SMILE & SAY THANK YOU

Today is the day after my tribe gathered to help me celebrate my eighty five (that would be 85 years) of breathing in, breathing out, waking up every day, falling asleep, of just being. People say, “It’s only a number” but it’s more than that. Eighty five years back to back hold more stories than one might care to remember. Over the past five years I’ve weighed and measured the front end of my 80’s decade, knowing all along that what matters most is good health and loved ones. It is my good fortune, thankfully, to have both. 

I am an old hand at adding my kudos to other expressions of appreciation and respect.  Someone, usually an old-one but certainly an esteemed-one will be singled out for recognition. This time it was me. Never been good at handling complements, they always left me reaching for the right response. Then with my storytelling, woodwork and photographs I learned a good lesson: “Just smile and say Thank You.” That is the perfect response to any complement. Odds are they weren’t after a speech. If it feels less than adequate, after a short pause you can repeat yourself, “Thank You.” again. 

So our party started slow but the food was really good and people kept coming through the door. I kept busy talking to friends and family, thanking them for coming out on a hot August afternoon. A friend acted as master of ceremonies, called the meeting to order and started talking about my backstory. He started calling on people in the audience to fill in the blanks and I felt like the bull calf at the county fair, being paraded in front of the judges. But I don’t get to choose how I feel, just how I behave. Everybody wants the same thing; to enjoy good company, a good story, break bread together and to be nice. I was the catalyst. After all, they can’t all be wrong so I must’ve done something good. I had time to reflect on my tribe. We are super-social animals and we need each other. Everyone should, sooner or later, trust the tribe to love and forgive them, to do the dance, be the reason to celebrate. 

It occurred to me how much this life is like a lemon. Whatever it is that you want from the lemon you have to do something with it (the lemon). One of my boys loved lemons, he still does. At 7 or 8 with great stealth he slipped fresh lemons into the grocery basket. He would poke a hole and suck it dry, face wrinkled up in a lip smacking pucker, funny to watch. He knew if he wanted to absolutely drain the lemon he had to squeeze it and keep squeezing for the last few drops would not come easily. The idea’s application doesn’t need an explanation; keep squeezing the lemon. Numbers are necessary but nothing about me would change if we counted by 2’s. One hundred seventy years would be just another age or number and my party would have been a great adventure by any number. But the transition from beginning to the present moment is from one lemon to the next, and the next. It was near the end of my teaching career I realized I had to reinvent myself; I wanted more from the next lemon than I had squeezed out of the one before. I’m still squeezing this life for all I can get. Every day is a new day and I want my face to be wrinkled up and puckered at day’s end. 

There are still strange places I want to see and places I want to go back again but what keeps me squeezing the life out of every day is neither a new experience nor a distant landscape. I catch myself sharing my secret for a good life; to always wear the hat you want to be remembered by. You never know who is watching you, who is paying attention; and nobody, none of us knows the number of our days. Wear the hat you want to be associated with and treat each day as if it were the only day. My party was a grand coming together of like minded people and I take great comfort in such good company. 

I REMEMBER

  I remember: I can remember when old people would begin every other sentence with, “I remember!” Without a job to eat up the day and little kids who need new shoes, time can hang heavy. The brain was never an empty slate waiting for a story but there was a time when our tires had lots of tread and the odometer number was small. The brain does a good job sorting out experiences and picking out what to remember and what to let go. Some have no value at all and go straight in the trash, others get tucked away like grocery receipts and get lost before you know they are gone. Some memories hang around but lose their way when they go unremembered for too long. Then there are long term memories like books on the shelf, story after story at your fingertips. Sometimes you have to go find it and other times the backstory finds you. I have lots  of experience (years & years), breathing in and breathing out, stuff happens and over decades you remember first and notice how the world has changed, everything changes and I remember how it was.
I remember when US-71 Hwy. passed through Hickman Mills, Missouri, past the church we belonged to, past Albin’s Drive In where we hung out, cars backed into spaces around the drive with car-hops delivering cokes & fries. When all the slots were full the late-comers just cruised around and ‘round. The more I went to Albin’s the less I went to church. Decades later when US-71 was moved and widened the old highway was renamed Hickman Mills Dr. Then came I-435 and the Grandview Triangle, a convoluted 3-way interchange and US-71 was upgraded to I-49. Now, if you don’t know the exits by heart you can be well on your way to Wichita before you can get turned around. 
I still drive old 71 (Hickman Mills Dr.) just to avoid the crush on I-49. It snakes around below and between pillars of the GV Triangle, ending at a roundabout just up the hill from Albin’s. Maurice Albin died a long time ago, so have his two girls who I went to school with. The place doesn’t have a name now, just a tall, overgrown chainlink fence around it, parked full of old wrecked cars, trucks & boats, no signs of any activity when I go by. But I can remember when there was lots of activity. Late night if business was slow we could tell the car-hop we were broke and if he knew you (he knew me) old Albin would send out some food. He never kept track of how much or who owed him. That was the late 50’s. Everything was new, I was young and that’s what I remember. 
I remember the week before Xmas when I was 7 or 8. In the attic I discovered gifts we would open on Xmas morning, hidden in boxes and bags by my parents. I thought I had done something special. But to my surprise, opening presents on Xmas morning there were no surprises and I was disappointed. It was a good Life-Lesson and I still remember. 
I remember in 1959 at Fort Bragg, N.C., 82nd Airborne Jump School. We spent three weeks in preparation, lots of running and physical training, marching and running some more. Then there were hundreds of repetitions, putting the parachute on, hooking the static line onto the cable, shuffling to the door, jumping out, landing and rolling in the sand pit below the tower. One of many instructors were there to critique your technique (lots of cursing) and do it again. In all the training, after the guy ahead of you jumped you move up to the door, wait for the jumpmaster’s command to “Stand In The Door” and jump when he slaps you on the shoulder and shouts (GO!).  The worst thing ever would be to freeze in the door, not jump. I had so many leaps from the mock-up I knew I would not freeze in the door. 
The day we made our first real jump it went just like all of the practice except the parachute and the airplane were real. We flew around for half an hour then, just like training; Stand up! We stood up and faced the back of the plane. Check your equipment! We checked our buckles and straps and then the back of the parachute for the guy in front of us. Hook up! Hooked our static lines to the cable. After a few minutes of bumpy air the green light came on and the line started moving. I got my first good look at the door with two guys in front of me. The guy in the door stood there waiting for the shoulder slap and GO! but the jumpmaster was busy with both hands, pulling static lines back out of the way. There was no command; he swung his foot up onto the jumpers ass, kicked him out the door and motioned the guy in front of me up to the door. I was dumbfounded. When he did the same, foot in the ass trick I knew I wasn’t going to stand there and get kicked out the door. Too many practice jumps, too many pushups, too much running for some guy I didn’t even know his name, to kick me out the door. It was my turn and he motioned me forward but I didn’t stop, I just ran out the door before he could move his foot off the floor. My parachute opened just like it was supposed to and I felt smug about it. Over the next two years I made 24 static line jumps and never stopped at the door. I remember that. 

TONGUE & TOOTH

  In my mouth on the bottom left, the big molar tooth at the back, that would be #17; mine is gone. It worked for a long time but then it got a crack in one of its roots and my dentist made it go away. The gum healed nicely but there is an irregular recess there. Without permission my tongue goes back to that molar-footprint as if checking to be sure it hasn’t come back. It’s not that different from reaching to my nose. I was trained to keep my fingers away from my nose, must be a boy thing so when my hand goes there spontaneously I notice and redirect my reach to the bridge of my nose and adjust my glasses. 
I have another unauthorized behavior if you can call it that. My mind takes me to a familiar place but not one I want to revisit. When I am writing in particular, by association or habit or impulse I default to the religion I grew up with. My parents were devout Christians. My mom had a difficult upbringing where she was befriended my Mormons and would have preferred to follow that tradition. My dad was unchurched but open to the idea except he had a strong bias against the Church of Latter-Day Saints. Their compromise was joining a nondenominational Community Christian Church. That, along with my family’s practice made up my religious experience. It was middle of the road mainstream church but without any evangelical, fall-down-Hoot-and-Holler behavior as my dad wasn’t buying that hyperbole either. 
At my ripe age it has been a very long time since I gave up on their mild-mannered religion. Both of my brothers fell away early on but I didn’t. If I had to defend that reluctance it would be for the sake of pleasing my parents. From the get-go my faith was thin with doubt and that only compounded. I didn’t like controversy or disapproval so going through the motions was an easy adaptation. Later, living far away when my kids were little I didn’t have to pretend and I couldn’t go along with the hocus-pocus stuff they were getting at church. I had no problem with just walking away and not looking back but it’s like any habit. All that redundant behavior for so long has residual effects. 
I have neither doubts nor reservations about my system of unbelief. I’ve weighed and measured it from every direction with an open-ended a mind as I am capable. The fact that I keep falling back on that story, I believe, is an expression of disappointment for so many wasted years at that spiritual dead end. My devout friends think that God is still tugging at me but I wouldn’t expect anything less from them. I realize that true believers can benefit from their religious experience but I also realize it is tantamount to a self induced, psychological drug. It satisfied a primitive need to offset anxiety and ignorance in a dangerous, paleolithic world. Likewise, if one still needs that fix in the modern-day then they should have it. If it only functions to facilitate inclusion in a comfortable, social community then they should be able to have that too. 
My mindset neither wants nor needs persuasion to believe something that is so clearly unbelievable. When my tongue & tooth reaction defaults to uncomfortable reflection on that long suffering, wasted time in the medieval myth it is like eating peanuts; hard to stop. Hopefully my subconscious itch will go the way of tooth #17. I could spin off into the way human nature runs on outdated software and fills in the gaps with ‘monkey-see monkey-do’. That’s what I have been doing, exactly what I want to cull out of my system.  

NOT FOR SISSIES

  In the past when traveling I lived out of the camper shell on my pickup truck. Any inconvenience was offset by its affordability. On the road, I spent many if not most nights at truck-stop travel centers where every need could be satisfied. As much and often as I was on the road I had friends along the way who, like the Glen Campbell song, (let me leave my sleeping bag rolled up and stashed behind the couch.) But the combination of age and miles (on both me and the truck) begged for something more user friendly. Climbing in and out over the tailgate had always been (easy-peasy) but the knee bumping and slippery footing on the bumper reminded me that I break easier and mend slower than when I was in my 70’s. I knew someday I would feel the (age) element but feeling the age was already old news. 
I decided to change vehicles as the truck was still running great but approaching 200,000 miles I didn’t want to get caught holding the bag with expensive repairs. The 7 passenger van I now have is newer with fewer miles and it runs like it was designed to run; built for soccer-moms to haul kids and transport groceries but not so much for 500-700 miles a day, living out of the back. With seats removed the side doors and a hatchback are convenient. The controls are arranged nicely, everything works and I can heat & cool the back. But it drives awful and gas mileage is disappointing. 
The owners manual says I can tow a small utility trailer but I don’t trust it, so I haven’t installed a hitch and most likely will not. So it’s borrow or rent a truck to haul stuff, something I took for granted but it is too late now to reconcile. I can still stop at truck stops but I’m traveling less which sort of defeats the purpose.
I read a Betty Davis quote on a plaque at a Cracker Barrel gift shop; ‘Old age isn’t for sissies.’  But people don’t need a movie star to tell them. It’s the elephant in the room; if it isn’t leaning on you it’s easy not to notice. When they took my keys and gave them to a new hire I noticed the elephant. I didn’t have to be told; reinvent yourself. It’s never too late to begin again. So now, 23 years later I’m about to begin again. If I don’t change to fit my new normal I’ll dry up and blow away. My house used to be a friendly refuge. Now it feels more a burden than an asset. For all the years in this house I’ve accumulated way-too-much stuff and I would throw most of it away if I had a way to haul it off and a place to dump it. Crazy; now it seems it will cost more to get rid of it than it cost to begin with. 
This kind of age related anxiety is understandable. You don’t want to leave a mess behind for somebody else to clean up. It can make one feel, if not helpless then certainly inadequate. I understand that you don’t get over growing old, the only way is to get through it. Living long enough to deal with growing old is way-better than the alternative. I have a big birthday party coming up in a few weeks. Everybody will be there to help me celebrate 30,260 wake-ups. So I must be good for something. 
I’ll have to change my travel habits and spend more on comfort and convenience but it is what it is. If I want to keep going I have to do what works. Ive scrolled through hundreds of Growing Old quotes and the only one that really resonates with me comes from a woman I never heard of, a 1977 Nobel Laureate scientist named Rosalyn Yalow. Taking some creative license I have substituted a couple of my own words and made the statement my own. That would be; “The Joy of Discovery separates youth from old age. As long as you’re learning you’re not old.” In that context I would prefer to die young after several thousand more wake-ups. 

STILL NOT DEAD AGAIN

Every so often I think about Andy Rooney; passed away a dozen years ago at 92. He was spontaneous and irreverent on the CBS show, 60 Minutes. I’ll not eulogize him here, it’s enough now to just remember and imagine what he would say about our civilized, self-inflicted folly. Thank you Andy for the good times.

I use my smartphone as an alarm clock, set it to go off at 6:00 a.m. and again every five minutes until 6:20. The first alarm confirms that it is a new day, that I have survived the night and get another go-‘round. My body moves without permission and I get my bearings sitting up, my feet hanging over the side, eyes open but not seeing so well just yet. More often than not I frame an unspoken, unaddressed “I’m so thankful” and send it off into the universe: like Willie Nelson singing, “I woke up still not dead again today.” 

This morning at the 2nd or 3rd alarm I was remembering a misadventure from the day before at Walmart. I needed fresh vegetables and juice but this time of summer it’s hard to resist fresh corn. Two women were inspecting ears of corn, peeling back layers of husk and tossing the half scalped roasting ear back onto the pile. I may have condescended in my tone but I wasn’t being judgmental, just curious, “Why are you doing that?” The lady gave me a cold stare and said she was looking for fresh corn. I asked, “How will you know the fresh from the stale?” She was upset that I had challenged her and maybe didn’t know just why she was doing what she was doing. “What is it about one ear that makes it OK and the next one not OK?” Before she could tell me to go to hell I shared with her that nature has packaged corn perfectly. The husks keep it fresh and protect it so it can take bumps and thumps. Wormy corn may happen in your garden but farmers have resistant varieties and chemicals to deal with worms. Peeling back the husk and returning it to the bin is like trying on clothes in the fitting room and tearing off a pocket before returning it to the rack.         

With corn in the husk, 2-3 minutes in the microwave, no hot kitchen, no dirty dishes. The silk comes off easy, just peel, butter and eat; use the peeled back husk and stem for a handle as it may be too hot for your fingers. I didn’t share that good news, she was not in the mood. I didn’t wait for her reaction but I wondered if Andy might have given me a thumbs-up. 

Moving on I noticed a lady with two little kids (one in the cart and  one following on a leash). Her tattoo came down, hanging out from under her shorts, around her thigh and fizzled out on her calf. If it had been vines and flowers I would have ‘gotten it’ but her idea of body-art left me in a quandary. It was a bunch of straight and crooked lines and a few words too small to read. In the peace-time army of the early 1960’s there was none of that ‘thank you for your service’ stuff and parents called their daughters inside when we came around. 

Drunks returning to the barracks after a late night drinking session were often met with an insult; “Hey dude, you look like you’ve been shot at and missed but sh*t at and hit.” There would be some cursing, the drunks pass out fully dressed on their beds and it’s quiet again. Every time I notice an unrecognizable Walmart tattoo, the “Shot at and missed” phrase comes to mind. I have nothing against body art. My dad had an eagle on his chest and both arms full but I never thought more of it than of his mustache or curly hair. In my impulsive youth I kept still long enough to get inked but the image is small and strategically located so nobody sees it. By now the ink is so old, the flesh tone is all gone and it has blurred beyond recognition. I could get away with saying it is a birthmark. 

I wake up thinking about other things too. I was on the road last winter needing an oil change. In Albuquerque I scheduled an appointment at a local Dodge dealership. As I was turning my keys over to the service rep. I asked, “What exactly will I be charged for?” First he mentioned a diagnostic analysis and went into the long list of filters, sensors and switches. “Wait a minute.” I said, “I didn’t come here for a diagnostic exam. How much does that cost?” He didn’t look up, “Ninety two dollars.” What would Andy Rooney say? “I don’t think so, not me, not here today.” He explained: “That is how we do it, to guarantee nothing else needs repair.” I said, “Maybe; but that’s not how I do it.” The man behind the counter was not impressed, “That is our policy and I cannot add to or delete from the package.” I didn’t have to be prompted; “Then I will take my chances when I get to Amarillo.” and picked my keys up off the counter. Waking up is always an adventure; with a little luck I’ll wake up still not dead again tomorrow. 

IN SELF DEFENCE

  I have been writing in self defense most of my life yet I don’t feel very well protected or even understood. My metaphor today is The Ugly Duckling. The message there is to be who you really are and someday you will find your natural niche. It makes good rhetoric but a goose will never transcend to Duckdom. Likewise, personhood does not guarantee a seamless fit with the prevailing culture. I identify with the goose from Duckdom. I have spent endless hours and thousands upon thousands of words trying to explain this impasse. Every time at about 1,500-2,000 words it all collapses under its own weight. But I write, that’s what I do.
I go to church where Secular Humanism is highly regarded and faithfully practiced. That might seem paradoxical but it goes with the Ugly Duck parity. In Western Culture the word ‘Church’ translates to a Theistic, Faith based, dogma-driven religion. My belief differs in that our actions are a better measure of what we believe than confessions or redundant ritual. So said, we are born with everything we need to live a righteous life and do not require a condescending, authoritarian god or church hierarchy to guide our spiritual journey. ‘Spiritual’ is another buzz-word that translates as religion. The old Greeks used the word to discriminate between tangible (Temporal) things that can be accessed directly and (Spiritual) things that can only be accessed with the mind and I like that.  
Most of my cohorts identify as Recovering Christians, still reeling in the aftermath of a meaningless if not painful experience there. Been there, done that. Still, I’ve never been angry, never wanted reparation or even a nod, I just let it go, happy to be well and in a good place. Still, I am stuck in Duckdom and in my own best interest I tactfully coexist with their salvation obsession.
Moving on: Perceived as God’s most prized creation, man-kind has been elevated to a station that is well above animals, below angels and profoundly short of being gods themselves. You don’t have to be a devoted believer to be smitten with the superiority of human-hood. Through the ages, humans have only grown in our own admiration. Indigenous cultures found the creator within the creation. Even though that nature centered culture has been diluted with Jesus and ‘Hail Mary full of grace”, the remnants of a great people still gather for sweat lodge ceremony, drum to an unmistakable rhythm, powwow and dance the old dances. Children are reminded that we ‘Two-leggeds’ are but pieces of the puzzle, and never the puzzle master. I like that too.
My issue is the unmerited assumption that mankind has been chosen to advance not only God’s purpose but their own best interest with God’s blessing and no restrictions. The sanctity of human life is popular as long as the person at risk is part of your network or a fetus in the womb. If the human life in question is an enemy then we default to another set of rules. But collectively, it would seem we are God’s best effort so his opinion should still count. Just ask the Pope or any Baptist preacher. Sanctity relies on what is at risk. The issue doesn’t end there. The same people assume their brain works at their command when in fact it has its own compass. It’s more complicated than that and I won’t delve into how the brain works here but the principles of Free Will and common sense are no longer the rule. It’s a deep hole and if you want to dig there you should bring your lunch.
Beyond the religion thing,  I reject the idea that humans are divinely created. Evolution is common as dirt and that’s how we got here. We (humans) are special, even unique considering the scope and extent of how we use language, correlating unrelated ideas, creating solutions to complex problems, metacognition (thinking about thinking), predicting future outcomes, able to forgive a grudge and write poetry: yes we are empowered with magical attributes. But at the end of the day, we are animals. We are the dominant animal species on the planet but animals none the less. Just when you thought you were your mother’s precious baby you discover that you are the red-headed step child and she never, ever considered writing you into her will. 
An arrogant sense of species privilege and mental acuity justifies Right & Wrong (righteous & immoral) overreach: right and wrong are whatever we say they are. Freedom & Liberty are worth fighting for as long as it’s us exercising our will over somebody else. Our best laid plans can yield great results but when it bleeds out with unintended consequence you need an egress plan. That is when you sidestep responsibility and implicate someone who has no alibi. My suspicion tells me, the more civilized we become the more you have to watch your back. We can be generous and loyal, we can be peaceful and cooperate but at the end of the day we are still animals. When push comes to shove we can eat our own young and defend our action with self serving clarity.
I am a spectator in this circus. The best I can hope for is to find my natural niche and make peace with the Ugly Duckling. George Carlin was famous for his misanthrope humor and I loved it then. I still love it but I think his wicked humor was actually a hybrid dose of sympathetic contempt. How well we cooperate in small groups and fail in large numbers (unless it’s war) it is an embarrassment. Civilization at large requires that we monetize everything and compete at business. My mother said, “You are either doing business or getting the business.” One provides a product or service in exchange for more than it’s worth and the other is getting ripped off by unethical business practice. I’m not really a pessimist but Skeptic or Stoic would be more like it. 
Just shy of a thousand words, good time to stop. 

BLAME IT ON COVID

  When I started the blog ‘Stones In The Road’ I was traveling a lot and there was no end of material to write about. I loved that life. When I try to pinpoint when that all changed it’s not easy. Even when you see it in your peers and know it’s inevitable, even when you go to lengths to push back against it; the body is a machine and machines wear out. Like any machine, sometimes you can restore it or give it a temporary fix and sometimes you just lag farther and farther behind. When was it: I must be like lots of others who point back to the pandemic, March, 2020. For the next year and deep into 2021 I felt like a prisoner in my house. With the vaccine and distancing it felt like we might be over the hump but in reflection I am still struggling; blame it on Covid. Still I’m not complaining. It might have just been my time to come in off the road and start living like the stereotypical octogenarian. 
Without the travel it’s easy to bog down in the bad news of the day. Even when things seem to turn out the better that boost is short lived, displaced quickly by new disappointments. Instead of writing about cool experiences in Mexico or Canada or on the Gulf Coast or Great Lakes all I come up with is the same-old, same-old network news. Maybe I’m in that temporary reprieve mode where my health is very good but I have a large team of specialists who monitor every little change and focus on prevention to stay ahead of the bad news. 
Thirty years ago (late 1980’s) I took an interest in Native American history and their ‘story’. To go there one needs to study from their perspective (Vine DeLoria & Ed McGaa), not books written by Eurocentric white men. Winners never give a fair rendering of the facts. I knew about the racism of slavery but having been weaned on the myth of white superiority, I learned to trust the myth. Nobody wants to dwell in the legacy of an evil practice so we (my culture) created an alternative back story that basically blames the victims for their own sorry condition (winners writing history again). But the consequence of Manifest Destiny (God’s preferred plan) to expand the new nation westward was horrendous.  Conquest and ethnic cleansing of indigenous cultures was the rule. It targeted tribal nations that had occupied the continent with a stable culture for thousands of years; the consequence was and still is a crime against humanity; no less than Nazi Germany (1936-45). When you lose they punish you for your crimes.
Change comes slowly and when it calls for the mitigation and reconciliation of wrongs, we (America) tends to do what conquering nations have always done; make up a story that justifies our appetite. I am not singling out America. Nationalism is a ‘one-size-fits-all’ scheme, any nation with the power can get away with murder and chalk it up as self defense. Losers should feel lucky to be alive. In nationalistic circlers the only acceptable outcome is to win, at any cost. I am not a Nationalist.

In the past 20+ years I have turned my attention to how society and human nature create an alternate version of how our world works. Our world would seem to be a mythical construct where the only worthy pursuit is to worship ourselves  and manipulate everything to our own whims. I can't get my head around the sanctity of human life and the myth of anything supernatural. Extreme numbers can make evolution seem like too much to believe. With some the simplicity of myth can be, often is more tolerable than doing the math. The absence of credible evidence does not prove anything, never has and no matter how well established in tradition, the story has to be propped up with wannabe wisdom. The ability to project a reliable probability has its own legs. There is a popular movement that challenges the principles of critical thought, expertise and scientific process, Its proponents question, "Who are these people anyway - a bunch of high brow intellectuals who cannot give us the universal truth that will hold up forever. Universal Truth would make us feel good and that’s what we want." It would seem that mythological accounts and traditional beliefs keep us centered in our comfort zone and even if that doesn’t work it is more preferable than disciplined practice and procedure (doing the math). 
So here I am again, wanting to tell a better story but my sources are drying up; don’t get around much anymore. Getting a thumbs-up from one of my doctors is good news but not a good story. My house has become more of a responsibility than a comfortable niche and I don’t want to leave it for too long lest something break and cost lots of $$$ to fix. When I sit down to write, the Muse generally serves up issues that pit People against other People, depending on how the network spins it. All I can do is try to separate a few facts from the spin, between what I can deduce and what People would have me believe. Like one of my heroes George Carlin, I hold my species (Homo sapiens) in a state of Sympathetic Contempt. Christians would tell us to hate the sin but love the sinner, George would laugh at the self righteous ‘Sin’ talk. We are not all we’ve been given credit for. Our neural/emotional/intellectual makeup keeps tugging us in opposite directions. From aggressive, self obsessed, power hungry instincts to the virtues of nurturing, cooperating and egalitarian behavior, People keep vacillating from one charismatic monkey to another. One would build bridges while the other calls for building a fence. Over millennia the world has changed but People have not, not really. We live longer, have better tools and toys but we can’t rise to meet our own intellectual potential for peaceful coexistence and a willingness to disagree (fight fair). I really don’t know what to write about today but I have a couple of pages that address why I don’t have a better story.