What Ever Happened to Hippie Jane?

Tags

1969, Flower Power, Fox News, Hippies, MAGA, Summer of Love

“The median age of the Fox News viewer was 68” in 2018 — so quoth Google from that year’s Nielsen ratings.

Let’s step into our Wayback Machine, and consider the “Summer of Love.”
Doing the math, we find that today’s average Fox News viewer would have been 19 in that halcyon year of 1969 – the perfect age to be drafted and shipped off to fight in Vietnam, yet still not yet old enough to vote. In other words, the exact age to represent the typical disenfranchised  “Flower Child”.

So here’s my question — How did the generation that actively took part in “Drop Out, Tune In, Turn On”, chanted “Trust no one over 30,” embraced Free Love and Flower Power, and loathed everything associated with authority, turn into the Ugly American beating the drum of ultra-conservatism?

Truly I say unto you, the child grew into the thing they most hated.

I’m not just postulating hypotheticals here. I have a close relative who is the poster-child for this metamorphosis. In 1969, he was a hippie, lived in a commune, read Marx and Lenin, had a ponytail down to his waist, and was arrested for marijuana possession (in an era when such a thing was a truly scandalous societal Scarlet Letter).  Today, he is a devout follower of all things Fox, Breitbart, and who-knows-what-else, often proselytizing the Gospel According to Glenn Beck.
But he is not the only one I’ve observed this startling transformation – not by a longshot.

So, what causes this reversal of behavior in so many of that fabled generation?
Is it Stockholm Syndrome run rampant on a society-wide basis?
Were they so disgusted with their failure to change the world, they decided “if ya can’t beat ’em, join ’em”?
Is it enantiodromia, a Jungian mental illness that causes a person to become their polar opposite?

I don’t have an answer to the question I pose.
I wish I did, but I don’t.
I merely post this to point out my latest unsettling observation.

Whatever the reason, it’s quite probable I’ll work it into one of my books. I’m already working on the follow-up collection of strange tales to “If I Can’t Sleep, You Can’t Sleep.” Stay tuned – it might show up there!

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Gotta Darwin ‘Em All!

Tags

A.E.Decker, Anonymous, Darwin, Pokemon

No deep thoughts this time around.
No discussions of things philosophical or metaphysical.
No diatribes over the craft of writing.
Just a bit of fun.

Last week, I had a book signing with A.E.Decker, who whiled away the slow spots with the iPhone version of Pokémon Go. After having a guilty chuckle over that addictive electronic version of crack cocaine, several questions came to mind:

• How many people have hurt themselves walking into traffic in an attempt to “catch ’em all”?
• Is the game a nefarious social experiment of Darwinism in Action, culling the genetic pool of those silly enough to walk obliviously, phone in hand, into dangerous situations?
• Why haven’t Anonymous or other groups hacked the game, placing Pokémon critters at entirely inappropriate locations and situations?

That last question lit the fuse to both our twisted imaginations. We spent the next quarter of an hour rattling off a host of “Places We’d Like To See Pokémon.”

• A house of ill repute
• A funeral parlor
• 1000 ft above the deepest point in The Grand Canyon
• Under a SpaceX rocket 5 minutes before blast-off
• The killing floor of a slaughterhouse
• NORAD headquarters
• The bottom of Niagara Falls
  Oh, we had plenty more, but that’s all I remember…

Well, people – I’d love to hear your ideas as well! Leave a comment if one comes to mind.

If mirthful macabre thoughts like this are your bread and butter, then you’d certainly enjoy If I Can’t Sleep, You Can’t Sleep. A.E.Decker’s review favorably compares my dastardly tales to those of Roald Dahl. High praise indeed!

A Not-So-Innocent American Abroad

Tags

Mark Twain, Samuel Clemens

Apologies for not blogging over an extended period of time. I’ve been out and about, visiting across the country and the world, visiting friends, fiends and family. (I sometimes have trouble discerning which is which.) One of my relatives is big on books and an ardent fan of Mark Twain. It is indeed fitting that one of Mr. Clemens’ quotes deals with travel. After my month away from my desk and home, one seems especially apropos:

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.

So true – it is impossible to remain in the political and moral echo-chambers we Americans seem to seclude ourselves, when one is out and about in the company of others who are not imprisoned in one’s own myopic groupthink.

After considering how much this giant of American Literature has contributed to the American Psyche, I thought I’d just spout out a few of my favorite quotes and aphorisms from this wily and wicked wit:

There isn’t any way to libel the human race.

There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies and statistics.

Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint.

The two most important days in your life are the day you are born, and the day you find out why.

If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything.

And last but not least – my favorite!

The more I learn about people, the more I like my dog.

If you’re enamored of these, you can find plenty more at www.twainquotes.com. As for my own teensy contribution to the world’s “Pearls of Wisdom” vaults, a few may be found in the lessons of the morality plays in If I Can’t Sleep, You Can’t Sleep.

When Your Truth Is False

Tags

algebra, arguments, Benny Hill

The problem I see with the discussion of sensitive subjects (especially in the cesspool of social media) is that people often declare in the most obnoxious tones, “ABC is RIGHT!!!“

When you ask “Why?”, and assuming the person insisting on “ABC” is not a web-troglodyte who goes medieval on your butt at light speed with a righteously indignant flame war, their argument boils down to “Because of XYZ!!!”.

What they often don’t realize is that their claims of both ABC and XYZ are not universally true. Their statements claiming “absolute right” are often based on an assumption.

Very little in this universe is always true. And under the proper conditions, even simple math is not always right.

Take the mathematical statement,
1=2
Obviously incorrect, right? WRONG.
If you’ll indulge me in a little grade school algebra…

Let’s say we have three numbers that satisfy the algebraic equation,
a+b=c
Then it’s also true that,
2a+2b=2c  (distributive law)
Now reorder the equations,
a+b-c=0
2a+2b-2c=0  (associative & commutative laws)
Now that they are both zero, they can be set equal to one another.
(a+b-c) = (2a+2b-2c)
Factoring out the common root, we get,
1*(a+b-c) = 2*(a+b-c)  (distributive law again)
Now divide both sides of the equation by (a+b-c),
1=2
TADA!

I’ve been playing this math game on people, showing that 1 DOES equal 2, since 5th grade. Of course, it’s actually a trick — an intentional deception. Though it demonstrates that there are indeed times when even our most fundamental assumption about what looks correct is WRONG.

So before you lambaste someone, saying, “My belief is always RIGHT!”, think of how I can “prove” to you that 1=2.
Maybe your beloved sacred cow is dead wrong, because you’ve made the wrong assumption. Like the British burlesque comedian Benny Hill had often said,

“ASSUME makes an ASS out of U and ME.”

PS – if you have figured out the trick behind “1=2“, message me – please don’t spoil it in the comments for the rest!

And of course, what post would be complete without my shameless promotion? My passion is writing stories where the reader’s assumption ain’t necessarily so.
Pindlebryth of Lenland was reviewed as a “masterpiece of deception”.
If I Can’t Sleep is awash with twists on the classic monsters that pleasantly surprised the most seasoned reviewer. Try them yourself!

 

How Tastes Change

Tags

apples, food, peppermint

I was snacking on an apple this morning, and while crunching away, I also ruminated on how my tastes have changed over the past few years.
My favorite apples as a youth were red delicious. Today, I cannot remember the last time I had one of those – if only because it is impossible for me to predict their texture.
I hate mushy apples.
One thing that hasn’t changed over the decades is — my apples must be crisp.

As soon as four years ago, I adored noshing on Granny Smiths and Honeycrisps. Now I cannot abide them, because they are just too sour for my liking. Though they are both great when cooked. Nom nom!

I hate mushy apples. Oops — did I already say that?
Well, it bears repeating — I HATE mushy apples!
Much as I dislike to waste food, if I bite into an apple, and am presented with a mealy mouthful, into the trash it goes (or the lawn if deer are about). I demand an apple so crunchy, it makes my gums bleed.
My top three favorites are, when I can find them are: Cameo, Ambrosia, and Jazz.
And before you suggest “Have you tried…?” Yes, I have.

Who knows what my favorites will be next year?
I hear the modern-day Johnny Appleseed’s are working on a hybrid based on the Honeycrisp, to be named Laser-crisp. Oh, brother – I hate it already, if only because of the name.

On a non-apple note, I hated spinach and grapefruit when I was younger.
Now I love them – baby spinach in my salads, and pink grapefruit segments. Nom!

One of the more curious changes in taste I’ve experienced (other than my older brother morphing from a Summer-of-Love hippie to a Redder-Than-Fox-News conservative) is my attitude toward peppermint. I used to like it – now I cannot stand it. I loathe it so much, I consider the mixing of chocolate and peppermint an Abomination that merits its own verse in Leviticus.

I even recorded a story about it – “Peppermint Christmas“!
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Jest a Minute, You!

Tags

jester, onion, Pindlebryth, politics

Other than the King himself, who held the most important position in the King’s court? The Queen? The Prime Minister? The Exchequer? The Archbishop?
I believe it was the Jester.

It was he who had the unenviable task of being the Conscience of the King.
Depending on the quality of the person holding the highest office of cleric, and on how religious His Majesty was, the Church should have also been risking that dance on the guillotine’s edge. But history shows that far too often the inner workings of the royal court often rendered the Guiding Light that should have been the King’s spiritual leader either totally silent, quite impotent, or even worse, more corrupt than the King himself.

It was therefore left to the the humble Jester to be the King’s conscience, his better self, his thorn-in-the-side.
A dangerous task, to be sure.

It still is today.
While I don’t place myself in the same arena as our current spate of late-night talk show hosts, political comedians/comediennes, and parody news sites (I lo-o-ve The Onion!) who skewer and lambaste those who so richly deserve it, I am thankful they are there, and admire the work they perform so adroitly.

To be sure, I have my own share of sarcastic and sardonic wit, though I marvel at the professional Jesters’ speedy and laser-accurate assessments of our politician’s foibles, hypocrisies, and outright blatant sins. It is truly a shame that like the Kings of Old, our leaders still hold the Jester with a disdain stronger than Drano, and ignore their sage advice.

The modern equivalent of The Jester certainly irritates those who have voted for these corrupt and/or brain-dead political flunkies. How else can it be explained that I find myself the target of wrath when I chime in with The Jesters? Time and time again, I have been blasted with the withering sanctimony, “He/She holds the office, he/she deserves your respect, so shaddap!”
Sometimes the name of God is also invoked by those same flapping lips.

They need to understand one thing about myself — and hopefully I speak for the professional Jesters as well — It is precisely because I respect the Office, that I lambaste the waste of protoplasm that infects said Office.

Needless to say, some of this acerbic attitude and witticism is bound to show up in my writings.
My epic fantasy, Pindlebryth, has its share. Take a peek and see for yourself!

What’s in a (Nick)Name?

Tags

nicknames

I seem to collect nicknames.
Many people loathe the paltry one or two they gather over a lifetime.
I, however, have long since embraced the dozens I’ve earned over the years, and made peace with the rest. I don’t allow them to define me, but they do serve their purposes — they recall to mind some of the good times, or remind me that there’s always room for improvement.
Here’s a few of the more notable ones I can share:

Uncle Christmas
I have been adopted by several of my good friends’ families, becoming the “Uncle” to their offspring. However, one family’s children gave me this name, mainly because I most often arrived with birthday gifts, holiday fun or Christmas presents. They’ve all since grown up, and don’t call me this anymore — More’s the pity.

Uncle Death
This one stuck, mainly because the Parental Units of another adoptive family still occasionally use it, long after their kids’ developing soft palates could properly pronounce the triphthong that starts my given name. That is, the ankle-biters tried to say “Uncle Chris,” and this came out of their tiny mouths instead.

Squiffer
A circle of friends and I were enjoying several rounds of “Balderdash” when this word came up as the word in play. We had a good laugh, because no one believed the game defined this word as “organist,” which in fact, is one of my vocations!
After the game’s conclusion, we looked it up in my friend’s multi-volume Oxford Unabridged Dictionary with its custom magnifying glass. (My friends have one, don’t yours!?)
Sure enough, “organist” was the 3rd definition. However, I was a mite red-faced when we also discovered the primary definition was… “drunkard.”

Dr. Death
Hmm…. my second “Death” nickname. Should I be worried? Nya-a-ah.
This gem of a nickname I picked up at AT&T Bell Laboratories, during my stint as a software tester. During my tenure in that position, I carried the honor of finding the most high-severity bugs each year. Needless to say, I began to get a reputation of sorts.
Though my coworkers appreciated that it was far better that I find these problems instead of our customers, and despite dispatching my duties without crushing the egos of my fellow coworkers**, many feared my knock at their door.
One fine day, I chased a software developer to ground in his cubicle, during which his wiseacre Brooklynite officemate blurted out,
“Uh oh! Here comes Dr. Death!”
And it stuck. I wear it proudly!

Kurt Russell from “Overboard” 

** – with one or two notable exceptions. Like when I had a heated argument with two Ph.D.’s in mathematics, who somehow didn’t understand the 6th grade math of percentages. Grrrr!

Mr. Koyl
This one’s a name that a girlfriend had given me. (Long after our break-up I still occasionally refer to her as “She Who Must Not Be Named.” But that’s another story!)
This name she bestowed upon me was an acronym for “King Of Yellow Lights”. Apparently, I had the aggravating knack — and still have — of turning almost every traffic light I approach yellow as I enter its “Stop or Gun it” zone.

This penchant for nicknames tends to show up in my writing. “The Mask of Jyestha” and “No Children Aloud” in my book “If I Can’t Sleep, You Can’t Sleep” contain prime examples.

Rah Rah SisBoomBah! Get Your Fake News Here! Ta-dah!

Tags

ancient Rome, circus, olympics, sports

Think ‘fake news’ is a recent development?
Wrong – this insidious canker on an informed society has been around for thousands of years. But not in the form we tend to think of today.

And if you are a sports fan, you’re part of the problem.
A typical sports fan fritters away dozens of hours a week glued to the tube. Some of the more insane of this curious lot think nothing of spending hundreds of dollars on cheap foreign-made merchandise just because it sports (pun intended) their favorite team’s logo. The most extreme cases upend their wallets, spending thousands of dollars on season passes.

Who first called out sports as ‘fake news’?
Go back to ancient Rome, where the satirist Juvenal coined the phrase “panem et circenses“ or “bread and circuses.” He was referring to the practice of annona (grain dole) which parceled out food and entertainment as political rewards. This practice was an amazing success. Consider that annona began in 123 BC under Gaius Gracchus, and was so fiscally successful that Julius Caesar rebuilt the Circus Maximus half a century later, and Constantine grew it to its current bloated size in 400 AD.
But it was Augustus Caesar who turned ‘bread and circuses’ to a fine-edged political tool — it allowed him to be elevated to pagan godhead while ancient Rome barely blinked.

Sports fandom draws its historical roots from a word meaning insanity.
Consider the word “fan” – short for fanatic. In ancient Rome, this pejorative term implied the person was unreasoning and off his rocker. It was often applied to people who idolized the gladiators, fanatically following the exploits of their favorite circus warrior. They collected figurines of their hero, emblazoned their homes with mosaics and scratched graffiti of their hero’s name on public buildings.
Sound familiar?

In short, professional sports is, and always has been, a diversion to keep people from focusing on the problems of society. It is a drain on the economy, it huge waste of time, and a gigantic money-making diversion that keeps the populace distracted.

To this day, every television news program, every newspaper (that still exists), every news service, devotes one-quarter to one-third of their precious time and energy to sports. Not to mention those media channels devoted exclusively to sports…

Why does News do this?
What real news is there in teams’ scores, the latest triumph or failure, the latest record broken? With the possible exceptions of the Olympics or the recent uproar over “taking a knee,” when did any sports victory affect the world in any significant fashion? What treaty was signed, what genocide was averted, what disease cured, what famine avoided, because Team ABC defeated Team XYZ?  Oh, and don’t get me started about the blatant lunacy of paying sports figures millions of dollars when firefighters, police, nurses, soldiers, teachers — the real heroes of every stripe — are paid paltry sums.

Nations going to war, economic entities making decisions that affect all of our
lives, genocides, atrocities of every ilk — all going unnoticed because News panders to those who consider devotion to a sports team more important. That is the REAL FAKE news, and the real tragedy.

Do you know what would I would consider unique in the world of sports news?
If some sports mega-star, paid gazillions of dollars, fessed up on camera, “Our team lost because I just didn’t give a rat’s rear-end. I phoned my performance in. Hey, I get paid whether I win or lose, so why should I give a rip? Turn off ESPN and get a life.” Or if the billionaire owner of a team let slip a truth during an interview, “Thanks for the free stadium, chumps.”
That would be real sports news.

Don’t get me wrong about sports — if you like to play sports, go and do!
Athletics is part of what makes us human. It is necessary for a healthy body and sound mind.
It is the glorification of professional sports that is the sickness.

Dirt, Dogs, and Digs

Tags

Autumn, books, cleaning

Autumn is almost upon us, and the signs are everywhere.
Leaves falling.
Ripe nuts and fruit dropping from almost every tree in the neighborhood.
Add to that the usual lawn detritus of grass clippings and fiendishly concealed animal droppings, and it all quickly builds into a noxious pile of organic matter that finds its way into my home.

I cringe every time I step on one of those marble-sized bombs, consisting of a bumper crop of crab-apples, Japanese dogwood berries, pygmy pears, and who-knows-what-else.

During this benighted time of year, I am forced to clean my walkway, my dog, and mudroom on the average 3 times a day — the walkway before I walk my dog, my shoes, the dog’s paws, and linoleum afterwards. And we still somehow manage to track in grass, leaves, mangled corpses of squished fruit, and whatever crud their juices sponge up onto my shoes.

I am by no means a demigod of domesticity, despite the fact that throughout my formative years, I was allergic to everything – dust, mold, mildew, animal dander, and more. My poor Mom had to clean-clean-clean when she wasn’t exhausted from holding down two jobs. Fortunately, my dog was one of those breeds that doesn’t shed, otherwise I think she would have bleached the pooch.

I thank God I have outgrown my allergies and asthma, otherwise I would be forced to continue that unfortunate tradition. These days, I break out the vacuum cleaner once a fortnight (or less), resorting to bucket and mop when I must — far less often than my Mom ever did…
But these Fall invaders of muck and mire have me cleaning far more often than I care to think about.

This season, with nature relentlessly dumping its dirt upon us, reminds me of a pithy bit of humorous wisdom a co-worker imparted, during a tour of a Silicon Valley clean room, where super-clean “bunny-suits” and air-purifiers abounded.

“There is no such thing as ‘perfectly clean.’
There is only the level of dirt you’re willing to tolerate.”

OK — I admit it. I can’t think of even the most tenuous segway (segue) from the subject of cleanliness to the topic of my books. So here’s this blog entry’s blatant bit of self-promotion…
Buy my books!

 

 

Self-Made Million-Aire-Heads

Tags

hubris, milliionaire, self-made

I have to remind myself on a weekly basis — sometimes on a daily basis — that all that I have, all that I’ve done, all that I am, is not solely due to my efforts. Many times I am forced to recognize that all these things are due to immeasurable amounts of help from my faith, family, friends, co-workers — and sometimes even enemies — to get where I am, and where I hope to go.

Consider the phrase “self-made millionaire.” Isn’t that, on the very face of it, a laughable thing? If a person claims their achievements are because of their — and ONLY their — efforts, they are one of three things:
ignorant, delusional, or a liar.

Did they construct the roads on which they (or their chauffeurs) drive?
Did they build their Rolls-Royce’s from scratch?
Did they launch the satellites that predict the weather, around which they plan their junkets?
Did they engineer their towering edifices, or school the engineers who designed them?
No.

Yet so many of our captains of industry and politics, as they become bombastic buffoons spiraling into their ego-driven power trips, pound the podium while declaring their state is brought about by the might of their will and intelligence, and theirs alone.
Hogwash.

Sir Isaac Newton, physicist, mathematical genius, and spiritual Renaissance Man, said it best: “If I have seen further than others, it is by standing upon the shoulders of giants.”

That sense of interconnection is part of why I write my stories I do. Borrowing a laurel bestowed on me by a reviewer – “there’s a moral center there (ie virtue rewarded, or the reverse).”

Visit www.christopherdochs.com to see for yourself!