tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-92207792000936390152024-02-18T22:23:50.961-08:00Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained manSteve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-18152216305607264322021-05-04T11:19:00.005-07:002021-05-07T08:45:46.826-07:00*OFFICIAL BLOG* Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">CLICK HERE TO GO DIRECTLY TO THE BOOK PAGE AT SMASHWORDS</a></b></span></h3><div><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkq7QCPiHssWEYnxcgphmtDteg7COxpgNx81RHDd3KzXWqlrjCMNTzqukOrFSMDdY1I5gZ8EhNvEoEjBQzibnujZlIfufAppzw-Trw1JHYYgOM3jOsYRItGak1ndG1haF2JgJy5OzZGrM/s1600/LifeBitsCover.jpg" width="199" /></a><div></div><div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><u><span style="color: #a64d79;">Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</span></u> is a complete work, but I will continue to update it, probably throughout my life. When you buy a book on Smashwords, you receive the updates for free.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Life Bits</b> are useful times and events; <b>Other Chunks</b> are unidentified, unrecognizable pieces of life. Both are from my personal experiences, and I present them to you in the form of entertaining stories. </span><span style="font-size: medium;">This collection meanders through a variety of bits and chunks, all designed to bring you entertainment.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Enjoy my <u><b>Life Bits and Other Chunks</b></u>, as I present them to you modestly, in the form of an ebook. Look forward to more in the future, as I am sure that life has more to offer, and I can't wait to share!</span></div><div><br /><div>
<hr />
<div style="cellspacing: 2; text-align: center;">
<b><a href="http://www.facebook.com/otherchunks">VISIT THE OFFICIAL FACEBOOK PAGE AND GIVE ME A LIKE!</a></b>
</div>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td colspan="3"><center>
<b>
Following are the current writings in <br /><u><span itemscope="" itemtype="http://www.schema.org/Book"><span itemprop="name" type=""><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</a></span></span></u>:</b></center><center><b><br /></b></center>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top"><ul>
<li><span style="color: firebrick;">HUMOR</span><br /><a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/fainting-goats.html">Fainting Goats - How Society Drove A Man Insane</a></li><br />
<li><span style="color: firebrick;">HUMOR</span><br /><a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/blueberry-shortcake.html">Blueberry Shortcake - The Legend of Bill</a>
</li><br />
<li><span style="color: firebrick;">HUMOR</span><br /><a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/my-vote.html">My Vote - A Man Unhinged</a>
</li><br />
<li><span style="color: firebrick;">HUMOR</span><br /><a href="https://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2021/04/renaissance-man.html" target="_blank">Renaissance Man</a></li><br />
<li><span style="color: firebrick;">HUMOR</span><br /><a href="https://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2021/04/for-love-of-grease.html" target="_blank">For The Love Of Grease</a></li><br />
<li><span style="color: red;">ESSAY</span><br /><a href="https://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2021/04/a-boy-on-boat.html" target="_blank">A Boy On A Boat</a></li>
</ul>
</td>
<td valign="top"><ul>
<li><span style="color: #f70a4d;">ESSAY</span><br /><a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/from-andreas-pavel-stereobelt-to-ear.html">From the Andreas Pavel Stereobelt to the Ear Bud Society</a>
</li><br />
<li><span style="color: #f70a4d;">ESSAY</span><br /><a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/pluck-yew-tale-of-digitus-impudicus.html">Pluck Yew - The Tale of the Digitus Impudicus</a>
</li><br />
<li><span style="color: #f70a4d;">ESSAY</span><br /><a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/internet.html">Internet - A Global Panopticon</a>
</li><br />
<li><span style="color: #ffa400;">MY JOBS</span><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/preview/9220779200093639015/2206189942373804578" target="_blank">My Jobs</a></li><br />
<li><span style="color: red;">ESSAY</span><br /><a href="https://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2021/05/may-18th-1980-reliving-blast.html" target="_blank">May 18th, 1980 - Reliving The Blast</a></li><br />
<li><span style="color: firebrick;">HUMOR</span><br /><a href="https://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2021/04/the-magic-wordsmith.html" target="_blank">The Magic Wordsmith</a></li><br />
</ul>
</td>
<td valign="top"><ul>
<li><span style="color: #05e33c;">IMAGERY</span><br /><a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/fair-game.html">Fair Game - A Creeper's Gonna Creep</a>
</li><br />
<li><span style="color: black;">BRAINSTORM</span><br /><a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/normally-abnormal.html">Normally Abnormal - What IS Normal?</a>
</li><br />
<li><span style="color: #05d8e3;">POETICS</span><br /><a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/angels-were-sent.html">Angels Were Sent</a></li><br />
<li><span style="color: #ff00fe;">FLASH FICTION</span><br /><a href="https://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2021/04/a-tasty-twist.html" target="_blank">A Tasty Twist</a></li><br />
<li><span style="color: firebrick;">HUMOR</span><br /><a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/how-was-your-day.html">How Was YOUR Day?</a>
</li><br />
<li><span style="color: #444444;">PSA</span><br /><a href="https://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2021/04/psa-words-on-screen.html" target="_blank">Words On A Screen</a></li><br />
</ul>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td valign="top"><br /></td>
<td style="text-align: center;" valign="middle"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #cc0000;">Give me a like at my Facebook page:</span>
</b></span><br />
<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="http://www.facebook.com/OtherChunks">LIFE BITS AND OTHER CHUNKS OFFICIAL FACEBOOK PAGE</a></b></span>
</td>
<td valign="top"></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
</div></div></div>Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-7020854544536574562021-04-28T17:43:00.010-07:002021-05-07T08:14:51.644-07:00Renaissance Man<div class="separator"><div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/official-life-bits-and-other-chunks.html">HOME</a>
</div>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="50" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="35" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="4px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"Renaissance Man" is an excerpt from <u><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</a></u>, by Stephen L. Wilson.<br /><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjctiTkGaDSl5gQjvXtkKRPD7zsXyrb47_CnAxAfbH-KEteUcBIv4PveYMh7zI25l8DN6jngtc-iwKkI4FP2cyBZVRByezSKXomgEqHm3mnL33C7ESqvWq1Yktf4s4cmt1MmhcuEuEQOYQ/s446/Monkey.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="288" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjctiTkGaDSl5gQjvXtkKRPD7zsXyrb47_CnAxAfbH-KEteUcBIv4PveYMh7zI25l8DN6jngtc-iwKkI4FP2cyBZVRByezSKXomgEqHm3mnL33C7ESqvWq1Yktf4s4cmt1MmhcuEuEQOYQ/s320/Monkey.jpg" /></a></div>My son and I were chatting, back in the day. I told him that I want to start making internet videos.</span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Of what?" he wanted to know.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"I don't know. Just something entertaining. I mean, I went through a phase of learning how to code web pages. That lasted a while, and I still like to play around with it to this day. Then I went through a self-publishing phase, and of course, I still dabble in that now and then. Most recently I have been blogging seriously. Pretty soon I won't be blogging as much. I have had fun entertaining myself, reflecting these musings like some Renaissance Man, wondering, 'What intellectual endeavor lies in store for me now?' Surely, and after much reflection, I assure you that my next passion will be making internet videos."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Like a pro poker player, he peered ponderingly, studying my beady eyes. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"What kind?"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Funny ones. I don't know. A monkey flew outta my butt, and I named him Tanner!"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">His gaze didn’t waver.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"That is so old, Dad! Do you know how many times I have heard that? And it wasn't even funny the first time around."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Like a pausing pro poker player, I peered ponderingly, studying his beady eyes. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Sez YOU."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Seriously, Dad. Who would watch THAT? You telling an old joke? What else do you have? I mean, sometimes you get to the point where you are no longer funny - you are just annoying."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Well...yes. That's true. So I am saying...I'm saying, let's say I am funny only one time out of ten. You have to suffer through the other nine. We get to edit that out! Right? I mean, that's what I would have to learn if I am going to make internet videos, right?"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Like a perturbed pausing pro poker player, he peered ponderingly, studying my beady eyes. The question sounded desperate.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"OK. Whatever. You won't need me, right?"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">I couldn't help it! I laughed out loud, right there in the kitchen!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">He pressed on. "I mean, seriously. You have a webcam on the computer. I will show you how to use it. I'll get you set up. Then leave me out of it."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Like a perpetually perturbed pausing pro poker player, I peered ponderingly, studying his beady eyes. I countered his claim.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Look. I will need a "straight man." Someone to reel me in when I run too deep."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Running deep isn't the problem. Running stupid is."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">I chose to ignore his blunt warning. After all, no great endeavor happened because someone gave up. I switched gears on him.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Have you ever heard of Abbott and Costello?"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Like a perplexingly perpetually perturbed pausing pro poker player, he peered ponderingly, studying my beady eyes. He spoke.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"No. Who are they?"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Back in the day, they were an act that made the transition from vaudeville to the earliest days of television. Their 'schtick' was a big, goofy guy and a straight man. The big, goofy guy would spend his time getting into ridiculous situations, or making absurd claims or just being a problem in general."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Well, you have THAT role down, anyway!" he jabbed. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">I just gave him the stink eye.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"AN..EEE...WAY...the comedy comes from the idea that the straight man is spending his time setting up the ridiculous antics of the other guy. It doesn't SEEM like that. It SEEMS like the straight man is truly working to help out his buffoon friend, but in reality, he is making sure his friend keeps winding up in trouble. As much as the audience wants to feel bad for the guy, it just keeps being funny. I can be Costello, and you can be Abbot."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Only if Costello is the fat guy."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Son, we don't call them 'fat.' We refer to those poor folks as 'overweight,' 'pleasantly plump,' or, if they prefer, 'morbidly obese.' Please, son. Try to be a bit more respectful. After all, there are people like that in our family."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Yeah. And you are one of them!"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">It took a minute for his delight to draw down to a decent decibel. As his cackles tapered off, I continued.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"So you are in?"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"No."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Why not?"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Are you serious, Dad?"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"What?"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Why would I be 'in'?"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">I hadn't noticed before, but the boy was a bit agitated. He seemed almost offended that I was trying to involve him in my latest endeavor. Maybe THAT was why he was trying to get under my skin. Sensing opportunity, I made the ultimate Dad command.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"You don't have a choice."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"WHAT THE HELL?" (By this time, the boy and I have already established that, as men, we can drop a cuss word now and then, whenever the lady-folk and other innocents are not about. This restriction is null and void if we hit our thumbs with hammers, or stub our toes [Man Code, Article IV, Section 3.707, 5th Revision, 1997, et al])</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Like a perplexingly perpetually perturbed pausing pro Peruvian poker player, I peered ponderingly, studying his beady eyes. I grinned like a smoked ham.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Ha ha! How ya like me now? You just got "dad-smacked"! You...don't...have...a...choice! You are officially now my straight man. Don't worry - at least you aren't the buffoon. That should work, right?"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">These words were spit from his lips at a Tommy-gun rate:</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"I'm-not-doing-your-dumb-videos."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">By now he had had just about enough of my guff. You could see it in his eyes. He was done.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">"Aw, Bub. You know I am just messing with you. Anyway, it was just an idea. Just one more thing - A monkey flew outta my butt, and I named him Tanner!"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Like a poisonous, perplexingly perpetually perturbed pausing pro Peruvian poker player, he peered ponderingly, studying my beady eyes. All he did was stare at me and shake his head.</span></div></div></div><div><br /></div>Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-58875754810114391022021-04-28T16:39:00.001-07:002021-05-04T16:46:40.775-07:00PSA: Words On A Screen<div class="separator"><div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/official-life-bits-and-other-chunks.html">HOME</a>
</div>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="50" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="35" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="4px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"PSA: Words On A Screen" is an excerpt from <u><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</a></u>, by Stephen L. Wilson.<br /><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx3vlzbw1ln85EiMzsRS0YEXyPuO6i2LBXybUHFC9n1pzWH-WVnKd4ydbwdr5hzaR5Gi69FFwt57AJw1VxGfoJzTIdUwyzt89hoUtxS0QniDqNNa3YF6EN9ovp7Boiuw86cyeOBVErKlQ/s288/PSAWordsonascreen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="231" data-original-width="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx3vlzbw1ln85EiMzsRS0YEXyPuO6i2LBXybUHFC9n1pzWH-WVnKd4ydbwdr5hzaR5Gi69FFwt57AJw1VxGfoJzTIdUwyzt89hoUtxS0QniDqNNa3YF6EN9ovp7Boiuw86cyeOBVErKlQ/s0/PSAWordsonascreen.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Here is a narration to a <a href="https://youtu.be/Isj_hbaii8Q" target="_blank">PSA video I made for YouTube</a>. It emphasizes the tendency people have to judge others only by words they type on social media, or in chat rooms or sometimes even in email correspondence. The PSA is an effort to encourage others to use critical thinking skills while interacting online. I ask this question of the audience - "Do you feel that people who read words on a screen, then make huge assumptions based on this tiny amount of information are the biggest threat to social media?"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><><><><><><><><></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">A common study once determined that human communication is only 7% textual, and that the remaining 93% is made up of body language, facial expressions, gestures, voice tone and inflection and other non-verbal communication. When people are online, using keyboards to put words on a screen, they are relying on an underused 7% of communication skills to relay 100% of their message. People either do not realize this, or they choose to ignore it. Some people who communicate in chat rooms, comments, or on social media insist on taking a fraction of a person's persona that is no more than words on a screen and make tremendous assumptions about the sender.</span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">See, the sender of information has a specific, intended meaning in mind when they go through the effort to communicate with another human . The sender communicates a message, and it is received. The receiver then has the responsibility to reasonably decode the message. Again, it is unwise for the receiver to assume that what they interpret is exactly 100% of the intended message. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">In some cases, the norm appears to be that receivers are perfectly willing to decide that the way they interpret the information is exactly the only way the sender could have meant the message. This is a problem if the receiver chooses to accept the message in a negative way without asking the sender questions, or at the very least realize that the first assumption they make PROBABLY isn't the correct, intended message. If the receiver feels threatened by the information, at times they will lash and bash, and begin a vitriolic attack on the sender.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">There are many reasons why people feel emboldened to take their 7% and display themselves as ignorant, hateful miscreants, but the bottom line is that communication receivers routinely:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Make assumptions about the sender's information based on their own narrow personal frame of reference</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Refuse to ask the sender for more information</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Decide that what they assumed is the only way the information may be taken</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Any of these choices only serve to make the receiver a fool. After all, do you ever just walk into a room, hear a bit of a conversation, and then assume the rest about a person based on this minimal amount of information? Is this a smart way to communicate? Does this make sense to you? If you answered "yes" to any of those questions, then you are part of the problem, not the solution.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">The next time you have the urge to take 7% of weak, underused communication skills and make narrow, small-minded assumptions, and then decide that a person is 100% of what tiny information you have gathered, then just realize this - when you belittle, name-call, insult without cause, or otherwise expose your own ignorance, YOU are the one allowing words on a screen to bother you. Instead of taking the time to either:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Make other assumptions (it is the least you can do)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Offer an intelligent counter viewpoint</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Simply ask the sender of their intent</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">If your response is to jump on the sender after making your own assumptions, then you are a fool. Yes, you. Quit doing this. You pollute an otherwise intelligent conversation, and waste collective time. If you have questions, or a differing viewpoint, certainly offer it. If you, however, take 7% and make it 100%, you lose. Not 'loose', 'lose'. You lose when you are a fool, and others think to themselves, "That person has issues. They let words on a screen get to them." Of course, that isn't all we think.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">I realize that the nonverbal to textual study that is referenced is a bit dated, and that it represents a small sample, but here's something you need to know. More and more studies show that nonverbal to textual ratio may be more like 75% to 25%. This means that 25% is just as insignificant as 7%, since humans still rely on nonverbal communication three times more than textual communication.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Ancient Roman philosopher Epictetus is quoted as saying, "We have two ears and one mouth so that we can listen twice as much as we speak." This may work with non-textual speech, but I contend that in modern times, the saying is closer to "We have two eyes and ten fingers so that we may gossip five times more than we observe." Combined with anonymity, this approach can lead to a quick downward spiral which usually ends threads in any number of undignified ways. However, you aren't as anonymous as you think.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black;">Now you are informed. There are no excuses. Only you have the power to understand the knowledge contained in this video. Only you have the power to put it to use. Now that you are aware, you have no reason to not act civil, decent and intelligent as you communicate on the internet. Hopefully you are mature enough to put this all together, and help out the rest of us. Thank you.</span></div><div><br /></div>Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-22061899423738045782021-04-28T16:31:00.000-07:002021-05-07T08:01:00.907-07:00My Jobs<div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/official-life-bits-and-other-chunks.html">HOME</a> </div><hr /><table style="width: 100%px;"><tbody><tr><td align="right"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="50" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="35" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="4px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"My Jobs" is an excerpt from <u><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</a></u>, by Stephen L. Wilson.<br /><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><hr /><div><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1248" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh51yWz6KYD0zCvQavZAf_irMG2wISnnGpod3P3uL-1yo-vPAxDhfWTMYZ4tgtwwznbE4T7oH4rDAnRzveqtUtNUeDwlcPwXe1oiV6eUeW46KTH7h8rXHII4zVvN2lA71UayVE0juqx5ig/s320/LifeBitsCover.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> An entire list of the jobs I have held, in no particular order, as indicated in <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Life Bits and Other Chunks, memoirs of an Untrained Man</a>:</span><p></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Carpenter’s Helper</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Customer Service – Clothing Store</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Truck Stop C-Store Clerk</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Yard Boy – Cement Plant</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Maintenance Mechanic – Beef Processing Plant</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Alaskan Factory Trawler Fishing Vessels - Twice<br /></p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Donation Collector for Thrift Store</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Unwittingly Worked for Dishonest Charity (They Were Busted)</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Cabinet Shop - Twice</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Helped Build A Burger King</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Studio Photographer</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Deli Worker – Twice</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Roadside Mechanic</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Loan Processor – Twice</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Mortgage Lending Specialist</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Grocery Stocker – Twice</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Phone Line Installer</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Summer school teacher for life skills students (temporary)- Thrice</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Independent Tutor</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Car Salesperson</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Therapeutic Community Technician for Correctional Facility</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Virtual Customer Service Agent</p><p><br /></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Various Restaurant Jobs</span></b></p><p> </p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>K.F.C. – Twice</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Burger King</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Braum’s</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Wendy’s</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Subway</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hyden’s Dockside</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Pizza Hut</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Red Lobster – Twice</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Top Hat Lounge</p><p>Ø<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Taco Bueno</p><div><br /></div></div>Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-19676797960125679852021-04-28T16:23:00.000-07:002021-05-07T07:49:19.715-07:00Angels Were Sent<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/">HOME</a>
</div>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="42" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"Angels Were Sent" is an excerpt from the eBook </span><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank"><u>Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</u></a> by Stephen L. Wilson.<br /><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNKngQYXVnb01YZCh8-S80xAoIi5MUxYlSZA0-S_UQbhvm92_NKgLBM9Ea_lo4h7bSTorlVYW2B0vx-Pd7LDTqubacD1nOhU8R8k67q65qS_p_E2bw_vvAL2avCSVl-QmRqCwJJAIdZ8Y/s1600/AngelWings.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNKngQYXVnb01YZCh8-S80xAoIi5MUxYlSZA0-S_UQbhvm92_NKgLBM9Ea_lo4h7bSTorlVYW2B0vx-Pd7LDTqubacD1nOhU8R8k67q65qS_p_E2bw_vvAL2avCSVl-QmRqCwJJAIdZ8Y/s1600/AngelWings.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>This poetic homage is in tribute to the horrific tragedy that occurred in Oklahoma City on April 19, 1995. It is an attempt, as someone who was not present during the actual event, to understand the occurrence at the most basic of levels: The spiritual power of the battle of Good vs. Evil.</i> </span></span><br />
<hr />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">I.</span></b>
Satan's wrath contains no mercy. His soul is without hope. His acts are desperate, for he is running out of time. His control is fleeting, falling well short of glory. He thrives upon his horrific deeds; he is certain he holds his future in his own hands. The outcome of his fate he ignores, living for today by idolizing himself and his self-serving deeds. He maims, destroys and kills, each time believing more in his imagined invincibility. His avoidance of God is vehement. It is not within his means to acknowledge God, for to do so would be to believe, and to believe is to instill hope within his rotting soul. Therefore his avoidance is necessary to thrive upon his lustful, selfish greed. And so he carries on. <b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">II.</span></b>
There was a day, and a bomb exploded. The Devil was there, performing for his own glory. His act was swift. He knowingly defiled God, and he knew he must be swift. His act was atrocious and he wallowed in the filth of his destruction. He heard the torment of every tortured moment of every tortured soul and his lust for himself knew no bounds.<br />
All were innocent and unsuspecting, and the Devil howled with glee. Masses writhed in murderous pain, and Satan was thriving. His act was horrific, and so it pleased him. His evil soul swelled. He heard the shouts. He heard the cries. He heard the agony and saw the bewilderment, and he was proud. He knew God would act, and he must hide, and so he hid.<span style="font-size: large;"><b> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b> III.</b></span>
It was then that the first Angel of Mercy came to collect the souls of the unfortunate victims of the Devils' destruction. He kept their souls safe and delivered them to God's kingdom.<br />
God then sent forth an abundance of angels. There were Angels sent and shocked survivors were wise and saved lives. There were Angels sent and people gathered to help the victims.<br />
There were Angels sent and rescuers organized and safely aided the victims.
There were Angels sent and the rescue workers were provided with food, shelter and clothing. There were Angels sent and workers had the strength and courage to provide for those in need.<br />
There were Angels sent and witnesses had the strength and courage to share their account. There were Angels sent and word spread quickly and accurately.<br />
Through it all, Satan watched and hid, and hated God's love.<br />
There were Angels sent, and family members found comfort through God and kin. There were Angels sent, and money was gathered. There were Angels sent, and strangers embraced and wept, and were comforted. There were Angels sent and victims felt God's love. Survivors found hope and courage and were blessed.<br />
There were Angels sent and people from across the land were aware of the suffering and offered comfort. There were Angels sent and people were gracious and gave to the needy. There were Angels sent and people became as one and their hearts were lifted. There were Angels sent and people began again to love. There were Angels sent and people no longer took life for granted. There were Angels sent and people began to grow and nurture. There were Angels sent and the Devil was gone.<br />
Thank God there were Angels sent.
Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-33412835691147107572021-04-28T16:22:00.002-07:002021-05-07T07:53:31.923-07:00How Was YOUR Day?<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/">HOME</a>
</div>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="42" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"How was YOUR day?" is an excerpt from the eBook </span><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740"><u>Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</u></a> by Stephen L. Wilson. <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO65ZqMmXA0Z-KjPjcGeMxzK1HJtgFWKp23kOXt6VMqcFcCOCnaYaaaHHpMOXZO5CRrmkUicE6y23bbJo6HCfHKr6rht0RKCIFY8MPh0euCNI0NCI_QPkvZ9WK1cJRJTtiSR9ZMLWi_yY/s1600/FiremanStationWagonBW.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO65ZqMmXA0Z-KjPjcGeMxzK1HJtgFWKp23kOXt6VMqcFcCOCnaYaaaHHpMOXZO5CRrmkUicE6y23bbJo6HCfHKr6rht0RKCIFY8MPh0euCNI0NCI_QPkvZ9WK1cJRJTtiSR9ZMLWi_yY/s1600/FiremanStationWagonBW.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
We needed a car. Desperately.<br />
While riding to work with a friend, I happened to notice a mid ‘70’s station wagon for four hundred dollars. I bought it.<br />
The car certainly had flaws. The rear hatch was a dinosaur of a load, and didn’t latch properly. The weight kept it shut, for the most part. I noticed the idiot lights on the dashboard didn’t work. I found out the hard way when I ran the oil dry. I guess that doesn’t necessarily make me the genius, right? Little did I know, the worst was yet to come.<br />
Here it was, the first week of December. Bitter cold wind blowing in from the Rockies, lashing out over the plains of Oklahoma. Ice was the main weather issued by Mother Nature.<br />
I had left for work early to make sure I had plenty of time to make it to the studio, where I worked as a photographer. When I arrived and shut off the ‘wagon, I noticed a burning smell. After getting out and sniffing around, I opened the hood. I immediately noticed smoke emerging from an area deep in the engine. As the studio was still locked, it took me a few seconds to get inside and grab the fire extinguisher. I blasted the smoke spot with white powder, and it immediately disappeared.<br />
I was careful to avoid essential areas of the engine compartment, such as the carburetor, radiator and battery. In fact, the shot was pretty clean and I figured I lucked out and could take a chance on driving the beast back home after work. I threw the fire extinguisher in the clunker before I jumped on the highway for the half-hour trip back home.<br />
There I was, bookin’ down the highway. I looked to my left, and a guy in a blue sedan was frantically jabbing his finger towards the front of my car, and hollering something. Instantly I knew what was going on, and I pulled over. I popped the hood, and leaped out, fire extinguisher at hand. I lifted the hood, aimed and squeezed. Nothing. The engine fire was now responding to the enhanced oxygen exposure, and it intensified increasingly.<br />
I about crapped! Apparently, I used up all of the juice in the fire extinguisher, or something. Later I found out that they need to be recharged. Ignorance was not bliss, in this case.<br />
I looked around at the concrete shoulder. There was some dirt and gravel built up along the edge. I scooped a fine handful, ran back to the car, and threw it straight into the engine gap from where the smoke was by now belching. By the grace of God, or some other miracle, it was enough. My dilapidated car was once again flameless.<br />
I still had a ways to go, and knew I needed a different plan. I took the next exit, and stopped at a gas station. I called my buddy and explained my predicament. He said he would drive over to where I was, and follow me home.<br />
When he arrived, he brought along a six-pack of beer. After all, it was Friday, and I had already had a helluva day. We’d head home and figure out what was up with the dinosaur. Maybe after a few beers in, we may just have the mystery solved. Little did we know…<br />
So I’m almost home, my buddy behind me. We were in a residential neighborhood a mile or so from the hacienda. The next thing you know, my buddy is flashing his lights and honking his horn at me. On fire again.<br />
I started to pull into the first driveway, which was cement, but then I noticed a gravel alley close by. I pulled in there, leaped out and popped the hood again. I was pretty proud of myself. This maneuver was becoming more natural. I felt like a cat. A cat with a burning vehicle.<br />
I opened the hood. I re-realized the whole oxygen/fire thing. You would think I would have learned from the previous incident. Apparently the whole ‘idiot light’ thing didn’t sink in, either.<br />
So here we are, smoke continually and progressively pouring out of the valley in my engine. I reach down and grab the first thing I get my hands on, which is icy pea gravel. I pitched a healthy handful towards the menacing crevasse. Unfortunately, my aim was poor, and pea gravel scattered across the entire engine compartment. By now I see the flames licking the bottom of the engine block. I back out from under the hood and bump into my buddy, who has the beer out, and is opening one. He proceeds to dump it into the engine. The flame hissed and went silent. My buddy took no chances. He poured another onto the smoldering metal. This did the trick, and I was able to get the car home. Bad thing was, when we made it home, I only got one beer. I guess the two we sacrificed turned out to be mine.<br />
The car was home, and I finally arrived at our lovely domicile shared by my wife and two kids. My youngest was six weeks old, my oldest three years old. Our ‘lovely domicile’ was actually a drug-, gang- and crime- riddled apartment complex in Oklahoma City. It was all we could afford at the time, and we knew going in that it was only temporary.<br />
In fact, we had been in contact with the owner of the house right next to my buddy. There was work to be done before it was move-in ready, and I was in communication with him about helping to fix it up. In the meantime, here we are, living in Cracktown, U.S.A.<br />
I climbed up the stairs to the apartment, went in and relaxed a bit. My wife told me that the complex owner had called, and wanted to know if and how we paid rent that month. It seems that the manager of the complex had absconded with all of the cash and check rent payments. My wife was able to produce a receipt, but it was still quite a shocker to live in a place where this was happening. In addition to this latest turn of events, there had been several arrests within the apartments during our course of residence there. Helicopters had flown over with search lights blazing on several occasions.<br />
One time I was on our balcony stoop. Suddenly, a siren started up, and a cop started following a white import car on the main street, heading my direction. The car pulled into the apartment complex driveway, directly below my vantage point. The driver opened the door and got out of the car. The officer announced on the intercom for the driver to get back in the vehicle. The driver turned and ran right below where I was standing, and dashed into the main complex area! The cop jumped out and chased the perpetrator while calling in for backup on his shoulder mike. This turned into a whole helicopter event. I never did find out if they caught the guy.<br />
After all of this, and hearing what my wife had to say, I knew we had to get out of this place. We were in the living room talking this over, when suddenly there were several popping sounds, followed by loud thumps against our bedroom walls. My young daughter jumped up and ran towards a window. I immediately hollered ‘Get Down’ and put myself on top of her. The pops and thumping continued at a rapid rate and ended suddenly. A car squealed and rumbled off outside. I knew that the sounds were gunshots and bullets hitting our apartment walls.<br />
My wife went to get my infant son, and then she joined my daughter and me. We remained on the floor for several minutes, discussing what had just happened. Very quickly after, we heard sirens.<br />
At this point, I went to the bedroom to see if there were any bullet holes. Sure enough, there were two holes. I followed the path of one, and it came through the wall, through the mattress, and into another wall. It so happens that it went right underneath the very pillow where my wife lays her head every night. The other bullet came up at a sharper angle, and went out the ceiling.<br />
It dawned on us that our neighbor below must have taken the brunt of the bullets. I scrambled down the stairs to see if she needed help.<br />
The door to her filthy, roach-ridden cube was already open. I called her name, and she appeared from the back cradling her two-year old child. He was one of three belonging to this single mother.<br />
She was sobbing and clutching her middle child. I asked her if they needed any help. She said she didn’t think so, but I should take a look. I went back into her bedroom and the sight was surreal. Her window was shattered and her mini-blinds were punctured and battered. Many bullets had penetrated the space, creating chunky holes. The ricochet streaks around the room created a cacophony of visual insult.<br />
There, in the middle of the bed, was her youngest child, peacefully sleeping, stuffed toy in hand. The discordance of the scene was striking, and definitely made me aware that fate had intervened for the sake of this young one.<br />
An officer arrived and gathered my info. He sent his partner up to talk to my wife and see the damage in our apartment. I left as the officer started talking to my neighbor. After talking to the cop in our apartment, my wife and I placed our now sleeping daughter in bed, and wandered outside to see how things were progressing.<br />
Many of our neighbors were outside, gathered near the scene. When we joined the group, they were discussing the whole manager-stealing-our-rent-money incident. A few in the crowd quickly caught us up on the gunfire situation. It turns out, a gang member emptied a clip on a rival gang member. The meat wagon had already hauled him off, and the cops were securing the crime scene.<br />
At some point, a local news channel arrived, and interviewed a few people, my wife included. Before he left, my wife asked if her interview would be aired. He said he wasn’t sure, but the story definitely would be.<br />
The very next day I called the owner of the house next to my buddy and told him we ABSOLUTELY needed to leave these apartments. I told him what had been happening, and to watch the news. The news ended up playing the clip with my wife, and we wound up moving. I had to lay some carpet and a few other things, but that house worked really well for us.<br />
As for the car, it turned out that a fuel line had gone bad, and I ended up replacing all of the hoses and rubber lines on the beast. Well, all except that little one at the bottom. You know, the short one with the clamps at impossible angles, way underneath the engine where a sane person cannot reach? As it turns out, I should have replaced it, too. But that is for another story.<br />
So. How was your week?
Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-33609198372373954762021-04-28T16:22:00.001-07:002021-05-07T07:44:41.779-07:00Normally Abnormal - What IS Normal?<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/">HOME</a>
</div>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="42" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"Normally Abnormal - What IS Normal?" is an excerpt from the eBook </span><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;"><u><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</a></u> by Stephen L. Wilson. <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhljcdE_a9rA__9h3Jst-hM_z28sdCjoZc1Df2ZccJQs4VUfrLW8flF7rtSFCrR8t7Zd3HrXQfjVPZO2CADURugsOenu7B5QJij4EvgHaJDPgadKG_h0beusj89SyiqCn3p_o0F4AndsWk/s1600/QuestionMark.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhljcdE_a9rA__9h3Jst-hM_z28sdCjoZc1Df2ZccJQs4VUfrLW8flF7rtSFCrR8t7Zd3HrXQfjVPZO2CADURugsOenu7B5QJij4EvgHaJDPgadKG_h0beusj89SyiqCn3p_o0F4AndsWk/s1600/QuestionMark.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Believe it or not, this brainstorm actually makes sense. Just read it carefully, staying focused on the meaning of ’Normal’ and 'Abnormal'. </i></span><br />
<hr />
If being abnormal were normal, then being normal would be abnormal. Therefore, you couldn’t be normal, which would be abnormal. Then again, how could you be abnormal if it was really being normal?<br />
If you were normal, would you like being normal, although technically it would be being abnormal? If you were normal, would you switch to being abnormal just so you would be normal (which is abnormal, which is normal)?<br />
I wonder if being normal when abnormal is normal is anything like being abnormal when normal is normal. I don’t think so. When normal is normal, and you’re abnormal, you’re different. When normal is abnormal and you’re normal, you’re abnormal, which is normal, which is abnormal and so on.<br />
Which would you rather be: abnormal when normal is normal, or normal when abnormal is normal?Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-55272809516203737442021-04-28T16:22:00.000-07:002021-05-05T09:43:09.198-07:00Blueberry Shortcake - The Legend of Bill<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/">HOME</a>
</div>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="42" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"Blueberry Shortcake - The Legend of Bill" is an excerpt from the eBook </span><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740?ref=STEPHENLWILSON"><u>Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</u></a> by Stephen L. Wilson. <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUktW-J0Qk9JHmdGKn6tI2BP2tplgVxQDLCn3H0wtFPSPcOq7Rwb-Vw2qPGWxhKUJFGSycx9JoD-fimiff_OoxXvltjk86fG0ccSKfm0Q87V2_E_kClHuYiI5VdUnOqIXZiAxoqyQeE5A/s1600/Cake.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUktW-J0Qk9JHmdGKn6tI2BP2tplgVxQDLCn3H0wtFPSPcOq7Rwb-Vw2qPGWxhKUJFGSycx9JoD-fimiff_OoxXvltjk86fG0ccSKfm0Q87V2_E_kClHuYiI5VdUnOqIXZiAxoqyQeE5A/s1600/Cake.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
When I was twelve, I had a neighbor, whom I will call “Bill”. We were in seventh grade when we met. Now, mind you, this kid had qualities about him to be proud of, to be sure. Unfortunately, his qualities plagued him to a fault.<br />
An example would be his honesty. One time his brother kicked him in his ear. Apparently, the brother’s toenails were so long that Bill had a noticeable gash in his ear. When I saw it, I knew the kids at school would tease him, so I told him to make up a story.<br />
When we boarded the school bus, one of my more obnoxious friends asked Bill what had happened. Poor honest Bill actually told the truth! Being twelve years old and wanting to make an impression on our upperclassmen in Jr. High, this sort of embarrassing revelation was a socially fatal mistake.<br />
All I could do was shake my head. That’s how it was with Bill. Sometimes he would say or do things so socially damning and sometimes even repulsive, that it was embarrassing to know him.<br />
Now, don’t get me wrong. He had enough qualities to be an interesting fellow. As an example, he was a smart kid; always on the honor roll. He had a wealth of knowledge in several areas. Again, however, his quality overwhelmed his social skills. He had such a matter –of-fact, know-it-all way of putting things that he easily irritated people.<br />
All of this was going on during a time when this poor kid was in first-stage adolescence. His athleticism was dormant, marred by un-coordination. He developed gradually from seventh through ninth grade, but the transition was, as mentioned, gradual.<br />
I was a bit more athletic. Having played seventh grade ‘B’ squad and eighth grade being a starter, when ninth grade came along and I was finally an upperclassman, I somehow persuaded ol’ Bill to join the football team.<br />
Mind you, this was not unwarranted. When we played at home, Bill could easily outrun me, though his style was all his own, to be nice. He could also kick the laces off of the ball. Since he was full of knees and elbows, he was tough to tackle. In all, I figured this would be a social progression for him and it was a way I could show my camaraderie by introducing him to a positive way to rub elbows with ninth grades’ upper echelon.<br />
Looking back, Bill probably thought the same. I mean, now that we were in ninth grade, he would have a chance to show off his varsity uniform on game day: A true social gold star.<br />
I should have known better. During the first day of practice, he was involved in a time-honored ritual, probably practiced among young adolescents still. What happens is one teammate gets down on his hands and knees behind someone while perpetrator two engages the suspect in conversation. When perp one is ready, perp two pushes the suspect. What results is comical humiliation at the expense of the subject.<br />
Bill must have been pushed four times or more that day.<br />
Though I didn’t laugh, I knew better than to disrupt the fate of the issuing of this time-honored tradition. It was pure bad luck. I’ll give him credit. He endured weeks of various versions of time-honored traditions, many of which I suspect were only spur-of-the-moment honored traditions.<br />
At any rate, he was anxious for game day to arrive. He had earned a starting spot on our special-teams squad! I was impressed by his determination. I said as much to him the night before game day. As for Bill, he was confident, and I couldn’t help feeling a bit of pride under the circumstances. After all, most of the people on the team felt the way I did and pretty much accepted him, despite and because of his ridicule.<br />
At the bus stop the next day, Bill seemed troubled. I asked him what was wrong. He said that something had happened to his uniform. At first, I thought he meant he’d lost it. I couldn’t believe it. Our colors were blue and gold. The jerseys were bright yellow with royal blue numbers. The pants were snowy white; definitely and obviously snappier than our practice pants. How could he possibly have lost it?<br />
He told me that it was worse than that. He still had his uniform, but his mom messed up his pants in the laundry. Upon request, he opened his duffel bag and I peered in. Instead of a dazzling display of bleached white pants, what stared back was a pair of pants stained the most brilliant indigo I have ever seen! I had never felt so bad for the man as I did at that moment. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that this qualified him for entry to the next level of ridicule. In fact, this would probably signify him a ridicule legend. What I most likely said was, "Oh, man!"<br />
All day long, as we strutted our stuff in our varsity, game-day jerseys, we both obviously knew about his pants. I didn’t mention it to anyone, but it weighed heavy on my mind all day.<br />
Bill, as it turned out, appeared in no way bothered; in fact, he was on cloud nine. For one whole school day, his jersey entitled him to hang out with anyone else who was wearing one. He could nod towards a fellow player, and they dutifully nodded back. In public. Even in front of girls. He was one of the gang.<br />
In the locker room after school, I noticed him begin to worry. Our first game was at home. People who knew us would be watching. I knew he was headed for trouble the instant he put on his pants. Everyone else had new, unstained, bright pants. Bill stood out embarrassingly.<br />
I had an inkling that whatever came next would probably be funny, and I was trying to steel myself against it in support of Bill.<br />
Right then, someone shouted out, "Hey! Check out Blueberry Shortcake!"<br />
I couldn’t help it. I had a headache for ten minutes from trying to hold back an onslaught of uncontrollable snorts. From that point on, the situation was hopeless. They respected him enough not to verbally embarrass him in front of the home crowd, but the locker room retorts were plentiful.
They couldn’t resist. Even the coach bellowed, "Boy! What the hell didjya do to your britches?"<br />
As for Bill, he never finished the season. I can’t say as I blame him. I haven’t seen him in years, but every time I think of him, I just shake my head.
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740">null</a>Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-7742197406947920312021-04-28T16:21:00.001-07:002021-05-07T07:47:13.443-07:00Pluck Yew - The Tale of the Digitus Impudicus<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/">HOME</a>
</div>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="42" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"Pluck Yew - The Tale of the Digitus Impudicus" is an excerpt from the eBook </span><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740"><u>Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</u></a> by Stephen L. Wilson. <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4TCLlovq-deHpq0ZaTC3gGcXANb9DQdFS8mtYg95pyX_GAtSs3kFTcWHNt0yBGrZ6c3aUdeL9yprCj799YajIo_irS3TK3Gw6lqbTB9brz_2cgVzK-mLkM6mh_mBucmTQM01PwxnynmY/s1600/MiddleFingerFinal.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4TCLlovq-deHpq0ZaTC3gGcXANb9DQdFS8mtYg95pyX_GAtSs3kFTcWHNt0yBGrZ6c3aUdeL9yprCj799YajIo_irS3TK3Gw6lqbTB9brz_2cgVzK-mLkM6mh_mBucmTQM01PwxnynmY/s1600/MiddleFingerFinal.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
It is my contention that sticking a middle finger in the air is not worthy of any sort of retaliation or punishment, and the gesture should not even be considered ‘fighting words’. In fact, gestures should be allowed unflinchingly as a First Amendment right to free speech. I will illustrate this by using examples of law, history and social observation. I will show that gestures, even combined with vulgar speech, should not be considered obscene, pornographic or illegal.<br />
How is it that a mere gesture is offensive, anyway? The perpetrator is not physically contacting the gesture recipient. The gesture itself can be open to vast, if not countless interpretations. Even if the meaning of the gesture is mutually understood, and it is intended to be interpreted as a bodily manifestation of an insult, should the aggressor be subject to penalty on behalf of the recipient, or society in general?<br />
The answer to the strength of the gesture lies in history. Dating back to the Greeks or even before, the middle finger, for example, is represented historically as meaning to be an insult. Aristophanes, the ancient Greek comic dramatist, mentions Diogenes using it as an insult to Demosthenes. The Romans had a name for it – “Digitus Impudicus” – the “Impudent Finger”.<br />
Later legend and storytelling myth has it that a variation of the gesture was used during the Battle of Agincourt in 1415. English bowmen used the index and middle finger to draw their deadly bows against the French. Myth has it that the English called the action of firing arrows “Plucking Yew”, since their longbows were made of that wood. The French, humiliated by these arrogant English bowmen, boldly announced that they were going to cut off the two fingers of any English bowman they captured. When the French failed to capture a single English bowman, the English taunted them by holding up their respective fingers and shouting, “We can still pluck yew!” Even in Europe today the two fingers in a “V” shape has the same meaning as the middle finger has in the States. Story has it that people have modified the gesture to what it is today in the United States; a solitary middle finger. The words “Pluck Yew” have apparently been modified a bit, as well.<br />
Globally, there are many non-verbal gestures that, while not offensive in the United States, are considered very offensive in other countries. For example, the American “A-OK” sign, with a circle comprised of the index finger and thumb, with the other fingers up, is considered insulting in Italy and Denmark. It is also considered to be an obscenity in Guatemala, Paraguay and Brazil. Another example is the “thumbs-up” gesture, considered to be positive body language in the States, but is considered to be an obscenity in the Middle East and Nigeria.<br />
Several important and famous people have used such meaningful body language to emphasize a point. The middle finger was used by President George W. Bush in response to environmentalists during the G8 summit. He called it his “one-finger salute”. Any simple web search will reveal that Britney Spears, Courteney Cox, Johnny Depp, and even Justin Timberlake’s mom all gave the bird to the paparazzi. Many have seen the globally famous picture of Johnny Cash, big right finger straight up at the camera. There are surely a multitude of others.<br />
Other important and famous figures who have used strong body gestures other than the Roman-monikered digitus impudicus include former Prime Minister of England, Tony Blair, who was caught giving the highly offensive British “wanker” gesture in an old photograph of him during his college days at Oxford.<br />
Although not usually headline news, there have been past examples of unwarranted punishment towards this use of a common gesture. On October 25th, 2001, a man named Robert Lee Coggin was driving down a street in San Antonio, Texas, and came behind a person who was driving under the speed limit. Coggin flashed his lights, in an attempt to speed the motorist along. When Coggin finally was able to maneuver around the slow vehicle, he flipped off the driver. The driver, a jailer for the county, called 911 and reported the incident as reckless driving. Coggins was pulled over, and, after some discussion with the responding officers, was cited with “disorderly conduct – gesture”. Coggins plead ‘not guilty’, and was subsequently determined to be guilty, and was fined $250. He then fought the verdict by taking the case to the Texas State Court of Appeals. The court overturned the verdict on grounds that he wasn’t charged with reckless driving, indicating no road rage, and that the gesture was not considered obscene, as there was no accompanying threatened or actual violence that would identify the act as a breach of peace. The court also referred to Cohen v. California as a legal precedent.<br />
Another legal example can be found in the case of Hackbart v. The City of Pittsburgh, et al. On 4/10/06, the plaintiff, David Hackbart, was attempting to parallel park, and another driver cut him off. Hackbart flipped off the second driver. At that moment, he heard someone behind him say, “Don’t flip him off”, at which point Hackbart hung a bird towards the voice behind him. It turns out that the voice belonged to police sergeant Brian Elledge, of the Pittsburgh police department. Hackbart was cited with disorderly conduct. The judge found Hackbart guilty, and fined him $119.75. Hackbart appealed, and not only had the case overturned, but won court costs, compensatory damages, and punitive damages against Officer Elledge, for, among other reasons, breach of his First Amendment rights.<br />
In the case of the middle finger, this “digitus impudicus”, we have a rich history of use as an insulting gesture, a common understanding of its place among international rude gestures, a social acceptance of its perceived meaning, and examples of its use leading to the citation of people who use it. It would seem that society has made its statement – the offensive finger should never again be used, and all who may use it must also suffer the fates of the law. Why would any decent and moral citizen have any reason to use this offensive gesture, anyway?<br />
The First Amendment allows us the freedom to express ourselves, as Americans, in almost any manner we choose. We hear and see graphic lyrics and images. We know about various ways in which speech can be the only possible way there is for a person to feel validated and to be heard. We know about people who bravely express themselves, even though the penalty of doing so was evident and understood to be forthcoming. We have learned about how the law is continually attempting to pin down elusive aspects with regard to what constitutes free speech as opposed to obscene behavior.<br />
As far as I am concerned, a simple gesture should not be considered inciteful or threatening in and of itself. Sure, the middle finger gesture is rooted in history as a graphic display of displeasure towards another person. So are the protected words, “You are pissing me off” or “I think you are an asshole”. In situations where a person is at a loss for words, or while driving, or other times when the spoken word cannot be heard, they should still be allowed to communicate thoughts and feelings to another person. Sure, the recipient of the speech may not like the speech, but in the case of a gesture, that is just too bad. We are allowed, as Americans, to express ourselves in any civil and legally defined way, even if it is crass, rude, ignorant or juvenile. Why should a police officer, who is in a definite position of power, punish someone who is maybe being rude, but not illegal? This, to me, is an abuse of power designed to persecute someone with different beliefs than the offended officer, and must not be allowed in any case. In fact, if the case is overturned, I believe that the officer should be liable for as much as possible, since his or her actions led to the wasted time and resources of an otherwise busy and burdened legal system.<br />
People may argue that we are a civilized society, and as such must continue in our efforts to progress above such uses of gestures. I argue that as far back at least as the days of Shakespeare and the divided classes of ‘groundlings’ and noblemen, privileged society has made attempts to stifle the language and speech of those social tiers less fortunate. It seems to me that this stifling is in an attempt to encourage an understanding among the lower classes that there is a ‘proper’ manner of conduct, and any other conduct unbecoming will be considered ‘low-class’. Sometimes this may be in an attempt to raise the lower classes above their meager status, but I suspect that on the whole it has more to do with affirming and justifying the rank of the privileged socialite. After all, the person in position to make such judgment calls as to what is to be considered socially rude has the power in the society.<br />
As a result, I believe that the privileged socialite must be exposed to the reality of the life of the lower class, however vulgar. This is an attempt to raise the elite tiers to an even more profound state of social awareness, and to maintain the culture of the history of the lower class.<br />
As recently as the frontier days of the U.S., when Native Americans were being assimilated to the European invaders and their culture, many customs and practices of the Native Americans were scorned by the more powerful white people. Many practices and customs were considered ‘savage’, ‘vulgar’ and ‘low-class’. Although this mentality has gradually changed over time, it is too late for many of the Native American cultures, as entire tribes have vanished completely. We will never have the opportunity to hear their history, even if our culture and society progresses to the point where the elites treasure the lower class culture as much as the lower class does.<br />
Until then, by God, the “lower-class” should be able to display their perceived vulgarity and ignorance in any way that is not harmful or threatening to another human, no matter how unrefined, or how esteemed the position of the offended elite.<br />
Besides, any moral prudence placed on today’s society is a mockery, and quite laughable. Our society is in an unprecedented state of moral degradation, as exemplified by the continually shocking lyrics of modern music, and the extreme subjects in some of today’s highly offensive artwork (‘Piss Jesus’ and ‘Holy Virgin Mary’ come to mind as recent examples). Much of this type of art is upheld by elite socialites as relevant art, which means that, once again, the privileged minority within society pick and choose which moral equivalents the rest of society should follow, and which ones are to be relegated to the lower class as vulgar and beneath them. If I ever have the opportunity to meet any of the meatheads who think that some of this garbage is relevant art, I should lawfully be allowed to express my disgust with a digitus impudicus or two, and no social attempt at retribution. After all, isn’t free speech free speech? Any artist with the grapes to call dung “art” should have the fortitude to endure a couple of “Pluck Yews” for the sake of his or her art.<br />
The fact that many celebrities and famous people feel the need to use the middle finger to punctuate their feelings should be evidence that this gesture has become an accepted standard by which modern humans may communicate. It is clear to me that the intent of the gesture has its place within society as a meaningful expression of disgust, contempt or frustration, and should be used as such so that others may know the feelings of the user of the gesture. The fact that otherwise intelligent people should stoop to such a ‘low class’ version of communication tells me that, in some situations, there is no other speech available that can convey such an exact message in such a brief moment. There should be no offense taken. The gesture, while directed at a person, does no actual harm to the person. In fact, an intelligent person should not feel harmed or threatened by such a gesture or mode of speech, and instead should be aware that the person giving the gesture is experiencing a moment of stress and possibly anger. This being the case, an intelligent person receiving the gesture should be more compassionate and understanding of the feelings behind the gesture, instead of selfishly feeling victimized by the speech.<br />
The idea of a gesture being punishable by law is ludicrous. Aren’t laws put into place to protect citizens within a society? What safety is being compromised by the simple use of a bodily gesture? If a person is driven to the point of violence simply because another person showed them a perfectly acceptable and otherwise decent body part, I say that the true offender is the hothead who can’t control their anger, and instead makes the conscious choice to be a social vigilante, and physically punish the gesture-giver. Who is the more juvenile or possibly mentally unstable of the two – The one who expresses their frustration, anger, or stress efficiently and effectively, with no harm or threat to another person, or the one who sees the gesture, and decides to become violent? Anyone who determines the gesture to be ‘fighting words’ is missing the point of free speech entirely. Our freedom to express ourselves trumps our freedom to become violent, if there is such a freedom. Clearly, our Constitution does not address a freedom to be violent; therefore, it stands to reason that free speech should rarely be considered ‘fighting words’, if ever.<br />
As court case after court case has demonstrated, if a person is fined, cited or otherwise convicted simply for the act of disorderly conduct by way of flipping off someone else, the appeal is always a success. Without fail, higher appeals courts say that simply raising a finger is not against the law. This being the case, it frustrates me that these types of cases are tying up otherwise valid cases within the legal system. In all of the instances I researched, it appeared that a police officer was offended by the gesture, and therefore commenced in punishing the offender. This is not the job of a police officer. Which part of ‘serve and protect’ does this type of behavior lend itself to? None. The ego and uncontrolled response of the officer in question does not fall in line with the call of duty, and in fact should never be a part of a job by a person sworn to protect society. The instant a person does not have the capacity to ignore ignorance is the instant a person should put down their badge.<br />
And our courts are already full of frivolous lawsuits. A police officer, and especially lower courts and legislative bodies, should know full well by now that if a person wants to appeal in these cases, the likelihood is that they will win. Not only is this not efficient government, but there is a possibility of liability in the form of damages awarded to the appellate. Is all of this necessary, when all it would have taken to circumvent this headache is a cool-headed police officer on duty on the day in question or local legislative ordinances acknowledging innocuous gestures as being lawful? Wouldn’t all of this frivolity be recognized as unnecessary if only we, as a society, decided to dismiss gestures as expressions of frustration by fellow humans, instead of acting victimized by a speech gesture?<br />
I have a solution. In fact, there are several suggestions I have, that, if accepted, will change the way in which the middle finger is communicated, expressed, and accepted by society. It should be a law that if a person decides to utilize the gesture, that they be smiling when they administer it. It is extremely hard for people to become violent if another person is not threatening them with harm and they are smiling, no matter what gesture they are displaying.<br />
Another answer would be to change the meaning and perception of the message of the bird. Instead of “Pluck Yew”, or any other vulgar variation, we should announce, “You are number one” or use the finger to greet people, instead of the common wave. Of course, it would take influential and famous people to spread this change of message around. For example, how profound would it be for the Pope to stand up at his next speech and flip off the crowd, both fingers up, while he announces that from now on, his followers would recognize this gesture as a symbol of peace and hope, and that anyone who views this gesture should accept it as not an offensive vulgarity, but rather a symbol of unity and strength? Or if President Obama, in a relevant epiphany, addressed the people of America, expressing his serious interest in making the finger a national symbol of triumph over ignorance; a symbol of the strength of the masses?<br />
I will continue to use the finger as an educational tool, as well as an expressive social tool. I regularly flip off public cameras as I smile. I often hang a bird to a friend, while I exclaim, “You’re number one”. I prefer to flip people off instead of fight. In light of the evidence presented in this writing, I would find it hard to believe that anyone would consider a hand gesture threatening, obscene, or vulgar.
Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-83654160713944967162021-04-28T16:21:00.000-07:002021-05-05T10:00:50.178-07:00Fair Game - A Creeper's Gonna Creep<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/">HOME</a>
</div>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="42" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"Fair Game - A Creeper's Gonna Creep" is an excerpt from the eBook </span><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740"><u>Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</u></a> by Stephen L. Wilson. <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPZZmaS0sKuCvCe8BFwGTVAbF3F1fBcVUu2JWR2OJCtiEmNb2xEJq61_ZV415wWvoNqdOWJKXc0p46TMcTV89d_hOQhDEk8kOwx-J4NFgKmh9KyXBzY9ZGJ4pfEjMaUnxcr76MZObqCtA/s1600/Eye.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPZZmaS0sKuCvCe8BFwGTVAbF3F1fBcVUu2JWR2OJCtiEmNb2xEJq61_ZV415wWvoNqdOWJKXc0p46TMcTV89d_hOQhDEk8kOwx-J4NFgKmh9KyXBzY9ZGJ4pfEjMaUnxcr76MZObqCtA/s1600/Eye.jpg" width="400" /></a>Why hadn’t I thought of it before? It made the whole process just that much less complex. If only I hadn’t been so unaware of her cunningness.<br />
Although I hadn’t a clue as to what her name was, I knew her habitat. I knew her routine. I knew her life. The realization of how matters could be simplified bit me on the nose.<br />
I first attempted to capture her with a glance and maybe a slight gesture. Unmoved by her lack of interest, I then attempted a more direct approach. The letter I wrote contained only a sliver of my feelings.<br />
Meanwhile, all of my spare time has been directed towards her in ways she will never know - the endless hours of tracking; hunting in the manner of a wily woodsman following a wounded fox. Because I know her exact routine, it perturbs me that I didn’t reason my moves a bit more carefully. Now is the time in which I must act upon my latest ploy.<br />
After huddling alone near her doorstep in a juniper hedge for the last hour, I knew the moment was drawing near. It was all I could do to conceal the spontaneous giggle that was fighting to reveal itself. Then, the door graciously arced towards me and her ravishing beauty spilled forth. For a brief moment, I was a petrified gargoyle; eyes bulging, mouth gaping, awed by the magnificence of this Helena-like goddess of my dreams.<br />
Following my planned course of action, I leapt from my vantage point and landed directly in front of her. Completely shocked, she wailed, spun and ran back into her house. I had no choice but to sprint after her. I had never been this close before and I had no reason to allow another chance like this to slip by.<br />
I darted past the toppled chairs and disarrayed floor rugs as I followed this fleeting shadow, drawing closer with every step. Close enough to hear her rattling, gasping breaths, I knew that the pursuit was ending.<br />
Just as her hand closed upon the knob to the back door, my hand fell upon her shoulder. She whirled, wailing. Crying out desperately, she demanded to know of my intentions. The two words I hollered out summed up the entire purpose of this chase:
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"You’re It!"
<br />
And away I ran...
<br />
<br />
<br />Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-68873569377021596012021-04-28T16:20:00.001-07:002021-05-07T07:57:09.999-07:00My Vote - A Man Unhinged<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/">HOME</a>
</div>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="42" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"My Vote - A Man Unhinged" is an excerpt from the eBook </span><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank"><u>Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</u></a> by Stephen L. Wilson. <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEmiT9Uzbxq2vcgoFIe0pc4V2HuKU3ejmtzfX3j0xx32iuBZ60ZjI8PF5L14FAzywclGZj3HjSnagZnL2-L04K2dzU7pFjt9yl6OWuhCmngeT0k9vanrj3XsQtxQ_G4M2KlfBu2gYUWRg/s1600/LibertyBell.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEmiT9Uzbxq2vcgoFIe0pc4V2HuKU3ejmtzfX3j0xx32iuBZ60ZjI8PF5L14FAzywclGZj3HjSnagZnL2-L04K2dzU7pFjt9yl6OWuhCmngeT0k9vanrj3XsQtxQ_G4M2KlfBu2gYUWRg/s1600/LibertyBell.jpg" width="245" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><u>NOTE:</u> My political views, interests, behaviors and ideologies have changed since the original writing of this narrative musing.</i></span><br />
<hr />
When I cast my vote for president in the latest elections (2004), I voted for Ralph Nader. In the end, Al Gore won the state anyway, so my vote didn’t carry much weight this time. At any rate, my vote for Nader wasn’t cast because he was a ‘green’ candidate. Nor did I vote for him because I necessarily thought he would win. In addition, I didn’t vote for him because I agreed with his platform. I voted for him because he had a woman running mate.<br />
Allow me to explain. For years I have been iterating to my oldest daughter that she can be anything she wants, from rocket scientist to zookeeper to astronaut to president. I considered this a great opportunity to back my words by voting for the only female on the ticket. But is it justification for my vote? The rest of my message is for the fifty percent of Americans who were registered to vote, but didn’t, in the last elections.<br />
This example is perhaps the most rational of many reasons why my vote was cast to specific candidates. The other reasons included voting for a candidate who liked to ice fish. Another one I voted for, I did so because he stood with a nice posture. Yet another of the candidates I voted for had a unibrow. Nothing more; no charisma, no political background, no popularity. Just a unibrow.<br />
I am telling you this in case you have any wonder as to why sometimes clowns are elected. It is because people like you allow people like me to cast my vote in this manner. If only two of you who didn’t vote last year decide to vote this year, then my vote is already outnumbered. If this happens, I consider this message a success. To the fifty percent who did vote: Please excuse my behavior concerning my vote. I realize it is a privilege to vote, and that some people may take offense to my actions. I can only say that if my vote can be utilized to inspire others to vote, then I will gladly use it in that fashion. Thank you, and God Bless America.
Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-79470040501135605752021-04-28T16:20:00.000-07:002021-05-07T07:51:17.402-07:00Internet - A Global Panopticon (1998)<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/">HOME</a>
</div>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="42" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"Internet - A Global Panopticon" is an excerpt from the eBook </span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740"><u>Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</u></a> by Stephen L. Wilson. <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3EHa9pXBhTM2J6RUko1_YzR-fI0-HorDo_l4mMuUflTf0R4_JkTWARYSV8lPDgWtFDs4FnEPOw6RAIhxenrZME10e7fokXqg3eb8D0d4sIMDEfnMYnBeLRBxXc50SmB856H1x7PWT8RI/s1600/Network.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3EHa9pXBhTM2J6RUko1_YzR-fI0-HorDo_l4mMuUflTf0R4_JkTWARYSV8lPDgWtFDs4FnEPOw6RAIhxenrZME10e7fokXqg3eb8D0d4sIMDEfnMYnBeLRBxXc50SmB856H1x7PWT8RI/s1600/Network.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif"><i>(Originally written in 1998)</i></span><br />
Reflect, for a moment, about your personal knowledge of the history of the world. Recall how early civilizations communicated and, more importantly, the extent and scope of those communications. Imagine the capabilities of any known civilization or technology attempting to unify the planet in a singular communication effort.<br />
Compare any that you may have imagined (telephones, ham radios, pony express) with the communication potential of the Internet. It is safe to say that the Internet provides the means for the most comprehensive global communications network in the history of the world.<br />
With such a statement having been made, it would then be safe to proceed and assume such an entity could and would command the attention of powers and powerful people in an attempt to either manipulate the process or take steps to ensure their own protection from manipulation.<br />
This of course leads us to government control (or lack thereof) of the Internet.<br />
Reflect, for a moment, about your personal knowledge of the history of militaries, especially the United States military. Specifically, note any expertise at secrecy or contingency planning. Since the Internet was initially made a reality by a joint effort involving the U.S. Department of Defense and a few universities in 1969, these collaborators can be assumed as being the most experienced in the field of the practical application of internet technologies. Wouldn’t a self-preserving, world-leading government take extra strides to know more about this technology than any other institution or any other powerful, potentially interested party? Without a doubt.<br />
We are now compelled to consider a dynamic probability similar to the unstoppable force meeting the immovable object. Is it truly possible to govern cyberspace? Some have compared the internet to the invention of the printing press, in that they both make available vast quantities of knowledge in a way the world has never before seen. This basically allows people to make their own choices in lieu of authorities making those decisions for them. In this way it is fairly certain that individuals will be able to use the internet to gather information around traditional government structures. Not only that, but people can theoretically do this anonymously or invisibly.<br />
Some internet experts contend that this desire to be anonymous is an urge so strong some people will not be able to resist hiding their true identity while participating. This may make way for a type of internet evolution. Strategically, it would be rather advantageous to remain ‘invisible’ if the knowledge or information being sought were of particular sensitivity or revealing nature to a powerful party. Perhaps it will be this stealthy group that eventually disbands any current ‘controlling’ entities. This anonymity at the hands of very experienced computer experts can be eternal. Imagine the impact of a global network of invisible experts leading a charge with an invisible army against any visible governing entities. At some point a revolution such as this would create a new governing body for the internet. Is there enough of an uprising to support such a revolution?<br />
There are places online where people are able to network and share any information they are interested in. There are multitudes of topic related chat rooms, forums, and bulletin boards, as well as e-mail. The voice of the community at some of these ‘cyber-locales’ is much more direct in cyberspace than in person, for the most part. I would compare it to ‘Letters to the Editor’ in a publication, except for never having to reveal your identity. This aspect allows for an even more pointed attitude on the internet, stemming from certain ambivalence to consequences based on the assurance of one’s anonymity.<br />
This noticeable communication generation is a child of the internet, in my opinion. Even if an argument can be made as to the heredity of this pattern of communication, it is my belief that the environment of the internet has adopted it in a way of its own. In fact, it could even be said that this mentality is in fact popular (or at least trendy) within the social sector of the internet community.<br />
In some regions of cyber society, anonymity has generated notoriety, much like gang ‘tags’ are an anonymous way to be recognized within gang culture. I am talking about ‘hackers’. This brazen group of computer experts with invisible identities has already proven their capabilities to the United States government.<br />
In 1997, the National Security Administration (NSA) hired a group of thirty-five hackers to simulate an infiltration upon the computer-connected and highly sensitive areas of our powerful government. They proved they could effectively manipulate the transportation, communication, economy, utilities and easily infiltrate military electronic systems. As confirmed by Fred B. Schneider, CS professor at Cornell University-"If somebody wanted to launch an attack [on the U.S.], it would not be at all difficult.”<br />
It would appear to me that our global communications experiment we call the internet is entitled to the same unique individuality bestowed upon bodies of law and corporations: a state of having a certain momentum not unlike ‘a life of its own’. As with dynamic models such as these, the necessity of having to adapt continually mandates a perpetual changing within the entity. Unlike the others, the anonymity of the Internet will instigate certain vigilance within hackers to dole out justice at their convenience and leisure. This is exactly the methodology necessary to undermine any unwanted authority.<br />
Traditional authority relies upon structure. I believe that if a group of like-minded, anti-authority, computer-powerful people decided to negotiate digital warfare, any traditional authority remaining on the Internet would be picked apart by hackers, to be replaced with vigilante, cyber-mob rule.
Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-31295947252132246652021-04-28T16:19:00.000-07:002021-05-05T09:41:14.884-07:00Fainting Goats - How Society Drove A Man Insane<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/">HOME</a>
</div>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="42" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"Fainting Goats - How Society Drove A Man Insane" is an excerpt from the eBook </span><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="3px" style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740"><u>Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</u></a> by Stephen L. Wilson.Available at <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740">Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbmtpYHzhBw1pX1pUAawD5wkQmTRJsxtvAw60FNk02nYF_SELV6lu1z7ACA4NOuEUzybAn_LWiF73QvvTnqhcLZkrPJolguHyXplFj8D7I1RzRsyp1roW4_0TNkbapGqopGlW0n93nYIQ/s1600/goat-funny.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbmtpYHzhBw1pX1pUAawD5wkQmTRJsxtvAw60FNk02nYF_SELV6lu1z7ACA4NOuEUzybAn_LWiF73QvvTnqhcLZkrPJolguHyXplFj8D7I1RzRsyp1roW4_0TNkbapGqopGlW0n93nYIQ/s1600/goat-funny.jpg" /></a>Maybe you have seen them. They are these little goats that when frightened, tense up and fall over. Apparently they were bred over time to run with herds of sheep. Since sheep are worth more than pygmy goats, when the goats froze up and fell down, predators would eat the goats instead of the sheep. To medieval sheep farmers, this was a crude but effective way to minimize costs. Because of this, I feel that fainting goats have been given an unfair shake in history, and I would like to help them by creating a new historical niche for which they may identify. I feel that fainting goats need some redemption, and I plan on making this happen when I retire.<br />
I have spent enough time in customer service related jobs to come to believe that the famous humorist, Dave Barry, was correct when he said, “A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, is not a nice person.” In general, and as a rule, when given any number of alternatives, people again and again choose to be aggressive in their attack on those they deem as socially insignificant. There must be some sort of mechanism in some people that makes them feel important when they rudely attack others in customer service positions. It appears that two circumstances must exist in order to create this ‘perfect storm’ of customer rudeness: a customer willing to displace their pent-up aggression and a company policy of “kiss all asses”.<br />
I realize that most people aren’t actually this horrible. However, the trauma of this segment of society overrides the general good found in most people. As a result, there is usually a high turnover in the customer service industry. Those who spend too much time being society’s whipping boy eventually either find a different career, or have a mental breakdown. Rare is the individual who is designed to withstand a lifetime of belittlement, ridicule and the worst of what society has to offer.<br />
It is because of this “retail PTSD” that I have decided that when I retire, I am going to buy a hill. I am going to buy a hill far away from society, and a herd of about thirty fainting goats. At the top of this hill will be enough room for a single folding chair, and a supply of yummy goat food. I plan on spending my remaining years on this planet sitting on top of my hill, feeding fainting goats, and then scaring them. <br />
I am not sure how I will do it. Maybe I will just shout, “Boo!” at the top of my lungs. Maybe I will toss those little popping packets you get at the fireworks tent at them. Maybe I could rig up air horn somehow. Any way I do it, I can only imagine the fuzzy little fainters freezing up, and then tumbling down the hill. <br />
“Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa!” <br />
Down the hill they will tumble. I will spend my remaining days inventing new ways to scare my goats. And I will laugh so hard when I see them tumble down to the bottom of that hill!<br />
In this way I will help to bring the fainting pygmy goat to a more esteemed station in culture. Instead of being food, the goat is now fun. Kind of like court jesters back in the days of kingdoms and serfs, or rodeo clowns today. <br />
Thanks, rude people. Thanks a lot.Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-46841009496026453032021-04-28T15:43:00.003-07:002021-05-05T08:22:03.189-07:00A Tasty Twist<div class="separator"><div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/official-life-bits-and-other-chunks.html">HOME</a>
</div>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="50" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="35" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="4px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"A Tasty Twist" is an excerpt from <u><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</a></u>, by Stephen L. Wilson.<br /><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-tawcnlMecN_3uTdIJYNeSH7hVRfKNYn7Yvf7fHT2vrIalgDdKCO1RCsmv54YzpapSjOr0sFpTXuZzbTzLS2sA5qVARaeOaDpF2GxixxkPnNS1gWvI_pp2oUwt1K90yR85BPDfOIpsM/s384/Spider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-tawcnlMecN_3uTdIJYNeSH7hVRfKNYn7Yvf7fHT2vrIalgDdKCO1RCsmv54YzpapSjOr0sFpTXuZzbTzLS2sA5qVARaeOaDpF2GxixxkPnNS1gWvI_pp2oUwt1K90yR85BPDfOIpsM/s320/Spider.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Originally published in the free anthology “<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/248597" target="_blank">All Hallow’s Eve</a>,” available at Smashwords</b></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><><><><><><><><></div><div>I was waking up. “Coming to” was more like it. My head throbbed, and my mouth was dry. What was that horrible smell? An organic, deathly permanent smell. </div><div>Where had I been? Memories were fragmented, flashing in my mind like bits of archaic newsreel. My lifelong friend, Jason, was taunting the old woman, laughing as he pushed her against the dumpster in the vacant alley. </div><div>“Who’s your daddy, Rumpelstiltskin?”</div><div>Rumpelstiltskin. That was the name given to the woman by the kids in the neighborhood. She moved, broken and bent, with a cane. She always wore that stained brown pea coat covered in cat hair, and a drab, yellowing scarf wrapping her ancient head. None of us remembered her ever speaking; only glowering at our hateful antics with cold, black eyes which pierced our very souls. Oh, we would laugh and taunt, but with a nervous fear to drive our actions. Usually Rumpelstiltskin would stay close to her home, which was a tiny shack of an A-frame, hiding in a jumbled, foreboding nest of overgrown shrubbery and a few tired trees with branches dangling precariously over the withered and dismal dwelling. On the few occasions when one of us would boldly approach her, she would skitter to her sanctuary with surprisingly quick movements, staring; staring back at us with those shiny eyes once she was in the safety of her surroundings.</div><div>Another memory flashed through my mind. Rumpelstiltskin, bouncing off of the dumpster, losing her balance. As she stumbled forward, she was unable to avoid a bar extending from the receptacle. Her head met the protrusion with a sickening crunch. As her body sagged and fell toward the Earth, her face held her up, as if in proud defiance. After a moment, it too gave up, and released her to the ground. She was moaning softly, making helpless motions with her legs. It was as if she was running in slow motion.</div><div>I looked at Jason, who was clearly shocked. I turned back to Rumpelstiltskin, noticing first those eyes. Wide and glossy; hurt and accusing, framed by the black paint now covering her face. As she writhed, and the moonlight captured her expression, I saw that it was actually blood, which was now pouring from a cavernous dent just above her eyebrows. For the first time, I heard her voice. It was raspy and crisp, like the clicking of a playing card in the spokes of a bicycle wheel. </div><div>“Tasty…flies! Tasty…flies!”</div><div>What the hell? Unless I was not hearing her right, that knock to the noggin must have been worse than I thought. Apparently it was, because no sooner had I thought this, than Rumpelstiltskin had expired. There was no need to check her pulse, or perform any type of test to prove it. Jason and I both just knew. Her legs had stopped pumping, and her black, glistening orbs remained open to the world, staring through us even in death. Maybe it was my imagination, but I swore I saw the reflection of both of us in those deep pools of ebony, framed by the crimson of her lifeblood.</div><div>Neither one of us spoke during the walk home. Jason was a specter, his face so white it was almost transparent. I couldn’t believe that we had just killed Rumpelstiltskin. I wondered what our fate would be, if the cops would know it was us, if I would ever live past this gruesome moment. When we walked up to my house, we looked at each other one last, grim time, and then I went inside. I quietly and slowly trudged upstairs to bed. Despite my experience, I fell asleep quickly. I must have been drained.</div><div>And now I am awake. Again, that smell. That putrid, unhealthy, rotting and eternal smell. For the first time I realize that I cannot move. I cannot open my eyes. My arms are pinned to my side; my legs bound together. Where am I? Am I in bed? </div><div>I am now alert and frantic. I feel like I am on some kind of trampoline. My body bobs in rhythm, as if to a slow, gentle imaginary beat. What is going on?</div><div>There is a guttural noise to my right. Is that Jason? I feel the trampoline quivering, and a louder, more distinct groaning sound. Yes, it is Jason, but he is not saying anything; only making loud, indistinct noises. At once the trampoline bounces wildly and I thought I was falling. As suddenly as it began, the bouncing settles, and once again I am bobbing to that imaginary beat. Still, that God-awful smell, so unfamiliar to me, permeates my senses. </div><div>I have to find a way to see what is going on. I realize that my face is covered with rope or gauze of some kind. Maybe there is some way to loosen it or at least peek around it. Even though my body is tightly bound, I discover that I can move my head a bit. Maybe I can work the rope loose enough to catch a glimpse of my surroundings. </div><div>As I writhe my head around in an attempt to free my vision, I hear crusty words being whispered. I can’t quite make out what they are saying, but my heart quickens, and I increase my movements. The trampoline jerks suddenly, and I hear a crunching sound. Jason gurgles an unintelligible scream, which quickly fades to silence. Not exactly silence. His desperate wail is replaced with a steady slurping, which sounds like Jell-o being sucked through a straw. I close my eyes tight and increase my efforts to break free, my head now a wild, whiplashing metronome, moving to the frantic beat of an internal Danse Macabre.</div><div>After a moment I lay still, my body gently bobbing on the trampoline. The ghastly slurping sounds have stopped. I open my eyes, and find that my efforts have paid off. The rope has slipped somewhat, and I see a couple of pinhole lights, which are stars in the black sky. I roll my eyes to the right, and see a long, tubular bar with rows of hairy protrusions. Before I can process this information, the trampoline bounces viciously again, and my eyes slam shut in reflex. </div><div>The bouncing gently settles into the now familiar pattern of bobbing in time to a slow, silent waltz. </div><div>“One-two-three. One-two-three.”</div><div>I open my eyes. Directly in front of me are two long, yellow, pointed shafts, about a foot apart. As I focus, I look to the top of the shafts. I see what appears to be dozens of hemispheres in a variety of sizes, each one neatly imitating the next, arrayed in geometrical rows. They look hauntingly familiar. Then I hear the raspy, creaking whisper:</div><div>“Tasty…flies. Tasty…flies.”</div><div>I don’t know if my scream was audible. I just know I shrieked with my psyche and every fiber of my being as the fangs plunged into my chest. My fear became agony as I realized that the crunch I heard was my ribs breaking and shattering. I could feel the pain and pressure as Rumpelstiltskin withdrew my internal juices with her strong vacuum. The newly familiar slurping sound was all I could hear. As the life faded from my body, my last sight was the visible dent above those rows of eyes. Those probing, knowing, glassy eyes, shrouded by the smell of eternal death.</div></div>Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-35574648651745292962021-04-28T15:37:00.002-07:002021-05-05T08:31:32.705-07:00The Magic Wordsmith<div class="separator"><div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/official-life-bits-and-other-chunks.html">HOME</a>
</div>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="50" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="35" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="4px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"The Magic Wordsmith" is an excerpt from <u><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</a></u>, by Stephen L. Wilson.<br /><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirUPH2sWNn-P_exFYaaJealTHqCY6L1OBPFb-cks2Tpz0NH7mgKRoK21b1oEUvhDEEMEXsTqibEA5M0oLWn5xbgsR50TDsjFOW58v_QBuu4HXwmoTXAPg9dBBHJvxdLa4VT4HdJUCFjeg/s392/Wordsmith.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="392" data-original-width="384" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirUPH2sWNn-P_exFYaaJealTHqCY6L1OBPFb-cks2Tpz0NH7mgKRoK21b1oEUvhDEEMEXsTqibEA5M0oLWn5xbgsR50TDsjFOW58v_QBuu4HXwmoTXAPg9dBBHJvxdLa4VT4HdJUCFjeg/s320/Wordsmith.jpg" /></a></div>So the word was "cholera." I was writing a report about it. I was in a rush, and scrambling to put the finishing touches on it. I decided to work in a quiet computer lab at the university. Unfortunately, the lab wasn't empty. </div><div>An annoyingly familiar student asked me what I was working on.</div><div>I said, "An essay on koh-LEHR-uh."</div><div>The student's face transformed into the arrogant face of a know-it-all, and he proceeded to remind me that he was a pre-med student, and that the proper pronunciation was "COLLAR-uh." Without a pause, the pre-med student then proceeded to bombard me for the next five minutes about whatever field it was that he specialized in. I believe it was gastro something or the other, and he prattled on about enzymes and tissue, or something like that. He was using fifteen-letter words only he knew, and his demeanor was more than a tad condescending.</div><div>I politely listened as I realized precious time was slipping by. After all, my cholera essay wasn't writing itself, no matter the proper pronunciation of the word.</div><div>While he rambled, I contemplated.</div><div>Finally he paused for a breath. That is when I jumped in.</div><div>"How sesquipedalian of you! You know, I used to consider myself to be a lexicographic prestidigitator, until I realized that I sounded like I was trying to be a wordy magician. Now I consider myself to be a prestidigitative lexicographer!"</div><div>His face transformed again. Only this time it looked like he was gasping a bit, and there was a glint of confusion in his rapidly blinking, watery eyes. It was priceless!</div><div>I heard a stifled laugh from a person behind him. Later I learned that she was an English major. That made sense.</div><div>I managed to finish my "COLLAR-uh" paper on time, no thanks to Mr. Pre-med! I suppose I should thank him though. In the end, it turns out that I will never mispronounce cholera again, and I have a quick story, should the need arise.</div></div><div><br /></div>Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-62573826816384962532021-04-28T14:52:00.002-07:002021-05-05T08:39:50.208-07:00For The Love Of Grease<div class="separator"><div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/official-life-bits-and-other-chunks.html">HOME</a>
</div>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="50" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="35" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="4px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"For The Love Of Grease" is an excerpt from <u><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</a></u>, by Stephen L. Wilson.<br /><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTLQBG5LZcC8LN8tbBm-cdIshrw38gpgJUsFEsiSOk0ltkwZV0dirvCzVtTr-JCAK2nnnCGU_TyrUNvd-T9qTR8RQiqwSkc6lGjBFW6NSjh3QSBb6eVzG0H_YOFcQyp0hYHkE4NWrfB5I/s384/SunburstBW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="288" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTLQBG5LZcC8LN8tbBm-cdIshrw38gpgJUsFEsiSOk0ltkwZV0dirvCzVtTr-JCAK2nnnCGU_TyrUNvd-T9qTR8RQiqwSkc6lGjBFW6NSjh3QSBb6eVzG0H_YOFcQyp0hYHkE4NWrfB5I/s320/SunburstBW.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Lately I saw a story about someone who was recently in trouble over a rented VCR tape.</i></div></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>I have a similar story. I hope you enjoy it!</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><><><><><><><><></div><div>I was fishing on a Friday, in the early '90s. The fishing hole is actually a place on the river where a basalt dike edges the water for miles. The walk to the fishing hole is only about ten city blocks, and it is at the base of a bridge, making shade a whole lot easier to come by. People don't know this, but the Eastern Washington sun can be relentless and brutal.</div><div>Where I fish is on the downstream side of a pumphouse jetty that obstructs my upstream view. This is the direction that the game warden boat came from, and it startled me a bit to look up and see him right there beside me.</div><div>"Good day. Catching anything?"</div><div>"No sir. Maybe a tan."</div><div>I wasn't worried. I was papered up.</div><div>"May I see your fishing license and state ID?"</div><div>"Sure!"</div><div>I opened up my tackle box and retrieved the requested documentation. </div><div>"Mr. Wilson, you have a warrant issued from Benton County for criminal possession of leased or rented property. I'm afraid you will have to come with me."</div><div>Now thIs was quite a bit to process all at once. A warrant? For criminal possession of property? And I was supposed to come with him, in his boat, across the river?</div><div>"Hang on a minute. Are you sure you have the right Steve Wilson? There are a few of us, and even my dad is one. You have the wrong one, I can tell you that."</div><div>He confirmed my social security number and address. It was me, apparently. My day of fishing was wrecked, and I didn't even know why! I tried to talk my way out of it.</div><div>"Say! You are a game warden, not a cop. I will wait for a cop to show up to arrest me, if that is the case."</div><div>"I will have you know, Mr. Wilson, that as a fully commissioned peace officer for the state of Washington, I am not only permitted to arrest you, I am obligated to do so. Put this on."</div><div>He tossed me a life vest. I put it on.</div><div>"Is there anyone you know who can pick up your gear? You will have a chance to call someone when you get to booking."</div><div>I said that there was, and stashed my pole and tackle box in the rocks nearby. I asked him again what the charge was, because I had no idea why I had a warrant. Again, he stated that it was for criminal possession of leased or rented property. That was all he knew, and if I would put my hands behind my back so that he could get along with his day.</div><div>He cuffed me on those heavy, jagged basalt rocks on that hot summer afternoon and helped me into his boat. Directly across the river was a marina, with a hotel and restaurant. This time of day, the restaurant deck was stocked with upwardly mobile scotch and cocktail drinkers, polishing off a week of white collar work. As the game warden escorted my cuffed arms up the dock, towards the police car in the marina parking lot, I saw these hoity-toity types peering out at me, seemingly amused at my situation. At that moment, I acted on impulse and shouted loudly:</div><div>"Don't worry John! I didn't tell them anything!" </div><div>I don't know how many up there were named John, but hopefully I spooked a couple of them. Gawkers, anyway.</div><div>On the way to the police station, I had a good chat with the police officers. I asked if they knew what criminal possession of leased or rented property meant. One suggested that maybe I rented something and did not return it. The only thing I could think of was a washer and dryer that had already been repossessed. I swore that I shouldn't have anything like that, but I could tell that he heard that kind of stuff all the time.</div><div>My wife and I were supposed to go to a Brooks and Dunn concert that night. Because it was Friday, I would not be able to see the judge until Monday. I was going to spend the weekend in the pokey, and I STILL did not know why! Luckily for me, my cell faced the parking lot to the venue where the concert was. To pass time, I stood on a chair and watched out the small window for the white 1976 Pontiac Grand Prix that we owned at the time. I never did see it.</div><div>I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to talk to some of my temporary roommates, in case they had any understanding of my warrant. None did, but I learned a couple of things in the process. Spades is a very serious game "on the inside," and, after a day or two, I missed my own cooking.</div><div>Come Monday morning, I was ready to get out of there. About eight of us were rounded up and escorted to the courtroom. It wasn't much of a courtroom, really. More of a space carved out so that the judge could make quick work of minor miscreants such as myself. There were a few guys in front of me, so I had an opportunity to size up the judge before I met her. She seemed kind of cranky, so I thought I would throw in as many "your honor"s and "yes ma'am"s as possible. </div><div>As luck would have it, my preparation was all for naught. The guy in front of me got her all riled up! He was raising his voice, sternly pounding his hand on the podium, saying things like, "Look here, judge" and "No, let me tell YOU..." I was about ready to give that guy a whack! The judge straightened him out real quick though, and put him on this new work crew for Benton County. And then it was my turn.</div><div>I nervously smiled and nodded quickly. </div><div>"Hello your honor."</div><div>"I understand that you are here for criminal possession of leased or rented property. How do you plead?"</div><div>"About that, your honor. I still don't understand what the charges are for."</div><div>"Do you have property that you rented but have not returned?"</div><div>"Not at all! I mean, with my credit the way it is, I can't rent much of anything. I have been in jail over the weekend, wracking my brain, and cannot figure out what it is that I did wrong!"</div><div>The judge scrutinized my eyes for any hint of deception. I guess she believed me because she grabbed my paperwork and took a quick look through it. She nodded knowingly. </div><div>"The plaintiff is [Such and Such] Video, in Kennewick. Apparently you did not return a video."</div><div>I was stunned. A video? I mean, maybe, but I had no idea that misplacing or forgetting a video would lead to an arrest warrant! </div><div>"You mean that not returning a video results in being able to arrest somebody over it?"</div><div>"Yes. It is not your property. If you don't return it, you might as well have stolen it. How do you plead?"</div><div>"Um. Well. I guess if the paperwork says I rented it, I guess I rented it. Does it say which movie?"</div><div>"Mr. Wilson. Please. I have four other people behind you and the rest of my day to finish. How do you plead?"</div><div>"Well, guilty, then."</div><div>"OK then. You will work off your fine either in jail or on the county work crew. The work crew is a privilege, so don't mess it up."</div><div>I thanked the judge and was promptly processed out of the jail house. For the next two weeks I spent my days on a short bus full of indentured servants for the county. It is windy here, so there were plenty of vacant lots full of tumbleweeds and blown-in paper trash in various areas in the county. I would arrive at the jail house in the morning, and was picked up in the evening. Usually my ride was my '76 Pontiac Grand Prix. It had a huge trunk that I kept filling, but never emptying. </div><div>One day, much later, I decided to go ahead and clean it out. I had the expected items - tools, a blanket, a jacket. There were also all kinds of other items. The trunk was full, and it took me the better part of a Sunday to clean it all out. At the end of it all, I discovered that between the side of my trunk and the body of the car was a narrow space. Just narrow enough for a movie to slip down there. Guess what I found? </div><div>Grease was my wife's favorite movie at that time. I am sure that I happily agreed to rent it. I may even have watched it with her. What I can tell you is that the movie was rented from [Such and Such] Video, a long time prior to me discovering it in that void. I took the movie to my wife, and gave it to her. I mean, I already paid for it. She might as well keep it. </div><div>I suppose that it is good for me that renting VCR tapes is an action of the past. One less thing, right? Except that I just ran across this in an old box in the garage . . .</div></div><div><br /></div>Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-32739470665215502792021-04-28T14:41:00.002-07:002021-05-05T08:41:34.444-07:00A Boy On A Boat<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/official-life-bits-and-other-chunks.html">HOME</a></div><hr /><table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="50" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="35" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="4px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"A Boy On A Boat" is an excerpt from <u><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</a></u>, by Stephen L. Wilson.<br /><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td>
</tr></tbody></table><hr /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCghtiOzQZxdAdIwMwjQ7tuikvbLFvbOOHPbaDLyu9MFjUslvC1nO5qywQfMiswP99hbIy6vIkAaJckVXIwodd3IpBQINnh5ogB1FswsOH2mXgx6cECxKlBo16jdtAGVoUlP3rW-vPcZM/s320/FullMoonAdjusted.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCghtiOzQZxdAdIwMwjQ7tuikvbLFvbOOHPbaDLyu9MFjUslvC1nO5qywQfMiswP99hbIy6vIkAaJckVXIwodd3IpBQINnh5ogB1FswsOH2mXgx6cECxKlBo16jdtAGVoUlP3rW-vPcZM/s0/FullMoonAdjusted.jpg" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>My son was going to Alaska to work on a fishing boat, just like I did so many years ago. I was proud and sad at the same time, which is what motivated this telling.</b></span></i></div></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><><><><><><><><></div><div>A full moon. After a full day - but not complete. My son and I generally hang out late, pointing out satellites, watching for UFOs and talking about the moon. We bond with astrology, it seems. Together we have discussed things like meteors vs. meteorites, star dust and velocity. Together we went to a race in Hood River under a lunar eclipse. On that pre-dawn journey we discussed such things as primitive peoples and their perspectives, how the land was shaped, and Herman the Sturgeon at Bonneville.</div><div>Sunday marks the one-week anniversary of my son's "Great Alaskan Experience," at eighteen years of age. He purposely landed a "real job" designed to test him. Sometime soon, I hope to hear from him. If you aren't familiar with the timelines of fishing in the Bering Sea, it goes something as follows:</div><div>Tanner was in Anchorage on Sunday, and was probably on the boat in Dutch Harbor by the end of Sunday. My best guess is that the boat would want to head back out within 24 to 36 hours after docking. They want to get back on the fish as soon as they can. Being docked and offloading isn't making money - it is only making room for more fish!</div><div>I would think that, at the very latest, they would be heading out by early Tuesday. This is only an educated guess, since maybe the new crew was the last thing they were waiting on, and out they went as soon as the crew came on. The departure window is from early Monday to early Tuesday, at the latest.</div><div>Then it takes a couple of days to find the fish, set the net, drag it and then haul it aboard. There can be up to 100 metric tons of fish in the net, and hauling it from the bottom of the ocean takes a while. After the first net, processing begins, and will continue until the hold is full. The boat Tanner is on has a hold of probably over 100 metric tons. Depending on how good the fishing is, it can take from seven to ten days to fill it.</div><div>Once it is full, it takes a day or better to get back to Dutch. Then there is offloading, and it involves any able body at any time who are able to or who are required to be available to help.</div><div>Once the offload is finished, there may be some "town time" for the crew. Of course, there is also re-stocking of the ship store, food and general supplies, delivery of mail and packages, re-fueling and any ordered parts or machinery to consider during dock time, as well. Depending on the boat company, dock time can be two or three days, usually. It also depends on such conditions as weather, delays in shipments and crew arrivals and departures.</div><div>When you consider all of these factors, I would expect to hear from my son any time between Tuesday and Sunday. After this trip, it will be much easier to estimate his activity. For now, I have to hope that when he DOES have the available time, that it will be during regular human hours over here. Murphy and his ever-damned laws dictate that this will not be the case, and I will only know at the moment, when the time comes. Either way, to hear my son speak in my ear will be much needed, for both of us, I think.</div><div>Until then, I see that full moon. I smile with sadness, and reflect on its presence when a boy is becoming a man in the Bering Sea. At home, the moon hangs dutifully bold in the sky. The same face looks at you all of your life as it follows its pattern through the sky. Occasionally it will perform stunning stellar displays, such as blocking out the entire sun, or turning blood red during its own, separate Lunar events. It is the flashlight of the sky, beaming as we beam back. A steady beacon of stoicism and stability.</div><div>On the Bering Sea, the moon is in motion. Depending on the vector of the boat, the moon can be dancing from side to side; port to starboard, to port, to starboard. From leg to leg - side to side. Other times Luna will be pogo-hopping, bottom to top; taunting and playful, as if performing. Big swells offer a more dramatic show, as a trough blocks the view, and a crest reveals it. Like a shutter - open, closed, open, closed; moon up, moon down, moon up, moon down; now you see me, now you don't. More often than not, however, the clouds obscure most of the clear views of the moon. In fact, it is a treat when the schedule works out on full-moon days.</div><div>Certainly this moving moon is something shared by mariners around the world, and can be considered a cultural touchstone for those who have shared the experience of living on the ocean.</div><div>I miss the kid, but I welcome the man. He has earned this respect.</div><div>As a father, I admire his grit. He is younger than I was when I went to Dutch Harbor (though not by much!), and he may be the youngest on the boat, which has a crew of 80 or so. When his options after graduating were, "Military, college or work," he chose work. At that point, he and I discussed what kind of jobs were available, and whether or not his future involved name tags and uniforms, "being his own boss," learning how to put together combos or some other type of job available to a young person with limited experience. He made it clear to me that he wasn't messing around, and that he wanted to jump into adulthood with both feet, right into the deep end - no floatie. It seems as if he literally has done just that!</div><div>When you read this, Son, know that I love and miss you! I am being selfish, of course, as many others love and miss you, too. Just know that when I see the moon from here, I also know how it looks from where you are. That is something we share, and something we both can be proud of. When you get back, and the moon is the faithful flashlight you have known all of your life, and your new reality is familiar, yet entirely different to you, I would like to hear your thoughts and plans. I am excited for your future, no matter what you come up with!</div><div>Take care Son, and just know that your Dad is there in spirit. Love ya.</div>
Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-89660596794119743082021-04-28T14:38:00.002-07:002021-05-05T09:24:33.977-07:00May 18th, 1980 - Reliving The Blast<div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/official-life-bits-and-other-chunks.html">HOME</a> </div><hr /><table style="width: 100%px;"><tbody><tr><td align="right"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="50" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="35" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="4px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"May 18th, 1980 - Reliving the Blast" is an excerpt from <u><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</a></u>, by Stephen L. Wilson.<br /><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><hr /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCrJ0bmI3rMXAoWrajaAfrI-FSXbGJLzQT0XDkvuGjB8zkdhVrhda8x2DEiHM00lq6Bdc60cd1A243ZMms3bP2xUV7vFvQe7ckHLpt4tpOEjq1GXMvTXAAltLanRayvSXmi66sTjHk554/s384/mtsthe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCrJ0bmI3rMXAoWrajaAfrI-FSXbGJLzQT0XDkvuGjB8zkdhVrhda8x2DEiHM00lq6Bdc60cd1A243ZMms3bP2xUV7vFvQe7ckHLpt4tpOEjq1GXMvTXAAltLanRayvSXmi66sTjHk554/s320/mtsthe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I was eight years old, almost nine. I had a birthday coming up in a few days and pretty much had that on my mind, most times. Spring had sprung by then, and the warm days were gathering in bunches. Fresh, flowery funks filled the ether, and the resonant ringing of rambunctious raptorlings reverberated all around. Nature also provided a new, unique, once-in-a-lifetime thrill for me - Mt. Saint Helens. </div><div>In March of 1980, the mountain moved. Not the major eruption it is famous for. Not at first. At first, steam started to spout out of the top of the peak, and a "bulge" began to form on the north side, I remember hearing. News was spreading fast, and I remember a story about an old man named Harry Truman who lived on Spirit Lake and refused to move. In an interview I saw him say that he would die on the mountain, if that was his fate. At the time, these strong words were a bit alarming to me. Death and all, I guess.</div><div>I was in third grade at the time, at a new school in Vancouver, Washington. It was up on a hill, and when I was sitting on the bus, my view of the mountain was unimpeded and beautiful to my young world. The most vivid memory in my mind's eye is of a light cyan, almost transparent blue sky gradually deepening to indigo in the distance, creating a vignette and backdrop for a magnificent, clear mountain about four inches high in the school bus window, with a continual tall mushroom of pure white steam above it. The cone was almost perfect, and I later learned that the shape and contour of Mt. Saint Helens was widely compared to Japan's famous Mt. Fuji. </div><div>After a couple of months, the mountain was just a bit of common news by that point, with current events plogging along, continually updating headlines and news stories. Oh, I think that maybe I remember some bits and pieces. There were earthquakes all the time, and the bulge became a dome, which was always being watched as it kept growing. Maybe in April or early May she burped or something, because I remember looking out of the bus window and the dazzling mountain was stained a stoic, uncompromising gray. The steam cloud was more ominous, and I remember missing the pretty white perfection of nature's creation, not realizing that the most amazing beauty, awe and spectacle was yet to come!</div><div>Wikipedia says this about the morning of May 18th, 1980:</div><div>"On May 18, a second earthquake, of magnitude 5.1, triggered a massive collapse of the north face of the mountain. It was the largest known debris avalanche in recorded history...For more than nine hours, a vigorous plume of ash erupted, eventually reaching 12 to 16 miles (20 to 27 km) above sea level. The plume moved eastward at an average speed of 60 miles per hour (100 km/h) with ash reaching Idaho by noon. Ashes from the eruption were found collecting on top of cars and roofs the next morning as far as the city of Edmonton in Alberta, Canada...By about 5:30 p.m., the vertical ash column declined in stature, and less severe outbursts continued through the night and for the next several days...The removal of the north side of the mountain reduced St. Helens' height by about 1,300 feet (400 m) and left a crater 1 mile (1.6 km) to 2 miles (3.2 km) wide and 0.5 miles (800 m) deep."</div><div>I felt that earthquake. I was sitting on the porch, reading the Sunday comics. I felt a "growling" type sensation as I heard a low, distant grinding noise. It lasted several seconds, and the porch was tremoring. It didn't feel like the "rolling earthquakes" I hear about in California. It felt more like a small, steady shaking, fast but short motion that became stronger, to where my bare feet could feel the activity. Something like, if you can imagine, sitting on a large brick or rock as it is slowly being dragged in the street behind a car. And then it stopped, after about ten seconds or so.</div><div>I rushed into the kitchen to tell my Mom, who was making strawberry jam. I asked her if she felt that, but she didn't. She seemed pretty busy, and I had to go. I was supposed to meet a friend of mine, who ironically shared the same name, with a different middle name. We went to school together, were on the same baseball team and were even in the same cub scout troop for a while. We were going to meet at Fred Meyer and spend our change on some Brach's candy before riding over to the old school to play some baseball in its run-down, gravelly field.</div><div>I had a black bike, with a chain guard that said "Hot Stuff," and there were flames all along the face of it. I slid my mitt onto my handlebars and grabbed my bat, which I carried. Fred Meyer was only a few minutes by bike, and I knew my friend would be there already. I was running late!</div><div>I met him just outside the store entrance. There weren't any bike racks then. In those days, you just chained your bike to a pillar or post, like cowboys used to do with horses. In our case, we didn't have chains, so we brought our bikes in with us. Nobody said anything to us about it as we bagged our candy, so it must have been okay. I bought some of the chewy nougat cubes with gum drops sliced into them and some butterscotch hard candy, if memory serves me. </div><div>As we walked our bikes out of the store, munching on our candy, what befell our astounded eyes took some time to process and comprehend. In the direction of the mountain was a billowing of gray clouds, roiling and building, quickly but softly puffing up and out; roiling, roiling. As the churning gray mass built, the sun was shining on the left side of the eruption, creating a dynamic and dramatic shading from light gray to almost black. As the blast continued to mount, these tricks of light were changing everywhere in the ash cloud, as the eruption continued to form. </div><div>Because of the intensity and friction, lightning could be seen all over the freakish cloud. The biggest and most insane lightning I have ever seen! Some would travel like spider-beasts, along the side of this now massive cloud, scrambling from the base all along the face, only to disappear at the top like some cheesy rope-climbing stunt performer. Other lightning blasts were forceful, giant bolts, stabbing out as if Zeus himself were administering the strikes. The oddest thing, looking back, is that there was no sound. This beauty and awe was unraveling itself before my very being, and here I was, not hearing a thing. Apparently we were too close to the blast; there was some kind of effect where the noise was projected beyond a certain point, and we were inside that range.</div><div>My buddy and I looked at each other, and without a word, we sped off in different directions to our domiciles and sanctuaries.</div><div>After that, I don't recall too much. I know that for the rest of the day, the mountain kept spewing ash that got dark and stayed dark. Since we lived on the "backside" of the blast, and the wind was blowing to the east, we didn't see too much ash compared to some other places. There was maybe a couple of inches of ash, and it covered everything. People were wearing masks, but not everyone. I don't remember wearing one. </div><div>I guess my sister must have been a baby, because my brother and I filled baby food jars with the ash. I don't know what ever became of those. My step-dad worked at a PVC plant, and brought home some T-shaped plastic pipe about an inch in diameter that hooked up to a garden hose, so that you could spray the ash off of the driveway and walkways. The fine particulate matter of the ash also clogged AC units and gummed up the works on some vehicles. I remember hearing about scientists who died like crispy critters, and it made me sad. </div><div>When it was all said and done, we didn't get nearly the ash that folks in eastern Washington and Idaho received, but the front-row seat was awesome! When I heard that the ash cloud circled the Earth several times, not only was I impressed, it convinced me that the world is round.</div><div></div>Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220779200093639015.post-82451752164196592822021-04-28T04:32:00.001-07:002021-05-07T08:19:18.594-07:00From the Andreas Pavel Stereobelt to the Ear Bud Society<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://otherchunks.blogspot.com/2014/06/official-life-bits-and-other-chunks.html">HOME</a>
</div>
<hr />
<table style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="1" height="50" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbj7FalskOSBCr1phvxwjI4zIpmVMUA_fCDxeDsZFoJnGNOlFmQm4a6n30EduqNK3i8xcshS-pK_1njwneGOIR2rtG2VEFeFEdsbvagAMWF3c97xuE4GTmw0FVfac5OygpzFt16jP8RKo/s1600/LifeBitsCoverBandN.jpg" width="35" /></a></td><td width="90%"><span face="Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif" font-size:="4px" style="font-size: xx-small;">"From the Andreas Pavel Stereobelt to the Ear Bud Society" is an excerpt from <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man</a>, by Stephen L. Wilson. <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/173740" target="_blank">Available at Smashwords</a>. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021.</span></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<hr />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPhq6I_6ybs-Ev3gglzNH_13XxqxBjMUSS-UyuDjh_Q6PBNGctvaXPj4K3O3OLGYGNFBP-eIVb8HuGPDQDJt4PyaACww0EGuu6XMyLdls-ACQG4jRYmMqNa-d6OaZq8iAjzy0uGTO_E6s/s1600/PavelCollage.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPhq6I_6ybs-Ev3gglzNH_13XxqxBjMUSS-UyuDjh_Q6PBNGctvaXPj4K3O3OLGYGNFBP-eIVb8HuGPDQDJt4PyaACww0EGuu6XMyLdls-ACQG4jRYmMqNa-d6OaZq8iAjzy0uGTO_E6s/s1600/PavelCollage.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Free images courtesy of <a href="http://www.freeclipartnow.com/">http://www.freeclipartnow.com</a></i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The histories of musical entertainment, communication
and society have certainly seen evolutionary shifts and interactions.
For example, the discovery of proteges during the Renaissance most
assuredly had an impact on the development of society at the time. Rock
stars in their day, maestros who were available to perform were vital to
the social communication fabric of their era (<a href="http://www.classicalmusicreview.com/2013/05/12/history-when-there-was-classical-music/" target="_blank">Social Importance of Classical Music</a>).
Since there was no way to record their performances, people would have
to physically attend the event. As a result, there developed a specific
and refined way to communicate amongst the attendees. <b>Music,
communication, and society were inseparable.</b><br />
Music has played an
integral role in identifying cultures throughout history, and continues
to do so currently. From harvest dances to military anthems, music has
been used as a vital communication tool within societies. When
technology began to advance at a more rapid rate following the invention
of electricity, so did the development of musical technologies,
communications technologies and the importance of both on the
ever-shrinking global society. <br />
Music itself has been evolving and
changing in fits and starts, sometimes independent of the messages
contained within it. From the days of Edison’s first phonograph until
modern times there have been numerous booms and busts for music trends.
It can be pretty confusing to attempt to shackle the social relevance of
musical entertainment with a generalization. However, there is no
denying the impact that music has had on society as a whole, from its
very inception into culture.<br />
Despite the marvelous advances and
technological breakthroughs throughout the ages, I can pose the argument
that until Andreas Pavel patented his invention, the “Stereobelt,” <b>no
other technological evolution has had a bigger impact on the development
of musical entertainment, communication and society at the same time.</b><br />
By
1972, music was clearly an established force within the very bones of
society. The way music reached our societies moved quickly through the
mediums of vinyl phonograph records, 8-track tapes and then cassettes. A
trend which was emerging was the intimacy of music being key to this
expression. Music tendencies were morphing toward a more personalized
delivery. For instance, electronic engineering methods, such as the
transmissions of public AM, and later FM radio stations were becoming
more personally adapted, thanks to the modernization of the
technologies. As a result, there was a boom of portable transistor
radios that lasted from the 1950’s until into the 70s. <br />
In February of 1972, Andreas Pavel completed his device (<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2005/12/17/international/americas/17pavel.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0" target="_blank">In Pavel's Words</a>).
He had a successful working model of his invention - <b>a mobile, battery
operated cassette player with headphones</b>. His mechanism fit in perfectly
with the cumulative social desire to personalize music, or so he
thought.<br />
For several years, Pavel enjoyed the novelty of his
invention, and made attempts to promote it to various corporations and
related entities. His efforts were met with smirks and denial. Not to be
discouraged, the underdog Andreas Pavel decided to take matters into
his own hands. On March 24, 1977, he secured a patent in Italy, where he
was living at the time. <br />
In 1978, Andreas Pavel began what became
an exhausting lesson about the underdog never giving up. After being
denied and scoffed at, Pavel filed for patents in several countries (<a href="http://patft.uspto.gov/netacgi/nph-Parser?Sect1=PTO2&Sect2=HITOFF&p=1&u=%2Fnetahtml%2FPTO%2Fsearch-bool.html&r=2&f=G&l=50&co1=AND&d=PTXT&s1=pavel-andreas.INNM.&OS=IN/pavel-andreas&RS=IN/pavel-andreas" target="_blank">Initial U.S. Patent Claim (now abandoned)</a>, <a href="http://patft.uspto.gov/netacgi/nph-Parser?Sect1=PTO2&Sect2=HITOFF&p=1&u=%2Fnetahtml%2FPTO%2Fsearch-bool.html&r=1&f=G&l=50&co1=AND&d=PTXT&s1=pavel-andreas.INNM.&OS=IN/pavel-andreas&RS=IN/pavel-andreas" target="_blank">Current U.S. Patent Claim</a>).
Unfortunately for Pavel, the patent process proved to be slow and
ineffective for him. By 1980, Japan was mass-producing and <b>selling
Pavel’s work as the Walkman</b> - and hard-bargaining Pavel for rights and
payments. Although Pavel eventually recovered royalties and compensation
in a settlement with Sony, it took twenty-three years to do so (<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2005/12/17/international/americas/17pavel.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0" target="_blank">Evidence of Pavel's Struggle</a>).
In addition, his life became an expensive roller coaster of litigation.
In the end, however, Andreas Pavel is generally recognized as having
invented the “Stereobelt” that we all know as the Sony Walkman.<br />
In
the decade of the 1980s, the entertainment industry was mutating and
morphing into an unrecognizable beast. Once again, technology progress
belched along, and the transmission of information over coaxial cable
networks allowed music and television to mesh. At this point, the niche
for the Walkman as a personal entertainment device lie mainly separate
from the visual format. In fact, it was not unusual in the 80s to see
young people dressed in fashions imitating the new and wild looks of the
televised videos while absentmindedly head-bobbing to something on
their Walkman. ‘<b>The look</b>’ was the desired expression, preferred over
music for awhile. Individuality was still innocent; <b>music still relied
on personal social interaction </b>to be an acceptable means of culturizing.
Personal contact was still necessary in order for ‘the look’ to
register with the social psyche. The music was secondary.<br />
From
that time until now, a virtual Renaissance has occurred in the area of
digital technology, and in effect, social interaction, communication and
music/entertainment. Within the span of 20 to 30 years coaxial cable
has come and gone, replaced with fiber optics. Fiber optics have been
one-upped by satellite transmissions. Telephones have transmogrified
from a simple, specialized, useful device meant to operate within the
confines of a minimal location to a Swiss army knife of social and
leisurely outlets, allowing the user nearly complete freedom of
environment and selection of entertainment. Music no longer stands alone
as the desired type of media which can be readily accessible. Indeed,
music is more commonly disregarded as secondary in relation to the
popularity of videos, pictures, games and social networking as a
portable necessity.<br />
We now live in a world of pads and pods, and electronic media is here to stay. <b>Moore’s Law</b> (<a href="http://www.mooreslaw.org/" target="_blank">Moore's Law Explained</a>)
has proven reliable, and now a gadget the size of a deck of cards is
able to process more information than rooms full of computers could in
the 1970s. Almost as reliably, the personalization of music (and now
virtually any kind of entertainment) has finally achieved the event
horizon. Regarding social interaction, the power of the people is now
shifting to the power of the individual. <br />
The 1950s established
the firm ability for society to ascertain power to alter their cultural
reality. With the civil rights movements and drastic social welfare
reforms, this decade demonstrated that the people, as a society, were
able to impact their own destiny. In the 1960s, this new-found power
resulted in an overcompensation, and too much freedom caused social
backlashes and lessons that we still learn from today. In the 1970s,
power of the masses introduced again to the forefront women’s rights, a
focus on ethnic achievements, and a desire to challenge the status quo.
All three of these decades proved powerful enough to derail social
growth in its own way, and yet we seem to have recovered as a society,
for the most part. We are now in a stage that I refer to as the “<b>Ear Bud Society</b>,” from which I am afraid we may not be able to fully recover.<br />
Try
walking through the food court in any mall, a college campus or an
airport on a busy day. Count how many people have their ear buds in, cut
off from society. Also include those people so engrossed with texting
or gaming on their phone or electronic device that they appear to be
unapproachable or detached. Their entertainment is theirs alone, not
reliant on the social structure that once helped define music and
communication. I have been in social environments where many of the
people were engaged in conversation, but it wasn’t with anyone else in
the room! Is this truly social? To an objective observer with no
knowledge of electronic communications, it would seem that no
communication was happening at all, and yet many people were happily
interacting with virtual connections. This isn’t social communication,
this is <b><i>pseudo</i>-social communication</b>. It is this facet of the <b>Ear Bud Society</b> that will doom cultural structure in the end; a universally shared belief in an illusion.<br />
Language
is changing. It is truncated and interchangeable. ‘Lose’ and ‘loose’
are the same in public forums, and may someday merge into a single word
for both meanings. Abbreviations now dominate communication as limits
are imposed on text lengths, and time is of the essence. <b>The illusion is
that this is a more efficient way to communicate</b>. The reality is that
there is now less social motivation to improve language skills. There is
a generational acceptance of this behavior to the point where even a
discussion along these lines would be considered archaic to the
<b>Millennials</b> (<a href="http://www.livescience.com/38061-millennials-generation-y.html" target="_blank">What are Millennials?</a>). <br />
As
a whole, I fear that the exponential growth of technology and industry
will prove to be very demon that fell from grace. What was once hailed
as the obvious way to advance as a society has worked so well that now
the very technology that created the digital revolution has also created
the constricted interactions of people. We believe that we no longer
need entertainment to help us define the communication of others. Our
faith is in the internet and satellites to deliver our very
communication needs to the palm of our hands. <b>Our individual hands</b>.
Society defines our entertainment now as blurbs and flashes of
information derived from a personal position as opposed to a public
position, as was the case in the past. Communication now serves as a
type of entertainment as society molds its mentality to LOL, IDK and
WTG. The frenzy of revolving entertainment choices has made music a
lesser mode of enjoyment. Music has less social impact than before. Many
would argue that this has led to a degradation of musical quality in
general. <br />
Instead of witnessing the integration of
music/entertainment, communication and society, <b>what is happening is
worse than</b> the separation of the three. The <i>social acceptance</i> of
this separation is the death knell; the blindness that we all share as
we ride this modern wave to the very edge of reason. There is little
concerted effort by society to acknowledge the necessity for
communication to work as a tool to integrate people. Entertainment is a
cheap emotional fix and little more. Miniature adrenaline rushes as we
get a high score, or engage with some jerk in a social network, or jump
at a purposely startling video. <b>All of this excitement is individual,
not shared</b>. <br />
Unless we, as a society, reverse our tendency to
indulge instead of intellectualize, we will erode and crumble. As the
lack of expression and interaction becomes more and more accepted,
communication will change in such a way as to be something other than
necessary for the development of culture. Instead, culture will be
defined by popular bits and bytes of truncated information, designed for
the sole purpose of triggering the individual. Entertainment is already
not accepted as a viable mode for reliable communication, for the most
part. <b>Entertainment is about individual gratification</b>. As this isolation
continues, our society will fade, to be replaced with intellectually
stunted, automatonic people with no sense of community, entertainment or
society as a group. When this happens, we will have crossed the event
horizon, with no hope of returning. Steve Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01106769507452246948noreply@blogger.com0