The Sum of All My Fears

 

At the start of the 2000s and the 2010s some assholes published books saying that those decades would bring unprecedented prosperity for the United States. Well we know how those years went but while browsing Amazon recently yet another dumbass has published a book saying the 2020s will see the United States return to its winning ways.

Yeah, as you can imagine given recent events and circumstances things are still highly fucked. What's worse is that all signs and portents suggest nothing will get better for a while. Just for shits and giggles here's my take on the years between now and 2028.

I sincerely hope I'm wrong.

Early 2022: The Orange Buffoon declares he is again running for president. His “Big Lie” is front and center in his campaign saying he was cheated in 2020 and will return to the White House to make America great again. Despite talk of his popularity waning among certain circles, his base begins to herald his return like the Second Coming of Jesus.

All possible Republican presidential hopefuls quickly go out of their way to announce their support for his 2024 run.

2022: Being that the out of the White House party almost always makes significant gains during midterm elections, I see the Republicans taking control of both the House and the Senate. Despite threats of immediately impeaching President Biden and Vice President Harris upon taking control of congress, I believe the Republicans instead will just spend the next two years throwing the government into gridlock. The Republican media propaganda outlets will blame the resulting gridlock on Biden/Harris to pave the way for Trump's 2024 campaign.

If any Supreme Court justices happen to die or retire after the midterms, Mitch McConnell will refuse to allow President Biden to pick a replacement. At that point I don't even believe McConnell will attempt to justify his refusal to confirm a new justice.

2023: This year will be a wild card. Should unexpected events favor Biden/Harris their chances at reelection will be helped. The state of the economy and foreign affairs will depend greatly on whether or not Biden/Harris has any chance. The Republicans will certainly make an issue of Biden's competence and any misstatement or mistake on his part will be amplified and repeated by the media until independents are convinced he can't handle the job. Vice President Harris will certainly be the subject of a smear campaign to paint her as a radical socialist.

The real question is whether the Republicans will go so radical to secure their insane base they will alienate the fairly moderate suburban women.

Expect Russia to launch a massive interference campaign so huge it will make the 2016 interference look insignificant.

The final wild card that could happen anytime between now and 2024 is whether or not Trump and his family members are ever criminally indicted. If the Orange Buffoon and any family members are indicted with such evidence as to make conviction a real possibility, Trump will cut a deal so fast that I wouldn't put it past him to do anything from voluntarily fleeing the country to turning on the Republican party.

Got to admit, I had come to believe that Trump would have been long since indicted on something by now.

2024: If the country remains locked in economic stagnation and/or stuck in some form of Covid quagmire Trump will return to the White House. Trump's earlier disasters will be carefully swept under the rug with his propaganda emphasizing his “success” of managing the economy. Americans don't have the attention span of gnats but in general do have about the same level of intelligence.

It can't be understated the level of revenge Trump supporters have simmering over what the consider was the stolen 2020 election. On the other hand Democrats as sure to be fighting among themselves with progressive most likely whining about how they are ignored and should break off to form their own party.

While it was only whispered about on radical right-wing websites and chat rooms, I see a real possibility of Republican brownshirts groups forming to prevent certain people from voting. During the 2020 election I saw numerous examples of Trump supporters in massive pickup trucks with huge flags flying behind them cruising around polling places. On the surface it would be easy just to say they were peaceably showing their support. But a person would be a fool not to think these activities could easily turn into intimidation tactics.

This will go along with voter suppression laws being enacted by Republicans.

I'd like to think that Democrats might take back at least one house of Congress to counterbalance a new Trump Administration. More than likely that's wishful thinking on my part.

With this being Trump's second rodeo, he will go straight to picking corrupt and unqualified members for his cabinet. I predict his Vice President will be Nikki Haley. Although, Trump will keep pushing Ivanka Trump into staged government activities to build her credibility for a presidential run. For years Ivanka has openly expressed an desire to be the first female president. What friction this might create between his vice president and his unofficial but preferred successor will be interesting.

2025: In 2020, Trump sincerely believe he had the Supreme Court in his back pocket and that they would side with him on the election cases brought before them. Since they didn't, I see a huge possibility that Trump will pack the Supreme Court with up to five extra justices. All certified toadies that will do whatever he demands.

I genuinely believe McConnell would go along with packing the Court. His reasoning being that since the Democrats talked about it after the 2020 election, he would do it. Yes, McConnell will still be alive and running the United States Senate. Remember, Strom Thurmond was kept in office even years after the old bastard couldn't put a five word sentence together. With Mitch they would go as far as inventing a portable life support system to keep him in the senate. If he does die, there are plenty of sycophant replacement available.

I easily expect quick Supreme Court decisions that will promote a genuine authoritarian/police state takeover of the United States. While this is going on the military will be purged of officers whose loyalty is to the Constitution.

2026: By this time I expect considerable civil unrest in certain American cities with Republican brownshirts and actual cops shooting African-American men and women. Trump will stoke these racial fires resulting in rioting that he will crack down on with heavy force. I actually see Democratic-lead cities being taken under federal control.

The 2026 midterms will essentially be meaningless. Popular Democrats that could challenge Republicans in most any office will be accused of something illegal disqualifying them from office. Economic data coming from the government will be fixed to express whatever Trump wants. Whether or not Trump has taken control of the independent news media is an open question. If not, his brownshirts will certainly be used to scare journalists into submission.

2027: By this point the very seams of the country will be coming apart with separatists movements taking shape certainly in California and the Pacific Northwest. Especially if Trump refuses to release FEMA disaster funds until those governors grovel at his feet or change policy. What makes this particularly dangerous is that states like California pay out more money to the federal government than they take in. Whereas most red states receive more federal money that they pay in taxes.

2028: Trump being an unhealthy old man has to die sometime. But if the bastard makes it to this year he can't run for reelection, or at least that what the Twenty-Second Amendment says. Should he reach this point I can easily see him trying to push the idea that he “deserves another term.” The members of his cult will certainly agree and punish anyone who opposes the idea.

Should Trump die during this term how his vice president deals with his politically ambitious family and the Republican party as a whole will be interesting.

The Stupidity of the Carolina Squat

 For me anything that falls under the umbrella of “popular culture” is something I usually try and ignore. Whatever popular culture once was it is now overwhelmingly a banal wasteland paradoxically overflowing with lackluster personalities and social influencers who while not quite parasites on the butt of society certainly offer nothing of value to it.

Case in point has to be the Kardashians and anyone else associated with their popularity. There was a time when I thought they would fade into the static of American life like numerous others who found fame but couldn't justify it. Now, I have this strange idea that they will be remembered for hundreds of years in the future as a new type of demigods. I've got to admit, not bad for a family whose first dose of fame came from a “leaked” sex tape.

Despite my best efforts to ignore popular culture, aspects of it do penetrate my defenses making me take notice. That happened a few weeks back while I was stopped at a red light.

One of those massive monster trucks pulled up beside me. The funny thing though was that it was obvious that the front end was pointed up at a near forty-five degree angle. Like the back end of the truck was carrying a massive load weighing down the suspension. No, that wasn't the case. When the light turned green the driver of the truck hauled ass leaving me behind in all his truck exhaust glory.

Given the angle of the truck I could easily see the bed was empty of cargo. I didn't think much more of the truck until I saw another configured the same way a day or two later, then again not a couple of days later. By that point it was obvious these truck were not suffering from some sort of mechanical failure but were being alter to that configuration on purpose.

Eventually, I learned that these trucks with the front end pointed up, or the rear end modified to be lower was called the “Carolina Squat.”

Curiosity got the better of me and I did a little internet sleuthing. This trend originated in California and was used on the Baja desert racing circuit where it was called the “California Lean” or “Cali Lean.” Lowering the back end had a practical purpose in the sandy terrain and hilly landscape. When contestants hit a jump at high speed, the rear end would hit the ground first helping to avoid a crash. However this modification has no practical purpose when the vehicle stay strictly on highways and streets.

Leave it to the unrepentant ignorant rednecks of the American South to grab onto this trend in an attempt to impress someone. It was bad enough when years ago they started raising the wheel-bases of their trucks to the point small step ladders were needed to climb up into the cab. Throw in chrome rims that can run into the thousands of dollars alone and the American South once again can be thought of as a backwards bunch of idiots desperately attempting to overcome some perceived shortfall in manhood.

The shortfalls of the Carolina Squat include a total loss in towing capability, a dangerous reduction in proper handling along with simply being unable to see the road. Mainly because the truck's headlights will be pointed up and not down at the road ahead.

Leave it to Southerners to lead the charge into another level of stupidity.

MIddle Weekend Adventures

 

There was once a time when the serving in the Army National Guard was fun. But that was largely before my first enlistment in 1984 when the “old timers” would tell stories about massive weekends barbecues deep in the woods of Fort Jackson. Those parties were only topped by the ones that supposedly occurred during the two-week summer camps. Raging poker games in the barracks and quite illegal beer and food runs off post in army vehicles had become only whispered legends by the time I was a private (E-1) fresh out of basic training.

By 1984 the entire Army National Guard was entering another stage of its evolution. During the Vietnam era the National Guard was more of a joke being a much desired refuge for rich and well connected kids wanting to avoid the dangers of those distant jungles. After Vietnam the National Guard languished in a benign, apathetic limbo where the only thing worse than the insufficient training and discipline among the soldiers was the broken and out of date equipment they were issued.

When I finally joined in 1984, Ronny Raygun had already set in motion the changes that would totally remake the National Guard into the professional force it is today.

I stayed a weekend warrior for two years before going active duty in 1986 and during that time I caught an echo of the easy going style of the Old Guard. By that time weekend drills in the local armory were well organized with the required maintenance on equipment being performed as well as professional training classes being held. But still, there was an underlying understanding that we were not active duty troops and that at the end of the day our family and civilian jobs took first priority.

It was during the two-week annual training where the most hints of the Old Guard could be found during that time. Those two summer camps before I went active duty the first week would be spent in the field sleeping in leaky tents and vehicles along with playing at our various military occupational specialties. The second week had us in the barracks still largely playing soldier during the day but sleeping in hot and miserable barracks at night. Yeah, the hot and miserable barracks were an improvement from sleeping in the field. That is if you could sleep during the raging poker games that went on most the night and breathe the thick secondhand smoke from all the burning cigarettes.

Concerning those poker games, I have to mention that many of the wives of these guys had apparently been told that their husbands did not receive that much in pay for those two weeks. This was cover for many returning home almost broke after having lost it gambling. Now between the first week in the field and the second week in the barracks was the middle weekend. I remember it as a time when all discipline evaporated and the troops did what they wanted. Some just drank themselves into a weekend stupor with what money they had on hand. We're literally talking about whole mountains of empty beer cans at the start of the second week.

Not wanting to deal with clouds of cigarette smoke and Olympic-level drinking, I got in my car and hauled ass to a friends' house or went back home. Understand, I'm not passing judgment on those guys staying in the barracks. By the mid-1980s when I joined, all the rich and well connected Vietnam draft dodgers had returned to full civilian life. That just left the lower-middle class guys who worked rotating shifts during the rest of the year at Georgetown County's two major employers, the steel mill and the paper mill. The middle weekend of summer camp was in many ways their only vacation away from the demands of their jobs and families. I just didn't want to endure the smell of stale beer and breathe their second-hand smoke.

Of course, I went active duty army in 1986 and didn't have to deal with annual summer camps again until I returned to the National Guard in 1990.

When I returned to the National Guard in 1990 a great deal had changed. The Old Guard with its laid back attitude along with its lack of discipline was a bad memory. Even the more responsible but reasonable National Guard that existed when I joined in 1986 had evolved into an excessively gung-ho organization that was beginning to look upon its members civilian jobs as impediments to the mission. This was a situation that would only get worse over time.

What had also changed was the middle weekend. My first couple of summer camps back after leaving active duty had me traveling to some interesting posts with small groups, so I couldn't complain too much. The training was actually fun and I was still single and interested in having a good time. By the time of my first summer camp with the rest of my unit though, the whole basis of how things went had changed.

Not only did my unit still spend the first week out in the field playing soldier, but the second week as well. We would return to the rear area to stay in the barracks for the middle weekend. But even then the officers and NCO's weren't going to allow anything like the freewheeling antics that were once normal occurrences.

As a former active duty soldier I completely agreed with those changes. My problem came when the senior NCO's started making noises that they were going to no longer allow us to leave the post during the middle weekend. I'll put it to you frankly, there isn't any army base my National Guard unit frequented for summer camp that I would want to be stuck at for a weekend.

By 1996 I was married and had a son and as you might expect, the idea of being forced to hang around at the barracks during the middle weekend was supreme bullshit. That year my unit was doing summer camp at Fort Stewart, Georgia. Now understand, Stewart is amazingly close to beaches but as a new dad I wanted to be with my son.

It took a little persuasion, but my first sergeant decided to let me go leave Fort Stewart and go see my son. It was going to be an easy trip for me since all I had to do was hit I-95 and drive up to Manning, South Carolina where I would meet my son and wife at her parents' house. So that Friday afternoon at the beginning of the middle weekend, I got in my 1988 Ford Escort and hauled ass heading north.

I love my wife and kid by one of the sacrifices I had to make for them was selling my 1984 Chevrolet Camaro and getting the Escort. My Camaro had class and style, and been the reason I had scored as well as I did with the ladies back at Fort Carson. But as a family man, my Camaro pretty much sucked for driving your kid and wife around.

So we got a used four-door escort hatchback with four-cylinder engine and a crappy radio. It was dependable, it had cargo space, and I could fit a baby seat in the back. Surprisingly enough my Camaro turned out to have better gas mileage that the Escort but my wife didn't find that interesting.

About about two hours later I'm driving north on I-95 with the pedal to the floor doing about sixty miles and hour. The radio has lost all reception so I'm listening to the one cassette tape the player had destroyed and getting pretty tired Kenny Rodgers crone about his damn card game. Yes, I had a Kenny Rodgers tape in my car, it's a long story in its own right but understand I'm not a fan. The cassette player seemed to have its own idea of good music so I went along with its choices.

At some point after I passed the I-26 interchange the terrain around me opens up enough to allow me to see some sky. To the west I see clouds, some dark and heavy but nothing unusual for South Carolina. The weather that day for the entire state was sickeningly hot and soul-sucking humid but at least the AC on the Escort was a real winner.

The drone of the road and Kenny's whining about some woman leaving her family with a crop in the field caused me to zone out for a few minutes. What suddenly pulled me back to consciousness was a totally unexpected flash of lightning and the corresponding boom of thunder after that. Once I gathered my meager wits and wiggled my butt in the seat a little to make sure I hadn't shit my pants I looked over to my left and saw what was happening.

In the space of a few minutes that party cloudy day had completely changed. To the west of me a huge chunk of the sky had gone completely black, with the lightning flashing it looked like someone had opened the gates of Hell. Instinctively, I switched over to the radio and almost immediately heard the blaring noise of a weather alert.

At first all I heard was the Weather Service's robotic voice saying that a tornado warning was in effect for numerous counties along I-95. Yeah, no shit I thought to myself as the wind began trying to push my car off the road.

Mr. Robot was soon replaced with a panicked human voice saying this storm was throwing softball-sized hail and that if you were between certain mile markers on I-95 that you should seek shelter absolutely right now. Now I've never been good with math but right after I heard his words I saw a mile marker sign and realized I was smack in the middle of where he said all shit was about to fly.

Low and behold that was when the funnel cloud became visible on the left side of I-95. After a momentary scan of surroundings, I realized I was the only car on the road. Yeah, all the other smart people had probably heard the weather report on their dependable car radios and found shelter. I had somehow hit the one bleak and undeveloped section of I-95 in the whole damn state.

So, I said fuck it, gripped the steering wheel harder and ignored the funnel cloud and the growing sound of a train. No, I didn't look back on the funnel cloud so I don't know for certain if it had touched down and became a full tornado.

The rain went from a few drops to torrential and the booming of thunder made me feel like I was driving through an artillery barrage. Luckily, I somehow stayed on the road and didn't hit any fool who decided to stop in the middle of the interstate.

The sound of the train faded away but the rain never really letup. I did find the exit for Manning and successfully navigated the county roads to my in-laws house. These roads are seriously in the boonies to the point visitors traveling in that area might want to stay alert for any banjo playing.

Much to the chagrin of my dad-in-law, I pulled into his driveway before nightfall and was greeted by my smiling wife and young son. Weather reports did say that a tornado had touched down near that area but it was impossible for me to know for sure if the funnel cloud I saw was it.

The rest of the weekend was great with me having lots of time with my family. When I returned to Fort Stewart Sunday evening I found out that commanding officer had restricted everyone to the barracks just minutes after I left. His stated reasoning was to keep accountability and prevent needless accidents during annual training.

This decision by the CO pissed off the first sergeant and with me walking around with a huge shit-eating grin because I got laid and saw my kid over the weekend didn't help with his disposition. So much that I caught a bunch of crappy duties during that second week in the field.

I didn't care, outrunning a tornado was probably one of the funnest things I ever did during summer camp.

Toothache

 

Got hit with a toothache this morning and I've given up on trying to post anything this weekend. Going to take a long nap and hope my dentist doesn't find anything really bad tomorrow.

 Adding to my misery, my wife has control of the the television and has been watching the Hallmark Channel all day. This could be Hell.  

I Got Nothing This Weekend--The Movie

 "Hyperpig" by Ducard84 on Deviantart. Check out his other work

 

My winter-induced inactivity is still a problem. Spent Friday evening doing essentially nothing and just to be consistent my laziness for the entirety of Saturday was close to record breaking. Now understand, just like subatomic particles can never truly stop vibrating, I did perform the required household maintenance like weekend laundry, keeping the cat and dog fed and watered, and putting my dirty dishes into the dishwasher.

If I really want to stretch a point, my most strenuous effort Saturday was starting the dishwasher. On the other hand, depending on how different people judge activity, I did spend several hours after that reading. Sadly nothing profound, I was in the mood for an Alastair Reynolds novel where a genetically-uplifted pig leads a group of human refugees fleeing from an alien artificial intelligence millions of years old out to purge the galaxy of starfaring organic life.

Getting back to proper housework, I would have probably broke down and vacuumed the living room floor Friday if the professional carpet cleaning person wasn't coming to the house next Thursday. This company brings in one of those ultra-industrial vacuums that looks like an out of work Transformer or Terminator before cleaning the carpet. So I'll just let them do the heavy lifting sucking out all the pet hair, dead skin cells, and assorted bits of food from the carpet.

Last time the carpet people came the cat was so traumatized by their evil-looking vacuum cleaner he spent the rest of the day hiding on top of the living room book case.

So with my utter laziness dominate for at least the another month I have nothing real to write about. So I'll just throw and few lazy points out there.

First of all we're finally rid of the Orange Buffoon. Despite his demand for a military send off and a large crowd of mindless, cheering idiots but he got far less. Ideally, I would have preferred an assortment of law-enforcement types arresting his sorry ass but that is hopefully coming down the road.

I almost laughed my ass off after various Trump-loyalists started whining about how the rest of the country should be mindful of their hurt feelings. That if the Democrats, and any other sentient American wants “unity” we shouldn't push any agenda other than what Trump enacted. Particularly funny was Mitch “Turtle” McConnell saying the Democrats shouldn't play with established senate rules to force their policies through.

I'm also loving how the people living in the “Qanon” fantasy universe had their bubble busted by the total lack of anything happening. How Trump was part of some double top-secret sting operation that going to have hundreds of Democrats, Hollywood celebrities, and other “elites” arrested for being part of a worldwide, Satan worshiping, pedophile ring. I sure that psychology students of the future will be write their PhD thesis papers on that shared delusion.

Well, that's about it for now. I really should go unload the dishwasher of clean dishes so I can get the dirty ones sitting in the sink washed before the cat licks them completely clean. Plus, I really want to get back to the intelligent, spacefaring pig, apparently there is a group of aliens from another universe promising to help him defeat the mass of planet-crunching, star-destroying machines running wild through human space.

Seriously it's a great series of books! Maybe, I'll get off my ass and do a book review.

Looking for the Better Angels of Human Nature

 

How do you explain the existence of something like Donald Trump? I admit that I am bias but to the best of my knowledge he has no redeemable characteristics. On the surface, his presence in modern day America should be considered a bizarre accident of circumstance and timing. Truthfully, he's probably all too typical of human nature and the true character of America.

No, he hasn't launched any unjust wars costing trillions of dollars and thousands of lives. But he has separated young children from their parents and put them in cages in a manner disturbingly similar to concentration camps. He regularly displays an inherent racism that in saner times would shame the most socially indifferent person when it comes to the struggles of minorities here in America.

For someone who claimed he would hire nothing but the “best and brightest” to fill his administration more of Trump's picks have been convicted of corruption or forced to leave government service than any other president. Even more outrageous, his personal life is a study in the glorification of greed, lust, envy, pride, and wrath. As far as the other deadly sins of gluttony and sloth, Trump appears to have a handle on them as well.

It's truly hard to get an idea of what Trump wouldn't do when it comes to his advancement and the protection of his personal empire. Despite showing absolutely no civilized nor empathetic qualities how does he continue to have such a large number of followers?

This is a question I have pondered from the day he emerged as a real contender for the Republican nominee for president. Curiously enough, or maybe I'm suffering from my own delusions, but an old Star Trek episode gave me a partial working answer.

Yes, I know this seems crazy but bear with me for a few short paragraphs.

In the Original Series there is an episode entitled “Mirror Mirror.” In that story Kirk, McCoy, Scotty, and Uhura are accidentally transported to another universe while their alternate counterparts are sent to theirs.

The alternate Kirk and his crew are from a cruel and barbaric universe ruled by the “Terran Empire.” A place Trump and his family would, in my opinion, be extremely comfortable.

It takes the good Kirk and associates time to figure out what happened and to get back to the peaceful Federation universe. Good Kirk and his associates do get home and when that happens their evil counterparts are instantly transported back to their Empire.

At the end of the episode, good Kirk asks Spock how did he handle the counterparts from the Terran Empire. Spock more or less replies that he instantly saw them as what they were, prime examples of Homo sapiens and threw them all in the ship's brig.

As much as we like to think of ourselves as civilized beings, the appearance of Trump and his success shows that humans are always on the verge of showing our animalistic nature. That if things get tough we quickly revert to our basic primate nature and become something worse than tribal. All it takes is a slightly charismatic buffoon with a talent for exacerbating old fears and hates in weak-minded people.

Believe it or not, I'm not criticizing evolutionary biology. Because years of research has shown that our more “primitive” cousins the chimpanzees readily show empathy and compassion to their kind as well as the behaviors akin to the worst human characteristics.

The question for me is how do humans begin to supersede the worst aspects of their nature while enhancing the best? In short, what can we do as a species to move beyond or basic programming?

We our trying, the United States Constitution with its checks and balances was written by generally wise men trying to avoid the worst in humanity. But the history of our species is replete with cruel and barbaric episodes with many “good people” freely going along with evil deeds.

Showing that I need a new hobby, I spent most of the day pondering those questions. My only answer was a quote from a truly flawed individual. That the price of freedom is eternal vigilance.

A Short Post From Crappy Suburbia

 

 

 As usual for me, August brings nothing but endless yard work and long, hot humid days with me dreaming of cooler weather. That was the case last weekend since my daughter and I decided to do the mowing and trimming on Saturday. By the time we were finished the only thing I wanted to do was get cleaned up and vegetate on the couch for the rest of the day.

I've done this blogging long enough to fully understand that a weary and overheated Beach Bum does not create audacious fiction nor insightful essays. However, I still wanted to post something so here is some new Jimmy Buffett. 

Have a good week and send me ideas on how I can get my wife to let me go to the coast next Saturday. Understand this, any ideas offered I will consider. I will not held back by moral or ethical concerns. I need a sandy beach, ocean waves, and a salty breeze.      

Irritating Forays Into My Subconscious

Giving myself a little credit here but my imagination is one of my few developed talents. So much that my creativity even extends to the dreams my subconscious weaves at night. The source of this creativity during both my waking and sleeping hours can almost certainly be traced back to all the science fiction novels I've read and the physiological and thriller movies I watched over the years. Many have left such a huge physiological impact that for years my nightmares hosted a bizarre array of terrible characters.

For example many of my dreams have hosted a collection of murderous xenomorphs from the Alien film series. In my dreams I usually find myself trying to allude the creatures whose only purpose is to find hosts for the parasitical “face-hugger” so more of them can be reproduced.

Joining in for the fun were the Borg from Star Trek, a polyglot of many alien species forcibly assimilated into a militaristic hive mind. During these dreams I find myself recoiling at how they violate the mind and body of captured individuals during the assimilation process.

One of the more curious participates in my nightmares were the Draka, a creation of the author S.M. Sterling, someone described as the H.P. Lovecraft of political science. See, in the world of these Draka the Americans loyal to the British Crown fled to South Africa instead of Canada at the end of the Revolution. This change in history led to the creation of a “super Nazis” society dedicated to the literal enslavement of every human on the planet. Spoiler here, but at the end of the Draka trilogy they end up in control of Earth and the entire solar system.

Those are just my dreams where familiar characters take part in playing with my anxieties. They're a disturbing bunch but I take some small amount of relief in having some truly evil phantoms running around my head. Where things take an abrupt turn to the surreal is when my brain begins to piece together random elements into something that leaves me wondering where the dream ends and reality begins.

Way back in the early 1980s when I was living on the coast, I had a particularly disturbing dream that left me confused for days. It all began during a late night summer thunderstorm with me “waking up” during the worst phase of the lightning and thunder. Somehow the lightning and thunder turned into someone desperately knocking on the front door. It was the kind of pounding knock of someone that in movies was fearing for their very life.

Since I lived in the middle of a fairly dense neighborhood, the idea of someone actually at the door in the middle of a thunderstorm didn't make any sense. In reality, I believed I turned over in my bed and went back to sleep. When I did truly wake up, possibly hours later but before sunrise, I went to the door to look outside. I saw nothing and went back to bed. The weirdness came when I later stepped outside to get the newspaper.

There was a woman's shoe on the front porch. I have no idea where it came from and while I'm mostly sure the late night knocking on the door was a dream, I've got to admit it took days for me to shake off the feeling I might have missed something real.

Over the intervening years I've had what I hope are the usual, normal amount of those strange dreams. But relatively recently I've had another that tends to replay itself with no apparent rhyme or reason.

The actual events in the dream are consistently fuzzy but they all revolve around the main point that I have forgotten an important piece of vital information. Sometimes during this dream I feel I might be on the verge of remembering that lost piece of information, but it metaphorically slips away again. I then wake up and have the irritating feeling that my subconscious was actually trying to send me a message. By the middle of the day I've shaken off that strange feeling but it really bothers me that the dream will return at some point.

Well, that dream did return last week and it has evolved a new level of complexity. I was once again trying to remember something I had forgotten but this time I attached a name of a person to this missing knowledge. Just to make the situation more puzzling, the name now associated with the dream is unknown to me. Yes, my assumption is that my subconscious has reached into the cosmic grab bag and pulled out a name from nothing. That explanation is reasonable and highly probable but it still doesn't feel right.

I've gotten to the point now that I'm starting to miss the xenomorphs and the Borg, but not the Draka, those bastards are really bad.

Overrated Human Intelligence

One of my repeated topics for my mental offal is how I have seriously doubts as to whether human beings are an intelligent species. In fact one of my earliest blogging buddies took considerable umbrage to my proposal that while a few humans show true intellect or innovation, most Homo sapiens seem content to spend their entire lives going to work, eating, sleeping, and engaging in some form of lowbrow entertainment.

I fully realize that our civilization is not geared to pushing its people to make the most of themselves. Many smart and talented individuals are forever condemned to menial, low paying jobs because they didn't get a proper education to prepare them for college, or simply cannot afford it. Even if a person graduates from college, the job they often end up with is anything but enjoyable or fulfilling. They spend their days stuck in a cubicle dealing with various forms of stress, long hours, and stagnate wages. And we all know the ingrained prejudices of our society cripple many from ever escaping poverty and ignorance.

But where I begin to think humans are just glorified, hairless primates is that many of us do not have the barest inclination to better ourselves. We refuse to do anything but shove empty calories in our mouths while watching hours of low-quality crap on the television or computer. Sure, I have my guilty pleasures like a Three Stooges marathon or some bullshit action movie with explosions and ladies clad in tight spandex. Where I separate myself from the modern Hoi polloi (rednecks or dregs of society) is that I actively investigate multiple sources of new information, which involves the radical act these days of keeping an open mind. Most of all I read everything I can get my hands on, even items that do not support my preconceived notions or beliefs.

The actor Jim Carrey is not a role model for me. While I have enjoyed many of his movies, I understand he holds anti-vaccine views I find incredibly backward and dangerous. But when I saw this quote, I realized he stated my thoughts far more succinctly than I have in all my years of blogging. The vast majority of people I interact with are little more than automatons when it comes to understanding the world. These individuals perform a single function extremely well but when it comes to the topics of basic history, politics, science, or even elementary geography it would be easier to get blood from a granite stone than an informed opinion from them. Their lack of understanding of the world defies description, and yes many subscribe to some of the most outrageous conspiracy theories.

What I find darkly funny is how there is a movement to promote technical trades with the idea that a college education is not worth the cost. I understand the point, but we already have a situation where many people cannot find the United States on the map, recognize a picture of the current vice president, or answer simple questions on history. I can't imagine how our democracy could even begin to function with a population even more ignorant of civics and history.

I know it's futile to even write this but if humans want a purpose to life the easiest one to suggest is that we spend at least a little of our time seeking to better ourselves in some way. Seeking a deeper understanding of the universe is simply too much to ask for the vast majority of people. Their desire to blow off the steam from a frustrating job is understandable, but we should have more respect for ourselves than to continuously wallowing in abject ignorance. Then again, I still hold the view that our intelligence is highly overrated.

Perchance to Dream

Like most dreams it didn't have a beginning, at least one that I remember. How and why my subconscious chose to build that particular hallucination, I truly have no real idea. My best guess is that as I slept, my brain just threw together random elements it found in the dusty and cluttered attic of my mind. Unlike many people, I do not believe dreams are necessarily glimpses into the mind of an individual showing off their wants or desires. Nor are they cracks in our reality allowing us a view of another version of ourselves. For me, I'm in the camp that believes dreams are just our brains blowing off mental steam. I added that last part to avoid anyone from getting the wrong idea about what I'm about to report.

Since my health issues emerged my dreams have been chaotic. Nothing out of the ordinary there, as far as I know dreams usually do not follow set story lines. But my dreams have been uncomfortably disjointed with many having an atmosphere of deep foreboding, as if a great evil was lurking in the shadows nearby. For that reason during such dreams I usually forced myself awake and then spend several minutes shaking off the aftereffects. So a particular dream I had a couple of weeks ago was an unexpected and happy departure from my usual nighttime sleeping fantasies.

This dream took place in some sort of ornate room. I can't say anything about my dream's location other than I have a fuzzy idea it was some type of resort, but no place I have ever visited in real life. I was laying back in a large, fancy recliner which was covered in a fur-like fabric. Where this dream radically departs from my recent experiences is that I was sharing the recliner with a woman who possessed beautiful brunette hair. No, don't worry my dream didn't develop into a ridiculous porn fantasy. But this fantasy woman and I did share a kiss, which was incredibly intense with how real it felt. The other item that set this dream apart from others was that the woman was wearing an unknown perfume that was equally realistic as the kiss.

Like I said, the dream didn't go any further than just a kiss. Because as I was settling into the dream, actually hoping it would continue, a scratching noise and feeling began to invade my fake reality. I actually remember trying to ignore the scratching sensation by concentrating on the woman. But as you probably can guess, the scratching commotion popped my dream like a child's soap bubble.

I opened my eyes to find one of the dogs scratching my side of the bed with his front paws and looking at me with adoration. At quick look at my watch told me it was past time to feed both him and the other dog, who was still sleeping curled up next my wife.

Yeah, as I feed the dogs I had to deal with a nice piece of disappointment that one of my very few pleasant dreams was cut short. I'm a big boy, so that disappointment faded quickly as I feed the dogs and began to deal with the new day. That didn't stop me was giving the canine interloper of my sleep some annoyed looks.

Like I wrote earlier, the majority of dreams have no bearing on real life. Although I'll probably freak out if I catch a real life whiff of that unknown fragrance my fantasy brunette was wearing in the dream.

Trying to Reason with Hurricane Season

 For the obvious selfish and foolish reasons, I had begun to convince myself the South Carolina coast just might avoid any issues this hurricane season. This hurricane season thankfully seemed a bust with few Atlantic storms forming and those that did quickly fizzling out. Well, much to my chagrin, I got up yesterday morning, made a cup of crappy decaf coffee, and turned on the television to learn Hurricane Florence appears to have the South Carolina coast dead in its sights.

For the survivors of Hurricane Maria, my complaints about what may happen in the coming days are most definitely the highest form of whining. But such is human nature when the delicate balance of normal demands and daily concerns of life are threatened by a much worse outside force. What is slightly funny for me on a strictly personal level is whenever I use to voice my trepidation on what may happen, like the possible damage an approaching hurricane might cause, some jackleg douche invariably tries to offer up a “glass half full” scenario. Such people like to offer trite statements at how adversity could pull people together to work for the common good, or some other feel good crap. I would consider such a possibility in more enlightened portions of the country or world, but here in Red State suburbia, I highly doubt it. Personally, I often believe these seemingly civilized suburbanites are just a few missed meals away from eating each other. 

Whatever the case, Dragonwife, my lovely and smart spouse is heading to the local Costco today to pick up a respectable amount of bottled water and canned goods as a precaution. If Florence does decide to smack South Carolina, even indirectly, my work will certainly demand I stay on-site to help maintain continued safe and steady operation. So, I wish everyone within Hurricane Florence's possible path destruction the best of luck. Here's a couple of required Buffett tunes to think about in the coming days. 

Being a Nighthawk

Philosophically speaking, I'm not big on the concept of free will right now. It's a long story and quite frankly my knowledge on the philosophical aspects of free will pretty much hinges on an educational series of You Tube videos and discussions with my twenty-two year old son who digs the subject like I do Star Trek. Seriously, my son has read all the big names in philosophy and can have a coherent conversation on the subject while I sound like poor white trash talking about the UFO that flew over the trailer park the night before.

On the other hand, the concepts of destiny or fate seem like superstitious nonsense to me. If anything, I tend to liken human existence to water molecules vibrating in a glass. There is some movement but our choices are limited to the circumstances we're born. I realized that's just the half-assed opinion of a middle-aged guy marooned in a pleasantly hellish suburban landscape filled with proto-facist drones, but everyone has to have a hobby.

My doubts about destiny or fate notwithstanding, somehow over the course of my entire work history I have found a way to end up on third-shift. Yes, a couple of times the choice was intentional, since the alternative was worse, but more often than not situations have arisen that seem to seek out my sorry ass and stick me with a vampire-like existence.

For those who aren't acquainted, third-shift hours usually run from eleven o'clock at night to seven o'clock in the morning. Variations abound, including a twelve hour version that starts at seven o'clock in the evening and runs to the next morning. What also can vary is the start of the work week, but over the years mine have always began on Sunday night. The one consistency though is how badly working nights can screw with your physical and mental health.

These dangers start with an increased likelihood of cancer and heart disease when the natural metabolic cycles of the human body get screwed six ways to Sunday because third-shift workers are going against millions of years of evolution by not sleeping at night. Scientists recently found another monkey wrench banging around in the delicate human mechanisms that's even more fun. Researchers have discovered that during normal night time sleep cycles, the brain flushes out harmful wastes that if left in place can cause all sorts of nifty illnesses like Alzheimer's disease and several others. So those of us working night are not only wrecking our physical bodies but the brain as well. This new information does seem to confirm my wife's assumptions that I have a loose, inert jello swishing around between my ears and not active brain cells.

What I've found fascinating though is the number of people who can't fathom the concept of working third-shift, nor the hassles involved. This includes numerous coworkers of mine who can't understand why I don't want to hang out with them until their nine o'clock morning meetings. Well, to be honest not staying for the morning meeting goes beyond just wanting to go home at the end of my shift to sleep. Despite the fact that my daytime coworkers all think highly of themselves, I'll be kind and say they aren't the most enlightened or cosmopolitan people. So I don't enjoy hearing about their views on the “proper” treatment of illegal aliens nor how every school in America needs to a heavily armed encampment. You can call me a snob if you want or a snowflake elitist, I'm just not keen on turning the country into a continent-wide weapons free zone dotted with fortress-like concentration camps.

Sleeping through the day, while most other humans are living normal lives is a whole other order of magnitude of difficulty. That is unless you develop certain strategies and methods. The first item is installing shades and blackout curtains to limit sunlight into the bedroom. These methods do not block all light but it reduces it down to the point to a dark twilight. That your bedroom takes on the atmosphere and mood of a tomb is something you learn to ignore.

Sounds from the outside world is the biggest obstacle to sleeping during the day. So much that I have developed an intense hate for the person who invented the motorized leaf blower. The sound of the average lawn mower has a white noise quality and in my experience, the noise of a motorized weed whackers quickly fades into the background. But leaf blowers, those insidious creations makes a persistent nightmarish noise at just the right frequency to make sleep impossible. The smaller leaf blowers used by home owners are bad enough sounding like a swarm of mutant bees. But the big commercial version used by lawn care services remind me of a shrieking demon set loose on earth and wanting to party.

Then of course, you have the usual disturbances which includes phone calls, trucks and cars driving through the neighborhood sharing their music, and people who knock on your door for some reason. Phone calls can be ignored, except when two or three hit close together. That's when the little voice whispers in my head as I try to sleep it might have been something important like my wife with a flat tire or one of the kids getting sick. So I jump up, fumble for the phone, only to discover it's some fool offering a great deal on life insurance.

Trucks and cars are a unique obstacle to sleeping during the day in that civility and human decency has decayed to the point that far too many people do not realize no one really wants to hear their musical playlist. That goes for every genre including heavy metal, country music, electronic dance, experimental jazz, besides the usual rap and hip hop. Now I wouldn't mind someone playing a selection of soft classical music as they drove by, but if that every happened my new concern would be that I suddenly died.

The absolute worst hurdle to sleeping during the day is the knock at the door. Most of my neighbors don't think much of me, or I them, but I do have good relations with a meager few with strict instructions from my wife to do nothing that might alienate them. So when there is someone knocking at the door who will not go away, I've got to answer it. Luckily this situation is rare but there was an occasion when one of the good neighbors was irate over the fact that she was convinced one of my two dogs was loose and had taken a shit in her yard. It took me gathering up my two fur balls and showing them to her to defuse the situation. Even then, I could tell from the tone in her voice that she didn't totally believe me. The other occasion involved the old lady living next door who desperately wanted me to know one of my lawn sprinkler heads was stuck. The issue for her was that the stuck sprinkler head was watering a portion of her yard and driveway. Self righteous justification is a dangerous thing, but I honestly feel at times my hate for suburbia and the people who inhabit is based in fact.

The question you might be wondering about is if third-shift is such a pain why don't I find another job? A good damn question and my best answer revolves around the fact that despite it all I actually like where I work. Most of previous work experience was doing maintenance in the manufacturing industries where it's always obvious you're just helping the rich elites and that they will massively screw the workers the minute the economic winds change direction for the worse. As a mechanical specialist in a hospital, I feel like that I am helping people, however indirectly.

At times third-shift sucks beyond human comprehension, its strains on the human body and social inconveniences causes me to buy a lotto ticket every once and a while so I can daydream about winning and then telling the world to kiss my ass. On the other hand, given that I'm such an antisocial curmudgeon whose disdain for the locals is so extreme, I have to admit working third-shift is sort of a sanctuary for me. To me that is a totally messed up and maybe an ironic state of affairs.

Nothing is Tiring

Just finished up a week playing Mr. Mom while the wife was away on a business trip. While no metaphorical monkey wrench flew into the proverbial machinery of the normal routine, it was a long tiring week. What I'm trying to say is that I rediscovered that nothing can be quite exhausting.

Nothing mainly consisted of running my daughter to and from school and various activities, which were usually scheduled during rush hour traffic. But it also included keeping the house reasonably clean and straight, the dogs and cats fed and watered, and doing the bare minimum of yard work. Yes, that last one is a standard practice but thrown in with the other chores made it worse.

Long story short, after a week of nothing I need a vacation. 

Life Goes On

The smell of the freshly brewed coffee in my cup was already weaving together the synapses in my brain as I plopped into the chair in front of the television. As I settled in with my caffeine and listened to the overly attractive and surely focus group-tested lady read off the leading news, I could feel my consciousness asserting itself even though my body wanted desperately to crawl back into bed. Sleep offered nothing but a pleasant postponement of having to listen to the long worn out machinations of men who are playing a game whose purpose they can't fathom beyond the pursuit of blatant self-gratification.

As the same stories that had dominated the news for days and even weeks were read off there was a bit of perverse comfort in knowing that the shit pile called current events hadn't drastically changed since the night before. A sad commentary on life for sure, but with the nation and world being held essentially hostage by people whose psychologies never rose above that of the average schoolyard bully you take comfort in whatever form available.

The leading story that morning was the super-hurricane that had just run over the island Puerto Rico with all the compassion the current occupant of the White House can muster about anyone outside his family. Funny thing about that hurricane, being the latest in a strange line of “Once in a lifetime weather events,” a person might begin to wonder if some outside force might be amplifying them. Its almost got to the point that our elected leaders should call upon the highly educated and professional men and women who have studied climate and weather for years to look into the matter. If this change in climate is because of something humans have done it would seem a good idea to stop it and work to repair the damage.

Just as soon as the last pictures of tropical destruction faded off the screen the news lady appeared saying she would be back soon after this commercial break. That's when the nausea struck causing me to put down my coffee cup.

“This is my hair!” The now middle aged, former child television star exclaimed as if he had just discovered the location of the fountain of youth. Call it a bizarre notion given our culture, but its always bothered me that many celebrities can't seem to walkaway from the limelight even though the basis of their fame had long since faded into oblivion. This particular individual, the middle boy child of a late 1960's and early 1970's merged television family has tenaciously fought to keep some aspect of his fame. He's no lone ranger with several others in his television family going to equally awkward levels to stay in the public mind.

“I can wash this hair, I can style this hair, this is my hair!” He continued with all the zeal of someone who just a personal one-on-one conversation with God. I could feel the bile in my stomach bubbling as this washed up actor turned reality star talked about how much better he looked and felt since undergoing the the procedure that restored him to a full head of hair. In normal times such enthusiasm would have been reserved for developing a vaccine for polio or finishing a project that brought fresh water to a third world village.

As a middle aged man myself who is severely follicely challenged, I know all the reasons that commercial justified for males having their hair restored to improve appearance or regain confidence is a thinly disguised lie. If the true reason for hair restoration was just for confidence, there wouldn't have been a need for the company to pay a twenty-something, bikini wearing lady to sit in a hot tub beside the grinning fifty-something man sporting an abnormal amount of hair on his head. As a book I just finished stated, our civilization is based on clever fictions we convince ourselves are true. But at some point men should just own up and admit that no matter our age, our chief goal never drifts far from wanting to get laid. I truly feel we would all be mentally healthier in the end if we faced that truth.

Speaking of delusions or grandeur, when the news lady returned her story was about the various speeches given at the opening of the United Nations Assembly earlier this week. Sure enough a video soon began showing America's latest joke on civilization and history at the podium wildly gesturing while exclaiming how he would totally destroy the country lead by the only other individual who rivals him at being a dangerous stooge. It is my sincerest hope that at some point in the future humans will have advanced enough to recognize the aberrant behavior in children that leads to narcissistic megalomania.

From there hopefully they could either correct it or prevent such individuals from ever holding any position of power greater than a city employed gardener. How far should societies go to prevent such maladjusted individuals who crave power like plants need sunlight from pursing their goals? While civilized people like to say the ends never justify the means, depending of how much our personalities are govern by genetics, I'd have to say pretty damn far to prevent anything similar to “Fat Man” and “Little Boy” from ever coming to power again.

Faced with a growing weather apocalypse, crass commercialism promoted by washed up actors, and the immediate threat of nuclear Holocaust perpetrated by mutant trolls, I turned off the television and went outside to sit on my backyard deck. While I was physically able to settle in my chair my mind was still reeling from the complexities of a civilization where the various leaders are acting instinctively instead of intelligently. Seriously, it should totally freak out any reasonably sentient person that the Catholic Church has a better scientific understanding of many of the global problems we face than the leaders of most twenty-first century nations.

That was when I saw the bird feeder my wife had just purchased and had hanging for one of the backyard trees. A bird I couldn't identify and a squirrel appeared to be in some sort of staring contest on either side of the large feeder. With the feeder slightly swinging from their small jerky motions I expected one of the two to leave while the other gorged out on the seed supply. Instead they both pigged out on the seeds for several seconds before both leaving. My sighting of the two animals sharing the bird feeder wasn't anything profound but it did allow me to brush off the residual anxiety from my mistake of watching the morning news. Essentially it showed me that worrying about things won't help the situation and that despite it all life will go on. After that revelation I made another cup of coffee and enjoyed the day.

Wasted Weekend

Been one of those weekends where I wasn't exactly sick but doing anything requiring movement or any real thinking was just to much trouble. Spent all day Saturday and most of today laying on the living room floor as my wife and daughter binge watched Game of Thrones reruns.  See, my fourteen year old daughter has just within the the last two weekends become interested in the show and my wife talked her into watching the entire series while giving a running commentary on the characters and situations.

Why did I just lay on the floor while my wife and daughter watched a show I don't have much interest in? Good question, but the only possible answer I can give is that while I felt terrible being cooped up in the bedroom just didn't appeal to me. Another reason could be that my wife gives the most amazing lectures on the fictional families and history of that show. And to think she calls me a nerd over what I know about Star Trek.

Whatever the case, somehow I am going to have to drag my sorry ass to work tonight. I've got too much to do and like I said, I don't think I'm really all that sick. Here is some tropical music to enjoy.    

Tiki Inspired Dreams

Thinking back on it now, I find it astonishing that my dysfunctional parents somehow found it in themselves to cooperate enough to take my siblings and myself to Walt Disney World just one year after the place opened. The city of Orlando and the surrounding area were, compared to now, still overwhelmingly underdeveloped with mom-and-pop hotels and restaurants existing alongside the young and sleepy corporate giant. I imagine those quaint and genuine local businesses had no idea that just a few short years later they would all be wiped off the map as the joyful rodent's empire began expanding at an ever increasing pace.

Don't get me wrong, my wife and I love everything about Disney. So much that we have not only sunk more money into its Vacation Club than I comfortable thinking about but that I have honestly lost count of the times we have visited each of its parks. Like some pathetic stoner desperate to get a new fix, even now I am looking forward to staying at Disney's small resort down on Hilton Head Island in the summer of 2018 and then making our way back to Disney World itself in 2019.

It's hard to really describe why I enjoy the parks so much when stories abound about how some who visit them are overwhelmed by the crowds and the growing prices. Usually, I despise crowds myself but in all the times I have been down there with my wife and kids, I somehow found a kinship with the other parents in the long and meandering lines waiting for their turn to enjoy Walt's creation. There were numerous times where my wife and I and other parents in the lines shared vital supplies like baby wipes, spare diapers, juice boxes,and assorted prepackages snacks in an effort to get the kids through the long minutes of waiting. 

Another reason I fell in love with Disney World was my discovery of the Enchanted Tiki Room on my first visit back in 1972. For those who don't know, it is a “pseudo-Polynesian themed musical animatronic show” featuring over a hundred colorful robot birds handing down from the ceiling. The show has them singing and making jokes with the climax being when a group of Polynesian tiki gods, craved figures lining the walls, become angry and throwing a tantrum.

The interior of the attraction has fake windows looking out towards a tropical island scene with heavy foliage and mountains creating a sensation, at least in me, that you are somewhere in the beautiful south Pacific. When the tiki gods get angry the skies in these island scenes gets dark with flashes of lightning and the sounds of thunder and rain adding to the dreamy feeling. The thing that has always mesmerized me is that in one of the fake windows there is a simple thatched hut not far off in the distance. This will sound weird, but I have always found that scene to be incredibly peaceful, so much that every visit to the Enchanted Tiki Room I find myself looking at the scene instead of paying attention to the show.

The Enchanted Tiki Room at Disney World was my first exposure to what is normally called “Tiki Culture” which is a very Americanized version of Polynesian culture and art. First conceived in 1934 with the opening of Don the Beachcomer, a Polynesian-themed bar and restaurant, American tiki culture has to me always symbolized a laid back and easy going style of life. Restaurants and bars that go with this theme are known for their tropically-inspired drinks with their menus leaning heavily on Hawaiian and even Chinese dishes. 

While tiki culture-inspired restaurants and bars are quite rare in my area, it is the music that continues to offer up that relaxing, peaceful, and dreamy feeling. Luckily for me I found Exotic Tiki Island, a website that is dedicated to nothing but playing vintage Hawaiian, exotica, and tiki tunes that easily transport me to that island scene I first saw at Disney World so many years ago. Ran by a guy going under the name of Tiki Brian, the music he plays is one of the best ways to shed the worries and fears that are daily coming closer to overwhelming us all. If you get a chance, jump over to his website and listen to some of the many archived podcast shows he has available. Needless to say, one of my favorite things to do on the weekend nights when I am off is to fall asleep to the amazing songs he plays.

More Alien Weirdness?

Not to get weird, because that ship sailed long ago, but as I was surfing the YouTube channels Sunday afternoon one of the guys I watch on a regular basis posted an interesting and out of the blue video. Turns out that the giant Arecibo radio telescope has detected an "odd" signal that seems to be coming from Ross 128, a red dwarf star about 11 light-years away.


Abel Méndez, an astrobiologist from the University of Puerto Rico said the star was observed for ten minutes, during which time the signal was detected and that it seemed "almost periodic". Méndez admitted that the signal could have originated from a communications satellite, since they often transmit on the frequencies observed but that the radio burst was "very peculiar". The video you will find below does suggest that if the signal was from a communication satellite it would have to be quite a bit farther out from Earth than is normal.


My first thought after hearing that was the signal might be from a spy satellite. Over the last several decades the United States and the Soviet Union have launched numerous secret payloads into space and I've heard a lot of crazy theories that some of them are in weird orbits in an effort to go undetected. There is also a chance that the signal came from the star Ross 128 itself, since red dwarfs often produce massive flares.


Recent speculation about that habitability of red dwarf star systems tends run either hot or cold. On the plus side, those stars live far longer that our sun, thus allowing a lot of time for life and intelligence to evolve, but those massive flares probably sterilize any planets orbiting close enough to be in their Goldilocks zone. Whatever the case, the guys and gals at Arecibo will be trying to tune in on Ross 128 in an effort to pick the signal up again.

Lawn Care Ruminations

Sunday morning began with me looking out my kitchen window and struggling to convince myself that my backyard didn't need cutting. Usually this early in the summer I can get away with cutting one yard a weekend and I did the back just last Sunday. Unfortunately something is different this year, not sure if it's the heavier rainfall we've had but as I walked outside on my deck to take a closer look, it was apparent that if I didn't cut the backyard I'd have a jungle the following weekend. A further mystery is the fact that except for a few dandelions, my front yard didn't need to be cut although its already been two weeks it was mowed.

So like a good suburban drone I inserted the headphones attached to my MP3 player into my ears, cranked up the mower, and proceeded walk up and down my yard pushing a ridiculous device that I am sure will be a joke to future generations. I'm sure climate change and simple innovation will eventually make gas powered lawnmowers antiquated relics. Battery powered lawnmowers are already for sale and if I had five hundred dollars I could risk on such a new technology, I'd already have bought one just so I would not have to deal with the frustration of their gas powered counterparts. I know the problems I've had with lawnmowers are from a lack of proper care on my part, but I'll be damned those things weren't as complicated back when I pushed my Granddad's around the neighborhood to earn a few bucks cutting other peoples' grass.

Ideally, and call me insane, I'd like to see the demise of the modern subdivision and have them replaced with a more communal lifestyle. I've heard of a few places like that already exist, it's not an apartment nor condo situation because these new neighborhoods are made up of individual, freestanding family homes but the green spaces have a more open, park-like feel. The homes in these new types of neighborhoods are also much smaller than the Mcmansions many Americans have come to believe are rights enshrined in the Constitution. That right there will have some running off screaming socialism but if I could buy into such a place go ahead and start addressing me as comrade. 

Yes, this means lawn care of the grounds would be relegated down to a contractor or in the future, battery powered robots that would perform their duties without human interaction. Yes, all this pondering is just me whining about having to take care of something I bought back when I was too stupid to realize how demanding lawn care could be.

All told it only took me forty-five minutes to cut the backyard and the small segment on the other side of the fence. Yes, I did come away with a small feeling of accomplishment. Both the backyard and side yard looked better but any satisfaction was short lived, because as I kicked back with a cold soda I realized that I will most certainly have to do the same damn thing next weekend.

It has been said that the definition of insanity is to perform the same act over and over again expecting a different result. How lawn care plays into that idea I'll leave that to each individual to decide. I'm sure everyone can already guess where I fall on that answer.

Tales From REFORGER-2: I Accuse

 (Author's note: This story is true, although I had to go creative-nonfiction to stretch it out and alter it enough so I wouldn't have anyone going crazy on me.)

All things considered, Captain Bryant, the S4 of my air defense battalion at Fort Carson, Colorado, wasn't a bad guy. Which makes what happened to him in a West German field all the worse. Without overly explaining what the S4 does, it can be boiled down to anything to do with supply, logistics, maintenance, transportation, and budget for the entire battalion. It is a demanding job and takes someone with a detail oriented mind and who can deal with the stress involved when millions of dollars of equipment and supplies are involved.

Since I was just a junior enlisted soldier at the time when the incident occurred, everything I heard from the NCO's suggested Bryant was perfectly competent in his job. Captain Bryant's one problem though was that despite his best efforts at the S4 job he was still catching hell from his lackluster command of one of the batteries of the battalion. See, Bryant was suffering from one of the worst traits that can befall an individual not only serving in the United States Army but anyone living in a country that prizes charisma and hard charging excellence. 

Bryant's first sin was that he had absolutely no charisma or anything else in the way of inspiring others to perform great deeds. Like any leader who command people, army officers are almost required to give speeches that motivate those under them to push harder. Given that the batteries in my battalion shared a common assembly area I caught a few of Bryant's speeches and even as a junior enlisted guy I could tell that someone born without vocal cords could have given a better, more inspiring speech. Sure, he could relay information and give instructions but his spoken voice had the personality of one of the old “Speak and Spell” toys from the 1980's.

His second, and possibly worst, sin was that Bryant was average in all his abilities. I learned this from one of my friends, Specialist David Speakman, who was the driver for the battalion sergeant major. While Speakman was my best friend, I often found him irritating as shit since the man excelled at absolutely everything he did from scores on the rifle range to maxing out the PT test. Speakman would regularly tell me battalion scuttlebutt since he spent all normal duty hours at headquarters.

The overall word about Captain Bryant was that the battalion commander and battalion sergeant major, both hard charging types who expected nothing less that one-hundred percent and then more from everyone in his command wasn't happy with his performance. Back then I believe myself to be a member of the hard charging group but was frankly perplexed at what exactly they wanted out of Bryant. However, my lack of understanding of the nebulous requirements they expected suggests I was closer to Captain Bryant's group than the one my friend Speakman belonged.

The curse with being average is that people tend to remember your mistakes, and misfortunes, more than anything else. Being “average” myself in many ways its almost as if you're wearing sign that everyone else but you can see but you that tells people not to expect much. For Captain Bryant to carry such a burden pretty much meant his military career was going to stall and die unless he somehow turn perception around. That opportunity came in the form of one of the battalions units, Alpha Battery, being sent to West Germany in 1987 for REFORGER.

REFORGER, which stand for Return of Forces to Germany was a huge deployment exercise and war games meant to prepare for the possibility of war with the Soviet Union and the Warsaw Pact nations it controlled. All told thousand of troops and equipment were loaded on planes and ships and sent to Europe from North America. In the days leading up to our departure from Fort Carson, Captain Bryant seemed to be constantly in action. After we arrived in Europe for the first four or five days before the people in my unit were dispersed I don't believe the man ever slept.

What Captain Bryant did between the time of our first arrival and when we all regrouped at the assembly area to wait for our turn to return home I have no idea, although I highly suspect he did his best to play super soldier.

Every soldiers' mission at the assembly area was to wait and prepare the equipment we had drawn in Europe for turn in. As duty goes it was pretty sweet, we lived in literal circus-sized tents with some of them dedicated to food stands, movie theaters, mess halls, PX shops, and even libraries. Our equipment was nearby, all lined up neatly with us spending about half a day cleaning and repairing what we could. After lunch, which was still first generation MRE's at that time, we were usually released and allowed to hang out in the recreation tents or even see some of the local sites. Captain Bryant didn't play that game, even though many of the officers were almost as eager to get away as the enlisted, he stayed in the makeshift motor pool trying to impress the his higher-ups. Sadly, even though he moved heaven and earth during this deployment his average-ness came back with a vengeance.

Naturally, given the human digestive tract and its normal functions the US government spent the money to rent hundreds of port-o-potties for the assembly area to prevent thousands of soldiers from turning the countryside into a disease ridden sewage pit. Most were the normal looking ones you would see here in the States with a wide base that strongly resists tipping over because of wind. But a number of them, like the ones situated close to the motor pool, were quite thin and light and placed very close together.

The morning the incident happened it was already quite windy. In fact, several of the people I was around had noticed the thin and light port-o-potties being moved by the gusts. Once lunchtime came we stopped what we were doing, ate our MRE's, then put away our tools before drifting off to pursue our off-duty entertainment. Not Captain Bryant who stayed behind inside his deuce and a half fitted with a shop van he used as a makeshift office.

Sometime later Bryant had to answer the call of nature and proceeded to use one of the abnormal port-o-potties. Unfortunately, he picked one in the middle of a line of at least fourteen or fifteen. From what I could gather one of those heavy gusts of wind hit when Bryant was inside and not only did the entire line of port-o-potties fall over like so many dominoes, their thin sheet metal construction bent in such a way that he was literally trapped inside. Yeah, as word passed down everyone learned the potty was tipped over enough that its contents did spill out.

Poor Captain Bryant was eventually rescued by someone several hours later but word of what happened spread through the area at a speed that defies Einstein's limit on anything moving faster than light. Efforts to limit the effect on Captain Bryant's reputation were enacted, mainly having already ill-tempered first sergeants telling annoyed platoon sergeants to pass down to the tired section sergeants to tell their troops that any form of misbehavior around Captain Bryant would be severely punished.

It didn't work, especially when news of the incident somehow spread to nearby British troops who were visiting our location. Reports were that when they learned of what happened to Bryant their entire contingent,which was eating in the mess hall tent, all fell onto the floor laughing their asses off. While it was probably American soldiers who did it, someone a few days later took a permanent magic marker and wrote, “Bryant-potty, Use only at your own risk” on most of the type that fell over and trapped him.

There is no happy ending to this story. This incident sort of capped a military career that never left the metaphorical launch pad. He only stayed with the battalion about six months before getting reassigned somewhere else in the United States. But even when I was about to leave the service in July of 1990 some a-hole was still writing “Bryant-potty” on the much more stable ones used at Fort Carson. The only person I knew who could have been immune to possible discovery of the action and had ample opportunity to hit so many of the potties used down range was my good friend, David Speakman.