When minds explode with flashes of lunacy, what's needed is an edit-free staging area to launch those crazy ideas. But not every sketch is a masterpiece nor does every missile soar. So please, do not kiss this page.
If you can't stand the pain, then stay outta the kitchen. Or wherever. The Donald should've taken Lemaze lessons before his water broke. Or whenever. Not sure Ted Cruz is Donald Trump's best choice for a midwife. Or whatever. Not sure I can take much more of this circus. Whatever.
When a back “goes out”, does it make any noise? I didn’t think so, but two years studying Bhararatanatyam (classical Indian dance) convinced me otherwise. When my back went out, it turned out the lights when it left and to make the point stand, slammed the door behind it.
Oh, and that clicking sound? That's no light switch – it's an L-5 taking a wrong turn. See chart at right. The "L" cinco is at the base of the Lumbar column, right above the sacrum, the region of every major pain in the ass known to mankind.
Word of advise: Bharatanatyam is a young person's game – everyone else, stay in the audience. Do not attempt this dance without a healthcare pro on stand-by. In case of an emergency, call 9-1-1 for a paramedic. For longer-term care and spinal repair, be smart and book a chiropractor. H-Town has lots of 'em. Call me for a referral – I know a bone-banger who's passionate about subluxation intervention.
Years ago when the Cold War was in heat, I fantasized life as a secret agent. Khrushchev threatened to bury us, missiles with nuclear warheads sprouted across the globe, and the CIA, America’s elite B&E team, burgled boudoirs in a worldwide scavenger hunt for kinky underwear. Exciting times for spies. I wanted in.
Two events defused this ambition. First, I realized my fascination for cloak-and-daggers was fueled by Hollywood. Connery and Coburn got plum roles in spy movies because they had agents. With no agent, a secret agent was a smoke dream.
Second, along the path to maturity, like many of my peers I inhaled an ounce of primo and landed in weekend lock-up. At arraignment, a gruff judge disinterested in petty indiscretions dismissed my case on a technicality. The charge was expunged from my record. So I thought.
Months later I was inducted into the Army, where a security screening disclosed the pot bust found its way into shared military/FBI files. Army regs denied pot-heads a “Top Secret” clearance, so any hope for a career in covert ops went up in smoke.
My military stint ended. Other career paths unfolded. I stopped dreaming about spies. Stopped inhaling, too.
Looking back, I could’ve enjoyed an exciting spy legacy were it not for our deranged marijuana laws. America’s longest-running war – on drugs, mainly pot – has been a titanic waste. $1 trillion flushed down the toilet on a 40-year campaign of errors, and all we have are psychedelic T-shirts touting “Grown in the U.S.A.”
Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Until our policy-makers realize what they’re doing isn’t working, the ship-of-state will stay a course charted by insanity.
Yet hope springs eternal – from the purveyor of hope himself, Barack Obama. In an interview with the New Yorker, he worried that history would see his legacy as a yawn, and, in true narcissist lament, that his portrait would spark less excitement than Millard Fillmore’s.
Worries well-founded. His record reeks of devious spin-control, a KGB-inspired heavy-handed wonkiness, and little else. Since a place in history, as well as political survival, relies on deeds of real substance, he needs a home run. Short of that, a lackluster stat sheet is loading up to condemn him to the backwaters of much-deserved obscurity. He’ll get his home run. Fate intervened, guiding him to a mother lode of new strategies to showcase his genius, and with predatory cunning he seized an opportunity: decriminalizing marijuana. By executive fiat, he could erase the stigma of innocuous arrests, win new allies, and, most important, influence history.
Imagine. One stroke of a pen would restore legitimacy to the tens of thousands of lives tainted by quixotic pot laws, and secure a place in history for the man who would transform America into a designated cannabis zone where pungent fumes waft lazily and stoners float dreamily in a haze of contended bliss, totally oblivious to an otherwise forgettable legacy. Positively brilliant.
Dinosaurs are extinct, no argument.Where disagreement begins is what caused dinosaurs to check out.
Scientists weighed-in by delving into the provable with a matter-of-fact methodology that advanced a single plausible cause:
A rogue asteroid strayed off-course and collided with Earth, creating violent shock-waves that reduced all living matter to pink and green mist.
Conspiracy theorists never miss an opportunity to thrive on the dark side.They offered hundreds of sinister scenarios, but ultimately consolidated to promote one:
Dinosaurs were the first victims of population control. Government "cooked the books" by intentionally designing census forms with no categories for dinosaurs, and census-takers were unable to include the beasts in the count.
Cartoonists suited up in greater, yet wackier numbers, and dived into the improbable with a what-the-hey lunacy having its own impenetrable logic:
Gary “Far Side” Larson theorized dinosaurs became extinct because they failed to heed the surgeon general’s warnings about the dangers of smoking cigarettes.
Dan “Bizarro” Piraro believed dinosaurs missed boarding Noah’s Ark by an hour because they forgot to adjust their watches for daylight savings time.
My theory is Anti-freeze was not yet invented, so dinosaurs were ill-prepared to ride out sub-zero termperatures and marauding glaciers.
Science, conspiracy or cartoons, it all works. So no matter how you look at it, pink mist or a puff of smoke, just like that - Poof! - Dino the dinosaur was gone!
Alan Shepard, America's first man into space, was asked what went through his mind while he awaited lift off. His answer: "The fact that every part of this ship was built by the low bidder."
This worrisome thought, along with a technical delay, contributed to an urgent urinary situation Shepard was unable to contain.At T-minus 15, the astronaut declared the call of nature had grown too loud to ignore and he had to respond.Because the flight was scheduled for a mere fifteen minutes, no space-potty provisions were installed in the capsule.What to do?
At ground control, NASA’s best and brightest put heads together to fix things. The solution? Shephard's flight suit was outfitted with diapers and he was instructed to pee in-place.Thus relieved, countdown resumed and the rest was history.
So there it is. Rocket and diaper science in action. In the great space race, Russia may have put the first man into space, but the U.S. wasn't afraid to pee on their parade.
Welcome to triple-overtime, sudden-death healthcare madness. The back-court’s a logjam of frenzied lobbyists and vacillating lawmakers.The ball’s in play and leading the action is O-Boy, the Phi-Slamma-Log-Unjamma himself.
Q: Will O-Boy’s wrecking crew pull it off? Or will Republican wing-tips hold the line?
A: Tough call.
Media cheerleaders are in a tizzy!NPR is playing 24/7 sound clips of O-Boy spitting rhetoric like a televangelist on crack. And MSNBC, the “Axis Sally” of cable news, hints the Jabbermeister-in-chief will unleash a secret weapon.
To paraphrase Willy Shakespeare, “He doth jabber too much!”The more he jabbers, the less he says.It also says O-Boy’s not a “closer,” he doesn’t know how to nail it down.That’s why he keeps jabbering.
Where’s the smart money?
Depends on O-Boy.If he wants to win, he needs a closer. If he wants to lose, he needs a different kind of closer…someone like Nancy Pelosi.Drop the “c” from “closer” and you've got a “loser”.Her lips sink ships.
Bring it, Nance-ster!You’re just what the doctor ordered!
"Snow-pocalypse" continues to bury the northeast with white fluff. Here in Houston the mercury is poking its head above 62 degrees.The sun is bright and my thoughts turn to the joy of spring.
And just around the corner are the tasks of post-winter clean-up and repair.The hard freeze KO’d a few of our plants and the survivors are in ICU awaiting repotting.Most will make it through to enjoy another season, where there'll be voracious leaf-eating insects awaiting their arrival.
I began researching leaf-eating bugs and soon learned that eradicating them could be a mistake.Following is a quote from Dr. Douglas W. Tallamy, Professor and Chair of Entomology and Wildlife Ecology, University of Delaware:
“Leaf-eating insects transfer energy from the plants to higher-order animals. They supply protein and fat bodies that are a key part of the diet of smaller animals, who in turn make up the diet of larger animals. When leaf-eating insect populations are reduced, so are the populations of the birds and animals who depend on them for food. Notably, leaf-eating insects are the main food source that 96% of our terrestrial birds feed their young.(‘We feed birds all winter long,’ Tallamy said, ‘then in Spring when they try to make more birds, we starve them’)”
For the moment, then, Pest-control man, spare that aphid!
As long as we’re hostage to the capricious nature of weather, we might as well stay warm with as many Al Gore jokes as possible.Nothing beats a crackling, toasty Gore-roast to thaw out frost-bitten extremities.Throw another Gore on the fire, ma!
Not sayin’ this cold spell will last forever.Am sayin’ that all Al’s hot air about hot air would go a long way in heating a lot of homes. And that's renewable energy, too! Where is Al when y'really need him? Anybody seen him lately?
Fu Kim owned a successful laundry and dry-cleaning shop.His customers were happy and business was booming. But all was not well for Fu Kim.His workers resented his good fortune, and one day they walked off the job to picket for higher wages.
With no workers to operate the equipment, Fu worried he would lose customers and his livelihood would be in jeopardy.This was intolerable to Fu, so he decided to run the business by himself until his labor issues were resolved.
At great personal expense, he toiled day and night to keep things running.Late one evening he was visited by his wife, whom he had not seen for many weeks. She asked him, "Fu, why do you work so hard?"
“Because, my loyal spouse, without the workers our business will surely fail,” he responded, “therefore I must iron while the strike is hot.”
In the distant past, superstition was law. Conventional wisdom saw a flat earth at the center of the universe, while the sun and stars circled overhead.
When Columbus failed to sail off the edge of the planet, reason prevailed and men concluded the world was round. Galileo's study tidied up the package: the sun, not the earth, was the center of the universe.
This wisdom endured for the next six centuries, but lately it's been losing ground to mankind's appetite for new fictions. A man named Obama has usurped the sun as the center of the universe, and now all the stars and celestial bodies circle his every word.
The earth is still round, but yet we're told it's overheating and the oceans are swelling. When the sun was running things, this was never a huge problem. It only became moreso with the arrival of the One at the Center, and his entourage of all that hot air.