Forget vaccine. America needs giant roofie

(542 words)

In these times of tumult and vitriol, it’s worth considering the problem-solving traditions of the bonobo monkey, the closest animal relation to me and, yes, you.

In light of that kinship, I request you join me in reading the rest of today’s blog with your clothes shucked and tossed in the corner.

Not wearing clothes — or one would assume condoms — is an evolutionary efficiency for animals that couldn’t keep their pants on even if pants made sense — and pants don’t make sense until until you start needing pockets, which the bonobo won’t need until it begins to vape.

Researchers say the monkeys, which are ruled by old females, are too busy having polygamist group sex to seek the stress-release of a toke.

They have sex to celebrate. They have sex to console. They have sex to reconcile, to heal, to exercise. I figure they must have sex to kill time until it’s time to have sex again.

So where’s all this monkey sex taking place?

The central west African nation called the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

Bonobos for Biden!

Actually, it’s unlikely these most contented primates give a hoot about politics.

What would it take to get you to not give hoot? To monkey see, monkey don’t. To go bonobo.

I’m thinking 5 mg of Flunitrazepam ought to do it.

Never heard of it? It’s aka rohypnol with the street names Forget-Me-Drug, Pingus, Lunch Money Drug, Mind-Eraser and …

Roofie!

It has a dark reputation for its use in date rape, which is a shame because it’s beneficial in treating the scourge of insomnia.

But that a few miscreants can use pharmaceuticals for illicit purposes outside prescription instructions is a lament for another day.

This is about how America could use one great big roofie.

See, I was a reporter in the early ’90’s when roofie’s first hit the street. Back then they were known as “hug drugs.”

We could all use a lot less hate and a few more hugs (side effects include heavy petting and could lead to metaphorical monkey sex).

Our curse is to live at a time when many people aren’t truly happy unless they’re truly angry.

We’re so fixated on finding a cure for Covid-19 — at least those of us who believe it’s an actual thing — that no one’s paying any mind to the deadlier as-yet unnamed disease that’s tearing us in two.

One is killing Americans. 

The other is killing America.

Many of us have allowed serious policy differences to usurp our common humanity. We say things on social media that on the playground would earn a punch.

Even if it were deserving, could one half of the nation kill the other half? Some seem intent on finding out.

When even the mundane are deemed worthy of demonization, Hell itself becomes pedestrian.

I’m loathe to be out of (goose) step with so many of my fellow Americans, but I declare myself a conscientious objector.

I object to so much unconscionable behavior.

You can find me strolling through the woods and climbing all the highest trees in search of the perfect banana.

My fear is if more of you don’t join me in this monkey business, we’re all screwed.

Related …

Monkeying around with bananas

Men with tail making monkey out of me

Trump in Latrobe! Aunt Millie goes nuts …

The giant Trump who ate Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood

Who can help me quit caring so much?

My new book, Tin Lizzy signing & a euphoric fan

 

The sentimentalist and the crass self-promoter within me were at war as we drove to meet the 80-year-old widow who’d written me a gushy fan letter.

My friend Mark is her financial advisor. He usually buys 30 copies of my latest book and gives them to clients at Christmas.

This year he gave Charlotte a signed copy of my Fred Rogers book. Well, she just loved it and in her thank you note — how endearing — said my stories were hysterical, that I was her new favorite writer and included other compliments that in a bygone era would have lead me to conclude impure thoughts were justified.

So I sent her a “Crayons!” book and she just loved i, too. We began to correspond by mail — again, endearing!

I thought with the new book out it’d be a good time to surprise her. Mark agreed and yesterday we drove to her Greensburg home.

It occurred to me the surprise visit might yield some good video I could use for promotional purposes. But, as I told Mark, it might also ruin what had the potential to be a very sweet moment.

I believe pointing a camera at anything changes everything.

What if Charlotte was shy about her looks? She knew Mark, but she didn’t know me, a stranger in a mask. What if she had a heart condition? The video could become evidence in my manslaughter trial.

So I left the phone in my pocket and today I’m I awoke with the belittling and now-familiar taunt, “You’re such an idiot!”

Because the encounter with Charlotte was euphoric.

It was like we’d told her she’d won the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. 

She hugged me and burst into tears. 

I don’t think I could have gotten a better reaction if I’d with one touch healed her infirmities and freed her from her walker.

I guarantee John Grisham has never seen a reaction like that. I understand  Grisham’s books are intended to entertain and mine, particularly “Crayons!,” have self-improvement elements, but my point persists.

In order for Grisham to see a reaction like the one I got from Charlotte, he’d have to endorse one of his royalty checks over to me.

And yet again I’m left to ponder the vast gulf between reader adulation and my dismal finances.

Will this new book finally bridge the divide? I’m hopeful yet realistic.

I’m losing significant income thanks to Coronavirus restrictions that rule out lucrative speaking engagements.

Should I give up? Take a second job? Maybe become a plumber?

I think I’ll keep doing what I’ve been doing.

Getting reactions like the one I got from Charlotte convince me I must be doing something right.

Sure, it would’ve been nice to have it filmed, but I didn’t feel right blindsiding a sweet old widow.

Now, you, that’s a different story!

I’ll be signing my new book all day (and part of the night at Flappers) at the grand re-re-re-Opening of the feisty and resilient Tin Lizzy.

You’re welcome to stop by and say in 30 seconds or less why people should buy my books.

Sure you can do all that any day. You’re always welcome here. What makes Friday so special?

I’ll today be wearing the same outfit as the one I’m wearing on the ballyhooed cover of “Undaunted Optimist.”

Right down to the neon yellow socks.

Charlotte’s not the only one capable of being endearing.

I'm told I exude calmness; is it Parkinson's?

 

(767 words)

It was a startling sort of compliment about a man who appeared hard to startle.

That man was me.

We were having basement party cocktails with two other couples when a 40-ish woman I’d just met said I exuded calmness. Her smile made it clear she meant it as a compliment.

Of course, she did. We all seek reassuring calmness during these tumultuous times. The Weather Channel forecasts the floods and fires, while their cable counterparts forecast nothing but shit shows through 2021. 

True calm is as elusive as mercury on marble.

Am I calm? Hell, no!

Thanks to reports of random gun violence, I’m afraid of getting shot. And thanks to reports of the Election Day politicization of vaccines, I’m afraid of getting shots.

My book is coming out this week and I’m fearful it won’t do as well as my last two books. My last book had a smiling Mr. Rogers on the cover and it did very well. Fred Rogers is a globally recognized and universally beloved icon.

The book before that had a picture of Arnold Palmer on the cover and it did very well. Palmer is a globally recognized and universally beloved icon.

This book has a frowning picture of me on the cover appearing to be on the lookout for a bus that will never arrive. I’m a cheerful nobody grudgingly tolerated by about one-third of the people who frequent the Tin Lizzy.

Calm?

Inwardly I seethe.

But her comment required a reply. I calmly evaluated the honest answers to what I’m calling the “I may look calm on the outside, but inside …” game.

• “… I’m horny!” — Mine was the first generation to grow up immersed in soft core cable porn on the then-new HBO. And by soft core I mean we could watch comely Angie Dickinson romping nude in R-rated movies like “Big Bad Mama” for hours and never see a penis — and I had a sporty one of those so I was fine with that. I don’t know if previous generations thought more about sex, but the only time mine’s not thinking about sex is when it’s time to think about what to put on the pizza. But announcing, “I’m horny!” in a room full of consenting adults can lead to complicated situations if, say, someone besides your wife replies, “What a coincidence … I’m horny, too!”

• “… I’m all talked out!” — Buck, my friend/landlord/inebriator/fellow philosopher, says life would be more bearable if when we were born we were each given, say, 500,000 words to use throughout our entire lives. People would be much more circumspect about wasting words on idle chat. Me, I’m closing in on 500,000 but it’s more that I don’t feel the need to yap as much as I once did. We’re in the midst of a Cat 5 word storm and I simply don’t feel obliged to contribute.

• “… I’m anxious!” — It’s like our lives have become an endless “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” loop.  The 1989 Billy Joel song compresses 40 years of panic headlines into 4:49 of melodic mayhem. Only now it’s like we’re living 40 years every 12 hours:

Comey Cohen Cuomo SNL RBG Stormy Daniels NOT FOR ME!

WE DIDN’T START THE CALIFORNIA FIRES!

• “… I’m no longer graceful!” — It’s been two months since I tumbled on the way home from the bar (don’t judge me) and my foot has yet to heal. So sometimes when I appear calm, I’m really trying to game plan how to get to the bathroom without clumsying into the snack table. I know it’s beneficial to stay off it — and I try. But telling a two-legged man to give up walking is like telling a fish to stop swimming. So along I limp.

I could have said any of those things. But no. Here’s what I said:

“Now that you mention it, I am feeling rather serene.

“It’s either that or it’s another symptom of my Parkinson’s. I hear some people deal with a condition known as ‘frozen face.’ It’s when the muscles in the face refuse to react to expressive reflexes. I’ll be seeing my neurologist soon so I’ll ask her about it. You could be mistaking that for inner peace But that’s just Parkinson’s.

“Anyhoo. What were we talking about?”

No one made a sound. Every face had gone blank. They were completely immobilized.

Talk of my frozen face had iced theirs.

So I felt bad. My killjoy supposition’d bummed out the party.

Next time I’m just going to go ahead and tell everyone I’m good and horny.

Related …

Not broken, but … My foot injury

Speed reading as unwelcome as speed sex’’

So, okay, I have Parkinson’s

Where have all the really smart people gone?

(642 words)

To paraphrase an ever-relevant question about dire situations, what does Christopher Langan know and when did he know it?

Well, Langan knows most everything, most of it since age 3 when he began reading at an adult level.

Many scholars list Langan, 68, as the smartest person in the world. How smart?

His IQ is higher than most amateur bowling score. It is estimated to be between 195 and 210.

So his IQ is twice the average American IQ, which is 100.

If you’re feeling average, cheer up. I automatically add 25 points to anyone who reads my blog.

Buy a book and I’ll add 3.5 times that!

If only I could do the math.

Alas, I’m not smarrt, er, smart.

But I’ve always admired men and women who are and tried to learn from them.

That’s how I came across Langan’s name. I was writing something that would benefit from an example of superior intellect, a real brainiac.

And I was stumped.

All I could think of was Albert Einstein (estimated IQ: 160). But that’s cliche. Certainly I could come up with a current example, some living genius upon whom we can all agree.

But no. In America today we’ve so devalued honest-to-goodness intelligence, we couldn’t recognize it if it threw a chalk eraser at our heads. 

In fact, nearly everyone knows the richest person (Jeff Bezos, $114 billion). People Magazine threw us a curveball for sexiest man of 2020 when it named Anthony Fauci the recipient, taking over the title from John Legend.

Shouldn’t the smartest American be a celebrity, someone we all know and refer to when we’re seeking to bolster our arguments with genius backing.

I asked friends their opinions. Their answers prove many people confuse the accumulation of wealth with intelligence.

Many said the late Steve Jobs. They’re mistaken. Just because you put GENIUS on employee T-shirts doesn’t mean you are one.

This, I understand, is a vast oversimplification, but it seems to me Jobs awoke every morning consumed with thoughts on how to cram another 500 songs in our pockets. He did this as climate change raged and pandemics loomed.

Yes, the world is going to hell but, thanks to Jobs, we’ll all be groovin’ when we get there.

I kept waiting — fool that I am — for Jobs to declare, “Okay enough nonsense for now. Me and my fellow geniuses are going back into the garage and we’re not coming out until we invent a ‘green’ internal combustion engine that runs on all the perfectly functional old iPhone versions we’ve suckered you into buying over the years. See you in six months.”

If you were a genius, wouldn’t you want to be working on something historic — something like extending the life of the planet.

I think it’s what Einstein would have urged. 

One of my favorite stories on Einstein involved when he got a letter from a 12-year-old girl who posed  to him the all-time puzzler: What is the meaning of life?

In so many words he said, I’ve thought about it and all I can conclude is we’re not here to make money or accumulate wealth.

The only reasonable conclusion, he said, must be we’re here to help one another.

Gee, even poor, stupid people can do that.

Which brings us back to Christopher Langan. At a time when the oceans are rising and the West is burning, what is this man who some tests say is more intelligent than Einstein doing?

He raises cattle in Missouri.

It seems like yet another tremendous waste of a precious natural resouce. 

So I have at least one thing in common with the world’s smartest man

We’re both engaged in ultimately pointless activities that result in huge piles of crap. Him equine, me this blog.

How does the admission make me feel?

It smarts!

• Interested in reading more on Christopher Langan? Here’s an interesting Esquire story, “The Smartest Man in America.”

Trump in Latrobe! Aunt Milley goes nuts!

(677 words)

This is one of those days I’m regretful I vowed to always let readers know where I stand on the issues. Or in my case where I slouch, lean or nap.

Well, President Trump is coming to Latrobe to speak tonight and I’m wishing I didn’t feel compelled to opine. Nothing good can come from it — and in the case of me opining and Trump speaking that’s a two-fer.

The notion will anger my Trump-despising friends. They think I’m too soft on him and should feel an obligation to bash Trump and all his voting enablers, both native and Russian.

And — there — mild jabs like that will infuriate my Trump-loving friends, many of whom are surprisingly thin-skinned when it comes to defending someone whose skin is so abundant Hannibal Lechter would describe him as “roomy.”

Really, if I thought I could change even one mind, I’d do it. It would be a monumental accomplishment.

I’d start by rescuing Aunt Millie (not her real name). We’ll get back to her.

But, as I’ve said many times, it’s impossible to change the minds of the mindless — and I include myself in the description.

My mind is made-up. So is yours, I’m sure. We’ve reached a point in America where the only time a mind changes is when it undergoes ballistic intervention. And the lethal frequency of these atrocities is sadly trending up.

If violence isn’t the answer then how come we’re always asking the question?

And now, again, it’s all about race. The pity is when it comes down to blacks and whites the issues are never black and white.

Many of my neighbors are wondering if he’ll stop at the wildly popular Trump House, not even 1/2 mile from my Tin Lizzy HQ,

He may, but that’s not going to win him any votes. He’s got that crowd locked up — and I mean that metaphorically. It’s the border-crossing children he has locked up.

That’s why I’d advise him to stop for a photo op at the downtown Fred Rogers statue. Here’s a good Fred quote: “The three keys to ultimate success are: Be kind. Be kind. And be kind.”

It’s very uplifting and stands in stark contrast to the most famous Trump quote which involves grabbing women by their genitalia, which I guess could be called up-skirt-lifting.

The Fred park is special. Many people go there for solace, for soul-searching.

It’d be breaking news if Trump found he has one.

Now, that was another cheap shot. Sorry. Just playing to the base.

I wonder if it would change any minds if you could see on video the bronze Fred statue actually begin to scowl at Trump’s approach.

That’s the kind of joke I told over dinner last night as we coincidentally sat down  with four-Trump-loving friends.

Surprised? Yes, some of our very best friends are Trump supporters, which I guess is the pandering equivalent to a Trump fan declaring some of their best friends are black (lives matter).

These days, I enjoy the company of most anyone who doesn’t traffic in the crazy conspiracy theories.

Sadly, that means I’m done with Aunt Milley. I don’t know why I’m fictionalizing her into an aunt when she’s a true granny and that’s plenty folksy. She used to dote on our kids, bring them candy and volunteer at the church.

Well, we miss her.

Did I mention poison politics have turned her into a racist bitch?

Her Facebook feed is all Q anon, wacko theories on blood-sipping pedophiles (DYK even Tom Hanks is one of those?)  And then there are the ugly racist musings about the Obamas.

It’s no longer enough to merely disagree on policy. You now must ascribe phantasmagorical villainy to your opponent.

We lose so much when we weaponize our passions.

It’s becoming common to speculate whether or not we’re on the brink of a new Civil War.

Fat chance, I say.

In America today, civility was the first casualty.

Welcome to The Incivil War.

Related …

The Giant Trump that ate Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood

Trump-lovin’ Tin Lizzy in the news again

Trump vs. Fiorina: Who’s our ugliest president?

Someone needs to yank Trump’s rug off

Trump’s no jackass; he’s under-qualified

Who’ll take on Trump and what Cher has to do with it