I’ve never been accused of being the brightest bulb on the tree. I’ve been accused of not being able to see the forest for the trees, but the brightest bulb on, not so much. I have, however, been recognized by several people (okay, only by my wife, but she’s very perceptive), of being handy. That is to say, I have a way with things mechanical. When it comes to things intellectual or social or, as it turns out, matrimonial (present matrimony excluded), maybe not so way. I still, after these years, find people, politics, beliefs, and mores mostly a mystery, but machines I get.
I’m proud to say that back in the day of VCR’s I could actually set the clock on mine. I could even do it as quickly as my ten year old son, so I’m also proud to say that I might be as smart as a fifth grader. I can install and operate a DVD player and even know that it will play CD’s (it’s true, give it a try). I can install and operate a BluRay player, an LCD or Plasma TV, and even a DLP projector. I can install a surround sound system with only a few parts left over, and with a few hours and a few instruction manuals I can make all my players play together nicely. I can get all the remotes to function, more or less, but cannot for the life of me get any of the several “universal remotes” I have purchased be anything but universally worthless.
I’m a fixer. That is to say, I can fix things that are broken. Not anything of course: I was never very good at fixing broken hearts, broken relationships or races. I couldn’t “fix it” when my second wife got sick and died from cancer (not funny, just very sad). But if it’s a machine, I’m your man. I could even fix cars, back before cars became smarter than people, far more complicated and far more fickle. If it’s part of a house, I can fix it. Plumbing doesn’t scare me. Bring on your faucets that leak, your drains that clog, your toilets that don’t flush, or don’t stop flushing. Wiring scares me a little, less since I started turning off the breaker before the repair instead of during (don’t ask, suffice it to say I was trying to be the brightest bulb on the tree, literally).
Of course, I have tools, lot and lots of tools. I started out with hand tools and even have a few antiques. They’re beautiful objects, handcrafted by skilled craftsmen, that still work beautifully. Work being the operative word, I have since purchased several power tools. They make little jobs easier and bigger jobs possible. I even have a Shop Smith, a wonderful machine that does it all, developed several years ago by a very handy man (pardon the pun). It’s a great rip saw, a great cross cut saw, a great band saw, a great masonry saw, a great metal saw, a great drum sander, a great disk sander, a great grinder, a great dadoer (no I didn’t make that up), a great router, a great joiner, a great planer, a great shaper, a great drill press, and a an incredible adjustable lathe. Of course, switching between functions is a great time-waster, but that wasn’t mentioned in the brochure.
Needless to say, I believe in being prepared, tool wise. However, according to my father-in-law, may he rest in peace, I am way too prepared and most of most my tools are a complete waste of space and money. His toolbox contained just three items which he utilized according to a very strict set of guidelines. If it moves and shouldn’t, use duct tape. If it doesn’t move and should, use WD 40. For everything else, use the hammer. If it doesn’t fix it, it’s still the appropriate tool.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Green Thumbs
I do not have a green thumb. That is NOT to say that neither of the short thick digits on my hands, next to the index finger and opposable to each of the other four digits, is green, although they aren’t. That IS to say that I am congenitally incapable of creating, supporting, or even sustaining plant life. In my care, cut flowers wilt in minutes as opposed to days. Oddly, anthuriums (I live in Hawaii) seem to last for weeks. I suspect they have low self- esteem and thrive on neglect. Potted plants do not fare much better. Plants that are healthy and full of color at Lowe’s Garden Center, inevitably become pale and sickly in Richard’s Living Room. The tasteful, if sparsely attended, funeral soon follows. Even artificial plants to which I invariably resort, start dropping pieces of foliage within a few months of taking up residence with at my house.
My attempts at gardening have been, at best, disappointing. I love corn-on-the-cob. My effort to grow it resulted in neither corn, nor cob. I thoroughly enjoyed the cucumber I coaxed from the soil, but failed completely to grow green beans, or peas, or carrots, or squash, or even radishes (yes, I admit it, I failed to grow radishes). My tomatoes, on the other hand, thrived. I was feeling quite proud of myself until I discovered that the tiny tomato roots had found their way to the cesspool. Needless to say, my plans to put by some home-canned tomatoes for winter, were dashed by the discovery. I was pleased that my plans for personally surviving the winter after eating copious amounts of naturally fertilized fruit (yes, tomatoes are a fruit), were not.
If my attempts at gardening were disappointing, my attempt at farming was a disaster. In Kona, Hawaii, everybody (well almost everybody) grows Kona Coffee. I was told it was essentially a weed and would grow despite my best efforts to sustain it. I planted 100 plants on my quarter acre. Properly interred, properly fertilized, properly watered and suitable spaced from each other (and the adjacent cesspool), 70 plants didn’t last the week. The rest struggled on. I planted 70 more plants, 10 survived, the rest were laid to rest in the growing green waste pile (I don’t know why it’s called green waste, it isn’t green, at least not anymore). I planted 60 more plants, 5 survived, and so I decided I really preferred a 45-plant orchard anyway; 40 plants survive to this day and produce occasional coffee beans; enough for several cups of coffee if I had the energy or inclination to pick, process, and roast them. I don’t.
My friend Bob DOES have a green thumb. His biggest problem is controlling the lush jungle that surrounds his house. My hibiscus hedge looks like a tank ran through it repeatedly. His is a work of art in green, white, and red. My ground cover is heavy on the ground, light on the cover. His ground cover is a carpet of undulating green with sparkling accents of red and yellow. His fruit trees bear voluminous amounts of delicious fruit every year. My remaining fruit tree (don’t ask, I don’t like to talk about it) will bring forth a few morsels every few years.
I don’t know why my thumbs are so un-green. I care for my plants. I water them on occasion, and I’ve been known to fertilize them on rare occasion, but then I put on lots of fertilizer to make up for it. It may be because I don’t talk to them, although I have been known to utter a mild expletive over a newly discovered plant corpse. I don’t read to them, or play music for them, or gently wash their little leaves and petals. I don’t even spritz them on a regular basis as advised in my Plant Care for Dummies.
I suspect my plants know I don’t really, really care about them. I like the idea of having plants, but I’m just not willing to make the commitment. Sure, I purchase them with the best of intentions, and I try, I really do, but my plants just don’t understand me. It’s all about their wants, their needs. It doesn’t matter that I work hard every day so they can have a pot to live in. And then a newer, younger, prettier plant comes along and I admit it, I want it. Hmm, I wonder if my plants aren’t just dying from lack of care and attention: I wonder if they are committing suicide.
My attempts at gardening have been, at best, disappointing. I love corn-on-the-cob. My effort to grow it resulted in neither corn, nor cob. I thoroughly enjoyed the cucumber I coaxed from the soil, but failed completely to grow green beans, or peas, or carrots, or squash, or even radishes (yes, I admit it, I failed to grow radishes). My tomatoes, on the other hand, thrived. I was feeling quite proud of myself until I discovered that the tiny tomato roots had found their way to the cesspool. Needless to say, my plans to put by some home-canned tomatoes for winter, were dashed by the discovery. I was pleased that my plans for personally surviving the winter after eating copious amounts of naturally fertilized fruit (yes, tomatoes are a fruit), were not.
If my attempts at gardening were disappointing, my attempt at farming was a disaster. In Kona, Hawaii, everybody (well almost everybody) grows Kona Coffee. I was told it was essentially a weed and would grow despite my best efforts to sustain it. I planted 100 plants on my quarter acre. Properly interred, properly fertilized, properly watered and suitable spaced from each other (and the adjacent cesspool), 70 plants didn’t last the week. The rest struggled on. I planted 70 more plants, 10 survived, the rest were laid to rest in the growing green waste pile (I don’t know why it’s called green waste, it isn’t green, at least not anymore). I planted 60 more plants, 5 survived, and so I decided I really preferred a 45-plant orchard anyway; 40 plants survive to this day and produce occasional coffee beans; enough for several cups of coffee if I had the energy or inclination to pick, process, and roast them. I don’t.
My friend Bob DOES have a green thumb. His biggest problem is controlling the lush jungle that surrounds his house. My hibiscus hedge looks like a tank ran through it repeatedly. His is a work of art in green, white, and red. My ground cover is heavy on the ground, light on the cover. His ground cover is a carpet of undulating green with sparkling accents of red and yellow. His fruit trees bear voluminous amounts of delicious fruit every year. My remaining fruit tree (don’t ask, I don’t like to talk about it) will bring forth a few morsels every few years.
I don’t know why my thumbs are so un-green. I care for my plants. I water them on occasion, and I’ve been known to fertilize them on rare occasion, but then I put on lots of fertilizer to make up for it. It may be because I don’t talk to them, although I have been known to utter a mild expletive over a newly discovered plant corpse. I don’t read to them, or play music for them, or gently wash their little leaves and petals. I don’t even spritz them on a regular basis as advised in my Plant Care for Dummies.
I suspect my plants know I don’t really, really care about them. I like the idea of having plants, but I’m just not willing to make the commitment. Sure, I purchase them with the best of intentions, and I try, I really do, but my plants just don’t understand me. It’s all about their wants, their needs. It doesn’t matter that I work hard every day so they can have a pot to live in. And then a newer, younger, prettier plant comes along and I admit it, I want it. Hmm, I wonder if my plants aren’t just dying from lack of care and attention: I wonder if they are committing suicide.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Big Expensive Huses
I grew up in a little house on the prairie. Well, not really on the prairie, not even in prairie country, not even out west, but definitely little. Mom, dad, my brother, three sisters, and I lived in a three-bedroom (if you count the fixed-up attic) house with one (count it, one) bathroom. Altogether about 1,500 square feet (counting the fixed-up attic) and no garage, no tennis court, and not even one swimming pool. Amazingly we all survived, even though, on occasion, I had to pee in the cornfield.
I doubt that Donald Trump, on the other hand, ever needs to resort to the cornfield to relieve himself. In fact his 80,000-square-foot home in Palm Beach has (count them)18 to 22 bathrooms (depending on who’s counting). It also has 18 bedrooms, a fitness room, a home theatre, a library, a wine cellar/grotto, and staff quarters. It contains three additional structures that include a two-bedroom poolside retreat, a two-bedroom guest house, and a four-bedroom coach house, whatever that is. This Palm Beach home features incredible ocean views, a 100-foot-long pool (just the one), a hot tub, and two fireplaces. It sits on several acres, with 500 feet of ocean frontage and, as far as I know, has no cornfield. On the market for $125,000,000, it recently sold at the bargain price of $95,000,000.
It is, to be sure, a nice place. Compared to the home of Mukesh Ambani, however, it’s just a bungalow. The Ambani residence, named Antilia, is a 27-story (but as tall as a 60-story) building on just over an acre in downtown Mumbai. It boasts 60,000 square feet of living space (a bit smaller than the Trump bungalow) , with a multitude of bedrooms and bathrooms, a health spa, a theatre with a seating capacity for 50, multiple (meaning more than one) swimming pools, three floors of hanging gardens, a snow room, whatever that is, and a ballroom. The garage has parking for 160 cars, so, of course, one whole floor is dedicated to vehicle maintenance. There are eight elevators and three helipads and, of course, a small air traffic control center. It is valued at over $1,000,000,000 (one billion dollars). Assuming Mukesh got rich by not being frivolous, I’m guessing it was built for far less.
It is, to be sure, a nice place. Compared to the home of the Sultan of Brunei, Istana Nurul Iman, however, it’s just a starter home. The Sultan’s home contains 1,788 rooms, 257 bathrooms, and a floor area of 2,152,782 square feet. Amenities include five (that’s one plus four more) swimming pools, an air-conditioned stable for the Sultan's 200 polo ponies, a 110-car garage, a banquet hall that can be expanded to accommodate up to 4,000 guests, and a mosque accommodating 1,500 people. Built in 1984 at a cost of around $1.4 billion, it has 564 chandeliers, 51,000 light bulbs, 44 stairwells, and 18 elevators. It is also a home to a car collection that includes custom-made Ferraris and Bentleys as well as 165 Rolls-Royces. Oh- oh, what’s a Sultan to do? The garage is only big enough for 110 cars.
I doubt that Donald Trump, on the other hand, ever needs to resort to the cornfield to relieve himself. In fact his 80,000-square-foot home in Palm Beach has (count them)18 to 22 bathrooms (depending on who’s counting). It also has 18 bedrooms, a fitness room, a home theatre, a library, a wine cellar/grotto, and staff quarters. It contains three additional structures that include a two-bedroom poolside retreat, a two-bedroom guest house, and a four-bedroom coach house, whatever that is. This Palm Beach home features incredible ocean views, a 100-foot-long pool (just the one), a hot tub, and two fireplaces. It sits on several acres, with 500 feet of ocean frontage and, as far as I know, has no cornfield. On the market for $125,000,000, it recently sold at the bargain price of $95,000,000.
It is, to be sure, a nice place. Compared to the home of Mukesh Ambani, however, it’s just a bungalow. The Ambani residence, named Antilia, is a 27-story (but as tall as a 60-story) building on just over an acre in downtown Mumbai. It boasts 60,000 square feet of living space (a bit smaller than the Trump bungalow) , with a multitude of bedrooms and bathrooms, a health spa, a theatre with a seating capacity for 50, multiple (meaning more than one) swimming pools, three floors of hanging gardens, a snow room, whatever that is, and a ballroom. The garage has parking for 160 cars, so, of course, one whole floor is dedicated to vehicle maintenance. There are eight elevators and three helipads and, of course, a small air traffic control center. It is valued at over $1,000,000,000 (one billion dollars). Assuming Mukesh got rich by not being frivolous, I’m guessing it was built for far less.
It is, to be sure, a nice place. Compared to the home of the Sultan of Brunei, Istana Nurul Iman, however, it’s just a starter home. The Sultan’s home contains 1,788 rooms, 257 bathrooms, and a floor area of 2,152,782 square feet. Amenities include five (that’s one plus four more) swimming pools, an air-conditioned stable for the Sultan's 200 polo ponies, a 110-car garage, a banquet hall that can be expanded to accommodate up to 4,000 guests, and a mosque accommodating 1,500 people. Built in 1984 at a cost of around $1.4 billion, it has 564 chandeliers, 51,000 light bulbs, 44 stairwells, and 18 elevators. It is also a home to a car collection that includes custom-made Ferraris and Bentleys as well as 165 Rolls-Royces. Oh- oh, what’s a Sultan to do? The garage is only big enough for 110 cars.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Reality TV
Since I can remember, I’ve been a people watcher. When, as a young lad, I had to accompany mom on our annual trek to the factory outlet to buy school clothes, I would become so preoccupied watching other moms and other lads, that my mom would usually give up and decide that “hand-me-downs” and “let-outs” would “do just fine this year.” Once, as an adult needing to make a business trip by air, I missed my flight. I was distracted watching a mini real-life drama unfolding at the gate. I forget the plot of that real-life drama. I remember the plot of my real-life drama of trying to book another flight that would get me to my meeting before it was over.
To be sure, watching people live their lives can be fun. It can even be quite interesting and occasionally educational; but is it really prime time entertainment? Do we really need to see, in excruciating detail, other people going about the business of getting through their day, their week, their “real life”? Isn’t our own real life, reality enough?
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy watching television shows about real people in competition. I loved game shows as a child, and I eagerly anticipate the return of American Idol every January. I watch America’s Got Talent on occasion, and Dancing With the Stars on rare occasion. Last Comic Standing can be fun, but I could do without the segments where the contestants are forced to live together in the mansion (or is that another show? Anyway, in some large domicile) in hopes that plotting, or bickering, or worse, will break out (it always does, I wonder why).
I sometimes watch competitions based on cooking. Iron Chef can be tasty (pardon the pun), but a little cheffing can go a long way. I refuse to watch Hell’s Kitchen. When did bad manners, insults, and a surly disposition become a prerequisite for mentors? I’m also not a big fan of competitions around fashion design, modeling, spokes personing, or cake decorating, but my wife enjoys them, so I watch with her to show that I care about her interests (but mostly because she controls the remote after 8:00 pm).
Reality shows about real occupations, amusing, different or dangerous, can be interesting, although I might prefer, not to know that people are risking their lives to transport goods across a barren wilderness on roads carved out of ice. Or risking their lives in a tiny boat on a frigid ocean to trap the Alaskan King Crab that I so enjoy devouring, with drawn butter and a big baked potato smothered in butter, and fresh green beans drenched in butter (but that’s another story). Anyway, these are more documentaries than reality shows.
Definitely not documentaries, and having very little to do with reality, are these “reality television” shows. Shows like Big Brother, The Bachelor, The Apprentice, and The Biggest Loser. Shows like Real Wedding Crashers, and in a related vein, Here Come the Newlyweds, then Till Death Do Us Part, and then The Marriage Ref. Shows like Super Nanny and Nanny 911, My Big Fat Obnoxious Boss and My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancee, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and Queer Eye for the Straight Girl (we mustn’t discriminate). Shows like Wife Swap and Trading Spouses, and of course, The Real Wives of… (insert your favorite city). Shows like Extreme Makeover and Extreme Makeover: Home (actually I kind of like that one, I used to be an architect).
And, of course, the granddaddy of them all: Survivor. “Two teams of ordinary people, abandoned in a harsh wilderness. Left to fend for themselves and compete in an effort to survive.” Really? I mean, really! It’s two teams of ordinary people plus a half dozen producers, plus a few directors, plus a crew of dozens more and a full writing staff. By the way, why do you need a writing staff when everything is extemporaneous and “real”? And let’s be honest (not required, I guess, to be “real”), how difficult is it to survive when “going days with little water and no food” can be remedied with a quick trip to the lunch buffet, required by the union for the writers and crew and never far away.
I really don’t understand the attraction of Survivor. And in these challenging times, I really don’t have the energy or inclination to try. I’ll be happy just to be one.
To be sure, watching people live their lives can be fun. It can even be quite interesting and occasionally educational; but is it really prime time entertainment? Do we really need to see, in excruciating detail, other people going about the business of getting through their day, their week, their “real life”? Isn’t our own real life, reality enough?
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy watching television shows about real people in competition. I loved game shows as a child, and I eagerly anticipate the return of American Idol every January. I watch America’s Got Talent on occasion, and Dancing With the Stars on rare occasion. Last Comic Standing can be fun, but I could do without the segments where the contestants are forced to live together in the mansion (or is that another show? Anyway, in some large domicile) in hopes that plotting, or bickering, or worse, will break out (it always does, I wonder why).
I sometimes watch competitions based on cooking. Iron Chef can be tasty (pardon the pun), but a little cheffing can go a long way. I refuse to watch Hell’s Kitchen. When did bad manners, insults, and a surly disposition become a prerequisite for mentors? I’m also not a big fan of competitions around fashion design, modeling, spokes personing, or cake decorating, but my wife enjoys them, so I watch with her to show that I care about her interests (but mostly because she controls the remote after 8:00 pm).
Reality shows about real occupations, amusing, different or dangerous, can be interesting, although I might prefer, not to know that people are risking their lives to transport goods across a barren wilderness on roads carved out of ice. Or risking their lives in a tiny boat on a frigid ocean to trap the Alaskan King Crab that I so enjoy devouring, with drawn butter and a big baked potato smothered in butter, and fresh green beans drenched in butter (but that’s another story). Anyway, these are more documentaries than reality shows.
Definitely not documentaries, and having very little to do with reality, are these “reality television” shows. Shows like Big Brother, The Bachelor, The Apprentice, and The Biggest Loser. Shows like Real Wedding Crashers, and in a related vein, Here Come the Newlyweds, then Till Death Do Us Part, and then The Marriage Ref. Shows like Super Nanny and Nanny 911, My Big Fat Obnoxious Boss and My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancee, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and Queer Eye for the Straight Girl (we mustn’t discriminate). Shows like Wife Swap and Trading Spouses, and of course, The Real Wives of… (insert your favorite city). Shows like Extreme Makeover and Extreme Makeover: Home (actually I kind of like that one, I used to be an architect).
And, of course, the granddaddy of them all: Survivor. “Two teams of ordinary people, abandoned in a harsh wilderness. Left to fend for themselves and compete in an effort to survive.” Really? I mean, really! It’s two teams of ordinary people plus a half dozen producers, plus a few directors, plus a crew of dozens more and a full writing staff. By the way, why do you need a writing staff when everything is extemporaneous and “real”? And let’s be honest (not required, I guess, to be “real”), how difficult is it to survive when “going days with little water and no food” can be remedied with a quick trip to the lunch buffet, required by the union for the writers and crew and never far away.
I really don’t understand the attraction of Survivor. And in these challenging times, I really don’t have the energy or inclination to try. I’ll be happy just to be one.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Modern Technology, Part 4
My first computer was an I-Omega Super Brain. It contained a super-size, six-inch (diagonally measured) monitor that displayed “brilliant white letters on a jet black screen.” An obese (or perhaps just big-boned) beauty, it boasted a whopping 64 kilobytes of internal memory and two (not just one, but two) external drive bays that accepted floppy disks up to 48 kilobytes each. A floppy disk was a plastic, magnetic coating, recording device. Think of an anorexic CD that’s bendy and hides in a paper sleeve; 48 kilobytes of data on something you could hold in your hand was very impressive at the time.
By comparison, today’s flash drive (or thumb drive, or jump drive, or pocket disk or san disc, pick a generic name already), those cute little gadgets about the size of your pinky that plug into a USB port (Universal Serial Bus, in case you cared), hold up to 32 gigabytes of data. That’s almost a million times more information. One pinky-sized thumb drive (pinky drive, perhaps) can hold all the information in the Encyclopedia Britannica including pictures, Roget’s Thesaurus, and your Funk and Wagnalls, unabridged edition. By the way, if these book titles don't ring a bell, you probably won’t get this article. If the term book doesn’t ring a bell, you’re probably my youngest son.
Today’s computers are true wonders of modern technology. They allow us to do things we’ve never done, and do things we’ve always done, better and faster. They help us learn and to teach what we have learned. They have changed the way we gather information and the information available to gather. They have changed the way we get the news, the good news we enjoy, the bad news we need to hear, and even the very bad news we’d rather not. They have changed the way we are entertained, the way we shop, even the way we pay our bills, or not (the electronic transfer has been e-mailed, really).
As wonderful as computers are, at times, not so much. At times, they are incredible time- wasters and can steal time needed for work or study. Addictive video games, cyber bullying, and, worse, cyber stalking, can steal time and self-esteem and innocence. Just trying to keep up with the technology - the hardware, the software, the accessories, the add-ons, the strap-ons (sorry, different technology) - can steal our money and our resources. Not keeping up is not an option because the software keeps changing and the old hardware won’t run the new software. Sometimes the new hardware won’t run the new software because the new software has been replaced with the newer software which is needed to be compatible with new operating system which was developed to be compatible with the newest processor.
And then there’s the age-old question, what to do with the old hardware? You can’t give it away; schools can’t teach today’s children with yesterday’s technology. You can’t sell it; nobody wants hand-me-down electronics. You can’t even throw it away unless you can find an authorized electronics disposal facility (open only on alternate Thursdays between 12:00 and 1:00, please call ahead, we may be at lunch). Computers; we love them, we hate them. We can’t live without them, can’t live with them, and can’t bring them to the dump (but that’s another story).
By comparison, today’s flash drive (or thumb drive, or jump drive, or pocket disk or san disc, pick a generic name already), those cute little gadgets about the size of your pinky that plug into a USB port (Universal Serial Bus, in case you cared), hold up to 32 gigabytes of data. That’s almost a million times more information. One pinky-sized thumb drive (pinky drive, perhaps) can hold all the information in the Encyclopedia Britannica including pictures, Roget’s Thesaurus, and your Funk and Wagnalls, unabridged edition. By the way, if these book titles don't ring a bell, you probably won’t get this article. If the term book doesn’t ring a bell, you’re probably my youngest son.
Today’s computers are true wonders of modern technology. They allow us to do things we’ve never done, and do things we’ve always done, better and faster. They help us learn and to teach what we have learned. They have changed the way we gather information and the information available to gather. They have changed the way we get the news, the good news we enjoy, the bad news we need to hear, and even the very bad news we’d rather not. They have changed the way we are entertained, the way we shop, even the way we pay our bills, or not (the electronic transfer has been e-mailed, really).
As wonderful as computers are, at times, not so much. At times, they are incredible time- wasters and can steal time needed for work or study. Addictive video games, cyber bullying, and, worse, cyber stalking, can steal time and self-esteem and innocence. Just trying to keep up with the technology - the hardware, the software, the accessories, the add-ons, the strap-ons (sorry, different technology) - can steal our money and our resources. Not keeping up is not an option because the software keeps changing and the old hardware won’t run the new software. Sometimes the new hardware won’t run the new software because the new software has been replaced with the newer software which is needed to be compatible with new operating system which was developed to be compatible with the newest processor.
And then there’s the age-old question, what to do with the old hardware? You can’t give it away; schools can’t teach today’s children with yesterday’s technology. You can’t sell it; nobody wants hand-me-down electronics. You can’t even throw it away unless you can find an authorized electronics disposal facility (open only on alternate Thursdays between 12:00 and 1:00, please call ahead, we may be at lunch). Computers; we love them, we hate them. We can’t live without them, can’t live with them, and can’t bring them to the dump (but that’s another story).
Monday, December 13, 2010
Politically Correct
During World War I (the “Big One” according to my grandfather) there was “shell shock.” The expression needed no explanation, we all got it (the concept, not the affliction). During World War II (the “Big One” according to my father) there was the more politically correct “battle fatigue.” The expression needed a little explanation, afflicted soldiers, it turned out, were more than just tired. During the Vietnam War (actually the “Vietnam Conflict,” a “political action” to be politically correct); there was the most politically correct, “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.” The expression evidently needs a lot of explanation, hundreds of papers and dozens of books have been written on the affliction. I still don’t really understand it; I think it’s similar to shell shock.
There are many other terms I don’t really understand, or find a bit ridiculous, or both. When I was a child some people were short, or fat, or lazy, or crazy, or poor, or homeless, or bald. Today they are just “challenged,” vertically, gravitationally, motivationally, cognitively, monetarily, or residentially. Or in my case, follically (also monetarily, but that’s another story).
I fondly remember when, if you had a job, you were a someone, not a something “specialist.” You were a teacher, or a gardener, or a mailman, or a waiter, or a plumber or a garbage collector. Now you are a “specialist” in education, or flora, or correspondence delivery, or sustenance delivery, or sanitation, or sanitation (sometimes clarity must be sacrificed for correctness). I remember when bad guys were just someone bad. They were robbers and muggers, or perverts and pedophiles, or murderers. Now they are “resource allocation specialists,” or “prepubescent individual exploitation specialists,” or “termination specialists” (not to be confused with exterminators, who murder household pests. Okay there’s a little overlap there). Of course there are also "specialists," physicians who concentrate on a particular field of tax shelter.
When did hookers become “sexual purveyors”; dirty old men become “sexually focused, chronologically advanced males”; rednecks become “rustically inclined individuals”; or cats become “feline associates” (dogs have masters, cats have associates)? When did cheating become “creative collaboration”; criticism become “creative assessment” (actually better); failure become “untraditional success”; ignorant become “factually unencumbered”; sleepy become “under alert” and ugly become “under attractive”?
Finally, when exactly did “black” (more politically correct, I assume, than Negro) become “African American”? And when did “white” (more politically correct, I assume, than Caucasian) become “melanin-impoverished member of the mutant albino genetic-recessive global minority”?
There are many other terms I don’t really understand, or find a bit ridiculous, or both. When I was a child some people were short, or fat, or lazy, or crazy, or poor, or homeless, or bald. Today they are just “challenged,” vertically, gravitationally, motivationally, cognitively, monetarily, or residentially. Or in my case, follically (also monetarily, but that’s another story).
I fondly remember when, if you had a job, you were a someone, not a something “specialist.” You were a teacher, or a gardener, or a mailman, or a waiter, or a plumber or a garbage collector. Now you are a “specialist” in education, or flora, or correspondence delivery, or sustenance delivery, or sanitation, or sanitation (sometimes clarity must be sacrificed for correctness). I remember when bad guys were just someone bad. They were robbers and muggers, or perverts and pedophiles, or murderers. Now they are “resource allocation specialists,” or “prepubescent individual exploitation specialists,” or “termination specialists” (not to be confused with exterminators, who murder household pests. Okay there’s a little overlap there). Of course there are also "specialists," physicians who concentrate on a particular field of tax shelter.
When did hookers become “sexual purveyors”; dirty old men become “sexually focused, chronologically advanced males”; rednecks become “rustically inclined individuals”; or cats become “feline associates” (dogs have masters, cats have associates)? When did cheating become “creative collaboration”; criticism become “creative assessment” (actually better); failure become “untraditional success”; ignorant become “factually unencumbered”; sleepy become “under alert” and ugly become “under attractive”?
Finally, when exactly did “black” (more politically correct, I assume, than Negro) become “African American”? And when did “white” (more politically correct, I assume, than Caucasian) become “melanin-impoverished member of the mutant albino genetic-recessive global minority”?
Diminishing Vocabulary
I enjoy writing. I don’t love it. I might have loved it once, years ago when I was rich in words. Today, when the times have robbed so many of us of so much, I find my vocabulary, like my fortune, has dwindled to a tiny fraction of what it once was. So many dollars and so many words have somehow gone missing. Wouldn’t it have been nice had I thought to put away a few dollars for a rainy day, or a few words for an interesting thought. Were it not for dictionaries and Google (incidently, according to my dictionary, it really should be “googol”), my writings would certainly be reduced to ramblings. Or has that ship already sailed?
I have always loved words. The lovely, liquid, often long, sometimes lugubrious language of poetry. The splashing, hissing, buzzing, hiccupping, knocking, and kerplunking of the comics. The articles about animals, including mammals, specifically camels, who are often found trammeling the desert. And the stories of young (or not so young) Casanovas who promise, “I’ll walk you down the aisle on a tropical isle if you just say yes.”
Unfortunately, each passing year marks the passing of a few hundred more words from my lexicon. More and more things become “things,” whose given name escapes me. Fortunately, I live in Hawaii, where most everything can be described as “da kine” (but that’s another story), so my limitations are perhaps less obvious to those outside my immediate family. Speaking of immediately family, compared to my mother-in-law (bless her heart, which is huge) I am still a verbal giant. She retains only a few hundred words, including a few carefully chosen mild expletives, which serve her very well. Never mind that she loves to drink Formosas, or that her daughter gave her a pedophile for her birthday, or that the same daughter’s autopsy came back negative, or that her dear departed husbands asses are buried in the back yard next to the syphilis bushes.
No longer a verbal giant (if ever I was) and more akin to a verbal midget (I’m sorry, verbal small person, but that’s also another story), it would be nice if I still had the vocabulary and skills I once possessed (or the wealth I once enjoyed, but that’s still another story). If my memory wasn’t failing me and I still possessed a wealth of words, I could surely be prolific. I could pen worthy articles and correspond with important people. I could verbalize my great thoughts and compose treatises about my original, innovative ideas. If only I were just still rich in words and still loved writing, and could remember any of my great thoughts or innovative ideas.
I have always loved words. The lovely, liquid, often long, sometimes lugubrious language of poetry. The splashing, hissing, buzzing, hiccupping, knocking, and kerplunking of the comics. The articles about animals, including mammals, specifically camels, who are often found trammeling the desert. And the stories of young (or not so young) Casanovas who promise, “I’ll walk you down the aisle on a tropical isle if you just say yes.”
Unfortunately, each passing year marks the passing of a few hundred more words from my lexicon. More and more things become “things,” whose given name escapes me. Fortunately, I live in Hawaii, where most everything can be described as “da kine” (but that’s another story), so my limitations are perhaps less obvious to those outside my immediate family. Speaking of immediately family, compared to my mother-in-law (bless her heart, which is huge) I am still a verbal giant. She retains only a few hundred words, including a few carefully chosen mild expletives, which serve her very well. Never mind that she loves to drink Formosas, or that her daughter gave her a pedophile for her birthday, or that the same daughter’s autopsy came back negative, or that her dear departed husbands asses are buried in the back yard next to the syphilis bushes.
No longer a verbal giant (if ever I was) and more akin to a verbal midget (I’m sorry, verbal small person, but that’s also another story), it would be nice if I still had the vocabulary and skills I once possessed (or the wealth I once enjoyed, but that’s still another story). If my memory wasn’t failing me and I still possessed a wealth of words, I could surely be prolific. I could pen worthy articles and correspond with important people. I could verbalize my great thoughts and compose treatises about my original, innovative ideas. If only I were just still rich in words and still loved writing, and could remember any of my great thoughts or innovative ideas.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Airport Security
Make no mistake, I never want to be a passenger in an aircraft being highjacked, or being commandeered, or being re-purposed as a lethal weapon, or carrying a bomb, or carrying a person carrying a bomb, or carrying a person intent on Hari Kari, or even carrying Harry Caray (I’m really not a Cubs fan).
For that matter, I’d prefer not to be a passenger on an aircraft being detained endlessly on the tarmac, or carrying crying children, or carrying children in the seat behind you that keep kicking the back of your seat, or carrying really big people who can’t or won’t buy two seats, so they put the armrests up and take half of your seat, or people that... (but that’s another story).
Anyway, I get it that we need “enhanced” airport security. I get that the best way to deal with potential disasters is to nip them at the gate (pardon the paraphrasing). I just wonder if some of the procedures that have been instituted really make sense. For example, are nail clippers really a potential weapon? Or, couldn’t a terrorist hide explosives somewhere other than in his shoes, between his butt cheeks, say? Please Mr. Terrorist, do not take this as a suggestion; the logical result would be very time consuming, not to mention a bit inconvenient. “Passengers are advised to arrive at the airport five hours before departure. Please wear easily removable clothing.”
And what’s with “no liquids in excess of three ounces per container.” Is it just me, or couldn’t a clever terrorist divide up his pound of explosives into six containers (that’s 2.67 ounces per container, in case you don’t have your calculator handy)? And don’t explosives also come in amorphous plastic form? Of course, we could always amend the rule, “no liquids and/or puttys, silly or otherwise, in excess of three ounces per container.”
Now I can understand that computers pose a special problem. I mean they are just crammed full of fancy electronic stuff, and I know that it takes a lot of fancy electronic stuff to detonate a bomb. A terrorist could build a “computer-like” device with pounds of explosives and detonation device all-in-one. Then, but only after the seat belt sign had been turned off and the captain had advised him was okay to turn on electronic devices, he could blow up the aircraft (himself included, of course, but that’s another story). Fortunately it’s not possible, evidently, to build a “computer-like” device with a functioning screen; so as long as we require potential terrorists to turn on their computers we’ll be able to uncover the bogus computer/bombs, and be safe.
Perhaps I’m just jaded. I still remember fondly the days when you could arrive at the airport a few minutes before departure with three bags to check and two more to carry on (but that’s yet another story). Perhaps I should take comfort in the knowledge that, despite the dangerous times in which we live, I can be a passenger in an aircraft that is safe (thank you, TSA) from the threat of being high-jacked by a band of nail-clipper-wielding terrorists.
For that matter, I’d prefer not to be a passenger on an aircraft being detained endlessly on the tarmac, or carrying crying children, or carrying children in the seat behind you that keep kicking the back of your seat, or carrying really big people who can’t or won’t buy two seats, so they put the armrests up and take half of your seat, or people that... (but that’s another story).
Anyway, I get it that we need “enhanced” airport security. I get that the best way to deal with potential disasters is to nip them at the gate (pardon the paraphrasing). I just wonder if some of the procedures that have been instituted really make sense. For example, are nail clippers really a potential weapon? Or, couldn’t a terrorist hide explosives somewhere other than in his shoes, between his butt cheeks, say? Please Mr. Terrorist, do not take this as a suggestion; the logical result would be very time consuming, not to mention a bit inconvenient. “Passengers are advised to arrive at the airport five hours before departure. Please wear easily removable clothing.”
And what’s with “no liquids in excess of three ounces per container.” Is it just me, or couldn’t a clever terrorist divide up his pound of explosives into six containers (that’s 2.67 ounces per container, in case you don’t have your calculator handy)? And don’t explosives also come in amorphous plastic form? Of course, we could always amend the rule, “no liquids and/or puttys, silly or otherwise, in excess of three ounces per container.”
Now I can understand that computers pose a special problem. I mean they are just crammed full of fancy electronic stuff, and I know that it takes a lot of fancy electronic stuff to detonate a bomb. A terrorist could build a “computer-like” device with pounds of explosives and detonation device all-in-one. Then, but only after the seat belt sign had been turned off and the captain had advised him was okay to turn on electronic devices, he could blow up the aircraft (himself included, of course, but that’s another story). Fortunately it’s not possible, evidently, to build a “computer-like” device with a functioning screen; so as long as we require potential terrorists to turn on their computers we’ll be able to uncover the bogus computer/bombs, and be safe.
Perhaps I’m just jaded. I still remember fondly the days when you could arrive at the airport a few minutes before departure with three bags to check and two more to carry on (but that’s yet another story). Perhaps I should take comfort in the knowledge that, despite the dangerous times in which we live, I can be a passenger in an aircraft that is safe (thank you, TSA) from the threat of being high-jacked by a band of nail-clipper-wielding terrorists.
Monday, December 6, 2010
What's In A Nickname
My name is Richard. As a child my folks and friends called me “Dicky.” I found it a little annoying until, as a slightly heavy eight-year-old, I became “Chubbs.” Much later in life I became “Dick,” which stuck until I met my third wife, Nancy, occasionally called “Nanners” by her friend “DJ.” Nancy refused to date, much less marry a “Dick” so I now just go by “Richard,” which bears a certain resemblance to my given name.
My brother was “Punky,” short for “Pumpkin,” a moniker he didn’t shake until he joined the Navy at 17. I suspect there was a connection there. My sister Karen was called “Sister.” She was introduced to my brother and me as our new “sister,” so naturally... Susan became “Susie,” and Pam became, well, “Pam” (the folks were in their 40’s by then, it was just easier). Yes, there were five of us, plus the folks, and we all lived in a tiny house with one bathroom (but that’s another story).
Speaking of the folks, my mom, Phyllis Marie Burbank Bernadette Hunt Farnham, was known as “Mickey” (due to her folks having a summer cottage next door to Mickey Rooney’s summer cottage) by all except her best friend “Millie,” who called her “Peg” (don’t have a clue). My dad, Willard Boyce Farnham, was always “Wink,” (due to him being short, and it being short for “Wee Willy Winkie”). Ironically: I never saw him wink, even once. His best friend, our next door neighbor and my best friend’s dad, was “Pinky” (he did have a bit of a pinkish hue on occasion). His wife Josephine was known as (no surprise here) “Jo.”
My best friend was Everette Joseph Bombard, BJ for short. I don’t know why “BJ” and not “EJ,” but BJ Bombard had a nice ring to it. My first girlfriend (sort of, we played house a few times) was Elizabeth Ann Densmore, better know as “Betty Ann.” This made her nickname initials (nicknitials, I suppose) B-A-D (hmmm). My other best friend was Wayne Bither; Wayne had no nickname but desperately needed one. He was too tall and too skinny, with way too big ears, and walked like Charles Chaplin (nicknamed “Charlie”). If he had been known as Rock, or Cary, or Kirk, it might have helped.
Two friends in grade school shared my first name, Richard. One was Richard Gillespie, nicknamed “Ricky,” and the other was Richard Douse, nicknamed “Dickie” (ignorance or cruelty, we’ll never know). Dickie has since risen to near the top of the Boy Scouts of America organization (true), a group heavily supported, I believe, by the Disney organization (maybe not). I also knew “Stub” (short guy), “Smelly” (selfexplanatory), “Poochie” (resembled his dog Poochie), and “Spot” (who didn’t, but had freckles). There was also Joaquin Perez, who, we called “Wahkeen” (Yes, I know, now).
In high school I knew “Squeezy” (you guessed it), “Spaz” (you could never, ever loan him anything you valued), “One Stone” (an unfortunate wrestling accident) and his brother “Little Stone.” There was “Wiggler” (couldn’t ever sit still), “Heifer” (it was Vermont, a state with more cows than people) and “Flem Wad” (use your imagination). Flem Wad was good friends with Jimmy Lyons, a giant kid with huge muscles and a mean disposition. He was the class bully, correct that, the school bully and had two prominent scars on his face. So naturally we all called him – James. Giant, huge muscles, mean disposition; HELLO!
What’s up with that?
My brother was “Punky,” short for “Pumpkin,” a moniker he didn’t shake until he joined the Navy at 17. I suspect there was a connection there. My sister Karen was called “Sister.” She was introduced to my brother and me as our new “sister,” so naturally... Susan became “Susie,” and Pam became, well, “Pam” (the folks were in their 40’s by then, it was just easier). Yes, there were five of us, plus the folks, and we all lived in a tiny house with one bathroom (but that’s another story).
Speaking of the folks, my mom, Phyllis Marie Burbank Bernadette Hunt Farnham, was known as “Mickey” (due to her folks having a summer cottage next door to Mickey Rooney’s summer cottage) by all except her best friend “Millie,” who called her “Peg” (don’t have a clue). My dad, Willard Boyce Farnham, was always “Wink,” (due to him being short, and it being short for “Wee Willy Winkie”). Ironically: I never saw him wink, even once. His best friend, our next door neighbor and my best friend’s dad, was “Pinky” (he did have a bit of a pinkish hue on occasion). His wife Josephine was known as (no surprise here) “Jo.”
My best friend was Everette Joseph Bombard, BJ for short. I don’t know why “BJ” and not “EJ,” but BJ Bombard had a nice ring to it. My first girlfriend (sort of, we played house a few times) was Elizabeth Ann Densmore, better know as “Betty Ann.” This made her nickname initials (nicknitials, I suppose) B-A-D (hmmm). My other best friend was Wayne Bither; Wayne had no nickname but desperately needed one. He was too tall and too skinny, with way too big ears, and walked like Charles Chaplin (nicknamed “Charlie”). If he had been known as Rock, or Cary, or Kirk, it might have helped.
Two friends in grade school shared my first name, Richard. One was Richard Gillespie, nicknamed “Ricky,” and the other was Richard Douse, nicknamed “Dickie” (ignorance or cruelty, we’ll never know). Dickie has since risen to near the top of the Boy Scouts of America organization (true), a group heavily supported, I believe, by the Disney organization (maybe not). I also knew “Stub” (short guy), “Smelly” (selfexplanatory), “Poochie” (resembled his dog Poochie), and “Spot” (who didn’t, but had freckles). There was also Joaquin Perez, who, we called “Wahkeen” (Yes, I know, now).
In high school I knew “Squeezy” (you guessed it), “Spaz” (you could never, ever loan him anything you valued), “One Stone” (an unfortunate wrestling accident) and his brother “Little Stone.” There was “Wiggler” (couldn’t ever sit still), “Heifer” (it was Vermont, a state with more cows than people) and “Flem Wad” (use your imagination). Flem Wad was good friends with Jimmy Lyons, a giant kid with huge muscles and a mean disposition. He was the class bully, correct that, the school bully and had two prominent scars on his face. So naturally we all called him – James. Giant, huge muscles, mean disposition; HELLO!
What’s up with that?
Friday, December 3, 2010
Modern Technology, Part 3
The house I live in has two really big TV’s (sort of). Remember when computer projectors came out? You could project your Power Point presentation onto a screen (or a sheet, or even a wall, in case your screen budget was exhausted for the year) so, at the same time, everyone in the room could see how boring Power Point presentations were. Well it turns out, those same projectors can be hooked up to your TV or cable box and effectively create a really big TV.
The house I live in also has three cable boxes, a LCD TV, a Plasma TV, a DLP TV and three CRT TV’s. They all get ABC, NBC, CBS, CNN, HNN, ESPN, and lots of other letters I can’t remember. Altogether: over 200 channels of “there’s nothing on” (but that’s another story). The house also has a VHS player, 7 DVD players, and a BluRay player, for watching “no good movies anymore.” And all these devices came with one of the true wonders of modern technology, the remote control, without which, we would have to actually get up to adjust the device; which might dramatically reduce the pleasure we receive from watching “nothing” or “no good anymore.”
All told there are 20 remote control devices ( I know because even though I can no longer add numbers in the double digits, I own a calculator; but that’s also another story): 20 remotes, wonderful, wireless widgets with, unfortunately, 20 unique designs. Each remote contains from 18 to 54 buttons (yes, 54) and, believe it or not, no similar buttons are located in similar places on any of them (not quite true, several have the main power button in the vicinity of the upper right hand corner). I say similar because some buttons that do similar things don’t have similar names on other, yet similar, remotes.
Not to worry, several remotes are “universal,” and can be programmed to operate devices other than the one with which they came. Just follow the simple 27-step process to enter the unique device code for each other device you wish to control from your universal remote. “Should you make a mistake during this simple process, simply start over.” Needless to say, I elected to forego the time-saving process. Being a real man, I can master 20 different remotes with ease. Bring it on!
My wife, on the other hand, is not a real man (to my everlasting delight) and seems to encounter a bit of confusion when faced with the challenge of turning on the projector (and the external fan we had to install because it tended to overheat and shut off repeatedly, don’t get me started); turning on the cable box; set the cable box to the correct device; turning off the cable box because we are going to watch a movie; turning on the BluRay player; setting the BluRay player to the correct device because it also lets us watch TV or go on the internet; turning on the Bose sound system; setting the Bose to the correct device because it also plays CD’s and has a built in radio (FM only); and then toggling through the “source” options on the projector because it thinks we are still trying to watch television. And finally, turning everything off, including the lights and air conditioning (don’t worry, we have a remote) because now it’s very late (past 7:30 pm) and time to go to bed.
The up side of all this? Despite having too much life insurance, and at times being a bit difficult to live with, my wife will probably continue to put up with me. She enjoys, on occasion, watching “nothing on” or a “no good anymore” movie.
The house I live in also has three cable boxes, a LCD TV, a Plasma TV, a DLP TV and three CRT TV’s. They all get ABC, NBC, CBS, CNN, HNN, ESPN, and lots of other letters I can’t remember. Altogether: over 200 channels of “there’s nothing on” (but that’s another story). The house also has a VHS player, 7 DVD players, and a BluRay player, for watching “no good movies anymore.” And all these devices came with one of the true wonders of modern technology, the remote control, without which, we would have to actually get up to adjust the device; which might dramatically reduce the pleasure we receive from watching “nothing” or “no good anymore.”
All told there are 20 remote control devices ( I know because even though I can no longer add numbers in the double digits, I own a calculator; but that’s also another story): 20 remotes, wonderful, wireless widgets with, unfortunately, 20 unique designs. Each remote contains from 18 to 54 buttons (yes, 54) and, believe it or not, no similar buttons are located in similar places on any of them (not quite true, several have the main power button in the vicinity of the upper right hand corner). I say similar because some buttons that do similar things don’t have similar names on other, yet similar, remotes.
Not to worry, several remotes are “universal,” and can be programmed to operate devices other than the one with which they came. Just follow the simple 27-step process to enter the unique device code for each other device you wish to control from your universal remote. “Should you make a mistake during this simple process, simply start over.” Needless to say, I elected to forego the time-saving process. Being a real man, I can master 20 different remotes with ease. Bring it on!
My wife, on the other hand, is not a real man (to my everlasting delight) and seems to encounter a bit of confusion when faced with the challenge of turning on the projector (and the external fan we had to install because it tended to overheat and shut off repeatedly, don’t get me started); turning on the cable box; set the cable box to the correct device; turning off the cable box because we are going to watch a movie; turning on the BluRay player; setting the BluRay player to the correct device because it also lets us watch TV or go on the internet; turning on the Bose sound system; setting the Bose to the correct device because it also plays CD’s and has a built in radio (FM only); and then toggling through the “source” options on the projector because it thinks we are still trying to watch television. And finally, turning everything off, including the lights and air conditioning (don’t worry, we have a remote) because now it’s very late (past 7:30 pm) and time to go to bed.
The up side of all this? Despite having too much life insurance, and at times being a bit difficult to live with, my wife will probably continue to put up with me. She enjoys, on occasion, watching “nothing on” or a “no good anymore” movie.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
What Ever Happened to Dumps
In the little town in Vermont where I grew up, we had a dump. It was on the bank of the Winooski River. Even back then it seemed a bit odd to have a dump located right next to a river. Things were always rolling down the bank into the water; and whenever it rained, a rainbow colored ooze seeped into the river for days. I guess the feeling was that the river was polluted anyway so what difference did it make? Besides, the fish we caught downstream tasted just fine. Winooski means onion in Native American, and the river was aptly named. In today’s vernacular I suppose the river would have been “aromatically challenged.” Back in the day, it just stunk.
Not that the smell discouraged anyone from visiting the town dump, in fact, several people even used the dump to dump (pardon the pun) their garbage. For several more, however, the dump was a gathering place. It was a place of intrigue and high adventure, a virtual treasure trove of great stuff, just waiting to be uncovered. For a boy of ten, there were few better ways to spend a Saturday than exploring the dump. If you got there early, before all the good stuff was gone, there was no telling what wonderful gems of detritus you might discover.
It was important to know and follow the rules, however. I’m not referring to the boring rules written on the sign which greeted you as you entered the dump. I’m talking about the unwritten rules passed down from generation to generation of townspeople, from kid to kid, from vagabond to vagabond.
1 - NEVER VISIT THE DUMP AT NIGHT!
The police might pick you up; and the feral dogs, cats, and rats (are there domestic rats?) didn’t like the competition.
2 - IF IT MOVES, LEAVE IT ALONE!
Duh!
3 - ALWAYS WEAR THICK SOLED SHOES WHEN EXPLORING THE DUMP!
At our dump, the trash wasn’t buried, it was burned, I guess to reduce the pollution of the river. Air pollution wasn’t likely to be a problem (there’s so much air), and most days the prevailing winds blew the soot and smell away from town. You had to wear thick soled shoes to keep your feet from being burned by the embers that were usually smoldering just below the surface.
The dump was eventually closed, and all the trash and treasures buried for eternity. A trailer park (excuse me, a mobile home community) now sits on the “reclaimed” land. It’s a lovely mobile home commuity, with beautiful landscaping, lots of amenities, and a great view of the river. Nevermind the sink holes that pop up (I guess more accurately pop down) now and again, and the pesky non-domestic rat problem.
What’s up with that?
Not that the smell discouraged anyone from visiting the town dump, in fact, several people even used the dump to dump (pardon the pun) their garbage. For several more, however, the dump was a gathering place. It was a place of intrigue and high adventure, a virtual treasure trove of great stuff, just waiting to be uncovered. For a boy of ten, there were few better ways to spend a Saturday than exploring the dump. If you got there early, before all the good stuff was gone, there was no telling what wonderful gems of detritus you might discover.
It was important to know and follow the rules, however. I’m not referring to the boring rules written on the sign which greeted you as you entered the dump. I’m talking about the unwritten rules passed down from generation to generation of townspeople, from kid to kid, from vagabond to vagabond.
1 - NEVER VISIT THE DUMP AT NIGHT!
The police might pick you up; and the feral dogs, cats, and rats (are there domestic rats?) didn’t like the competition.
2 - IF IT MOVES, LEAVE IT ALONE!
Duh!
3 - ALWAYS WEAR THICK SOLED SHOES WHEN EXPLORING THE DUMP!
At our dump, the trash wasn’t buried, it was burned, I guess to reduce the pollution of the river. Air pollution wasn’t likely to be a problem (there’s so much air), and most days the prevailing winds blew the soot and smell away from town. You had to wear thick soled shoes to keep your feet from being burned by the embers that were usually smoldering just below the surface.
The dump was eventually closed, and all the trash and treasures buried for eternity. A trailer park (excuse me, a mobile home community) now sits on the “reclaimed” land. It’s a lovely mobile home commuity, with beautiful landscaping, lots of amenities, and a great view of the river. Nevermind the sink holes that pop up (I guess more accurately pop down) now and again, and the pesky non-domestic rat problem.
What’s up with that?
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