The true value of doing crossword puzzles is that it forces you to clean out your brain crevices on a daily basis. Scientists believe that humans only use about 10 percent of their brain’s capabilities (and we have all met people who use even less). But in all our years of living, we continue to store and stockpile huge heaps and mounds of information, shoving it into our brain’s closets and garage rafters. Unless we take that information and air it out once in awhile, it’s a perfect target for mental moths and brain termites that eat it all away.
Enter the lowly crossword puzzle. In order to work a crossword puzzle, you have to recall vocabulary. For example, this morning, I had to unearth the word “isotropic” from a corner of my mind where it had lain undisturbed for years. Surprisingly, I find very little occasion to use the word “isotropic” on a daily basis; but this morning, I needed to find it. If I hadn’t done the crossword puzzle, “isotropic” would have sat unused in my brain, “a-moldering in the grave” (like John Brown’s body).
Just this morning, I was forced to find homonyms and definitions, abbreviations and acronyms, medical terms and geographic trivia. I had to recall a sports team, a semi-famous athlete, and an arena. I had to remember which college was in Tampa, Florida, and the Roman numeral for 1,583. I had to think of the name of a famous actress from the 1930s, as well as recall names of a doctor, a lawyer, and an Indian chief (it was Wilma Mankiller). There was a dreaded question on pop culture (not my strong area). I had to try to remember the name of a city on the Aker River as well as come up with an obscure agricultural term that I only know because my daughter dates an organic farmer. I had to know one Latin phrase (strong suit because I took two years of Latin in high school) and one Spanish word (common sense language). Thank goodness there was no French today, although I always hope there’s a German word or two to practice my two years of college German. I had to think of the prefix meaning “distant” and the suffix meaning “adherent.” I had to think of a four-letter first word in a title by Dostoevsky.
By 6 a.m., a person doing a crossword puzzle has done the mental equivalent of cleaning out ten closets, the attic, and the jumbled corner of the garage. There’s something cleansing about taking those words out of storage and hanging them on the clothesline to air out a bit before putting them back, fresh and restored, in the brain crevice where I found them.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
BEES IN GLASSES
I’m not into apiary science (although it’s empowering to know the Latin word for beekeeping). But I read once in Anne Lamott’s book, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith, that if you’re out in the yard catching bees (and who of us doesn’t do that on a regular basis?), you don’t really need a lid for your bee-catching jar. On the other hand, if you’re catching butterflies or fireflies, you need to slap that ventilated lid on as fast as you can because butterflies and fireflies will definitely try to make a break for it if left unlidded.
Back to bees—Anne Lamott says, “ . . . you can keep bees in jars without lids, because they’ll walk around on the glass floor, imprisoned by the glass surrounding them, when all they’d have to do is look up and they could fly away. So . . . we’ll look up, we’ll get off our asses, or if we are like bees, off our glasses.”
I was thinking that this might be a good day to get off my glasses and get some things done. It’s time to stop looking through the old mayonnaise jar of my life, thinking about what I coulda, shoulda, woulda wanted to do today and blaming the glass for what I’m not accomplishing. It’s time to look up and see that big uncovered hole in the top of the jar and admit that the only thing between me and the blue sky today is my unwillingness to fly vertically as well as horizontally (especially since horizontal flight is so glass-smashingly painful).
Off I go—beefore I beegin to beelieve I really beelong inside this glass jar (good grief!).
Back to bees—Anne Lamott says, “ . . . you can keep bees in jars without lids, because they’ll walk around on the glass floor, imprisoned by the glass surrounding them, when all they’d have to do is look up and they could fly away. So . . . we’ll look up, we’ll get off our asses, or if we are like bees, off our glasses.”
I was thinking that this might be a good day to get off my glasses and get some things done. It’s time to stop looking through the old mayonnaise jar of my life, thinking about what I coulda, shoulda, woulda wanted to do today and blaming the glass for what I’m not accomplishing. It’s time to look up and see that big uncovered hole in the top of the jar and admit that the only thing between me and the blue sky today is my unwillingness to fly vertically as well as horizontally (especially since horizontal flight is so glass-smashingly painful).
Off I go—beefore I beegin to beelieve I really beelong inside this glass jar (good grief!).
Monday, May 19, 2008
3-D TRANSPORTATION
The next time you are driving in bumper-to-bumper four-lane traffic in Minneapolis, or six-lane bumper-to-bumper traffic in Phoenix, or eight-lane bumper-to-bumper traffic in Los Angeles, I want you to remember the term “3-D Transportation.” I believe the problem with modern city transportation systems is that they are two-dimensional with all movement taking place on a flat plane surface severely limited by designated roads and highways.
Now think about a 3-D transportation system that not only utilizes length and breadth of a driving area, but also incorporates depth into the equation. In three separate newspaper articles this week, there were three new or relatively new transportation concepts described.
The first was an article about the Swiss-built Pilatus Porter aircraft. This is the first prototype of a set of rigid eight-foot wings powered by four jet turbines strapped to the back of a human being, which allows a person to fly above the earth at speeds up to 186 miles per hour. The pilot wears a protective suit and helmet; beyond that, the pilot is just hanging out in midair, suspended under the wing span. From a distance, he or she just looks like a big bird soaring up in the sky.
The second article describes a Japanese-built one-man helicopter, the GEN H-4, which has a chair and footrest for the pilot, two opposing rotors for stability, four engines, and a handle bar. It’s able to travel up to 56 miles an hour and is capable of ascending 165 yards into the air, although it is safer and more efficient at about 100 yards off the ground. Again, the pilot sits in the open air under the rotors and maneuvers the helicopter using the handle bar.
The third story was about the Segway personal transporter, which has been around for several years, but is now being proclaimed the most recent medical breakthrough for amputees and the disabled. There’s even a charitable organization called Segs4Vets which raises money to provide Segways to the huge number of military amputees and disabled vets returning from the war in Iraq.
So how does the 3-D transportation system work? First, at the highest altitudes will be the Pilatus Porter commuting crowd, the jet-powered wings capable of traveling several thousand feet in the air at high speeds. While the Pilatus Porter commuters would have to fly below regular commercial airline traffic patterns, they are able to go any direction, unconfined by roads and highways. Is the Pilatus Porter ahead of you going only 170 and you prefer 185 mph? No problem. With 3-D transportation, just dip below it or rise above it for a quick pass.
The second layer of 3-D transportation would be the GEN H-4s, the personal commuter helicopters that would be relegated to an altitude anywhere from 20 feet to 165 yards into the air. Again, they would not be confined by roads and highways, but could utilize transportation routes based on the shortest distance from Point A to Point B.
The Segways would be the designated handicapped vehicles. Just like we have handicapped parking spots in places that other vehicles cannot park, the Segways would not be limited to roads and highways. They could utilize road shoulders and ditches, cut across parks and parking lots, buzz through buildings using handicap accessible ramps, and otherwise make use of routes unavailable to automobiles and motorcycles.
So the 3-D transportation relieves traffic congestion by adding depth to the equation, and also by extending the flat plane of 2-D travel to include non-street/non-highway accessiblity for the handicapped.
So here’s the question: What then becomes of the lowly automobile and all the roads and highways currently in place? This is the true beauty of the plan. The automobiles and roads become the sole domain of us geezer drivers, who now are free to drive as slowly as we want, change lanes without turning on our blinkers, pull out in front of oncoming traffic, and drive down the middle of the line separating two lanes of traffic. We can now leisurely putt-putt our way from our morning coffee klatches to our volunteer jobs at the local ARC store to our $2.89 blue plate senior specials at the Dew Drop Inn without the constraint of traffic laws or impatient fellow drivers. The buzzing of the Pilatus Porters, the GEN H-4s, and the Segways above us and around us won’t be a bother; we can’t hear them anyway.
Now think about a 3-D transportation system that not only utilizes length and breadth of a driving area, but also incorporates depth into the equation. In three separate newspaper articles this week, there were three new or relatively new transportation concepts described.
The first was an article about the Swiss-built Pilatus Porter aircraft. This is the first prototype of a set of rigid eight-foot wings powered by four jet turbines strapped to the back of a human being, which allows a person to fly above the earth at speeds up to 186 miles per hour. The pilot wears a protective suit and helmet; beyond that, the pilot is just hanging out in midair, suspended under the wing span. From a distance, he or she just looks like a big bird soaring up in the sky.
The second article describes a Japanese-built one-man helicopter, the GEN H-4, which has a chair and footrest for the pilot, two opposing rotors for stability, four engines, and a handle bar. It’s able to travel up to 56 miles an hour and is capable of ascending 165 yards into the air, although it is safer and more efficient at about 100 yards off the ground. Again, the pilot sits in the open air under the rotors and maneuvers the helicopter using the handle bar.
The third story was about the Segway personal transporter, which has been around for several years, but is now being proclaimed the most recent medical breakthrough for amputees and the disabled. There’s even a charitable organization called Segs4Vets which raises money to provide Segways to the huge number of military amputees and disabled vets returning from the war in Iraq.
So how does the 3-D transportation system work? First, at the highest altitudes will be the Pilatus Porter commuting crowd, the jet-powered wings capable of traveling several thousand feet in the air at high speeds. While the Pilatus Porter commuters would have to fly below regular commercial airline traffic patterns, they are able to go any direction, unconfined by roads and highways. Is the Pilatus Porter ahead of you going only 170 and you prefer 185 mph? No problem. With 3-D transportation, just dip below it or rise above it for a quick pass.
The second layer of 3-D transportation would be the GEN H-4s, the personal commuter helicopters that would be relegated to an altitude anywhere from 20 feet to 165 yards into the air. Again, they would not be confined by roads and highways, but could utilize transportation routes based on the shortest distance from Point A to Point B.
The Segways would be the designated handicapped vehicles. Just like we have handicapped parking spots in places that other vehicles cannot park, the Segways would not be limited to roads and highways. They could utilize road shoulders and ditches, cut across parks and parking lots, buzz through buildings using handicap accessible ramps, and otherwise make use of routes unavailable to automobiles and motorcycles.
So the 3-D transportation relieves traffic congestion by adding depth to the equation, and also by extending the flat plane of 2-D travel to include non-street/non-highway accessiblity for the handicapped.
So here’s the question: What then becomes of the lowly automobile and all the roads and highways currently in place? This is the true beauty of the plan. The automobiles and roads become the sole domain of us geezer drivers, who now are free to drive as slowly as we want, change lanes without turning on our blinkers, pull out in front of oncoming traffic, and drive down the middle of the line separating two lanes of traffic. We can now leisurely putt-putt our way from our morning coffee klatches to our volunteer jobs at the local ARC store to our $2.89 blue plate senior specials at the Dew Drop Inn without the constraint of traffic laws or impatient fellow drivers. The buzzing of the Pilatus Porters, the GEN H-4s, and the Segways above us and around us won’t be a bother; we can’t hear them anyway.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
CHRISTIAN GRAFFITI
Yesterday morning, Saturday, it was 64 degrees at 10 a.m., so Tom and I decided to do a four-miler on the Central Lakes Trail. I had just eaten my way through the first half of May, and Tom had just gotten back from a week-long Lake of the Woods fishing trip in which fried fish, bacon, potatoes, creamed corn, and eggs had been the main entrees for seven straight days. A four-mile walk seemed in order.
Somewhere near Mile Marker 39, close to the Lake Geneva/Lake Victoria bridge, I began noticing graffiti spray-painted on the asphalt trail. Usually when I see graffiti, I assume the worst and demurely avert my eyes. However, this time, it was different. First of all, the penmanship and spelling were actually pretty good. I saw signs of intelligent life, rare in much trail graffiti. Secondly, it appeared to be Christian graffiti, encouraging me to love God and give up my sinful ways.
I’ll admit I was somewhat surprised to discover that spray painting a public trail was an appropriate way to spread the gospel. However, I found the graffiti to be very spiritually helpful, because it answered that annoying bracelet question, “WWJD?” Now I know exactly what Jesus would do. He would evidently grab a spray can of DayGlo orange paint and write the beatitudes all the way down the road to Damascus. I can see Him clearly, with His finger on the spray can trigger, carefully spelling out, “Blessed are the peacemakers . . .”
Of course, not being entirely up on my theology terminology, some of the graffiti abbreviations puzzled me. I’ve never been able to understand a word people are saying when they speak in tongues, so it didn’t surprise me a bit that I couldn’t figure out what they meant when they were spraying divinely inspired abbreviations on a biking/walking trail.
For example, W.O.C. kept appearing over and over again, occasionally interspersed with an L.O.C. I knew it was a secret Christian message because right next to it would be something like “Represent Jesus U Choose” in red and white spray paint (Pentecost colors) or a life-size cross with little rays beaming out in green spray paint, just like the cross really looked on Good Friday. So the abbreviations had to have some deep, religious meaning. Warriors of Chaos? Women of Color? And how about L.O.C.? Loss of consciousness? Library of Congress?
As I hiked briskly along, trying to avoid stepping on the holy messages for fear of offending a higher power, I sensed my spiritual unworthiness and lack of understanding. All I know is that the next time I am in the spray paint department at Home Depot and I hear a rushing wind followed by a still, small voice in my head saying, “Buy the paint . . . buy the paint,” I will not shrug it off lightly. I will buy that paint and spray whatever the Holy Spirit tells me to spray—on the Central Lakes Trail or Interstate 94 or the west side of the Pentagon. It’s what Jesus would do.
Somewhere near Mile Marker 39, close to the Lake Geneva/Lake Victoria bridge, I began noticing graffiti spray-painted on the asphalt trail. Usually when I see graffiti, I assume the worst and demurely avert my eyes. However, this time, it was different. First of all, the penmanship and spelling were actually pretty good. I saw signs of intelligent life, rare in much trail graffiti. Secondly, it appeared to be Christian graffiti, encouraging me to love God and give up my sinful ways.
I’ll admit I was somewhat surprised to discover that spray painting a public trail was an appropriate way to spread the gospel. However, I found the graffiti to be very spiritually helpful, because it answered that annoying bracelet question, “WWJD?” Now I know exactly what Jesus would do. He would evidently grab a spray can of DayGlo orange paint and write the beatitudes all the way down the road to Damascus. I can see Him clearly, with His finger on the spray can trigger, carefully spelling out, “Blessed are the peacemakers . . .”
Of course, not being entirely up on my theology terminology, some of the graffiti abbreviations puzzled me. I’ve never been able to understand a word people are saying when they speak in tongues, so it didn’t surprise me a bit that I couldn’t figure out what they meant when they were spraying divinely inspired abbreviations on a biking/walking trail.
For example, W.O.C. kept appearing over and over again, occasionally interspersed with an L.O.C. I knew it was a secret Christian message because right next to it would be something like “Represent Jesus U Choose” in red and white spray paint (Pentecost colors) or a life-size cross with little rays beaming out in green spray paint, just like the cross really looked on Good Friday. So the abbreviations had to have some deep, religious meaning. Warriors of Chaos? Women of Color? And how about L.O.C.? Loss of consciousness? Library of Congress?
As I hiked briskly along, trying to avoid stepping on the holy messages for fear of offending a higher power, I sensed my spiritual unworthiness and lack of understanding. All I know is that the next time I am in the spray paint department at Home Depot and I hear a rushing wind followed by a still, small voice in my head saying, “Buy the paint . . . buy the paint,” I will not shrug it off lightly. I will buy that paint and spray whatever the Holy Spirit tells me to spray—on the Central Lakes Trail or Interstate 94 or the west side of the Pentagon. It’s what Jesus would do.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
GRADUATION MEDITATION
Last night was graduation—finally. I’ve had the date circled in red on the calendar so long that it seemed almost anti-climactic when May 16 actually came. One of the students even bought long-stemmed roses for all of us, so my students and I looked a little like 14 maroon-robed bridesmaids walking into the auditorium in the graduation procession.
We took pictures, we hugged each other—it was a glorious night. And I am incredibly, sinfully relieved it’s over for another year.
About three years ago, I had a student who said “thank you” every time she left class. Just that—“thank you.” And although it makes me sound needy and shallow, I will admit it: that “thank you” thrilled me every single time she said it. In that whole semester, I never-ever-not-even-once got tired of hearing her say it.
We thank the waiter or waitress who delivers our food to our table. We thank the checkout clerk who runs our groceries over a scanner. We thank the bus driver, the store clerk, the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. But the teachers who spent three hours of prep time to create just that one hour’s worth of class time? We flee the classroom like they’re terrorists who have just held us hostage against our will for the past hour, a box cutter to our throats, threatening to kill us and our children and our children’s children. Even though it’s been years since I was a student, I remember that feeling well. I didn’t care how many people I trampled, how many lives were lost on my way to the classroom door—I just needed to get out of there! Air—air—I needed air!!
Even though I remember the trapped-student feeling, it was still nice when the student said “thank you.” That entire semester, she made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I was one step above a terrorist.
We took pictures, we hugged each other—it was a glorious night. And I am incredibly, sinfully relieved it’s over for another year.
About three years ago, I had a student who said “thank you” every time she left class. Just that—“thank you.” And although it makes me sound needy and shallow, I will admit it: that “thank you” thrilled me every single time she said it. In that whole semester, I never-ever-not-even-once got tired of hearing her say it.
We thank the waiter or waitress who delivers our food to our table. We thank the checkout clerk who runs our groceries over a scanner. We thank the bus driver, the store clerk, the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. But the teachers who spent three hours of prep time to create just that one hour’s worth of class time? We flee the classroom like they’re terrorists who have just held us hostage against our will for the past hour, a box cutter to our throats, threatening to kill us and our children and our children’s children. Even though it’s been years since I was a student, I remember that feeling well. I didn’t care how many people I trampled, how many lives were lost on my way to the classroom door—I just needed to get out of there! Air—air—I needed air!!
Even though I remember the trapped-student feeling, it was still nice when the student said “thank you.” That entire semester, she made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I was one step above a terrorist.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
BIBLE DIPPING
In the book Running with Scissors by Augsten Burroughs, one of the main characters in his memoirs, the daughter of the wacky psychologist, had a fool-proof way of making decisions in her life. She practiced “Bible Dipping.”
Whenever she had a decision to make, she would make a bee-line for her white Bible, randomly open to a page, stab her finger at a word, and that would be an answer directly from God. It didn’t matter if it was a life-altering decision or a mere “should I have tuna salad or chicken on my sandwich?”, the Bible was consulted. She would flip open the Bible, stab her finger, and something like “One ox, six choice sheep, and some chickens were prepared for me daily.” (Nehemiah 5:14–19). And since the verse didn’t mention tuna, chicken it would be.
The author envied that this woman and God were buddies and He talked to her through her Bible dipping while everyone else seemed to have to muddle through making their own decisions.
This morning, I didn’t feel much like going to work, so I tried a little Bible dipping, thinking that maybe this one time, I might get an answer. I closed my eyes, opened my Bible, pointed my finger, and stabbed. When I opened my eyes, I saw:
HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
Oops! I guess the first page doesn't work. Close eyes, open Bible, point finger—stab!!
“Do you see a man skilled in his work? He will stand before kings; He will not stand before obscure men. - Proverbs 22:29”
Guess I’ll go get dressed.
Whenever she had a decision to make, she would make a bee-line for her white Bible, randomly open to a page, stab her finger at a word, and that would be an answer directly from God. It didn’t matter if it was a life-altering decision or a mere “should I have tuna salad or chicken on my sandwich?”, the Bible was consulted. She would flip open the Bible, stab her finger, and something like “One ox, six choice sheep, and some chickens were prepared for me daily.” (Nehemiah 5:14–19). And since the verse didn’t mention tuna, chicken it would be.
The author envied that this woman and God were buddies and He talked to her through her Bible dipping while everyone else seemed to have to muddle through making their own decisions.
This morning, I didn’t feel much like going to work, so I tried a little Bible dipping, thinking that maybe this one time, I might get an answer. I closed my eyes, opened my Bible, pointed my finger, and stabbed. When I opened my eyes, I saw:
HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
Oops! I guess the first page doesn't work. Close eyes, open Bible, point finger—stab!!
“Do you see a man skilled in his work? He will stand before kings; He will not stand before obscure men. - Proverbs 22:29”
Guess I’ll go get dressed.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
TOLERANCE
I think the secret to staying married to the same person for 35 years is tolerance; that is, flexibility and acceptance when confronted by your partner’s quirks and oddities.
At our house, for example, I am very tolerant of Tom’s habit of keeping critters in the refrigerator. Often when I am searching for the ketchup or trying to maneuver a spot for the milk, I have to push aside little styrofoam containers full of leeches and nightcrawlers and waxworms. I get a little creeped out when I see those slimy leeches doing their synchronized swimming routine through the opaque cover—but I remind myself, “tolerance, tolerance,” and assure myself that in many cultures, insects are considered delicacies. Women in some Asian countries have refrigerators full of scorpions and silk worms and dung beetles, ready to stir fry in the wok for supper.
While I have to tolerate Tom’s fishing bait in the refrigerator, he, on the other hand, has to tolerate me. I’m forever pecking away at the computer or scribbling notes on the margins of my crossword puzzle books or just in general adding to the world’s superfluous supply of words. But does he complain?
Last week I asked him, noticing that he never pecked and scribbled, “What do you do with all your thoughts??” He considered carefully for a moment. Then he raised his eyebrows at me and replied pointedly, “I suppress them.”
So much for tolerance. Those leeches might get a roller coaster ride down the garbage disposal one of these days.
At our house, for example, I am very tolerant of Tom’s habit of keeping critters in the refrigerator. Often when I am searching for the ketchup or trying to maneuver a spot for the milk, I have to push aside little styrofoam containers full of leeches and nightcrawlers and waxworms. I get a little creeped out when I see those slimy leeches doing their synchronized swimming routine through the opaque cover—but I remind myself, “tolerance, tolerance,” and assure myself that in many cultures, insects are considered delicacies. Women in some Asian countries have refrigerators full of scorpions and silk worms and dung beetles, ready to stir fry in the wok for supper.
While I have to tolerate Tom’s fishing bait in the refrigerator, he, on the other hand, has to tolerate me. I’m forever pecking away at the computer or scribbling notes on the margins of my crossword puzzle books or just in general adding to the world’s superfluous supply of words. But does he complain?
Last week I asked him, noticing that he never pecked and scribbled, “What do you do with all your thoughts??” He considered carefully for a moment. Then he raised his eyebrows at me and replied pointedly, “I suppress them.”
So much for tolerance. Those leeches might get a roller coaster ride down the garbage disposal one of these days.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
RETIREMENT JOB
I don’t know why, but as soon as I announced my retirement date, everybody was full of suggestions about what my “retirement job” should be. I kind of had a mental image of myself lying in a hammock by Lake Ida wasting away in Margaritaville—excuse me for having a fantasy.
However, after thinking it through and realizing that idle hands are the devil’s playground, I finally found the perfect retirement job.
In the newspaper is an ad that reads: “Males and Females, ages 0-75+.” Okay, so far so good. “All Sizes.” Even better! “Needed for TV, magazines, etc., PT flexible hrs. We pay $50+/- per hr.” Holy cow! Better than teaching!! “No exp. req. Jobs start May/June.” Yes, yes . . . “Bring snapshot to Holiday Inn, I-94/Hwy. 29, Alexandria, MN Thur., May 15th anytime 7p.m.-10p.m.” YEA, I know where the Holiday Inn is!! “Under 18, bring parent.” Whew, lucky it’s not ‘under 60’ because I think my mother goes to bed at 7 p.m.
A snapshot, a snapshot . . . if I’m going to be a movie extra/actor/model/dancer/reality TV performer, maybe I should get some professional headshots.
I read once about a casting call for “inbred” look people. The producers wanted people who were extraordinarily tall or short, unusual body shape, unusual facial features (especially eyes)—kind of an other-worldly look. They also needed people with minimal muscle tone, long stringy hair, and a starved, ravaged appearance, and a thin man of any ethnicity who is missing one or both legs. Hmmm . . . maybe not.
I’m looking for a casting call for a “woman of advanced years of Nordic heritage, looks best in turtle necks, near-sighted, bespectacled, thick-waisted, with abundant upper-thigh cellulite, a tremulous chin wattle, and a slight mustache.” If I ever see an ad like that, the part is MINE and I’ve got myself a post-retirement job!
I’m going to dig through the family photo album, find a snapshot of myself, and head on out to the Holiday Inn on Thursday night. According to the fine print, for a “small registration fee” and a “recurring billing product,” I too can “take it to the next level and follow my dream.” I can be that maggot-filled cadaver on CSI, the swastika-tattooed inmate on Prison Break, or the non-speaking forklift operator on an episode of The Office. My new career is just a snapshot and a small registration fee/recurring billing product away!
However, after thinking it through and realizing that idle hands are the devil’s playground, I finally found the perfect retirement job.
In the newspaper is an ad that reads: “Males and Females, ages 0-75+.” Okay, so far so good. “All Sizes.” Even better! “Needed for TV, magazines, etc., PT flexible hrs. We pay $50+/- per hr.” Holy cow! Better than teaching!! “No exp. req. Jobs start May/June.” Yes, yes . . . “Bring snapshot to Holiday Inn, I-94/Hwy. 29, Alexandria, MN Thur., May 15th anytime 7p.m.-10p.m.” YEA, I know where the Holiday Inn is!! “Under 18, bring parent.” Whew, lucky it’s not ‘under 60’ because I think my mother goes to bed at 7 p.m.
A snapshot, a snapshot . . . if I’m going to be a movie extra/actor/model/dancer/reality TV performer, maybe I should get some professional headshots.
I read once about a casting call for “inbred” look people. The producers wanted people who were extraordinarily tall or short, unusual body shape, unusual facial features (especially eyes)—kind of an other-worldly look. They also needed people with minimal muscle tone, long stringy hair, and a starved, ravaged appearance, and a thin man of any ethnicity who is missing one or both legs. Hmmm . . . maybe not.
I’m looking for a casting call for a “woman of advanced years of Nordic heritage, looks best in turtle necks, near-sighted, bespectacled, thick-waisted, with abundant upper-thigh cellulite, a tremulous chin wattle, and a slight mustache.” If I ever see an ad like that, the part is MINE and I’ve got myself a post-retirement job!
I’m going to dig through the family photo album, find a snapshot of myself, and head on out to the Holiday Inn on Thursday night. According to the fine print, for a “small registration fee” and a “recurring billing product,” I too can “take it to the next level and follow my dream.” I can be that maggot-filled cadaver on CSI, the swastika-tattooed inmate on Prison Break, or the non-speaking forklift operator on an episode of The Office. My new career is just a snapshot and a small registration fee/recurring billing product away!
Monday, May 12, 2008
SIDEWALK ANTS
About twenty years ago, back in the 1980s, we put a gray brick paver sidewalk in front of our house. We neatly lined it with untreated timber, and the effect was a rustic-classy sidewalk that really led nowhere but looked nice in a 1980s sort of way.
Then the evil ants took over. The brick pavers were anchored in a sand base that the ants decided was home. Year after year, season after season, little hills of sand appeared in the cracks between the pavers as the ants built their underground tunnels. I poured ant poison on their cursed mounds; I swept away their devil ant hills.
We would go on vacation for a couple of weeks and when we got back, there would be ten, twenty, thirty new ant piles. I tried ant sprays, ant traps, ant sticky Tero liquids—but nothing worked. The poison just made them stronger as they became immune to all known insecticides on earth. In the twenty years the ants and I fought for dominion, they lowered the brick pavers by two inches. I know that for a fact because the timbers stayed in place. But the brick pavers just kept sinking and sinking as I swept away sand. The sidewalk is fifteen feet long, I am 5’4” tall, and an ant is 1/16 of a centimeter long—but they continued to win the battle.
Last summer, we dug up all the 1980s brick pavers and spent approximately . . . I was going to say a dollar amount, but I forgot what we spent. Anyway, we put in a brand new expensive aggregate sidewalk. It is solid; it is loaded with rocks. It has a waterproof, earthquake-proof, atomic-bomb-proof high-gloss sealer on it. At last, I thought, I am lord and master of my own sidewalk! It was a sleek and shiny fortress, an aggregate moat around the front of our house.
Guess what I saw yesterday? Four perfectly symmetrical ant hills on a small, infinitesimal atom-sized crack on the edge of the aggregate sidewalk.
Lord, someday I’d like to be as persistent as a sidewalk ant.
Then the evil ants took over. The brick pavers were anchored in a sand base that the ants decided was home. Year after year, season after season, little hills of sand appeared in the cracks between the pavers as the ants built their underground tunnels. I poured ant poison on their cursed mounds; I swept away their devil ant hills.
We would go on vacation for a couple of weeks and when we got back, there would be ten, twenty, thirty new ant piles. I tried ant sprays, ant traps, ant sticky Tero liquids—but nothing worked. The poison just made them stronger as they became immune to all known insecticides on earth. In the twenty years the ants and I fought for dominion, they lowered the brick pavers by two inches. I know that for a fact because the timbers stayed in place. But the brick pavers just kept sinking and sinking as I swept away sand. The sidewalk is fifteen feet long, I am 5’4” tall, and an ant is 1/16 of a centimeter long—but they continued to win the battle.
Last summer, we dug up all the 1980s brick pavers and spent approximately . . . I was going to say a dollar amount, but I forgot what we spent. Anyway, we put in a brand new expensive aggregate sidewalk. It is solid; it is loaded with rocks. It has a waterproof, earthquake-proof, atomic-bomb-proof high-gloss sealer on it. At last, I thought, I am lord and master of my own sidewalk! It was a sleek and shiny fortress, an aggregate moat around the front of our house.
Guess what I saw yesterday? Four perfectly symmetrical ant hills on a small, infinitesimal atom-sized crack on the edge of the aggregate sidewalk.
Lord, someday I’d like to be as persistent as a sidewalk ant.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
HEALTHY AGING
The past three years, I have spent a good deal of time popping in and out of Nelson Gables, the local assisted living facility cleverly disguised as a five-star hotel. Also, the past two weeks, I have made many visits to Knute Nelson Nursing Home, which unfortunately cannot be disguised as anything but a nursing home, albeit a five-star nursing home.
In both of these facilities, the lobbies are often littered (did I say littered??) with old people, sitting in chairs—just sitting. And in both of these facilities, I am reminded a book by Andrew Weil, M.D., called Healthy Aging, which contains all kinds of good, practical advice about how to grow old the best way we possibly can. But there was one chapter in the book (Chapter 15 on The Mind: Thoughts, Attitudes, and Emotions) where Dr. Weil really hits home when he says that older people worry about three things: they don’t want to suffer, they don’t want to be a burden, and they don’t want to have an unmeaningful life.
So here they are, scores of old people, sitting in chairs, lying on beds, often living exactly the end-of-life scenario they’ve always feared. It’s in these two places that I’ve realized that the mental part of growing old often requires more outright courage than the physical part.
Dr. Weil ridicules all the advertised miracle treatments—lotions, potions, cosmetics, surgeries, and anti-aging gimmicks—that promise the fountain of youth. And then he goes on to tell the REAL secret to aging successfully. If we go to a doctor who prescribes drugs for our “old lady/old man” syndromes, he emphatically encourages us to make life changes before resorting to drugs:
1. the strong correlation between physical activity and successful aging
2. the importance of healthy eating and the folly of vitamins/supplements as a replacement for healthy eating
3. the value of sleep and rest
4. the importance of touch
5. the power of minimizing (changing your reaction to) stress
6. the science of happiness (live with nature, unlearn ‘judging’ habits, learn what you have the power to change and not change)
7. the need for flexibility and humor
I go into my tirades about my resolution to "just say no" to drugs—and how I’m going to put myself out to sea on an ice floe when I get old. Healthy Aging just underscores how common that feeling is. Here I thought I was so unique in feeling I don’t want to suffer, be a burden, be meaningless, yada yada. Ironically, it turns out that every geezer in town feels the same (humbling to see how normal I am).
I think I need to start spending more time at day care centers and nursery schools rather than these assisted living and nursing home places. I’m starting to worry about things I won’t need to worry about for another 25 years. But the list above—different story. I need to live that list, starting yesterday!
In both of these facilities, the lobbies are often littered (did I say littered??) with old people, sitting in chairs—just sitting. And in both of these facilities, I am reminded a book by Andrew Weil, M.D., called Healthy Aging, which contains all kinds of good, practical advice about how to grow old the best way we possibly can. But there was one chapter in the book (Chapter 15 on The Mind: Thoughts, Attitudes, and Emotions) where Dr. Weil really hits home when he says that older people worry about three things: they don’t want to suffer, they don’t want to be a burden, and they don’t want to have an unmeaningful life.
So here they are, scores of old people, sitting in chairs, lying on beds, often living exactly the end-of-life scenario they’ve always feared. It’s in these two places that I’ve realized that the mental part of growing old often requires more outright courage than the physical part.
Dr. Weil ridicules all the advertised miracle treatments—lotions, potions, cosmetics, surgeries, and anti-aging gimmicks—that promise the fountain of youth. And then he goes on to tell the REAL secret to aging successfully. If we go to a doctor who prescribes drugs for our “old lady/old man” syndromes, he emphatically encourages us to make life changes before resorting to drugs:
1. the strong correlation between physical activity and successful aging
2. the importance of healthy eating and the folly of vitamins/supplements as a replacement for healthy eating
3. the value of sleep and rest
4. the importance of touch
5. the power of minimizing (changing your reaction to) stress
6. the science of happiness (live with nature, unlearn ‘judging’ habits, learn what you have the power to change and not change)
7. the need for flexibility and humor
I go into my tirades about my resolution to "just say no" to drugs—and how I’m going to put myself out to sea on an ice floe when I get old. Healthy Aging just underscores how common that feeling is. Here I thought I was so unique in feeling I don’t want to suffer, be a burden, be meaningless, yada yada. Ironically, it turns out that every geezer in town feels the same (humbling to see how normal I am).
I think I need to start spending more time at day care centers and nursery schools rather than these assisted living and nursing home places. I’m starting to worry about things I won’t need to worry about for another 25 years. But the list above—different story. I need to live that list, starting yesterday!
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
NEW PASSWORD
We just got the word at work that before May 16, we will need to reset a new password (under Policy No. v1 6 0421108, Password Usage & Handling Guidelines).
I was about to pull out my old faithful password “DaffyDuck,” when I noticed that the new policy even had Subparts A, B, C, D, and E. Something told me that “DaffyDuck” wasn’t going to cut it anymore.
Sure enough, I now have to have a password with a minimum of eight characters and “must include a minimum combination of two character types and should include a combination of 3 character types such as: numbers, special characters, and lower and upper case letters.” Honestly—word for word from Subpart B.
Not only that, but every 180 days, I have to think of a new combination of a minimum of eight characters which must include a minimum combination of two character types , etc., etc., etc. If you don’t believe me, just read Subpart C.
At the suggestion of a co-worker, I finally thought of a new password that might fit their requirements:
I was about to pull out my old faithful password “DaffyDuck,” when I noticed that the new policy even had Subparts A, B, C, D, and E. Something told me that “DaffyDuck” wasn’t going to cut it anymore.
Sure enough, I now have to have a password with a minimum of eight characters and “must include a minimum combination of two character types and should include a combination of 3 character types such as: numbers, special characters, and lower and upper case letters.” Honestly—word for word from Subpart B.
Not only that, but every 180 days, I have to think of a new combination of a minimum of eight characters which must include a minimum combination of two character types , etc., etc., etc. If you don’t believe me, just read Subpart C.
At the suggestion of a co-worker, I finally thought of a new password that might fit their requirements:
Then after 180 days, as directed, I will change the password to:
Subpart D explains that if I don’t type the password in correctly in three tries, I will be locked out because of a password failure and either need to wait 15 minutes to attempt again or have my account “administratively reset.”
I suspect I will get to know my administrative account resetter on a first-name basis.
I suspect I will get to know my administrative account resetter on a first-name basis.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
THE PANDEMIC EXPENDABLES
An article in yesterday’s (May 5, 2008) Fargo Forum was entitled “Who Should Doctors Let Die in a Pandemic?” A group of eminent researchers and doctors from around the world have decided that certain people will be expendable when health care during a flu pandemic is at a premium. It’s not that these people will be executed or euthanized; however, when beds and medicine are scarce, these people will probably be parked in the hospital broom closet along with the mops and Pine Sol.
So here they are:
· If you’re older than 85, you will need to lie about your age to get an aspirin.
· If you are the victim of a severe trauma (such as a gunshot or car accident), they aren’t going to waste the time on you (they figure if you were stupid enough to get yourself shot or smashed, you asked for it).
· If you are a severe burn victim over the age of 60 (60??? Life just begins at 60!), you will probably just be brought directly to the morgue. (Lesson? No playing with matches during a pandemic.)
· If you have severe mental impairment, including Alzheimer’s, they will not waste a Band-Aid on you.
· If you have any severe, chronic disease like heart failure, lung disease, or unmanageable diabetes, you are a goner.
Well, that about takes care of everyone I know.
It seems like if you are a little old, a little bloody, a little dotty, somewhat on the crispy well-done side, or have a medical chart more than ½-inch thick, you might as well call the funeral home and make the arrangements. The medical community will not have the time or inclination to help you.
With these standards, flu victims such as the Pope Bendict XVI, George H.W. Bush, Paul Newman, several hundred Iraqi War veterans, and a few firefighters who fought the blaze at the World Trade Center on 9/11 would all be shuffled to a side hallway in the hospital. Meanwhile flu victims O.J. Simpson, child pornographer Chester Molester, and Brittany Spears would be given the presidential suite on the top floor of Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles.
I think we might need to put those researchers and doctors back into their conference room and not let them out until they come up with a better pandemic plan.
So here they are:
· If you’re older than 85, you will need to lie about your age to get an aspirin.
· If you are the victim of a severe trauma (such as a gunshot or car accident), they aren’t going to waste the time on you (they figure if you were stupid enough to get yourself shot or smashed, you asked for it).
· If you are a severe burn victim over the age of 60 (60??? Life just begins at 60!), you will probably just be brought directly to the morgue. (Lesson? No playing with matches during a pandemic.)
· If you have severe mental impairment, including Alzheimer’s, they will not waste a Band-Aid on you.
· If you have any severe, chronic disease like heart failure, lung disease, or unmanageable diabetes, you are a goner.
Well, that about takes care of everyone I know.
It seems like if you are a little old, a little bloody, a little dotty, somewhat on the crispy well-done side, or have a medical chart more than ½-inch thick, you might as well call the funeral home and make the arrangements. The medical community will not have the time or inclination to help you.
With these standards, flu victims such as the Pope Bendict XVI, George H.W. Bush, Paul Newman, several hundred Iraqi War veterans, and a few firefighters who fought the blaze at the World Trade Center on 9/11 would all be shuffled to a side hallway in the hospital. Meanwhile flu victims O.J. Simpson, child pornographer Chester Molester, and Brittany Spears would be given the presidential suite on the top floor of Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles.
I think we might need to put those researchers and doctors back into their conference room and not let them out until they come up with a better pandemic plan.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
WAR WITH CANADA
In the Friday, April 25, issue of the Fargo Forum, the headlines read, “U.S. Invades Canada.” Luckily, I caught the little blue disclaimer box in the corner that said FAUX NEWS (French for “Fox News,” I believe). I was dying to read the story; unfortunately, it happened to be in the newspaper on a day that I was too busy to read it. So I was hoping that Tom wouldn’t recycle the newspaper under the cats’ litter boxes before I had a chance to see what it was all about. Today, I finally had time to go out to the recycling bin in the garage, and there the newspaper was—pristine and clean. I did not have to lie down on my stomach in the laundry room next to the litter box and read the cat urine-soaked story after all.
The gist of the story was that back in 1930, the War Department developed a Plan Red in case England ever used Canada as a means to invade the U.S. The plan? Attacking Winnepeg from North Dakota, invading Quebec and Montreal from Vermont, and seizing all the Canadian ports on the Great Lakes and the Atlantic seaboard. As the author of the article said, “At that point, it’s just a matter of time before we bring these Molson-swigging, maple-mongering Zamboni drivers to their knees.”
Even more interesting was that Canada, as early as 1921, had a plan to invade us! The Canadian director of military operations (a man named James Sutherland “Buster” Brown), posing as a tourist, actually drove his own vehicle to the areas he thought Canada should invade (like Minneapolis) and took reconnaissance pictures with his own camera and picked up free maps at gas stations (really low budget operation).
Now in the 21st century, with these invasion plans declassified, we only have fake wars with Canada. I know from personal undisclosed secret sources that the U.S. Air Force and the Canadian Air Force stage fake wars every once in a while. (If I tell you how I know this for a fact, I will have to kill you. Therefore, we will leave my secret sources out of this discussion.) In these fake wars, the stakes are high. If the Canadian Air Force wins, sometimes the punishment is that the Americans have to say “eh?” for a week (as in “Nice day, eh?”). Visa versa, if the Americans win, the Canadians have to say “amazing” for a week (as in “Amazing day, isn’t it? That’s amazing! Your Air Force is amazing!”) Other times, the Americans just make the Canadians drink Bud Light, the ultimate humiliation if you are a Canuck. (5/3/08)
The gist of the story was that back in 1930, the War Department developed a Plan Red in case England ever used Canada as a means to invade the U.S. The plan? Attacking Winnepeg from North Dakota, invading Quebec and Montreal from Vermont, and seizing all the Canadian ports on the Great Lakes and the Atlantic seaboard. As the author of the article said, “At that point, it’s just a matter of time before we bring these Molson-swigging, maple-mongering Zamboni drivers to their knees.”
Even more interesting was that Canada, as early as 1921, had a plan to invade us! The Canadian director of military operations (a man named James Sutherland “Buster” Brown), posing as a tourist, actually drove his own vehicle to the areas he thought Canada should invade (like Minneapolis) and took reconnaissance pictures with his own camera and picked up free maps at gas stations (really low budget operation).
Now in the 21st century, with these invasion plans declassified, we only have fake wars with Canada. I know from personal undisclosed secret sources that the U.S. Air Force and the Canadian Air Force stage fake wars every once in a while. (If I tell you how I know this for a fact, I will have to kill you. Therefore, we will leave my secret sources out of this discussion.) In these fake wars, the stakes are high. If the Canadian Air Force wins, sometimes the punishment is that the Americans have to say “eh?” for a week (as in “Nice day, eh?”). Visa versa, if the Americans win, the Canadians have to say “amazing” for a week (as in “Amazing day, isn’t it? That’s amazing! Your Air Force is amazing!”) Other times, the Americans just make the Canadians drink Bud Light, the ultimate humiliation if you are a Canuck. (5/3/08)
Saturday, May 03, 2008
UNIQUE THOUGHTS
With billions and billions of people currently living on earth, or have lived on earth in the past, the chances of having a completely, totally unique thought are microscopic.
Occasionally, I have had what I thought might be a “unique thought.” I specifically make a point of stopping and telling myself (drumroll), “No one on earth has ever had that exact thought before.” However, here’s the clinker: I DON’T WRITE THEM DOWN. Then later, when I want to ponder the unique thought, I can remember that I noted the thought was unique, but can’t for the life of me remember what the unique thought was. (P.S. They’re not great thoughts—they’re just unique. That’s the only requirement. They do not have to be great.)
One night, I woke up at 2 a.m., shaken with a thought so profound that I forced myself to get out of bed, walk to the kitchen, find some paper, and write the thought down. In the morning, I found a piece of paper on the kitchen counter that had these words scrawled on it, “Secrets in the Attic/Skeletons in the Closet/A Body in the Basement.” I have no idea what it means. Is it the title of a book? Is it an intra-cranial ESP message from an extra-terrestrial creature? But for some reason, at 2 a.m., it seemed incredibly important that I remember it.
Once I was present when I was sure a completely unique thought was being uttered for the first time. We were driving Ryan and his friend Tank to the airport in Minneapolis after a fishing trip to Canada with Tom. After spending eight days working hard for their walleye, the young men decided that fishing for walleye is similar to fishing for cats. Those walleyes just do as they please. ‘Aha!’ I thought. ‘An original thought!’
When I congratulated them on their originality, Ryan argued that this wasn’t a completely original thought because there is a television commercial and an old saying about “herding cats,” but I still think it counts because their brains took another Y in the mental road and made the walleye comparison. Fishing for walleye is like fishing for cats . . . I like it. It might explain why there are so few packages of frozen walleyes—and cat fillets—in our freezer.
Occasionally, I have had what I thought might be a “unique thought.” I specifically make a point of stopping and telling myself (drumroll), “No one on earth has ever had that exact thought before.” However, here’s the clinker: I DON’T WRITE THEM DOWN. Then later, when I want to ponder the unique thought, I can remember that I noted the thought was unique, but can’t for the life of me remember what the unique thought was. (P.S. They’re not great thoughts—they’re just unique. That’s the only requirement. They do not have to be great.)
One night, I woke up at 2 a.m., shaken with a thought so profound that I forced myself to get out of bed, walk to the kitchen, find some paper, and write the thought down. In the morning, I found a piece of paper on the kitchen counter that had these words scrawled on it, “Secrets in the Attic/Skeletons in the Closet/A Body in the Basement.” I have no idea what it means. Is it the title of a book? Is it an intra-cranial ESP message from an extra-terrestrial creature? But for some reason, at 2 a.m., it seemed incredibly important that I remember it.
Once I was present when I was sure a completely unique thought was being uttered for the first time. We were driving Ryan and his friend Tank to the airport in Minneapolis after a fishing trip to Canada with Tom. After spending eight days working hard for their walleye, the young men decided that fishing for walleye is similar to fishing for cats. Those walleyes just do as they please. ‘Aha!’ I thought. ‘An original thought!’
When I congratulated them on their originality, Ryan argued that this wasn’t a completely original thought because there is a television commercial and an old saying about “herding cats,” but I still think it counts because their brains took another Y in the mental road and made the walleye comparison. Fishing for walleye is like fishing for cats . . . I like it. It might explain why there are so few packages of frozen walleyes—and cat fillets—in our freezer.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
COMPLEXIFICATION AND FEATURE FATIGUE
Yesterday, at a meeting with our new campus technology guru, I had a wave of weariness hit me like a tsunami.
Sheldon, the guru—that’s his name, Sheldon (seems like it should be Buzz Lightyear or something)—sat taking notes on his notepad computer as we discussed software we needed to have loaded on student laptops for next fall and whether it would be compatible with Microsoft’s VISTA operating system (which, by the way, will be replaced in 2010 because of consumer complaints about that new operating system). Anyway, as Sheldon spoke, that’s when the tsunami struck and I felt like I was being sucked under in a huge tidal wave of complexification and feature fatigue.
A couple of years ago, Ellen Goodman (Boston Globe) wrote an editorial in which she described a new toothbrush (the IntelliClean System) that comes with an instructional DVD. Ms. Goodman said, and I agreed, it was the final straw in the “complexification” of everyday life. When you need an instructional DVD to do a job that you could also do by smearing a little toothpaste on your finger or a birch twig and rubbing it over your teeth (don’t say you haven’t done it in an emergency), life has gotten too complex.
In the past couple of years, I have added to my personal life: a cell phone, a digital camera, a digital mouse for my laptop, 1-gig flash drives, a digital photo frame, a Picasa album system for organizing photos, Skype satellite-computer phone system, and other technology too numerous to mention.
I also understand that I absolutely should have a blue-tooth, a Blackberry, an MP-3 player, a PSP, an iPod, an HDTV, Ti-Vo, and other technology that people have told me is a necessity . . .
Even Tom’s beloved fishing now uses depth finders and fish finders and underwater cameras and GPS—but he and his fishing buddies still have trouble catching fish on opening weekend.
I would like to selectively keep the technology that makes my life richer—technology that enhances the quality of my life, not the complexity of my life. But I would also like to reserve the right to say “no, thank you” to any new technology that just makes a simple task more complex. “No, thank you very much, sir,” as Benny Koep used to say.
Sheldon, the guru—that’s his name, Sheldon (seems like it should be Buzz Lightyear or something)—sat taking notes on his notepad computer as we discussed software we needed to have loaded on student laptops for next fall and whether it would be compatible with Microsoft’s VISTA operating system (which, by the way, will be replaced in 2010 because of consumer complaints about that new operating system). Anyway, as Sheldon spoke, that’s when the tsunami struck and I felt like I was being sucked under in a huge tidal wave of complexification and feature fatigue.
A couple of years ago, Ellen Goodman (Boston Globe) wrote an editorial in which she described a new toothbrush (the IntelliClean System) that comes with an instructional DVD. Ms. Goodman said, and I agreed, it was the final straw in the “complexification” of everyday life. When you need an instructional DVD to do a job that you could also do by smearing a little toothpaste on your finger or a birch twig and rubbing it over your teeth (don’t say you haven’t done it in an emergency), life has gotten too complex.
In the past couple of years, I have added to my personal life: a cell phone, a digital camera, a digital mouse for my laptop, 1-gig flash drives, a digital photo frame, a Picasa album system for organizing photos, Skype satellite-computer phone system, and other technology too numerous to mention.
I also understand that I absolutely should have a blue-tooth, a Blackberry, an MP-3 player, a PSP, an iPod, an HDTV, Ti-Vo, and other technology that people have told me is a necessity . . .
Even Tom’s beloved fishing now uses depth finders and fish finders and underwater cameras and GPS—but he and his fishing buddies still have trouble catching fish on opening weekend.
I would like to selectively keep the technology that makes my life richer—technology that enhances the quality of my life, not the complexity of my life. But I would also like to reserve the right to say “no, thank you” to any new technology that just makes a simple task more complex. “No, thank you very much, sir,” as Benny Koep used to say.
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