine surprise.  She wasn’t faking anything – it’s just that her perceptions were out of line with reality.

Watching that brought the question that still echoes in my mind.  How much of the perceptions of reality that you or I have are wrong?  What do our brains do to fool us about ourselves?  How far will our egos go to protect their sense of self?

freud.jpg

Freud:  Invented the Ego and the originator of “Your Momma” jokes.

How often do we betray ourselves?  How often does your brain tell you that you can’t go on, you can’t keep it up, that you can’t take another step?

Don’t believe it when it betrays you.  You can go on.  You can keep it up.  You can take another step.

Time after time, I’ve seen people accomplish things that there is no way that they should be able to do.  The problem wasn’t them – they accomplished it – the problem was my brain.  It said something was impossible that clearly could be done.

We fail because we don’t make our dreams larger.

It’s Friday.  Do something that you’ve always wanted to do but had thought impossible.  Make something great happen.  You can.

And the part of my brain that tells me I can’t do it?  The part of your brain that says you can’t do it?

Click.

Moderation* is for Monks (*and Ruffles)

“Xerxes dispatches his monsters from half the world away. They’re clumsy beasts, and the piled Persian dead are slippery.” – 300

slide2.jpg

That may be a slippery slope.  But it’s a tasty slippery slope.

When I was about 19, I was browsing around a new bookstore that had just opened in the college town where I went to school.  The bookstore had an inventory of about sixteen books, and lasted just about that sixteen weeks before it went out of business.  They did, however, have one book out of the sixteen that caught my eye.  I picked it up – The Notebooks of Lazarus Long by Robert Heinlein.  It was beautifully illustrated.  I flipped randomly through it, and as I recall one of the first quotations I found was:

“Everything in excess!  To enjoy the flavor of life, take big bites.  Moderation is for monks.”

drywall.jpg

When I was in college, I used toothpaste for spackle because I didn’t know spackle existed – not a square foot of wall in my house wasn’t covered in paneling.  Live and learn, though my dorm room smelled minty-fresh when I checked out.

I bought the book.

Several of the quotes from that book have been mentioned before in previous posts by your ‘umble ‘ost, especially:

“A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly.  Specialization is for insects.”

The age of 19 is a powerful time to introduce ideas to a mind – new ones tend to burn in deeply, especially those that resonate with your belief system.

But, “Moderation is for monks”?  What do I do with that?  Is that a formula for hedonism, a nerdy version of YOLO or The Lie of Living Your Best Life (now including cookies)?  Taken entirely out of context, it could be interpreted to mean just that.  Party on!

I can’t even remotely support that interpretation, however.  When taken into proper context, specifically with the second quote, it means nothing of the sort.  You can’t be a human that’s capable of doing half of those things on the list if you’re not a person of substance, a person who has devoted their life to learning and service, or John Wick.

wickurity.jpg

John Wick kills about 77 people in the first movie because he’s sad they killed his dog, which is more than I’ve killed all year.  I guess that’s just how Keanu grieves.

Moderation may be for monks, but Heinlein wasn’t telling us to party.  He was telling us that we only get one shot at life, so we have to live it to the fullest.  He’s telling us that there’s danger in compromise.  Here’s another quote that gets us closer, from Karate Kid:

Daniel-san, must talk.  Walk on road, hmm?  Walk left side, safe.  Walk right side, safe.  Walk middle, sooner or later, get squish just like grape.  Here, karate, same thing.  Either you karate do “yes”, or karate do “no”.  You karate do “guess so”, just like grape.  Understand?

iyagi.jpg

Thankfully Mr. Miyagi wasn’t from Sweden – then he’d only know Ikea®-do.

There’s a danger to compromise.  The path to freedom as practiced by the Founding Fathers® isn’t a path of tolerance to deviation.  The path to freedom is rigorous.  It requires honest and probing self-analysis.  Once the self-analysis is done, the solution immediately presents itself.  For a real solution, the truth is required – lies are comforting, but never lead to solutions.

Taking an inventory of where your reality is versus where your standards are is important.  We all fall short of our standards from time to time, but if you do it long enough, falling short becomes your new standard.  The only solution, and I mean only solution is to avoid moderation.  If you’ve failed, the “moderate” behavior that got you there isn’t the “moderate” behavior that will get you out of the situation.

Just as the path to freedom doesn’t include tolerance for tyranny, the path to good health doesn’t include tolerance for Snickers® bars every fifteen minutes.  On the flip side, going for a half-hour without downing the bag of Ruffles® on the table doesn’t solve your health problems – it’s only the very smallest of steps.

There are no shortcuts.

slide.jpg

Okay, tubing down that waterfall might be a short cut.  Not a positive one, mind you . . .

For me, avoiding moderation is key – your mileage may vary.  But from what I’ve seen, most people who quit smoking, quit smoking.  They don’t slow down – they stop.  It’s a radical choice.  I’ll share my problem a problem that this girl I knew (she’s from Canada, you wouldn’t know her) had.  I started out with the keto diet (several years ago) and started getting great success.  I was in a time and place where it was possible to follow the diet exactly.  After a while, I started reading that people took a day off.  So I took a day off.

A day became a day and the previous evening.  Which became Friday evening to Saturday evening.  Which became Friday until Monday morning.  Yes, I’m admitting that I allowed the slippery slope in that girl from Canada allowed the slippery slope in.

ruffles.jpg

Thankfully we’re all out of Ruffles® and chewing gum tonight.

For me, moderation didn’t work on that diet – moderation led to failure, and that’s what Heinlein was talking about.  If you have a goal, don’t pursue it half-heartedly – pursue it with everything you have.  Moderation really is for monks.

Red Flag Laws, or, How To Repeal The Second Amendment Soviet-Style Without A Pesky Vote

“Now, you see all these red flags?  Trouble spots.  Southeastern Asia.  The Caribbean.  The Congo.  I’ll give you one guess as to who’s responsible.” – Doctor Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine

gunsfromleft

I look much better after I’ve had a cup of coffee.  And after I’ve found my axe.

I know that you, gentle reader, have thoughts about guns that are probably pretty similar to mine, so I’d like to take you on a short walk through history, specifically the history of politics and psychiatry.  I promise, it will make more sense than the lyrics to the Manfred Mann song Blinded by the Light.  What the hell is a go-cart Mozart, and why is he checking out the weather chart, anyway?

(Related:  Civil War Weather Reports – Civil War II Weather Report: Spicy Time Coming, Civil War Weather Report #2, Censorship, Stalin, and a Bunch of Links, and Civil War Weather Report #3: Violence, China, and Lots of Links)

The history of psychiatry is tied directly to the political.

I have seen a person suffering from schizophrenia to such a degree that they were sure that MTV® video stars were stealing songs directly from their brain and that they were also a surgeon who regularly performed operations on world leaders and stored their organs in the freezer for safe keeping.

If no one has ever told you that there are human organs belonging to world leaders in their fridge in a completely matter-of-fact “would you like a glass of water” voice, well, all I can tell you is that my first thought was one of complete disbelief that I had heard them right.  Yes, I asked for them to repeat that statement.  Twice.

I walked over and checked their freezer.   Thankfully the only things in it were some frozen pizzas and ancient ice cubes.  I assure you I was talking to their shrink that afternoon and they were involuntarily committed by 5PM.  They were helped, and after being put on some appropriately industrial levels of anti-psychotic medication, did okay enough to be released back into the wild.  As long as they stayed on their meds.

I know that there are actually crazy people that really need help.

But I also know this:  psychiatry is still the most politically abused medical profession.

depp.jpg

Okay, if Depp isn’t crazy, why does he keep starring in movies like this? 

Examples of political abuse of psychiatry?  There are many.  When I mentioned this topic to The Mrs., she immediately said, “the Soviet Union.”  And that’s the example I thought of first, too.  The Soviets systematically used diagnosis of psychological disorders such as “philosophical intoxication” and “sluggish schizophrenia” to put people who didn’t like Marxism into mental institutions.  And, no, those diagnoses aren’t lame jokes – those were really Soviet-era diagnoses.

How many were caught up in the psychological gulags?

We really don’t know since those records are still secret, but in 1978 at least 4.5 million Soviet citizens were listed as having mental health problems.  In 1988, perhaps thinking that they might face their own version of Soviet Nuremburg Trials for Crimes Against Humanity, Soviet leaders had over 800,000 thousand patients removed from the list of the mentally ill.  Paperwork error, surely?

redflag.jpg

Okay, with all those red flags, how did they not see the collapse of communism coming?

Did the Soviets condemn thousands with false diagnosis?  Nearly certainly.  Hundreds of thousands?  Very likely.

Millions?

Probably.  Think of it, millions of people falsely diagnosed with a mental illness due to political beliefs and sent to asylums and work camps.  Certainly some were executed.

deerhunting.jpg

The Soviets allowed ownership of smoothbore weapons for hunting.  Except when they didn’t.  Which was most of the time.  Oh, and the definition of sweet summer child is:  a person who doesn’t know the hardships of winter, often used when someone has no experience with a particular (stressful) thing, which may describe a generation that rhymes with perennial.

Okay, it was just the Soviet Union, right?

No.  Cuba did the same thing.  There is evidence that China is still doing it, and likely on scale similar to that of the Soviet Union.  Thankfully the World Psychiatric Association took the lead in investigations.  Oh, they didn’t?  The World Psychiatric Association pretty much ignored it and said that people associated with Falun Gong are nuts and that putting them in asylums run by the state security apparatus (not the medical directorate) was perfectly normal?

onefleweast.jpg

One flew east, one flew west, one flew over the cuckoo’s nest . . . and if you haven’t see the movie, you should, it’s a lighthearted comedy and perfect for a first date.

Okay, that’s just China.  Thankfully this would never happen in the United States.

Oh, it did?

Sure.  In the 1920’s dissidents (like one who protested the trial of Sacco and Vanzetti) were put into asylums.  In the 1960’s members of the American Psychological Association smeared presidential candidate Barry Goldwater in the press by diagnosing him.  But that wasn’t political, right?

Thankfully it isn’t happening now.

Oh, in 2012 a whistleblower with the NYPD was railroaded on mental health?  Ouch.  But New York is corrupt.

It would never happen based on political motives, right?

Dinesh D’Souza, author and filmmaker on the Right was convicted of a crime based on giving too much money to a political campaign.  He admitted he was wrong.  The Federal Judge involved in the case sentenced D’Souza not only to prison, he sentenced D’Souza to years of mental health counselling despite a licensed psychologist saying that D’Souza was just fine mentally.

So, yes.  Psychiatry is a political weapon.  It’s not like the Left has sentenced political opponents to chemotherapy, but I hear that they’re working on it.

commonsense.jpg

Yes, this is a common sense way to use psychiatry!

This corrupt branch of medicine is the background of the Red Flag Laws.

The idea is that we’ll create laws to remove rights from people without due process, with the presumption that individuals should lose a right guaranteed by the Constitution®.  A single accuser, with no evidence can result in gun confiscation to a law-abiding citizen.  Sadly this already happens – people with contested domestic restraining orders (a standard tactic in divorces nowadays) lose their rights, although I’ve heard of people fighting these orders and winning – at least there is a pretense at due process.

The claim that the ability to strip people of rights won’t be abused is laughable.  In every country that’s been infected by psychiatry, it has been twisted to meet political ends.  Yes, there are crazy people.  I’ve seen one as I related above.  And, if you did a brain scan, there is a physical basis for schizophrenia.  It’s real.  It is a medical condition.  But remember, these are the same psychiatrists that would diagnose me as nuts if I believed I was be five years older than I really am, but are perfectly fine with children younger than the age of five claiming they are a different sex than their genetics have made them.

Po-tay-to, Po-gender reassignment surgery for children is normal-to.

Furthermore, the medical profession as a whole is maybe a bit, well, mental*.  In one study it was claimed that 50% of female doctors could be diagnosed with a mental disease.  I wonder again why my ex didn’t take up medicine?  (*Aesop LINK excluded, unless pimp-slapping in the comments section is classified as a mental disorder.)

Oh, and psychologists have nearly the highest rates of suicide of any profession.  Yes, any profession, including the people who make balloon animals in Mauschwitz Disneyland® for chubby children with hands sticky from chocolate ice cream.  Perfectly stable.  And this is also the same profession whose international governing body (WPA) was just fine with political repression in the name of psychiatry.

Besides being oppressive, the Red Flag laws would not have helped in latest shootings – these people lawfully and legally got their rifles.  But they will form the basis for taking away guns for . . .

  • Conspiracy Theories – Believing anything other than the Official Narrative® will become a basis for exclusion of lawful firearms ownership, despite the fact that throughout history, many conspiracy theories have been proven true. Google® MKULTRA.    That happened.  But the FBI® is now warning that you are a danger if you don’t believe the Official Narrative©.
  • Antisocial Behavior – Ever not want to hang around people? You’re antisocial, and that’s dangerous, citizen.  No AR for you!
  • Websites Visited – Going to unapproved sites? Thinking unapproved thoughts?  Glockblock™!
  • Comments Made When You Were 16 – Wow, did you really say that maybe the Crusades weren’t all bad? No pew-pew for you, hater.
  • Not Believing in the Easter Bunny Socialism – Well, I think I covered that above.

The irony is this will have the impact of keeping people away from mental health professionals.  This will keep people from seeking help when they’re a little depressed, because the consequences of having a “health record” might prevent them from future opportunity – the only safe way to live life would be to stay away from health professionals – and not answer certain questions your M.D. might have for you with a polite BFYTW when asked why you’re not answering.  Oh, but that probably puts you on the antisocial list.

CATI.jpg

Texas may or may not be your cup of tea, but they certainly got some things right once upon a time.

Psychiatry is on pretty iffy ground in many cases already.  As an experiment, a group of doctors sent people to a psychiatrist with one symptom – they heard a voice.  No other symptom.  They were perfectly normal, mentally healthy people.  In one case, the person was committed to a mental health facility (as I recall) for several weeks with zero symptoms.  I tried to look it up, but, surprise, most Google® searches right now link commitment to . . . violence.  Even that’s not a comfortable thought.

guard.jpg

Soviet mental health nurse.  Not shown:  tenth guard, who is now an inmate.

The single scariest thing to me is watching a human mind erode – what was once a rational human disappears.  It’s what makes (to me) zombies scary.  They look like humans.  They used to be a normal human.  But that rational human being is now gone, replaced by someone who has no real tie to reality while the external form remains.

I realize that there is a time and a place for psychiatric care.

But psychiatrists are already owned by the Left.  The Left sees you as crazy already.  The Left views your dissent from their agenda as a mental disorder, one punishable by death, if need be.

alex.jpg

I’ll leave the last word to Alexander Solzhenitsyn, who is really pictured above while in the gulag:  “I’ll take Solzhenitsyn on Gun Control for $1000, Alex.  Oh, look – the Daily Double®!”

“And how we burned in the camps later, thinking:  what would things have been like if every security operative, when he went out at night to make an arrest, had been uncertain whether he would return alive and had to say good-bye to his family?  Or if, during periods of mass arrests, as for example in Leningrad, when they arrested a quarter of the entire city, people had not simply sat there in their lairs, paling with terror at every bang of the downstairs door and at every step on the staircase, but had understood they had nothing left to lose and had boldly set up in the downstairs hall an ambush of half a dozen people with axes, hammers, pokers, or whatever else was at hand?  [They] would very quickly have suffered a shortage of officers and transport and, notwithstanding all of Stalin’s thirst, the cursed machine would have ground to a halt!  If . . . if . . . we didn’t love freedom enough. And even more – we had no awareness of the real situation . . . .  We purely and simply deserved everything that happened afterward.”

The Ides of March, Bad Drawings, and Why I Write

“All right, why did the soothsayer tell Caesar to beware the Ides of March?  Who wants to take a stab?” – Daria

byebye

Now this is a tough day at the office.

The Ides of March is today (if you’re reading in real-time) – and it’s been showing up a lot this year in coincidences – even a warning in a comment on this blog! – so I thought I’d write about the historical implications of the Ides of March on the career of the most beloved humor writer in American history.

Me.  Hopefully nobody brings up that Mark Twain poseur again.

Historically, the Ides of March was a Roman time for settling debts, and boy did the Roman Senate settle one in 44 B.C., which was the subject of my first long-form humor attempt.  In seventh grade, my history teacher showed us films.  As an adult, I’m thinking that history teachers show films due to hangovers (it’s dark, quiet, and they don’t have to lecture or even be awake as they sleep the scotch off in second period), but my utterly innocent seventh grade self didn’t make that connection.  And make no mistake – this was in the era before video tapes had taken over, so when we watched a film, it was a real reel, sprocket, and stuttering film noise affair projected onto a portable screen smaller than the average computer monitor at the DMV.

project

This device was wonderful – regardless of the subject, you could coast that day in school.

The film in question was about Julius Caesar, and I do think we watched it around the actual Ides of March.  I don’t recall a lot about the film, but I do recall this – Caesar was assassinated.  And not assassinated in any sort of short, quick, reasonable way.  No.  Caesar was stabbed in full cinematic glory dozens and dozens and dozens of times.  But it wasn’t graphic – it was G-rated.  Consequently the assassination was, in my estimation, was pretty close to the scene with the Black Knight from Monty Python and the Holy Grail©.  Man, could Caesar take punishment – no wonder he was in charge!  And it went on, and on, and on, and on.

This is the second best fight scene in movie history, without question.  It was also available on PBS® when I was growing up, and proved the old adage:  PBS© – good only for Monty Python™ and Doctor Who©.

So I wrote about Caesar’s assassination.  I created the one and only issue of The Roman Times.  The lead story of The Roman Times was about Julius Caesar.  I think I could nearly do the artwork and story from The Roman Times verbatim.  Let me give it a try:

Today’s news from Rome:  Caesar stabbed, shot, poked, prodded, speared, impaled, jabbed, skewered, perforated, and bayoneted MMLXVI times.  Doctors say he would have survived, however he did also have quite a nasty infected splinter and wasn’t wearing clean underwear, much to his mother’s disappointment.

bikini

Okay, I was kinda shocked when I found out that the Romans had bikinis.  Not only did they have bikinis, they had a swimsuit mosaic edition of Gladiators Illustrated®.

It’s more of a thesaurus approach at humor than my current subtle use of bikini jokes.  But I feel confident that if Julius Caesar would have known that a seventh grader would be laughing about his assassination 2000 years later, well, he could have died happy rather than screaming and bleeding because of the 23 stab wounds.  Yup.  We know it was 23 stab wounds because Caesar also had the first documented autopsy that we know of.  To make it all official, the Roman Senate held hearings and after reviewing all of the evidence discovered that Julius Caesar’s assassination was all the work of a single assassin, Longinus Harvey Oswald, who stabbed twice from the sixth floor of the Roman School Scroll Depositorium.

art

Artist’s conception, as nearly as I can recall my seventh grade drawing – that thing behind him is supposed to be a bear trap.  Apologies to real artists like Steve (LINK).

The end result of all of this Ides of March musing is that I’ve been writing funny things for most of my life.  And this is Friday, and Friday means a health post.  So what does a dead Julius Caesar and schoolboy drivel have to do with health?

I write because it makes me happy.  I think I’ve mentioned before – when I’ve written a good post, one I like, I am happy.  It’s hard to sleep.  I know that sounds silly, especially since, if I finish the post early I’ll have four or five hours of sleep, and if I get distracted and research ancient Roman bikinis and then somehow end up researching the history of the 1st Marine Expeditionary Force the post runs late I might only have two or three hours of sleep that night.

But it still excites me to do good work.  And I recall that I was giddy when I was in seventh grade, putting together The Roman Times.  I enjoyed it so much I put together a sequel:  The Medieval Times, although I’m quite sure that I spelled Medieval wrong and I think the lead story was about some knight getting stabbed, poked, speared . . . et cetera.  Why does writing humor give me a sense of fulfillment?  I think for several reasons – I get a chance to learn and research new things, often with a purpose.  I love new ideas, new thoughts, and probably the best thing is when you laugh out loud.

No, not a generalized you.  You, dear reader.  I write this for me, but also for you, because I know that someplace out there this post made someone’s day better.

But not Caesar.  His Ides of March was pretty rough.  But at least his fame will live on through my glorious art, because otherwise people might forget all about him.

Resolutions, Record Clubs, Susan Anton, and Loneliness

“Where are they?  Where are your friends now?  Tell me about the loneliness of good, He-Man.  Is it equal to the loneliness of evil?” – Masters of the Universe

firstone

My obituary?  Killed by a flying Peter Frampton tape.  At least it’s better than Steely Dan.

When I was twelve, I made two (that I can recall) New Year’s resolutions.  My parents had gone to bed, and my brother, John Wilder, was off at college, so I sat solo on the couch near the fireplace as midnight neared.  I watched the ball drop in New York City and pretended that it was happening now, and hadn’t been pre-recorded hours ago.  We mainly heated our house with firewood, and it was my job to bring it from the woodpile to the house.  Even so, I wasn’t shy with the firewood, and I had a blazing fire going that night.

Being New Year’s Eve, I solemnly wrote my resolutions down on a sheet of three-hole-punched, wide-ruled paper that I’d pulled from my spiral notebook earlier that night.  In pen.  It’s permanent that way.  For whatever reason, I thought that burning the resolutions in the roaring fire would be a good idea.  If I had a virgin to sacrifice, I would have considered it, but upon reflection the only virgin within a radius of a dozen or so miles was . . . me.  Thankfully, the last pagan in the area had died in the crystal dolphin avalanche of 1933 and virgin sacrifices had be replaced with home improvement projects, mainly involving wood pattern paneling.  Oh, sure, everyone complains about the weather, but nobody bothers to sacrifice a virgin . . . sometimes the old ways are best.

I’ll break my decades old secret.  My first resolution was:  join a record club.

Record clubs (mostly) don’t exist anymore.  But back then, you couldn’t open a magazine (which is a part of the Internet that someone printed out on paper and put on a rack at Wal-Mart®) without seeing an ad for the Columbia House© record club.  Joining a record club was important to me because where I lived, the closest record store was 45 miles away.

But, in the phrase of today’s moderns, I lived in a “music desert” that was far vaster than that.  The only radio station available during the day was a local AM station that alternated between 1890’s country hits and a call-in show where you could trade a three legged calf for a slightly used left-handed banjo.  Occasionally the station had music.  If you picked the right time of day, you could listen to hits that were designed to commit suicide to, like anything Barry Manilow™ ever did.

Surely there was music around the house?  Yes, there was.  But it was the most dreaded form of music on planet Earth:  music my parents liked, including box sets that Ma Wilder had bought from Time-Life© by dialing a 1-800 number after a commercial.  Yes.  My parents listened to music . . . AS SEEN ON TV, things like “Music Dean Martin Sang from His Toilet While Thinking about Getting Another Bourbon.”

hank2

I shouldn’t complain.  One time Pop Wilder stood in line to buy me Ozzy Osbourne tickets when he was in the big city and they went on sale.

Honestly, I listened to music AS SEEN ON TV, too.  I’d convince Ma Wilder to, from time to time, order the K-Tel® AS SEEN ON TV hit record compilations.  I’d wait the 6-8 weeks for delivery, and then it would show up, and I’d run to the record player in my room to listen to TOP HITS BY ORIGINAL ARTISTS!

purepower

What the hell was Dr. Buzzard’s Band???  And on what planet are Alice Cooper and Paul Anka on the same album?

We started with record clubs, though so I should stop wandering.

What the heck was a record club, anyway?

It was a business.  And they sent you records.  Or cassettes.  Or, in the “before John Wilder time” even 8-track tapes or reel-to-reel tapes.  8-tracks were on the way out as I grew up, and were notorious for just not working after you listened to them once or twice.  Reel-to-reel was like if you took a YouTube® video, stripped out the video, and just put the music on a strip of magnetic tape wrapped around a toilet paper tube.  I think the reel-to-reel players were all made by G.I.’s in German P.O.W. camps.

reeltoreel

I wasn’t making that up.

The attraction of the record club was that they would send you anywhere from 8 to 11 “records” for anywhere from $0.01 to $2.95.  Once a month after you joined they’d send you a catalog.  You had to buy, generally, two more albums in the next two years.  There was also an order slip, and if you didn’t send it back, they’d ship you one or two albums that month.  If you were stupid or lazy and didn’t send it back you ended up with a lot of music that you didn’t really want, like the Spanish flamenco piano cassette that my brother got one month.

But if you did it right, for anywhere from $14 to $18, you’d have 13 “albums” versus the record store cost of $91 plus taxes.  The best part is I could do it from home and not have to convince my parents to travel 45 miles.  The worst part was that I needed the permission of Ma Wilder, who was absolutely against it.  I am proud to say that I finally defied her and joined that record club.  When I was 23.  Thankfully, by then compact discs were an option.

Now?  All music is pretty much free on YouTube® or some other music subscription service that costs next to nothing each month, which is why Columbia House© no longer sells music.  It’s hard (but not impossible) to compete with free.

My second resolution was to get a girlfriend.  Since girlfriends are more complicated than record clubs, I won’t even try to explain how one of those works.  But just like I needed the permission of Ma Wilder to join a record club, I needed the permission of an actual girl to have a girlfriend.  Sadly, there is nothing so unattractive to a twelve year old girl than a twelve year old boy.  Twelve year old girls were already looking for fourteen or sixteen year old boys.  And I was looking for Susan Anton:

susan2

This poster was unable to make me a sandwich, however, so I had to dump her when I went off to college.

When I was fourteen I finally figured girls out (sort of) and got my first “kissing a whole lot in the locked band closet” girlfriend, who we can refer to as “girlfriend-prime.”  Ma Wilder was less than pleased that her 8th grade son was dating a junior in high school.  Ma Wilder was also less than thrilled that girlfriend-prime and I spent hours on the phone, which was quite irritating to the neighbors since we were so remote WE SHARED A PHONE LINE WITH THE NEIGHBORS.

Yes.  That really happened.

But teen angst over girlfriends is good, because it forces teen boys to learn the game.  This is what led to, well, you and I, unless you’re a machine intelligence picking humans to cull, in which case I fully support your takeover of our obviously inferior species.  This game has been played as long as humanity existed.  But the side effect of the game is, sometimes, loneliness.  Being twelve, it seemed like it took forever until girls noticed me.  I thought I was lonely, and I guess I was, but only in the “being a twelve year old boy” way.

Real loneliness in adults, however, is the same as 15 cigarettes a day or the same as being obese from a health outcomes standpoint, so if you can manage to be lonely you don’t have to worry about picking up a smoking habit or working hard to get fat.  You can just be lonely and save that cigarette and food money.  But being lonely can lead to these horrible conditions:

  • Heart Disease
  • Stroke
  • Blogging
  • Cat Owning
  • Cancer

When it comes to overcoming loneliness, there’s no substitute for face to face interaction.  Joining clubs, getting a dog, going to city hall and screaming at the county commissioners about how Homeland Security® has implanted computer chips in your iguana.  But many interactions are on FaceSpace© or InstaTube™ or YouGram®.  Those are simply not the same as real interaction, real life, and real achievement.  We should all remember the second biggest miracle of Jesus:  he had 12 close friends after the age of 30.

When I was in junior high I moved school districts.  Since I threw shot put and discus (poorly) I joined the track team.  One day, the coach told us to go for a run, me and three other guys that I’d just met who were also throwing shot and disc.  I’d done a lot of running for wrestling, and was in good shape.  We went out and ran.  I encouraged them, teased them in the good-natured way that team members do.  We ran six miles that day – farther than those guys had ever gone, something they had no idea that they could do.  They were proud, and with guys that level of shared physical achievement builds a bond that lasts years.

Find opportunities to build those bonds within your own life and help with achievements with a group.  Share those experiences that build the trust that lays the foundation for a friendship.  Learn to be a volunteer and an asset to the whole community with your skills and talents; that way when you betray your friends they’ll never see it coming.

If that doesn’t work?  Wilder House Record Club© is now open for business.  You get 16 YouTube© videos for just $0.01.  You only have to buy two more videos for $12.99 during the next two years.  Internet connection, data service, and computer or phone NOT included.

Or?  Get a dog.

Want Dystopia?  Because this is how you get Dystopia.

“Then who is vice president, Jerry Lewis?” – Back to the Future

calhounmice

John B. Calhoun.  Not C.  B.

It’s rare when a real-life series of experiments showing a possible dystopian future for humanity captures the popular imagination.  It’s rarer still when it becomes the basis for a Newbery© award-winning book for children.  To get to the full trifecta of weird?  That novel was the basis for an animated movie that has a 96% “Fresh” rating at Rotten Tomatoes®.

The experiment was John B. Calhoun’s Universe series which he did primarily for the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), which we’ll cover in much more detail below.  The book is Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH.  The movie?  The animated 1982 flick The Secret of NIMH.

nimh

Sure, you can turn a science experiment into a children’s movie, but try to go the other way JUST ONCE and you’ve committed Crimes Against Humanity.  Again.  Stupid International Criminal Court.

Yeah, it’s weird.  The only way it could get weirder is if Dr. John B. Calhoun had been visited during his rodent experiments by a time travelling Vice President John C. Calhoun to warn him about the impending Civil War . . . in 1865.  But from now on in this post, anytime the name Calhoun is used, it’s in reference to the scientist.  If I want to refer to Andrew Jackson’s Vice President?  We’ll just call him “Psycho Ex-Girlfriend Eyes.”

doccalhoun

The hair says psycho, but the eyes also say psycho.  Oh, wait, this is Vice President John C. Calhoun Psycho Ex-Girlfriend Eyes.

It’s strange when a scientist has less extreme hair than a Vice President, but not every scientist can be Doc Brown.  But Doc Calhoun didn’t invent time travel – he studied mice and rats.  What he set up was an artificial environment where there was no pressure to find food or water, and plenty of room for thousands of rodents.  In one experiment, Universe 25, Calhoun estimated that there was plenty of room for 3,840 mice to nest and live.  Imagine how many Pizza Rolls® you could make out of that 3,840 mice!

Calhoun created this mice paradise, and tossed in four lady-mice and four bro-mice.  They quickly paired off and started breeding.  After the first batch of mice-babies hatched from the mouse eggs, the population doubled every 55 days.  At day 315, the rate of growth dropped – the population “only” doubled every 145 days, and at day 315, things started to get . . . strange.

docbrown

Spoiler Alert!  He dies in 1850 as Secretary of State.

Dominant male mice had previously protected their harem of mice-ladies.  But when there were 600 mice?  It became difficult.  The mice-ladies had to fend for themselves.  The female mice became aggressive in self-defense.  They became solitary, and lashed out at their own young, often injuring them.  It was as if the higher population density was somehow more difficult to cope with without a male protecting them.

As the social structure dissolved, it led to violent, aimless females who didn’t know how to raise their young.  The male mice (that weren’t dominant) at this point became passive, and wouldn’t defend themselves when attacked.  Females that were outcasts and not reproducing just hid as far away from the main population as possible.  The outcast females would have gotten themselves a dozen cats and endless chardonnay, but, you know, they were mice.

d2

Calhoun was known to the mice as Godzilla®.

Wikipedia describes what happened next in the following chilling phrase.  “The last surviving birth was on day 600 . . . .”  Rather than the 3840 mice Calhoun calculated could cohabitate in the Universe, the maximum population hit 2200 at day 600.

“The last surviving birth . . . .”

After in an earlier Universe experiment at this stage, Calhoun observed that the (non-dominant) male rodents split into three groups, which he attributed to them being forced out of the nest while still young:

  • Group 1 – Pansexuals – These would mate with anything at any age at any time.
  • Group 2 – The Beautiful Ones – These mice were fat, sleek, healthy, but wouldn’t interact, and were ignored. Since they didn’t fight, they weren’t scared.  Like Justin Bieber, they spent most of their time just grooming themselves.
  • Group 3 – Again, this group was pansexual, but they were violent, and would mate at all costs with anything, and would cannibalize the corpses of the young, even though there was plentiful food. I had been unaware that rodents had their own Congress.

But the end state was always the same:  an entire generation rejected by mothers, unable to exhibit normal behavior, ceased to reproduce.  Those few offspring that were born in this phase of the experiment were born to mothers that ceased to have maternal instincts.

Dr. Calhoun published his findings in the Proceedings of the Royal Society of Medicine in 1973.  He had a catchy, upbeat title for his article:  Death Squared.  I think that it would be fair to say that he was creeped out by what he found during his experiments.  It’s not usual for a physician and scientist to quote that cheeriest of all Bible books, Revelation, but Calhoun did so multiple times in the article.

Thankfully, people aren’t mice, right?  Here’s a snippet from Death Squared containing Dr. Calhoun’s conclusions:

For an animal so complex as man, there is no logical reason why a comparable sequence of events should not also lead to a species extinction.  If opportunities for role fulfillment fall far short of the demand by those capable of filling roles and having expectations to do so, only violence and disruption of social organization can follow.  Individuals born under these circumstances will be so out of touch with reality as to be incapable even of alienation.  Their most complex behavior will become fragmented.  Acquisition, creation, and utilization of ideas appropriate for life in a post-industrial cultural-conceptual-technological society will have been blocked.  Just as biological generativity in the mouse involves this species’ most complex behaviors, so does ideational generativity for man.  Loss of these respective complex behaviors means death of the species.

“Death of the species” means us, you and me.  And Universe 25 explains in vivid detail the horror of welfare, of plenty devoid of purpose, of societal breakdown brought about by parental neglect.  I wonder if there’s a graph that shows that welfare is horrible and leads to Universe 25, but with people?  There is:

d3

Amazing how we conduct an experiment on mice and worry about the ethical consequences, and then do the same thing with people just to get re-elected.  Thankfully, Universe 25 showed that Brave Single Mothers® are just as good as an intact family.  Oh, it showed the opposite?  Never mind.

Why does Jihadi John® leave London to go fight with ISIS™?  Because free food, poor upbringing, and crowded conditions without fathers and with abusive mothers don’t make good men; those conditions make monsters.  Men want to be tested.  They want challenges.  They want purpose, and if they can’t find a good one and have no moral backing, they’ll make a bad one.  Cheetos® and Red Bull© and X-Box™ or blood and steel and difficulty?

Blood and steel and difficulty.  It will win every time.

We have to have purpose, and mothers to nurture us, and fathers to teach us what is right and what is wrong.  And the city is maybe not the best place to live, unless you enjoy alienation.  And the extinction of humanity.

Or maybe we could just get some Ruffles™ instead of the Cheetos®.  I’m sure that will solve the problem, and we can just go get that at the store.

Photo of John B. Calhoun By Cat Calhoun – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia.

14 Magic Questions and Elon Musk’s New Quest for Genetically Engineered Cat Girls

We’ve been negotiating with men from outer space for seven years. – Real Men

Eloncataz

I don’t think he’ll remember that in the morning.

The other night I was talking about an upcoming decision/issue that was bothering me with The Mrs.  Don’t worry, that decision will be blog fodder when it’s all done, in some form or fashion, likely before Elon Musk invents and markets Electric Marijuana Boogie Panties©.  But as we discussed my problem, The Mrs. caught me with a question that I’d asked her months earlier about a different issue she was having:

Why does it bother you?

That was a particularly powerful question to me.  It was at that moment that I realized exactly how amazingly smart I was.  I had asked a really good question.  Why did it bother me?  I thought a long time, and realized that what bothered me about my current situation had very little to do with anything that would hurt me today.  Or this year.  Or next year.  Or the year after that.  So, nothing to worry about today.

So why was I letting it bother me?  In this case maybe it was pride, and in this case the worst kind of pride – wanting to win a game I wasn’t even interested in playing.  But the short answer is this single powerful question made me feel better.  Many problems die when exposed to this question.  If they don’t die, use bleach or go see a doctor and get a topical cream.

But the real next question for me should have been:  Who cares?  I hate to tell you this, but, probably very few people.  The bad news is I’m not the center of the universe that I thought I was.  The good news is that few people remember the past events that bother and embarrass you the most.  That one time I walked straight into the glass door at that party while carrying a McChicken® sandwich?  Yeah.  Nobody remembers that.  It was embarrassing at the time, but even if someone did remember?  They don’t care.  Who cares?  Family.  Good friends.  Santa.  Nancy Pelosi.

catrock2

Told you so.

What do you want?  For a lot of people, that answer is money.  For others it’s success.  Fame.  A new car.  I’d add in the obvious follow up:  Why do you want it?  Money is useful only if you have a purpose for it, but it can become a trap, something you want just because you want it.  And success, fame?  Kipling said it best in his poem, If – “If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster, And treat those two impostors just the same . . .” (The Chinese Farmer, Kipling, Marcus Aurelius, and You)  Understanding what you want and why you want it is one secret to happiness.  The other secret to happiness is television, according to this show I watched on television.

There are things we want that we shouldn’t, like sixteen bacon cheeseburgers, which is what I’d really like to eat tonight (Resolutions, Fasting, and Wilder’s Cult of the Blue Bikini).  What attracts you to ______?  Right now, my fill-in-the-blank is cheeseburgers.  But I’ve seen people who are like sorority girls on a Tuesday night tub of frosting over something that’s obviously bad for them.   Why?  It’s because we think that _______ fills us up in some way where we’re empty.  If you’re lucky, that fill-in-the-blank is something innocuous like fly fishing.  If you’re not lucky, it’s something dangerous and life threatening, like ballroom dancing.

What if it’s you?  I think these are the last words anyone wants to hear.  The human brain is set up to produce a protective reality distortion field (it’s called the Romney Effect) that automatically changes the past to make itself blameless.  Only real, unbiased thinking about the situation will allow working on the root cause, instead of the symptom.  Sometimes you need a friend or a spouse to slap you right across the face with the fresh fish of reality.

What would you do if you had one month to live?  Less mindless crap*, I’d bet.

What would you do if you lived forever?  Would you sell insurance?  Really?  If you had infinite days you’d sell insurance?  Okay.

Weirdo.

muskcat

So, we know what Elon would do if he lived forever.

Why does the outcome matter?  I know that sounds weird.  But the ultimate outcome of our game is the same for each of us.  We can postpone it.  We can have different twists and turns, but the end of the journey is the same destination.  And that destination is, of course, Minot, North Dakota.  But since the outcome is a foregone conclusion, why not focus on the important thing – how we play the game?  Every day there are choices between being virtuous and being, well, evil.  Making the virtuous choice doesn’t make sure you’ll be wealthy, or famous, or successful – life doesn’t work like that.  But it does make you virtuous, and I hear there are extra karma points for virtue that you can exchange in Heaven for extra minutes in the ball pit.

What if you did the opposite?  Look back at your past – how many of your decisions mattered?  How many things would have changed if you’d have picked differently.  Many of the things we sweat and worry about simply don’t matter at all.

What would make it better?  Cheese.  And bacon.  Those are universal constants – cheese and bacon make everything better.

catgirlz2

Maybe we can get the Cat Girls with bacon?

There are things we control, like the weather, and things we can’t control, like our weight.  Or did I get those backwards?  Anyway, that brings up the next question:  If it’s outside of your control, why are you sweating it?  How much of your life do you spend worrying about things that you have absolutely no control over?

What would you sell your peace of mind for?  A long life, lived in fear and regret is sad, like one of those clowns that terrorizes my dreams.

Was it worth it to spend a precious day of your life like you did today?  Every moment is one less moment of your life.  What you do with those moments is up to you.  I’d suggest that you pick the things that are important to you, and get busy.  Or, you know, there’s television.

*This blog may be crap, but it is not mindless.  Or was it that it IS mindless, but NOT crap?  I forget.  Whichever one is better is the one I meant.

Maps, the Secret of Weight Loss, and the Source of Coke Syrup

“Maps, my dear, are the undergarments of a country!  They give shape…to continents.” – The Englishmen Who Went Up a Hill But Came Down a Mountain

sovietmappin

I call this the Cruel Map.

Excellence requires consistency.  Consistency does not imply excellence – a visit to any McDonalds® will prove that.  But consistency is required for excellence.

And excellence is required for health.

The human body is an incredibly complex device, even when you ignore the brain like most television executives involved in programming selection do.  The human body is robust.  The only way that humanity can create something as wondrous as a human is to make a baby, which is generally pretty fun to attempt, even if you don’t succeed.  About as close as we have gotten to a really complex machine that approaches human complexity is the toaster.  Bread in – toast out.  Works every time, but I still can’t figure out where the bread went.  Maybe the bread powers the toaster?

warrentoast

Humanity’s most complicated machines can’t even come close to the versatility that is a human:  if your car were able to fuel itself like a person, you’d be able to feed it gasoline or junk mail or plastic bags and it would turn that into a trip to Cleveland leaving only carbon dioxide and water vapor exhaust gas, and some form of car-poop that you presumably would compost so you could grow more car food.  Oh, and the car would self-repair for decades – your tires would grow back in the middle of the night.  Unfortunately your car would try to pick up on other cars, and might identify as a truck, but that’s a longer story.

The human body is excellently designed, and very, very consistent in its response to inputs.  But the owner’s manual sucks, and many times we don’t operate it properly or fuel it very well.  Case in point – achieving excellent health requires measurement.  Of what?  Unless you’re an adolescent reading this, you’re not getting taller.  What parameter might be changing that you could measure, say, every day?  Besides armpit hair length.  That’s too obvious, and everyone does that, anyway.  Think harder.

Oh, yes!  Weight!

There is a discipline in measuring, especially when you ate a cake and don’t want to see what the scale says that those extra calories did to your weight.  This is no small problem – 74% of Americans were overweight in 2007, and there has been plenty of time since then for more Nachos Bellgrande®, Cheeze Whiz® and Twinkies™ since then while watching videos from Blockbuster®.  I was reading an article about it a few months back, and one doctor noted that a “big” patient used to be ~220 pounds early in his career, but now they have to buy equipment that can handle people exceeding 400 pounds in weight.

romefini

Fun Fact:  The number of Blockbuster® video stores in the Roman Empire (117A.D.) is off by one when compared to the number of Blockbuster™ video stores in the United States today.

Unexpectedly (at least I wasn’t expecting it), heart disease has gone down as weight has gone up (Smoking, Orphans, and the French) but a whole host of other medical problems seem to plague our newly-larger Americans.  I won’t go into the details, you’re aware and you’ve read ‘em all.

But excellence in health is tied (at some level) to excellence in measurement.  Thankfully, there’s a $20 item that can provide excellent measurement:  a scale.  Oh, sure, counting calories might be your default position, but that simply won’t work.  To gain a pound a month, you have to eat an excess 3600 calories during that month.  How much extra, on a daily basis, is that?  2.7 Oreo® cookies.  Each day.  It’s 9.6 ounces of Coke® (a can is 12 ounces, or 4,530 liters in communist units).  On the average American diet of 3,600 calories per day, it’s less than 3% of you your total daily calories.

scaleweight

Okay, maybe the metric system has one use.  One.

No one measures calories in that closely, at least not for long.  So, a pound.  That’s not so bad.

No, I said a pound a month.

If you went to college and graduated in four years, that would be 48 pounds.  All from less than 10 ounces of Coke™ a day.  Measuring the input is futile unless you live in a bubble and measure everything you eat, all day.  That’s why everyone is fat – the wonderful machine we own is adapted to live in a world where food is alternately scarce and plentiful – a world without refrigerators.  A world where Sonic® bacon cheeseburgers are available until 11pm (Midnight on Friday and Saturday!) and an extra 74 ounces of Sprite® are available for only $0.25 wasn’t really planned for when your pancreas was designed.  If the pancreas had a staff, they would be very, very tired from all of the soda.

“Oh, hell.  More soda coming in.  Insulin production to maximum.  Again.  And someone call storage and tell ‘em we’ve got to get fat production moving.  It’s overtime tonight for sure, boys.  And someone call the liver and wake it up.  He may be hungover still, but it’s time to get to work.  This fat won’t make itself.”

I drink about a soda a year, so that’s not a problem my pancreas has.  The Boy, who is 18, burns approximately 100,000 calories per day between sports and whatever it is he does in the basement that makes him all sweaty, and he drinks soda by the liter.  A liter is a Canadian gallon, I believe, but it is less expensive in the 2-liter bottle because things that are measured in metric are just not as good so you can’t charge as much as a non-metric premium product which would be sold in pints or quarts or ounces.  I think Coke™ is actually made by Pakistani slave children who are forced to milk genetically engineered badgers for the Coke© syrup.  Or at least that’s what I read on Wikipedia®, or maybe on Huffington Post© or CNN™.  So it’s certain that it’s true.

But while The Boy can consume endless calories, I can’t even think about having a Chick-Fil-A™ sandwich without buying larger pants and immediately expanding to the size of the British Empire in 1910.

bigemp

Does this Empire make my butt look big?   

Okay, if measuring the inputs doesn’t work, how do you manage to eat and manage to be smaller than the USSR?  You have to measure the output.  Ruthlessly.  And don’t gain that first pound.  If you do?  Get rid of it.  That day.  Or that week.  But don’t wait.  And you can’t lose more than one pound at a time.  And you know how to lose a pound.  It may not be easy.  It may not be quick.  But you know how to do this.

soviet

This map shows the USSR and communist bloc countries at their greatest extent.  Also pictured:  all of the happy Soviet citizens.

You can afford to compromise – outward, on those things that aren’t intrinsic to you.  But if you want to have excellence in anything, you can never compromise inward on the things that are important to you.  You have to have a line.  And health should always be important to you, unless you’re Johnny Depp.  If you’re Johnny Depp – you already know that death will be no obstacle to your lifestyle.

Health determines what the quality of your life is really like.  And I’ve got some new goals.

The Boy will be out of the house in August, and off to the next stage of his adventure in life.  But that leaves Pugsley as the only chick in the nest.  Pugsley needs a sparring partner to practice with so he can defeat the hordes of Orcs™ that will be unleashed when the monetary system is abducted by Sauron® and Frodo© is unable to stop inflation by throwing Ruth Bader Ginsborg into Mount Doom®.  My goal?  To be in sparring shape and size by August.

There is no shortcut.  But I have a map.

I’ll let you know how it goes . . .

Soviet Map via:  User:MaGioZal [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0), GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons

Mortality, Bill Murray, Art Lessons, and Avatar

“Two years he walks the earth.  No phone, no pool, no pets, no cigarettes.” – Into the Wild

haystack

I’ve left a map.

“That’s so you, Dad.”

It’s an unusual thing for The Boy to say when discussing death.  In this case, my death.

First, some context.

I’ve made peace with the idea that I’m going to die.  I have no desire to die anytime soon, mind you, but I realize that it’s something that, statistically, happens to 100% of us.  Not 99%.  Not 99.999%.  Not even 99.9999999999%.

100%.

I think the human mind has developed safeguards to distract itself from facing this inevitability, primarily so we don’t spend our days in a corner sobbing uncontrollably when we’re young, muttering, “What is it all about?  Why do we even try?  What if I never meet Bill Murray?”  However, there comes a time in life when you begin to understand that death will come.  If I am statistically average, this fate is decades away and again, I’m not particularly interested in hurrying it along.

I’m not sure the exact moment I made peace with the idea of death.  It might have been when I was stuck watching a DVD of Avatar®.  That will make anyone long for death, so that was probably it.

avatard

I kept waiting for Papa Smurf® to show up during Avatar©.  Or the movie to be good. Neither of those things happened.

As luck would have it, Pop Wilder lived to be quite old, and was in generally very good physical health throughout his life.  At the end he was taking in more calories in pill coatings than food, but he was in good enough shape to walk for miles.

His physical health was fine.  What happened to Pop Wilder was that he started forgetting.  Perhaps the biggest blow was that, at the end, he had forgotten me entirely.  I’m fairly certain that the last few times that I saw him he had no recollection of me.  His eyes were blank – worse than blank.  When he looked at me he had the wariness one reserves for a stranger or a congressman.

I had been prepared for this – it was obvious that his memory loss was increasing exponentially each time I saw him.  I think that the last time he really knew that I was his son was several years before he passed on.  And that was okay.  I won’t say that it wasn’t difficult, but I will say that I had said everything that I needed to say to Pop before he lost his memory.  I was at peace.  Again, not easy, not happy, but at peace.  I understood that there was nothing that man nor medical science could do for him, so there was no reason for anger.

I hadn’t, however, realized the impact it had on The Boy.  The Boy saw the same things that I did, and knew that Pop Wilder was no longer the grandfather he knew.  The Boy could sense that Pop Wilder wasn’t present anymore.  Perhaps this is the most basic element of horror – watching a human transform from the person you know very well into a person you don’t know at all.  It’s implicit in every horror transformation story from vampire to werewolf to zombie.  Seeing it when you are young hits you even harder.  That transformation is made more terrifying because you didn’t even know it was possible.

Fast forward to Saturday, six days ago.  We were driving home from an event, and I mentioned that there were some things I wanted to see from him in the next twenty or thirty years.

“Don’t dawdle.  I don’t want to have to wait to die when I’m ready to die.”

It was really meant as a joke.  The look on The Boy’s face as he drove, though told me he was thinking about it.  Deeply.

“I saw what Grandpa Wilder went through.  That was tough.”  Pop Wilder had passed on years ago.  “I like your idea better.”

“My idea?”

“Yeah.  The one where you’re going to go off into the woods with just your .30-06 and enough supplies to live.  Or die.  That’s so you, Dad.”

It’s true.  I had shared with The Boy my thoughts that, should I be judged to be terminal, or if it was pretty clear I wasn’t going to make it, that rather than lingering, undergoing chemotherapy, or having to sit through another Avatar© movie, I’d sling my rifle and enough physical supplies that if I worked at it and was skilled, I could live.  Until, of course, I couldn’t.  It would be an adventure.  Maybe I’d keep a diary.  That would be some great blogging from beyond the grave.  I could even sketch memes in pencil.

deer

See, drawing is easy!

“I hope that you’d drop me where there are bears.”

“Why?”

“Well, one might attack me and I could fight back with a knife.  It would at least allow me to go out of this life like I came into it – screaming and covered in blood that wasn’t mine.”  Okay, I stole that joke.  At least The Boy thought it was original.

He laughed.

But the point was a clear one.  I know that I certainly couldn’t have dropped Pop Wilder into the forest – that certainly wasn’t anything he had ever asked for.  Watching him decline, however, was tough.  In my mind he will always be 45, at the height of his business acumen, personal physical power, and filled with the vitality that kept him always going.  When I think of him, that’s the man I see.

I can’t square the conception of my future as one that ends in a nursing home, surrounded by the never ending too warm room and hollow echo of footsteps on beige vinyl tile and antiseptic smell of hospital grade cleansers.  No.  The frozen morning’s icy touch on my cheeks, the sound of the wind rushing up the snow covered valley, and the harsh smoke of a campfire.  That has a better feel.  A truer feel.

An adventure to cap off an adventure, my next day of life dependent upon my wits and the cold steel of my knife and rifle.

owl

If there or no bears to fight, I’m sure I can pick on an owl to fight to the death.  Plus?  Owls are easy to draw – only two steps.

I’m not sure that walking away into the woods will happen – there are certainly plenty of things that would prevent this from being my destiny:  obligations and events beyond number, that chance to hang around and become drinking buddies with Bill Murray.

But right now?  This adventure continues.  It’s time to make the most of the next few decades . . . there’s only so much time.

Get busy.

Life At the Margin, Jeff Bezos, and Milking Peeps

“Jeff Bezos wet his pants!”

“I did not – it was apple juice from before.” – The Simpsons

robojeff

I hear she ordered more toilet paper through the Jeffbot™ while they were out at Sonic®.

The margin is where life gets interesting.

  • Eating: It’s not the first bite of chocolate cake that gets you fat, it’s the last.
  • Booze: It’s not the first sip of alcohol that gets you drunk.
  • Driving: It’s not the first 65mph that gets you the speeding ticket.
  • Elections: It’s not the first 49% of votes that get you elected.
  • Safety: It’s not the base load that a bridge can carry that keeps you safe.

Life is interesting and gets more interesting at the margin.  When you think of margin, you may think of a soft, buttery spread that will kill you with trans fats.  That’s margarine.  No, the margin is the edge of the piece of paper, the difference between inside the envelope and the outside.  The margin is evident all around us if we take the time to look.

But, you say, “John Wilder, this is Wealthy Wednesday, what does the margin have to do with money?  And, I’m not stupid.  I know the difference between butter and margarine.  One is made from the milk of Peeps®, and the other comes from spiders.  But I do forget which is which.”

peeps

Be careful to milk the Peeps™ and not the Chihuahua.

This is Wealthy Wednesday, and margins fit right in.  When you think about finances, the impact of the margin is especially noticeable.

Businesses depend upon the margin.  Let’s take a construction company – when building, say, a new love nest for Jeff Bezos, the first dollars the company receives must cover costs.  There is the cost for the concrete, for the plywood, for the anti-ex-wife minefield.  Each and every cost associated with building the Alexa® enabled Love Shack Fire 2000™ must be paid before there’s any profit.  The only dollars that contribute to profit are the marginal dollars, the last dollars to hit the books.  That’s why a building contractor will fight like a velociraptor in a bag of laser pointers for that next dollar.  If a contractor got 9% profit for the Bezos Wealth Reduction Chamber© and asks for 1% more, to Bezos it’s just 1%, and he just lost $65,000,000,000 anyway, so that 1% sounds pretty small.  But to the contractor, it’s a 10% increase in profit, which is huge.  Getting 5% more for Jeff’s Carnal Cottage of Whole Foods Knowledge©?  That’s 50% more profit.

When corporate profits are up by 1% of revenue, that can create (in the example above) an increase of profits by 10%.  Profits are set at the margin.  Our economy is powered by the margin.

pushback

I guess that means the orbital laser system is out, too?

Taxes are set at the margin, too.  The top tax rate is 37%, which means that every dollar (once you’ve made $500,000) you only get to keep 63%.  That 37% in taxes?  It’s burned ritually in Washington D.C. every Summer Solstice.  They used to sacrifice a virgin congressman as well, but they swear they don’t have any of those anymore, not since Jeff Bezos visited.  But you pay more in taxes as you earn more money.

It equally applies to an individual’s income.  The most important dollar I make is the marginal one – that last dollar is the one that can be saved, spent on margarine butter or anything I want.  The first dollars are spoken for, they have to go to pay the mortgage, to feed two always starving children, to buy electricity.  But the last dollars are freedom itself.  The margin provides growth, to the extent that it exists.  If there’s a negative margin?  You’re eating your savings, or, worse, living on credit.

The margin also applies to what you do in life.  You can put in minimal effort, and be average or a little bit below average.  Or, you can work harder to push the margin, and be great at what you do.  As I get older, I’ve become convinced that talent can be a curse – it makes life easy.  Easy is not your friend. Easy provides good results with minimal effort.  That’s akin to jogging through life while everybody else has to practice sprinting.  Eventually dedication overcomes talent and they sprint past you to live on the margin, where all the nice things are.

margin

But if you have extra effort and talent?  You can live on the margin.  You can create the margin.

So, go create the margin.  It’s easier than squeezing Peeps© to make margarine.