SPEAK TRUTH! IN ENGLISH, IF YOU HAVE TO

There is a Yiddish proverb that says, "A half-truth is a whole lie."  It is not my intent to engage you in a mental gymnastic concerning the truth or untruth of this proverb.  The reason I am here talking about the truth tonight is that I am a firm believer that straight-talk-truth has its place and it has its "non-place" too.  It is also my personal firm belief that silence is the most effective way to combat the ill effects of ill-placed, ill-timed straight talk truth.  It is more difficult to remain silent when confronted by this kind of attack, but I think it is necessary.  Lately, people in our local church community have been wounded by outright calumny (lies), contumely (viciously harsh truth about a person) and a big dose of half truths.  This time, I and the Voice from the Kitchen are on the sidelines looking in.  We have had our turn on the inside and it is not pleasant.  Over time, we have come to know that we are still fodder for the gossip "column" but have generally lost our place as headliners.  It is a result of growing older.  It is also a result of being able to point at a garden full of fruit that did not exist BVoK.  I'll let you figure that one out.  The clues are all over the place.
Many times I have shocked people by my straightforward statements.  When it is time for someone to move on, I say it.  Move on.  I don't beat around the bush and say things like, "You know, your talents haven't been used to the degree that they could be."  Why would I say that?  If that is anywhere near the truth, am I not the one who should have brought those talents to the fore?  How stupid can you get?  You tell the person whom you are discharging that talents have gone to waste and blaming him/her for it.  You're to blame, Bozo!  If you know that I have talents that could be more valuable to you than they have been, why are you sending me down the road?  Does this sound strange to you?  It is strange.  I once had a vice-president of a very prestigious Colorado corporation tell me precisely that.  When I made the point that she was sending me away to cure her own incompetence, she really got into a huff.  I didn't care, I had another job to go to anyway.  As far as I know, she still has her job.  That's because she didn't work for me. :-)
Just lately, I have been expecting a proposed helper/volunteer to contact me.  I have emailed, provided my telephone number, talked to the executive in charge and all I have in return in silence.  So last night I sent then both an email saying, in essence, "Patience, hell, I'm going out an' kill me somethin'!"  30 hours later, you guessed it, silence.  Yiddish proverbs to the contrary, I have a couple proverbs that I am instituting right now as the latest fundamental truths about life.
1. "Anonymity is the biggest enemy of progress."
2. "Silence is the biggest lie."
As you can see, I am a great admirer of Moliere's ultrabiliary lover, Alceste, otherwise known as "Le Misanthrope."
Think about that.

SPEAK ENGLISH!

ELLE N'A PAS FRETTE AUX YEUX
THERE'S NO ICE IN HER EYES

All my life, I have had to deal with mental "disconnects."  Some of them are humorous and some of them are confusing.  The one that I had today comes in the variety of  humorous, I guess, and maybe at the same time confusing.  It is a disconnect between my English speaking mind and my French Canadian, Canuck speaking mind.  Since French is my mother tongue, this happens to me rather often.  The Voice from the Kitchen and I were having a friendly conversation about a situation that has developed at the parish church where she works.  It is rather messy.  Naturally, messy human situations in churches are always good fodder for friendly conversation between two people who are not involved and included in the mess.  At some point in the verbal give and take between us, she told the story of how the central figure in the Mess had accused the parish secretary of conduct deleterious to him.  [No, not that kind of conduct.]  My interlocutor, named above, told me that the secretary, whom I know very well and have even featured on "No Crying at My Funeral", slammed him with a direct right uppercut to the left brain with her swift and devastating riposte to his accusation.  Stage right entry of my disconnect.  I wanted to affirm in the strongest of terms my assent to the ease with which my mind came to the conclusion that Miss Secretary [a confirmed 5' 10" adult in her deep 40's] was very capable of delivering such a blow to Mr. Arrogant Priest.  All that came over the neurons, in the smallest fraction of a second, was the dialectical French Canadian expression, "C'est facile a craire, a pas frette aux yeux."
To the Ears from the Kitchen, that would have made no sense.  I was left standing there for a few seconds with a quivering tongue, quickly sweating palms and stupid babbling sounds gurgling up from my throat.  My disorientation was crippling. I couldn't recover because for the like of me, even as I sit here writing this, I still cannot think of a meaningful translation.  You know that I made one up.  Of course, you know.  So I limply said, "Well, as we say in French, There's no ice in her eyes."  As we say in Latin, "Stercus Taurorum!"  We don't say that in French.  We say something like that, but not that.  Belle [that's her Real Name] just said something inane like, "That's for sure.  She's not afraid of anybody." By the way, that, too, is true of this very fetching, statuesque woman.
I leave you with that insight into my personal inner workings.  When I am tweaked just the right way, I never know what my synapses are going to deliver.  It's an interesting life.  That's why it's not hard to write a least one thought per day.  Too bad I'm limited to English, right?

DON'T HOLD YOUR BREATH

You're not going to believe this, but this thought kept the back of my mind busy all day.  It rambled all over the place and took me down some paths that I never thought I would walk with such enthusiasm.  It started out with the thought that we humans, as well as many other mammals, don't have to think about breathing.  We just do it.  I thought about this because I caught myself being conscious of my breathing rhythm.  There it was, as I was watching myself in the mirror breathe in and out.  I counted it and I did 17 complete "round trips" in one minute.  I was a little disappointed at that.  I was hoping that because of my average 55 @ minute pulse rate, I would be down in about the 13 or 14 breaths per minute range.  But, no.  But then again, 17 can't be that bad.  It seems to me that at one point of my life I heard that 20 was the average human rate.  I walked away from in front of the mirror and went to the coffee pot.  Now, Mother Nature keeps me alive by reflex, involuntary breathing action, but I keep myself alive with well-planned, voluntary coffee brewing action.  But this morning was my breathing day.  All of a sudden the thought came to me that it is said that certain mammals are not endowed with an involuntary breathing system.  They have to want to breathe.  Whoaa, there!  Are you kidding me?  Hey, we humans want to breathe too, and we have two choices.  Let nature do it, [we want that, right?] or stop nature from doing it and die.  So that was fine, and I didn't get too excited about it.  The coffee was a lot more interesting at this point.  HHmmm, now, that's living.  Three sips later the voluntary breathing thing took over again.  I was running this through my coconut.  34 times per minute I would have to make a decision to breathe, first in, and then out.  Things then got really weird because I wondered if I would make the decision to breathe out, first and then breathe in.  It got so bad that I forgot to sip again for at least ten minutes.  Things are bad folks, I'm fasting involuntarily from my coffee sipping, life sustaining, elbow bending morning exercises.  If I had to will myself to breathe, when would I have time to do anything else?  Suppose I got over arguing with myself over the "in" or "out" question, everything would go smoothly in the breathing department, but everything else would go to pot.  How could I write funny stories?   How could I talk?  I could perhaps eat and drink and boil water, but that would be the extent of my existence.  What about sleep?  I wouldn't be able to shut it all down and sleep.  I would die in a minute or so.  Now, let me tell you, I am thanking God on both knees [we Catholics kneel down to pray] that He gives us the grace of involuntary breathing, 24 / 7, or as they say in Europe, 7 / 24.  I get up from my knees and realize that I have to nuke my coffee because it has now become lukewarm.  In the minute and a half of the nuking process, I remember that I had heard that dolphins and whales have to want to breathe.  They have to make a conscious decision to start breathing, not just to stop. No wonder all they do all day is swim, eat, make funny noises and breathe.  Yeesh!  What a life!  I began to be a little more comfortable about the breathing thoughts that I was having.  I rescued my coffee from the nuclear reactor, made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for breakfast, returned the ingredients and the implements to their resting places, took a bite of the sandwich and then it hit me.  Do dolphins and whales sleep?  They can't breathe under water, so they have to stay awake all the time in order to live.  So, they don't sleep.  Poor slobs.  I pity them.  Imagine living 25 years straight without sleep?  Case closed.  I finished my breakfast, went to check on my email, got another cup of coffee, took a little walk outside before it got too hot...Oh, no!  Case not closed.  You don't know if dolphins don't sleep.  Maybe they can take one giant breath and hold it for a few hours and grab 40 winks.  How do you know that they don't sleep?  By now I want my brain to shut up.  This started out being about breathing and now I'm worrying about the sleep habits of a marine mammal.  Howwever, I come in, go to Google, of course, and find the answer.  Dolphins sleep with only one half of their brain shut down.  They lolly-gag around near the surface with one eye open and one eye closed.  Grab a nap and then switch sides.  So there.  They do sleep.  In fact, just about every single living thing sleeps, or does something like it...even those that breathe voluntarily, those that breathe involuntarily and those that don't look like they're breathing at all, but are.
Here is a simple English Internet page that I stumbled on this morning during the turmoil in my brain about this stuff.
http://www.sleephomepages.org/sleepsyllabus/b.html
Warning:  If you are the slightest type of nerdy wonk, this page will hook you and not let go.
Good night, All.  I am now gladly turning my breathing activity over to my guardian angel for the night.  I got bad service from Morpheus last night.  I figured it would be good to give my G.A. a rest.  It turned out to be a bad idea.  

PAPA, PAPANANTAYO? --- PAPA, WHERE ARE WE GOING?

A PALACE 500 MILES AWAY

What follows is a serious question preceded by a fairly humorous story.  Most of the story took place in a language that is unknown to you, well most of you, so I will try to make the translation as loyal to the original as I can.  The question is: Why does it seem to take longer to get where you're going than it does to return home?  To put your minds at ease. I will admit, up front, that I do not have the correct answer.  I don't think I do.  Nevertheless, I do have an answer that I will propose to you.  After the story, of course.
Some years ago we decided to drive to Massachusetts to visit my sister who was in the process of living out her last few weeks/months on earth.  She had uncontrolled diabetes and her kidneys were completely shut down.  We had just bought a small Honda Civic, so we decided to drive since all we had was $500.00 and trust in God.  So we leave San Diego with two boys, one 4 and one 3.  Fifty miles away and many requests for an update of whether or not we had arrived yet made the necessary potty stop a welcome relief for all hands.  I then took the opportunity to explain to the two gentlemen who had come along for the ride that it was going to take us at least four days to get to where we were going.  I explained that it was Massachusetts and that we were going there mainly to see Auntie Jeannine.  They nodded in deep comprehension and off we went.  At the Arizona border we stopped to stretch our legs and to take care of Mother Nature.  As we were walking to the car, the younger passenger looked at me with this pleading look in his eyes and asked, Papa, where are we going?"  So I answered him with sincere love, "Dear, we are going to Massachusetts."  "Thank you, Papa."  We all get in and off we go.  Four days across country and not a single time did either one of them ask if we were there yet.  I drove and the three of them, Mama included, of course, played little games, sang pre-school songs, said Hail Mary's and Our Father's and ate .99c breakfasts at Stuckees, all day long.
We reached our destination at about 8:30 PM on the fourth day.  Auntie was not healthy enough to wait.  She had gone home.  The house was full of "strangers," so these two tykes take it upon themselves to rebel against their cheating, lying parents.  The elder one really gets into a lather and states emphatically that since Auntie isn't here and neither are Grandmother nor Grandfather, that we should go home, now.  We can't sleep here.  It's just not fair.  It took a long time and at least two telephone calls to calm things down, but nature, in the form of super fatigue helped us to carry the day...oh, no, the night.  We stayed there for about four days and then climbed back into the car and headed back to San Diego.  It was a great trip with two interesting episodes that have  to wait for another time and another "Thought."
Now, through all that, have you solved the question for yourself?  I drew the little graph on the upper right to make the point and give you a clue to what I think is the answer.  You've had this experience any number of times.  You leave home for a place that is absolutely gorgeous.  You're looking forward to the rest and the fun that awaits you there.  It is just doggone impossible to get there even at 80 MPH!  What is this?  You finally do get there, unload the car, look at your watch [OK, your cell phone] and you realize that in mathematical terms you made excellent time.  At this point you start questioning the validity of your epistemology.  This discomfort lasts but a few seconds, perhaps a minute and then real life takes over and you start to have fun.  Hey, this place is heaven and you're here for a quiet week.  Like everything else, the vacation ends and you find your place in the passenger's seat once again, satisfied that you had a good time and that you were intelligent enough to give yourself a two day cushion of relaxation at home before reporting back to the office.  You enjoy the scenery on the way back and before you know it, BAM, you're home.  You even know that you were settled in at about 75 MPH.  What happened?
Here's my proposal.  What happens is illustrated in the little graph above.  Home is a bigger area of intimate knowledge for us.  We are "home" much sooner in our minds and in our hearts than we feel when we travel to a less intimately known location.  This is true even when we regularly visit and revisit the same location away from home.  This, by the way has other implications.  Did you ever notice that when you start to prepare for a task that you rarely do at home that you find yourself falling behind on your estimated pace?  It always takes longer to prepare to wash the outside windows than you estimated.  It takes you but a trice to prepare to wash and polish the car.  Think about it a while.  Don't blame me if it takes you longer than you estimate to get comfortable with this whole thing.  
Finally, I don't know if I'm right about this.  It doesn't matter to me because right or wrong, I am sitting here thinking that I made you think about something that you had perhaps not considered in a bit.  I'm also thinking that you're wondering about my sanity.  Don't wonder any more.  I'm not. 

THE GREAT ILLUSION ---

This is from a website that I visit often.  I don't relate to everything that is presented there, but I keep going back there because for years now I have allowed myself to be intrigued by the ideas that lie there.  I was in the mood of the restless buzzard today.  You know, the one who says to the wife sitting on the fence post next to him in the hot sun, "Patience?  Hell.  I'm going out to kill somethin'"!  So I went to Victor Kahn's Great Illusion to let you in on my inner self as recorded on June 27, 2011.  Enjoy.

The world as we view it  is much like a dance, 

you can take what is coming and live it by chance...

Or seek answers to questions and live it by choice, 

just follow your heart and answer its voice.

Chance brings that karmic phenomenon,
manifested reactions from what you have done.
Look for a place that’s hidden within,
search for the message, that’s where to begin.
Talk to yourself, have conversation inside,
it’s a matter of choice, create from the mind.Picture yourself in a world all your own,
then bring it to life from the seed to the sown.
Search & discover the source of white light,
don’t settle for anything, reach for the heights.
Your goals are the answer to what you achieve,
and it’s almost like magic when you start to believe.
Truth & intuition ...bring gifts to rejoice,
go it by chance or live it by choice

BILOUX -- BILU -- YYYUUMMMMMM!

Hey, here's a family myth on the chopping block.  In a minute it is going to be gone.  You bet!  See these guys in this picture?  I'm sure that you do.  They are called Bilu-bilu.  Pronounced Bee-loo.  There is also a word that is known to many people in French speaking North America that is spelled biloux.  This last word is a favorite word of the children of our family, even though these children have reached some fairly impressive ages.  They would not like me to divulge what those numbers really are, but I will tell you that they can be counted in multiple decades, divisible by 10.  I can also tell you that when we get together around the same table once per year, someone will always be polite enough to ask if it is now OK to talk about "Biloux?"  Now, we do not have a drunken uncle left in our family, so the nasty, daring question is always left silently under the table until one of us has the crust to bring it up.  Always a boy, of course, generally not the eldest, of course, leaving "you-know-who" out to dry.  Those of you who are not of the French Canadian, Canuck dialect persuasion have no idea what this is all about.  I have no driving inclination to tell you in graphic terms what is at hand here, but I will say that it is generally regarded as rather disgusting.  Especially at table, and especially since it usually ends with the soiled hand being wiped on the thigh part of the trousers of the practitioner of the art of relieving himself of said nasal excrement.  That having been said, I proceed to the introduction of the Bilu-bilu which is the true [I think] topic of this piece.  I even accompany it with a historically correct photograph which I leave until the very end in order to have an exciting climax to this story.  Bilu-bilu are round, slippery balls of sweet rice flour, found mixed in a glue-y syrup of sweet rice flour, sugar, sometimes slices of a tropical fruit called jack-fruit and coconut milk.  They are soft and do not lend themselves to be chewed since they stick to the teeth and require some tongue and jaw gymnastics in order to be dislodged and sent down the tube to the stomach.  So, they are to be slipped on to a spoon with some of the syrup, placed gingerly in the mouth as they are generally served hot, savored, gently massaged between tongue and teeth and allowed to slither comfortably down past the epiglottis and into the upper chamber of the stomach thereby completing a sensual. concupiscent gustatory experience of supreme quality.
I leave you then with this thought of the day.  If you live in enough countries and are exposed to enough languages, even the bad stuff you have come to loathe will be turned into something sweet and lovable.

BILU-BILU -- EVEN AUNTIE EM WOULD SAVOR THIS

2 QUESTIONS ASKED AND A 3RD THAT HAS TO WAIT FOR LATER

1.  How old were you before you opened a new gallon of paint and used it all by yourself, right to the last brush licking drop?

That's a lot of paint.  Don't you remember seeing someone dip the brush into the can, bring it out, slather it on the surface until it had to be dipped again, etc., etc...  Don't you remember that as you watched what was happening, you came to the conclusion that it was impossible to run out of paint at that pace?  You and I both know that this thought is a universal one, but not one that occupies a lot of our time.  At least not now, that we know that a gallon of paint gets purchased full, but gets thrown away, maybe 1/2 full and crusted over, in favor of a new one, of the same color, in about five years' time.  So you remember the answer to the question, or perhaps this experience never became a reality for you.  It did happen to me.  I'll be brief.
I had been fired from a great job with Lionel Trains.  It was located in Tijuana, Mexico and I was the one U.S. guy who could speak Spanish.  I'll spare you the details of that story.  It took a long time to find work and we were on the verge of losing our house.  One day, a friend from church saw me at the bakery, asked what I was doing and I answered, "starving."  He said, "Good, I need some help in my business.  I paint interiors of houses and hang wallpaper.  Right now I have a ton of easy work.  You want it, you got it.  I can teach you how to paint in an hour."  I agreed, of course.  He said, "Here's the first lesson."  He slipped me $15.00 and said, "Go buy a brush."  I was flummoxed.  $15.00 for a paint brush?  Just one?  In 1982?  I thought  that I had retained control, but his stern remonstrance showed me that he had seen my reaction.  He made a stiff statement of the non-negotiable 1st principle of professional painting.  A good brush will MAKE you a better painter.  In my case, the better brush was going to MAKE the painter, period.
I dragged the Voice from the Kitchen with me and actually paid a little over $17 for a brush.  I remember the conversation on the way home being about where to buy a padlock to protect the key to my professional future.  I went to work at 6:30 the next morning.  My friend spent some 30 minutes teaching me how to paint.  Then he introduced me to the 1st project.  5 homes all of which had between 3 and 5 doors to be stripped and re-stained [or painted] and re-varnished [or painted].  Then there followed kitchens and bathrooms.  All the nasty jobs that the "senior guys" avoid like the bubonic plague.  I was 44 and that is how old I was when I found out that dip, by dip, it is possible to go through a gallon of paint, all by yourself.
                        <|><|>|<|>|<|>
2. How old were you when your last, unresolved question from elementary school was finally answered?
When I was in the 7th and 8th grades I had a teacher who now and then in catechism class would go off and rant about girls who rode bicycles and horses.  Remember now, this was in a parochial school, 1948 - 50.  It was at the time when I was going from twelve to fourteen years of age.  If we transport ourselves forward to the turn of the 21st century, I know that I would be accused of hiding the truth.  Sixty+ years ago, though, no a boy in the class knew what this teacher's problem was.  We were all quite bashful with girls, so we didn't even say a word to even those girls with whom we were on friendly terms.  My grandfather who knew this teacher and knew the pastor well [he worked at the church for 60 years] died during this period of mystification.  He was the one person I knew who would give me an answer and not snicker at my ignorance in the process.  My grandfather always told me the truth when I asked something, even if it went against what we had been told in class.  I assure you that all the guys I spoke with about this, every time it came up, were sure that the girls were as puzzled about it as we were.  I confess to you that I have led a relatively sheltered life.  That being said, I can honestly say that it took me until the age of about 37 before I figured it out all by myself.  
What is really Serious about this is that there are things that pre-occupy us in life, both Serious and Safely Humorous.  Still, we carry very human questions around with us for an entire lifetime sometimes without getting a sane answer.  I did not used to believe this.  YET, tonight I have written it because I have come to believe it.  Now that is news, not because I have solved the personal mystery about the reality, but simply that I have come around to admitting the existence of the reality.  The deep part of this ocean is that I feel comfortable with the Theological/Spiritual/Doctrinal part of this reality, after all, I have plenty of questions about God, but I am just now coming home to the purely human part.  
I ask God this question a lot: Is this why you keep me around?  <Question 3>

JOHN THE BAPTIST -- CANADIAN HOCKEY PLAYER?

It is a little late to be writing about John the Baptist whose feast day was June 24. I must confess that this great moment sneaked up on me from behind a screen of other thoughts.  Then, all of a sudden, I was at the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass and the priest was announcing the solemnity of the feast of John the Baptist.   I happen to reside in Southern California where there are precious few Canadians and even fewer residents who realize that this is the patron saint of Canada.  If John the Baptist had waited a few more years, I'm sure  that he would have been a great hockey player.  You think I'm being disrespectful?  What do you think of the individual who was inspired to paint an icon of John carrying his own head?  They don't come any tougher than that.  The artist felt that deep inside of himself.   The artist was moved by the Spirit to depict the fore-runner of the Messiah as someone who had achieved a degree of faith that drove him through the barrier of Old Testament animal sacrifices to the covenant of personal sacrifice.  John's understanding of this mystery put him in the league of the Maccabees and of course, prepared us all for the ultimate sacrifice of Jesus, Son of God Himself.  We can understand the sacrifice of Jesus better because of the sacrifice of John.  There is also another facet of the mystery of Jesus about which the being of John the Baptist enlightens us.

John the Baptist is the last in a line of four miraculous births.  All of them to elderly women who, until the intervention of God Himself, were barren.  Think Sara, mother of Isaac, son of Abraham.  Thank Hannah, mother of Samuel, son of Elkanah.  Think of the nameless saint, mother of Samson, son of Manoah.  Finally, think of Elizabeth, mother of John, son of Zechariah.  Old ladies.  Brave ladies who finally have a boy child and who generously give him to God, for God's purposes, not their own.  All of these boys are precursors of the Messiah, Our Jesus who, among them all is born of a YOUNG, VITAL, FRESH, STRONG woman who gave him to God just like her ancestors had done, even though she did not have to go through the years of despair that they did.  She was not old and experienced, she was young and virginal.  We will never fathom the mystery of the faith that resided in these women, old or young.  Was it more difficult for Elizabeth to bear a boy and give him back to God, than it was for Mary?  We'll never know, will we?  We do know one thing, all the previous mothers gave their children back to God under the Torah. Elizabeth and Mary gave theirs back at the blossoming of the Torah into the Law of Love.  Could they have done it without the example of those who had done it before them?  Yes, of course, for they were God's "angels."  Would we have been able to understand the mystery of the Marian and Elizabethan sacrifices as deeply as we do now without the three previous examples?  I don't think so.  God wants us to learn from the past.  The stories of the past form the tradition of today.  This is the teaching method of God.  Jesus is today's Isaac.  Born of a young mother, founder and communicator of the Law of Love, successor of David and Eternal King over the redeemed Chosen People.  John had no choice but to announce the arrival of the Messiah and then prove to the world that self sacrifice in the tradition of the Chosen People, from Abraham, through the Maccabees, through Elizabeth and finally through John and Jesus formed the soul of the New and Eternal covenant.  I am convinced that in the plan of God, John had to die a violent death for the sake of the Kingdom so that the death of Jesus would not come to anyone as a complete surprise.  Why there are still some who cannot see this, is as deep a mystery as the one that enlightens the hearts and minds of others.  Our salvation is the work of the Trinity using tough, loving saints like John the Baptist as collaborators.  What a consoling thought.

May God bless you all, and may He bless you in a special way for not crying at my funeral.

THIRD TIME IN THE HOSPITAL FOR SURGERY

Now they're messing with my tail bone.  This could turn out to be a long story, but I'll try to keep it short and get it behind me.  I looked for some pictures, but they were all rather gross, so I settled for this cute little cartoon figure.
I was in Rome, Italy, studying at the Pontifical University of St. Thomas.  I developed a painful condition that pronounced itself loudly after I had been sitting for more than about five minutes.  Now for a person who is in school, that is a rather interesting condition to develop.  I did not know what it was, but I did know what it felt like.  I told my superiors what was happening to me and they could not figure out what was wrong with me.  So, they called a friend, a Swiss doctor so that he could look at me.  He came, he saw and he failed.  But before he failed, I actually let him cut me.  Yeah, with Novocaine followed by 20 minutes of cutting and pulling with a pair of pliers.  After he finished I was sore for about a month from the wound alone.  I also bled a lot.  What a mess!  I am about to exclaim and shout that I have this supreme pain in the ass, but it hurts too much.  I am reduced to silence.  I still have two more years to go in Rome, but I will tell you now, I ain't sayin' nothin' no more about this to anyone...Let alone a Swiss doctor.  So I squirmed for two more years.  After the carving of my tail stopped hurting, the tail pain took over and never left.
Let me say, that I did discover how to squirm around it, for the most part.  I did graduate, but that was not the end.  I still had about 18 hours of airplane time looking me in the eye.  Oh, yeah.  Now that was fun.
After that, I settled in to life as it should be, I thought.  Along the way, I told my new superior about my posterior pain.  He sent me to the doctor.  The doctor said, "Ouch, that must hurt."  He then proceeded to tell me that I had a fairly common condition known as a Pilonidal cyst.  It is a growth that forms at the end of your tailbone and must be excised surgically, under general anesthesia.  Can you imagine my reaction to that?  Shocked.  Dead silence.  Three complete years of pain; scraping and pulling under local freezing and now I hear this.  I tell the boss.  He says, "Get it done.  I got work for you to do and it involves driving all over the Northeast."  So off I go to hospital.
I spend one week there.  One week for a pain in the ass.  But I took advantage of it.  The third shift nurse always gave me a nice back-rub to make me comfortable before going beddie-bye.  It got to be so good that I really didn't want to leave.  One good thing, other than my lazy comfort. The pain went away.  The doctor told me that it could come back.  So far, so good.  50 years so far and still pain free.
It is a strange memory.  To have been subjected to a wrong procedure is never a pleasant feeling.  Fortunately for me, my experience was far from having the potential of killing me.  So, it was painful, but it was also comical.  When something is comical, the sufferer can always survive.  I look back on this one with a light heart.  I am quite sure that if every hospitalization were like this one, there would be a lot less pain in the world.  There might be more pains in the ass, but we can all get over those.  Trust me on this one.

I FINALLY KNOW OUR GARBAGE MAN -- READ THIS

THIS IS GARBAGE, NOT TRASH

 It all started with my sister and brother-in-law sending me an obituary notice.  It related the life and death of a person whom I knew mainly as a rival from the other side of town.  I read it with great interest because it was full of truth about the personality of the deceased.  I am thankful that this obituary notice came to me.  I am even more thankful that I discovered many things in the aftermath of the simple act of receiving the email.  Attached to the email was a link that connected to the funeral home and was an opportunity for me to tell the survivors that I had taken note of the passing of this person.  The electronic "guest list" also showed the names of the others who had used it and it even gave everyone a chance to list email address and contact others who did so as well.  So, naturally, I read the visitors list and placed my email address there as well.  Since there was room to leave a comment and a prayer, if I so wished, I made use of that too.  Along the way I saw a name that was very familiar.  The same surname of my boyhood friend from 60+ years back.  So, I took advantage of the opportunity to inquire whether or not this was a relative of my friend.  As it turns out, it isn't.  As it also turns out, neither one of us can shut up.  I write to him.  He answers.  I answer back.  He writes again.  By this time, we know that we never knew one another, despite the surname, but that now that we know one another, we might as well make the most of it.  So we do.  As it also turns out, this is the son of the garbage man I never came to know.  Why am I telling you this?  It's easy.  We have become so gentrified that we no longer have garbage men. They only exist in our minds.  I'm willing to bet that 80% of the students in high school don't even know what garbage is.  I'm willing to bet that they don't know that pork comes from dead pigs who ate garbage to get nice and juicy fat.   I'm willing to bet that people under the age of 40 who are reading this don't know what a garbage man did, never mind who he is.  Here I am chirping away in glee that I have finally come to know the garbage man who had the run in our section of town.  This is a part of my growing up that is being fulfilled.  He is real.  He has a name.  He knows people whom I know.  He knows the guy and the family of the guy in the obituary notice, just like I do.  This person has come to life through the death of a mutual acquaintance.  For me, the deceased was an erstwhile, and valiant rival for supremacy on the baseball diamond.  A rivalry that lives on in the memories of those of us who lived it throughout our youth.  It was young men from two parts of the same town, vying for the pride of being the best for the entire town, not just one part of it.  Some of us didn't like one another.  Some of us did.  I was always an outsider of sorts because I did not attend the local public schools, neither elementary nor high.  But I knew who my rivals were.  Some I respected, some I didn't.  The guy in the obit was one I respected.  He was a left-handed pitcher who could get me out.  He was also a teen-age gentleman who never rubbed it in off the diamond.  You know what?  That's in the obit and it's in the comments from the funeral home electronic sign-in sheet.  His life is a memory of how to be a kind and supportive person.

The garbage man's son and I are going to continue our conversation.  I don't make garbage in South Hadley, Massachusetts any more.  I haven't seen a garbage truck in at least 65 years.   That doesn't matter.  Our garbage man and his son [one of them] have found life in my mind and my heart.  It is a profound source of joy to make such a connection.  I hope that it will happen to all of you someday.

THE ONE LINE I WILL NEVER FORGET

BURNED INTO MY MIND

We all have one.  This is the story of mine.
<^><^><^><^>

It was a bright, warm Sunday afternoon.  The boys were taking a nap and Mama was watching an old movie.  I was in the driveway washing the family sedan.  I was in the middle of drying it with my old, ragged chamois when out of the corner of my eye I saw Ol' Roy open his kitchen door and gently call out my name. I turned the rest  of the way around to be able to see the entire picture and when I did, Roy spoke softly, but clearly, "Could I talk to you for a bit?"  I responded that I could, dropped the chamois and strolled over to Roy's house, a mere 65 feet away. When I got there I could see that he was tired and that he was struggling to stay as alert as I, and other denizens of the neighborhood were wont to see him.  He handed me a pencil and paper and simply said, "I know that I can trust you to do a couple things for me.  Tomorrow I have to be at the hospital by 10:00 AM.  I have an idea that they will commit me there.  I don't know if I will get out alive.  I would like you to contact some people who should know what is going on."  I acquiesced with no perceptible verbal response, but my body language told Roy all he had to know.  In the language of professional drivers, I was ready to write.  Roy proceeded to tell me the name and the contact information of his son, an airline pilot, by the way; his daughter, a very dedicated housewife and mother.  "Don't ask son to contact her, cuz he won't." He then wanted me list a couple of his friends, whom I knew from visits that they made to his house to "throw back a few" as we used to say.  The directions were coming in a smooth flowing, calm voice, so I didn't say anything as I was writing all this down.  Of a sudden, a little hitch in his throat caught my attention.  I looked up and saw that he had turned a little embarrassed, but I knew not why.  He quickly recovered and after a peremptory apology asked, "Do you think Belle could drive me to the hospital?  I don't think I could make it and I don't want to leave my car there anyway."  I, never one to be shy when volunteering the Voice from the Kitchen, assured the man that she would be more than happy to render this simplest of favors.  He thanked me and then he stopped talking.  During the pause, which I could tell was going to be significant, I dared to inject myself into his private affairs and asked, 

"What about your wife?"  

"Whaddya mean"?

"She still alive?"

"Yeah."

"Well, aren't you going to tell her about what's going on?"

"She don't have to know.  'Sides, she don't care anyhow."

"How do you know?"

"She never calls me."

"You call her?"

"Hell no!"  Lots of energy there.

"Well, Roy, I personally think that I should call her."

"What for?"

"Well, for one thing, I bet that it would make you feel better."

"Ya do?"

"I do.  In fact, I don't think, I know."

"Well, then, call 'er."

"You got a number?"

"Oh, yeah.  Just a sec."  Disappearing act into the bedroom. Shuffling noises, sliding drawer,pages being turned, silence.

"Found it.  Here, ya kin try that."

"Thanks Roy."

"It won't matter none, she don't care."

"Hmm.  By the way, when do you want me to make these phone calls?"

"Tomorrow evening will be OK.  Not too late though because the kids are in the Midwest.  The boy may come cuz he's a pilot.  She may or may not come."

"Roy, in case something happens, do you have any important papers that I should know about so that none of your stuff gets into the wrong hands?"

"Good thought.  Yeah.  Just a sec."  No disappearing act this time.  He turned around, opened the over door and there inside the rusty, rotted-out cave in the stove lay a brown 9 x 12 envelope, puffed up a bit in the middle, but not sealed.  

"Give this to the boy.  He's smart about stuff, so he can figure this out."

"OK.  Hmm, Roy, what do I tell these people?"

"You think of everything."

"Well-ll, not really, but it would be nice if you were to give me an idea of what the occasion is."

"The leukemia that I've been fighting for the last 6 or 7 years is about to win the battle."

"Aahh, OK.  So do I tell them that?"

"Well, my two friends know, but the rest of them don't.  Yeah, go ahead and tell 'em."

"Roy, can I ask another question?"

"You just did."

Low chuckles and smiles for a few seconds.

"Are you thinking of locking the place up while you're gone?"

"Yeah.  You do think of everything.  I'll give the keys to Belle tomorrow.  Give them to the boy."

"Roy, thank you for the opportunity to help you.  I hope that your transition goes smoothly."

"Ya know, I knew I could trust you.  You're a lot better at this dying stuff than I am."

I never saw Roy again.  He died 6 days later.

Based on Roy's evaluation, there is to be no crying at my funeral.

YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE --- CAREFUL, THIS ONE'S DEEEEP

A beautiful quote:

"Did you know that on the 21st of June your shadow is shorter than Dec. 21st when it is a lot longer.  There maybe a point in what you are saying.  We and the whole universe are so connected, I do not know why many times we think we are the center of the universe.  Is our ego bigger than ourself?"
Wisdom from the sage of Micronesia, Justa Kubarii.  [Put your Google on "Image" and enter "Palau" for an insight on where Justa grew up.]


You are reading this on the day marked as the Summer Solstice.  The longest day of the year.  For us here on the 38th parallel it won't be as spectacular nor as protracted as it is for those of you on the 43rd or 45th.  But don't begrudge Mother Nature the extra two minutes.  Also don't begrudge her the short shadow.  Kiss her good morning after you pick yourself up off the floor and thank her for letting you sleep in an extra bit.  Sometime during the day, go out and give her a big hug for letting you see your shadow for one more day.  Nothing wrong with that, is there?  
Like Justa said, we have this conviction so often that we are the center of the universe.  There used to be a saying in English about "...thinking that the sun rises and sets on me..."  Remember that?  If that thought, or that sentiment ever crossed your mind, don't feel sorry for it, but go out today and look at the short shadows on the ground to prove to yourself that there is more than one shadow out  there.  I know that every now and then I ask myself, "Where'd that come from?  So, I'm going to check it out later today too.  
Furthermore, as time goes by, let's all notice that we don't have any power whatsoever to decide what length shadow we are going to throw.  All we can do is to make do with the one Mother Nature gives us for a given time on a given day.  As a matter of fact, there are a lot of things that she lets us do with the shadow we have.  We can get the glare out of someone's eyes; we can make a child laugh by changing the angle of our shadow into some strange shapes; we can even amuse ourselves with the same antic; we can use our shadow to calculate the height of our favorite tree; we can use our shadow to help us guess the time so that we don't keep our date waiting; we can use our shadow to remind us to pray, v.g. "...

8 Keep me as the apple of your eye; 

hide me in the shadow of your wings..."[Psalm 17;8].  

  

Finally, our shadow reminds us that all shadows are equal, everyone has one under equal conditions and the conditions that change mine are the same conditions that change yours.  I have no authority over the shape of your shadow.  All I can do is to sweet talk you into changing position and hope that you will enjoy the result. Therefore, get out there today and reflect on the great, gratuitous gift of the shadow and remember that it is the heat of the loving child of Mother Nature, our brother Sun who is in charge.  Today is the threshold of his decline, let's get out there and enjoy the extra two minutes of his presence.


Thanks for the thought, Justa.

HAVE YOU EVER FAILED? BE HONEST

Now you know that this is going to be deep stuff.  I saw the cartoon and couldn't help but listen to my brain whirling around looking for a wise-crack about "feel" versus "sure" and "failure."  My brain didn't deliver one to my satisfaction, so you have to be satisfied with what I got.  Actually, I got a lesson in personal failure the other day.  It is not a very good feeling, but it is an honest one.  It reminded me of some of the other times when I have come to the point of realizing that I had reached the limit of my talent in one field or another.  One of the things I was not very good at, and in fact, lousy at, was hand to hand combat...you know, fist fighting.  It took me a while before I realized that many of the people whom I strongly disliked could lay me out in lavender before I got the second jab going.  Yep, I took some pretty good shellackings.  The other area of failure for me is mathematics.  I can't fault myself for not trying, but I suppose if I reflect on it long enough and deep enough, I might wonder about the quality of the effort.  "Suppose" all I want, that's all I'm going to do.  I took my last and best shot at math when I was 38 and I got a "C".   That night I went out and bought an ounce of the best "Sensimilla", joined my friends and came to the conclusion that this was the crowning glory of my mathematics career.  I've been a failure at math all my life.  You can tell that I have accepted it because I have learned to laugh at it.  It was harder for me to accept that I was not as good as I thought in baseball.  I accepted it at about 19 years of age, but I still can replay, pitch by pitch, play by play, some of the games in which I proved to the world and to myself that I had better find something else to do with my life.  It was not so hard to realize that I would never amount to much in sports that require indirect contact with the ball, the bird or the puck.  If I have to use a paddle, a racquet or a stick, I am a failure.  I am also a failure at basketball and volleyball. Period.  
Cards?  Cards, you ask?  I am a good pinochle player, a slick cribbage guy, a so-so bridge partner and a terrible black-jack table pretender.  
Puzzles?  Good interlocking picture puzzle assembler, slightly better than average crossword puzzle doodler (Thursday's New York Times level).
There is one area of life in which I can say without equivocation that I am BAD at:  Accounting.  Even the simplest, easiest repetitive task is going to turn to dust in my hands.  I know that is is because I am so distracted when it comes to details.  Especially that kind of detail.  Maybe even any detail.  I wonder how many of this blog's posts are 100% error free.  More than likely, none.  Why?  It is beyond me.  I reread them all at least three times before pressing the button to publish and at least once after publishing.  About 9 of 10 times I have to recall it and make a least one correction before announcing it to the community.  There are some things that I do well, but, as you can easily see, there are also some that I don't do well at all.
The one thing that I do well, is to be able to be honest with myself and with others.  I came to know that self directed honesty is the road to happiness here on earth quite a while ago.  I have come to know who I am and that tells me what I can or cannot do.  That doesn't mean that I don't participate in some activities that are outside my area of weakness, but I don't take myself seriously while doing them.  That's OK in games.  It's not OK in activities that should be serious.  It's difficult for me to be serious when I am in a weakness zone.  This attitude becomes problematic when serious life situations demand breaking out of the comfort zone and forcing my "square peg" into a less than square hole.  I suppose we all have to do this sometimes, but we all hate to be something that is not "me."  
I am happy to tell you that since I have had the joy of failing at something and living with the consequences for about a week now, it becomes more and more satisfying to write to you like I do.  I also have other things that I now have time to do that I excel at.   I wonder where it is all going to lead me.  Isn't that a question that we all have?  May the answers all bring peace, joy and happiness.

COOKIE MONSTER -- ALIVE AND WELL

It was at the celebration for the Snoopy loving priest with the 50th anniversary bash.  It was a rather simple walk around, glad handing thing, on the patio and in the hall with all kinds of beautifully prepared ethnic dishes for the surfeit of all. It was quite an aesthetic presentation with a lot of colors and a harmony of odors.  Curry, of course, from Delhi, pork from Viet Nam, soy sauce from the Philippines, fried egg-rolls from Indonesia and some kind of spice from China, longuiça from Portugal.  I walked around for at least 30 minutes just taking it all in and feeding my mind and concupiscent nose in this cornucopia of sensual stimulation.  Then I found two things that held my attention for the rest of the 2 hours that I was there.  Coffee and...

Yep, oatmeal, raisin cookies of at least six different sizes and hues, from deep brown to silky beige.  Tons of them.  Some soft, some hard, some just right and crunchy at the edge and soft in the middle.  This little boy of 7 1/5 [decades, not years] had died and gone to heaven.  I drank at least a gallon of coffee and not less than two dozen cookies.  It is something you dream about, but never something you get the joy of pulling off.  All the while I could see in my head, just behind my real live eyes, every single adult I ever knew as I was growing up scolding me and telling me that I didn't know how to live, that I was going to die from indigestion from the oatmeal or from diarrhea from the raisins.  I had all this going on in my head the while I was cruising around the floor chatting up just about anybody who seemed too bashful to read me the riot act.  I was just chomping up a storm and making sure that the Voice from the Kitchen was busy charming her way around the crowd about 25 paces away as I kept myself carefully protected from her stinging stare by a large pair of glutei maximi.

I pulled it off.  Waltzing around on cloud nine in oatmeal/raisin cookie heaven with a fresh cup of coffee in my other hand.  

I'm going to tell you another part of my total joy that fateful day.  I took a small cup of coffee and I would keep it half full.  Drink it while I was chomping a cookie or two and then go back for another half cup.  Listen, when you're up to your eyeballs in oatmeal/raisin cookies, you don't go around ruining the sensation by drinking lukewarm coffee.  You, maybe, but not me.  So there you have it.  I did something I never thought I would ever have the opportunity to do.  I ate cookies and drank coffee for nigh on to two hours and never once felt guilty or stupid.  In fact after that experience, you know that I'm going to die with a smile on my mug.  So don't you go and ruin the day by crying at my funeral.

FATHERS DAY

Fathers day Google web -- 247,000,000 in .19 seconds

Fathers day Google image -- 33,600,00 in .15 seconds

Mothers day Google image -- 20,200,000 in .05 seconds

Mothers day Google web -- 134,000,000 in .15 seconds

Why does it take longer for Google to find information for Father's day than it does to find information for Mother's day?  At least those are the numbers that came up when I conducted the search for this post at 8:57 PM PDT on June 15, 2011, three short days before the papier mache recognition day of the fathers of the United States.  Don't you men feel as though Google should be sued for discrimination[no, wait, isn't this reverse discrimination]?  There has to be something wrong here.  We men should organize a walk on Washington or some place important.  Oh, wait, I know one, Wassila, Alaska.  That's the perfect place for a father's day demonstration March.  We would not even have to walk.  We could let the dogs walk and pull while we ride the sled.  That's it!  I like it for another reason.  All the income that the profiteers who invented these silly "days" would be left holding the bag while we would be basking in 24 hour sunlight, burnishing our tans and bar-b-cu-ing salmon.  Wwwhooo, and then we would be able to wash all this wonderful grub down with vodka that the Russians smuggled in via the one Aleutian Island that is only three miles away from their beloved Chernobyl infested homeland.  It would be a perfect time.  We could all practice our right and left eye winks, our side-to-side nods to replace the front-to-back-to-front ones that we usually practice in the lower 49 ... Is that it?or is it the Southeastern 38?  Gosh, I'm a little vodka'd here, so let me check my New York Times for the right number.  Oh, boy, this isn't as easy as I thought it was going to be.  Ol' Murphy told me that one time.  Wasn't Murphy from Québec?  [Puleeze notice the correct accent there]  With a name like that in a place such as that, no wonder he made a bunch of laws up that added up to the addled life he must have had in the upper 10 + 3.
Now, all you fathers, single, married, hetero, metro and retro, have a good time on Sunday, even if you do not participate in the walk on Wassila.  I hope that the card your child's mother buys for him/her to give you stimulates the economy enough to get you back to work.  If not, you might try hiring yourself out as a mercenary somewhere.  The military I.E.D. economy is booming in so many places, there's got to be some of that work available.  Bring your cell phone.
Signed:
Valentine's, Mother's, Father's Day anti-fan.

THIS IS AMAZING -- THIS ONE GOT TO ME -- YOU WILL CONNECT WITH THIS ONE

MAY I PRESUME YOU'VE NEVER SEEN  ONE LIKE THIS?

If I ever sent you this by email, would you believe that it exists?  How much of what you see in the email that you receive do you believe?  C'mon, tell me the truth.  How much of what you think to be erroneous do you challenge?  How much of it do you even bother to refer to "Snopes?"  Be honest with yourself.  Check yourself out.  How much do you care about the veracity of what it is that inserts itself into your life?  How much of what you digest from the internet do you accept as pure truth?  Be honest with yourself.  No one is listening.  You're alone.  I'm going to tell you what my experience leads me to believe.  There are those who satisfy themselves with the comfort that the fact that they are sending a truck-load of "forwards" to their friends is a good way to maintain loving and caring contact with them.  Then there are those who only send meaningful communications that speak for themselves and come from the depths of the convictions of those who send them...

Today, all of a sudden, I got the thought that the emails that we send into the ethersphere say a lot about who we are.  It is my conviction that no matter how many emails anyone sends out, the topics of these emails brings us to know the core of the person who sends them.  It is also a feedback mechanism that brings truth to the sender as well.  Is the sender a truth lover or not?  Is the sender prejudiced or not?  The questions could go on and on.  

Finally, I find that most receivers of email are indifferent to the content of the email.  They do not care about the factual content of the communication.  They only care that they are on the sender's list.  I assure you, that when I see something that is false or dubious or stupid, I fight back.  It has done wonders for me.  My E-mail volume has really diminished.  I haven't made many new electronic friends, if any, but I have maintained my personal integrity.  Knowing that, remember that I told you that there is to be no crying at my funeral.

SHARED HEARTS

The first thing I have to say is that I d not have a special relationship with animals.  Not dogs, not cats, not birds, not fish, not horses and of course, not cows.  Nevertheless, I receive all kinds of messages that anthropomorphize the behavior of animals,especially dogs and and cats.  I have made many an enemy over this topic.  I do not believe that dog is man's best friend.  I believe that human beings are the best friends of other human beings.  If a human being cannot find another human being to be a "best friend", then there is something wrong with the first human being.  In my world there is no need for "seeing-eye" dogs; for "house keeping chimpanzees" or for any other "animal companion" arrangements.  If you are blind, find a human to "see" for you;  if you are deaf, find a human to "hear for you; if you are mute, find a human to "speak" for you; if you are wheelchair bound, find a human to conduct you where you want to go.  As humans, we are called to help and support one another, not to direct one another to a lesser than human animal "guide."  Our United States culture has degenerated into one that points us in the direction of a government program that can support us.  Government programs are nothing more than animal support/companionship programs.  We substitute the dog for the unionized operative.  What ever happened to the loving family member?  To the dedicated, loving friend?  Think about it.

ENTROPY -- GO AHEAD, I DARE YA!

STUDY THIS A MOMENT BEFORE YOU DECIDE TO AGREE

Stop.  Don't you dare Google this yet.  In fact, don't ever Google it.  You will regret Googling this until your dying day.  I did not Google it for long because I knew what I was seeking.  I also knew that I know nothing about what ENTROPY is, and I wanted to keep it that way.  I heard the word for the first time when I was 18 years old and visiting the members of the Dion family who had fled to California, just as their forebears had fled to Canada from France in the 17 / 18 centuries.  I didn't understand it then and I still don't now.  But it is an interesting concept and if you are a complete mechanical engineer nerd you may even have a ground-floor inkling if what it is.  Since I am not an engineer and since I don't know what the first law of Thermodynamics is, there is no way that I can talk intelligently about ENTROPY, the second law of thermodynamics.  I do know this, ENTROPY is the ENEMY of perpetual motion.  ENTROPY is the reason why a pendulum never swings back to the original point of departure.  At the peak of the initial swing a transfer of energy from upswing to downswing takes place and therefore the pendulum cannot return to the original point of departure.  Got it?  Good.  That was easy.  What is more difficult is that we encounter ENTROPY just about everywhere, every day and we never once give it a thought.  Well, maybe you don't but I do.  Yep, even though I don't even know what it is.  

So the years went by and now I am no longer 18.  Now I have a lot of intermingling thoughts about this phenomenon of nature.  One of them is that some scientists say that ENTROPY leads to chaos.  That's what the graph at the top shows.  That, for me, is hogwash, or in the Latin version, stercus taurorum.  The theory is that ENTROPY, like energy is eternal and cannot be created nor can it be annihilated.  So, if there is enough of it collected in a given location, chaos ensues.  The theory then goes that sooner of later there will be enough ENTROPY to plunge the entire world into irremediable chaos.  I don't believe that because I am of the belief that even chaos is not absolutely energy free.  I also don't believe that negative realities found in the laws of nature can cluster themselves into an anti -order/organization force and bring about the total end of order and organization.  I don't believe it.  Furthermore, I bring to you the suggestion of the Holy Bible. The Sacred book of Genesis relates how God took darkness and chaos and put it in order and imposed organization on it.  It is also true that God predicts a total destruction of the earth, but I believe that it will come from cataclysmic energy not, I repeat, not  from ENTROPY, puleeze!  ENTROPY is a reality that exists in the margin, it is the margin.  We grow old not because ENTROPY reaches out and kills us, it is because our vital energy is depleted, so we go away.  

It is now my turn to propose a machine for perpetual motion, based on Murphy's law.  No ENTROPY, promise.

I am sending you to a site where my answer to ENTROPY
can be found gloriously illustrated.  The static picture on the left is only slightly helpful in setting the scene.  Murphy's Law states that in a dining room with a plush white carpet, the toast that falls from the table will always land buttered-side down.
It is also a scientifically observed law of nature that a cat falling from any height will always land feet-first.  It is therefore possible to devise an anti-gravity, perpetual motion devise by tying the heavily buttered toast to the back of a cat and pushing the cat off the table that is situated on the plush white carpet.  The multi-medium visual proof is here (http://www.flycatfly.com/Flying_Cats.html) for your education and for the purpose of planting some doubt in your mind about ENTROPY.  Go see for yourselves.

HALF-DOLLAR EXTRACTION -- WHOLE, NOT IN SMALL CHANGE

HEADS, YOU WIN

TAILS, YOU LOSE

MARCH 6, 1946.  It is now late afternoon and I am in pain, recovering from abdominal surgery performed to remove the coin that I swallowed some three weeks ago.  The surgery was necessary because the coin was so heavy that it had settled in the bottom pocket of my stomach and would not move.  I thought I would put a picture of a stomach here to show you what I mean, but I decided against that because I didn't want anyone soiling my computer screen vicariously.  So, you're stuck using your vivid imagination, period.  Furthermore, I am also sparing you the process that I had to follow to assure that the evacuation of the silver mass had or had not happened.  This was rather embarrassing to a nine year old adult.  Worst of all were the numerous attempts to make me believe that  the evacuation could take the form of five dimes.  I couldn't believe it then and I can't believe it now.  I complained about the teasing to EFR Dion and even to MJT Dion, but they both just laughed and told me not to take it so personally, that my loving relatives were only joking.  Well, one way or the other, in whole or in part, it didn't work.  The coin was sleeping in a comfortable diverticulum, getting a regular, refreshing bath of bodily acids and slowly metabolizing itself into providing my intestines with a metabolized argentum acidifaciente lining.  This could do nothing but tarnish my absolutely pure peristaltic reputation of smooth, continual, productive rhythm.  Whatever all of that means, one thing is sure, it meant, at the time, that I was being poisoned to death by the interaction of my $0.50 investment due to bad, bad insider trade-offs.  I was getting more and more ill by the day.  A decision was made that I should have an X-ray to determine the exact location of my portfolio going bad so that I could be surgically relieved of the problem.  So off I go to the X-ray studio, and the next paragraph of silliness.
The X-ray studio was a stand-alone operation.  The owner got into a mild dispute with EFR Dion about whether or not I had, in fact, swallowed a half-dollar coin.  The upshot was, "If it's a half-a-buck, I'll give you the X-ray at my expense."  I heard this and I was mystified.  How were they going to be able to tell.  All I could imagine was that when we took pictures with our camera, everything was a lot smaller than in reality.  I soon got a lesson in X-ray technology.  I followed all the instructions and did not get covered with a lead apron, my two sons can attest to the fact that I didn't need it then and perhaps don't need it now.  In five minutes, there they were the two bettors, putting half-dollar coins up against the plastic, life sized picture of my stomach with what I knew to be a perfectly good and valid .50c piece.  Free X-rays!   Nevertheless, I was still being poisoned by my own digestive process.
When the doctors saw the position of the coin, they knew that it would not move and therefore had to be surgically fished out.  During the early evening of March 5, 1946, Father, Mother and I squeezed into the "bench" front seat of the 1940 Hudson and went to the Providence hospital, once again, where I could be prepared for the surgery that was going to happen on the morrow.  It is one three mile ride that MJT Dion never forgot and talked about a lot for the rest of her life.  I ever forgot it, but this is the first time since then that I ever talk about it.  There isn't much to say.  It was a car-ful of apprehension and tension felt but not spoken.   Three miles in silence.  Those of you who knew MJT Dion are wondering how true this can really be.  But it is true.  My memory serves me well on this one.  Silence.
It was about 7:00 PM when we got to the hospital.  By 7:20 I was alone with the nuns, nurses and housekeepers.  Surgery was scheduled for early the following morning.  I was so sick by this time, that I had only one emotion:  "Tomorrow I'll be normal...Yay!"
So now, it's tomorrow, and the story continues...soon.