Posted on by Fred

WOKE

Kim Weaver Television Interviews by NASA Goddard Photo and Video is licensed under CC-BY 2.0

*Turns on TV*

If we’re going to discuss something, we need to agree on its definition.  I’m using Merriam-Webster. 

Woke: aware of and actively attentive to important societal facts and issues (especially issues of racial and social justice)

https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/woke

Woke is also the past tense of the verb “wake.”  It means to stop sleeping.  At its core, it seems to me to mean one has become alert to some of the bad things that are happening.  There are plenty of those.  Being shot is now the number one cause of death for our children, surpassing even car crashes.  Black people are twice as likely as White people to be shot by police officers.  Violence against transgender people continues to rise.  Those of us who are Woke would like to stop this. 

Bigotry is now celebrated, and people are getting crabby about being called bigots just because they believe there are only two genders, or homosexuality is a sin, or Drag Queens are probably pedophiles, or that those who are not straight, white, male Christians are probably bad in one way or another.  Those of us who are Woke would like people to be treated as individuals.  Part of being Woke is understanding that There is no Them; we are all Us.  We don’t think people should be treated differently because someone believes their identities are sinful.

Terry Pratchett had better ideas about sin.

“Sin, young man, is when you treat people like things. Including yourself. That’s what sin is.” 

― Terry Pratchett, Carpe Jugulum

And that’s the heart of Capitalism.  People are commodities to be traded for profit.  We are numbers – statistics to be used in a study, but not individuals to be treated with love and respect. 

One of the arguments I frequently hear against a woman’s right to choose what to do with her body is that rape makes up very few abortions.  They’re right, at least according to my Google Search.  It’s less than half a percent.  So… ignore those.  They’re outliers.  Let’s just ban abortion for everyone.

Except… Rape victims are also human beings.  Most of them are women who had a favorite blanket or stuffed animal when they were little.  They probably went to their senior proms and worried about whether their makeup was right, and their dress fit properly, and was it even the right color, and what will other people think when they walk in?  Some of them hugged their son when they dropped him off for kindergarten.  And then someone took away their sense of safety, their sense of identity, and their grasp on their own dignity.  And more than 3 million women in America were raped and became pregnant.  They’re not just statistics.  They matter.  The statistics, if they are what matter to you, are below:

https://www.cdc.gov/violenceprevention/sexualviolence/understanding-RRP-inUS.html

Outliers are all people, regardless of how many there are.  Every single one of them matters.  We cannot lose sight of this fact.

When we mistreat someone, anyone, or deny them the rights some of the rest of us have, that’s bigotry. 

The Oxford Dictionary defines it:

obstinate or unreasonable attachment to a belief, opinion, or faction, in particular prejudice against a person or people on the basis of their membership of a particular group.

You’re opposed to immigration?  Yeah.  That’s bigotry.  No one chose where to be born.  But you’re denying someone something because they’re members of the group of people who weren’t born in The United States.  One can be a good person or bad person, or anything in between, regardless of where they were born.  We decide whether someone is good or bad based on their behaviors, not their birthplace.  Are they welcome to come so long as they do it legally?  That’s legalism.  Let’s check with Merriam-Webster again. 

strict, literal, or excessive conformity to the law or to a religious or moral code

the institutionalized legalism that restricts free choice

Legalism is a shield behind which to hide the bigotry we prefer not to admit, even to ourselves.

You don’t like people whose religious beliefs are different from yours?  That’s bigotry.  One can have any set of beliefs and be either a good person or bad person, or anything in between, regardless of their religion.  We decide whether someone is good or bad based on their behaviors not their religion. 

I don’t like people who fly planes into buildings.  That doesn’t mean all Muslims are bad people.  The percentage of Muslims who do that is almost incalculably small.  I don’t like people who burn Joan of Arc at the stake.  That doesn’t mean all Christians are bad people.  The percentage of Christians who do that is almost incalculably small.  We make judgments about individuals not groups.

Those of us who are Woke prefer that everyone be treated with respect, dignity, kindness, and empathy.  We prefer that everyone gets to live their life without interference so long as they’re not hurting anyone else. 

We would like to increase understanding that some people are different from you, and that it’s okay for them to be different.  That doesn’t mean you have to be like those who are different.  You need only to understand that there is more than one way for a person to exist, to experience life, to see the world.  This isn’t a threat to your identity.  You get to be different, too.  It’s perfectly fine for everyone to be unique.  In fact, it’s unavoidable. 

Of course, this is when we’re going to hear about The Paradox of Tolerance.  What’s that?  We’ll use Wikipedia this time.

The paradox of tolerance states that if a society is tolerant without limit, its ability to be tolerant is eventually seized or destroyed by the intolerant. Karl Popper described it as the seemingly self-contradictory idea that in order to maintain a tolerant society, the society must retain the right to be intolerant of intolerance.

— https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paradox_of_tolerance

I need to tolerate those who disagree with me.  And, obviously, I do.  Many of my friends and more than a few of my listeners are probably annoyed that I find their intolerance of those who are different to be bigotry.  That doesn’t mean I don’t love them.  It means that I would like to help to make them rethink some of their ideas.

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

*Switches channel*

***

Swanson McDeere here.

I was doing what I was told to do.  I made billions of dollars for them.  I was the top money maker for seven years.  Seven fucking years!  And goddamn Wolf News gives in to the Woke Cancel Culture. 

Did I lie?  Yes, of course I did.  I really – no kidding – I see no problem with that.  Some of the Left’s greatest heroes lied.  Steinbeck?  Absolutely a liar.  There’s no evidence Tom Joad ever existed.  Lenny and George?  Pure bullshit.  But they give him a goddamn Nobel fucking Prize for his lying.  So long as you tell the right lies, everyone loves you.  Tell lies that make people think?  Lies that make people uncomfortable?  You get cancelled!

***

*Switches channel*

Photo by Angela Roma on Pexels.com

This is a quotation I’ve seen on Facebook recently, and I think it handles it well:

The Paradox of Tolerance disappears if you look at tolerance, not as a moral standard, but as a social contract. If someone does not abide by the contract, then they are not covered by it. In other words: The intolerant are not abiding by the terms of the social contract of mutual tolerance.

I’m not looking to lock anyone up for being a bigot.  I’m not hoping to shun them or “cancel” them, but I would like them to see themselves honestly so there is an opportunity for them to change.

*Switches channel*

Photo by Mathias Reding on Pexels.com

***

I get fired, and The Left cheers.  How tolerant of them!  Isn’t that their thing?  We’re supposed to tolerate people who are different, right?  Where’s the tolerance for those who believe in hard work?  Where’s the tolerance for people who believe in traditional American values?  Where’s the tolerance for people who know that God made two genders… who don’t want men in the women’s restroom, who don’t want men pretending to be women and competing against women who are biologically weaker than they are?  Where’s the tolerance for those who believe life is sacred and no child should be murdered before it’s born?

If I had to lie to convince people of the Truth, so be it!  I was paid to do it.  I was proud to do it.  And some whiny thin-skinned company throws a goddamn fit because they think my little lies hurt their business.  If your business isn’t good enough to survive a few lies, you don’t deserve to be in business. 

What happened to the Freedom of Speech the Woke Left worships?   Free Speech is great so long as you don’t say anything that pisses anyone off.  But if you hurt their little feelings, they fine you three quarters of a billion dollars! 

***

*Switches channel*

Photo by fauxels on Pexels.com

Being different doesn’t necessarily represent a threat to anyone.  Granted, if being “different” means you’re a child molester or a serial killer, that won’t work.  Someone needs to stop you.  If being different means only that someone’s identity is not the same as yours, they’re not hurting you.  I would like them to discover their own identity, their own purpose, their own place in the world.  Why is that a problem?

It’s in that wild-open-range-diversity that we expand the possibilities of human existence.  It’s where we find new meanings, new ideas, and new hope.  What is the advantage of limiting it? 

I hear plenty of complaints about The Woke Police.  These are people who object to others being marginalized, disrespected, or denied rights because they don’t fit into the norm.  The people who complain about them, it seems to me, don’t like facing the fact that they would like to make others less than, and The Woke would prefer that everyone is allowed to live their lives without being hurt.

Writer, broadcaster, former barrister and Guardian columnist Afua Hirsch says: “The truth is, there are no woke police.”

Hirsch explains: “In reality, the only thing that unites the woke is an intellectual curiosity about identity and how complex, how nuanced, how rooted in disparate histories it can be. The real groupthink, the genuinely cohesive crowd, it’s increasingly clear, is that of the anti-woke, the most weaponised identity of all.”

Hirsch points out the irony of “the rightwing culture warriors [who] claim to support free speech” but “they seem to want minorities to shut up and stop complaining”.

https://www.nationalworld.com/whats-on/arts-and-entertainment/what-does-woke-mean-definition-woke-culture-2023-3215758

*Switches channel*

***

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

They can say all kinds of bullshit, and it’s fine.  They say there’s more than two genders: lie!  They say lazy whiny welfare queens deserve our support: lie!  They say it’s our responsibility to feed their little monsters: massive lie!  They make the unsupportable claim that everyone should be allowed to vote, and the morons cheer.  So long as it fits their bleeding-heart agenda, it’s all fine. 

So, I’ll tell you the truth one last time, and then you won’t have Swanson McDeere to kick around anymore.

 There are two genders.  They’re assigned at birth.  God made the world that way. 

People who don’t pull their weight are a drain on our society.  They belong in a homeless shelter. 

If people can’t support their kids, they need to keep their legs together.  If someone is raped, the female body makes sure she doesn’t get pregnant.  Those are the facts, whether those Woke Left pussies like them or not.

Thank you for all your support over the last seven years.  I weep for America.

***

*Switches channel*

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

If we want to have a better world, one that includes all of us, the first step is to believe in it.  If Fred’s Front Porch Podcast does nothing else, I hope it helps you to believe in what many call impossible.  If we buy into the idea that the world can’t be changed, then the cynics are right.  We will be here forever.  If we can convince ourselves, however, that change is possible, we’re already on the way to making that change.    

Pick the channel you want to watch.  Pick the ideas you want to consider.  Thanks for considering mine.

I’m Woke.  And whether we agree about anything at all… I love you.

*Turns off TV*

Photo by Nothing Ahead on Pexels.com
Posted on by Fred

We Are Not Alone

I had a crisis of confidence last week because I was one of several people who were deceived by a con man.  I had been told the “The Teddy Bear Coder” was going to be published, and I was off the charts with excitement.  And I shared my joy with my friends. 

It turned out that he is a criminal.  He is being investigated by the FBI.  He took a good friend of mine for, all told, nearly $30,000.  There’s little chance she’ll ever see any of that money again.

That prompted me to post the following:

Okay… I don’t like to talk badly about others.  I particularly don’t like to talk badly about people I thought were my friends.  I’ll be removing him from my Friends List, however, in a moment.

I’m posting this to explain why I am feeling embarrassed.  I barely know the man in question, but someone I know and love and trust implicitly does know him, and she was a part of the company that was supposed to publish “The Teddy Bear Coder.” She was very excited to publish my book.  Now she wants nothing to do with Prince of Cats any longer.

I’ve been feeling proud the last few weeks.  I never had any delusions that I would make any money on the book.  It wasn’t about that.  It was the idea that I might be able to put a toe into a world of which I’ve always secretly wanted to be a part.  I wanted to be a real writer.  No…  I have no interest in self-publishing.  It’s not about that.

I’ve been feeling proud that I’ve been spending half an hour a week talking on the phone to one of my greatest heroes.  I felt as though he was beginning to take me seriously as a writer.  Part of this was because the story he coached me through writing was getting published.

I’m not naïve, I don’t think.  I had no delusions that he was talking to me because I’m a significant writer.  I pay him for the coaching.  I like to think, though, that he wouldn’t have accepted me as a student if he thought I was beyond help.  And when a publisher came to me, sought me out, to publish what I had written… I glowed.  I was Shining like a star in a not-too-distant galaxy.

I felt like I had made it.  I had accomplished what I have dreamt of for more than 50 years.

Now it turns out my book is not going to be published because the man who was going to publish it appears to be a criminal.  I have more than this article for evidence of that assertion, but I am keeping those communications private.  I emailed him to tell him the offer to allow him to publish it is now gone.

I don’t feel stupid.  I behaved based upon the most reliable information I could get.  I feel embarrassed.  If I didn’t want to hide away from the world before, I want to dig a hole in my house now and let no one but Speedy Shine near me. I don’t feel like I can show my face when I spent so much time being so proud, and all that happened was that I was deceived.

I should have been quiet.  I shouldn’t have shared my joy until it all happened.

It would be easy to understand why you might lose respect for me now, but I hope you can find a way to grant me a little grace for my errors in judgment.

I’m going to be quiet for a while now.  I’m fine.  I’m just sad and ashamed.

I’m sorry to have made more of myself than I was due.

This prompted several of my friends to say kind things that helped me to feel better.  For example:

Name Redacted:

Fred Eder I don’t comment on your posts often…if ever…but this one got me.  Certainly, honor your feelings of shame and disappointment, but please know that the person who deceived you is responsible for what happened. You are not to blame.

The world is cruel sometimes to gentle souls like yours and it is unfair.

What I admire most about you, tho is that you walk through these times with humility and grace.  It may not feel like it on the inside but that’s what it looks like on the outside.

So much gets thrown at you from a world that just doesn’t know how to handle a gentle soul like yours and yet, rather than making you bitter, you take the lumps, learn from the experience and continue on. This is strength.  This is integrity.

This is uniquely you.

I thank you for living through all of the ups and downs and showing the rest of us how it’s done.

As much as you may feel embarrassed, the rest of us are out here filled with admiration for you.

That made me feel better.  It’s not hard to imagine why.

Another comment came from the man I believe is her husband, although he may only be her boyfriend.  I can’t even keep my own relationships straight, so keeping up on the status of other relationships isn’t going to happen.

Second Name Redacted:

You’ve got lots of people showing you support and take some solace in that.

The criminal you thought was a publisher won’t publish you.  This is a good thing, though a setback.

as many, many, many, many of my favorite authors have explained….  It took them numerous submissions before they got published.

I interviewed for 2 web design positions in Feb…. I seriously thought I’d get one…

they decided otherwise.

It left me in a funk, depressed, and like the stilts I’d be walking on were kicked out from under me.

You’re a fantastic writer.  There’s a publisher out there for you.

The criminal wasn’t it.

make it through today, and tomorrow, and maybe your mood will shift again.

all that you felt when you thought you were going to be published IS STILL TRUE.

the glow was always you, not them.

The pride was legitimate.

Your hard work is legitimate.

Try to focus on the feelings you had before to get you through the now.

That helped me to refocus a bit.  My embarrassment was waning a little. 

Then one of The People On The Porch added:

Third Name Redacted

Joy in abundance makes us exuberant.  We have the drive to share.  So you did. Who wouldn’t?  You were not remiss in any way, Fred. No need to feel humiliation or self-blame. Don’t give up hope for The Teddy Bear Coder.  Its time is still now.  Press on and Godspeed!

And… I recovered a bit from my depression.  That prompted me to post the following:

None of us exist alone.  None of us CAN exist alone.  It’s simply not possible.  We are a community that works only when we continue to support each other in all the ways we can so that the species thrives.

I spoke with a good friend for an hour… It was HER birthday, but she spent an hour of it taking care of me.  I spoke with my coach, who reminded me that we all need each other if this is ever going to work.

I have you.  You have me.  We can’t do everything for each other, but we can all do a little, and we can all make a difference.  And that little difference is much bigger than we believe.

I can’t thank you enough for all you did for me while I was ready to hang up my career as a writer.  I was going to just exist until I didn’t anymore… But you picked me up off the mat, and I’m going to write all night now.

The Teddy Bear Coder is going to become a complete novel.  It may, in fact, become an entire series.  We’ll see how it goes.  I’m going to write because you let me do that.  You matter.

This has been an extraordinarily long way around to deciding I need to pay attention to some other writers who have said things better than I can.  I’m going to give you their words, with their permission, tonight.  I’m not alone.  Here’s someone who is not even on my Friends List, whose words caught me on Facebook.  He kindly allowed me to use them.

Woke, a child of the black community, birthed by mothers and fathers who, after being deceived for long lengths of time, couldn’t afford to “sleep” on the system.

She was young and tender, akin to the blindfolded statue depicting justice, but more radiant and pure. She walked, whispering among us, keeping us alert.  Teaching us, by word of mouth and shared experience, to be savvy, smart and attentive. At times she even showed us how to be daring and courageous.  She taught us to see the grift, avoid the three-card molly and other trickster moments perpetrated by this wayward state.

Then one day they took her.

Our delight, our little light, our secret love, our whisperer of well words, they took her, as they did with all things we created.  Things they coveted.

They stood among the abused mothers and fathers and took their child, their justice, their Messenger to us She who was born to help us stay alive and well within a system designed to kill us and grind our bones into powder.

They took her and threw her in a cell with Blues, Jazz, Rap and R&B.  They made her take a seat next to Soul Food, Mathematics and Science.

They abused her, and redressed her in heavy sackcloth, black and oily with the weight of their own transgressions.

We cried when we couldn’t find her.

We damn near rioted when we saw what they did to her.

I don’t know what will happen if they don’t release her.

Woke is our child, our whisperer of well words, telling us how to live in the light between the shadows the depraved cast.

All else is sackcloth.

— Donley Ferguson

I was going to add my own commentary to it, but another of my friends wrote something better than I can write, so I’m using the words of the philosopher, Jesse Rogers, who was once a Person On The Porch.  I miss him. 

“I speak these words not because it is something I personally claim to have felt or experienced.  I speak them because I acknowledge that I have countrymen like the author, Donley Ferguson, who have and do feel this way. I want to amplify the message because when people express pain or suffering with such vulnerability and openness, I think empathy is a better response towards my fellow Americans than mockery or derision.”

In the spirit of remembering we’re not alone, I’m leaving you this evening with one of the greatest bits of flash fiction I’ve ever read, once again from Shoshana Edwards, who is one of the greatest writers I’ve ever met.  She’s going to remind us that hope can be found in the strangest places.

The Phone

Here I sit, alone in the cell, uncomfortable in my new clothes.  I want the orange jump suit back.  It fits.  It is familiar.  It is soft.  I hate all these pre-death rituals: prayers with the chaplain, the talk with the warden, the last awkward meeting with my attorney.  I hate my last dinner, so awful.  The milkshake is too sweet; the steak is too fatty.  The potatoes are salty.  As soon as I finish, I dive for the lone toilet in the corner of the room, vomiting.

Awareness of the approaching deadline has stripped all animation from my face.  I do not recognize the man in the warped metal mirror over the sink.  The warden, the jailors, and my fellow inmates have found me to be pleasant company and a source of comfort in difficult times.  Now there is no one.  They have abandoned me to my helpless isolation and dread.

“I didn’t do it, Jenny.  I swear I didn’t do it,” I whisper.

Oh, how I long to hold her again, to feel the sweet softness of her breasts, the warm moist pleasure as I enter her slowly, the urgency of our thrusting, the blissful release, the comfort afterwards as we cuddle in each other’s arms, falling asleep together.  But there is no conjugal visit on death row.  We share a brief time together under the supervision of the warden and the priest.  We are allowed to kiss, to hug, and to talk.  And then she leaves. I tell her not to come, not to watch.  I tell her to go home to her mother, who would make her soup and sing to her, and let her cry.  But I know she will come.  It is who she is.  She will watch my final moments in stony silence, holding back her tears and screams until Momma takes her home.

My lawyer has long ago given up.  I am Black, have a gap between my front teeth, and am tall and muscular.  My mind plays the arrest over and over:  I am wearing my sweats on my way to my car outside the gym.  Me being Black and in the wrong place is enough for the cops, a close enough description from the eye witness, to let them pull their guns. They scream at me to get down, zip tie my hands so tightly behind my back that one shoulder dislocates and ignore my screams of pain.  They search my car, screaming “where is it?  Where is the gun?  Tell us now?  Did you throw it away somewhere?” I cannot stop the damn movie, even after all these years.

It is sufficient that I am Black and dangerous looking, even though my hospital scrubs are on the back seat of my car, along with my ID which shows that I am an intern at Riverpark Hospital.  My gym membership badge is attached to my sweats, but no one bothers to check with the gym, to learn that when the convenience store owner was shot, I was working out in the free weight room with a spotter.  They know they have their man.  In court, my attorney produces the evidence: the time I checked out of the hospital, the time I checked into the gym, and he calls my spotter to the stand as a witness.  But even for the jury, it is sufficient that I am Black and dangerous looking.

The movie keeps playing, and I sit here trying not to watch it; trying not to cry.

I am on death row, where I have lived for five years.  We file appeal after appeal, each one failing.  I have long since given up believing in truth and justice.  Those are not for Black men who look dangerous, Black men with tattoos, wearing sweats, walking to their car in a White folks’ neighborhood.

They walk me down the hallway, without chains, my hands free.  There are five guards, including the warden.  This is it.  They lay me on the table, strap down my arms and legs, and the doctor inserts the needle.  The curtain is pulled away from the window.  Jenny is there, stony faced and immobile, her mother sitting next to her looking anywhere but into the death chamber.  The warden reads the charges, while his assistant makes certain the phone on the wall is working, and the doctor confirms that the line is clear and the needle properly inserted. And then they leave, all but the man standing beside the phone, a useless gesture.

I feel a slight coldness as the first chemical is introduced, designed to relax me.  It works on my body, but not my mind.  The terror is still there.  What if I am wrong, and there is a heaven and a hell?  The second drug starts, and I feel myself starting to fall asleep.  Just as Morpheus begins to draw his final curtain I hear a sound, so brilliant I struggle to rise up out of the darkness. As blackness overtakes me, I identify the noise: the phone is ringing.

We are surrounded by voices not our own.  And each of them has the potential to help us.  Our voices have the potential to help others.  Sometimes, just a phone call can make all the difference.

Posted on by Fred

Speedy Shine’s Backyard Dogcast: Pilot

My name is Speedy Shine, but that’s just what The Smelly Old Man calls me.  The Big Man with the Biggerer Houseses used to call me Speedy, and The Woman With The White Hair calleded me Hubert. 

White Hair Woman didn’t like me very much because I made too many poopsers, and I would always try to get the foodsers from her plate and then she would hit my nose, and it hurteded.  She took me to the place with the other dogsers and I lived behind the glass thing and sometimes I went out with the other dogsers and we would bark at each other.  I was never scared of them, though.  They were bigger than I am, but they didn’t know about my Secret Identity.  I can’t tell you about it because of Practical Cats.

Then The Man With The Biggerer Houseses took me to his great big huge place and there was lots and lots of room for me to have my Zoomies.  I likeded that part. 

But he getteded mad at me about chewing on the soft things and pulling all the floofsers out and putting them on the floor where everyone knows they really belong.  He used to yell at me, and he spankeded me and that hurt, so I trieded to bite him and he took me back to the place where the glass house and the other dogsers were.  I madeded friends with one of them, but then he wasn’t there anymore.  I seeded a hooman take him to the room where the dogsers don’t come back.  I guess nobody wanteded him.  I’m sorry for him.  That’s a sad part.

I was a little bit afraid they were going to take me to that room because lots of hoomans came to see me, but then they didn’t want to take me home when they heareded that I like to chew on things. 

Then The Smelly Old Man and The Pretty Girl came to see me.  I likeded The Pretty Girl because I could smell the other dogsers on her.  The Smelly Old Man was just smelly, so I thought I would be better off with her.  But after we getteded in the car and left, she leavededed me with The Smelly Old Man and I misseded her right away.  She’s only come to see me one time, and that makes me sad.

The Smelly Old Man nameded me Speedy Shine because there was this other girl on the glass thing who sang about “Shine,” and he knew that should be my name because, he said, I make him Shine. 

He’s figuring out my Secret Identity, I think, because I keep waking him up when he is about to die.  He knows about Love.  He knows it’s the most powerful force in the universeses.  I wonder if he will ever understand that I am secretly all the love in the universe in a furry fourteen-pound package.  That’s just me.

Posted on by Fred

500 Words From Speedy Shine

There are worse hoomans than my Smelly Old Man.  He loves me.  I know, because he says so about 723 times a day.  He gives lots of kisseses.  He lets me get up on his lap when he is trying to do his worksers and when he has to talk to other hoomans whose faces show up, but I can’t jump on them and give them kisseses. 

He’s too tired now to get crabby when I make my poopsers in The Room By The Outside.  He just picks them up when there’s enough of them for it to be worth bending over to get them.  He always uses all four of his paws when he trieses to get up.  Sometimes he has to try more than one or two times.  He falleded down the other Sunshine Time when he triededed to stand up.  I gave him kisseses and then he could do it.  Speedy Shine Kisseses have poopernatural powers.

I’ve been with him now for two Cold Times and a Warm Time.  I make more poopsers in The Room By The Outside in the Cold Times because I don’t like to be in The Outside then.  I get all shivery.  But then I jump in The Smelly Old Man’s lap, and he warms me up. 

I’ve met 9 other hoomans.  He was here for 5 of them.  Smelly Old Man gets mad at me when I jump on them, but I have to because otherwise they might not know how much I love them, and then that would be bad.  Everyone needs to know that Speedy Shine loves them.  That’s what I am here to do.  Except one time for a minute when I was having a pee-pee time and one of the other hoomans thought she could pick me up, so I tried to bite her.  I told her I was sorry later, but she wouldn’t let me give her any kisseses.  She went away after that.  Other hoomans never stay here for the long time.

When we have Sleepy Time, I get under the coverses and cuddle the Smelly Old Man.  He tells me that I’m The Best Cuddler.  Nobody else ever cuddles him, though, so how would HE know? 

Sometimes during Sleepy Time, Smelly Old Man’s chest stops moving, so I have to jump on it.  I put my whiskerses on his face, and sometimes I put myself under his paw, so he has to pet me.  When he wakeses up I give kisseses and then I go back to sleep.  He doesn’t get mad because he has Sleepy Time whenever he wants. 

My other hooman before him used to get mad at me lots and lots, especially when I would chew the floofers in the soft things, so then he took me to The Place With The Other Dogsers.  I was in a little cage.  Smelly Old Man took me out of there, and now he’s mine.  You can’t have him.

Posted on by Fred

The Problem of Immigration

I wrote the following on November 26, 2018.  The United States had just tear gassed refugees and immigrants crossing our border.

I honestly can’t stomach this anymore.

We kidnapped children from families coming to us for help.  And, while there was some outrage, there were those who said it was the families’ fault.  It wasn’t.  They came for help.  They were met with the most horrible thing you can do to any parent.

Now we’re tear gassing people.  This was outlawed in 1993, because it’s an inhumane weapon that doesn’t discriminate between intended targets and bystanders… or children.

I have seen people laughing about this. I had to drop a thread altogether because there were people blaming the parents who were fleeing for their lives, and they honestly thought my outrage was funny.  It isn’t.

The argument is that they can come, but they must do it legally.  The legal argument is an effort to give cover to the fact that what we are doing is patently immoral.  It was illegal to help a slave escape in 1850.  But it was the right thing to do.  Slavery was legal, but it was wrong.  It was illegal to hide Anne Frank in your attic in 1939.  But it was the right thing to do.  Nazism was legal, but it was wrong.  It is, in some states, illegal to feed homeless people.  But it’s the right thing to do.  Preventing people from helping others is legal, but it’s wrong.

There are many laws that are good laws because they protect us.  It’s illegal to kill me, or to steal my car, or to rape someone.  I’m in favor of those laws.  They protect us.

I don’t need to be protected from a family crossing a line.  They pose no threat to me.  If they come in and hurt someone, by all means, stop them. But crossing that line hurts no one.  And to greet people who come for help with tear gas instead of with open arms is the height of immorality.

I don’t want to hear that we don’t have the resources to help them. Of course we do. To believe otherwise is to buy into the oligarchy’s plan to make us fight with each other over the scraps of food they drop on the floor, while they pile up cash in offshore accounts and laugh at us.  The refugees, the poor, those who need help are not a threat to you.  They are not the ones keeping you from a good life.  That would be the ones with the power.  And so long as we keep supporting them, they will keep suffocating us.

What we are doing at our border is wrong.  To believe otherwise is to delude yourself.

What will I do?  I’m doing it.  I’m speaking out as loudly as I can.  “But, if you’re so worried about them, why don’t you let them come and live with you?” If your house is on fire, I can’t put it out.  I pay taxes, though, so someone can.  If you need to get to work, I can’t build you a road.  I pay taxes, though, so someone can.  If you are being attacked, I can’t help you.  But I pay taxes so someone can.

If people need help, and I am in a position to give it to them, I will. I just offered someone our extra room if she needs it because it’s all I can do.  I don’t have a single dollar to my name today.  But what I have is a voice. What I have is a talent for writing.  Those are what I have to offer.  The Little Drummer Boy could play.  I can write.  We give what we have to help those who need it. We don’t attack those in trouble.

I hope you understand.

If you need a reminder of what happened, there are two links in the transcript that will take you through the details.  One if from the BBC.  The other is from NPR.  These are traditionally two of the most objective media outlets.

https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-46355258

https://www.npr.org/2018/11/25/670687806/u-s-agents-spray-tear-gas-at-migrants-briefly-close-tijuana-border-entry

Last week I talked a little about Legalism, or the idea that adherence to a strict set of laws or religious beliefs is the way to define moral behavior.  I find it to be an excuse for doing what we know is wrong.  The argument that they can come, but they must do so legally, is a textbook example of the moral cowardice of Legalism. 

We need to stop seeing laws and start seeing people.  These are human beings coming for help.  They are often hungry and homeless.  They have been threatened by drug cartels.  They have been victims of violence.  And our response is that they have to wait until they have filled out the proper paperwork and had it stamped by the appropriate authorities?  That’s simply wrong.  They could be your parents.  They could be your children.  They share most of their attributes.  And we should care about them as we care about our own families… because they are part of our family. 

I spent last night reading comments from a supposed economist who was extolling the genius of Thomas Sowell and Adam Smith to explain why our Capitalist economy is the best of all possible worlds.  It’s just an unfortunate side effect that this economy is filled with people trying their best to make ends meet.  They work 2 or 3 jobs just to pay rent, but, by all means, let the markets regulate themselves.  There are hundreds of thousands of homeless people sleeping on the streets and shivering in the cold, but that’s just sort of too bad, because if we tried anything else, it would certainly be worse. 

I won’t accept such arguments.  I will be the first to admit that I am nothing resembling an economist.  I know next to nothing about how economies work.  I don’t know the science.  All I can see are the results.  And the results of our economic system are appalling.

We need to stop seeing numbers and start seeing people.  When children don’t have a warm bed, the economy isn’t working.  When children are put into cages, the immigration system isn’t working. 

In simplest terms, people matter more than money.  People matter more than arbitrary laws that keep them from the help they need.

Part of the problem, I think, is that we have global markets, but we lack any global government to regulate them.  This allows corporations to wield enormous power without anything to stop them.  If one country taxes them, they simply move their money to another.  If one country forces them to pay a living wage, they move their jobs to another.  And the exploitation goes on.

We have borders to protect us from others coming to our country and taking advantage of us.  But… what if we had no borders, anywhere, at all?  What if we recognized that there is no Them; we are all Us?  What would this mean?

It would mean an effective one-world government that benefits everyone.  If we had a global democracy, we could distribute global resources to where they are most needed without dealing with borders that keep help from getting where it is most needed.

Democracy comes from the Greek terms “Demos,” meaning “people,” and “Kratia,” or power.  It is the idea that people have the power to rule themselves.  We’ve been trying to get Democracy right for more than 2,500 years, and we still haven’t managed it.  I believe this is because governments are subject to the will of other governments, and they must compete with one another for supremacy.  Authoritarian dictatorships frequently create stronger militaries, and Democracy can’t fight them effectively.

Instead of fighting each other for control of what Carl Sagan aptly described as a “fraction of a dot,” we should work toward having a global democracy that works for all of us instead of giving all the advantages to the wealthy. 

This is not what The United Nations does now.  That’s a collection of governments, and participation is entirely voluntary.  The UN has no power to enforce its policies.  It has little voice in governments who exploit or oppress their own citizens.  Its function is mostly symbolic.

I don’t have details for you about how to accomplish this.  I’m sorry.  I’m not nearly intelligent enough to design such a government.  But I can give you some ideas that would help to shape it. 

Its purpose must be to help all people.  Its representatives should be elected by popular vote.  Everyone needs to be allowed to vote without interference or coercion.   It should ensure that all people get the healthcare they need.  It should ensure that education is freely available.  It should see to it that everyone has a warm bed and decent food to eat.  A government of any kind that does less is a failure to the extent that it falls short of these goals. 

I leave it to better minds than mine to work out the details.  And better minds than mine will become increasingly common as education becomes more readily available. 

So, how do we solve The Problem of Immigration?  We remove all the borders that separate one country from another, and we become one planet composed of one people.  We recognize that we are all travelers on this rock tumbling through space.  We work together to better ourselves and the rest of humanity instead of trying to create stacks of bits of green linen and cotton that, themselves, are becoming less and less common.  We use currency less frequently all the time, and now we are transferring most of our money electronically.  There are more and more places that decline to accept cash.  I had thought this was illegal, but the federal reserve tells us it’s not.

There is no federal statute mandating that a private business, a person, or an organization must accept currency or coins as payment for goods or services. Private businesses are free to develop their own policies on whether to accept cash unless there is a state law that says otherwise.

Section 31 U.S.C. 5103, entitled “Legal tender,” states: “United States coins and currency [including Federal Reserve notes and circulating notes of Federal Reserve Banks and national banks] are legal tender for all debts, public charges, taxes, and dues.” This statute means that all U.S. money as identified above is a valid and legal offer of payment for debts when tendered to a creditor.

https://www.federalreserve.gov/faqs/currency_12772.htm

This means it’s more difficult for people who don’t have bank accounts to get any help.  If I give a homeless person a ten-dollar-bill, they can’t necessarily take it to a coffee shop to get something to eat anymore.  Currency is losing its value.  The world is becoming much more for those who have, and much less for those who have not.

We need to stop making decisions about people based on their place of birth, their gender, their race, the color of their skin, or their sexuality, and instead we see that there is much more that unites us than divides us.  We must recognize that everyone is someone’s son or daughter, just as you and I are, and that hurting them means making miserable not only them but the people who love them.  We see every child as we would see our own children, and we grant them the love they have earned simply by showing up on Earth. 

Hatred has reigned long enough on Earth.  Why not try Love for a while?  Let’s see how that works out.

Posted on by Fred

On The Other Hand…

There is an innumerable quantity of reasons to be upset about the world.  Freedom is under attack.  Democracy nearly ended a year and a half ago.  Rents are spiraling out of control.  The world is perilously close to nuclear war.  If you’re upset, I promise I understand. 

Each of us has our own set of problems about which to be upset.  I walk the diabetes tightrope every single day.  My depression is a threat to my very existence.  I will never be loved romantically again.  My dog still tries to eat my furniture.  You surely have your own, some of which are probably worse than mine. 

I won’t pretend there are no reasons to be sad. 

On the other hand…

“It’s very important to remember that there are good people in the world who are doing good, in lots of ways.  Goodness exists, even when it can’t be seen.  So do beauty, and love, and the light of faraway stars.  The good will show itself in time.”

— Nanea Hoffman

Somewhere on this little planet in one of the billions, or perhaps, trillions of galaxies that make up our universe, at this very moment… right… now… a baby is being born.  It’s taking its first breath.  All of the world, in all of its beauty and wonder, is beginning in front of this new life. 

A few minutes ago, a child heard Mozart for the very first time, and she experienced a joy that will make her into an Artist.  She’s learning about the miracles human beings can create simply with our minds and our hands.  Some time in the not-too-distant future she will create something of lasting beauty that will change someone else’s life. 

“No matter how dark the moment, love and hope are always possible.” 

            — George Chakiris

An hour ago, a boy just got his first real kiss, and he’s reeling in ecstasy, wondering if his lips will always feel so oddly chapped as they do right now, and whether she will text him today.  He’s excited to be alive. 

Yesterday, an old man like me just got a dog that will love him unconditionally for the rest of his life.  He’s cuddling with him right now.  The dog feels a contentment it never experienced before.  It’s warm, safe, dry, and loved. 

“I still believe

In the Goodness

Even when it’s hard to find”

— Sara Niemietz and WG Snuffy Walden

Last week a painter sold her first canvas, and she feels like a real Artist for the first time in her life.  Her dreams seem real, and the flame of her creativity has been ignited.  In less than a year, she’ll be having her first show at The Museum of Fine Arts in Houston.  A hundred years from now people will continue to gaze in awe at her painting. 

In August, a new teacher will step in front of his class for the first time.  His career will span more than 25 years, and children still unborn will remember him for the rest of their lives.  One of his students will grow up and make a difference in ways the teacher never imagined, and it will be because of what the child learned in his class. 

“I see your head
Is hanging low low low
Doing all you can
To keep the spark inside your soul
Wish you could see
You like I do
You’re original
You’re powerful
You’re something new
Can’t wait to see
Just where you go
I do believe
You’re gonna let them know”

–Niemietz – Taylor

A couple of weeks ago, humanity gazed deeper into the universe than we ever have before.  We’re learning more about the beginnings of life as we know it than we ever could have known before.  We’re gaining a deeper understanding of our origins.  By gazing into the past, we are creating a better future.  Thirty years ago Voyager 1 showed us our place in the universe from 4 billion miles away.  Carl Sagan helped us to understand.

Look again at that dot.  That’s here.  That’s home.  That’s us.  On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives.  The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there–on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena.  Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot.  Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds.

Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light.  Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark.  In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life.  There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes.  Settle, not yet.  Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.

It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience.  There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world.  To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.

— Carl Sagan, Pale Blue Dot, 1994

Sometimes, for the preservation of our own mental health, we need to think about the possibilities that life still holds.  Love still exists, even when it’s hard to find.

I believe in The Power of Love.  Love is the only reason I’m still alive.

It is the love of people who know me that has saved my life from the best efforts of my diabetes to kill me on nearly two dozen occasions.

It is Speedy Shine’s love that gives me that gives me the strength to fight the depression that threatens my existence more often than I like to admit.

It is the love of my best friend and her ex-boyfriend that allow me to have a home.  I would survive as a homeless person for less than 48 hours.

It is the love of a friend from so many years ago that allows me to eat well enough to survive.

It is the love of The People on The Porch that gives my life purpose so I can feel that I can make a difference even while I’m not capable of doing anything to earn a living.  Their financial assistance keeps me from complete poverty, and their attention to my work makes me feel that I’m living instead of merely surviving.

It is the love of my Facebook friends that keeps me from feeling entirely alone, even while I do all I can to avoid leaving the house.  They allow me to feel some connection to the rest of the world.  They help me to control my fear of other people.

I believe it is love that will finally save us from losing our freedom.  I believe love is stronger than hate.  I could be wrong.  I remind myself of that several times a day.  But I will hold on to my belief in the power of love until the stars grow cold.

Love is my religion.

My true religion, my simple faith is in love and compassion.  There is no need for complicated philosophy, doctrine, or dogma.  Our own heart, our own mind, is the temple.  The doctrine is compassion.  Love for others and respect for their rights and dignity, no matter who or what they are – these are ultimately all we need.

—  The Dalai Lama

Of course, I’m an atheist, so how can I have a religion?

 A great Rabbi was once asked, “Why did God create atheists?”

The Rabbi said, “Atheists are the most important example for all who believe in God.  When an atheist is moral, and good, and kind, and compassionate, it’s not because he believes God commanded him to be so, nor because he fears any kind of punishment for being bad.  An atheist performs acts of righteousness because he knows it is right to do.  And where is God in this?  If He is in the atheist’s heart, or guiding him, it doesn’t matter.  The atheist helps regardless.  He helps because he believes there is nobody else, no power that can or will act without his own deeds.  So when someone is in need, in our times of crisis, you shouldn’t say, ‘I’ll pray for you, ‘ or, ‘May God help you.’ Rather, in this moment, you should be as an atheist.  Believe there is no God who can help, and say, ‘I will help you.’ In this way the atheist is closest to God, and so must we be as well.”

Captain Kirk taught me, in April 1967, when I was not yet five years old, that the three most important words are not, “I love you.”  The three most important words are, “Let me help.”

Where is the love in your life?  I promise there is some, even if you can’t find it at the moment.  I know mine isn’t what you probably want, but you have it anyway, even though we’ve probably never met and almost certainly never will.  If you’re a human being, I want you to find happiness, meaning, and love in your life.  I want you to have enough to eat, a warm bed in which to sleep, and somewhere to handle your bodily functions in a sanitary way. 

I’m willing to bet you feel the same way about nearly everyone.  On the other hand, I just turned a straight, and the player to my left rivered a full house, so I should probably not be gambling so much right now.  Perhaps you are battling the Hatred that is poisoning your soul, and if that’s the case, I hope you win the fight.  It’s not helping you to feel any better, I promise you.  It’s hurting you.  It’s hurting the object of your Hatred.  No matter how well deserved that hatred is, take a break from it for just a little while.  It will still be there when you’re ready to come back. 

Sometimes we need to lose things in order to learn not only their value, but also their weight.  Loss is a brilliant teacher that way; it can show us what’s important simply by creating space where it once was.”

— Mark Groves

It was 111 degrees here today.  My best friend loaned me the courage to leave the house, and she took me out to lunch.  I put my dog, Speedy Shine in the backyard with two trays full of ice cubes, and lots of water, and I filled all his toys with that cheese spread you get from PetSmart.  I told him I loved him, and I would be back soon.  I was gone for just over two hours, and when I returned, he jumped on me for nearly 5 uninterrupted minutes.  It was as though I had been gone for a year.  And there was an extra jolt of love from both of us.

And even in the middle of the summer, I couldn’t help but remember this Christmas story from what is, in my view, the greatest series ever to appear on television.

“Every year, when I was little, Daddy told me a story about The Great War.  How on Christmas Eve an English soldier started singing “Silent Night,” and from the other side of the trenches, the German soldiers joined in, and then they crossed the enemy lines and vowed not to fight each other the next day.  But the sun rose, and their commanders told them to charge, and they did.  I don’t know why that story makes me feel hopeful.  Maybe it’s that Good Will exists.  Even if it’s small and weak, there’s a chance it may grow up one day.”

— Barbara Hall in “I’ll Fly Away” Season 2, Episode 11, “Comfort and Joy.” 12/11/1992

That’s been with me for just shy of 30 years.  It will be with me until I am no more.  And now it is with you. 

Search for the Goodness.  Seek the Kindness.  I promise you, no matter how dark the skies, there are little lights of love still to be found.

I love you.

Posted on by Fred · 1 Comment

My Life Now

Speedy Shine and Me

It is probably unwise to do this episode because it’s likely to cost me some of the Patreon support that has helped me to get to the life I have always wanted.  Sometimes when someone thinks I’m doing all right, they stop supporting me because they feel like I don’t need it anymore.  To be clear, I’m nothing approaching wealthy.  I’m never going to be.  I do, however, if I am very careful, have enough to live every month.  This is, in large part, because of the help my Patreon supporters, and several other good friends of mine, have given me.  I have, for example, one friend who is the mother of one of my classmates from my days in high school who sends me lovely cards with $40 in them from time to time.  She thinks of it as nothing, but it makes it possible for me to get through just a little longer, and I couldn’t be more grateful.

My Valentine

  Another friend got his taxes back, and, for absolutely no reason, sent me $75.  Those unexpected gifts help me to get the little extras.  I just got another blanket that has no stuffing because of my friend’s tax return gift.  Speedy Shine can’t ruin it.  My room isn’t covered in feathers anymore.  My life is better, and I get to enjoy luxuries I wouldn’t otherwise even consider. 

Without my Patreon support, I would never make ends meet every month.  Without having the good fortune of renting a place for half price, I would never make ends meet every month.  If I still had a car, I would never make ends meet every month.  I’ve learned to adjust my life to my meager means.  I can’t afford to buy every book I want (but one of The People on The Porch – Frau Bleucher —  just bought me Valerie Bertinelli’s latest book, for which I could not be more grateful), and I still can’t afford my bookcases or to get my plumbing fixed, but I don’t spend every day worrying about getting evicted, or losing my electricity, or paying for my internet, because all of those things are covered in my wildly reduced rent. 

(Update:  My best friend has become a Notorious Furniture Flipper.  She buys furniture cheaply at something called Offer Up with the intention of selling it at a profit.  She’s gotten the furniture several times now, but she’s never sold any.  Either she or her boyfriend decide they love it and want to keep it.  Using these newfound skills, she is shopping for 4 big bookcases for me for a total of $50 or less.  I’m hopeful she will be successful.  It would be a huge step toward making my life complete.)

This didn’t come easily.  I’m the recipient of more kindness and generosity than I could possibly deserve.  I never forget that for even a moment.  But, I also worked hard to get where I am.  I worked at grocery stores when I was a kid.  I worked at Day Care Centers when I was a little older.  I went to NAU for a little more than 4 years (we don’t talk about my first semester, thank you), I became a teacher, and I did that for 29 years.  I taught Defensive Driving on weekends during the final five years of my Elementary School teaching career because my salary wasn’t keeping up with inflation.  Rent kept going up, but my checks didn’t.  When I quit teaching, I took most of a year off, and I lived the life I had always wanted.  I had to go back to work, and I sold Direct TV for quite a while and taught all the Defensive Driving classes I could get.  I drove for Postmates.  And when my Diabetes finally destroyed what was left of my health, I spent nearly 3 years trying to get my Disability. 

Disability pays my half price rent and my phone bill.  Everything else is funded by Patreon.  The license I just got for the software I use to do this show was paid for by The People on The Porch.  When I have to renew the license for the music I use, that will also come from the money I get from Patreon.  It took me more than 2 years, doing at least one episode a week, to get to this point.  I’m proud of my success.

I no longer live The Life of The Desperate.  I did.  I lived it for a long time, and, I have to tell you, it sucks.  If it weren’t for you (and, let’s face it, if you’re listening to this show, you’re almost certainly one of The People on The Porch.  I don’t think very many others listen.) I could never have made it this far.  You made my better life possible.  And I couldn’t be more grateful.  Please please please don’t stop.  I am beating my depression for the first time in years, and it’s because my circumstances are no longer anxiety producing.  You did that for me. 

When you think (as I often do) that doing the little things doesn’t matter, I want you to know what you are really doing.  You are helping me to have this life, and without you, it would be impossible.  Every single dollar goes into creating the life I think everyone ought to be able to have.  This show is mostly about trying to create a world where everyone has the kind of life you have granted me.

What is that life like?

Waking Up

This morning, without an alarm, I woke up a little after 6 AM.  The first thing I felt was my dog, Speedy Shine, cuddling next to my leg.  I smiled.  I took my first conscious breath.  I took a moment to appreciate the beauty of that experience.  We shared loves and cuddles until he woke up, did his morning shake, and then gave me kisses.  I felt good before I was even out of bed.  We laid there a little longer.  He needed a few more minutes of cuddling before we both went to take care of our morning business.  While I did mine, he came in and put his paws on my lap to remind me he loves me.  After he did his, he came over to my backyard chair to tell me he was a Good Boy.  We went in for Treatsers, but he didn’t really care about them.  He just wanted to show me how good he was. 

I went back out for a morning cigarette and to see what happened in the world while I was asleep.  People had responded to my pictures of Speedy Shine and the new covers that wouldn’t spread feathers all over my room.  They had nice things to say.  Speedy Shine laid on the blankets by the back door so he could watch me.  It was too cold for him out there, but he wanted to be sure I was still around.  I wish I could find the words to explain how good that makes me feel.

I texted my best friend to tell her I hope she slept well, that I hope things are going well with her boyfriend, that I hope work goes well, and that I continue to love her most.  That always sets her up with a nice start to a day that is going to be much more difficult than mine.  I know.  I did what she’s doing today every day for 29 years.  Teachers can use all the emotional resources they can get.  I make sure that I tell her I love her whenever we’re done talking or texting for a bit.  I recognize I could easily be dead before we communicate next.  I want to be sure the last thing she hears from me is that I love her.  I do the same thing with my Mother.  I do the same thing with Speedy Shine.  I do it sometimes with you.

I played a game of Clue on my phone.  We used to play that when I was a kid, and my brother and sister frequently beat me at it.  I hadn’t figured out the logical way to proceed yet.  For those of you who have never played the game (infants!), it’s a murder mystery.  Someone has been killed.  There are 6 suspects, 6 possible murder weapons, and 9 rooms where the murder might have taken place.  We all have six cards that are some combination of suspects, weapons, and/or rooms.  Three are in in the envelope in the middle of the board.  These are the solution.  The objective is to figure out the murderer, the weapon, and the room.  You do that by travelling from room to room and “suggesting” who might have done it, the weapon that was used, and the room in which the crime was committed.  It’s really a children’s version of The Scientific Method.  What do I mean?

It helps if you have at least one suspect, one weapon, and one room in your hand.  When you arrive at a room you don’t have, you suggest a suspect and a weapon in your hand.  (The rules require you to use the room you’re in as the scene of the crime.)  You know those two elements.  You’re testing for the third.  If no one has it, you have found the room where the crime occurred.  If they do, you can eliminate it from the 9 possibilities.  If you arrive at a room you have in your hand, you choose either a suspect or a weapon you don’t have to test whether others do.  They are required to show you a card if they have it.  If they have two or three of the cards, they need to show you only one. 

The Scientific Method teaches us to control all the variables except the one for which we are testing.  We know this method works.  Evidence for that can be found in the fact you’re listening to this podcast.  The computer on which I’m typing, the one on which I’ll record later, and the computer, or phone or whatever other device you’re using to play this are all direct results of the application of The Scientific Method. 

When I first started playing this game on my phone back during my California Adventure, I always chose the option to play against the AI.  I was afraid of seeming stupid in front of other humans I would never actually see or hear.  The game doesn’t even have a chat feature.  It’s not like they can TELL me how stupid I am.  I play as Front Porch Fred.  They won’t even know my name.  But they might think I’m stupid.  Yes, these were things about which I worried.  After I had won 100 games against the AI, I felt confident enough to try it in front of other humans.  And I was shocked by the results.

I’ve explained how to play the game correctly.  It’s not difficult.  Few of my opponents ever play it according to The Scientific Method.  They suggest three elements they don’t have in their hand.  Sometimes I will have two of them, and the third player shows them a card.  Now I know what the third player showed.  There’s only one possibility.  That’s free information.  It’s like playing Texas Hold Em and intentionally exposing one of your hole cards.  My assumption is that people hope to get lucky.  “I’m going to take a wild guess and see if I get it right.”  It’s frustrating for me when they do this on the first turn, and, before I’ve even gotten the chance to roll the dice, they’ve solved the crime.  That happens a little more than 1% of the time.  Statistically, it should occur much less often.  I assume someone has taken the time to hack the game.  I can’t imagine why they would do that.  Everyone, however, should get to spend their time as they see fit, so long as they’re not hurting anyone else.  The damage they do to me is negligible.  I’m annoyed for, perhaps, 15 seconds.  I think I’ll survive. 

It takes me between 10 and 15 minutes to play a game of Clue.  I win 89% of the time.  Now and then, I encounter another player who also knows how to play correctly, and then it’s a true race to see who can find the right room first.  We tend to find the killer and the weapon almost simultaneously.

When I want a shorter game, I play Othello.  This is another game we played as kids.  You flip tokens from black to white and back.  You’re either black or white; your opponent is the opposite color.  Whoever has the most tokens at the end of the game wins.  It’s another great little logic puzzle that allows me to think without taxing my brain sufficiently to make me frustrated.  I won’t play that online at all.  Even at the Very Easy level, I still sometimes lose to the AI.  A smart player can crush me, and I don’t enjoy that as much as one would think.  Again, I feel embarrassed.  I’m less interested in competition than I am in spending a few leisurely moments thinking a little. 

Othello

Shorter still is Solitaire.  If the game takes more than 3 minutes to win, I think of it as a failure.  I’m sure you’ve played that before.  It’s a card game we all learn as children.  I used to cheat as a child, and the phone won’t let me do that.  Sometimes the deck is unwinnable.  I can always play another one. 

I read when I want now.  Normally, it’s during the daylight hours because I like to read outside with a cigarette.  I used to read in bed, but now I like to listen to my show when I’m going to sleep.  First, I can use the numbers.  Second, I prefer talking to myself about whatever is on the show to letting my brain run wild all night to remind me of every mistake I’ve ever made and let me know what a horrible person I am.  My podcast voice generally drowns out the voice of my Prosecutor.  (You’ll find him in Episode 97: “The Prosecution Never Rests.”)  Finally, my voice saying, “Fred’s Front Porch Podcast is made possible by…” has become a signal for Speedy Shine.  Before I even turn the bedside light out, he’s diving under the covers to secure the best cuddle spot before I go to sleep.  How lovely is that?

After my morning routines, I like to come and sit at my computer and write.  I play my Spotify playlist (no, I don’t feel like arguing about Neil Young and Joe Rogan right now; I’m in a good mood.).  I look over my shoulder from time to time to make sure Speedy Shine isn’t destroying anything that might hurt him.  Other than that, I am essentially talking to myself through my fingers on the keyboard.  I’m rethinking my ideas.  I’m clarifying them.  I’m understanding my life a little better.  It’s a wonderful experience. 

When I start to get hungry, I go make a microwave breakfast.  I’m ecstatic that I finally got enough in Food Stamps that I can afford to eat now.  I don’t ever worry about going hungry anymore.  This is a fantastic luxury.  I love that feeling. 

Breakfast is always in bed.  As far as that goes, so is lunch and dinner.  I don’t have, nor do I really want, a kitchen table.  I have my TV in my bedroom, and I like to watch some Dick Wolf show while I eat.  I enjoy most of the Law & Order shows, the One Chicago shows, and I just started FBI.  They aren’t more challenging than I can handle.  They are new to me.  The characters become my friends over time.  No, it’s not Aaron Sorkin, but I can recite nearly every word of every episode of television he’s ever written.  A person needs something else.  Some of the new Star Trek shows are pretty good.  I love Picard.  Prodigy is surprisingly good.  Obviously, I’ve already seen all of The Original Series and The Next Generation more times than I can count.  So… Dick Wolf is part of the meal ritual. 

Speedy Shine has learned “lay down.”  When I finish more than 90% of my meal, he knows he will get a little if he is a good boy.  He is always a good boy.  I share the last of the meal with him, and, in a little while, we’re either going to pull up the covers and start up the podcast, or we’re going to get up and go read outside.  I love a nice morning nap. 

I get to choose now what to do with every minute of my life.  I have a few alarms on my phone.  I had to change the Mom call from 7:37 PM to 6:25 because she’s getting tired earlier.  She’s 91.  No one gets to complain about what time she goes to bed.  I have an alarm set for 1:45 every Wednesday so I get to Weekly Wacky Wednesday by 2, my time.  I have an alarm for 4 PM to remind me to take my Lantus.  When I have a doctor’s appointment, I have an alarm for that.  Everything else, though… those minutes are up to me.  I get at least 1 nap a day.  Sometimes, if I’m caught up on the show, I manage 2. 

I have the time I need to write my show at a leisurely pace.  I try to have the script finished by Friday so I can record, score, and Horace on Saturday.  I bounce the episode, find about 60 seconds to use for “Next Week On Fred’s Front Porch Podcast,” and then I’m ready to go.  Sunday, I assemble all the pieces for this week’s episode, knowing I already have next week’s episode done, and I can relax. 

I spend far too much time worrying about whether anyone likes my show.  I obsess about numbers, but I keep trying to stop that.  I’m checking my numbers less frequently.  At first, it was just ego.  Now that I’m deriving a little income from this, I find I really don’t want to lose the life I’ve worked so long to get.  You are the reason I can live my way.  I want us all to work together so everyone can choose how to spend their minutes without worrying about whether they will be able to pay rent and eat.  Everyone deserves what it took me nearly 60 years to get.  Is it possible?  Why, yes.  Yes, it is.  I know that because I’m doing it.  I want you to have a life at least as good as mine.  You deserve it every bit as much as I do.  And I couldn’t be more grateful for the life you’ve given me.  I love you very very much. 

“What? Did you think this was YOUR chair or something?”
— Sir Speedy Shine
Posted on by Fred

A Time to Love

Christmas Time is here. Regardless of your beliefs, the holiday season is a Time to Love. Many people are unhappy with each other today. We are a deeply divided country. We are angry. We are, ourselves, hurting, and we are hurting each other. And that’s a part of the reality of our time.

The Beauty of Christmas is that it’s an opportunity to step away from reality. In the New Year, we can return to hating one another. We can return to accusations and denials. For just a few days, though, let’s turn our attention elsewhere.

Let’s remember that we really are one people. We are all sharing this rock hurtling through space. We all love someone. (Except Tom Riddle; he is incapable of love… but that’s another story.) We are, I hope, all loved by someone. If you feel unloved, I’m here to tell you that I love your existence.

Whether we disagree about everything is irrelevant. What matters is that you’re a human life. You have your own spark of divine light. You have your own unique heart. You have value because you’re a member of my species. Your contributions to the world aren’t finished yet. Your kindness to others can continue to make a difference. I am honestly glad you’re on the planet. I would like to walk with you a little farther, perhaps to the next bend in the road where our paths must, like two roads in a yellow wood, diverge. I’ll be taking the road less travelled by.

The season is a chance to pause, just for a day or two, and reflect on the joys we still have in life. I have more than my share: I have cats who tolerate me, and one of them cuddles with me almost nightly. I have people who love and support me. I have a voice to which a few people listen from time to time. And, most of all, I have the time and the ability to do the things I want to do. That’s the greatest gift a person can have. I need no others.

We give gifts because The Magi began the tradition more than 2000 years ago. It’s a means of sacrificing something of ours to bring joy to someone else. Gift giving is, itself, an act of love. Gift giving is a part of the traditions of nearly every culture this time of year. Giving gifts means being, in some way, with someone we love. This season is, in fact, a Time To Love.

This is the time to ask yourself what gifts you have. I promise if you dig deep enough, there are more than you think. Find them. Proclaim them. Love them.

Christmas is a time of Magic. There must be something in the air at the Solstice that causes a strange change to come over all of us. Complete strangers wish each other “Merry Christmas” or some version of “Happy Holidays.” Charities are swamped with donor and volunteers. Forgiveness comes more easily. There seems to be a universal agreement that, at Christmas, love and kindness rule the day.

We believe, in our own ways, in the magic of Santa Claus. NORAD tracks his progress every year. Children watch the skies. Adults still listen for the reindeer’s broken bell ringing in the early morning hours. Some of us can actually hear it, even now.

We believe in the beauty of the magical birth, on that Holy Night, of a child who would change the world. We lie in the hay, with the babe in the manger, seeing unimagined possibilities and unlimited potential at the beginning of this life, and, indeed, of any life. We are all, with the baby Jesus, innocent and loved.

“Every year when I was little, Daddy told me a story about The Great War; how on Christmas Eve an English soldier started singing Silent Night, and from the other side of the trenches, the German soldiers joined in. And then they crossed the enemy lines and vowed not to fight each other the next day. But the sun rose, and their commanders told them to charge, and they did. I don’t know why that story makes me feel hopeful. Maybe it’s that good will exists, even if it’s small and weak. There’s a chance it may grow up one day.” – Lily Harper, “I’ll Fly Away”

There’s nothing supernatural about this magic. I maintain it is the magic of love that helps us to illuminate together the lantern in our lighthouse, guiding one another away from the swirling, foaming Ocean of Inequality and toward the Ideal World. I don’t know why that fact makes me feel hopeful. Maybe it’s that, even if it’s for only one day, there’s a chance it could extend a little farther, and we can walk just a little farther together, until finally, Love becomes the world’s beacon, and we all grow up one day.

I wish you love and joy in whatever holiday you celebrate. Take this time to reflect on, and in, Peace on Earth, and good will toward all living things.

Posted on by Fred

Combatting Hatred

You can’t change the world; only your corner of it.”
— My father, Alan Eder, quoting my grandpa, Enno Schuelke, September 12, 2001

“We’re on track for a million illegal aliens to rush our borders. People hate the word ‘invasion’ but that’s what it is. It’s an invasion of drugs and criminals and people. You have no idea who they are.”

Donald Trump

Invaders, by definition, need to be stopped. They are almost invariably met with violence.

Look at the examples of the usage of the word.

“To enter forcefully as an enemy; go into with hostile intent: Germany invaded Poland in 1939.” – Dictionary.com

If we believe the mythical “Others” are invaders, the logical response is to kill them, isn’t it?

This is the leadership we have. We are told we are being invaded. How can an American who believes this President be expected to act differently?

We can argue about gun control, but it’s a blind alley. We’re never going to make meaningful changes in those laws. If we didn’t do it after children… CHILDREN!… died at Sandy Hook, we certainly won’t because of a few “others.”

But, why do we have to accept the idea that those whose skin is darker, whose national origins are different, or whose sexuality, or gender identification, or religious beliefs are other than the majority are somehow bad? I’m sick to death of the argument that Mexicans are welcome if they come in legally. That’s bullshit, and the person making the argument knows it. It takes years to become a citizen, if you can do it at all. The first step is to determine eligibility for naturalization. That step alone can take 3 to 5 years. There are 9 additional steps.

The information is here:

https://www.path2usa.com/us-naturalization-eligibility

What they really have in mind is keeping America filled with people who are like them. We want only white people. If that’s not true, why are we building a wall at the Southern border, but not the Northern? We don’t seem to mind Canadians coming in.

My plea is really to give up our hatred. The most important question is who is better off for this?

I am better than some people. I am not as good as others. This is determined by my abilities and my behaviors. It has nothing to do with my race, gender, sexuality, religious or political views. The same is true for everyone else.

If you want to hate me, and there are many who do, then hate me for what I do. Hate my liberal opinions, but not the fact that I’m straight. Hate my Idealism, but not my religious views. Hate my speaking out against Hate. Hate my writing. Hate my reaching out for help. Those are all choices I have made. They are open to scrutiny. I was born male. I had nothing whatever to do with that. I was born in America. I deserve no credit for that.

Why should I hate someone because she’s female, or because he is homosexual, or because her children were born in Guatemala? Who is better off for that? How is my life better because the lives of others are worse? I don’t become taller by pushing someone else down. I don’t become richer by denying wealth to someone else.

We don’t need to be told to hate.

Hate leads to fear. Someone else is going to get something that should have been mine. I know that these people are bad because they weren’t born in America. It’s because of them that my life is no good. I am afraid of them invading and taking what is supposed to be mine.

Fear leads to violence. I can’t let them invade. I have to protect what’s mine, and what belongs to the rest of my tribe. They don’t belong in my country any more than a cockroach belongs in my house. The only thing to do when you’re invaded, is kill the invaders.

Violence leads to suffering. My mother, my son, my wife, my best friend… someone… is dead. I won’t see them again. No more laughing together at jokes that aren’t really funny. No more hugs and love. No more of the joy of seeing their eyes light up when I walk into a room. No more breathing for this person I love. And this hurts like a bitch.

Haven’t we had enough suffering yet?

What if we realized that a person had no choice about being born? No one chooses where or when to enter the planet. No one chooses the color of his skin (beyond tanning, I suppose). No one chooses her sexual orientation. No one chooses his gender. Is it reasonable to hate someone for things over which he had no control?

Hatred can be useful. I hated Osama bin Laden, not because he was from another country, not because his religious views differed from mine, and not even because of his sexual identity. I hated him for stealing my sense of security by slamming planes into buildings and killing thousands of human beings who were every bit as deserving of their next breath as I am of mine.

But I didn’t generalize that hatred to include all people who shared his religion. As it turns out, there are millions and millions of perfectly nice Muslims in the world. I have no cause to hate them. And it doesn’t do much to make me feel better to hate anyone. Do you enjoy hating others? I find it’s kind of a burning sensation in my chest that I would rather not have.

Again, it’s worth asking, before you do anything, “Who is better off for me doing this?” Sometimes, it’s something small. If I make a burrito, I’m better off for doing it because my blood sugar won’t drop, and I won’t be so hungry. But when it’s something that has the potential to hurt someone, it becomes a more serious question.

I understand, to some extent, the need to blame someone else for the conditions of our lives. I certainly don’t like mine. There’s at least a 70% chance I’ll be homeless on September 1. That makes me afraid. I would love to blame someone. But… who will it help? I still have the same problem to handle whether it’s the fault of President Trump, “The Others” (whomever you may choose), myself, my roommates, or the landlord who is selling the house in which we live. Blaming someone won’t get me a new habitation. Since I don’t like being angry, I don’t see any point in wasting emotional energy on hating someone else. I’m no better off for it. Neither is the subject of my blame.

If we can stop looking for scapegoats and start looking for solutions to our problems, we are more likely to be happier. It is intellectual cowardice to decide that someone else is responsible for our lot in life.

I’m told that there are websites called 4chan and 8chan that are dedicated to promoting Hate Speech. They have the absolute right to do this. I would never want to take away Freedom of Speech from anyone. Since I can’t stop them from spreading their message of hate, what can I do? I can fight their words with mine. I do what I can to spread a message of Love and Acceptance. Just as those sites incite violence, so I hope to incite peace.

We can legislate all day and into the night, and we won’t end the problem of gun violence because its root – Hatred – can’t be killed by laws. If we want to end this we have to stop the hatred. Martin Luther King, Jr. said it better than I can, so I will leave you to ponder his words in the context of mine.

The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral,
begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy
Instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it.
Through violence you may murder the liar,
but you cannot murder the lie, nor establish the truth.
Through violence you may murder the hater,
but you do not murder hate.
In fact, violence merely increases hate.
So it goes.
Returning violence for violence multiplies violence,
adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars.
Darkness cannot drive out darkness:
only light can do that.
Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.


Will you join me, please, in advocating Love over Hate?

Posted on by Fred · 2 Comments

The Meaning of My Life



There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy.”

Hamlet
Act 1, Scene 5

Yesterday, not for anything close to the first time, I should have died. I woke up to find a strange woman standing over me while I was lying in bed. She was a paramedic. She had just brought me back to consciousness when my blood sugar had dropped so low that it was undetectable by medical equipment. I’m alive because my roommate checked on me, found me irretrievably unconscious, and called 911. She has done this more than once.

I should have died, in what I think would have been a beautifully appropriate way, a couple of years ago when my blood sugar went so high that it was off the scale. I was alone then. There was no one there to save me. One of my friends, though, became concerned when she couldn’t get me on the phone, and, though she was out of town, she sent the Mesa Police to do a wellness check, and they took me to the hospital. I had gone into Diabetic Ketoacidosis. I would, undoubtedly, have died alone in a cheap motel room had she not interfered. Frankly, that would have been, at the time, my preferred way to shuffle off this mortal coil. It didn’t happen, though. Someone kept me alive.

This has happened at least half a dozen times in the last four or five years. I was at a place where I was unable to help myself, and someone came to my rescue.

When I posted about yesterday’s incident on Facebook, more than one of my friends suggested that there is a reason that I keep cheating Death. Their reasons are, whether they say it directly or not, supernatural. God, or some other force like Him, is not letting me die.

I love my friends, but I reject that answer. Why, Fred? The evidence is there. Some force keeps intervening to keep you alive. It must be God, in some form or other.

Why must it be God? I believe you’re making what is commonly called The God of The Gaps Argument.

What’s that?

The God of The Gaps is defined, as follows, by Wikipedia.

The term God-of-the-gaps fallacy can refer to a position that assumes an act of God as the explanation for an unknown phenomenon, which is a variant of an argument from ignorance fallacy. Such an argument is sometimes reduced to the following form: There is a gap in understanding of some aspect of the natural world… (God is required to fill that gap.)

Wikipedia

I’ve been guilty of committing this fallacy, myself, on more than one occasion. How else can one explain the Genius of Mozart or Shakespeare? They are light years beyond what any human being should be capable of doing. Yet, they do. This can only be some sort of supernatural result. They have connected with Something Beyond.

But, that is simply intellectual laziness on my part. Their work exists. It was produced by humans. Therefore, we know, by definition, humans are capable of such feats. They even managed to build the pyramids. We’re one hell of a powerful group, we humans.

Does this mean I entirely reject the idea of there being Something Beyond? No. I don’t. Hamlet tells Horatio, “There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.” I’m sure he’s right. I have absolutely no doubt that there are forces in the universe that I don’t – or can’t – understand. And when Science shows them to me, I’ll accept their existence.

I have, from time to time, felt myself, for as much as a week once, connecting with Something Beyond. I simply had everything working. I was in my stride. My writing was at its best. My social skills were on the mark. Women liked me. I knew how to earn more than enough money to survive. I was feeling music acutely. I was moved to tears by Mr. Banks singing “A Man Has Dreams” in Mary Poppins. I could feel the Jedi Force flowing through me.

However, that doesn’t require a supernatural explanation. It’s a part of human experience. How do I know? Because I’m human, and I experienced it.

I had no special powers. I could levitate precisely nothing. I was unable to fly without the assistance of an airplane. I was entirely unable to read anyone’s mind. I simply was making everything work, all at the same time. And it was beautiful.

I think Mozart and Shakespeare were able to make their Art work all the time. I can’t imagine how wonderful that must have felt. Mozart rarely even did second drafts, that rotten bastard! You will never read a word of mine that hasn’t been through at least 3 or 4 drafts. And even if I did 3 or 4 thousand, it could never approach the level of Shakespeare. That’s not false modesty. That’s an understanding of what Shakespeare is.

So, if I’m not willing to accept a supernatural explanation, what explanation do I accept? I’m not sure I’ve found one yet. But, there is one I’m considering. It has to do with Love.

If you’ve spent any time with my Blog, you’ll see I’ve had more than a little to say on the subject of what Love is. It’s best, and most succinctly, defined as the feeling that someone else’s happiness is at least as important as your own. Well being falls into the same category.

In an upcoming story about my secret alter ego, Horace, his Grandpa tells him this about love:

I guess you might begin to suspect there’s something going on when you can’t stop thinking about some girl. Although, more often than not, that’s just a case of overactive hormones. But, it is a part of it. If you think a girl is really pretty, and you think about her all the time, and if you wonder if she has enough to eat, and if she’s safe, and when nothing makes you happier than making her happy, and all of that sort of thing… well, maybe, just possibly you’re in love. But, I wouldn’t count on it.”

Fred Eder

Love is also a Force. It compels one to do things as certainly as gravity does. When you love someone sufficiently, you can’t tolerate their suffering, and you will take what ever action is necessary to stop it. It really isn’t a matter of choice. It’s just what you do. You can’t keep from doing it any more than you can keep your heart from beating.

The one common thread I can find in all of the incidents of my Salvation is that someone I love was involved. I have reason to believe those who saved me also loved me.

After quite nearly plummeting to his death, Captain Kirk tells his best friends, “I knew I wouldn’t die because the two of you were with me. I’ve always known I’ll die alone.”

Love, in its most powerful form, continues to keep me alive.

But, why should I keep living? Yesterday one of my friends said, “Fred, there’s a reason you are still alive, clearly. Something you need to investigate, learn about, before it’s too late. Any idea what it is? I have an inkling…”

And that is a pertinent question. What is it I need to do with my life while I still have it? This was my reply:

I think I need to learn to write in a way that can help the world see its commonality. Someone I love very much guided my thinking on that idea 40 years ago when she said, “One planet, one people… please?” (It was her.)

I’m trying to figure out how to make that dream a reality. I have no delusions of grandeur. I don’t believe it’s any more possible than it was for Atticus to get a Not Guilty verdict for Tom Robinson, or for Santiago to get his marlin back to shore, but I admire those men for making the effort.

“I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It’s when you know you’re licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what,” (as Atticus told Jem.)

I believe in that.”

Fred Eder

What does My Life mean? What is the purpose of my continuing to suck up everyone else’s oxygen?

I think Captain Kirk began to teach me in April, 1967.

Edith Keeler tells Kirk, “Let me help.”

Kirk replies, “A hundred years or so from now, a famous novelist will write a classic using that theme. He’ll recommend those three words, even over ‘I love you.‘”

I’ve often hoped that I might get to be that famous novelist. Since he was talking to Edith Keeler in 1930, I have 11 more years to get there. If I can live that long. Of course, I would have to be living on “a planet circling the far left star in Orion’s belt.” But, hey, one step at a time.

The idea of Let Me Help has guided most of my life. I was an Elementary School Teacher for just shy of 30 years. For me, my classroom was the Enterprise. And, arrogance be damned, I was an extraordinary Starship Captain.

I retired in 2016. I thought, like Kirk once did, that I was done making a difference. As it turns out, I wasn’t. I have found that my words can still make a difference. I can still be of help with them. I can sometimes move people. I can sometimes make them think. I can sometimes reinforce their beliefs. I have even, from time to time, been able to inspire someone.

If I can find a way for my words to help bring the world together, to make the Dream of “One Planet, One People… Please” a reality, I will have made a difference. I don’t know how to do that, yet, but I promise you I’m working on it.

What yesterday most revealed to me was that I still have a desire to live. This is new for me. I’ve been ready to die for several years now. In fact, the last time the paramedics showed up, I was a little disappointed they brought me back. Hamlet tells me, “The readiness is all,” and I felt ready.

I lost a little of that readiness yesterday. It occurs to me there are still things I would like to do before I’m gone. There is Love still to be experienced. There are words I still need to write. There is Music I still want to hear. I find delight in small things people do. I need to talk to my Mom every night at exactly 7:37 so she knows I’m okay. I hope to have another pastrami sandwich someday. I want to have a little ice cream before bed. These are all reasons to want to live.

And my friends have given me those reasons. And those reasons are a product of Love. So… what keeps saving me? I believe it’s Love.

You may believe it’s something else, and I respect your belief, even if we don’t agree. But, for me, Love is the most powerful Force in the Universe, and I believe it’s why I’m still alive.

I’m working on finding the Meaning of My Life. I hope my thoughts might have helped you to find the Meaning of Yours.

Posted on by Fred

Mothers and Heroism

I believe that all Mothers, simply by giving birth, qualify as heroes. I don’t for a moment claim that all Mothers are good people. Some of them are obviously not. We’ve all seen Sybil, whose Mother abused her so horribly that Sybil developed multiple personality disorder to be able to cope with the stress. And Norman Bates’s Mother certainly would not be in the running for Sainthood.

But, what is a hero? I maintain that heroism requires sacrifice and some form of danger, and that it is an act to benefit someone other than oneself. The fireman who runs into the house to save a child is sacrificing his safety and is facing the very real threat of a horrible death. The kids that jumped in front of their friends in the school shootings this week, as well as those who did the same in the Jewish Synagogue, are heroes. They sacrificed their lives to save others. The benefits of their actions were not necessarily their own. (This is not to say there are no benefits to Motherhood. But not all Mothers get those benefits for any number of reasons.)

A hero might also be an artist. This is someone who has accomplished something you admire deeply. Some of my heroes are Shakespeare, Aaron Sorkin, Snuffy Walden, and Gene Roddenberry. None of them, to my knowledge, faced any particular danger, but don’t believe for a moment they accomplished what they did without sacrificing their time, their energy, and their efforts. And their accomplishments benefit me, and millions of others. I’m not sure if these are the same sorts of heroes as firefighters and those who stop shooters. So, perhaps the word has a broader meaning for me.

But, a Mother certainly fits any reasonable definition. She sacrifices her body, her comfort, her well being for the benefit of another. I’m told that even the easiest, least painful birth is excruciating. Having never given birth, myself, I don’t really know. But, I feel sure it’s less fun than lying in bed reading a good book. Giving birth is dangerous; women, even today, die in the process. They do this to benefit another person. They bring life into the world at the expense of, at the very least, physical pain. That, for me, is heroism.

Some Mothers continue to be heroes, in lesser or greater ways, throughout the rest of their lives. Others abandon the status promptly.

Regardless of whether your Mother was as good as mine (and mine is as good as anyone could hope), or she was horrible as Sybil’s, she sacrificed herself for you. You owe her your life. If not for her, you’re not here. I think, sometimes, that’s worth remembering.

Posted on by Fred

The Love and Loss of a Dog

Mom, Melanie, and Me

There is no love quite like the love you can get from your dog. She will come running up to you and cover you with kisses when you get home from work. She’ll make you feel loved and special, as though you are the greatest and most important being who ever existed in the universe. I have two ex wives. Neither of them ever came close to my dog, Melanie, for making me feel loved. On the other hand, neither of them ever pooped on my floor, either, so perhaps it evens out.

Your dog will lie with her head in your lap or on your chest. She will be by your side through the worst times. She can provide protection. But, more than any of this, she simply works her way into your heart in ways no human can. She’ll never lie to you. She’ll never tell the secrets you share with her. Melanie doesn’t mind in the least that I am old, broken, and not particularly attractive. She loves Me, not my body. I’ve never known a woman about whom I could honestly say that. She makes me smile, and laugh, and sing. (I sing to Melanie for Breakfast and at Bedtime. Fortunately, she can’t tell that I suck.) A dog will show you Joy you never knew was possible. And, finally, she will break your heart.

Melanie is a part of my routine. The day will come, I know, when I don’t get to sing The Breakfast Song to her anymore. Her head won’t be on my lap when I’m sad. I won’t see her tail wagging joyously simply because she sees me. And my world will be just a little emptier.

There are those who will tell you, “It’s only a dog; get over it.” These people are to be ignored. They don’t understand the depths of your feelings. She was there all the time. She relied on you for her survival, and you relied on her for the only feeling of being Completely Loved that you will ever really have. It doesn’t need to be rational. Love rarely is.

What do you have left? You have your memories of the good times you had. You can recall her highs, her lows, her joys, her woes, and the moments you shared with her. You have the look in her eyes that told you how she was feeling. You have, still, and always, the love she gave to you without expecting anything in return. You have a Badge of Honor because you can say, “I have been loved by a dog.”

And when your dog is gone, those who love you will help you through the loss. I probably don’t know you, but if you have lost your dog, you are worthy of love. I hope these words might have helped to fill in just a little part of the massive hole your dog’s departure has left in your heart.

Posted on by Fred · 2 Comments

Saying I Love You

“…you shouldn’t blow the chance
When you’ve got the chance to say
I love you…”


Olivia Newton John

There are 2 people to whom I say I Love You daily. There are 2 others to whom I say it almost daily. There are 3 cats and a dog who hear it from me several times a day. There are 7.68 billion people to whom I never say it at all.

I don’t recall the last time I said it in a romantic sense. It’s almost certainly been a decade. It’s been at least that long since I’ve heard anyone say it to me in that way. I wouldn’t be surprised if I never say it or hear it that way again. Nor would I be unhappy about that. It’s gone badly for me in almost all cases. I can be done with that now.

Why do I say it and hear it so rarely?

Let’s begin with what I believe I Love You means. For me, to love someone means that their happiness is at least as important to you as your own. It means you will, whenever possible, act in ways designed to increase that person’s happiness.

Now, it’s absurd to think I could feel that way about 7.68 billion people. I will never see, let alone meet, well over 99% of them. How can their happiness really be at least as important to me as mine? In any meaningful way, it can’t.

But what can I feel about the rest of the humans who share this planet with me? I would prefer none of them suffered. I would prefer that they all practice and receive Kindness. To a greater or lesser extent, I can empathize with them. Whether it’s an impoverished mother from a tiny tribe in Africa, or the richest woman in a high rise in Manhattan, no mother wants her baby taken away without her consent. I can imagine how that must feel. It’s basic to being human. Their experiences are different from mine, but there are certain aspects of life that we all share. Our hearts all, I suspect, feel joy and pain about many of the same experiences. We are more alike than we are different.

But do I love them?

I don’t think I do in the deepest sense of that word. But I recognize that their happiness is, if not necessarily to me, as important as mine, as yours, as anyone’s, at least to them. I hope others love them too. There’s no reason you, or the person next to you, or someone who has never seen a cell phone deserves less from life than I do. So, while I might not love them, individually, I love their existence.

I find I enjoy being able to say I Love You. It makes me feel good. Perhaps that’s because I can empathize with the person to whom I’m saying it. I like to believe hearing or reading it makes that person happy. It may make me feel good because I can feel the reflection of their happiness. Or, maybe it’s just that I enjoy it in the same way I enjoy pastrami. I don’t get enough of that, either, anymore.

I loved my Father deeply. But, I think I can count on one hand the times, after my childhood, that we said it to each other. We didn’t need to say it; it was always clear to us both. He is gone now; our love continues unabated.

It isn’t necessarily clear, however, to the rest of the planet that I love their existence. Either you or I may be gone tomorrow, too. That makes today the ideal time.

I probably don’t know you. I’ll almost certainly never meet you. And if I do know you, we’re probably not in the habit of saying it to one another. (There are, as you know, only about 4 people out of the 7.68 billion running around, with whom I regularly exchange that phrase.) So, let me say what I can.

I love your existence. It’s at least as important to me as my own. I do my best to act in ways designed to increase your happiness. And, if you are nothing more than your existence, as some would posit, then I suppose it would be fair for me to say, in a very general way:

I Love You.