Do We Know What We’re Doing?

     Disclaimer - For medical information a person should go to a source that knows what they’re talking about. This blog may not be one of those. 

     However, I’ve been thinking that we may be inadvertently creating a problem for ourselves. How? Today, everyone who has any sense, is, among other things, washing their hands more often than they’ve ever done before and using hand sanitizers every chance they get. Both of these actions are hopefully killing any COVID-19 germs that happen to be hanging around. 

     However, at the same time these actions are killing off millions of other germs that are there and maybe only hoping to give us a small cold or some other common affliction that we’ve learned to live with and don’t take especially seriously. 

     These ‘friendly’ germs are now wondering what they did to deserve this deadly onslaught. Their first reaction is to go into mutation mode. (You know, when things get tough, the tough mutate.) Which means that when we finally think we have COVID-19 on the run we’ll be left with new tougher strains of dozens of our old familiar ‘friends’, except with a new revengeful attitude. At least that’s how I think it will work.

Only 12 Seconds? 

      

    Part of my usual breakfast takes twelve seconds in the microwave. This morning I hit start and picked up a dishrag (do they still call them that?) and proceeded to wipe up some crumbs off the counter. I realized that when coming into the kitchen I had tagged this small job as what I would do while waiting for the microwave to do its things. Twelve seconds? It seems I couldn’t just stand there doing nothing. But for only twelve seconds? Really? Yes, really. 

     As I thought about why I couldn’t waste twelve seconds, I came up with a number of reasons. Just two of them being: I had gotten a small job out of the way that either Lorraine or I would have had to do later, and in general life is too short to squander twelve seconds. 

     I didn’t say they were good reasons. 

     Then I got to thinking about our society in general. How many of us as we’re driving, can’t just enjoy the passing scenery, or, heaven forbid, just concentrate on the road, but have to be listening to some pod cast, or some such to improve our minds. Or at the very least our favorite radio station to bring more enjoyment into our lives. And if asked why? We would say something to the effect, “Well, I just can’t waste all that time.” 

     We fall back on the idea that we’re multi-tasking and feel proud of our capabilities. But usually, multi-tasking just means that we are not doing either task to the best of our abilities. An example: If multitasking is such a great deal, why don’t we see surgeons doing more of it. If the surgeon who took out my gall bladder had been checking out his emails as I succumbed to the anesthesia, or if in the middle of the procedure he had stopped to call his bookie and check on how Slippery Scalpel had done in the fourth race at Belmont, I would have had reason to be somewhat concerned. Or if the operating room crew had been watching and yucking it up over an old episode of Green Acres while prepping me for surgery, I might have been concerned to the point of asking if they would at least wait for a commercial break before cutting me open. 

     But why is it that we feel that we must be occupied every second. When I sit and watch TV I need to be doing something at the same time or I feel like I’m wasting time. (Well, current TV what it is, that does have some validity.) Several things will do, writing, playing some simple computer game that requires at least part of my brain, eating, or reading. 

     Life has become so full of things to do, or that we feel must be done, that we can’t just stand still for 12 seconds. 

     This compulsion is not a recent thing for me. When I was traveling, the worst thing that could happen to me was getting on a plane with nothing along to read. A book, business papers, almost anything would do, excluding the airline magazine or the safety card. 

     Even if I planned to take that time to catch up on my sleep, I still had to have something along to read, just as a safety net against insomnia. 

    

     Even while sitting here right now with the ocean waves rolling in and crashing into the rocks, which is a continually changing scenic masterpiece, I feel better if I have my laptop on my lap (funny how that works), and can be writing or taking pictures of what I’m seeing, or watching for birds, or settling on tomorrow’s itinerary. But just to sit there and watch is good for only a very short time. Am I the only one who is afflicted in this way? I think not. 

    The question is why do we need to be occupied all the time? And is that good, or bad?

I WANT MY PACIFIER! 

    The other day when contemplating our current sad political situation, I thought of something that had happened in church some time ago. Sitting on the other end of our pew was a young family. Mother, father, and small child. This child was slurping on a pacifier. The mother had sent the husband out with a bottle of some substance, probably to warm it up or do to it whatever this liquid required. 

  Shortly after the father exited the pew the baby spit the pacifier from his mouth. It dropped to the floor, took a couple bounces and a little roll, which put it out of reach of the mother. 

   The child immediately went into a screaming fit. And it wouldn’t quit. If it had been able to speak it would have been screaming, “I want my pacifier.” 

  The child was not to be consoled. He obviously wanted that pacifier back. The screaming was disruptive to say the least. The baby didn’t seem to care. His only concern was about what he wanted. He didn’t care about the embarrassment he was bringing to his mother, to the rest of the congregation, and to the preacher. 

  Obviously, what he wanted was his only concern. Nothing else was of any consequence. He didn’t care, nor of course was he mature enough to realize that the opinion of other parents toward his mother was sinking lower by the second. Nothing mattered except what he wanted, completely ignoring the unreasonableness of his demands. 

  I hear you saying, but he was just a small child. An adult would never act that way.

  

  REALLY? 

  

  Anyway, like I said, that just came to mind. For some reason.

Dixie Peach Pomade 

    A mind that has been around as long as mine does some strange and wonderful things, or maybe not. 

    I was sitting at my desk thinking about the plot to a story I am writing when the remembrance of Dixie Peach Pomade slithered its way into my thoughts. Why you ask? I’ve no idea. For those men who can recall the 50’s you will probably remember Dixie Peach Pomade. I don’t know how widespread its use was, but in the Northwest is was a must have for cool teenage boys, or men, as we knew we were. 

    Fifties hairstyles were such that we needed help to keep those ducktails in place. That is just one style example. Think Fonzie in Happy Days. 

    Now Dixie Peach Pomade was a substance much like Vaseline salve, with something in it to make it smell more like aftershave than something medicinal. It was nearly the same consistency. I would rub it into my hair and then comb that hair into whatever style I wanted, and it would stay. Much like a heavy application of hair spray today. 

    The only thing that I had to remember was to not put my head against anything I did not want to get greasy, and to stay away from open flames. But once applied that ducktail would stay in place whatever I did. 

    I see that the product is still out there. I wonder who is using it and what are they using it for?

Cousin Lucky 

    Today I got my mail-in ballot from the Deschutes County Clerk. Deschutes County is in Oregon. As I dropped it on my desk, with about the same feeling as one handling a rattlesnake, for some reason my thoughts turned to my possibly imaginary cousin, Lucky.

   

    Let me digress for a bit. I thought I heard some gasps of horror when I mentioned mail-in ballot. Contrary to all the recent scary rhetoric about this mode of voting, Oregon has been doing it for about 22 years without any discernable ill effects. 

   Back to Lucky. A jury of his peers had come up with the idea that he was guilty of a rather unfortunate indiscretion and passed down a guilty verdict. This verdict carried with it a mandatory death sentence. Lucky had appealed to the Supreme Court, which was a comedic endeavor in itself. 

   The Court of 143 judges had a major problem of their own. The Court had been packed by various past Presidents with friends and family, some of who even had experience as judges and attorneys. Getting all these judges together at one time and all deliberating on the same case had become a herculean task, and so far no solution to that particular dilemma was in sight. 

    Anyway, the court had ruled 5 to 4 in favor of upholding the lower courts decision. I know those numbers don’t add up to 143 but there were 50 members of the court who couldn’t be located and then there is this archaic rule that court members who are themselves under indictment can not vote. Silly, huh? 

   So the date for his execution was set. In 24 months he was scheduled to die. Now came the dilemma. The State offered him, whether he wanted it or not, two methods of execution. Lethal injection or the electric chair. 

   Lucky was a very bright individual. He told the Warden, “Either way I’m going to be dead, right?” 

   “That’s right.” 

   “So why do I have to choose between two really bad choices?” 

   “To show that you have the freedom to choose how you’re going to die.” 

   “And how am I supposed to decide.” 

   The Warden brightened up and said with a good deal of pride, “You’re lucky, ha, ha, get it. Lucky is lucky.” 

   “Yeah, that’s really clever. No one’s ever thought of that before. So why am I lucky?”

   "Because we have people to explain to you what each choice would mean for you and convince you to use their method.” 

   Lucky thought about that for a minute and asked, “It almost sounds like these people are professional explainers and convincers.”

  “That’s right. That’s all they do.” 

  “So, they have no personal experience with either method?” 

   “Absolutely not,” the Warden answered emphatically. 

   Lucky thought of something else. “These people have to tell me the truth, don’t they?”

   The Warden found this highly amusing. “Telling the truth went out of vogue years ago. People who tell the truth are considered simple minded or at best, naive.” 

   Lucky asked in some exasperation, “So what good does it do me to listen to them?” 

   “Oh, none at all, but it will take your mind off the terrible situation you’re in.”

   “Who pays these people to spend this time on me?” 

   “Now that’s the best part. The electric people and the drug people pay these two convincers huge sums of money to represent their views of what’s best for you.” 

   “Just to convince me?” 

   “Just to convince you.” 

   “And whatever I choose, in the end I’m still screwed---like in dead?” 

   "That’s about it.” 

   Like I said, I am not sure why, but seeing that ballot just brought Cousin Lucky to mind.

Heaven Help Us All 

      Last night I watched about 25 minutes of the first presidential debate. That is the way it was billed, but it was not like any debate I have seen or heard. What I saw last night was a squabble. An argument. A no rules, no holds barred altercation. An opportunity from both contestants to throw out misinformation, lies, skewed facts, and insults. Instead of two adults laying out their program of what they would like to do if elected, we have two challenged adults rolling around in the verbal barnyard muck and mire. 

      This debate was watched by people all over the world. What kept going through my mind was, what kind of image are we presenting to the rest of the world about the leadership or possible leadership of the United States of America.

     

      I imagine that those world leaders who previously considered themselves friends of the United States of America, most be looking around, wondering how best they are going to hedge their bets and thinking of ways to distance themselves without seeming to do so. 

      And those world leaders who are our avowed enemies or just leaders who would like to see us fail or at least not be quite all we have been in the past, are gleefully ramping up their endeavors to cause us more grief. 

      In my experience a leader who must shout, bluster, color the facts in his or her favor, and who does not dare listen, is a leader who is running scared because they don’t know what they’re doing. 

      I’m pretty sure that I saw two examples of that last night.

Golfers 

    As I sit at my desk, I’m looking out over the fifteenth fairway of The Greens at Redmond Golf Course. Right at our house the fairway takes a dog leg, which is at the end of a decent drive from the tee. This is out of sight of the tee box, so we have a parade of golfers looking for their balls. Most spot their ball without any trauma, but then there are those who hoped to be on the fairway but are in the water hazard across the fairway from our backyard, or somewhere in the rough, right next to our backyard, or in our back yard. Probably seventy percent of those in the rough find their balls. This rough consists of some juniper trees, large lava rock, sagebrush, and grass, or what passes for grass here in Central Oregon. So far this is all pretty much golf as usual. 
    The thing that I find interesting is what each golfer will do when he finds his ball---or fails to find his ball. You have several types of golfer. 
   The rulebook golfer will, after finding his ball, play the ball, no matter what the degree of difficulty in making the shot. If the golfer must be on his knees under the low limbs of a juniper tree, so be it. If it can legally be moved, the golfer is very careful to move it only so much, and then drops it after holding it at arm’s length, or drops it over his shoulder, taking whatever lie results. 
    What rulebook? golfer will put either his found ball, which he moves, or a new one, down oh so carefully, usually on a tuft of grass or anything to make their shot easier. This golfer does not look around to see who is watching, as he obviously doesn’t care. And he doesn’t drop it in the rough, but out on the fairway in a position where he doesn’t have a tree between his ball and the green. 
    The rulebook if someone is watching golfer will look all around to see if anyone is watching. If no one seems to have an interest in what he’s doing he will revert to a What rulebook? golfer. If he spots someone monitoring his play, which would be his playing partners if they have any sense, he is strictly a Rulebook golfer. 
    The casual adjuster golfer never seems happy with the lie of his ball. He will have several methods of improving his lie. A casual kick with the side of his shoe or dragging his club over the ball to move it. If all else fails he will bend down to tie his shoe and in the process pick up his ball, move to a new position, then drop it down alongside his leg. All this subterfuge is like he was playing for a green jacket in the Masters at Augusta, whereas no one at The Greens at Redmond cares a twig what he is doing. 
    The precision golfer is the one who when finding his ball, takes out a Rangefinder and checks out the distance to the hole. Now he knows to the inch how far he must hit the ball. He carefully selects a club, takes a couple practice swings, then tops the ball which leaps into the air and lands ten yards away, usually not directly toward the green. Or he clips the ball, which out of spite drops into the pond, again which is not between him and the green. Knowing the distance to the green has done this golfer no good at all, but it does look impressive. 
    An interesting thing is that I’ve not seen any women golfers practicing these same tactics. It is not that I’m trying to be kind, I’ve just not caught them at it. 
    Who would have thought that golfers could provide that much entertainment?