Good Tasting Medicine?

I went to pick up some medicine today, and this was the sign I saw in the pharmacy window.

WHAT?

No Way!

Medicine is supposed to taste bad...for at least two reasons.

The first is obvious: little kiddos are known for prying in places where they shouldn't, and, because of our genetic survivial of the fittest traits, they tend to taste unknown food/substances before eating. So, if the little miscreants get hold of mommy's and daddy's get happy pills, a bitter taste would prevent them from shooting them down the pipe.

The second reason for bad tasting medicine has to do with tradition: what would happen to the saying "Take your medicine" if the medicine tasted good? What would have happened to the delightful scenes in the movies when the parent threatened the kids with castor oil when they complained of a stomach ache to stay out of school? How much less poignanat would the scene have been if the little fakers said, "WHOO HOO, it's MEDICINE TIME!" instead of, "Oh, NO, please not the castor oil. I'm better. Really I am! I'm ready to go to school."

Also, we're not supposed to want to take medicine. After all, it's MEDICINE! You're not supposed to like the debt restructuring plan your bank gave you, but you do it because you know it's good for you and you want to get it over with.

Perish the thought of good tasting medicine. It just doesn't tase right.

Mike Sledge

Beware The Man With Garden Tools In His Hands

My philosophy, when it comes to yard work, is "Why should I pay somebody to do a lousy job when I can do the same for nothing?"

Actually, that's not quite true: I will gladly pay someone to do the mowing and edging. (I did that enough for $$ when I was growing up...and this was BEFORE the days of warnings pasted on mowers that said, "Do not use as a hedge trimmer.") I, though, insist on screwing up the flowerbed work myself.

The irony is that I bought my house, in part, because of the very nice flowerbeds. But what do I do? I let my dog dig in them, lie down in them, and otherwise invariably let all kinds of Cichorium intybus, Iva axillaris, and Amsinckia intermedia establish themselves, only to wrest them from the soil with a set of tools.

Now, so I'm digging away, leaving a trail of herbaceous corpses behind me in front of the flowerbed. (I never clean up the dead until after they've withered so much that I decide, "Hey, let the lawn guy chop them up!")

And, I'm doing a great job of uprooting these really tall leafy things that are embedded among my lillies. Or, irises? Or whatever.

Anyway, I've got a nice pile of these weedy-looking things in the yard and a neighbor walks by and says, "Hey, if you're going to throw away all those flowering bulbs, can I have them?"

(I was wondering why the roots of the "bulbs" were so different from those of the other "weeds.")

So, I replant them all.

Then I remember...I had done this same thing last year.

Mike Sledge

Viva Viagra?

First, a disclaimer: I am not nor have I ever been a member of blue pill party.

Second, a corollary to the disclaimer: Should I ever need to, I will have no qualms about plunking down $$ for the lil' pepper-upper!

Now, come on, you creative marketing geniuses, you...is this the best you can do for an erectile dysfunction ad?

I mean, WTF? Do you think I'm gonna set around with a bunch of buddies and sing about getting a boner? Give me a break. (Having said that, I would much prefer men to sit around singing about an ed product than slaughtering rhinos in Africa for their prized horns with, supposedly, aphrodisiac qualities.)

Now, a really good song about older men and their loss of virility is Buddy Guy's Done Got Old.
(The song is on the right hand side of the screen.) (One line is priceless: "I cain't love like I used to.")

Just think...a really creative ad group would run Buddy Guy's song and then advertise handguns with the voice-over, "Men, have you done got old? Lost your hearing? Can't get it up? Well, Smith & Wesson has the answer for you!"

Now that's the kind of advertising I would consider original.

Mike S.

Capt. Phillips is Rescued, but Limbaugh & Hannity Are Still Afloat

Thankfully, the courageous Captain Richard Phillips is on his way home, but Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity are still on their way to the moon...or somewhere else where hypoxia must have affected their thinking.

Even while President Obama has praised Captain Phillips, moving the spotlight off of himself and to the leader who put himself at risk so his men would be safe, our conservative, talk show hosts (let's be clear here...Limbaugh and Hannity are not astute policy wonks...they are talkers who will do most anything to increase their listener base) have spent hours making themselves look like whiny, snot-nosed, little boys who didn't make the team and who are now running around trying to make those who did look bad.

The only ones they're making look bad, is themselves. Let's face it...Phillips is back safe and sound, and as the result of the use of force, something that both talkers had said our President would fail to employ.

Certainly, President Obama, as others, would have preferred to resolve the matter without shedding blood, but such was not the case.

The funny thing is that people I know, in days prior to the crisis coming to a head, said that we should take out the pirates. Now that we have done so, under Presidential orders, these same people are saying, "So what...the President is supposed to use force if necessary."

WTF? Do they even hear themselves? Or, are their ears and minds too clogged with the afternoon-dribble from our two major talkers?

Instead of blowing off so much vitriol about President Obama, how about they spend their time expressing their thanks and gratitude that Capt. Phillips is coming home...in one piece and alive, not in a body bag.

Mike Sledge

Marijuana Kills!

LOL! Yeah, haven't we all seen the film Reefer Madness?

Lately, the anti-marijuana ads have gotten a little more, well, hip.

However, both of these films miss the point, because whether grass is a gateway drug or a harmless pasttime, and whether it should be illegal or treated just the same as alcohol are all academic exercises or merely simply excuses to continue current behavior because, save for medical purposes in a few places, marijuana is illegal and, as such, the use of it promotes criminal behavior. (Note: I said "criminal" behavior not "deviant" behavior and not "shiftless" behavior.)

With Sec. of State Clinton, now and for the first time I am aware of, shouldering part of the blame for the criminal insurgent activity in Mexico, one of our sister countries, we see that we are, indeed, our brother's keeper and our desire for illegal drugs has spawned a spree of killing on a scale that greatly exceeds even that of the days of Prohibition.

It is important to note that not all of the killings are "bad on bad." Honest policemen, journalists, judges, and politicians have been brutally murdered, sometimes in front of their families.

Illegal drugs are, in many ways, a commodity. They will be supplied at whatever cost the traffic will bear. Sadly, this cost comes not only in the loss of lives and law and order south of the border, it is increasingly clear that it will also carry a greater human cost in our own country. The last, that we will suffer the results of our demand for illegal drugs, does not supercede the first, the pain and misery to our neighbor.

I'm sure there are those who will say, "Hey! MY grass comes from California. I'M not contributing to the killing. However, again, it is clear that the drug cartels are also shouldering their way onto our native soil in areas of production, as well as distribution.

There are others who will say that there is no need for them to put down their favorite vehicle of escape because there are far worse drugs coming across the border and that we need to deal with those serious drugs first. They are absolutely right...in that there are far worse drugs. They are wrong in that there is no need for them to change. If they can justify their behavior with an illegal, non-addictive drug, how can they expect others who are actually addicted to more serious drugs to quit.

I'm no prude. I know, personally, the pleasurable effects of marijuana, having experimented with it many, many years ago. However, my break with it came because I work up one morning, way before the making of the movie Traffic and other films in which the world behind-the-scenes of drugs was illuminated, with an epiphany that my money spent for my fun fostered evilness.

Ultimately, especially during the moment of a relaxing, completely enjoyable, shared high, a look around the circle of close acquaintances tells you how happy you are for such company. At that same moment, in another place of the world not far away, there are those who look around their circle of teary-eyed friends and they are thankful for their support during the mourning for their dead son, father, brother, cousin who lost his life while trying to maintain some sense of law and order in a world gone crazy.

Push for all the legislation you wish to legalize marijuana, but in the meantime think of John Donne, whose message in MEDITATION XVII I shall rephrase to say...any man's loss is our loss.

Mike Sledge

Advice to the Younger Woman

OK, I'm an old hat. I admit it...been around long enough to have stains and bends in my brim. And, of course, women have aged along with me.

At this point in our lives, the effects of sun exposure on are becoming very apparent. We're talking breakdown of collagen, wrinkles, spots, blemishes, other markings.

Beautiful skin, sadly, even begins to look like leather...and not the expensive supple of calfskin gloves. Rather, we're talking old work gloves that have lain out in the sun and are now hard and lined with crevasses. For them, it's too late.

I won't go into the litany of skin cancers and such that are so common with overexposure: these risks are known to all. Instead, I want to speak straight to two issues: Vanity, and the "I'll never get old" fallacy.

First, yes, a tan DOES look good. Somehow we've become indoctrinated to feel this way. However, we have a BRAIN that is supposed to work. LOL...no, it doesn't work all the time, does it? Like, "OHMIGOD, I can't believe I did X with him! I MUST have been DRUNK!"

Second, yes, you WILL get older. Or die. You must try, as hard as it is, to imagine yourself 40 or 50 or older. (Trust me, older women are sexy...BUT NOT if they look like this:



So, girls and young ladies, lie out in the sun all you want, but use the screen that protects against ALL UV. Get a tan now and then if you must, but please, please, please try to think ahead and protect your natural beauty.

Or, you can end up with your skin looking like this:



Mike Sledge


Photo licenses at: http://creativecommons.org/licenses

Book Review of The Shack ...Traditional Christianity Cross Dressing

SPOILER ALERT! THIS POST WILL REVEAL KEY ASPECTS OF THIS BOOK.


The Shack by William P. Young has made it to the bestseller list. After reading it, I wonder "Why?" and I answer myself with, "Ah, yes, I see!"

This book (it doesn't even rise to the level of a "novel" even by romance novel standards) is, in essence, a syncretic blend of Traditional Christianity, New Age Spiritualism, and World Spiritualism. However, let there be little doubt that the New Age/World Spirituality aspects are but the spices in a meat-and-potatoes stew of the typical Christian views of God, humankind, and how the roles of the two interact.

As I read it, I was struck with the parallel between it and the theme of how fundamentalist Christians have used the Intelligent Design Theory as a back door method of introducing Creationism into a science classroom. For more on Intelligent Design Crossdressing, go to
http://www.harpers.org/archive/2005/12/0080852

There is a distinction, though, between the proponents of introducing Intelligent Design into the classroom (former President Bush was one) and Author Young: that is, Young is not trying to push an agenda...he is simply a writer who has penned what I would call an "inspirational fictional Christian memoir." It should do well in a Christian Bookstore. That it appears on the Bestseller list is, to say the least, disturbing.

However, let's talk about the book.

In The Shack, a man loses a young daughter to a serial child killer. Her body is not found. (Not initially, that is.) The father and another daughter who feels responsible for Missy's disappearance and death are saddled with guilt over the loss. The father is also afflicted with The Great Sadness.

The father, Mackenzie (Mack), gets a mysterious non-postmarked letter in his mailbox that tells him to go to "the shack", the place where his daughter was murdered. Upon his initial arrival, Mack grieves while viewing the bloodstains on the wood floor and contemplates suicide. Then, predictably, he falls into a slumber. He soon, presumably, awakens, feeling forsaken, "I'm done, God...I can't do this anymore. I'm tired of trying to find you in all of this." Mack goes to leave the shack, but on his trek back to his vehicle the cold winter is suddenly replaced with a "sudden rush of warm air", "The chirping of a songbird" and so on. (You get the picture, right?)

He turns back to the shack and finds that it has been transformed into a beautiful cottage on the lake. He returns to it and, inside, finds God in all three manifestations: The Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost. But, God is personified as a black woman, presumably to overturn a White God Male stereotype that Mack holds. (Do I need to continue?)



Anyway, Mack walks and talks with God in all three forms. As he does, he learns the meaning of man's control over his destiny, God's role as one who sees and knows but refuses to intervene in daily details (oh, that is interesting...then why did God come to Mack?), and the futility of man's trying to live without God. Ultimately, Mack meets his daughter Missy in the other-world (Heaven?) and knows that she is fine. God assures Mack that throughout her abduction and murder that Missy was never alone.

And--now here's the crossdressing part--Father/Son/Holy Ghost assure Mack that there is not one road to them, but that they will travel all roads to those who believe. Oh, yes, Jesus (he's a carpenter by the way) insists that he is not a Christian.

Eventually, Mack is cured of The Great Sadness and given the choice of staying with the Holy Trinity or returning to the world. Since his wife and children, especially Kate, the daughter who feels responsible for the tragedy, need him, Mack decides to return. On the way back home, he is in a terrible car accident.

Mack is in a coma, from which it takes days to awaken...and it is weeks before he is out of the hospital. Mack learns that the car accident occurred on a Friday, the day he left home for the shack, and not several days later as time had transpired while he was in the presence of the Trinity.

During his recovery, Mack tells Kate that she is not responsbile for Missy's death. Apparently, Mack's verbalization is the first time it occurred to anyone to talk to Kate about her burden...it was "...a secret."

After his release from the hospital, Mack leads the police to the place where Missy's body has been secluded this whole time. The police obtain enough evidence to find the bodies of the other murdered girls and arrest the killer.

End Of Story.

Of course, I'm leaving out the parts where Mack walked across the surface of the lake (possible only if Jesus was by his side), where the Holy Spirit manifestation was nebulous, a-shimmer with lights, how Mack had trouble seeing the Trinity through the radianting brilliance of light...how God said that his/her handing down of the Ten Commandments was not to show how to lead a good life, but that all were doomed unless they had God. (Think "Original Sin").




Now, don't get me wrong. This book was on the Bestseller list. Is that scary? To me it is. Am I cynical? Well, let's just say that I am highly spiritual and I try to be as literate as possible. That such a story (it IS a cute story) can sneak out of the Christian Bookstore and into the general market should tell me something. I need to pay attention to what that says, just as the Conservatives need to pay attention to why there was such an overwhelming move toward Obama in the last election: to reword, "I don't understand it but I need to pay attention to this."

Mike Sledge

The Dover Ban - Why Everyone Still Gets It Wrong

Recently, Defense Secretary Robert Gates announced that the ban on media presence at the return of “transfer cases” containing the remains of US service personnel who have died overseas would be lifted. I offer my sincere appreciation for this proposed change in policy.

However, after studying the proposal (and the objections of groups such as Military Families United), I can’t help but be struck by how much misinformation exists about the return of our Soldier Dead.

First, “coffins” (as generally reported) are not coming back to the US. A coffin infers that the deceased is already identified and prepared for burial. Rather, the “transfer cases” containing the remains are nothing more than big ice chests.



(The picture of these transfer cases was taken by the author at the U.S. Army Morgue in Baghdad, Iraq)


Second, once the as yet not officially identified remains are received at Dover, they go through a meticulous identification process in a state-of-the-art facility that is the envy of the rest of the world. Military deaths are often a messy affair, and dedicated men and women work diligently to assure that each and every body part is associated with the appropriate service person who has given his or her life.

AFTER the remains are officially identified (Dr. Craig Mallak, Chief Medical Examiner for the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology, has stated that remains only have a tentative identification when they arrive at Dover), they are prepared for burial, which includes a full military dress uniform and the casket of the family’s choice.

What this means is that, at the time of arrival in the U.S., these fallen soldiers are the country’s unnamed emissaries who carry the nation’s sword and shield. As such, they belong to the country as a whole, not just to a particular family.

Therefore, to say that we leave the decision to the family about whether or not to have media present at the return of the dead gives a decision to a group that does not yet have an official claim on the dead.

Certainly, it doesn’t take much prescience to understand that, if we have a single death in Afghanistan AND a day later a plane shows up carrying these remains, it would be possible to say with confidence that a certain transfer case does, indeed, carry the remains of someone whose identity is clearly known.

And, if this fallen soldier’s family wants privacy from the beginning to the end, then there could be a potential conflict in satisfying this request.

To try to resolve any actual or potential conflicts in any situation, especially one in which the issues are subtle yet deep-rooted, it is necessary to have a thorough grasp of the theoretical basis of such issues.

In this case, that of allowing media presence at the repatriation of our Soldier Dead, it all boils down to the question: “To whom do the dead belong?”

I assert that the dead belong to both the family and to those they serve. This means that, until the dead receive formal identification and are officially handed over to the Next of Kin, they belong to each and every citizen of the United States, for it is on our behalf that they gave their lives.

As such, there will be those of us who agree that these men and women died for a worthy cause, and there will be those who disagree with this premise. Undoubtedly, some of those who disagree may attempt to use the formal recognition of the receipt of our dead to convey their disagreement.

And, undoubtedly, there will be those who agree with our call to arms who will, in their own way, use the receipt of our dead to support their position.

Dissension and the employment of images of our war dead for one reason or another is inevitable, and should be looked upon as a peculiar feature of our process for displaying and resolving conflict. It is part of our heritage and, as such, should not be squelched.

In conclusion, there is no pleasing everyone, but I would dare say that, while some families may feel that they have lost control of how their loved ones are portrayed, many more families will be comforted by the embrace of many millions who, heretofore, have been “banned” their chance to both offer and receive comfort.

Michael Sledge
author of Soldier Dead: How We Recover, Identify, Bury, and Honor Our Military Fallen
www.mikesledge.com

Kindle 2 - What Sleek Beast Slouches Toward Store Shelves?

I did it. I bought a Kindle 2. Yes, a battle has raged within and a victor has emerged. But, the battle between the electronic book and the paper book models of providing printed text to the reader is really only a side show to what Kindle 2 represents.

First, a quick review on Kindle. Kindle is Amazon's foray into the electronic book business. You order a sleek, light device that holds up to 1,500 books. (You can also download magazines and newspapers.) Its screen uses state-of-the-art "electronic ink" that is energized to show up much as liquid ink does. The readibility is marvelous.

You can order a book either through Amazon on through Kindle itself. The book is then, magically, sent to your Kindle through "Whispernet", which is Kindle's Sprint phone wireless service.

I won't go into all the features that Kindle provides in searching, marking, and noting, but I will say that such features, including the dictionary, are a great aid to readers/researchers.

It is the use of the Whispernet where Kindle's real power lies. It won't be long before you can Google Search on Kindle, or, better yet for Amazon, pull up Amazon's site and order from it...that is, order items other than books!

Undoubtedly, you will also soon be able to buy an accessory keyboard and, thus, obviate the need to lug your laptop around for quick trips to the coffeeshop.

Kindle has the potential to reach far beyond the providing of books and newspapers. It represents a potentiality to provide the "information user" with a new tool that will supplant one or more (how long before you can "talk" on Kindle as though it were a cellphone?) of your electronic devices.

The King is dead...long live the King.

Mike Sledge

Nerd’s Revenge – Gaston in Beauty and the Beast

Or: Oh, The Power In The Hands Of Those Wielding The Pen

Recently, while baby-sitting one of my granddaughters, I watched Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. We all have seen it more than once and are quite familiar with the tale, but this time I was really caught up with the fun the writer(s) must have had when doing Gaston, the thick-headed, dull-witted, egotistical, narcissistic, and bicep-bound bully who insisted on marrying Belle, despite her obvious objections.

Why did Gaston want Belle, when he could have had any of the other “bimbettes” in the film in a moment’s notice? Because she was “the best” and didn’t Gaston “…deserve the best?”

There was never a worse mismatch: Gaston loved to hunt, Belle loved the animals; Gaston hated reading (“How can you read this? There’s no pictures!”) LOL!

And imagine Belle’s disgust when Gaston described how she could look forward to fulfilling her dream by marrying him, bearing him many “…strapping boys…like me!” and could dote on him, massaging his feet (his toes sticking through holes in the socks, mind you!). I’m sure sex with him would have been a mutually satisfying experience, an image that the writers at that time could only intimate.

Yes, the scriptwriters missed little. One can only imagine them thinking, “How can I make this guy more of a jerk?” One can also only imagine that the writers had had sand kicked in their face at the beach, or had taken note of who dated whom in high school and college back in the days when “men were men”.

Of course, a Gaston can’t exist without an adoring crowd of inadequate men willing to pump up the ego of their hero so they can live vicariously through his exploits. As Gaston is the “paragon” of strength, the fawning Lefou is the epitome of a member of the support system such a mindless brute requires. During one scene, in which Gaston’s minions cheer him up after an ignoble rejection by Belle, Lefou says, “Gaston is the best and the rest is all drips!”

The writers, of course, know how the game is played, and have both Gaston and Lefou intone, “No one plots like Gaston, takes cheap shots like Gaston.”

One could say that Gaston does have a redeeming moment at the end when he exhorts the Beast to fight him, but his challenge is really an empty one for two reasons: 1) the Beast is clearly dejected, and 2) Gaston knows that he will be extolled as sone worthy of extending his gene pool if he fights a worthy opponent.

However, Gaston’s veneered request for a good fight is peeled away when he stabs the Beast in the back.

Yes, the Disney writers certainly had a great deal of fun, undoubtedly drawing upon their own and shared experiences with men of muscle, and those around these pillars of brawn.

Mike Sledge

Shot To Death - Twice

You can never tell when you will learn something new. Yesterday, our local news anchor was reporting on a tragic post-Valentine's Day murder/suicide. She said, "...[the woman] was shot dead...twice."

I'm going, like, Oh, this is interesting...the victim was either a vampire or a zombie: dead once, came to life again (so to speak) and then killed again.



http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.5/


The murderer, after killing his girlfriend twice then turned the gun on himself. I guess that, now dead, he can come back to life and then be tried for murder.

Which begs the question: Which killing of his girlfriend would he be tried for? The first or the second? Could he be tried twice? Probably not, given double jeopardy law.

At least, if given the death penalty, he would be executed only once since, after all, he had already taken his own life once.

But, if politicians, actors, and even A-Rod can resurrect themselves from a celebrity death (usually death by stupidity) I guess it's not too much to expect a physical resurrection of ordinary folks.

Of course, what I'd really love to see is a resurrection of command of the English language.

Mike Sledge

I Know Where Fat Comes From

I have no doubt that this year’s Nobel Prize in medicine will go to some significant advancement in treating adult hypertension that comes from raising children. Likewise, an eminent scientist who has determined why you only get flat tires in the rain will receive the physics award.

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.5/

Eventually, though, I feel that all due recognition will be given to my interdisciplinary discovery concerning fat: I have discovered where fat comes from.

This discovery, which I have named the “Unified Fat Theory” or “UFT”* for short, states that: “Fat cannot be created nor destroyed.”

Like all important theories, the UFT was postulated from observation. I noticed that when I reached 35, all of a sudden this extra inch was hung around my middle. Since I had not changed any eating or exercise habits, this fat had to come from some place.

Upon talking with my wife, I found out that the same had happened to her, and to my friends, and to her friends. Since they, too, had made no major life style change, then this fat had its origins elsewhere.

From this basic Unified Fat Theory concerning the stability of fat in the universe, there are several corollaries. First, since fat cannot be created nor destroyed, yet we all gain and lose weight, then it follows that fat only moves to and from a “fat bank” into which lost fat is deposited and from which fat is withdrawn, and that the books must always balance.

For instance, when you reach a certain age, there is an automatic draft upon that fat bank with a corresponding deposit to your account (hips, legs, stomach). After you age, or lose weight through disease, the fat is redeposited to this bank.

Second, fat does not have to be deposited directly to that account. It can, instead, be transferred from one person to another.

Third, the likelihood of fat being deposited to your account from another person who is losing weight is directly related to your proximity to that someone. If you take an office of five women, one of whom decides to go on a diet, woe to the other four, because they are bound to gain what the dieter loses.

Fourth, fat attracts fat. Once you start gaining some extra pounds, you are likely to gain even more.

Lastly, up to a certain point, fat likes age. The older you are, the more likely you are to gain weight.

I believe that there is a “fat” bug which is a carrier of this fat. This fits in very nicely with the corollaries above. One bug always attracts more. An ailment spread by bugs is more likely to infect those in close surroundings. Older people have lower resistance than younger ones, and are thus more susceptible to infection.

Somehow, these bugs are run though the fat bank system, are loaded up with fat, and then later unburden themselves on some poor, hapless soul.

In conclusion, I feel it vital that we turn our attention to the Unified Fat Theory and attempt to develop means by which we can delay or, even better, defeat the mechanism of transference of fat, and I will be happy to volunteer some of my buddies at the downtown Y for experimentation.

Mike Sledge

*This UFT is not to be confused or conflated with the more common use of UFT in physics: Unified Field Theory

Misunderstanding X-Ys

A few years ago my daughter and I were riding in a car (important fact because of road/wind noise) and I said, "Men do funny things because of their X-Ys." And Jes replied, "Men do funny things because of their ex-wives?"

Yeah, that too!

Mike Sledge

The American Way of Looking (Appearance, that is)

Jessica Mitford’s 1963 The American Way of Death was a startling expose of the funeral industry in America. Like Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle, it led to Congressional investigations and, ultimately, more regulation over an industry whose members—from funeral home directors to real estate developers—habitually squeezed the last bit of profit out of a transaction that was rooted in the grief of bereaved family members.


I’m sure the Ms. Mitford would roll over in her grave—actually, she can’t because she chose cremation at the cost of less than $500—if she knew the latest trend of ridiculousness and insanity that had permeated the funeral business: plastic surgery on the dead. However, this trend (we can only hope it is only a fad) owes its promulgation not to the somber men in dark suits who knowingly pronounce that “Momma would love this engraved, pearl-coat upscale model” casket, but to the vanity of the living.

I guess it just had to be this way...after all, vanity plastic surgery has increased faster than the rate at which Obama nominees begin paying “overlooked back taxes”. To be sure, the American Society of Plastic Surgeons reports that right at 350,000 women had breast augmentation in 2007. This is up 60% from 2000. What? We’ve got 60% more women in only seven years?

Imagine the entire population of the city of St. Louis, MO going out of their homes and standing on the curb. Now, imagine each of those persons to be a woman with a newly-enhanced bust line. That’s 350,000. Instead of having a single silver arch as the Gateway to the West, there would be a double arch side by side, showing where America cleaved.

For a less-invasive procedure, botox was done over 4.6 million times in 2007, half of which were by Patrick Swayze. (Oh, wait, that was an overstretched face job he had.)

Statistics are still being gathered on post-mortem plastic surgery as to quantity and cost, but I would rather imagine that plastic surgery medical classes would give a BIG discount, since there’s no worry of a student screwing up and killing the patient.

It is obvious that we care what we look like, even if “we” are no longer “we”. And, since we all can’t have Beowulf’s funeral pyre and a mound set upon a headland as a guide for sailors, we can at least anticipate people saying, “Oh, but doesn’t she look so good.”


Mike Sledge

A beside:
If one does elect for post-mortem perky boobs and also plans for a cremation, then the procedure would have to be done in reverse: gels leave a mess on the floor of the crematorium!

If Your Dog Poops In The Dark....

Do you have to clean it up?



While walking my dogs early one morning—way before the sun came up and certainly way before I really wanted to don clothes and grab leashes and poop bags—I thought: “Do I really have to pick this up? No one has seen it.”

Such existential thoughts as this have plagued minds since the first cavemen wondered: “Do I have to adhere to the practice of ‘Leave No Trace’ since future archaeologists will be dependent upon my making a mess?”

Perhaps the most famous question along this line is: “If a tree falls…?” This philosophical question quickly leads to many other paths, such as “If something is not observed, did it really happen?” Certainly, our recent political leaders have given us their variations of this theme, while, of course, providing their own answers: “If no weapons of mass destruction were found, the world is still a safer place.”, and, “It depends on what your definition of ‘is’ is.”

My favorite theorem on observation and existence is the “observer effect” (often conflated with the “uncertainty principle” in quantum physics) which states that the act of observation affects the position/existence of the thing observed. A good example of this would be the person who cheats on his or her spouse, and says, “This didn’t happen”…presumably because the infidelity act was unknown (unobserved) by said person’s spouse.

I, though, prefer to conclude that the observer effect means that if it was dark enough for no one to see me when my dog poops, then that pile of poo simply does not exist.

However, try as I might to rationalize, using Presidential examples and up-to-date physics theorems, Descartes pulls me back to reality and I think, “It smells therefore it exists.”

And if I/we make a mess, we must clean it up.

Mike Sledge

The End of White America (?)

“The End of White America” by Hua Hsu
The Atlantic


(This is my personal Cliff’s Notes version in which I summarize Hsu's excellent article. My personal comments or material I add will be indicated by a double bracket [[ ]].)


Sometime between 2040 and 2060 “white” will no longer be the majority racial group in the US. No one racial group will dominate.

What does this mean?

Pres. Bill Clinton, speaking at Portland State University in 1998, said that, “In a little more than 50, years, there will be no majority race in the United States. No other nation has gone through demographic change of this magnitude in so short a time…[these immigrants] are energizing out culture and broadening our vision of the world.”

Pat Buchanan has said, “Well, those students [at Portland State] are going to find out, for they will spend their golden years in a Third World America.”

[[These two comments pretty much bookend the discussions of the future of racial politics/attitudes in America. You either agree with one of the positions, or fall somewhere in between.]]

In any event, one thing is certain: White America is losing its control of affairs.

In response to the “loss of control” by white America, we see two responses. The first is more-educated, liberal youth moving to establish an identity other than whiteness. They are, in essence, trying hard to not be white. We also have seen the rise of Larry the Plumber Guy, Jeff Foxworthy, NASCAR, and a Vice-President choice of Sarah Palin. (The choice of Palin was a vain attempt to draw upon a class that is increasingly becoming isolated as it becomes smaller.)

In the 1993 movie “Falling Down” Michael Douglas played a typical “white guy” stereotype who raged against racial stereotypes and the fading of white America as he knew it. He says, when confronted by the police, “I’m the bad guy?” His is a frustration we can all identify with. [[A new take on this theme is “Gran Torino,” in which racial stereotypes are depicted and then thrashed.]]

[[Interestingly, in the movie “8 Mile” we see a white rapper, Eminen, working against the stereotype that only a black can be a rapper. Eminen finally shows how hip-hop/rap is not really about race, but about culture. Yes, the two can be separately identified.]]

[[In doing so, Eminen points toward a new direction that America is taking, which is many young people cutting across racial lines to establish social connections. Marketers less and less try to market to their “core group” (read that as “white consumers”) and try to market to specific cultural groups: skateboarders, cyclists, “green” consumers, and the like.]]

[[Barack Obama knew that he needed to overcome the objections of white people who, other than for their oft-submerged animus against blacks, would support him. The poor economy gave him a lever to use to pry these voters from their racially fixed position and to move them to consider their economic, best interests.]]

Having said that, we do see a segment of white people who are circling their wagons in an attempt to preserve all that they feel is good, right, and “white” about America. This group has its home in a belt from Arkansas, through the south, and into West Virginia and southern Virginia. Clearly, the last election shows that this group is becoming smaller.

[[The numbers show what is going on…how you feel about it and what you do about it is your choice.]]

Mike Sledge

"k"

“k”


I think it all started with the little emoticons in email. You know, the little smiley, non-smiley symbols facing sideways in your message, an innovation—if you want to call it that—by a university professor.

Well, actually, while Professor Fahlman at Carnegie Mellon University may have been one of the first to use the little horizontal buggers in his intranet emails to symbolize emotions—because, as some would argue, it’s hard to adequately convey feeling in written words, something I’m sure Shakespeare would disagree with—he was hardly the first to use such abbreviations.

But, seriously, such communication shortcuts have gotten totally out of hand, and here’s the latest example: the other day I was texting a friend about a task we were working on, and her final, sign-off response was, “k”.

Huh? “k”? I mean, not even “K”? Just little letter “k”.

So, I’m not a Neanderthal (not totally anyway), so I got it: my friend had used an abbreviation for an abbreviation…“k” for “OK”.

Now, “xoxoxo” is okay in my book—“XOXOXO” is even better—but “k”? What? It takes too long to make one more keystroke?

It doesn’t take much imagination to see where this horrible social abbreviation will lead. Soon, we’ll be seeing “p k 2” (hint: it’s not a lottery ticket) for “Pick the kids up at 2.” Or, “me at s” (no, a meat market is not the message) for “Meet at Superior” (then again, maybe “meat market” is more appropriate).

And, “t” for “thank you” to someone for doing a favor. I don’t even like “thanks” in place of “thank you”.

And, “e”. That is the short version of etc, which, of course, is short for etcetera.

While I’m sure that there are many who wish their text messages had been more cryptic—Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick comes to mind—I know I can’t be the only one who is “pd” about this trend to hyper-abbreviate.

Mike Sledge

DATING’S DIRTY LITTLE SECRET


Yeah, you’ve done it. Sure you have, at one time or another. The Drive By. It may have been an afterthought or planned with the precision of a military maneuver; it probably occurred late at night or early in the morning. We’re talking about the quick, mostly surreptitious trip down a road to view his/her driveway. Of course the driveway’s there—you wanted to see what was (or was not) parked in it.

When did it happen? Probably at the beginning or end of a relationship. At first, you two were budding, but there had been no official handshake to close the deal and on those days (night really) when you weren’t seeing each other there was the question, that question. Or, sadly, when facing the dregs at the bottom of the bottle, it was really over, mostly in your head, but not in your heart. And again there was the question, that question.

Either way, you wanted information, the evil fruit, and you drove by the address of the possible-to-be or of the once-was.

Head down, eyes averted, hoping to see but praying to not be seen (what a blow to pride that would be!), you made the pass…sometimes more than once. The tightness of your chest, the flutter of your pulse, the seasickness in your stomach, all served to say, “Enough of doubt! Set me free!” But what bitter information it was, for there was no way to know for sure, for if a car was there, whose? If not, did was one there last night or would be there tomorrow night?

Sweaty hands on the steering wheel. Or, if you had a friend who drove, the grit on the floor mat in your knees as you ducked out of sight. The hope for darkness to hide, but not conceal.

You were young, you were middle-aged, you were senior—in all cases you were old enough to know better yet young enough to care—nothing changed except the car you drove, the clothes your wore, or the dollar signs of the address.

And, finally, you hated stooping to such lows. You hated yourself and were ashamed. No matter what you saw or didn’t see, The Bard’s words ring true: “It is not nor it cannot come to good.” But you did it again anyway.

Mike Sledge

Dad, Me, Abbott and Costello

Dad, Me, and All Those Pills

My elderly father, God rest his soul, had moved to an independent retirement center and was trying to cope with the inevitable difficulties that aging brings. Of course, “independent” is somewhat relative, so let’s just say that he was able to accomplish most of the daily living activities required for a person to be self sufficient. Most, but certainly not all.

Feeding himself was never really a problem for Dad: he ate like Michael Phelps. He could don his daily attire, albeit clothes that were at least ten years dated and the fronts of his shirt were often misaligned like two tectonic plates that had shifted sideways. He could, thankfully, use the bathroom without assistance, and his largely hit-or-miss swipes with a wash cloth while standing in front of the sink (a “spit bath”) took the edge off the old man smell that clung close to him like an aura. And, given his spinal stenosis, he was as mobile as we could wish for, although his days of west coast swing were merely a forlorn memory.

But there was one activity, though not listed as necessary for independence, that Dad had trouble with: taking his medication. He always got his pills and days mixed up.

I can easily understand Dad’s problem. I was lost amid the maze of pharmacological products and could only keep them straight by listing them in my Palm Pilot. So, to bring a little order to chaos, I got Dad a pill organizer…one of the little plastic devices with a separate compartment for each day.

This worked for, maybe, two days.

The problem was that, because Dad had so many prescriptions (to name a few, for: pain, restless legs, heart arrhythmia, and, no surprise here, depression) they wouldn’t all fit in “Monday” and “Tuesday” and so on. Also, some pills were supposed to be taken two or three times a day, creating even more confusion.

So, we graduated to an organizer that was divided into the days of the week and which had separate compartments for “morning” “noon” “evening” and “bed”. Of course, this meant buying a huge amount of meds to fill one whole week AND most of the next so I could just swap the full for the empty on Friday night. (Kind of like exchanging propane tanks for your outdoor barbeque.) MISSION ACCOMPLISHED! Or so I thought.

One Monday morning I called Dad to see how he was doing with our new and improved system for keeping up with his medications. What ensued was like the old Abbott and Costello "Who's on first" skit. Our version went like this:

Me: Hi, Dad how's it going?

Dad. Oh, well, I'm here.

Me: Well, how are you doing with your medicine?

Dad: Mike, I don't know how I've done it, but I've messed it up.

Me: Well, look at Saturday. Are all the compartments open? (After he opens up a
compartment and takes the pills he's supposed to leave it open. That way he knows
he needs to go to the next closed compartment.)

Dad: No, they're closed.

Me: Well, open them and tell me what you see.

Dad: (Clicks of compartments opening). There's nothing in them.

Me: Ok, now look at Sunday and tell me what you see.

Dad: (Clicking and snapping sounds). Well, there’s nothing in them. (Then, more clicking sounds.)

Me: Dad, what was that sound?

Dad: Well, I was closing the compartments since there was nothing in them.

Me: No, Dad, you’ve got to leave them OPEN. Remember? That way you can tell where you’ve been and where you’re going.

Dad: I’m not going anywhere am I?

Me: No, Dad, that was just a figure of speech. Leave the compartments open once you take the pills.

Dad: But I don’t think I’ve taken any today.

Me: Dad, I’m talking about Saturday and Sunday. You just opened them and said they were empty.

Dad: Oh! You want me to open them?

Me: Yes, Dad.

Dad: Ok, wait a minute. (More clicking and snapping sounds) What do I do with the pills in them?

Me: Dad! You just told me there were NO pills in Saturday and Sunday.

Dad: You mean you wanted me to open only Saturday and Sunday?
Keep in mind that this is Monday morning and I’ve got employees, faxes going off, client emails coming in; my office looks and sounds like the control room of a reactor during a meltdown; PLUS, Dad is hard of hearing and I have to often repeat what I say to him several times.

Me: OK, Dad, let’s start over, now don’t do anything unless I specifically tell you to do it.

Dad: OK.

Me: Now, open ALL the compartments for Saturday and Sunday.

Dad: OK. (Clicking sounds).

Me: Now, do any of the compartment have pills?

Dad: No, I took those today.

Me: You took them when?

Dad: I took some pills today.

Me: Dad, now open Monday morning compartment. OK?

Dad: OK.

Me: Are there any pills in it?

Dad: No.

Me: OK, those must be the ones you took this morning.

Dad: But how could I, it’s Sunday.

Me: No, Dad, look at the clocks I bought you. They tell you the day of the week. It’s Monday. (I had previously bought him a clock that showed AM and PM time and the days of the week.)

Dad: Ok, then I need to find some pills to take?

Me: No, Dad, you’ve already taken them. (By this time I want some pills!) Now, look at the next compartment for Monday, it should say “noon”.

Dad: OK.

Me: Well, does it have any pills in it?’

Dad: I don’t know.

Me: What do you mean you don’t know? Do you see any?

Dad: No, you told me to look at the compartment that says “noon.” You didn’t say open it.

Me: OK, Dad, OPEN the damn compartment.

Dad: Ok, now what?

Me: Are there any pills in it?

Dad: No.

Me: When did you take them?

Dad: Jesus, I don’t know.

Me: OK, Dad, your therapist will be there at lunch. Tell her to call me. (Clicking sounds everywhere.) Dad! What are all those sounds?

Dad: I’m closing the compartments.

Me: Which ones?

Dad: All of them.

Me: Dad, leave ALL the compartments open. Don’t TOUCH the organizer until Kathy (the therapist) gives it back to you.

Dad: OK, I’m sorry, Mike. I just don’t know how I could fuck this thing up so bad. It looks so easy but I don’t know how, I just messed it up.

Within an hour or two, Kathy and I got it straight. I went back out Monday night to check on Dad. The pill organizer was in good form. All the previous times for the week were open and empty. All the pills yet to be taken were safely ensconced behind closed plastic lids. The rest of that week went just fine. Or, it went as fine as could be expected.

Dad is no longer grasping with the mortal coils of trying to stay healthy and alive, and I wish I had saved those damn pill organizes with some of his other things I kept.

Mike Sledge

Falling On My Facebook

Falling On My Facebook



One day I received an email "invitation" from someone quite close to me with a request to be her “friend”. It was from my lovely, favorite, and only daughter. All I had to do was to sign up on Facebook. No biggie, right? I figured it would just be another way to keep up with her…I mean, we were already friends, right?

Well, two months, twenty friends, and ten games of Wordscraper (a Facebook version of Scrabble) later, I’ve found yet another way to be embarrassed, or to embarrass myself.

For example, do I REALLY want to see pictures of my daughter’s friends (now young women) in all sorts of scanty attire of which they are so fond when I used to change their diapers in the daycare at church? That’s the “be embarrassed” part.

Should I have gotten into an Obama vs. McCain (with each on the side of the candidate you might least expect) debate with one of my daughter’s friends (even though SHE posted her negative comments first)? That’s the “embarrass myself” part.

Oh, but there is so much more.

How about having your butt spanked and otherwise being thoroughly humiliated at Wordscraper by a dominatrix who doesn’t reveal her predilection until “chatting” and playing words that can’t be repeated for genteel readers? That’s BOTH “be embarrassed” and “embarrass myself” all wrapped up in one.

But, alas, the bug has bit and now I’m trying to hook my friends across the country to also join up so we can more easily keep tabs on what we are all doing. A junkie is most happy in the company of other junkies.

Mike Sledge