Heaven

To cope with my self-imposed isolation (which, frankly, gets easier to bear after the first ten years have passed), I began pretending I’ve died and gone to heaven. Of course, there’s no one else there. (Heaven has strict entrance requirements.) Wait—it just occurred to me—does the real heaven have Internet? Probably not. How would you get a computer into heaven? You can’t phone the computer store (assuming heaven has phones) and order a PC with a shipping label that says “Deliver To: Heaven.”

Or maybe you can. Many years ago I was an engineer at a company that manufactured mobile robots. Occasionally, we shipped a robot to a customer in another country. One day I wandered into the shipping department and the man in charge was getting a robot ready for shipping. The robot was packed inside a sturdy wooden crate. I noted the address label glued to the side of the crate. The label read (I’ve replaced the consignee’s real name),

Deliver To:
Mr. John Smith
The Netherlands

That was it. The consignee’s entire address was “The Netherlands.”

Maybe you’ve heard of Amsterdam and Rotterdam and The Hague. Those are cities in The Netherlands. That’s right: The Netherlands (sometimes informally called Holland) is a country of over 17 million people.

After I lowered my eyebrows to their normal location, a very short conversation ensued between me and the Shipping Department Guy.

Me: “That’s the address you’re giving the freight company?”
Guy: “Yes.”
Me: “Where’s the rest of the address? The city, the street?”
Guy: “That’s all I have.”
Me: “Oka-a-a-ay.”

I spun an about-face and walked out. I decided to take the Sgt. Schultz approach. I see nothing … I was not here … I did not even get up this morning. I could see a shipping fiasco in someone’s future.

But where was I? Oh yeah, heaven. I think we can conclude that heaven doesn’t have Internet. Nor does it have bars, beer, wine, whiskey shots, hot waitresses, Nascar, Super Bowls, or any manner of sex. In fact, the list of things heaven won’t have is a very long list. So what does Heaven have? According to pop culture, it has clouds to sit on, halos to polish, and humans with wings. I suggest we all go there with low expectations, then maybe the boredom won’t kill us all. Oh right, we’ll already be dead. Just as well.

Oven Trouble

The day is 87°F and sunny and breezy in my central Virginia city. The front window near me and the back door are open, allowing a nice draft to pass through the room.

Last night I was heating a frozen dinner when the microwave oven died. The hour was late and parts stores were closed. So I moved the partially heated dinner to a skillet on the stove and finished heating it. I put a little avocado oil in the skillet, set the temperature to medium, and plopped the dinner into the skillet. I let it heat for 20 minutes, and every few minutes I added a small amount of water and stirred the dinner. It tasted fine. Best of all I had no symptoms of food poisoning, and that’s always a plus.

This morning I removed the oven’s sheet metal housing, then I removed the main fuse and checked it. It was blown, as I expected. So I drove to a nearby store and bought a new fuse for a dollar. I returned home and installed the fuse and replaced the sheet-metal cabinet back on the oven. I placed a glass of water in the oven and ran the oven for 15 seconds. I checked the water; it was hot. Mission accomplished.

Microwave ovens have become inexpensive. If an oven quits working most people will throw it away and buy another. Even if you have a warranty it probably covers only the cost of parts, not labor. But if I can repair it in 30 minutes, including driving to a store for a part, and if that 30 minutes saves me $100, then I have done the financial equivalent of working a half hour at a pay rate of $200/hour. At that pay rate, I can’t afford to not make the repair.

Although, this same oven went down just over two years ago and I repaired it. So this was the second repair. If it goes down a third time, it’s on its own. I hope it knows that.

Hoarding

Humans commonly do things that are against their best interests. Humans will do one thing in order to avoid another thing, but their avoidance behavior sometimes brings about the thing they were trying to avoid.

For example, people become afraid that stores will run out of TP, so they rush to the stores to stock up on TP, with the result that the store runs out of TP. Something that was plentiful with no danger of shortage suddenly vanishes from the shelves for the simple reason that people were afraid that it would vanish from the shelves. There is a name for this phenomenon: it’s called a self-fulfilling prophecy. A thing becomes true because we act as if it is already true.

There are numerous kinds of self-fulfilling prophecies. One kind is called the Pygmalion Effect. In this, our beliefs about ourselves influence our actions toward others, which impact others’ beliefs about us and thereby causes their actions to reinforce our beliefs about ourselves.

Hoarding is something that might be good for the individual but is bad for the community. I say “might be good” for the individual, because it’s possible for a hoarder to be impacted by another hoarder who is buying up things the first hoarder hasn’t thought of. It’s a “what goes around comes around” situation.

Hoarding and prepping are things modern people do. There was a time when people lived off the land. They hunted, they fished, they trapped. They carried enough food for a few days. Now it’s modern times and folks “stock up”.

I’ve got a few extra cans of beanie weenies, and a few cans of tuna fish. Other than that, I’m relying on food stores. But if the food stores fail me, well … the woman who lives across the street has way too many cats. I doubt she’ll miss a few.

Early Morning

Covid-19 is in my county now. Notice I said county (not country). It’s probably been here for weeks but now it’s officially here, as certified by the CDC. Am I worried? No. And that worries me. Because, shouldn’t I be worried? Lots of other people are worried, though it appears they’re mostly news people. And stock market people, who worry about everything.

I used to be a stock market person. I got out of the market because after a while, I noticed that my investments always shrunk. My understanding is that this is common. What usually happens when you invest in stocks is their value goes down. Then it goes down some more, and then some more, and finally you bail. You sell the investment and that makes the stock price go back up. It didn’t take long for me to get tired of that game.

I got up at 5AM today and made a BLT sandwich for breakfast. It was delicious. Then at 9AM I made a salad. It had red and green cabbage, cauliflower, kale, arugula, cherry tomatoes, bleu cheese crumbles, pecan pieces, and honey mustard dressing. And it, too, was delicious. Here’s a photo:

The salad appears small in the photo, but that’s because of two factors. One, the bowl is large. And two, the salad is small.

It’s 9:30AM and I’ve eaten two meals. I’m beginning to see why I’ve been gaining weight lately.

Goodbye Television

Soon I will lose all my TV channels. I’ve lost NBC and ABC. Tomorrow I will lose CBS, Fox, and PBS. That’s all the channels my TV receives.

I’m a cord-cutter—I gave up cable TV a long time ago. I don’t watch a lot of television, and antenna TV satisfied my TV requirements. Because all the local stations were on the UHF band, I didn’t need an outdoor antenna. A small UHF antenna the size of a book is parked in my front window and it’s all I need for local stations.

But the FCC has reassigned my local stations to the VHF band, which is lower in frequency than the UHF band. To receive those VHF stations I will need a larger, rooftop antenna. There was a time when almost every house sported a rooftop antenna mounted to its chimney. That time is long past and I’m not going back.

What bothers me is the lie being propagated by the FCC that we don’t need to buy any new equipment. They tell us all we need to do is rescan our TVs. While that may be true for some TV owners who live close enough to a transmitting antenna, I (and doubtless others) will not receive TV signals without a VHF antenna. For me, that means buying an antenna with a rotor. My brick chimney is old enough that I fear the mortar might be damaged by the stress of a chimney mounted antenna and rotor, so I’ll have to find another method of mounting an outdoor antenna—most likely, I’ll have to attach an antenna mast to the end of my house, a method that comes with its own set of challenges.

So no over-the-air TV in my house for a while. But there’s the Internet. Some TV shows are available there, though not necessarily on the day they are aired. And if worse comes to worst, there are books. Remember those?

Why People Like Trump

If you’re old enough to remember the TV show “All in the Family,” then you remember Archie Bunker. I’ve come to realize that Donald Trump is the Archie Bunker of presidents.

People liked Archie. He was cranky and crotchety, he was a little racist and a little homophobic, and I’m sure he thought women belonged in the kitchen.  But people liked Archie because he said things out loud that many viewers could only think of saying. If you didn’t see a part of yourself in Archie, you probably saw someone you knew: a father, an uncle, a neighbor, a co-worker.

I liked Archie. Despite his faults, he was an amusing and likeable character. But I didn’t want Archie to be our president.

Donald reminds me of Archie in certain ways. When Trump isn’t giving us his thoughts on something he knows little about, he’s giving us his thoughts on something he knows nothing about. Sometimes he’s right despite himself. The problem is, as the proverb goes, “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.” Maybe Trump will be the exception to the rule. Maybe he’ll be the Archie Bunker who does the right thing for the wrong reasons. We’d better hope so, because we’re all in this boat together and Trump is steering.

The City Focus

Periodically, my city government sends out a very thin pamphlet to its citizens. It’s called the City Focus. It has 3 pages stapled together down the center and then folded to make 6 pages. And if you count the front and back covers as numbered pages, then it has 12 numbered pages. If you remove the staples, you’re back to 3 pieces of paper.

I received the most recent City Focus in the mail today. I flipped through it and noticed the city wants us to vote. In fact, the city has notified its Democratic voters, by means of the City Focus, that the deadline for registering to vote in the primary next Tuesday is February 10. Today is February 27th. If I wanted to vote in the Democratic primary, the only way I could register is by using a time machine. I don’t have a time machine but obviously the city thinks I do. Small wonder my personal property tax bill is so large.

(Now maybe I’m being overly suspicious, but I wonder, do you think the Republicans running city government intentionally waited until the registration date had passed before sending out a reminder to register?)

There’s more good news. Voters can vote in the Democratic primary with an absentee ballot. The only catch is that voters must apply online, or by fax or mail, by February 25th. That was the day before yesterday. I’m starting to sense a trend.

The city has a website. On their website, there is a form that allows you to ask the city a question. I’ve used it to ask questions but I’ve never received a reply. Imagine the money the city saves by pretending to offer services it doesn’t really offer. In fact, the city saved so much money that it was able to build a new courthouse it didn’t really need.

However, if you’re ever late paying your water bill, see how long it takes the city to shut off your water. Suddenly, you’re the city’s focus.

Walmart Again

I couldn’t sleep, so after a couple hours I got up, dressed, and drove to Walmart. I arrived at 11 PM. (There’s not a lot open at 11 PM in my little burg.) First, before I entered the store, I put away some shopping carts that had been abandoned in the parking lot lane I was driving in. What is wrong with people?! Then I went into the store and picked up a few items. Some of it was real food. Cereal and unsweetened almond milk, pre-made salads, an Italian sub, 2-liter bottles of soda, and an 8 ounce bag of chips—or as I call it, a single-serving bag. And because the reason I was at Walmart was insomnia, I picked up a bottle of wine—Cabernet Sauvignon—thinking a couple of glasses might bring on slumber. By 11:15 PM I was ready to checkout.

Problem: there were only two checkout lines and both of them had shoppers backed up all the way into an adjacent clothing department. All of the self-pay registers were closed. “Why do I shop at Walmart?” I keep asking myself and I never have a good answer. Oh wait, now I remember: There’s not a lot open at 11 PM.

By 11:55 PM (after waiting in the checkout line for 40 minutes) I was finally at a checkout register. During my 40 minutes in line I kept wondering if I would reach the register before midnight, at which time my bottle of wine would turn into an unsellable pumpkin. But I squeaked in under the wire.

I drove home and watched news and whatnot for an hour or so, while consuming the better part of my bag of chips. Now it’s 2:00 AM and I’m drinking my first glass of wine. I figure I’ll have two glasses, then hit the rack. Maybe I’ll sleep, maybe I won’t. The house is quiet, the wine is good, my little electric space heater is blowing warm air at my bare legs, lulling me into Sleepytown. And when I say Sleepytown, I’m not referring to the album by Tex-Mex musician Flaco Jiménez. But I digress. It’s how my brain works at 2 AM.

The Debate

I tried to watch the recent presidential debate. I wanted to learn the views of the various candidates on how they would handle future relations with North Korea and Iran, what they could do to bring affordable healthcare to America, and how they would help the homeless find jobs and contribute to the economy. I wanted to hear them speak about gun policy, and taxes, and the extreme inequality of income and wealth in this country.

But right off the bat, the candidates seemed to take control away from the moderators, who couldn’t seem to moderate their way out of a paper bag. In fairness, I’ve never seen a moderator on a TV debate who appeared able to moderate a kindergarten class. I feel qualified to say that because part of my engineering training was learning how to moderate a debate. And in fact, I have been a debate moderator…in front of an audience…in front of a camera.

I’ve spoken at engineering symposia. I’ve presented slide shows, beginning with doing the research, outlining the speech, creating the slides, and finally making my case in front of a very large room filled with engineers. I think the presidential debaters should be allowed to present a slide show. There is something about presenting charts and numbers that clarifies the thought process—and sometimes reveals that there hasn’t been any thought process. As for the moderators, let’s get some of those people who run Toastmasters meetings. If they can’t control a debate, nobody can.

Durward and Charles – Goodbye

(continued from previous Durward and Charles episodes)

I’m a blood relative of Charles. He was my uncle, my father’s brother. But a woman who is related to him only by law—Betty, his daughter-in-law—told me my writings about Charles were distressing her and that I was, in her words,  “making fun of the mentally ill.” I never considered Charles to be mentally ill. He was a lot of things. He had an outsize personality; he was fearless; he was a doer. He was fun to be around (when he was sober—and many times when he wasn’t). He could be mean. His actions could be amoral or immoral, if not illegal. But that has nothing to do with mental health.

Charles knew right from wrong, and if he behaved wrongly, it was because he chose to do it, and he chose it because he enjoyed it. When Charles wasn’t drinking heavily, he was a successful businessman. But he had a weakness for alcohol, and he often overindulged. Alcohol was his downfall, as it is with many people. Alcohol is a drug, but drug addiction is not a mental illness.

Far from intending to make fun of him, I wrote about Charles because I considered him a once-in-a-lifetime character, the likes of which I’ll never meet again. However, if writing about him, even when I’m describing true events, brings distress to other family members, then I won’t continue doing it. It’s not worth it. After all, for me there is no gain for writing about him, and therefore no loss for not writing about him. I’ll always have Durward and Charles in my memories. As long as I live, they’ll be alive, in a sense, if only to me.