When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth

Image by Jo Justino from Pixabay

Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}, an auditory hallucination and charming literary device.

  

                     ABOUT                                              GLOSSARY 

"Ward..." (pause) "Don't you think you're being a bit hard on the Beaver?" 

                                                                                  -June Cleaver     

                                                   

                                           PLEASE STAND BY   

             Due to technical problems, there's no new column this week                                                           

Dear Gentlereaders, 

Reminiscences (say that word six times fast) of a garrulous geezer.  

My first memory. It's late August 1953 and I'm a newborn in Mercy Hospital's nursery surrounded by other newborns. I have no sense of myself other than being a point of awareness surrounded by other points of awareness. I remember thinking that the lights were too bright. 

{Somehow I doubt that.}

Me too, Dana, but although vague and fuzzy, the memory persists.

WW2 had ended only eight years previously but as I grew up, from my perspective and that of my peers, the deadliest war in human history had occurred in a far distant past. My old man was in the service but never saw combat. I had uncles who did, but I never heard them talk about it.

We're now aware that many combat veterans came home with PTSD. Being members of the Greatest Generation most just "walked it off" as best they could and set about playing their part in the unprecedented economic boom my fellow Boomers and I grew up taking for granted.

Many Boomers still do, and are oblivious/indifferent to the current economic plight of the many, perhaps most, of the three generations that have followed them

The Korean War ended the month before I was born and although I'm certain I heard about it before I saw the movie that came out in 1970, that's the first time I can remember being really aware of it.

I was very aware of a war that the US had gotten itself entangled in, the one in Vietnam that had been going on long before we got there (officially at least). This was because I was in high school at the time and facing the possibility I might be drafted after graduating.

In fact, the possibility of being killed or crippled in Vietnam — which from what I could tell at the time, and have since confirmed, was a well-meaning, deadly blunder of a war on America's part — crossed my mind quite often.

For the record, the military draft effectively ended in 1971, the year I graduated; I dodged the bullet, so to speak. Roughly 200,000 of "my fellow Americans" did not. According to statista.com 58,220 were killed, and 153,303 were wounded.

My big brother, Eddie then, Ed now, wasn't there (officially at least) in the early sixties.

Lessons (I eventually) learned:

Never underestimate the power of dumb luck.

"You may not be interested in war, but war is interested in you." -not Leon Trotsky

{I don't think you're allowed to use the word crippled nowadays.}

Obviously you've never heard of the Grumpy Cripple.

I was brought home from Mercy Hospital, which is still there and has roots reaching back to 1843 to my first home (that I have no memory of, on Marion Street) in the Pittsburgh neighborhood we shared, which according to Wikipedia is called Uptown. This neighborhood wasn't, and isn't, up-scale, and has a number of AKAs: da Bluff, Soho, and Boyd's Hill.  

Da (Pittsburghese for the) Bluff is the only name I was aware of as a kid. This was the first of the four houses I lived in within Pittsburgh's city limits by the time I was 16 at which point we moved to the 'burbs. 

The Wikipedia article titled Uptown Pittsburgh (linked to above) contains the following passage, "...a residential community that was once flourishing during the first half of the 20th century." This is not quite accurate. 

{Mistakes in Wikipedia!?!} 

Along with most of Pittsburgh — with some notable exceptions like the Hill District next door to da Bluff which was flourishing in its own way till an urban renewal scheme destroyed it in order to save it from itself — was "flourishing" till the late '70s when the steel industry collapsed and the poop hit the fan.

Nowadays I'm prone to say the excrement hit the air conditioner, or the climate control system. Back then, I didn't personally know of anyone who had an air conditioner, or even a color TV come to think of it. But I don't wish to give a false impression, we didn't live in a ghetto of some sort.  

We had electric fans, and I knew of several people who had their "good" furniture in their "front room" sealed in hot, noisy but effective plastic slipcovers. Some people bought a cheap, tri-colored plastic screen that you could stick on your black and white TV and pretend it was a color TV.    

{Four different houses?}

Ed, Reda (no, that's not a misspelling), and their seven kids had to occasionally engage in some... um...creative geographic/financial maneuvering to keep the family fed, clothed, and sheltered. There had been other houses before I came along.  

My second home, which was literally perched on the edge of da bluff, was on the Boulevard of the Allies (near Marion Street) and overlooked the Monongahela River.   

{Right. I think your poetic license should be revoked.}

Well, the house is no longer there, in fact, the entire block of homes has been erased and replaced by an expanded Mercy Hospital, but the rest — Boulevard of the Allies, Monongahela River — can be easily verified by a bit-o'-googlin'.

In retrospect, I had a very cool life till we moved across the semi-mighty Monongahela to the Sou'sidah Pittsburgh the summer before third grade. Not that it suddenly turned awful. Things just got a, um, little more real? A prelude to life in the real world?

I had no idea how lucky I was back then but I do now. In my defense, me and mine were subject to periodic outbreaks of Day Late Dollar Short Syndrome which often prevented me from living the life I thought I was entitled to. Yet somehow, I survived with a minimum of psychological damage.  

While I didn't resent my parents for this state of affairs, still don't, I had absolutely no appreciation of how hard they worked to give their kids the best possible life under the circumstances, I took it for granted, completely oblivious to what I now realize they must have gone through.

I have no memory of either one ever pointing out that compared to living through the Great Depression or WW2 we had it made. I thought it was fun when we had fried potatoes and sunny-side-up eggs for dinner the night before payday. I thought that being assigned toaster duty and making piles of toast with a cheap two-slice toaster, out of bread that was more air than bread for egg yolk dipping, was also fun.     

I took it for granted, and didn't really appreciate till decades later, that although at our peak there were nine of us at home my mom kept our extremely humble abodes clean and organized with minimal help from her husband or sons. 

Sorry, mum. While I'm at it, permit me to apologize to my three sisters, who were also expected to do their share of "woman's work."

In my defense again, if there were meetings of a secret society of toxic men, I was never invited, I suspect that for most men, and women, this was just the way things were at the time, the result of multiple millennia of H. sapiens lives happening to them while they were dreaming dreams and making other plans.

Well, I'm exceeding the word limit and...

{Wait-wait-wait! I've got questions, Sparky. First, what's with the warm and fuzzy Illustration up top there? Second, what's with the h at the end of Pittsburgh? Finally, what was so "cool" about being a working-class kid living on da Bluff in the 1950s in a household where there was often not quite enough money?}  

I'll answer the first two questions, but I'm saving the last one for next time, stay tuned.

The watercolor illustration above immediately made me think of my grade school textbooks when I came across it. 

I was lucky enough to be a child at the tail end of an era when it was possible to be a kid in an America that still believed in itself, and believed that kids should be sheltered from the real world as much as possible and for as long as possible.

Details next time, sta...

{Yeah, yeah, stay tuned.} 

Suffice it to say that even as a kid I would've found the pictured parents unrealistic, they're not even smoking. They don't have bags under their eyes, and they remind me of Ward and June Cleaver. But I would've been certain that someone's parents looked like that in the morning, and that someday, me and my beautiful wife would look like that in the morning. 

As for the h, pure serendipity. I remember being taught that while there was more than one Pittsburg in America, the one that I lived in was the only one spelled with an h at the end, which to this day, pleases me for no logically defensible reason. It turns out this is not technically true, but it's my truth, and I'm stickin' with it.     

Speaking of truth, urbanDICTIONARY.com defines my truth, an oft-used phrase nowadays, thusly: "Bullshit, a 'Lie.' Often associated with people who are not telling the truth, when they have no defense to back themselves up. Often the choice of words when a horrible liar is confronted with their own stupidity."

Technically, I couldn't agree more.   

Have an OK day, 

Colonel Cranky

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Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

 

Image by kalhh from Pixabay

Letters from Flyoverland featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}, a persistent hallucination and charming literary device.

                     ABOUT                                              GLOSSARY 

"Time changes everything except something within us which is always surprised by change." -Thomas Hardy 

Dear Gentlereaders,

Yes, some of the "boilerplate" that formerly preceded my greeting is gone.  

"There are five parts of a friendly letter, and one optional part. The five include a heading, greeting, body, closing, and signature. There's also an optional postscript a writer may decide to include." -Sister Mary McGillicuddy

Yes, Virginia, in the distant past H. sapiens had to compose letters on sheets of unformatted paper, sometimes called stationary, and apply a format they had learned in grade school.

{So it's true, you've disinherited the Stickies!}

Nah, but they're all over 18 now and two have moved out so they've all been promoted to gentlereaders. None have left Canada's version of the Deep South yet (Northern Ohio) and our lives remain closely intertwined. Duuude moved to Tennessee to launch his life now that school's finally behind him but returned two minutes later, burned by some extended family members. 

I say finally because to him, as it did to his beloved grandfather, being done with mandatory schooling feels like having completed a prison sentence imposed on an innocent man. 

Fortunately, he's an easy-going, well-adjusted young man who doesn't hold grudges (unlike his beloved grandfather who often does despite his best efforts to the contrary) who plans on trying again once he can afford to do so without "help" from anybody.

Like me, he would prefer to live south of the Mason-Dixon line. Unlike me, he doesn't mind hot and humid weather as much as I do.    

There's a bit of drama in my life right now (some good, some bad), and given that I've recently obtained Cosmic Geezer perspective, I thought it would be a good time to make some changes. Not just in my column, but in other aspects of my life that I won't bore you with. Now that I've been blessed with CGP much has become clear.

And of course, we all gotta do what we need to do to maintain the illusion of control. 

{The illusion of control?}

The subject of a future column, stay tuned. Now, if you're still here, and still awake...

{Wait-wait-wait. What's with the title? What's this got to do with David Bowie?}

Nothing, the title is just clickbait. 

{You're gonna make people mad!}

People who are only interested in reading about Mr. Bowie will flee in short order. People who are interested in reading about Mr. Bowie but who are also naturally intelligent, inquisitive sorts who like to read the work of clever columnists will keep reading, at least for a bit. 

Perhaps I'll pick up a new fan. Hopefully, no one will try and track me down and kill me. I wouldn't mind an attempted cancelation, all publicity is good publicity if you spin it properly. The Information Age is also the All Show Biz all the Time Age. 

{Hmmm... You may be smarter than you look.}      

Good thing, right?

The classics never get old. For those of you reading this via the dead trees format: BA DUM TSSS!

{Hi-LAR-ious. Can we hope for some meat on this sandwich?}

The Wall Street Journal, as my millions of regular readers know, is my personal paper of record. 

Although the news division now is forced to demean itself by drifting slightly leftwards... 

And featuring slightly more in the way of celebrity/fashion/self-help/sensationalist/doom-mongering shtuff that many H. sapiens can't seem to ever get enough of to maintain circulation numbers (or at least I hope that's why they're doing it),

They still also publish the sort of high-quality journalism they're famous for, including stories that are not widely reported on elsewhere but should be.  

For example, the Emperor's minions, lackeys, and sneaky students are stealing our chips.

{Frito Lay products are as popular and widely distributed in China as they are here. Personally, I can't get enough Roasted Fish, why do they need to steal our chips?}

I'm talkin' computer chips, specifically Nvidia AI chips. "Nvidia’s chips are highly coveted for their ability to handle the massive computations needed to train AI systems that are critical to China-U.S. tech rivalry." -Raffaele Huang/WSJ 

{Just a sec', I'll be right back... Hey, I enjoy reading lengthy articles about the technology sector as much as the next guy person. Still, I think you'd be doing your gentlereaders a public service by providing a summary.}

Easy Peasy, here's another quote from the article. 

"The student is part of a barely concealed [widely known, easily accessible] network of buyers, sellers and couriers bypassing the Biden administration’s restrictions aimed at denying China access to Nvidia’s advanced AI chips..."

{Student, what student?}

The article begins by describing how a Chinese student studying in Singapore brought home a half dozen Nvidia AI chips when he flew home to China for a vacation for which he was paid $100 each by a Chinese middlemanperson. 

Depending on the particular chip, they will be resold for roughly 20 to 30k — each. 

"The Commerce Department, which oversees enforcement of the U.S. restrictions, didn’t respond to requests for comment." 

Given that we're fighting Cold War Two, even if The Fedrl Gummit doesn't like to acknowledge it — we shouldn't needlessly risk offending a country that supplies slave labor (and lots of customers) to build us cool sneakers and smartphones — you'd think we'd be all over this. 

{Hey, If you would stop ignoring the artificial intelligence built into your spell checker you would know that you should have written you would think that we would be all over this. You'd and we'd are some pretty ugly lookin' contractions...just sayin'.}

On an unrelated note, I'm officially endorsing Camalla Harris and Pete Buttigieg for president and vice president (respectively) this year. 

Kamala Harris and Pete Buttigieg, vote for them and we'll all win big! I'm on a fixed income so I wrote a slogan in lieu of a donation.

{AI wants you to write instead of in lieu of in lieu of.} 

She's a woman, of a couple of different colors, and he belongs to the LGBT+ club. Between them, that's three (or four, depending on how you count) different historically marginalized minorities. Most importantly, there's no trace of Satan's inadvertent minions, straight white males. 

Being a straight white male myself, this is my way of apologizing for being responsible for everything that's wrong with the world. 

{Pete who?}

Have an OK day, 

Colonel Cranky

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I Hope I Die Before I Get Old, Part Two

Image by Ralf Designs from Pixabay

This weekly column consists of letters written to my perspicacious progeny — the Stickies — to advise 'em now and haunt them after I'm deleted.

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC-65: Sexy Seasoned Citizens   

About 

Glossary 

Featuring {Dana}: Persistent auditory hallucination and charming literary device 

"Remember, Caesar, thou art mortal." -Ray Bradbury (from Fahrenheit 451) 

Dear Stickies (and gentlereaders),  

In part one, I declared that there's bad old and that there's good old. I explained bad old thusly:

"I don't ever want to be so old that maintaining my personal financial and ideological status quo is the primary reason I keep getting out of bed in the morning -- the pursuit of purpose and meaning, and fun, be damned. 

I know/have known/know of a lot of people who are younger than me but who are actually much older than I am. I'd rather be dead than be that sort of old."

{I know that I still think quoting yourself as often as you do is a bit creepy.}

Now, as to good old...permit me to begin with a disclaimer. 

Not that it's going to stop me, but unless/until/if you're good old you're not going to fully understand what I'm on about. Also, like many, perhaps most complex/subtle things, it can be pointed to or hinted at with mere words but must be experienced to be truly understood. 

Placing things in their proper perspective are words to live by, particularly nowadays. The seemingly ever-increasing speed of daily life + the never-ending information tsunami + the time-honored media (old and new versions) strategery called If it Bleeds it Leads = a seriously skewed perspective. 

{So we're skewed?}

Not necessarily, Dana. We can (try) to live like a stoic philosopher, or a recovering drunk/druggie, and change what we can while making the best of the rest. 

Big BUT, never forget that nirvana/heaven/utopia is ALWAYS going to be just around the next corner so (try) to relax, and make the best of the ride. It's going to be over much sooner than you think. 

If you're fortunate enough to become good old, which doesn't necessarily (but commonly does) have anything to do with being physically old, you will be blessed with Cosmic Geezer(ette) Perspective (CGP). 

"Memento mori (Latin for 'remember that you have to die') is an artistic or symbolic trope acting as a reminder of the inevitability of death." -Wikipedia

I first encountered the term when I bumped into it somewhere and read something about medieval monks keeping a skull in their cell to serve as a memory aid. Remember dude, heaven or hell is waiting for us all, best not wander off Straight&Narrow Blvd.

However (the Wikipedia article provides a broad overview), this "symbolic trope" is common all over the globe in widely varying cultures, has been for thousands of years, and doesn't necessarily refer to following all the Rules&Regs of a given ideology to obtain paradise forever and ever, amen. 

For many H. sapiens, including me, it serves as a reminder that no matter what comes next, or doesn't, you will eventually be deleted. 

{Not once H. sapiens figure out how to upload themselves to the cloud!}

Let's hope so, who wouldn't want to spend eternity as a ghost in a machine? Get away from that plug! Achieving CGP means — that no matter what's next, or isn't — acceptance. You now know in your very bones, so to speak, that you're gonna die, and you can live with that.   

For the uninitiated, looking death in the eye, can, and often does, bring on a panic attack. Holy shyte! I could wake up dead tomorrow... I could drop dead any second! I should do something! 

If you're one of those demented people who think H. sapiens are to "Gaia" as terminal cancer is to normal H. sapiens you'll be thrilled, right?

If you're one of those fortunate people (more or less) confident that heaven awaits, you'll double down on following the Rules&Regs as best you can and hope God is a forgiving sort with a sense of humor. 

If you're an atheist or an agnostic and have a panic attack you'll be able to easily reason yourself out of it, right? If not, medical science has developed a plethora of specialists and medications to assist you in living with this and any number of similar problems.   

CGP, on the other hand, is sorta/kinda enlightenment for the masses. The Sanskrit word nirvana literally translates to "blowing out." You know how when some really intense experience (good or bad) ends and you experience a deep, heartfelt sigh, PHEW! (for lack of a better word)?  

It's like that...combined with acceptance and a new perspective. The bad news is that it will come and go. The good news is that it keeps reasserting itself like an alarm clock with a snooze function that can't be disabled. I think that if it becomes permanent you will be enlightened, or close enough.      

If you were born with Must Be Used By _______ stamped on your bum how would you spend your time? 

{Say what?}

If you achieve CGP you won't know what your use-by date is but you will know you have one, it's inevitable, and that it might be any time now. It will feel, um...really real, as opposed to vague, abstract, and waiting for you somewhere beyond a distant horizon.

The good news is that there's no bad news. 

You may be in no hurry to die, but you won't be particularly upset that you're going to. All of the passions, fears, goals, duties, dreams, etc. will still be there, but the pot will be simmering, not boiling. 

Clarity. You will know what you still have to do, what you really want to do, and will balance them as best you can fully aware that life is what happens to you while you're making other plans so there's no point in getting upset about it, although you still will from time to time. 

"Good" implies "bad" and vice versa. Together they constitute an inseparable whole and there's just no way around it. All that you can do really is all that you can do. 

Deep inhale, blow out, laugh at yourself.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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