tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88270306292863760332024-03-12T22:06:50.975-07:00Johnny's RantsSensitive observations and brilliant insights on almost anythingJohnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-73378294208313162402021-02-25T13:21:00.009-08:002021-02-25T13:22:24.936-08:00The Electronic Media and Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRmQ8Mhg-xvQcdOGK69WmJYjlI3qn3Cs4bKbjSztAs9CaVtW-TwHmq7kvU_B1IgdXtQ3FPBZhhHTWFCSeaCb-QZ8aiH_9FwOptxIJ9-9_ruWSo3pWNY6cuj79M8O0R6ztsiTCU6k-4Sw/s1588/fullsizeoutput_30ec.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1588" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRmQ8Mhg-xvQcdOGK69WmJYjlI3qn3Cs4bKbjSztAs9CaVtW-TwHmq7kvU_B1IgdXtQ3FPBZhhHTWFCSeaCb-QZ8aiH_9FwOptxIJ9-9_ruWSo3pWNY6cuj79M8O0R6ztsiTCU6k-4Sw/s320/fullsizeoutput_30ec.jpeg"/></a></div>
I can remember all the way back to 1947, when I was three. At that time I was still illiterate, so my contact with the outside world came from the radio. We had a wonderful one, a Silvertone made by Sears Roebuck. As the years passed the Roebuck name got smaller until it disappeared, then the Silvertone store-brand name also disappeared. Today in 2021 Sears itself has just about disappeared.
So anyway, back to my pre-literate information acquisition: I loved staring into the back of the radio and seeing the glowing tubes. I wasn’t sure they had anything to do with the sound coming out but they had a cozy appeal like a tiny campfire. I was pretty sure the sound came from a little metal cube that (looking back) was probably the power transformer or the magnet housing of the speaker. Initially I didn’t really realize that the human contact was from the outside world. I theorized that the cube was where tiny people who spoke, sang, and played music for us were housed. It made perfect sense. How else could motionless lifeless parts communicate to us if there weren’t intelligent life inside?
Eventually my parents explained that there were no little people in the radio. We were hearing real full-sized people elsewhere, like when our friends called us on the phone. That seemed more inconceivable than my little people theory, because phone wires were hollow (or so I assumed). But, I believed it because my parents were smart and trustworthy.
Soon after my radio education I encountered and admired record players. I understood that they reproduced music that people had made in the past. That seemed almost more miraculous than the radio. I didn’t understand the principles of operation, but I observed them carefully and decided I could make one for us. They somehow worked by a needle scraping on a large thin disk. My first prototype experiments involved getting a shallow round pan from the kitchen and scraping a sewing needle around in circles on it. It didn’t sound like music; it sounded like a needle scratching on a metal pan. I had to be missing something, but I didn’t know what. My parents to the rescue again: They explained that the sound was placed in the tiny spiral groove that the needle rode in. They said it took the form of special microscopic bumps and wiggles in the groove, but they didn’t know much about how they were put there.
One day when I was perhaps five, my mother came home with some exciting news. There was a new kind of radio that showed moving pictures like when we went to the picture show. “Picture show” was what we called the movies. This fabulous invention was called “television”. I wanted one! Not long after, we went to visit a friend who actually had a television. It was a huge piece of wooden furniture with a modest-size screen in the middle. I was impressed that it worked, but not too impressed with the picture quality. The nearest television broadcast station was in Charlotte, 90 miles north of our home in Columbia, so anyone who had a TV had to have a huge super high rooftop antenna aimed at Charlotte. Even with that, they had to endure snowy reception.
We didn’t get a TV any time soon, but the radio was pretty darned wonderful. My mother listened to the soaps in the mid afternoon while cleaning or ironing. In the late afternoon I listened to Ruth Gotlieb’s story hour and the Uncle Remus show presenting tales of Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox. Then there was the Lone Ranger and Tonto! In the evening we split our sides laughing at the Amos and Andy show. Saturday night was super special after bath time. Tarzan came on! I loved Tarzan; I wanted to be Tarzan. I perfected the Tarzan yell, which he judiciously used to either call his significant other, Jane, or to proclaim victory over some attacking lion. Oh, he also used the yell to call Cheetah who was not a really a cheetah but Tarzan’s chimpanzee friend. My best buddy, the girl over the back fence, became Jane as we role-played for years. We’d call each other to the back fence with the blood curdling Tarzan yell. That brought us lots of kidding from the adult neighbors. “Hey Johnny, give us your War Whoop”.
OK, four more years had to pass before TV came to us Douglasses. During this time we took lots of Sunday afternoon drives. A big thrill during these drives was to look for houses with TV antennas and envy the lucky occupants. TV proliferated. In a bit of sour (but healthy) grapes, my parents began to repeat the theory that TV spoiled people for reading books, and our broader education might suffer because of it. I reluctantly began to believe them. After all, they were smart and trustworthy.
Then one day in 1953 my daddy came home from Southeastern Freightlines -- where he was a bookkeeper -- with a mile-wide grin on his face. There had been some freight damage and the customer had refused to accept a TV that had a cracked cabinet leg. My father paid a pittance for it and it was his. Hallelujah! Thereafter my afternoons were filled with Howdy Doody, Pinky Lee, Superman, and the Little Rascals. In the evenings we all enjoyed I Love Lucy, The Honeymooners, Gunsmoke, Have Gun; Will Travel, etc. Columbia had about three channels by then. TV was still black and white, remotes hadn’t been invented, and somebody had to jump up every minute or so to delicately adjust the horizontal and vertical hold knobs, or just give it a hard spank on the top to get it to behave properly. But it was worth it. About every six months it would poop out altogether and the service man would have to come. I had my nose in his business all the time, and pretty soon I had realized he was always replacing the same one or two vacuum tubes. Then I started doing the repairs myself by pulling out these tubes and taking them to the nearest mini-grocery store. These always had do-it-yourself tube testers and a good inventory of replacement tubes.
This minimal TV repair success (plus a donation from a generous neighbor of obsolete telephone parts for experimentation) convinced me that I wanted to become an electrical engineer. The generous neighbor was a telephone serviceman and he was the same man who teased me about my war whoops. I made a slight career goal adjustment to mechanical engineer after I became old enough to yearn for a motor scooter or a car. I figured I could always maintain a stylish and powerful set of wheels with mechanical engineering skills, so I went to Clemson to become a mechanical engineer.
I finally ended up with claim to the title of electrical engineer in the last years of my career. In the energy field my mechanical engineering had eventually taken me to industrial electrical motors, which put out mechanical energy thanks to an input of (Ta Da…) electrical energy. Some big contracts that my employer had gotten for training and writing of guidebooks on motors gave me exposure. The Institute for Electrical and Electronic Engineers (IEEE) decided to elevate my standing to “Senior Member”. The big secret was that I was not a member at all. I had to rush and join IEEE for my elevation in the institute to take place. Today I’m out to pasture, but I can still install a new electrical outlet, sometimes with a little counsel from my electrician daughter.
Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-55398503371492750322020-12-10T07:25:00.002-08:002020-12-10T07:29:03.140-08:00Racist Monument Can Become Mystery Monolith<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbfIOAQlTpoSgnw7GflfrycrxRnwIIalFD6G_4zSKJaPaD9dPOy1YRvDo8LSrdaT7ap2_XWn6ysW3OMnbLprAuwRnf_fvQ2jZtyEmILsS_rV4wY95Cg4c-5oVZ_J8GGPVTq4JBsgZXFw4/s850/205_view_east.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="656" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbfIOAQlTpoSgnw7GflfrycrxRnwIIalFD6G_4zSKJaPaD9dPOy1YRvDo8LSrdaT7ap2_XWn6ysW3OMnbLprAuwRnf_fvQ2jZtyEmILsS_rV4wY95Cg4c-5oVZ_J8GGPVTq4JBsgZXFw4/s320/205_view_east.jpg"/></a></div>
America’s top news issues are Covid and the presidential transition. An even more compelling news item in Asheville is what to do with the Zebulon Vance monument. A majority, myself included, agrees that we need to quit honoring old Zeb. He had a despicable history of defending slave ownership with continued racism after the civil war. We just can’t agree on what to do with his dad-blamed giant obelisk monument.
Hey, the solution is right before our eyes. Another hot current news item in America and beyond is the mysterious appearance of monoliths in remote places everywhere from Utah to Romania. So let’s have some fun. Remove all telltale inscriptions and haul Zeb’s monument to a remote spot beyond the news range of western NC and plant it in the ground. Then we can sit back and chortle over the theories that arise about its origins and purpose. I’m betting they will run about 50 – 50 between snoopy space aliens and a deep state antenna for transmitting 5G signals to alter election results.
It shouldn’t be hard to move. We can hitch it to one of those CH-53 Super Stallion Marine helicopters. Those suckers can lift 33 tons. Of course we’ll have to paint the chopper black, and snatch it up at 3:00 AM on a Sunday morning to maximize the conspiracy effect. Heck, the marines would probably welcome the opportunity for a special sneak attack training exercise.
Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-47229838625226595902019-11-14T12:32:00.001-08:002019-11-14T12:33:27.629-08:00Me 'n' the Marchese: We go way back“Go down to the Palazzo Pucci on the Via del Pucci and see if you can get us a private showing by the Marchese Pucci for Saturday morning.” <br />
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Those were my marching orders one day fifty years ago in my brief job as a travel escort. “Mark who? Poochie what?” These words meant nothing to me. I was a recently laid off aircraft engineer trying to fake savoir faire and European style with a Carolina accent and a cheap polyester sport jacket and trousers. <br />
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The travel company boss/owner, whom I’ll call Dr. Hector, brusquely explained every detail. I learned that Emilio Pucci -- pronounced like the slang diminutive of “dog” -- was an Italian nobleman who lived in a palace near our hotel in Florence. He was best known internationally for being a famous fashion designer of skiwear and fancy print fabrics. He was also a sportsman playboy. Dr. Hector explained that they were great old friends and had even raced cars together. (Decades later I searched Wikipedia and discovered much more, including the Marchese’s intrigues with Mussolini’s daughter and how that led to him being arrested and tortured by the Gestapo.) <br />
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Dr. Hector also explained in great detail how to navigate the palace and get an audience with the Marchese. I followed these instructions flawlessly. I entered the palace and strolled confidently past the guard with my head held high, took the first left, and headed up the stairs. Just as Dr. Hector had said, the guard did not challenge me. At the top of the stairs I found a broad hall with a beautiful officious woman dressed in black at a desk and lots of beautiful models, also dressed in black, loitering around. I explained to the desk woman my connection to the great Dr. Hector and my need to see the Marchese about a private showing. She was unimpressed and said it was impossible, that private showings were scheduled months in advance. I pressed on, refusing to give up. Eventually, in disgust, she told me to head up the next flight of stairs and talk to the woman there. <br />
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I ascended to the next level and found almost the same scene, except that the officious desk woman there and the models were all dressed in white. I got the same response to my plea and I pressed on and on. Finally the officious woman popped up and snippily said, “I will speak to the Marchese.” Yes! <br />
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Eventually, she came back and, to my astonishment, coolly announced, “The Marchese will see you now. Follow me.” I followed her to a huge conference room where floor, walls, and ceiling were all beautifully finished in dark wood. The drapes and chair cushions were all wildly colorful Pucci prints. She bade me wait there. I waited … a long time. Suddenly the Marchese himself dashed in, protesting that he was very busy and that I must be brief. I sputtered away, beginning with how I worked for his great old friend Dr. Hector who desired a private showing the coming Saturday morning. He said he didn’t recall the man and repeated the familiar mantra about how private showings had to be scheduled months in advance. I negotiated and politely insisted, emphasizing how wealthy our American tourists were, and how they admired his designs. When my failure seemed eminent, to my amazement, he agreed and set a time for the showing. Then he dashed out and I all but skipped down the stairs and back to the hotel to report my success.<br />
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The showing happened. But, I missed it because I was sent on a mission to search all the nearby Florence bars to find our AWOL bus driver. Later I learned that the tourists (all university faculty and staff) were underwhelmed and they only purchased a couple of neckties. <br />
Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-32512631660544499162018-01-16T09:04:00.000-08:002018-01-28T07:26:56.548-08:00I Took a Load to the Dump<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgECciTfheRFxcCfdG32pgjaimmURsOUURS06SUk2qDwfFCXT9c2OU7eYQzFYXrH5dJ_eUU8NHHcrz4X_suKpSXCm20CXWmegoFXlLRA0PpyapFoPYDRb1Or7jdum71w_xnI6YwRmQYl-I/s1600/bow-lake-old-pit-large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgECciTfheRFxcCfdG32pgjaimmURsOUURS06SUk2qDwfFCXT9c2OU7eYQzFYXrH5dJ_eUU8NHHcrz4X_suKpSXCm20CXWmegoFXlLRA0PpyapFoPYDRb1Or7jdum71w_xnI6YwRmQYl-I/s320/bow-lake-old-pit-large.jpg" width="320" height="213" data-original-width="500" data-original-height="333" /></a></div>I took a trailer load to the dump. This was in 2001 and it was not your ordinary dump run. Our second and last child had fledged and moved thousands of miles out of state for college. Our house, utility room, and garage were crammed with clutter from 18 years of our hoarding. Although our home had become metaphorically an empty nest, our storage areas were maxed out. I was suffering considerably from the empty nest thing as well as the obstacle course of clutter.<br />
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I cannot name all the stuff, but here are a few notable examples. I had tons of leftover building materials from do-it-yourself repairs and home improvements. These are the things one will never again need until soon after disposing of them. The toughest items to purge were the kids’ stuff. My wife Catherine couldn’t bear to part with the kids’ toys. After all we might need them some future year for anticipated grandchildren. One item was a diorama made by our daughter in elementary school. It was cleverly crafted, probably on the theme of a book she had read. It was the interior of a cabin with tiny furnishings like beds made from empty tuna fish cans. There was a very cute little mouse she had made of clay, peering out from a corner. The diorama took fully a square yard of table space and nothing could be stacked on top of it. Another item was the third row car seat I had fashioned for our children to sit in the back of our ’85 Subaru wagon when we had other car occupants. Its creation was a labor of love and engineering skill directed foremost to safety. I had welded a frame exactly fitted to the space and made seats of plywood and foam carefully contoured with Catherine’s electric knife for comfortable support. Catherine made seat covers for it. It didn’t fit anything but an ’85 Subaru and I couldn’t give it away to anyone after the children grew up and the Subaru was gone.<br />
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Back to the dump: We called it a dump but it’s really a transfer station. You drive your vehicle in and out over a scale. They charge based on the weight loss after the vehicle has been emptied. The first stop after weigh-in is the hazardous waste drop-off where you get rid of all the solvents, oil based paint, and other nasty gooey stuff. Then you dump off any recyclable metals. Finally you back up to the gigantic pits where you must unceremoniously hurl your junk, lifetime memories, obsolete electronic gear, and everything else over a precipice. Continuously some Morlock runs a roaring bulldozer over it to crush everything into black hole density to be trucked to a landfill. That’s the hard part. These treasures deserve a more respectful interment. <br />
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It was awful when I had to hurl the car seat to its doom. It represented hours of our creative craftsmanship. It had cradled our precious little children for many miles of family adventures. This nearly tore me up but it was even worse when I came to the diorama. I took an extra moment to ask myself if there was any way I could preserve it forever and cart it safely about each time we moved. The answer was “No,” - probably the wrong answer. I hurled it into the path of the raging bulldozer and instantly regretted my actions. Suddenly at my feet, still barely in the trailer, I spotted the tiny clay mouse, looking up at me in horror, pleading for his life. “Yes!” I cried to myself and pounced on him to rescue him for life. This was only to find that something terrible had spilled on him from my potpourri of toxics and he was already dissolving away. Why had I not thought of saving him before?! Sadly, I thumped him over the edge to join his diorama in oblivion, and I instantly began weeping. I guess that silly thing had brought the whole pain of empty nest to a catharsis.<br />
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By the time I reached the exit weigh station I was wailing inconsolably and almost unable to communicate with the agent and pay up. No doubt she thought I was a nut case. All the way home and ever since, I’ve been mulling better ways to part with our obsolete treasures. Perhaps there could be grief counselors stationed at the dump. Maybe the treasures could ascend up a conveyor as if to heaven and we could receive a little certificate commemorating their good service on earth. No doubt, I am a nut case because I still have the real treasures. The little girl who made that diorama is very wonderfully alive, wiring peoples homes, teaching exercise classes, and operating an Air BnB while raising our two lovely granddaughters. The little boy who sat in the car seat next to her is a prince of a fellow, nearing age 40, loving his beautiful talented wife, and educating the next generation of college students. I have no cause for grief. Rest in peace little mouse. You played your role well in your hour upon the stage and you wont be forgotten. <br />
Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-64992054855368087572017-01-14T19:28:00.000-08:002017-01-14T20:07:32.297-08:00My Electronic Gizmos are Driving Me Nuts!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfPLNUYdT06wrHL3i4hDgahijtcfE4gkw92MfKNf9KtaGxS8du6cOqUxMC7XLJZHEyaCj-N4Ru4NUhzHQHmnXVgl3qZ0i1qKFjJJS96SJaEArI7G-s-E-4Sdxnnoz7R5Fc3jBXBBhEmnk/s1600/IMG_0091.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfPLNUYdT06wrHL3i4hDgahijtcfE4gkw92MfKNf9KtaGxS8du6cOqUxMC7XLJZHEyaCj-N4Ru4NUhzHQHmnXVgl3qZ0i1qKFjJJS96SJaEArI7G-s-E-4Sdxnnoz7R5Fc3jBXBBhEmnk/s320/IMG_0091.JPG" width="241" height="320" /></a></div>My electronic gizmos are overwhelming me and driving me nuts. In our two houses, my wife and I have, 22 active handheld remotes, 2 computers, two smart phones, two modem/routers and two landline phones. We have 128 active and ever-changing passwords that are necessary to operate this stuff. The computers talk to two iClouds and several other clouds of questionable pedigree. They talk to each other and to both phones. The smarty-pants phones talk to each other as well as the computers and they talk to our security system. Even the landline talks through the cable provider to one of our computers. Everything except the handheld remotes passes digital photos and other information back and fourth directly and through the various clouds whenever it pleases and not when it pleases us. I can even talk (literally) to a gal name Siri inside my phone and she talks back to me. E.g. “Hey Siri, what’s the capital of Spain?“ Siri replies, “Here are some boutiques within 300 miles where you can buy Spanish clothing.” <br />
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I have no idea where digital photos and files reside any more but it seems that when I alter or delete something from one gizmo it gets altered or deleted from the other gizmos and probably rapidly fills the various clouds, which I am sure are watched over by Putin’s hackers. <br />
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Sometimes the gear plays impish tricks on me like a couple of mornings ago when the security system, which was supposed to be disarmed, made video of me shuffling through the living room wearing only a T-shirt. Of course it sent this to its cloud before sending me a “notification” that it had detected “activity” in my living room. I have no idea how to delete it. I’m sure it will resurface in four years if I decide to run for president against Trump. <br />
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Sometimes we go for help to the experts who sell us this stuff. In a typical visit we are greeted by the millennials who only thinly disguise their disdain for more geezers whom they suspect of being deep into irreversible dementia. Our visits usually leave us more confused than before and limping home defeated with yet another new $120 external hard drive.<br />
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At this point I am afraid to take a photograph and unable to access the landline voicemails that are piling up on my computer. Voicemails don’t really matter though because they are all from telemarketers or worthy organizations seeking money. These will call again in a few days or a few hours when I am frying bacon, sleeping, watching a movie, about to take a shower, using the toilet, entertaining guests, or some combination of the above.<br />
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Will somebody please stop the world or at least turn it back to 1958?<br />
Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-16048943332069982172014-11-04T09:42:00.000-08:002014-11-04T09:58:24.987-08:00Doll Play with Granddaughter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisxa3ETqfKjYpPUlmij2y1TtcLy64NlVIR6-QC06Hg5eSVzRAdmcm3DwrE39ul7ui2r0WV0IkM1-BddXr7KKPv6F05ftokYAnRtyGipMLrpJO63UWdScSnnNvnguVPMMkfAS_Bt60yKjg/s1600/IMG_7496.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisxa3ETqfKjYpPUlmij2y1TtcLy64NlVIR6-QC06Hg5eSVzRAdmcm3DwrE39ul7ui2r0WV0IkM1-BddXr7KKPv6F05ftokYAnRtyGipMLrpJO63UWdScSnnNvnguVPMMkfAS_Bt60yKjg/s400/IMG_7496.JPG" /></a></div>Yesterday I was left home alone with 4-year-old grandaughter Yaiza for a while. As usual she orchestrated our play down to the smallest detail. We played with Barbie-style dolls. I was assigned to do the voice and actions of Ryan (a friend of Ken). Ryan was clad in a surfer swimsuit. In the plot devised by Yaiza, Ryan was to introduce himself to about a dozen Barbie-type dolls (At least one "Stella" was totally nude.) and invite them along for a trip to Paris. I don't know how the heck she knows what Paris is. Once Ryan had gathered a good-sized harem, Yaiza directed me to board them all into an airplane (a plastic box) for their flight to Paris. Ken had to stay home. He was dressed in a tuxedo and had to attend a ball at home with some other girls. As Ryan, I announced that the flight was about to take off. Yaiza looked at me like I was an idiot and said, "It's already in the air." When we arrived in Paris, I (as Ryan) suggested we all visit the Louvre. Yaiza nixed that idea and said we were all going for pony rides and produced a considerable herd of plastic ponies and unicorns. Then Yaiza announced that we were to attend a parade. Speaking as Ryan I suggested to Stella that she might want to get some clothes on to keep warm and be more appropriately dressed for a parade. Speaking as Stella, Yaiza said she was just fine and would go as she was. Ain't grandparenting fun?! Oh…yes. For more commentary on Barbies, see <a href="http://johdou.blogspot.com/2012/11/barbies-everywhere.html">http://johdou.blogspot.com/2012/11/barbies-everywhere.html</a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeqmpIho4TLhAgfycuspPulWF3WrD0_nxxMfMMam_RPGKc4W-JnIhukUDai1LpSBmrptG-r0QE6ARRwapgj9UEtEuAPxsB3LPxrm3GYfKq6lebf0K_9PYu_FLFaLoE6FLpm4law5d2KIg/s1600/IMG_7490.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeqmpIho4TLhAgfycuspPulWF3WrD0_nxxMfMMam_RPGKc4W-JnIhukUDai1LpSBmrptG-r0QE6ARRwapgj9UEtEuAPxsB3LPxrm3GYfKq6lebf0K_9PYu_FLFaLoE6FLpm4law5d2KIg/s200/IMG_7490.JPG" /></a></div>Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-27921943104786530492014-09-23T14:59:00.000-07:002014-09-23T14:59:03.359-07:00The Return of Mr. T Nearly 60 Years Later<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkOO3PL9Bw9-1PFrgNJ0MJyRhUWD2w6dtH9DFPlXAkIQLMrpg7cgikxJdxu4ktG9iuKvuOx8tjx_wGAI8OURjCxBUDjJCbsfX7D1gzYfm6xEzSpGFuGbeTRejxx-6j3F_C-QPQHL7I2l4/s1600/principalsoffice.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkOO3PL9Bw9-1PFrgNJ0MJyRhUWD2w6dtH9DFPlXAkIQLMrpg7cgikxJdxu4ktG9iuKvuOx8tjx_wGAI8OURjCxBUDjJCbsfX7D1gzYfm6xEzSpGFuGbeTRejxx-6j3F_C-QPQHL7I2l4/s320/principalsoffice.gif" /></a></div>Some fifty-six years ago my nemesis at Foote Jr. High School was the young assistant principal, Mr. Harley S. Teague. I have totally disguised the names of the school and the man so nobody can ever identify the real person and place. That is because my encounters with Mr. Teague were numerous and brutal and there is no need to open old wounds. <br />
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When he wasn’t doing assistant principal duties, i.e. lecturing and punishing bad kids, Mr. Teague taught South Carolina History. I had him for that subject and that part of our relationship wasn’t too bad. He had a wonderful collection of historical artifacts. I remember actual envelopes of letters written by survivors of the Confederate war that were re-used by steaming off the glue and turning the envelope inside out and re-gluing it. Such was their desperate state of poverty after Sherman had killed all their livestock and burned their farms. He even told us how starving survivors had to pick undigested grain kernels out of cow dung for food. Ugh!<br />
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With this education from Mr. Teague, you can surely understand my outrage when a kid in my class named Terry Stull (That’s his real name; he deserves to be outed.) called me a Yankee one day at recess. I couldn’t catch him so I threw a rock and bloodied his head. I was promptly marched off to Mr. T but I was sure there would be no punishment for anyone but Terry. Surely Mr. T would understand that such an insult could not be left un-answered. He didn’t understand, even though I explained to him it was only a small rock. He kept insisting that even a small rock could put an eye out. I tried to explain that Terry was running away so his eyes were on the far side of his head from me.<br />
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One time the art teacher, Ms. Craig, marched me off to Mr. T for drumming on her garbage can lid. We kids were all queued up for something and in good spirits. The garbage can was right next to me, and the lid seemed to call out to me to make music, so I did. I had no idea there was a rule against drumming on garbage can lids. Ms. Craig never even told me to stop. She just hauled me in for discipline where both she and Mr. T poked fun at me, lampooning my musical aspirations. This scarred me for life and is probably the reason I never learned to play the guitar well.<br />
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Foote Jr. high included grades seven through nine. Each grade was divided into about 14 sections (classes) based on how smart you tested. I’m some sort of a genius so I was only about two sections down from the top. When I reached the 9th grade, they decided to try something new with the 9th grade. I’m sure Mr. T was behind the idea. They made two of the sections exclusively for male troublemakers, one for boys who didn’t test well academically and one for those who tested well. I’m proud to say I was in the one for boys who tested well. Still, it was hell. The class was filled with devious rowdies and bullies, and there were no girls. There went my chances of finding a sweetheart in my class. The kids were so bad that the homeroom teacher was forever keeping the whole class after school for being rowdy. This infuriated me because I had an afternoon paper route, being an industrious young man with an entrepreneurial spirit. I only made about a dollar a day and if I was late, customers called in complaints which were assessed to me at the rate of 50 cents per complaint. One day the kids were going berserk and I was sitting quiet as a mouse hoping the whole class wouldn’t get detention. We did. Worse yet, the teacher forbade us to utter a single word during our detention. That was the most disempowered I had ever felt. Finally I raised my hand but was ignored. I blurted out that I needed to go to the bathroom. Still I was ignored. I protested that it was pretty urgent and I couldn’t wait. This was an exaggeration, but how was she to know? Finally she dismissed me to the bathroom, ordered me to return afterwards, and, worse of all, to suffer detention again the next day. Ooh! After a couple of days of me refusing to stay after school (because of my innocence) and my homeroom teacher bursting into tears, I was marched off to Mr. T. My case was weakened by the fact that when I arrived at the bathroom on that initial detention afternoon I found, to my horror, Mr. T in the bathroom, probably erasing graffiti. He regarded me so suspiciously that I was unable to relax enough to relieve myself and I had to return to the classroom un-relieved. <br />
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There was a rule against fighting. That’s reasonable of course but Mr. T (being a step ahead of today’s insurance industry) had a no-fault amendment to that rule. It said combatants involved in a fight were punished and punished equally, no matter who was the attacker and who was the victim. Of course I was always the victim or at most, the reluctant party mercilessly taunted into combat. Once Mr. T suspended me for getting into three fights in one week and my father had to meet with him to arrange my re-admittance. I can’t remember the fights per se, but I am certain I was innocent in all cases. I do remember one fight when a lunatic kid arrived late for class and ordered me out of the desk where I was sitting. I refused to budge because it was open seating and he had no right whatsoever to a desk I had already occupied. He charge like a bull and overturned both desk and me. That meant I was involved in a fight and had to take detention and more complaints on the paper route.<br />
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If you’re still with me, you need to get a life. No, actually you’re wondering what all this is leading up to. Here it is. I listened to one more lecture from Mr. T last evening! I hadn’t laid eyes on him since 1959, but he is still alive. He looked pretty good for his 86 years. He had a full head of white hair and was commendably trim for an old man in the land of BBQ and hushpuppies. Sponsored by the Edisto Museum, he delivered a very engaging lecture about finding ten unmarked and forgotten Union soldier graves on Otter Island (an uninhabited island between here and Hunting Island). <br />
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I had a chance to talk to Mr. T beforehand. Of course he didn't remember me. I didn't expect him too. I told him I was sure he had a thousand Bart Simpsons pass through his office in his teaching years. Nevertheless, I apologized for hitting Terry Stull in the head with a rock. Mr. T’s adult granddaughter and her son were with him. She seemed to find it amusingly incongruous that a white-whiskered old man was calling him Mr. Teague (instead of Harley) and apologizing for hitting a kid in the head with a rock. <br />
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But enough about me; what about the lost soldiers of Otter Island? It is an inhospitable place. Yes, boaters party on the beach at Otter Island but they never go into the interior because it is a tangled jungle of brush and vines infested with mosquitoes, chiggers, snakes, and alligators. The amazing part of Mr. T’s story was not just finding previously undiscovered graves with no marker stones in that thicket, but also actually discovering who was in them. The latter discovery was by wild coincident when he somehow found a diary of an Otter Island Union soldier held by an antiquities dealer somewhere near the border between Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Mr. T bought the diary. He wonderfully communicated the emotional experience of finding not only the resting place, but also the identity of these long lost and forgotten soldiers. <br />
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Mr. T no longer works to reform bad boys but he still does important primary historical research in S. Carolina. He has donated many artifacts to the Edisto Museum. I no longer want to kick him in the kneecaps. Forgiveness is liberating.<br />
Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-35130370363057404922014-06-11T14:50:00.000-07:002014-06-11T15:00:07.235-07:00Hey dude. We're gonna cut your leg off.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpyFBvJX9TXgDvuiGhGOKHGgDPba1EYq_95-RwsyOtIDrhbVyEvl9gQXta4y4GQMnyeNCjk51a3eNztuiV5ePILKJevhG4JmarHyD8RBxHGDKb5hbhec7tUHxq7oIonWkX0P7atu_mp-A/s1600/Leg+Amputation+090717104612-large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpyFBvJX9TXgDvuiGhGOKHGgDPba1EYq_95-RwsyOtIDrhbVyEvl9gQXta4y4GQMnyeNCjk51a3eNztuiV5ePILKJevhG4JmarHyD8RBxHGDKb5hbhec7tUHxq7oIonWkX0P7atu_mp-A/s200/Leg+Amputation+090717104612-large.jpg" /></a></div>Went to the Asheville orthopedic surgeon Monday for a follow up on my toe surgery. It’s fine. The exam room was a double room. Behind the thin curtain was another patient, waiting for the doctor to come with his X-ray results. He was in a wheelchair and looked to be a Cherokee, maybe 60 years old. He spoke like a simple fellow from some hillbilly holler. A nurse or assistant came in and loudly delivered the news that his mended leg bones were collapsing. The surgeon came in and repeated the same thing more loudly and added, “We did the best we could. It looked good when you were last here but the bone pieces are just collapsing. We need to remove your leg so you can heal.” The man was silent and the doctor continued, “We need to amputate your leg. You’ll have a prosthesis. Do you understand?” The man spoke, “I’m gon’ hab a wooden laig?” The doctor said, “Oh they don’t make them out of wood any more. It’ll be metal and plastic.” More silence. The man said, “I’d like to tawk to somebody.” The doctor said, “Oh, you’d like a second opinion? Sure. I can get my colleague in here right now and we’ll see what he thinks.” The man said. “I wanna tawk to my fambly.”<br />
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Anyway I’m not sure why I’m relating this, but it was kind of emotionally wrenching for me to hear someone get such abrupt shocking news, up close and personal. Part of me wanted to laugh and part of me wanted to cry. I felt like jumping up and hobbling over to give him a big hug, but that really didn’t make any sense. He’d probably think he was really in a surrealistic world of craziness. I sat respectfully quiet. I was very thankful that all I had to whine about was a stiff big toe. I’m still counting my blessings.<br />
Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-74100976754019342172014-02-02T14:22:00.001-08:002014-02-02T14:31:25.610-08:00Magazine Rack Sociology<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtNkydNKM_plb_7zlSBt-SiyO5zBzVzPt1PH37Tb4eD2JfEwp4sOx5H4nm7XuOLu5MAS5PyTfnVyabJAmZ0Mj2KimUKM3mAvFFTlIEmXkTPLSenFnpEZMC9dJ0V5rTcJl1FBLTQr6Li4o/s1600/IMG_7255.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtNkydNKM_plb_7zlSBt-SiyO5zBzVzPt1PH37Tb4eD2JfEwp4sOx5H4nm7XuOLu5MAS5PyTfnVyabJAmZ0Mj2KimUKM3mAvFFTlIEmXkTPLSenFnpEZMC9dJ0V5rTcJl1FBLTQr6Li4o/s400/IMG_7255.jpg" /></a></div>I just took a good look at the Edisto Island BiLo Magazine Rack. Ouch! I’ve always heard you are what you eat, so naturally I figured that your brain contents are what you read. If so, I think humanity is being redefined. The top two shelves were women’s magazines, about 50/50 divided between food and house & garden stuff. Ho hum! The men’s shelf was entirely stocked with firearms magazines. OK, there was one on muscle building. The remaining dozen were ALL firearms magazines. Duck and cover…at least until you can buy your own firearm and shoot back! The bottom shelf was mostly games and kids stuff.<br />
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Does this represent all that today’s humans thinks about or just what BiLo thinks we think about? Maybe BiLo just figures it’s the only thing that low country southerners want to read. Were there any magazines that both genders would find interesting? No, but one actually exists, Garden & Gun. Yankee friends, I’m not making this up; that’s the actual name of it. It’s published in Charleston of course. Who does BiLo think we are? Men are so much more than this suggests. Where are our hot rod magazines and girly books? This is an island for goodness sake, so where are our fishing magazines? I thought women had also been short-changed, but I discovered those gems that define the feminine gender up by the checkout lines. I’m speaking of celebrity scandal sheets that let you know who else John Kennedy was bonking, what aging movie actress showed acres of cellulite in a bikini, and when Elvis was last sighted. <br />
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I’ve got to be fair. There was actually a weekly news magazine. You can see it in the photo, looking lonely down on the right end of the games and kids’ stuff shelf. Couldn’t BiLo give it some company? Maybe a couple of science mags, a business mag or some periodicals on sports other than homicidal sports. Fellow citizens, take up the cause of our enlightenment. I shall certainly do so, but right now I’m taking my erudite carcass into the living room to watch the super bowl. Go Seahawks!Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-62874613773856743462013-12-09T10:54:00.000-08:002013-12-14T15:08:04.474-08:00The End is Near<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4u2U2-zdd3O-NxOoNcTQmPW064tUb8AcJNADlRmSxQu45_XHKP8p_1WQCO58Vl8g0uEfmdzq11mROq1J2rsJShnJLLwV5Yw4ykDZLFjfab84KW6XIfalmebzA4jz-E01klWATL1gn2DQ/s1600/IMG_7194.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4u2U2-zdd3O-NxOoNcTQmPW064tUb8AcJNADlRmSxQu45_XHKP8p_1WQCO58Vl8g0uEfmdzq11mROq1J2rsJShnJLLwV5Yw4ykDZLFjfab84KW6XIfalmebzA4jz-E01klWATL1gn2DQ/s400/IMG_7194.jpg" /></a></div>Yipes! I’ve recently read two fiction books set in the present and near future that describe the end of the United States as we have always known and loved it. They are One Second After by William Forstchen of Black Mountain, NC and Christian Nation by Frederic Rich. They may not be the literary masterpieces of the century, but they each describe a different danger to our lives, security, and freedom. They kept me on the edge of my chair. I’m now more wary of two dangers, which I believe are both real. <br />
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In One Second After, the US gets hit by a nuclear attack involving about three electromagnetic pulse nuclear bombs (EMPs). An EMP is an atomic bomb exploded just a bit above the atmosphere. At that altitude it unleashes a terrific electric pulse that plays havoc with modern electronics over many tens of thousand square miles. The effect is many times more severe than the worst lighting strikes or solar storms that are know to bring parts of the electric grid down. <br />
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I didn’t identify closely with the main character in One Second After because he’s sort of like Tom Clancy’s Jack Ryan character. He’s not much like me. He’s a super achieving nicotine addict with lots of guns, and he sort of defines himself by his former great military and academic accomplishments. Worst yet (for me) is Forstchen’s book is highly praised by his pal Newt Gingrich. OK I’m diverging.<br />
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So anyway, with the EMP attack, virtually all computer devices used for electric power, communication, and vehicle engine control are destroyed even though humans are not directly injured by the bomb blasts and radiation. Nobody can drive anywhere and nobody can make contact with anyone beyond walking distance. The US is sort of knocked back into the 18th century. That might sound nice but we’re hundreds of millions of people now and very few of us live near a nice water well and a patch of arable land with tasty wild animals browsing nearby. Everybody starts dying fast and battles over scarce resources begin. <br />
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The other book is even more chilling. In Christian Nation, the Republicans win the 2008 presidential race and McCain with Palin as VP take over the country. McCain promptly croaks and Palin becomes president. This sparks a tremendous political advantage for the evangelical Christian right who promptly gain majority control of the Senate, House of Representatives, and the Supreme Court. Freedom of religion quickly ends, replaced by the US being proclaimed officially a Christian nation. Soon there are rules and laws forcing prayers everywhere and proof of literal bible-believing Christianity for anyone who wants a job. Eventually fundamentalist hardliners bring back public stoning to death as a penalty for perceived immorality of all sorts, especially homosexuality. Even the treasured relief of masturbation is forbidden and enforced against with the help of hidden cameras for those not fortunate enough to find an opposite sex marriage partner before they’re very far into adult age.<br />
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All right, I’ll stop right there for all you readers on the edge of your chairs. I’ll just say (as I always said in my elementary school book reports) “If you want to see how it all ends, just read the book.” As for me, I’m gonna pray to keep my religious freedom while I head to the hardware store to buy metal Faraday shield boxes to protect my treasured electronic gadgets. Actually those metal tins that Christmas cookies come in work fine. I think I shall buy a bunch of cookies. <br />
Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-34601433193945289252013-01-13T14:13:00.000-08:002013-12-14T15:20:29.154-08:00In the south, even religion is interesting.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ7C2QVJ5V8Ee1afTtX_E5uZJzcwoY5mBLVJNUU5tBd6M_KK7kFwBjsUgmvDLM-MAhjchdWmD059iYiY6dhubsCEV2E9c9T4YDw_mEF1ckC77rVlkhGFcmCPfyDhkJJlGO3IAs6-hXeW4/s1600/episcopal-church-logo-eng-tag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="351" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ7C2QVJ5V8Ee1afTtX_E5uZJzcwoY5mBLVJNUU5tBd6M_KK7kFwBjsUgmvDLM-MAhjchdWmD059iYiY6dhubsCEV2E9c9T4YDw_mEF1ckC77rVlkhGFcmCPfyDhkJJlGO3IAs6-hXeW4/s400/episcopal-church-logo-eng-tag.jpg" /></a></div>I love living in the south. There’s some of everything going own somewhere in this motley culture. Not everything is to my liking, of course, but every bad thing has its antithesis and there’s always some high drama, often with comical, poignant, or absurd manifestations. Sometimes it’s even uplifting.<br />
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My latest experience in southern culture is getting up close and personal with the civil war in the Episcopal Church. This issue is not confined to the south but it is really big here. For those of you who live on Venus, this has blown up over the issue of gay marriage. I understand from my neighbors in the struggle that attitudes about sexuality are not the only issue but it’s probably the issue that precipitated the big flare-up and it’s certainly the issue of wide popular interest.<br />
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How did I get up close and personal in this? A retired friend here is a former Episcopal rector. I know my close friends, especially in the heathen west, cannot picture me being friends with a clergyman. But, this is a real regular guy who has traits I admire like a liberal theological and political ideology and the spunk to cuss a stupid motorist with colorful eloquence. He invited me to attend an important church service of a minority group of Edisto Episcopalians who…(pause for disclaimer) OK, I’m a real outsider to theology so I’ll probably get this screwed up, and certainly oversimplified, but here goes. It seems that the diocese of South Carolina seceded from the overall Episcopal Church over issues crowned (at least) by the gay marriage issue. Then, a minority group, within the seceded diocese, is seceding its way out of the seceded diocese and back into the Episcopal Church. (South Carolina is big on secession.) <br />
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All this splintering off wont seem like a big deal to most of my friends who have only lived in their current home states for a couple measly generations to as little as only a few months. However, the real estate helps make it a really big deal here on Edisto Island. Not only is there a lot of dollar value in the church buildings and grounds, there is a tremendous emotional or spiritual tie to the land. Some people have ancestors in the church cemetery tracing all the way back to when Adam slew his first dinosaur. They feel their very souls dwell not just in their bodies, but also in the hallowed halls of the sanctuary, and the massive spreading Live Oak trees draped in vestments of Spanish moss. Right now, the minority group (the one that wants to stick with the national church and its more liberal attitude toward gay marriage and other stuff) is on the outside without property. <br />
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This real estate struggle ensures that the lawyers will be making a killing on this deal. For the present, the minority group has borrowed what they call “St. Bobo's Cathedral” for their Sunday worship services. Other than on Sunday morning this cathedral is known as “Bobo’s Po Pigs Barbeque.” Bobo is not the owner’s real name of course. About everyone in the south has a nickname. His real name is (Yankee friends, I’m not making this up.) Robert E. Lee. <br />
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I know this is shaping up like a southern caricature farce but it’s not right down the formula script line. Bobo is a Clemson grad and a Democrat, which doesn’t fit the formula script. Also there is some pretty real heartbreak in this rift. People in the breakaway minority love their friends with whom they disagree and they don’t want to lose their relationship with them any more than they want to lose their claim on the church facility and the white sandy soil upon which it sits. I’m sure most folks in the majority group feel the same and I hear many of them are on the fence in this issue or just hope for any reuniting resolution. I hope they get this healed up as soon as possible. As for me, I’m sticking with my Unitarian Church, which is very accepting, multi-faith, and tolerant. And, if you, gentle reader, are not accepting and multi-faith tolerant, I hope you keep your ass out of my UU church.<br />
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Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-13716238010677175882012-11-28T11:41:00.000-08:002012-11-28T19:44:27.651-08:00Barbies Everywhere<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSgZr2tZQLhEaICeao4XU2by6SAqpvlUIKqgPTJMxfXwwxkK3oMvk7q4W_yugTqOuQPuGzpIQwQTWYQMmbbRGNtXgPIM8Vlh63EVbw0ikVkIwLm3-boNz9q-BFshHUPPkKdiVOtagAF7I/s1600/IMG_6572.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSgZr2tZQLhEaICeao4XU2by6SAqpvlUIKqgPTJMxfXwwxkK3oMvk7q4W_yugTqOuQPuGzpIQwQTWYQMmbbRGNtXgPIM8Vlh63EVbw0ikVkIwLm3-boNz9q-BFshHUPPkKdiVOtagAF7I/s400/IMG_6572.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Help! I’m being overrun by Barbies. These are candid shots around my granddaughters’ home. They are not posed or arranged. It seems most Barbies are blonds but not all. I spied a fifth one with red hair but I was told that she was not a Barbie but a mermaid who had already metamorphosed into a legged human. Apparently mermaids are like tadpoles. They can grow legs but it requires some sort of stimulus from a prince. Anyway the redhead was not included in this photo shoot since she was not a genuine Barbie. There was another genuine Barbie that I encountered on a glass shelf over the sink. She was nude and seemed to be attempting something improper with the toothpaste tube, but by the time I found my camera she had departed the venue.<br />
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For those of you who don’t know, Barbies are dolls of post-pubescent young women with distorted features. They cannot stand on their own because their legs are way too long and thin, and their feet point straight down and are shorter than the distance between their eyes, which are huge and usually, but not always, blue. <br />
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By popular demand, Barbies are now being manufactured in variations other than the original blonde vacuous airhead. There are specialties with dark skin and brown eyes. There are also specialties who have good prestigious professions, usually represented by a special set of clothing on the same strangely proportioned nude plastic bodies. My granddaughter recently received a political candidate Barbie. She may have been the one who was stripped naked and doing something weird with the toothpaste tube. That would be typical of a political candidate. The most unusual is the one I call Caesarian Barbie that you can see in one of the photos. She seems to have a giant opening into her abdomen. No one in the family can quite remember her story but it is thought that she was a gift, perhaps not arriving with all her accessories. <br />
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Oh, by the way. Whatever happened to Cabbage Patch dolls? They were kinda cute.<br />
Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-82112803467252778452012-09-11T13:49:00.000-07:002012-09-27T10:20:11.757-07:00I wrote a play!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicqeJptnCeJ_ePTmAYH3f2BCnwJ_95VsNtTfIcoYRIEChF8zXxnDXAg1ZoURNiDSIB8MQKRCs7ArKKA_1pDY3Ns0a6dAwsjTrCM_MVM0oAQ7xHbpwTroi-tXX49aQazmnUT9wGAwsDGL0/s1600/IMG_5925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="358" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicqeJptnCeJ_ePTmAYH3f2BCnwJ_95VsNtTfIcoYRIEChF8zXxnDXAg1ZoURNiDSIB8MQKRCs7ArKKA_1pDY3Ns0a6dAwsjTrCM_MVM0oAQ7xHbpwTroi-tXX49aQazmnUT9wGAwsDGL0/s400/IMG_5925.jpg" /></a></div><br />
PRESS RELEASE <br />
“BEACH NOTES”, an original play by local talent, Johnny Douglass, is sponsored by the Edisto Art Guild and will be performed by the Edisto Players at the Edisto Beach Education/Civic Center Thursday October 18 at 7:30pm. Drinks and snacks are available and seating is at tables. Tickets are $10 per person in advance and are available at True Value Hardware, Beach Combers Hair Salon and the Edistonian. Tickets are $12 at the door if available.<br />
Sunday October 21 is a champagne brunch at 12:30pm with the performance at 1:30pm. The cost for the brunch and performance is $30 per person and reservations are required. <br />
Come and see Earl, Bubba and Darlene as they romp through a local bar, a beauty shop and even a Town Council meeting in a little town on the South Carolina coast.<br />
Community Friends for this event are The Piggly Wiggly, Edisto Seafood and McConkey’s Jungle Shack. The Champagne Brunch is catered by Southern Affairs with the menu of Mixed Greens Salad with Balsamic Vinaigrette, Egg and Cheese Strata, Shrimp and Geechee Boy Grits, Sausage and Bacon, Roasted Asparagus, Assorted Muffins and Danish, Tea, Water and Complimentary Champagne or Mimosa. For reservations call Emily Craig at 843-869-9275 and send check to Edisto Art Guild PO Box 732, Edisto Island, SC 29438<br />
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Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-34361383508898566902012-08-17T19:52:00.000-07:002012-08-17T19:54:50.399-07:00Rest stop closed?! Are you kidding?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG6CcARa1ejU2jmDqJPApUAfYx57BdG-q3jS0sd4qpLqc2DAR23pKwisKLm0J1Z7-dnwsdEEawqm5s-O26GrbnUY3W1W9PzGGhYOesx7kOWuJOtbquidk5wctEG7T1SYaGj1eumhocjhk/s1600/IMG_3329.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="337" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG6CcARa1ejU2jmDqJPApUAfYx57BdG-q3jS0sd4qpLqc2DAR23pKwisKLm0J1Z7-dnwsdEEawqm5s-O26GrbnUY3W1W9PzGGhYOesx7kOWuJOtbquidk5wctEG7T1SYaGj1eumhocjhk/s400/IMG_3329.jpg" /></a></div><br />
We just drove through Illinois from bow to stern. I don’t recommend it for pregnant women or senior-age men. Half the rest stops were closed and half the others were just truck rest stops with no rest rooms. Say what?<br />
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The best I can figure is that it must be a strategy for dealing with the drought. I did my part to help out the dessicated corn crop.<br />
Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-17918783554924285552012-07-13T08:15:00.000-07:002012-07-13T08:15:23.511-07:00Great Gift IdeasI just received a wonderful gift catalogue in the mail. It was called Harriet Carter. The messages therein are made possible by the USPS policy on very affordable bulk mail (BM) rates. This supports the free enterprise system, which is a system wherein the best and brightest creative inventors can realize their dreams and yours. It is a fabulous partnership of government and free entrepreneurial spirit. Here are some of the most creative and wonderful gift ideas.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpP4vvtnXUwUireK3C8dlyiPw7RKuVEdYf-cPW_wj-d1PDQs26WD3riRBOu8Ji7trT87MzHp44o2yqct5pUYrS36QM-IZW2sS_mGFTW82xaT7sf-iEDFsghkeAzsznQ8KPN7uAEYtHGlA/s1600/IMG_5784.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="193" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpP4vvtnXUwUireK3C8dlyiPw7RKuVEdYf-cPW_wj-d1PDQs26WD3riRBOu8Ji7trT87MzHp44o2yqct5pUYrS36QM-IZW2sS_mGFTW82xaT7sf-iEDFsghkeAzsznQ8KPN7uAEYtHGlA/s400/IMG_5784.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFQENKdpjGUTZQG7JAtlw80P8lCmuZVixFaxNmFdxGOU7YzoXoqZrmB0MtzGSHn2QL-hn7pAc2tv9wCJsp45uzxtxyeDjQlmy0_fQn2cRcmMAZEsiph-sQ3er6nu1zOUd9IVSFtUHG9Ew/s1600/IMG_5785.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFQENKdpjGUTZQG7JAtlw80P8lCmuZVixFaxNmFdxGOU7YzoXoqZrmB0MtzGSHn2QL-hn7pAc2tv9wCJsp45uzxtxyeDjQlmy0_fQn2cRcmMAZEsiph-sQ3er6nu1zOUd9IVSFtUHG9Ew/s400/IMG_5785.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4mpyE9YM5Tu-S-6H11NlcWYNCyzda05LJ12OMmn5jEwHKPcDNOKIH4_Z01bv69CBvwDIDxwE7HM4HUJmA8Pf7xxHSX3650XQuqHWe2_t-GjvGbRE2tZWlD5uEE6CuPpaXyA-EB6ryOGg/s1600/IMG_5787.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="335" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4mpyE9YM5Tu-S-6H11NlcWYNCyzda05LJ12OMmn5jEwHKPcDNOKIH4_Z01bv69CBvwDIDxwE7HM4HUJmA8Pf7xxHSX3650XQuqHWe2_t-GjvGbRE2tZWlD5uEE6CuPpaXyA-EB6ryOGg/s400/IMG_5787.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmYHnVYHTV0zIjV-SIn-w_ygc7grxxE6BU1PQr2vEVA7MlXFfQAqM2UaAIYeU6RdyYGhl0K-QnPcXAMtiVEDfPFru7SejszknIo0Uzk2tSUTCB3eAVHQAHmMAQI0EUbPM50vqv-Y465xU/s1600/IMG_5788.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="353" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmYHnVYHTV0zIjV-SIn-w_ygc7grxxE6BU1PQr2vEVA7MlXFfQAqM2UaAIYeU6RdyYGhl0K-QnPcXAMtiVEDfPFru7SejszknIo0Uzk2tSUTCB3eAVHQAHmMAQI0EUbPM50vqv-Y465xU/s400/IMG_5788.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5UJ_-W-1vC5AjCcYsHdDSLncRxfJBVOfJxTyhvIJEQM1h8A0TJcUNIGi91kxVSNSTEe96n5MZdX5wvN4Ie8Q0P1BqzdsHEYvnppdiBqXgulz01oU6s45mK_B7GMMu3HP6479dlAFUuQM/s1600/IMG_5789.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="228" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5UJ_-W-1vC5AjCcYsHdDSLncRxfJBVOfJxTyhvIJEQM1h8A0TJcUNIGi91kxVSNSTEe96n5MZdX5wvN4Ie8Q0P1BqzdsHEYvnppdiBqXgulz01oU6s45mK_B7GMMu3HP6479dlAFUuQM/s400/IMG_5789.JPG" /></a></div>Here’s a great idea for getting clogging leaves out of your gutter! I’m not sure how it works exactly without the directions. From the view of the hand holding the device it appears that you need something to levitate you ten to twenty feet up into the air. Perhaps a small crane with the hook attached to your Super Kegel Exerciser could get you up where you can reach your gutter. <br />
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Gotta go now and check my mailbox for more BM.<br />
<br />Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-57332517512636694002012-06-25T18:47:00.000-07:002012-06-25T19:24:38.852-07:00Swimming pool closed? Are you kidding?!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm2vVxdgkfz5AWscMUiNIxLMTXm1sIqr2q-pBTsZYeu05TR4MUrlOPu4DLaASChmDmIaweRI34GnizkTV7YFWSQ5YRU4qHO6zb_4Hjbrk3iqxp0-jkzdlydgq4WR47Cda1HNSlNB1_M3U/s1600/IMG_5781.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm2vVxdgkfz5AWscMUiNIxLMTXm1sIqr2q-pBTsZYeu05TR4MUrlOPu4DLaASChmDmIaweRI34GnizkTV7YFWSQ5YRU4qHO6zb_4Hjbrk3iqxp0-jkzdlydgq4WR47Cda1HNSlNB1_M3U/s400/IMG_5781.jpg" /></a><br />
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Swimming Pool Closed. SWIMMING POOL CLOSED! What the heck! That’s the sign on the apartment pool after we mounted our expedition to my daughter’s apartment pool this morning. <br />
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Some of my gentle readers may be thinking, “What’s the big deal?” Those are the readers who are my age or older. When we took our kids swimming in Washington State nearly 30 years ago, it was simple. We grabbed four towels, took our kids by the hand, walked down to the inlet, disrobed, and went swimming. That’s not the way it works now. Not by a long shot.<br />
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Nowadays we have learned that the sun’s rays will kill you. They will store up their evil effects over the years, eventually eat your skin off, give you cancer, and (worst of all) degrade your beauty with wrinkles, giant freckles, liver spots, and hideous moles. And, you don’t just expect today’s kids to play in the water when you get to it; you need toys to play in the water…lots of toys. This is how it goes when you mount a family swimming expedition in 2012. <br />
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First you have to wait for the right time. Nobody can be taking a nap or be in a bad mood and nobody can be due for a nap in the next two hours. Everybody has to be sufficiently fed to not have a hunger attack in the next two hours. Then you have to prepare everyone’s skin. My daughter has thoroughly researched the ingredients in sun block products and has selected a special suitable product that is about SPF 400, has no known carcinogens or allergens, and has the color and about twice the viscosity of lithium brake grease. Today I drew the task of having to smear it on the granddaughters. Every exposed square centimeter of the granddaughters must be generously covered and rubbed in because if my daughter detects even one tiny exposed pink spot after the solar exposure, I will be a dead man. Of course they are wiggling like crazy (especially Yaiza the toddler) and much of the product goes into their hair or eyes, which is a serious mess. Yaiza’s swimwear begins with her “Little Swimmer” disposable diaper, which is purported to trap and retain any accidents during the swim. Ha ha, fat chance. After that, both little girls must be inserted into their swimsuits. Their life jackets are mandatory so they are added to the two strollers that it takes to carry Yaiza and all the gear. The other gear includes two plastic floating tubes, which first must be topped off in air pressure. Then there is the diaper bag, acres of towels, and lots of toys including many cups, and pails and toy horses with rainbow-colored mane and tails that need to be washed and rewashed if we ever reach poolside. <br />
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So you should be able to understand now, that when daughter and I wheeled the expedition the 300 yards to the pool and found it closed, we were ready to kill somebody on the apartment staff, or at least hold them under water until they were blue. I stayed outside to keep cool in the heat while daughter went in to demand an explanation of the staff. The water had too much chemicals in it (medicine she said to our preschool age granddaughter) in case she didn’t yet know what chemicals were. TOO MUCH CHEMICALS!? I thought chemicals were what you were supposed to put in the water to kill the germs and make it safe. My friend who is a chemist says chemicals are good for you and you should embrace them without fear. <br />
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The irony of all this hyper preparation is that you still cannot remove all danger. Two days earlier on a successful granddaughter swimming expedition Ayla the elder (at age 4) was standing on a bit of smooth wet concrete safely outside the pool near the ladder. She was well prepared with a quarter pound of sun block and a snug well adjusted life vest. Suddenly without warning her feet shot out from under her and she smashed down on her face. She wasn’t wearing a helmet and face guard. I strongly suspect some of that lithium brake grease on the bottom of her feet was a contributing factor but I can’t prove it.<br />Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-64287831969679681132012-06-18T10:35:00.000-07:002015-07-21T07:55:29.832-07:00Sex Attitudes Then and Now<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBNCDNMFD8Xi4XKeQWpleHIO-4Sset1-NBk4oKi5gdWzDyFqyM398h3NJ6_X1UAzuvITJmEX0SV8LBAqeLvv-22-EjPScBSo8br1RRc9gpxz8cYnW5WY1BeydY8j1G0sdDZnlZg3F1P7g/s1600/Slide1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBNCDNMFD8Xi4XKeQWpleHIO-4Sset1-NBk4oKi5gdWzDyFqyM398h3NJ6_X1UAzuvITJmEX0SV8LBAqeLvv-22-EjPScBSo8br1RRc9gpxz8cYnW5WY1BeydY8j1G0sdDZnlZg3F1P7g/s400/Slide1.jpg" /></a><br />
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A couple of things happened last week in Asheville that caused me amazement. Remember Reverend Fred Phelps of the gay-bashing, military funeral protesting, Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, KS? He brought a troupe to Asheville to protest Billy Graham’s liberal tolerance of gays. Say what? The other thing was when we took our daughter’s family to the Western NC Nature center and witnessed a ridiculous scene at the men’s room. A woman in charge of children on a YMCA outing was blocking a man from taking his small son, who badly had to pee pee, into the men’s room. It was because there were boys in the men’s room and the little tyke’s father was a man. Say what again??<br />
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This all set me thinking about the changes in sex attitudes from before I graduated from high school 50 years ago until now. (Yow! Was it over 50 years?) First of all, I never witnessed or heard of gay bashing. In fact I was in college before I learned that some people were homosexuals by choice or nature. I think most people figured it was just a rare practice that low class prison inmates, extremely ugly dudes, and desperate sailors stuck at sea for months indulged in due to prolonged isolation from wives or prostitutes. It was a time of major “Don’t ask; don’t tell; never enters your mind.” <br />
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Homosexual issues or politics were so far off the radar screen in the 50’s that people never talked about it in polite (or impolite) society. The hot issue was how to keep young women virgins until marriage…or (depending upon one’s perspective) how to erase that pesky virginity. If people went on a business trip, unrelated people of the same sex were expected to share a hotel room. In family or personal visits, you might even get stuck in a double bed with a friend or relative of the same sex. Nobody thought that was encouraging of anything contrary to Leviticus.<br />
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How about pedophilia then versus now? We knew about what we called “child molesters” in those olden days. People figured they were just rare ridiculous perverts deserving of scorn. People didn’t seem to worry that the child (particularly a same sex child) would suffer lifetime psychological damage in situations short of actual forced rape. They certainly didn’t perceive any problem with a child merely seeing or being seen naked for innocent reasons by an adult member of the same sex. The YMCA was actually males-only at the time. You didn’t have separate dressing rooms for adult men and youths like they do now here in Asheville. In the Columbia, SC YMCA, males of all ages used to swim nude in the Y pool because there were no females allowed. I’m not kidding on this. Most people would have never dreamed that one of their own friends or family members (or a school teacher) might be a child molester. <br />
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Now, fast forward to 2012. Virginity after age 18 is almost unheard of and most people are somewhere between tolerant and totally accepting of adult heterosexual cohabitation. But, we’ve become obsessed and polarized over the issues of homosexuality and pedophilia. At the same time you have some states passing laws to grant marriage and other rights to same sex couples, you have a berserk reaction from Fred Phelps and many conservative politicians. They fear we are on the verge of all turning into pillars of salt or getting eaten by a locust plague because we are becoming more tolerant of sexual behavior between same sex consenting adults. Lord knows…if the locusts don’t get us we may still end up depopulating the earth because everyone is going homo.<br />
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Pedofiliaphobia! Today we are discovering numerous Catholic priests and Jerry Sandusky types popping up like toadstools after an autumn rain. Amazingly, these characters seemed to have been operating vigorously for years with plenty of witnesses and victims who kept mum. Obviously we have been way under-vigilant on this issue in the past. Fortunately this may be changing. The ultra conservatives who hate sin and sex are united with the ultra liberals who are obsessed with child welfare, health, and safety on this one issue. Politics makes for strange bedfellows, eh?! Don’t get me wrong. Serious sex predators deserve to have their private parts twisted off and fed to the hogs except that would be unconstitutional, so I don’t support it. On the other hand the new pedophiliaphobia seems to have gone way over the top, like some of those mis-aimed strategies combating illegal immigration or in the war on drugs. <br />
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Let’s move to a lighter subject and talk about swimsuits. At the same time women’s swimsuits have been getting skimpier and skimpier (thumbs up on that) men’s swimsuits have been getting bigger and baggier. They must come down to a man’s knees or he will be suspected of being a homosexual, foreigner, or a nerd, whichever the observer chooses to find most disgusting. Ironically, although the legs are down to the knees with enough loose fabric to entangle and drown you, they are worn with the waist about nine inches below the belly button, barely clinging to the pubic bone. When I walk into the surf for an ocean swim, so much air gets under my baggy swimsuit that the first wave buoys me up with a giant wedgy and tries to flip me ass over teakettle. It’s an amusing reversal of the men’s swimsuits of the 40’s. Those were snug Homer Simpson-style briefs with no leg coverage, but with a little white canvas belt that kept them secured well above the belly button. <br />
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Do I like today’s attitudes better than those of yesteryear? Generally yes, but the devil is in the details. As far as swimsuits are concerned, generally less is better for both genders and I’d be fine with none at all. Adults should be able to make whoopee or marry mutually consenting partners regardless of gender or any other attributes. And… at my age, if I have to make pee pee, there better be an <a href="http://johdou.blogspot.com/2012/08/what-rest-stop-closed.html">available facility</a> real nearby that satisfies the public’s apparently intense desire to NOT see me do it. <br />
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Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-16122609937428487102012-05-02T16:52:00.000-07:002012-05-03T19:10:34.280-07:00Why did they have to uninvent the governor?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHXThOpdWl8hp3a2LxPJQSgFIKpGUeGQZLP4Lh6He14dfOzByikuZWDBL1aZmaRB6HtAGaQMW1rabFtTMZXtXKyHt-c-xthPj755RMcZcItNCOLU07YdFbQhzJgK8hBfzwIzUdL-lvhW4/s1600/nikki-haley-women.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="190" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHXThOpdWl8hp3a2LxPJQSgFIKpGUeGQZLP4Lh6He14dfOzByikuZWDBL1aZmaRB6HtAGaQMW1rabFtTMZXtXKyHt-c-xthPj755RMcZcItNCOLU07YdFbQhzJgK8hBfzwIzUdL-lvhW4/s320/nikki-haley-women.jpg" /></a></div>
No! Not the kind in the photo, the kind that kept your car from going too fast. I couldn’t find a picture of the car kind and you wouldn’t be able to make sense of it if I did. Here’s the story.
You used to be able to buy an after-market governor for your motor vehicle. You set the maximum speed and simply drove normally with your right foot on the accelerator pedal except it would not let you exceed the set speed. “Isn’t that the same thing as a cruise control?” you might say. No. When you set a cruise control you can take your foot off the accelerator and keep going the same speed until you go to sleep or you have to tap it off because someone in front of you momentarily slows down or you reach a tight curve (usually in less than about 20 seconds). Sooner or later you forget to reset the cruise control. The next thing you know your speed creeps up, then whoop whoop, blue lights are flashing. Advantages of the governor are: If you go to sleep (not recommended) your right foot usually relaxes and you slow down and crash with less momentum. You don’t have to keep tripping it off every time you need to slow down briefly.
You’re probably saying, “Yeah but what if I need to go a little faster to complete a pass?” No problem; they could just have a little solenoid in the accelerator linkage that would operate to push back on the accelerator if you exceeded the set speed. You’d be able to push hard to push through the resistance but you wouldn’t inadvertently push through it with normal comfortable cruising accelerator pedal pressure.Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-47977511759296705832012-02-05T11:37:00.000-08:002012-02-05T11:54:54.946-08:00Stop the Deadly Retreads<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMHMzb-JOf69LIFA-AWaKp2tdYtPKRvak7bK13Rr788lb_adKmCzATp2kjWQGpDyTzSfPiTcf1U3ATfOFTObyrnURX5uc2EyMZVoIgSYu_QDrsIhk-Cn_QTdSMXOCz-EbezIS15MJNezU/s1600/tire1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMHMzb-JOf69LIFA-AWaKp2tdYtPKRvak7bK13Rr788lb_adKmCzATp2kjWQGpDyTzSfPiTcf1U3ATfOFTObyrnURX5uc2EyMZVoIgSYu_QDrsIhk-Cn_QTdSMXOCz-EbezIS15MJNezU/s320/tire1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705738846577382818" /></a><br />Catherine was feeling safe and happy last Friday night, after a long day on the road. She was cruising down Interstate 95 doing a legal 70, looking forward to arriving home to her beloved husband (me). Suddenly a large truck tire retread appeared in the middle of her lane. Too late to swerve and too much close-following traffic to stab the brake, she hit it. Thank goodness she was OK! But, this is the SECOND time this has happened to us and damaged the plastic shield, air dam, spoiler, or whatever it’s called under our <a href="http://johdou.blogspot.com/2011/12/why-did-they-uninvent_07.html">flimsy front bumper</a>. Anyway, she pulled off an exit and into an Arby’s parking lot. She crawled around on the ground tying up the remaining pieces of plastic panels so they wouldn’t drag, and made it home safely.<br /><br />Big dangerous retreads are all over the highways everywhere and I’m ##^&**#* sick and tired of them. I can only infer that there are no regulations forbidding retreads or shedding of them. If there is any regulation pertaining to this, enforcement must be meager with no significant fines levied. That is a travesty. In addition to the two above incidents we have had other close calls when we’ve witnessed a flying retread close to us or had some retread crumbs hit our windshield. Fortunately we’ve never been injured in any of these incidents but we have sustained several hundred dollars damage to our car. Of course you have to think twice about making a claim on your collision insurance for this. A couple of no-fault claims and your insurance company drops you like a hot potato or jacks your rates up. <br /><br />There is something called the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration. From it’s name, it sounds like it ought to regulate this. I don’t know why it’s not doing its job. My Republican friends will of course say it’s guvmint, therefore intrusive, incompetent, and inefficient, so it should have its budget cut or be eliminated. What a crock! I’d speculate that it’s either already underfunded to do what needs to be done, or more likely has been captured by the powerful motor freight industry lobby to do their own bidding.<br /><br />Has anyone else had bad experiences with the forest of retreads that trucks liberally sprinkle on our highways? Do you know what laws and regulations exist for retreads and the shedding of them? If so, please comment below and tell your story.Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-91659513367883325752011-12-22T13:22:00.000-08:002011-12-22T17:05:45.693-08:00Why did they sabotage the invention?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg67Hwl5ECbHgF8FB5XZkTcPGTy3x8PMO11pmpsQlW49w0208Yi_uYAhf8LGdy7MCGT9sRGu84v4MLvxvAGypQBXHJKdGkXPNCQOkho5M8NfWJHjkzSDJbOGNAvIl-3NDF7MvJMsHHvqu0/s1600/IMG_1160.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg67Hwl5ECbHgF8FB5XZkTcPGTy3x8PMO11pmpsQlW49w0208Yi_uYAhf8LGdy7MCGT9sRGu84v4MLvxvAGypQBXHJKdGkXPNCQOkho5M8NfWJHjkzSDJbOGNAvIl-3NDF7MvJMsHHvqu0/s200/IMG_1160.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5689066911870267778" /></a><br />The heat pump thermostat<br /><br />For the technically challenged, the heat pump is the greatest invention ever for heating your house affordably with electricity. For every kilowatt-hour of energy it consumes, it delivers as much as four kilowatt-hours heat equivalent to your home interior. This is because it fetches heat energy from the cooler outdoor environment, raises it’s temperature by a compression process, and delivers it into your home. At the flick of a switch on the thermostat, it reverses itself to become a central air conditioner in the summer months. <br /><br />The fly in this miraculous ointment is the stupid thermostats that they install with the heat pump. These all have a feature called “emergency” or “auxiliary” heat. This feature turns on an array of cheap energy-hog resistance heating elements to help the heat pump speed heating the house when the temperature setting is raised or in case the heat pump mechanism fails. <br /><br />Now, I admit some benefit in having emergency back up elements in case your heat pump compressor fails on a frigid night in Fargo. The stupid part of this feature is that the thermostats are designed and default programmed to almost guarantee that the energy-hog emergency heat comes on eagerly all the time when it doesn’t need to. Apparently the vendors, installers, and thermostat manufacturers have a terror of getting complaints that the heat pump does not blow out warm enough air or that it just takes too long to warm up the house after the temperature has been set down for the night or a weekend away. So, your thermostat is configured to bring on the emergency heat when you tweak it up as little as one or two degrees higher than the current house temperature. Then it keeps it on until the house temperature rises to one or two degrees above the set point. Also there is a manual setting for turning on the auxiliary heat any time you want to as well as accidentally whenever you change modes from cooling to heating. Take heart; there is some relief for some thermostats. Check your thermostat manual; you will have to download one from the Internet since you lost it or were never given one. Actually you may have to download the installation instructions, which is often a separate item, intended for the installer. Many models have a well-obscured procedure to increase the difference between the set point and the actual indoor temperature that triggers the automatic energy hog to come on to maybe five or more degrees. Increase this setting to the maximum. Sometimes it is labeled as a choice between “comfort” and “economy”. Choose “economy”. Then when you’ve had the temperature way down because you’ve been away you may still have to raise it back up in increments so you don’t trigger the energy hog. Be patient though. The mass of structure and furnishings in an average house weighs 40,000 pounds, more or less. It takes a lot of energy to reheat it after it has chilled down. That means a whopper cost if you let your auxiliary resistance heat do it.<br /><br />Finally here's a <a href="http://www.energy.wsu.edu/documents/AHT_Electric%20Heat%20Lock%20Out%20on%20Heat%20Pumps%20(2).pdf">tipsheet</a> from my former employer that will give you an option if your thermostat can't be adjusted to reduce the eagerness of auxiliary heat.Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-81301950788827233042011-12-14T15:12:00.000-08:002011-12-14T15:16:08.478-08:00Why did they uninvent the...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXlYYJIhmL91VCdSRFY3GWnGkOBMo0MFjIVCwHFv8qv0V71MN-km5BEWaNvRoK81HiMGvXqgKGd40APK49lLERtOhVDtu3E-govL9FxyS8tUBnF2vuxQd6idtDGbhnsmKgcAB8ZTajAuY/s1600/B000BUUVTE.01.PT01._SCLZZZZZZZ_.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXlYYJIhmL91VCdSRFY3GWnGkOBMo0MFjIVCwHFv8qv0V71MN-km5BEWaNvRoK81HiMGvXqgKGd40APK49lLERtOhVDtu3E-govL9FxyS8tUBnF2vuxQd6idtDGbhnsmKgcAB8ZTajAuY/s200/B000BUUVTE.01.PT01._SCLZZZZZZZ_.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686126714356365474" /></a><br />...single blade shaver? I’m talking about the human powered shaver, a.k.a. razor or safety razor, not electric shavers. They used to have one-blade safety razors in a reusable handle that was advertized as well-balanced. Balanced?! Are they afraid you’re gonna hoist it to your chin and stick it up your nose or maybe fall over into the sink? Ha! OK, I diverged into ranting about balance. Pretty soon in modern time this safety razor evolved into the plastic throw-away type that taxes our landfills, but still I’m diverging from my point. After a couple of years, the throw-away plastic shaver started appearing with two closely spaced blades for “closer shaves”. Not to be outdone, competitors came up with the three-blade model and now they are up to five blades or more. Not even one electron of a whisker extends above the skin line after the final swipe until a few seconds later when it has already grown out a micron’s length. STOP the blades! Haven’t they heard that it is now fashionable for the elegant sexy well-dressed man to have day-old to week-old stubble? The worse thing about all these multi-blades is that if you wait more than 24 hours between shaves, as fashionable and lazy men do, the whiskers jam between the blades and clog the stupid multi-blade shavers. You have to stop after every stroke and use your toothbrush to clean them out. OK, single-blade ones are not quite totally uninvented yet. I did manage to find one product at Target that is still single blade, the Bic 12-pack of single blade shavers. The package even says “Single blade for easy cleaning”. Go out and buy these.Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-46161967372772329282011-12-10T14:17:00.000-08:002011-12-10T14:27:32.288-08:00Why did they uninvent...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilvcxQW3L1sPGA7K_FYxzHR4666_BUwgxgqeKWsJ2SvL6chj1gVo9D-3UaRAZtwxTrTZTDjI2wP6JybRpxiQ5EHKsT9cJ36wNWvQ5EPY0jbkKIBvnpLZJB5xnlZKF-y8RhfuyiHGfy7fU/s1600/kbll.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 231px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilvcxQW3L1sPGA7K_FYxzHR4666_BUwgxgqeKWsJ2SvL6chj1gVo9D-3UaRAZtwxTrTZTDjI2wP6JybRpxiQ5EHKsT9cJ36wNWvQ5EPY0jbkKIBvnpLZJB5xnlZKF-y8RhfuyiHGfy7fU/s320/kbll.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684628324386248610" /></a><br />...home economics? OK, so it’s not exactly uninvented, but it has fallen out of popularity. Maybe it needed some modernization but it should not have disappeared from the mainstream of education. I’m not sure why it has nearly disappeared, but I assume it is because it was always considered a girl thing. Guy stuff like changing faucet washers and buying lawn mowers was not included in any significant degree. Then, with the feminist movement and more women validating their self worth in the work place instead of in the home, it lost status. I assert that it is, and probably always has been, more than just learning how to bake a delicious and attractive cake or artfully display Christmas decorations. For example, in Hand Jr. High School, Columbia, SC in 1958, it was a conduit for girls’ sex education. I know this because my seat in social studies class was next to a hole in a new wall to accommodate a radiator that predated the remodel that made two small classrooms from one bigger one. I heard all the stuff they taught the girls about the birds and the bees in the home ec class on the other side of the wall. I got a D in Social Studies. But, there I go diverging into sex again. Lets get back on track.<br /><br />While we’ve forgotten home economics, we have gone ape over global economics. This is the great disaster of everybody on the planet trading with or hiring everybody else, especially on the opposite side of the planet. You can read more about why this only works on a <a href="http://johdou.blogspot.com/2009/02/explanation-of-economy.html">micro scale</a>. This global economy thing is showing itself to be unstable and able to turn some former winners into losers because there is little regulation of global markets and finance. As we all end up unemployed or underemployed, or at least way underpaid from this monster genie being let out of the lamp, we need to do some rethinking. As individuals there is little we can do to stuff the genie back in the lamp or teach him some manners. However, we can reduce the power he has over us if we get smarter on home economics, the economics of our household and the households of our friends and family. This doesn’t necessarily mean baking tastier cakes. The 21st century home ec should be more like what its name says. It might cover stuff like getting the most nutritious greens and beans to feed our loved ones with the meager twenty bucks in our pocket. We need to reinvent home economics for the 21st century and teach it in school. We need to cover diverse things like:<br />• What to eat and drink because it’s good for us and what not to eat and drink because it will kill us or bankrupt us.<br />• What we need and don’t need in a house and how to finance the house we need.<br />• How to shop for and buy stuff to outfit and care for the house and yard that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg, break down prematurely, poke our eyes out, or drive us nuts with superfluous features.<br />• How to make stuff we need instead of buying it.<br />• How to get the best deal on a credit card and how we should never carry over a balance month to month.<br />• How to find a mate to share the shelter and expenses, how to bring joy to the mate and keep him/her forever, and (above all) how to have a good time with the mate without making more babies than you can feed.<br />• How to get an employer and keep him/her happy no matter what our skills are.<br />• How to create or at least participate constructively in neighborhood and community associations.<br />• (Last but absolutely not least) Become media literate.<br /><br />I need to elaborate on this media literacy thing. Defining it properly would take up more than I want to put in this post but you can Google it. Start with the Wikipedia description. Basically it pertains to learning not to be so freakin’ gullible to all the media conduits that the genie uses to turn us into zombie slaves. The “poster child” of media illiteracy is probably the sticker you see on so many products and ads in magazines and catalogs, “As Seen on TV”. Do you know what that means? It means the majority of cabbage brains out there believe the stupid television is actually credible, that it furnishes valid and reliable information. God help us. <br /><br />Maybe there is some hope. We seem to be figuring out finally that nearly all politicians and people in the finance industry (a.k.a. Wall Street) are lying sorry sacks of slug slime. The problem is (although the Tea Party might disagree) we can’t just get rid of these characters and expect things to gravitate to harmonious prosperity. We do need to select leaders for ourselves. We have to educate ourselves in how to detect their lies, unmask their lies, and hold them painfully accountable for their lies. That’s where media literacy comes in. It’s all about recognizing and rejecting lies that come to us in an overwhelming barrage of mostly electronic media. Let’s reinvent home economics for the 21st century with a good chunk of media literacy education.Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-25902600289098739832011-12-07T15:14:00.000-08:002011-12-07T15:17:20.353-08:00Why did they uninvent the...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcZnUk1h3nqcSfZkDccr_k-u53PjsOcypPV980hljS_m5o_xifShkwQ8aRtEDkAaOtNZh8vRoyGeGdWY27BjsguGnWHuiiOzKXWp6o9trKsN9ns6gD-UQJm9CVMU_96XZrMBz2BYQKewE/s1600/302_civic_2g_r80.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 108px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcZnUk1h3nqcSfZkDccr_k-u53PjsOcypPV980hljS_m5o_xifShkwQ8aRtEDkAaOtNZh8vRoyGeGdWY27BjsguGnWHuiiOzKXWp6o9trKsN9ns6gD-UQJm9CVMU_96XZrMBz2BYQKewE/s200/302_civic_2g_r80.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683529298581030866" /></a><br />...energy absorbing car bumper. We had ‘em in the late 70’s and early 80’s by federal regulation until a sweet old president with dementia decided to excuse the car manufacturers from this requirement. I had great ones on my ’80 Civic. They were mounted on shock absorbers and covered with scratch resistant black rubber. The current car bumpers should be called the senile Republican bumper in honor of the president who allowed the manufacturers to make painted plastic bumpers that cost $500 to $1000 or more for repair or replacement after one’s wife has a 1 mph contact with a concrete post in a parking garage.Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-34115820605048011342011-12-05T19:18:00.000-08:002011-12-05T19:22:24.955-08:00Why do we need a better mousetrap...literally?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh42oJp2jLcWNvOn2txes3ztkdE4fFXa2lZn1r-e2Zsi96L1jmV-gxwmkgYrChlGj7WXzc_UdKGwwwgKWGzgsF2YRJXO3GOUopc7jvwUWNWxvdz2ZSGogG8iomltbxdLyQgOTwA3fK0uzQ/s1600/cute_mouse-8551.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 301px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh42oJp2jLcWNvOn2txes3ztkdE4fFXa2lZn1r-e2Zsi96L1jmV-gxwmkgYrChlGj7WXzc_UdKGwwwgKWGzgsF2YRJXO3GOUopc7jvwUWNWxvdz2ZSGogG8iomltbxdLyQgOTwA3fK0uzQ/s320/cute_mouse-8551.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682850183794067282" /></a><br />We’ve had fine mousetraps all my life. Aside from a pesky little habit of sometimes snapping your finger when you set them, they did the job, executing the little rodent painlessly in about a millisecond. But now we have the sticky mouse paper inspired, no doubt, by fly paper. With the sticky paper, the poor little sentient beings (What does sentient mean anyway?) get stuck, trapped in terror for hours until you find them. Then, what do you do? They’re still alive, looking up at you with pleading little beady eyes, hoping you’ll at least drive them across town to your insurance adjuster’s house and set them free. You can’t peel the paper off so you’d have to cut around their little feet leaving them little paper slippers for the rest of their mousy life. But no, you’re too busy so you have to drown them in the toilet while they struggle in agony as if they were being water-boarded by Dick Cheney, or worse yet, you just toss them in the garbage can to agonize for hours while ants eat their eyes out. Yep the original was much better.Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8827030629286376033.post-83587422686753095642011-12-04T12:26:00.000-08:002011-12-04T12:29:13.384-08:00Why did they uninvent the...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPHpzvg472BSNBNyH7IousFU-QIPpPwI1rcjdYVplJXv0SPvbE8EB7Cpf-QWgvuLWeJHckcKzH-gDja9AdsNTf7nMEBscC25VVRMv-kR0_ZAdVBvYrgGKLoqRWJvHqXketxcc_4TjiBvg/s1600/IMG_5370.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPHpzvg472BSNBNyH7IousFU-QIPpPwI1rcjdYVplJXv0SPvbE8EB7Cpf-QWgvuLWeJHckcKzH-gDja9AdsNTf7nMEBscC25VVRMv-kR0_ZAdVBvYrgGKLoqRWJvHqXketxcc_4TjiBvg/s320/IMG_5370.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682372685028504546" /></a><br />...ordinary toothpaste cap. The ordinary toothpaste tube nozzle and cap were perfected at least as far back as when I was a small child and Dodos and Ivory-Billed Woodpeckers filled the forests. You just unscrewed the cap, squeezed out the paste and screwed the cap back on. But, they couldn’t leave it alone. They had to devise nozzles that dispensed different colors of paste through little sub nozzles. You’re supposed to believe these different colors are actual different ingredients (like epoxy glue) that can’t be mixed until they’re about to enter your gaping maw. They also had to add a flip up cap that won’t stay closed and copiously ejaculated toothpaste into your travel bag on air flights until toothpaste on flights was finally made illegal. The flip up caps usually break off before the last of the toothpaste is used up too. Bring back the ordinary toothpaste tube and screw-on cap.Johnny Douglasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02103363529913545124noreply@blogger.com0