Those people

 

I hate to get into politics, particularly with the current administration, but this recent phrase causes my ire.

And I quote: “Those people,” Fred Trump said his uncle told him, “The shape they’re in, all the expenses, maybe those kinds of people should just die.”

This came from the Commander-in-Chief, the CEO of the US of the A, the so-called Leader of the Free World, the self-proclaimed King of the Planet.

This demeaning rhetoric was not about the criminal rapist and murders invading our borders to pick our crops, build our houses, cut our grass and clean our hotel rooms. This was not aimed at those who do not agree with his imperial political ramblings. This was not in response to a female reporter. This was not about intellectual librarians handing out books full of perceived disgust and filth to our children. This was not about congressional values or rights to free will or speech. This was not directed to those who’s gender identity does not match his perverted behavior. This was not an off-hand statement about diversity or monetary inequality or the color of your skin.

This quote was about Fred’s child who has a disability.

Fred's 26-year-old son, William, was born with a KCNQ2 mutation, "a genetic misfire that the doctors called a potassium channel deletion." He is nonverbal and uses a wheelchair.

I believe when we arrive on this planet, we know nothing. We are just a blob of bloody delivered from some creatures who grew you until you were fermented and ready to be a part of a ‘family’.

This family are the familiar of us. We all look alike. We all think alike (because that is what we are taught). We are comfortable with each other because it is all we know. Even an extended family of intermingling, we are somewhat suspicious of cousins and aunts and uncles for they live somewhere else and could sound different or even have another faith than our core.

Suddenly, our ‘family’ meets another ‘family’. They come from another place. They don’t look like us. They don’t sound like us. They don’t act like us. They are ‘those people’.

Some cross-breed and the blended family is accepted as us, but there are still others who are ‘those’ people. We, the familiar, look at ‘them’ with curiosity but are afraid of the difference.

The fear can be taught and increased with bias lessons of good vs bad depending on what your faith believes in.

Living on a planet where all migrated from somewhere else, some assembled into countries with borders and cultures and languages and customs different than their neighbors. If one felt disadvantaged from their neighbors, armies were formed by their political leaders directed by faith and taught that ‘those people’ were bad and had to be transformed to our acceptable beliefs to invade and conquer to pillage the wealth and reform ‘those’ to a new way of living.

Empires came and went and borders were redrawn until rational people decided the bloodshed wasn’t worth the results. Still, we stand ready to pick up arms over the threat of ‘those people’. This is our history.

Our current administration, fairly elected by our democratic process, has decided to purge (deport) ‘those people’ for the betterment of the country and with the support of the military, are detaining citizens (legal or not) and placing them onto a concentration camp until they can be processed shipped somewhere else. The processing, while minimal vetting due to the reduction in governmental staff, may find some criminals (why don’t they check the jails?) the chaos increases the confusion, fear and anger in the general population. 

If Powhatan and the indigenous tribes hadn’t been curious to welcome the aliens from afar and the original settlements were not worthy of agriculture, accepted the invasion without every viewing “The War of the Worlds” or “Independence Day” to understand ‘those people’ were here conquer and not assimilate.

Without finding riches, tea or spices, the settlers shipped back a rare crop of tobacco that caught the motherlands desire for more. The imperial desire of the Ole World leaders wanting to expand their influence and wealth, went about funding additional ventures into what would become the colonies.

When you move into a neighborhood, you are ‘those people’. You bring your children and your furniture and are viewed by the established settlers as strangers. You might fit in to the current culture and become friends or just avoid any interaction so the neighborhood waits for the sale of the house for a next batch. As this suspicion of outsiders grows, fences go up surround protected property with security. We continue to fear the unknown.

When you travel overseas or even in a different neighborhood, you are ‘those people’. The locals may view you as tourist to be exploited or assumed a threat to be followed by the uniformed authorities. If you’ve ever walked into an area, you are not welcomed and are uncomfortable, you have become ‘those people’.

At the end of the year, our species, wherever they live on this blue ball spinning in a vast darkness of space, come together to dress up and celebrate with music and food and give gifts of thankfulness.

Someday, we may realize we are the only inhabitants and should learn to get along with one another. Probably not in my lifetime, so good luck to future generations.

Dirty Dishes

Travel, family, cooking, parades, turkey, deserts, naps, football. The one day a year we gather to be thankful or show gratitude to family and friends. Is this just a good excuse to get out of work, eat a bunch of food and get ready for an extended weekend of shopping?

After attending your choice of religious service (you do attend?) and giving thanks to mysterious omnibus head of heaven and earth, pack the car with the kiddies and head to the agreed upon gathering spot where the festivities have already begun.

Note: Don’t forget to put a can of beans in the offering plate was passed around for tithing. The food bank will thank you.

Every family have their own traditions and process. I can just relate on my family as an example.

As soon as the cereal bowls are put away, the cooking begins. The kitchen was my mother’s office and an apron was her uniform. While my grandmother taught me how to break snaps and separate into paper bags, the preparation of the Thanksgiving meal was left to the ladies. Unlike the normal dinners with the leftover Downtown Club plates, the good China and silver were brought out to indicate some prestige to visitors. There was never any alcohol with the meal.

My mother was not a good cook. With all the appliances and utensils, the meat would be burnt, the potatoes dry, the bean bland and the deserts avoidable. Brought up in a time when the housewife was to rule the kitchen, she played the part but was not interested. Even toward the end, she would sit in the kitchen in apron watching a television, with a coffee urn and an ashtray.

In my family, we had the privilege to have the Thanksgiving meal prepared by the club. Turkey, Virginia Ham and Roast Beef were pre-sliced and wrapped in aluminum foil easy to reheat and serve on a silver platter. Creamy mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, stuffing and pecan pie came wrapped and ready to put in one of our burnt pans to keep warm until placed between the silver candelabras in silver bowls and serving platters. There were even gherkin pickles.

The appetizer was shrimp cocktail (after the prayer for the meal presented by my father at the head of the table). My father would have raw oysters. The rest of the family thought they were gross without knowing they were fueling future amorous behavior. Sometimes the four of us would hold hands around the small table during the prayer, but the two boys were ready to split as soon as possible. Then, we’d all go back to our rooms (my mom to the kitchen and a pile of dirty dishes, my dad to a nap in front of a football game, and my brother and I would do whatever we could to avoid any other interaction with the family.

In larger houses, with more family and longer tables, another family would have similar rituals. The ladies (moms and aunties and grandmothers) would attend to the kitchen duties while the gentlemen retired to the leisure room to discuss news and business trends while smoking pipes or cigars and drinking brandy awaiting the call to the table for the prepared feast. There was no television, but the kids could entertain with charades or piano tunes.

Seating at a long table were assigned. We stood until everyone was there to be seated. This was where we exhibited our etiquette manners. At the head of the table was my uncle, the preacher. He’d stand and praises the thankfulness for this meal while we all bowed our heads in silent.

Then, the process of dissecting the bird (who had not been pardoned). My uncle would always ask my father if he would like to do the duty and my father would always cowling recline. Plates would be passed around the table to be served with the ingredients to indigestion. No one ate until all the plates had finished their rotation. A lightweight conversation was had as we all gorged ourselves on the abundance until my uncle stood and asked, “What are you thankful for?”. No one could leave the table until the question was answered by each and every participant to the holiday event. A short sermon finished the meal and before we bolted in all directions, we were asked to take our plates into the kitchen. Somehow in the confusion, the ladies had beat us to the kitchen to direct the placement of the piles of dirty dishes with the pots and pans. Everyone volunteered meekly to assist with the clean-up but were always shoed out of the way while the kitchen was returned to its proper pristine proportions with plenty of take-home leftovers wrapped as going away remembrance presents and to get rid of the trash. The gentlemen would retire to the parlor to read the newspaper or have a sip of sherry until the snoring started signaling the party was over.

As the yoots got older and could move up to the adult’s table, alcohol appeared. The volume and demeanor would change. One auntie would bring up how the food was not prepared right while shoveling down the free meal. An uncle, who should have been cut off before seating, would bring up politics or sports or something to irritate and start an argument. This is when we air our dirty laundry without considering our dirty dishes. Family gatherings can break down, but those are the stories remembered.

Some families appreciated the volunteers in the kitchen and would form an assembly line to clean, wipe, dry and put away the dirty dishes to make a chore into a laughing song feast and a lesson learned on sharing participation and gratification.

Then, I heard there was a machine called a ‘dishwasher’ that did all the messy work. I’d forgotten I even bought one of them in my old house. The kitchen there was tiny so this box rolled on wheels and had a hose that hooked up to the sink to work. It was always in the way and not big enough to handle large amounts, so multiple loads would require more work than hand washing.

Washing dirty dishes isn’t a difficult or physically straining chore. It can be a bit gross depending on how long the dish has sat with food bits rotting on it, but a quick splash of water can bring the brightness back. Sponges of all shapes and sizes and liquid lotions can be combined to quickly wipe off the remainder of dinner and placed in a rack to drip dry. Some may need to be soaked in the sink, the way you do in the bathtub, to soften the grunge to be scraped off until the next meal. The process is just a necessary if you wish to entertain. Don’t get me started about polishing the silver.

Being the day of giving thanks, I woke up this morning to the sunshine with no aches or pains. Thanks. I had my morning breakfast with no surprises or construction noise. Thanks. The studio is warm enough to enjoy the news of the world without expecting unexpected guest to arrive and disrupt the peace and quiet. Thanks. The critter crewe got plenty of grub (no turkey) and frolicked with wild abandon entertaining without a charge. Thanks. The one-person feast was sliced turkey, wild rice and gravy (couldn’t find cranberry sauce?) and while not as appetizing as I remember, it will fill the need for nutrition. Thanks. All served, devoured and disposed of on paper plates. Thanks.

There is lots to be ‘thankful’ for, but not for everyone. I’m thankful I’m not them (yet).

Rude

If you like to see people being rude? You’ve come to the right place. Forms of rudeness include behaving in ways that are inconsiderate, insensitive, deliberately offensive, impolite, obscene, or that violate taboos.

Just an observation but we, as a species, do like this foolishness. We must by all the rude videos posted on social media. We set off fireworks, raise the volume, observe from a far, avoid contact, butt-in-line and otherwise be disruptive to a quiet, normal day.

For whatever reason, from privilege to mentally challenge, some of us ‘say’ and ‘do’ things that can be disturbing or in some cases threatening to life and limb. If the behavior is fuel by some alternating substance or mob mentality, it can go off the deep end. When an event occurs, we avoid getting involved (but we will now take videos of the action with no narrative). The rudeness will be the laughter observations at the next gathering, unless it personally included YOU.

We’ve all said or have done something we later regret. Sometimes there are takebacks to eliminate your guilt. Sometimes memory might fade (unless provided as social media entertainment). If dwelling on them, you’ll be dragged down on the time you were uncouth without forgiveness or remorse.

Like Pavlov’s dog, we will learn from continuous viewing of rude behavior that it is acceptable to blow up and have a tantrum over the loss of the penny. Monkey see, monkey do.

With the holidays approaching and the planning for family gatherings, there will be rude statements and behavior. Intentional or just a word from people you have not seen in years, what is now acceptable was once considered inappropriate. One can mind-their-manners or just keep your mouth closed. Silence is golden. Speech is silver.

Please use “Beg your pardon” if you do something rude.

 

Guidance Counselor

 

As I recall, these were the individuals who were to guide you through your public schooling. A guidance counselor is a professional who helps students with academic planning, career exploration, and social-emotional support in schools and colleges. They assist students with choosing classes, applying to college, and developing future goals, while also providing support for personal challenges and ensuring students have the resources they need to succeed.

The parent/teacher conference was to give observations of their child(ren) in a class of 20 kids who sat quietly all day with being instructed by one woman on various subjects of history, science, arithmetic, reading and writing with a dabbling in art and music until the days break for lunch or recess were taken as we all lined up following instructions. Discipline issues usually meant pointing out the offender to shame in front of the other classmates or in extreme disruption sent to the principal office for punishment.

The teacher would go over the report cards sent out quarterly for the parents to review and sign (unless you knew how to duplicate a signature with artistic skills) and suggest the home assist in homework. They judge the child on attendance, behavior, social interaction, health and psychology (though not trained in either). How well do you know your kid?

The public school system is based on scores. If you earn enough passing on grades from the teacher, you moved onto the next grade. If not, you were held back to repeat until you learned your lessons. Most think that elementary, middle school and high school were the criteria for gaining a diploma, but college or institutions of higher learning were also based on numbers.

After elementary school, the system assumed a student could read and write and understand basic theories and expanded the lessons to more complex reading and changing rooms for each subject. This is when the guidance counselor took a role instead of the teacher.

At this point in life, unless declared to follow a family business or follow the family plan to attend a specific university as a legacy, the counselor reviewed the grades and any comments on the student in a one-on-one interview. Similar to sitting with a priest or a doctor, the kids are asked,

“What do you want to do when you grow up?”

 

This is where the ‘guidance’ comes in.

With all the data accumulated through the years in the public educational system and all the opinions, thoughts and observations by a continuous list of instructors, the counselor will choose classes and recommend additional school activities leading the child’s interest while still covering the basic requirements to achieve a piece of paper at the end of term.

Here is where your future career is decided.

 

Some may be directed toward more prominent private schools for the prestige. Some may take advance classes for college prep while others just want a graduation and get out of the mundane boredom of classwork. Some may be forwarded to trade schools that requires more physical than mental knowledge.

The guidance counselor may also point outside activities, clubs, teams and any other social interaction will be appropriate in groups. Networking to the extreme of not ‘what’ you know, it is ‘who’ you know becomes much more prominent in your evaluation. This is the time when ‘puberty’ hits. There is no idea of ‘what you want to do for the rest of your life, when all you want is that girl’s phone number’.

If you make it through the potholes and detours and flash cards and reading ‘Les Misérables’ and regurgitation of the national anthem. There was detention, fire drills, lunch lines, gym (where you can see all the other boys naked and learn popping towels for harassment), assemblies in the auditorium, pep rally on the basketball court and the prom.

Being an alumnus of the ‘US Education System’, I guess I learned something. The guidance counsel did notice the interest in doodling to add artsy stuff to my class listings. Civics, philosophy, calculus, linear algebra were not on the card that would have produced an F, but neither were monetary management, family expense, Big Ticket items, investments and (the most important that no one else will discuss) sex education.

Most of life are our own decisions to solve a conflict or find a new path. Some say that is growing up?

Then the next generation expects you to become their guidance counselor? Being a provider is to say you will be the mentor, instructor, nurse, bank and some old geezer who sleeps in the rocker and tells tales that might inform the children of the possibilities experienced and the mystery to come.

No one can predict the future, just try to guide you into the right direction.

Nirvana from Nevada

 

One wonders the ease of delivery.

Where do I begin?

I know a guy who knows a guy and some how wound up on the other side of life (again).

Add to cart, scan ID required, too much info on the credit card(?), and wait for delivery.

And wait delivery….

And wait delivery….

After a reminder through the reoccurring e-mails of offers, a bag was thrown in the front yard with an obsolete text of delivery.

But what about the smell?

 

·     Note to those who do not know what I’m discussing here, may have well turn the page.

 

There was the conventional sealed packaging for small loads. This is the overwrap for address and scan codes. You know them. They fill your recycling bins every week.

A bundle of two packages (samples of different products) and some promotional verbiage disqualifying from any legal questionable of those accepted by the general public.

Planning a time to sample each separately to diagnosis the results. Should probably check the credit card site to see if they paid in advance?

Edibles are not familiar to me. Candy I never enjoyed as a youth, but I’ll let it dissolve and see what happens. Life is an adventure; enjoy the ride.

Gummies #1 was not impressive. Tasted fine going down, but after a couple of hours, no seemed different from the hydration of the silver bullets? I’ve got some more to test another day.

Today, I decided to puff one of their pre-rolled refreshment inducers, and in the mist of smoke….

 

OH YEAH!

MOTHER MARY AND JOSEPH!

 

Coughing through the forgotten technique, the cloud cleared and just required more hydration. And then…

The lighting is changing. The sound on the radio is louder.

Another puff or two and put the ashtray away. How strong is this? It’s a test run.

Standing, walking, turning is much slower and awkward. Like stumbling along like Grampa on the “Real McCoy’s”. Move gingerly to a mechanical task of opening a can of peanuts as repeated more than one wants to count.

Once accepting this new environment, I turn back to 2025 technology that brought me here.

Do the screens look brighter? Does that arrow thing move when I push this thing on a cord around? Can I maintain hand/eye coordination?

Scrolling becomes boring quicker. Thus, I’m back writing this.

Yes, this IS the expected reaction to an ancient ritual. Through the ancient years, there were the $5 bags passed by friends or strangers. The usage became a habit after a stressful day of designing a space on a printed page, to influence you to buy it.

Unfortunately, the sources became rarer and pure product was being contaminated by foreign substances that promised outrageous experiences while enticing more frequent use. While others moved on more powerful adjustment to life, I depended on my opportunity will present a possible promise of Nirvana.

Fully aware, our beings, after finding and devouring nutrition productions to shove in our face and hope it comes out the other end. Amazingly, I did not crave for munchies. Still, in an adventurous spirit, I strove back into the ‘food’ room. This room isn’t rarely frequented, but a pass-through to the outdoors. I am to face fire.

Bricking off a slab of frozen deceased bovine. I slammed what was going to be the meal of the day of hot steaming grease left over from another meal. Keeping a lid on so the splatters wouldn’t catch the place on fire, I put away my days adventures until it continues. Nothing real tasty, but is necessary to fuel the system, it is pleasant to not feel bloated or gaseous.

After an evening of clensing the palate, the decision is made to try again? Opening the door to the studio smells like the crash pad on Virginal Ave in Williamsburg. The smoke doesn’t dissipate, it clings to you.

Not as startling as yesterday, but the dazed and confused returns.

Tomorrow is a rain day. A good day to group and reassess what has just happened. The Colorado waters will still keep me hydrated but the smoke will clear.

This was just an experiment to see if it would work. Now I know.

Sweet Dreams

Repeat

Listened to a book club discussion this morning. These were professional authors and reviewers judging several books for an award. Each has been assigned a book to read and give their thoughts of the work. Each said they had read and reread the book several times.

That got me thinking.

I’ve purchased, been gifted or otherwise collected thousands of books on various subjects. The text books were quickly out of date and became ancient history. The instructional books were read and tried and placed on the shelf to gather dust. Artistic reference books were occasionally checked for techniques, but soon forgotten on the shelves. Holiday and travel location books were brought out on special occasions to remind the reader of previous adventures and spark fond memories. The classics were read once and put on the shelf never to be read again.

To make a long story longer, I looked at all these books and decided to free the space and donate for others to enjoy.

Some I passed onto people I knew who might appreciate the subject and cherish the reading. Some were blindly donated to libraries around the neighborhood and to my old employer the city Public Library. Many were boxed up and given to the Goodwill with an estimated value of each that could be taken off taxes for my generous philanthropy. My only request was for the recipient to appreciate the gift or pass it on to another who might enjoy a new read.

Listening to the book reviewers talk about rereading a book started making sense. The first read presents the authors editing process hoping the reader will understand the point of the book. The second read, with the familiarly of the first read, can delve into details and conversations between characters first glossed over to get to the next page. A third read can find the philosophical meaning of why a person is compelled to convey a time and place and image to others. As a species we produced language to share our thoughts and lessons by word of mouth. With the invention of type, these ideas could be spread further than the sound will carry. Interesting enough, each reader, with their particular background, and interpret the words in a variety of ways and understanding. Bible study groups comes to mind.

Back to the point of ‘Repeat’ makes me think of things we enjoy repeating. Being a lazy visual species, we enjoy re-watching a favorite movie, not so much to learn something new or catch an easter egg, but to remember the first time watching it and who you were with in a dark theater. What would Christmas be without “Home Alone” or “DieHard” or “It’s A Wonderful Life”?

We repeat looking at photos, each time embellishing the story of when it was taken trying to remember the names of the people in it. Now, with video and sound, the snapshot of time becomes an elaborate production that could capture the moment or be interpretated by software?

Music. We replay our soundtrack of tunes we grew up with. No matter the sound quality and how hard new technology tries to refresh the sound coming out of a 3” speaker in a metal dashboard, the notes spark a time in life when dancing and drinking and the party of youth collected around the jukebox. Songs have been covered and manipulated for years and converted into other genres but the original is still the best. No matter how the song is taken apart and examined, it cannot replicate the intention of the artist at that particular time and how those words and notes related to your life. What I find interesting in re-playing a long-forgotten song is hearing it with the years of listening to other methods and versions. An old song becomes new again.

To take ‘repeat’ one step further, think about our friends.

We interact with lots of people, sharing language and ideas and experiences. Some pass by for a brief moment, but others with want to spend more time with. For whatever reason, we wish to ‘repeat’ the experience. If enough boxes are check, we have ceremonies to make the connection a public declaration. The daily repetitive adventure can become a vista of sharing the experience of life with new and interesting conversations or becomes a drag.

To meet another inhabitant of this planet that had cross paths before is an interesting occasion. The appearance has changed and each have their own separate lives, but the conversations turn to what was remembered and ‘repeat’ foggy recollections.

There is one certainty. The person in the mirror will repeat every day. The face may age, but it sleeps in the same bed, eats the same food, goes to the same stores, wears the same clothes and follows the same routine day-after-day.

Rinse, and repeat.

Purge

To “purge" primarily means to cleanse or purify, either by removing something harmful, like sin or idolatry, or by expelling a wicked person from a community.

The body is an amazing machine. If it doesn’t like what is put in it, it purges. What is not going to be used (or is disagreeable with the inner lining), will be purged (one way  or another). 

In my ongoing discovery of aging, I find myself with aches and pains never suffered before. I get pains in my stomach, so I  measure what I’ve eaten and how much I consumed then wait to see if my body asked for some more fuel or I was just bored. I spend more time on the porcelain throne than I ever remembered in efforts not to get stuffed up. I eat smaller portions of better produce, beans and breakfast burritos and wait to see if the results are stimulating or just bloating. Some chalky Tum tablets help control the overpowering belching (blamed on carbonated water or just the body expelling gas). 

If the body doesn’t process correctly, I get a pain in my back. Standing and walking become stiff and being horizontal sometimes relieves the problem. 

Yesterday was one of those days. Wake up from a few naps. My back feels like I've stretched it too far and stumbled like Frankenstein to heat up water for coffee. I’ll not be getting any chores done in this condition, so I return to bed. I list in my mind the food I’ve eaten in the past couple of days (coconut chocolate cake, coffee ice cream, pecan coffee cake) and consider being clogged. The loo is a no-go so I slowly venture outside to get some fresh air and sunshine. 

I decided to accomplish something, so I set up an account on Instacart to order blueberries, p-nuts and beer (just to see how it works). Within two hours, my request is delivered and after a scan of my ID and a scribble on a screen, I have plenty of hydration and treats for the critter crewe. While enjoying the antics at the buffet I eat a handful of potato chips just to fill the belly. The body seems to be relaxing.

Then it happens.

The body decided it didn’t like the chips and beer, so projectile vomit purged the last entry. The interior tiled walls welcomed me to the potty to purge everything further down the line. Clean as a whistle.

Today, my back is better, my stomach seemed to survive the coffee and walking is back to a normal cadience. 

I’m not a doctor or play one on television, but maybe it was the sugar rush that I usually don’t eat (except on birthdays) or a buildup of something else, so I wait to see how today goes. Hydration seems to be holding steady, but I’m cautious in the amount of swallowing. I avoid the chips. 

Feeling adventurous (and knowing that I need some fuel even though there is no desire for hunger) I fry up a ham steak and heat up some black-eyed peas. Don’t eat too fast and then wait. A few chalky tablets and everything seems in sync. Phew!

Finally I climb into the bed and don’t feel stiff or bloated. No bleaching or hiccups or regurgitation. Then, what I believe will be a fart, comes with an unexpected blast of extra remnants of the black-eyed peas. The next hour was spent sitting down and dumping the rest of the purge. Changing to new sleeping apparel (for tomorrow is washing day), I tentatively  hope to rest again. 

Though all this description of aging may sound unhealthy or cause a feeling of disgust, this process of maintaining our plumbing to process our intake of nutrition to pump our fuel throughout to reach the next birthday. Aging also rationalizes the function of caretaking when you are physically unable to. How old or feeble will it be until someone else has to change your bedsheets and mop up behind you? Are you children ready for that responsibility? If not, what is the cost?

Today, the meal for the day was french style green beans and whole potatoes. Let’s see what happens. 

PS: For a high point of the day, Al came by to visit. He caused a fuss with Sheryl, Russell and Counting but he kept coming back to the sanctuary of Puppywoods. Good to see you again my friend.