nobody asked…

Remember November 7, 2006? American voters turned out by the millions and with a very loud voice said, “We’re madder than hell and we’re not gonna take it anymore!” Both the US House and Senate were wrested from control of Bush’s rubber-stamp Republican majorities and turned over to the Democrats who promised significant changes in the way the business of the country was conducted. Balance of power seemingly restored, we gave a sigh of relief and waited for the new Congress to convene and begin to tighten the clamps on Mr. Bush’s dictatorial gonads. There was even a lot of hype stirred up by the new Democratic leadership about how much they would accomplish in the first 100 hours.

As we slump into February, it might be instructive to list all the significant changes made so far. Rather than expound on the changes, I am simply listing them in the box below…

Enough said about that…

With Bush’s approval ratings by the American people challenging the lowest ever achieved by anyone holding the office of President of the United States of America, with Bush continuing to ignore and run roughshod over the Constitution, with deaths — both Iraqi and American — continuing to mount uncontrolled, with Bush going on national TV and mocking our entire system of government — the government of liberty and freedom and justice that our founders and forefathers fought so hard to achieve and that millions of Americans have made the ultimate sacrifice to protect, with Bush telling us that he has the absolute power and that no one — NO ONE — makes the decisions other than him, with all these things happening at the same time and threatening to send what’s left of this country we so dearly love to proverbial hell in the proverbial hand-basket, I have only one question left to ask of our so called Congress:

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• I wonder if there is a Maxi Cooper…
• I dread cold weather more each year…
• The probability of any item being lost increases exponentially with its importance.
• Why do the greatest number of ideas arrive just when I have the least amount of time to explore them?
• I see so many women twirling their hair on their fingers. Some seem obsessed by it, and yet are unaware of it. What’s that about?
• I cannot comprehend why young people camp out over night outside a store in freezing weather just to be among the first to buy a new version of Windows, or a new XBox, or new iPod gadget. Who cares? Just walk into the store, any store, and buy it at 10:00 AM or 3:00 PM, or whatever…

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One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important. — Bertrand Russell

The person who knows ‘how’ will always have a job. The person who knows ‘why’ will always be his boss. — Diane Ravitch

In order that people may be happy in their work, these three things are needed: They must be fit for it. They must not do too much of it. And they must have a sense of success in it. — John Ruskin

The brain is a wonderful organ. It starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office. — Robert Frost

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As soon as I saw this little ditty scribbled on a piece of paper stuck to the cubicle wall at a customer’s site, I knew it needed to break free and see the world, and let the world see it. Though we can all find exceptions and poke some serious holes in the thinking here, I really like the main thread of thought — that the people we care about and who care about us will accept us as we are. Conversely, those who are not already with us will not likely be won over no matter what we do…

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It was one of those late summer nights when the air weighs heavily on you. Date night was usually Saturday, so those of us who did not have steadies would hang out on Friday nights at Bob’s Dairy Bar, cruise up and down Main Street and around the Court House Square, and make our way back to Bob’s. Drinking shakes or cherry cokes at Bob’s and sitting in or on our cars or leaning James Dean style against the poles that held up the canopy were just the coolest things to do. Except on an August evening like this that was so muggy. And dusty. The humidity and dust sweetened with the smells of greasy burgers and fries coming from Bob’s grill exhaust conspired to make it almost untenable at times, even for the ultra-cool among us. That’s when we would pile in a car, six or eight of us, sometimes more, and cruise off in search of the excitement we just knew was around the next corner.

A small rural Tennessee town in the late 1950s offered little to quench a teenager’s appetite for adventure and enlightment and romance. The old movie theater on the Square showed films we had all seen in Jackson a year or two earlier, putting it squarely in the category of why bother. So we became quite accomplished at improvising. Take a few 15, 16, and 17-year-old kids with uncontrolled floods of hormones seeking fulfillment, and trouble is never far away. We could stand only so many trips down Main Street and around Court House Square before we became bored to the gourd. On nights such as this, the boys might head out to the long straight bottom of the Paris highway to drag race with the family sedans and station wagons. Other nights we might get even more adventurous and make a run over to McKenzie or Bruceton, sometimes all the way to Jackson, checking out the dairy bars and looking for girls that might be looking for us. But this particular night we decided to check out the firetower.

Now the firetower was, well, a firetower. It stood atop a hill a couple of miles out of town. The little metal framed glass cage on top was staffed during periods of fire danger, but only in daylight hours. Never at night. So it was a natural spot for healthy teens to go parking. On Saturday nights there would typically be a half dozen or so darkened cars occupied by sweaty teenage couples engaged in … meaningful conversation, possibly more. Since it was outside the town boundary, there were no unwelcome visits by the local gestapo. Friday night was likely to find carloads of boys or girls, almost never together, up there talking, raising a mild manner of hell, learning to smoke (gasp…), and plotting how and where they could get a six-pack without being caught or recognized.

Winding our way up the gravel road in Marty’s old DeSoto junker — the one with the back seat removed to make room for several more of us sitting on the floor or on wooden Coke cases — we could see there was another car at the tower. As soon as we were close enough to make out details in the dark, I recognized Cuz’s car. Cuz was my cousin Gloria, and her car was her daddy’s bigass black and yellow Packard. Seems it was a ‘56, loaded with every gadget he could get on it, and it must have weighed in at 10,000 pounds. Nobody in these parts had ever seen such a monster of a car. Cuz was there with a carload of girls — they called themselves the Crazy Eight, though I recall there being nine of them.

For a while we all stood, leaned, or sat around practicing being cool and trying to impress those of opposite gender persuasion. Some smoked. Some of the girls wanted to, but didn’t — scared of momma, smelling it I suppose. The girls decided to leave, so with Cuz behind the wheel and the other girls fitting comfortably in her daddy’s bigass Packard, she told me to get off the hood. Grinning like the idiot I was about to prove I was, I refused. She threatened to leave with me sitting there. Grinning like a ‘possum that had gotten into some rancid persimmons, I told her to go ahead. The bigass Packard lurched forward. As the car bounced and dipped over the rough gravel road that led down the hill to smooth pavement below, I was holding on for dear life. My butt started slipping over the polished surface of the hood, forcing me to lie back on the hood staring up at what was sure to be my last glimpse of the stars above. I had never before realized just how rough or how long that gravel road was. That three-minute eternity taught me the importance of perspective. And the value of padded seats inside the car.

Slowing to a crawl as the bigass Packard found purchase on blacktop, Cuz once again yelled out at me to get off. This was so much smoother than the gravel, and my brain was already fully scrambled from the last few minutes, so I grinned again and shook my head in the negative direction. As she accelerated up to 100 or 120 … OK, maybe 20 or 30 MPH, I was finding little to hang onto. In a quick, smooth move that I had never made before and certainly not since, I flipped myself over, belly down, spread-eagle across the hood of the bigass Packard, holding onto the windshield wipers, eyeball to eyeball through the windshield with Cuz and a couple of others in the front seat. Marty was following close behind with the carload of boys hanging out the windows, yelling and cheering me on. Thinking back on it, that was the first and last time I ever had my very own cheerleading squad.

Now, there comes a time in even the bravest lad’s life, that no matter how macho he wants to appear to be with the girls, it is time to give up, to wallow in the agony of defeat. This was not such a time. With floods of adrenaline now forming an explosive mixture with the vast pool of testosterone that had welled up inside me, I was determined to ride it out — literally. It took every ounce of strength I had to hang on while making a herculean effort to make my grimace, my mask of fear, appear to be a confident smile. Thankfully, Cuz took the shortest route to Court House Square. We were indeed fortunate that our teachers and parents and friends of our parents were all safely tucked away in darkened houses and missed this awesome display of teenage bravery and stupidity.

As we rolled onto the Square and came to a stop, I slid, slithered, hopped off the hood of the bigass Packard, glad to have lived to start getting my land-legs back. That’s when Calvin greeted us. Calvin was the town cop. Big man. Big heart. Rough voice. Probably not Rhodes Scholar material, if you know what I mean. He had probably not been issued a bullet for the pistol hanging from his belt. Think Barney Fife in a bigger body and with a deeper voice. He hung out around the Square in his black-and-white patrol car, a sure deterrent to high crime. Must have worked too, because the town had never seen anything more serious than petty theft, a few beer induced fisticuffs over at the poolroom, and, of course, mischievous hijinks by teenagers juiced on cherry cokes and testosterone. Calvin had been taking in the whole scene as we rolled onto the Square — with me plastered across the hood of the bigass Packard.

As he sauntered over, he looked at Cuz and said, “Your daddy’s not gonna be real pleased with the way you’re treating his brand-new biga… uh, great big Packard, Miss Gloria.” As she tried in vain to hide behind the cloud of darts her eyes were throwing my way, Calvin turned to me and said, “Whadda you think you’re doing riding up on the hood of that biga… uh, big Packard, boy?” Looking around for support, I realized that Marty had stopped a good distance away so as not to be charged with complicity, no doubt. All I could muster was a weak “I dunno.”

Seeing my pitiful condition, Calvin softened up a bit, which I could tell by his voice sliding up an octave or so as he said in a mournful whine, “Lord, boy, I don’t want to have to go down and tell Miss Louise about this. She’ll kill me and you, too!” The plea in his voice was so clear that I regained a bit of poise and looked him straight in the eye for the first time. If he knew my momma well enough to know that she would not just tear into me, but to him also, just for being the carrier of bad news … oh, my, I’m in deep doo-doo.

Still in his voce falsetto, Calvin whined, “That was a mighty dumb thing you did, riding up there on the hood of that biga… uh, big Packard. You coulda been kilt.” With all the humble sincerity I could find at the moment, I came back with, “Yes sir, it was. I learned my lesson and I’ll never do that again.” Looking at me askance and thankful all at the same time, Calvin said, “Well, I’m gonna take your word on that, and we won’t go down and wake up Miss Louise tonight. We’ll just keep this right here between us.” Regaining his usual gruff voice, as if to convey the authority his badge should have afforded him, Officer Calvin closed with “But if I ever see or hear of you pulling a stupid stunt like this again, we’re marching down the street to see yo momma, boy. You understand me?” “Yes, sir.”

That was one promise I have kept for forty-some years now. But you know, it’s strange. Packards long ago vanished from the American motoring scene, but every time I see a bigass automobile, I have this odd urge to throw myself prostrate across the hood for one more joyride.

(POSTSCRIPT: After 40-plus years of living in different states with little contact, I have had the very pleasurable experience of being reunited with my dear cousin, Gloria. When I related this story to her and her husband, Jim, recently, we all had a good trip down memory lane, laughing and letting one story trigger another. That’s what people do on entering their senior years — reminisce about the “good old days.” And they certainly were. She remembers the story, though with a few details slightly different from my version. I have told this story many times over the years. Perhaps my remembrance has, as legends are wont to do, grown with the retelling. Anyway, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it…)

(DEDICATION: This essay is dedicated to Bettye Margaret, one of the Crazy Eight group, who left this world on January 22, 2007, in search of new adventures in the great beyond. The first of that group of girls to go, Bettye was the salt of the earth, quiet and unassuming, always telling it like it really was. She will be missed and fondly remembered by all whose lives she touched.…)

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If memory serves, this is the first time since I started blogging that this space has gone wanting for a new posting for five whole days. Busy as a bee is not the right phrase, but might help my readers form a visual of the vector I ride. I just wanted you to know that reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated (who said that? some politician?), I do still love you all (well, most of you), and I am not pissed about anything (well, nothing that has to do with the blog world).

I have been extraordinarily busy at work, and that is a good problem to have. The home front has been bristling with exciting activities, such as the double-width garage door falling apart, getting stuck in the half-open position, trapping cars, women, and children (no wait, none of those around here) at home in their locked, upright position.

Each day I have edged closer to posting my next literary block-buster, and each day has coughed up the detritus of my my brain-farts a few more minor edits to delay it further. It is now in the capable hands of the publisher’s senior editing staff, awaiting what will surely be a quick, slick slide through the marketing and sales group, before receiving the final seal of approval from the legal eagles over in the legal eagle department. Yes, it is a long and arduous process, but quite necessary to assure that our offerings have been made as bland and boring as possible, all sharp edges have been removed, political correctness has been abused in every way possible, and all toxic substances contained therein have been rigorously identified and concealed.

Then and only then will it be published for your consumption, dear reader. So watch this space closely and prepare to be disgusted delighted! 

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(This is adapted from the original which appeared September 18, 2005. I think about my sandbox from time and how it has morphed over time, shifting shape and size and texture to accomodate my needs du jour, and doing so quietly in the background with no conscious effort on my part. Having a savvy, intelligent, broad based audience , I thought it would be an interesting time to trot this out, clean it up a bit, and cast it on the waters to see what floats, what sinks, and what swims away under its own power.)

Regardless of what activity engages us at any given time, there is a piece of us that drifts back and forth between our conscious existence and the mysterious realm of the subconscious. It is there, grinding away at varying speeds, doing what it does, day and night, whether we realize it or not. We spend most of our waking hours and some of our sleeping time (dreams) noodling around in the sandbox of our mind.

The sandbox of our mind helps keep most of us reasonably sane and able to function in the reality of a world turned upside down by natural disasters, greedy politicians, idiotic bureaucrats, militant religious nuts intent on self-destruction, sports heroes on steroids, and entertainment superstars whacked out on drugs and booze. In the sandbox we are safe. There we can do and think whatever and be whoever we wish at the moment. There we can play games, make plans, have secret loves, you name it.

Much of what happens there is different from the reality outside the sandbox. Some of what happens there becomes reality. Our individual codes of conduct (moral, ethical, legal) balanced by our individual priorities (needs, wants, desires) determine what stays in the sandbox and what emerges to become a component of reality. The ability to maintain that balance determines in large part our sanity and functioning as members of our culture and society.

Consider…what determines our ability to maintain that balance? Genetics? Vitamin E? Regular flossing? Comment with your ideas…

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Winning is not everything, but wanting to win is. — Vince Lombardi

Winning is a habit. Unfortunately, so is losing. — Vince Lombardi

If winning isn’t everything, why do they keep score? — Vince Lombardi

Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing. — Attributed to both Vince Lombardi and Red Sanders, Vanderbilt University Football Coach

Winning may not be everything, but losing has little to recommend it.
— Dianne Feinstein

There’s nothing to winning, really. That is, if you happen to be blessed with a keen eye, an agile mind, and no scruples whatsoever. — Alfred Hitchcock

I figure you have the same chance of winning the lottery whether you play or not. — Fran Lebowitz

They says it’s not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game. Then why do we spend so much money on scoreboards? — Bro. Dave Gardner

Second place is also a loser — Unknown

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The February, 2007, issue of my favorite free-mind food, reason magazine, contains an interview with Sarah Igo about her new book The Averaged American (Harvard University Press). The mission of the book is to examine the shifting amalgam that constitutes the American collective psyche. There is enough in the brief reason report by Kerry Howley to motivate further exploration of our evolving zeitgeist as seen through the focus of a statistician. However, the most intriguing, and yes, disturbing, tidbit is this opening sentence:

As this interview went to press, 63 percent of Americans disapproved of their president, 14 percent of adults believed in evolution, and 100 percent of politicians claimed to speak for something called “The American People.” (Emphasis added)

The gutter ratings of Bush — no problem. Profiling of politicians based on their propensity to spread whatever brand of bullshit they think will sell on a given day — of course. But it is mind-boggling and most disappointing to learn that, at least according to some collection of survey statistics, only14% of adult Americans believe in evolution! Is this a failure of the American educational system or an overwhelming victory for fundamentalist bible thumpers across this one nation, under god? Or perhaps both? Far more than 14% of us bought into the scientific theories of evolution we learned in 6th grade science. Without dinosaurs, our pre-history would be rather lame — and there would be no Jurassic Park.

In the many years since that childhood intro to trilobites and cryptic drawings on cave walls by hominids of long ago, science has discovered — not theorized, mind you, but discovered — indisputable evidence of life on earth, including our ancient grunting ancestors with bad hair, that predates biblical times by many hundreds of millennia. Have there been any discoveries to support the creationist or the compromise cop-out intelligent design theories. No.

A rational person can hope that the survey methodology was flawed, or that the survey population was ill-chosen to have such a skewed bias. To believe otherwise is unacceptable to anyone having retained even a modicum of ability to think, to read, and to understand for themselves. The readership of this blog has demonstrated better than average levels of intelligence and sophistication over the last couple of years, and appears to represent a broad spectrum of religious beliefs or lack thereof. From such a group we should soon see here a rich and colorful display of comments.

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Mid-January around Nashville is rarely harsh. The past few years we have had only quick-and-done samplings of that white stuff — what do they call it? — oh, yeah, snow. And the daytime temperatures have traditionally been in the 30s and 40s. Thus far, 2007 is a horse of a different color, size, and shape. 60s and 70s during the days, lots of sunshine, even though today is overcast and dreary with some scattered rain showers. But it is rain, not the s word…

This eager little daffodil in our backyard yesterday, January 14, 2007, about mid-day, had one bloom bursting out and several more holding back, waiting to see what happened to their trail-blazing buddy.  The flowering trees are all budding out, the irises and tulips have poked their heads up, looked around, and decided the calendar is wrong. Too bad, because we are sure to have a hard freeze sometime before Spring actually arrives. Then all the early budders and bloomers will disappear, most not likely to resume their rote seasonal march until next year.

We really need a good hard freeze, one that lasts a couple or three weeks, just to stunt the population of bugs and weeds next summer. Oh, well, everything has its price. TANSTAAFL…

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Peter (the other) has a way of saying things, a way of stringing together words and phrases, that makes me think… ponder… meditate… ruminate. Peter recently trekked to Paris on a mission of laying claim and money on his home away from his California home. His post describing the uneasy days leading to the final closing of the deal contained this paragraph:

A beautiful young woman (40?), who spent eight years living and sailing in the French West Indies, could have really caught my eye, but she carried an air of someone adrift, anchored only by her need to care for her beautiful eight year old son. I have a fear of neediness (and I do not know whether I actually perceive it in someone, or project it on them) that I need to look at. (Emphasis added)

Peter has the courage, openness, and confidence to perform the open-brain self-surgery of self analysis and confession, as demonstrated in the emboldened last sentence of the above quote. While this is not the first time I have observed this admirable trait in Peter, it is the first time that the thought of it has stayed with me, causing me on several occasions to go hmmmm…

Neediness, as feared by Peter in this case, might be taken a couple of different ways. He could be referring to the woman’s need to care for her daughter as being an impediment to a meaningful relationship with him. Or he may be projecting that a mother with child could become too quickly dependent on him if a relationship ignited, based on his perception of her need for someone to watch over her and her daughter. There may be other interpretations, and only Peter knows what he meant. I am not requesting Peter’s explanation since that would be an intrusion, and besides, it is really none of my or our damn business. I am only throwing out some possible explanations, both of which I have seen myself, in order to generate some discussion here.

Self-sufficiency is one of the most important attributes a person can have, and one that I admit I look for early on in any new relationship. No one of us is an island, entire of itself, but for me it is a most admirable trait for a person to at least try and fail before seeking help and support. It is through failure that we learn and grow. When someone is truly needy, I tend to be quickly over-generous. But my patience gets thin very quickly when confronted with people who have not and will not try to help themselves.

In my way of thinking, what Peter describes as neediness is the flip-side of what I call self-sufficiency. Now I am wondering if when Peter says he fears, is it really a phobia, or more aligned with my feelings of dislike? Regardless of the motivating force — fear or dislike – the resulting reaction is most likely the same: avoidance.

Reactions? Opinions? Discussion? What say ye?

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Grabbed this over at Joy’s  jive joint of mystical desires, where there are many more funny fotos to make you grin.

Even though we’ve seen shots like these many times, and even though we know they are contrived, choreographed, and rehearsed, they still deliver at least a whimsical smile.

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Florida 41 — Ohio State 14
.
It was not my Tennessee Vols. It was a one-sided blowout and exposure of a very mediocre Ohio State team. But it feels good to have the BCS National Championship back in the SEC again. This was not one of those on any given Saturday games that demonstrate how parity has evolved in NCAA Division I football. This was an old-fashioned spanking of a wannabe group of pretenders by a far superior team of semi-professionals from an SEC school.

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(This first ran in late May, 2005, soon after my trek to the unknown Planet Blog got under way. The topic surfaces from time-to-time somewhere in the corner of this strange world I roam. Recently there were posts and comments on several unrelated blogs that broached the subject and once again tickled my fancy. Revisiting my own original post got my juices flowing on the subject once again. So I decided to throw it against the wall again and see what sticks…)

Just returned from Tamar’s place where I read her post entitled “We shed our land legs to sing in cyberspace”, PLUS ALL the comments. Rarely do comments interest me nearly as much as the original post, but this one is different in a way I’m still trying to define for myself. So bear with me, please…

Click on over and read Tamar’s post AND the comments. Then come back here later for the continuation of my emesis, which will use the same post name “Part 2″. May take a little while, this being a holiday weekend with other time demands…

PART 2 May 30 (Continued in the original post so as to keep my plea for help at the top)

Being a newbie … aren’t we all? … I’ve done considerable thinking and reading about the impact of the “blog” (God, how I have come to hate that word!) on our culture, our society, and on us as individuals tangled in our multi-layered matrices with others like and unlike us. Most of the popular (read “uninformed”) media seem to interpret this great new method of communication in terms of how it will influence markets and elections. Some recent examinations by the more technically oriented media expand those notions to include organizational intramural collaboration by project teams. Certainly there are seeds of truth in all those limited assessments, but they seem to miss what may be far more significant if we attempt to look 2 or 5 or 10 years down the road we seem to be traveling.

Somewhere around the age of 12 or 13 I got a “pen pal” through Boys Life, the Boy Scouts magazine. Hari was a lad about my age, also a Scout, who lived in India. Over a 2 or 3 year period until he left for University, we shared and compared our experiences of life in rural Tennessee and urban India. So much was different on the surface, yet so much more of what really mattered was the same. That “sameness in diversity” was to become one of my earliest awakenings. One of my “Memorabilia” boxes still contains all the letters he sent. I wonder what ever happened to Hari.

As a teenager I studied, practiced using a key, and squeaked by the exam to become a Novice class Amateur Radio operator. The world was mine to explore on my chosen 15-meter band. It was gratifying to reach out for “conversations” with fellow hams, none of whom I would ever meet in person. For a while. The drag and drudgery of Morse code seemed so archaic and limiting, but was the only option open to a Novice. Time to take my General test came in the middle of my first semester in college; needless to say my attention had turned to other more pressing priorities, like how to deal with “crazy little women” and how the hell to get through Calculus 101. Never did learn enough about either of those.

A few years later, then living in Iowa, I was in the first wave of hobbyists to put up a gawd-awful CB base station antenna on my house. 10-4 Good Buddy…The Handyman backatcha… But talking to a half-dozen or so “local-yokels” within a 5-mile range and trying desperately to carry on any intelligent conversation with the truckers rolling through on the nearby interstate soon lost its luster. Wanna buy one slightly used base antenna?

The intervening years brought other increasingly sophisticated forms of communication, some point-to-point, others broadly cast. I tried them all. Portable phones, faxes, pagers, cell phones, email, buddy-lists and IRC (never did those last two - too many problems, too much risk). Now the wonderful world of the weblog.

Both of you who are still with me and haven’t either snoozed off or clicked away, are probably mumbling to the tune of where the hell is this guy going? What do a childhood pen pal and a 10-4 good buddy have to do with the original thread over at Tamar’s place? Maybe nothing…maybe everything. I am an engineer, not a sociologist, though I have studied sociology. I am an IT (Information Technology) professional (read: fixes computers and networks for pay), not a behavioral psychologist, but I’ve also had courses in that. Maybe I’m sort of a techie version of Al Capp who claimed to be an “Expert on Nothing with Opinions on Everything”. Maybe we need some professional help in figuring this out. Or maybe I need to get back on my medication and shut the hell up! But just a few more thoughts before I wrap this…

Foreign pen pal, ham radio, CB radio, blogging. The common denominator in this progression is anonymous communication, or as the title lifted from Tamar’s posting suggests, “the dynamic of anonymity”. I can be who I want to be, say what I want to say, in a relatively safe and non-threatening venue. Even though some of us display photos and bios, who is to know if those are real or otherwise. Just as some of us use our real names, others use pseudonyms, or as I prefer to call them, “chosen names”. We do not really know…or care…about the “real” gender, race, religion, politics, social standing, or the myriad attributes that tend to influence our perception, feelings, acceptance or rejection of other individuals in the real face-to-face world. And for that reason alone, and even if we have donned a made-up personna, we may be more honest and revealing, accepting and tolerant, here on the planet we call Blog.

I agree with Frank Paynter’s comment on Tamar’s post that “the friendships we build online are reason enough to pursue this new form.” Reason enough, yes, but not the primary reason or result. The non-threatening openness and honesty in communication is what I felt was important SIGNIFICANT about the original thread. For it is in questioning that we learn, in sharing that we grow.

So, what’s next? My gut feeling is that whatever it is, whatever it is called, it will extend/expand the paradigm of the blog, both as realtime communication and archival information, onto something small, portable, wearable. Poddish, but smaller, better, different. Think Dick Tracy’s wristwatch. And if we don’t change the drift and direction of the feds, the gadgetry will probably be implanted by edict at birth. But that opens a whole other can of blog fodder.

I am exhausted! Original intent: a couple of succinct comments. Reality: auto-biographical ramblings, bordering on psychosis, most likely without saying anything coherent or worthwhile.

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