YES, VIRGINIA THERE IS AT LEAST ONE LEFT-HANDED BARBER ON EARTH

In eight years I have yet to encounter a good barber in Moreno Valley, California.  In truth, there is hardly anything good that I have encountered in Moreno Valley.  I have a good computer geek, guy; there is a good bakery where the Mexican bread is delicious and baked in batches all day long; there is a good liquor store [that's not as easy to find as it may seem] and lastly, it is a stroke of good fortune that 99% of gasoline stations are self service these days.  My last encounter with a barber was this morning, January 12, 2013, Pacific Standard time in the U.S.  The saving grace about this barber is that he is left handed.  Now, you may say, "Ha, so what?  10% of the human population on planet earth is left handed."  Go ahead, scoff, sputter and stamp your feet, but left handed barbers are rare.  The proof?  I have had, at last count, at least 1,000 haircuts from no less than at least 50 hair cutters, just to be brutally and honestly conservative.  Furthermore, I spent 15 minutes googling for a picture of this human phenomenon and found the ONE that you have above.  I went through at least 100 pages of search in "images" and no matter what I wrote, most of what I kept getting were pictures of barbers shears made for left handers.  No way was I going to use one of those silly pictures.  What does that prove?  So Wiss makes left handed shears for barbers to stuff museum cases around world.  Whoopie.  Show me the barber.
So, this morning I went to get a haircut.  I do that only at times when I feel absolutely compelled by my very loose social conscience to do it.  You now know that the person who cut my hair is left handed.  As an aside, it shows.  Never again.  At least not to that left handed hair cutter.  So, that's what I get for discovering a left handed hair cutter in Moreno Valley.   Double Whammy, that!  The left handed person who cut my hair this morning is not now and never will be a barber.  Not within the parameters of my definition of "barber."  I didn't really realize it while still in front of the barber shop mirrors.  It could have been the uncontrolled giggles and outright laughter of the Voice from The Kitchen that turned me on to the reality of what my coconut looks like now.  But hey, my loose social conscience, my "insouciance" about my personal aspect helps me to laugh it off and say, "What the hell!  It'll grown back in and in a month or so, I'll go somewhere else...like to my Chaldean brethren in San Diego."  They're all right handed and, they are all barbers...even the Vietnamese woman who rents one of their spaces.
Eight years I am in Moreno Valley and no good barber can I find here.
Wait until you hear what happened to me at the doctor's office four days ago!  
Let me tell you, with a sense of humor and a warped mind, it sure is fun getting old!

BATTING A THOUSAND

I was looking for a picture for you that would somehow introduce the topic you expect from the title of this post.  So, I went to Google because I didn't have too much time since it is already the middle of the night.  So I put in the three words that you see at the top there. What I saw in ten pages of Larry and Sergei's masterpiece was about four pictures of marginally related baseball pictures and a very large array of naughty things...So, I figured that I would complete the idiocy by taking the picture that you see.  Two French flags celebrating a XXX billboard with Americana...Sheeesh!
It's a good thing that the nun who taught us decimals is no longer with us.  I hope she doesn't get her wings wrinkled by the sass of this little essay.  I bring it up for one reason, and one reason only.  The other day my younger son used the expression "Batting a thousand" to describe the string of bad luck that someone whom we both know was suffering.  It is a part of US culture that I don't hear much any more.  But when I heard it I thought of Sister Robert Marie.  5th grade at the Immaculate Conception school on Summer street in the "Flats" of Holyoke, Massachusetts, down by the canal.  The "Paper City" it was called.  When the times they got a little more brazen, the bumper stickers that they were flashing around read, "The best city by a dam site."  If anyone thought of that in the 40's, they didn't use it for fear that the mayor would have washed their mouth out with soap.  Make mine Ivory, please.  It's 99/100% pure, you know.
Anyway, the good sister decided that it was time to teach us how to calculate our batting averages.  She made the mistake of thinking that she had enough "street" smarts to deal with us wise-acres.  You can all see this coming.  She asks, "If Johnny hits the ball and gets to first base, what is his batting average?"  We all say, "A thousand."  That was it.  She spent at least a half hour trying to  get us to say, 1.000 [one.point zero, zero, zero.]  Forget that noise. She was having a mental breakdown.  She tried to make us say that some batters bat [no, she didn't say "hit"-- hey she was a sister, remember?"] "Three hundred and twenty-five thousandths."  Whoooie!  That went over really well.  We could all see ourselves talking to the tough, "eat-nails-for-breakfast-catcher" that he was batting only "two hundred and ten thousandths."  Imagining the consequences of doing something like that was altogether too much for any of us to bear.  
Actually I remember that a couple of us guys, and even one girl tried to reason with Sister Robert Marie, but this was 1949 or so...You know, "pay, pray and obey!"  Oh, and  keep quiet too.  
Sister took it for a while, but then she changed the subject to geography or some such safe haven of the sort.  We were good with that, along as we had her out of our hair and we could go on using the phrase "Batting a thousand" to our hearts content.


So see, I thought about all of that and still had to suffer through the bad experience with Mr. Google and the French stuff.  But, all in all, it was fun.  We have so little culture here in the good ol' US of A, that when we trip over a bit of it, we have to put it out there, right?  Right.  Now, go to bed, "Mrs. Calabash, where ever you are!"

GUYS, KIDS and SISTER MARIE,SERGEY AND LARRY

Notice there is no picture here.  I could not find a picture of a "guy" on Google.  Yep!  Google doesn't know what a "guy" is, at least not in the "images" section. Maybe it's because it does not correspond to an "x"-rated reality.  You're sitting there, I think you're sitting, unless you're on the "T", standing there like an arrogant, cool, indifferent "pro" reading your I-Pad without hanging off a strap.  Wow!  How did I go down that path?  Anyway, no matter what asana you've assumed at the moment, you're wondering why I am talking about "guys."  Simple.  This is an autobiography, remember.  So I have to remind you about stuff that is different now than what it was 'way back then.  You bet, when I was learning the English language in a bi-lingual school, we were taught that "guy" is not an acceptable word to designate a member of the male sex.  Never.  Bad.  And don't you forget it.  So, forget it, I did not.  In fact it still shivers my queevates when I am sitting at a restaurant table with people whom I respect, many times 2 males and two females and the wait-person (J'ou catch that?) says, "Hi, Guys!  I'm Dhieppittenstirkhous and I'm yer waiter today.  I hope yer gonna have a grrreat time."  Oh, Boy!  I'm having a great time already. Sister Marie of the Anti-Left-Handed Angels Guardian is flip-flopping in her grave.  Phew.  So, there is no picture for this part of the "thought."  I couldn't convince Sister Marie... to resurrect for the occasion.

So, I now turn to KIDS.  Do you know how many Humans I had to eliminate before I found a real kid.  Guess.  Come on, exercise the guessing quadrant of your grey matter.  Go ahead, I dare you.  Heeee.  Ain't this fun?  Ole Sister Marie of the Anti-Left-Handed Angels Guardian is having a field day sitting in the garden of Eden, in the shade of the forbidden fruit tree wondering what it's going to take to teach Americans that KIDS are animals...i.e. FOUR legged animals, like in goats.  It took me 4 Google pages and five more pictures on the top row to find one.  113 humans before this one lonely specimen.  Let me tell you, these two boys, Sergey Brin and Larry Page (left to right) have just flunked out of Immaculate Conception Parochial School first grade.

Too bad that their brains got turned to mush by that California School where they studied.  If they couldn't learn the difference between goats and people, aren't you having fun wondering what the football players are learning?
Think about it for a few seconds.  I can't, I've run out of  "Thoughts."

17,200,000 results (0.29 seconds), BUT NO ME!

Blue is the day.  I put in "365 Thoughts" in the box at Google and out of 17,200,000 hits not a single one about me.  I fished this cheesy little calendar out of there (I think it is a calendar) out of spite, just to show you how jaundiced Mr. Google is against short, fat, ugly, old wrinkled guys who are left to their own writing devices to fool Mother Nature into thinking that what they are doing is feeding the emaciated intellects of the proletariat. I also chose to put this silly little calendar here because it was right up top on Sergei's first page in its significantly oximoronish come-on about "365 thoughts to jump start your day."  Really, now?  WHICH DAY?  Mine, I've got that figured out, maybe.  But are you giving me 365 thoughts for my today?  Isn't that what the cover says?  Looks that way to me.  The other things that got me about this little number is the direction of the 365 thoughts.  Are the thoughts inside the spiraled book and just shivering and begging to be let out to splashily start off my day?  But then again I get the idea that somehow the pages inside, assuming that there are pages inside this sly little contraption, are there for me to write my 365 thoughts inside there to start my day of in a good, productive, happily swishy mood.  365 thoughts per day x 365 days = 133,225 in one year!  17,200,000 possibilities and Google comes up with this?  My "365 Thoughts Emanating from Paul Dion, STL" has got to be at least 5,000 times better that the little thingy in the corner.  Donchas think?  Over 6,000 times people have opened my pages and started their day with a spring to their mental health and a jounce to their good humor cerebral hemisphere.  I tell ya, I gotta stay away from that Google fella. He's a bummer.  Tell you what, let me try again before I hang up.  Now that he knows that I am unhappy [Oh, he knows all right!]he'll probably throw me a bone.  Just a sec' here and I'll be right back.
Yuk!  I put the whole title in the box.  1st page, not too bad. Page 6, a picture of Satchel Paige.  Hmmm.  Page 8, busty woman in a skimpy white bikini.  Well, at least she had something on. Actually, I checked to see if my parent guide was on.  It's not.  So I got lucky.  Typically, I don't go down lower than page 5 because that's about the cut-off for the GP rated stuff.


Did you ever wonder what you would find if you had the time and the patience to get to page 15, 785, 274?


I find that such a sweetly frightening thought that I'm going to leave this right here.  I'll bet that my crystal meth impregnated follower will be able to tell me what's on that page when I open my comment section in the morning.  Heeee!
Bring it on, Lad.  


BTW, I like this one.  I hope you did too.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES --- 86,400 SECONDS

Why wait a day?  What's with the "day" business?  What if Google had to wait a day before a difference happened?  Why hasn't "difference" been described?  Has anybody got the courage to say what a "difference" is?  Oh, OK smarty pants, I mean other than the answer to a subtraction calculation.  Besides, has it ever taken you a day to make a difference in subtraction?   I'd be willing to take a bet that if it did, you'd still be in second grade trying to figure out how to make a difference a lot fast than in a day.  Let me tell you how fast it takes Google to make a difference.  I'm going to put this question to Google right now: "Number of cities that have a "Hartford Street" in them".  DONE  --> I want you all to go outside right now and shout that Google is a fraud.  After five minutes of  search and switch and all that kind of stuff, it became clear that Google doesn't know the answer to my query.  It's got to be the Russian influence.  I'll bet that there isn't a single Hartford Street in all of Russia.  But I digress...
The real reason why I was asking the question about difference is that this thought sliced through the carapace of my coconut today.  I have taken about 1,100 photos over the last 15 days.  Besides, I have been given another 700+ from the technician who worked with and for us in France.  So, nearly 2,000 photos.  Many of them taken seconds apart.  All of them so similar, yet each one distinct and ineffable in its own existence.  Like the two featuring the Voice from the Kitchen, taken not five seconds apart.  Those of you who may know a thing or two about photography know that 5 seconds is like waiting the proverbial 24 hours.   (A day, right?)  In those two pictures, some of the discrepancies are gross, others are quite fine and almost subtle, but discernible just the same.  It turns out that mother nature has her quick turns just like her children.  I am mentioning this because as we go through life, we rarely stop to think about this phenomenon.  We rarely stop to think that from one fraction of a second to the next there are millions of distinct changes that have taken place.  In the past there were deep thinkers who accepted this as being the truth.  Intellectually they had come to know that there is almost no measurable time between one state of being and the following one, in the same entity.  (The phenomenon of flowing water was the basis for their comparison.  Like "Pantha Rhe) In this day and age we grow up with "instantaneous" change.  We don't even act surprised when Google tells us that it collected 752,376 responses to our query in .0003 seconds.  The only time we would be affected is if the measure increased to .0006 seconds.  Then we would get nervous and start doing all kinds of loopy things to make our computer go faster.  
I therefore have decided to just live with it.  If things really ever slow down, I'll be glad.  It will give me the opportunity to not be late for my funeral.  That will be good.  You can't cry at a guy's funeral if he gets there on time, right?

I DID IT! I DID IT! I STUMPED GOOGLE!

BLIBOT!  

That's it.  I never even planned it.  I was just thinking about blibots a lot today and I decided to see if I could find a picture of one on Google.  Imagine my surprise and sense of "conquistador" pride at finding out that I had stumped the mega brain of the universe.  I have to tell you that I even decided to play fair and get out of the images mode and get into the "information over the blue line" mode.  Nothing.  Even with the "safe search" off, Google does not know what a blibot is.  I'm flying high.  I never in my wildest dreams thought that I could stump Google.  I mean, Google knows everything, I mean, everything!  Except what a blibot is.  So, all you chumps out there who think that you are so smart alecky, three-piece suit, summa cum laude Crimson Tide beats the Eli every time smarter than Google types, go ahead, tell me what a blibot is.  If you get it right, we'll submit it to Wikipedia so that we will get the scoop and Google will have to come to US for the answer.  if you don't get it right, then I'll tell you and keep all the glory to myself.
HHmmmmm, I wonder if my brother will know this.  I think he will.  He's one of these New York Times Sunday Crossword puzzle nerds.  Maybe I should disqualify him.  Besides he's family.  We'll stand by and see.  If he gets it and you don't, I'll be fair and tell you the truth.
By the way, I'm going to Google right now because I just thought of a French-Canadian word that I bet Google won't know.  Gimme a minute while I do this.  You can tell, I'm hot to trot on this quest.  I'm back, and I am flying high...
Wow, twice in the same day.  In both cases, there are bloggers who have taken the word and made it their pseudonym, but Google does not know what either of them means.
I WIN!   I BEAT GOOGLE.  NOW I'M WAITING FOR YOU ALL TO RESPOND.
The one thought that really makes me happy about this is the revenge that I get for finding that nude male movie star web-site guy so close to my "Paul Dion" on GOOGLE.
IF YOU WANT TO TAKE A WHACK AT THE FRENCH WORD, LET ME KNOW AND I'LL LET YOU TRY.