My Nuclear Weapons Position

Nuke ‘em

Today, as part of my campaign for president, I would like to explain my policy about using nuclear weapons.

Use ‘em. Nuke the bastards. 

At the moment, we have problems with North Korea, Afghanistan, and Syria. I might want to include some other trouble spots. But the nukes will never fall on any of the cities. We don’t need fallout. Instead, let’s detonate some small nukes in space above them. This will create EMPs. The result—anything plugged in or having computer chips will fry. 

The expression “nuke them back to the stone age” might be considered. But it’s more likely their technology will go back to the 1800s. Afganistan is the possible exception since much of their society is still in the 18th century. 

So what would be the result? Russia won’t attack because we’ll have a BIG nuke over Moscow. The moment they attempt to launch, we’ll fry their electronics making attack impossible. We owe China so damn much money, their economy would collapse. 

But the main thing is that after this, nobody will fuck with us. 

President Merkin Muffley: General Turgidson. it is the avowed policy of our nation never to strike first with nuclear weapons!

Gen. Buck Turgidson: Well sir, I would say that General Ripper has already invalidated THAT policy!

— Dr. Strangelove

Peanut Butter Now. Peanut Butter Tomorrow. Peanut Butter forever!

The so-called administration of the 45th president is clearly a disaster. Even if you support his policies, you cannot help it that he is such a pig. He does not belong in the White House, but rather the outhouse because he’s so full of shit. 

He does not belong in the White House, but rather the outhouse 

And, in viewing the current crop of Democratic candidates, I see no one is clearly capable of beating Trump. So something must be done. 

So, unless the Democrats want to nominate Oprah Winfry, I must do something about it myself. I’m far more obnoxious than the incumbent, and I can’t possibly waste time on the golf course since I don’t play golf. Though I certainly could get used to spending time in Hawaii. 

So, unless the Democrats want to nominate Oprah Winfry, I must do something about it myself.

So I offer myself as a candidate for the presidency. Think of the possibilities. I’m a fat person in my early 70s. While not a genius, I’m pretty much above the chart and I’m willing to release my report cards. I barely made it through high school and it took more than a quarter century to get a college degree. And I’m certainly not “stable.” 

So my qualifications as an asshole are will above those of the incumbent. 

I’m very much in favor of immigrants, especially Mexicans, since I want my fruit to be cheaper. I say “let the MFers in” I’m fed up with mowing my lawn and the house needs to be painted for cheap. But more than that later.

I’m very much in favor of immigrants, especially Mexicans, since I want my fruit to be cheaper. I say “let the MFers in” I’m fed up with mowing my lawn and the house needs to be painted for cheap.

For now, I want to address my main point: those who suffer peanut allergies. They are clearly defective and potentially violent though I’m sure some of them are nice people. And how do we contain them? It’s simple. Serve PB&J sandwiches in schools. 

To begin with, I understand that prior to the banning of peanuts, lunchtime in our schools, in fact at work and at home as well, was a far more enjoyable experience. So why should the happiness of so many be attacked by these less-than-normal people. There is no good reason for it. If those who can’t be taught to avoid peanuts, what is the point of them even attending school? If they can’t learn that peanuts will kill them, they probably would be better off suffering the consequences. If pussy parents don’t want their children to be exposed to peanuts, let them home school or institutionalize them. 

Think of the money we will save by not educating these defective spawn. These pathetic excuses for human beings should be returned to the shithole countries they came from. People, this is a national crisis. If they continue to be such a burden on our society, let’s give them a chance to experience how the realities of life are all about. Empty the camps of Mexicans and send them there. In my first week in office, I will promote legislation that every person in the United States be tested for peanut allergies. And if immigrants want to be here, give every one of them a PB&J before they are permitted to enter.Can you think of a better way to welcome them?

When was the last time YOU had a PB&J? I know you feel happier especially after having one with a glass of milk. So let’s make America ate again. 

Over the coming year, I will address many issues. So look for them. My next topic will be nuclear war. I’m for it. 

Make America Ate Again!

Amazon and getting older

Today, The mailman came up to my doorstep in the rain carrying a 22-pound package from amazon. On the kitchen table are two smaller packages. 

In the big package were cnoainers of laundry detergent and fabric softener. Suddenly I realized we buy more things from Amazon than in stores. While yesterday, I went to Costco and purchased a month’s worth of fresh meat, generally, I’ve been shipping through the Internet. Some of the things I have recently purchased have been 30 pounds of dog food, a rear basket set for my bicycle, a baseball hat saying “make America sane again” and other items that I simply can’t track down in a trip to the mall. The other day I even ordered a replacement c-pap mask for half the price I’ve been paying and some dentures-like mouth guards for an obscenely low price. And with today’s delivery, I realized that the heavy liquids don’t need to be shopped for in a retail store. So I just ordered four 8-packs of Poweraid. I’ve also ordered classic Converse high top canvas sneakers—nearly impossible to find at any stores. Last time I went to Kohls and while they had them, they didn’t have them in my size.

Refunds are easy. I purchased a refurbished computer recently. It was built in 2012 when it was listed for sale as 2017. They e-mailed me a return UPS shipping label (no charge to me) and my account was credited the day after I returned it. 

My companion has been doing the same. She just ordered new bed linens with matching curtains and virtually all her gifts are sent directly to the house.

Both of us have Kindles and we get daily offers for cheap books. Check out bookbub.com. I order about 4 books per week through this service for free or 99 cents. I can even have up to ten books for free from their library. When I want to order one of these books, I return another title.

Why do I do this? 

First of all, the retail landscape has continued to change ov eh yeas. Sears is practically out of business and its sister company, K-Mart is gone. Macys is closing stores and I dare you to find a five and dime store. All replace by mail order. Wall-Mart and Costco’s business in trending †owards internet sales too. 

But the main reason is I’m growing older. In the past year or so, I’ve become much weaker. My eyes are not good and I don’t want to drive until I get surgery.  I have diabetic feet and it’s tough to walk the two miles into town. It’s also tough on my heart as I often find myself gasping for air. Amazon can be a blessing. And I suspect I will increase my orders. There are some people who are telling me that Amazon doesn’t treat it’s workers right. I have to disagree. In 2013, I headed to Campbellsville Kentucky to work at their warehouse during the holiday season.. They paid for my campground, including utilities and Internet. I was paid $12.50 an hour but had a 50 hour workweek so ten of those hours were at time-and-a-half, and got a discount on everything they sold. zIt was hard work and they had an on-duty medical staff to handle any injuries or sore muscles. The supervisors would give us coins for the vending machines and $20 gift cards from the local groceries. I walked away with more than $4,000 for about 5 weeks of work. If there was a problem, that in winter I had to leave in the dark and come home in the dark, where I was greeted by a very anxious Pup, who tore into the local woods to take care of business, So I’m not going to knock Amazon about that.

Amazpn’s prices are usually lower than retail. Although sometimes they are outrageous when you use their third-party vendors. 

But the pain of getting old is relieved by Amazon and other Internet vendors. As I think about it, companies such as Sears that grew from a mail-order catalog business. It’s pretty much the same, except the catalog is electronic. So while our retail space is shrinking, in a way, we’ve gone back to the 1800s. To quote Solomon, “there is nothing new under the sun.”

“Is this heaven?”

I’ve managed to come across on cable, the ending of the movie: “Field of Dreams” quite often, and frequently twice in the same day. I must have seen it at least 50 times, perhaps more than a hundred, and I’ve cried at the ending every time as I watch Ray say to his ghost father if he wants to have a catch. It’s a moment that drags me – usually willingly – into a crying jag often lasting for hours.

It’s as if the movie was made for me as much as the field was made for Ray. Perhaps when I go to heaven, I will find my father to have a game of catch once again and make amends and hope for restoration.

When I was very young, New York had three teams. My mother would live and die by Jackie Robertson and the boys of summer. Ebbets Field was just a subway ride away and we would get grandstand seats and watch the Dodgers play. I have no memory of it but I was told that I shook Robinson’s hand. He started his major league career the same year I was born and I suspect I was a year or two old when that happened. In those days, players would sign autographs and talk to you if you waited at the players’ entrance.

Dad was a Giant’s fan and if you remember the song “Talking Baseball,” I kind of drifted into the discussion of who was the best: Willie, Mickey or the Duke by the time I started school. Around the time I was five I declared myself to be a Yankees fan and I was taken to the stadium and watched Joe D in his last year and Mick as a rookie on the same field.

By the time I was in second grade, my life was turned upside down when my parents separated. I remember my mother taking me to see a double header in 1957 against the Kansas City (now Oakland) A’s. I know the Yankees won both games and some guy named Whitey Ford won one of them. But the highlight for me was when one batter hit a foul grounder along the first base line and the coach turned around, stuck his butt out and let the ball bounce off him. We were in the front row of the second deck and a ball was hit directly at me. I tried to grab it but it bounced off the fence with a clang that shook the seats we were in. I’ve gone to bed many nights thanking God that I didn’t catch the ball and break my hands.

After the game, we walked on the field and I went to the flagpole with the three monuments of Ruth, Gehrig, and Huggins.

Many years later, we went to opening day weekend when the Yankees opened their refurbished stadium. The year before, I took the ex to Shea Stadium where the Yankees played for a year. She hated it. “I hate to play games,” was her reason.

Dad would visit me every other weekend and we would frequently play a game of catch. I didn’t think much about it then, but I came to realize that dad was playing with only one functional arm. He wrecked his left arm while driving a taxi during the Depression. It was locked into place in front of his chest by doctors who had little choice if they wanted to save the arm. He had the guts to stand in there as I threw every ball as hard as I could. He frequently stopped the ball with his chest and I ragged him about not being able to handle my fastball.

In the movie, Ray sees his father as a strong young man rather than his memories of an older man who life had drained him of his strength. I too had never seen Dad like that and the tears start to shed about that time in the movie.

Earlier in the movie, Ray talks about how he and his father separated for a while and his dad had died before he was able to renew a relationship. It was the same way with me as I was in the Army and found out he was dying. I went home on a couple of weekends and met a man who was unable to recognize me. He was just too senile. I took a 30-day leave and he died during that time. I knew enough about his life that I asked the pastor of the local Unitarian church where he attended to conduct a graveside service.

I never got to tell him the things I needed to. I was more fortunate to have done so with my mother and got something of a healing about our relationship.

Baseball has always remained a part of my life in one way or another. I took my oldest son, John, to a couple of Mets games at Shea as part of a Royal Rangers Trip. And we visited the Baseball Hall of Fame together. We even had a few games of catch. But John just wasn’t interested in playing the game. And the other son, Matt, professed a hatred for the game.

 Once, I managed to get some tickets from my company to their corporate box seat. I took my friend, Bill, and his girlfriend to the game and by coincidence, it was Mantle's last game as he announced his retirement the day before.

But even after the boys grew up, I continued to go to Yankee Stadium a few times until Yogi was fired by Steinbrenner early into the season. While I rooted for them via Television and radio, I refused to go back to the Stadium until Yogi did.

I didn’t see another game until the year the ex and I separated. I had headed to Florida in an effort to figure out what the hell went wrong in my life. By the time I got there, she had already filed for a divorce. But I went to Legends Field (now Steinbrenner Field) and watched some spring training games. At one game, I received a replica ring of the World Series between the Yankees and the Mets.

I also got to go to a ticker tape parade the last time the Yankees won the Series. Though I barely saw the players, it was a very exciting day for me. I had always wanted to go to this unique piece of New York City culture. I thought of how much my father spoke of the parade they had for Charles Lindbergh, the massive parade at the end of the Second World War and when the early astronauts were honored.

My father has almost always been on my mind. At he end of the 2016 season, The Yankees had a bobblehead night for Roger Maris, my boyhood idol. I had to get one so I went to the new Yankee Stadium. There were only four games left in the season and the team was playing its rookies. I sat in the right field bleachers where I always watched Maris in that magical 1961 season. I saw a kid named Gary Sanchez hit one to the back of the second deck. My dad couldn’t figure out why I wanted to be in the 75¢ bleachers when we could have been sitting in the $4 grandstand seats. But I wanted to be near Roger. One day, he hit two home runs into the area near me, but it was too far away for me to try and catch the ball. But this time, I was prepared and brought a new catchers mitt that my aunt bought for me the previous day. Then Mantle hit a monster home run into right field. It was still climbing when it bounced off the wall behind the top deck in right field. If it had gone about 20 feet to the left, it would have been the only ball ever hit out of Yankee Stadium.

My companion, Emily, who was my senior prom date back in 1966, had never been to a major league game despite living in the shadows of the Polo Grounds, Ebbets Field, Yankee Stadium, Shea and City Field. So we went to a game last August. I watched this senior woman responded like a kid as I did way back then. Suddenly, she was watching every game on television, abandoning Judge Judy, Dr. Oz and similar programs until after the season ended. With pitchers and catchers reporting next week, I’m sure she’s going to plan a few visits with her grandchildren at the ballpark.

But going back to the reason I sob every time I see the movie, I have to ask myself if God is so infinite, he would design an afterlife for me that included my young, sober and youthful parents and my ex where I could play catch with my dad and somehow say the things I need to say to them.

Even if it’s in Iowa instead of Heaven.

Survival? Slim and none

Recently, I made a joke on Facebook about an unfunny subject. Trump has cancelled a nuclear weapons control treaty with Russia dating back to the Reagan era. I said I was seriously thinking about becoming a survivalist. A friend said I was one of the few who had survival skills. I replied that if she was referring to my life on the road living in a travel trailer and driving all over the country, I had constant supplies of fuel and food. I didn’t mention that virtually all of my money was in my bank and I could get it at any ATM. I also had nearly $20,000 in credit at that time.

But while I could survive an ecological disaster, such as a hurricane, I doubt that I could survive an EMP.

We don’t have to worry about a nuclear exchange. We don’t even have to worry about ICBM (intercontential) missiles. If you want to destroy America or any other nation, all you would need is about one-to-three IRBM (intermediate range) missiles. Fire them into space and explode the nukes over the east and west coasts and the Midwest and we’re dead without one person dying from atomic radiation and fallout is non-existent since fallout comes from the ground when a nuke explodes. It’s what creates all the smoke in a blast.

The result would be an EMP (electromagnetic pulse) that would destroy anything with a electronic chip or something that is plugged in.

Let’s look at what would happen.

Within one second of the blast, power would be gone everywhere. Your car would not work unless it was built in the 1980s. Because all those fancy things you have won’t work due to the dozens of chips that most cars have. The best time to blow up the nukes would be around noon…lunchtime. Imagine if you will that you work in New York City and lived in New Jersey or on Long Island. How would you get home? The trains and buses won’t work. The trains are electrified and even if you have a diesel engine, they use chips. Buses won’t work either. You will have to walk. You can’t even get cash because the ATMs won’t work. So unless you are in REALLY good shape, you won’t get home because very few of us can do even ten miles a day. If you see a bicycle, you will steal it, and chances are someone will try to steal it from you. Food supplies will dry up within a couple of days because stores and restaurants won’t get their deliveries. By the third day there will be food riots.

Are you a diabetic? You die when you run out of meds. If you use insulin, it needs refrigeration. About ten days is all you will last even if you have a year’s supply. Same thing for people with heart problems. If you have a pacemaker or other electronic implant, you would die within seconds of the blast as it shorts out. 

If you are subject to stress, chances are that would kill you.

Suppose you are in a hospital or nursing home? Without power, the environment would soon be fatal. There’s sealed windows but no climate control and germs would spread from the sickest patients sooner rather than later. How many health care workers would abandon their duties to care for their own? Bedridden people will foul the environment with waste and even other patients would probably not have enough water pressure to flush. Forget about babies and children.

Within a couple of weeks, we would have a very healthy population. But not for long. Flu would be pandemic and there would be no more flu shots, not to mention other vaccines. Adults who were vaccinated would be OK for a while, but those born after the blasts would have no immunity at all. If you say, cut your finger. You could die from infection. Eventually you would even run out of aspirin.

Mental hospitals and prisons would shut down and the most violent members of out society would be turned loose to loot, murder and otherwise rampage. Let’s say you are a perfectly respectable person. There is little, if any, food and your children are starving. Would you go searching in someone’s home? There will be people so desperate that they would kill you to get your food.

If you live in a climate that has winters, you could freeze to death. If you live in Florida, or other places where there is swampland, you’ll die from all the disease coming from mosquitoes – there will be nothing left within a week or so to treat it. Chances are even if you had a well-stocked pharmacy, junkies will rob it to feed their addiction before they die from withdrawal.

Same with the southwest as it reverts to desert, as the irrigation pumps won’t work.

Obviously, people will head for rural areas, seeking out farms for food. Good luck with that. Farmers use tractors and other machines that no longer work. Hungry raiders will kill all the livestock for food. And since there is no longer refrigeration, the animals’ rotting carcass will lie in the fields being fed on by flies. Care to share? The meat is diseased and you will die of food poisoning within a few days.

And there will be power struggles among the few survivors. There will be cults and other groups that we would consider nut jobs that will take over.

What is the government doing? Very little. Without communications, you won’t know. It’s entirely possible that the President and key people will be on Air Force One within minutes after those missiles are launched as AF-1 and every other plane in the air will crash. The only government you will deal with is a local one. Police, fire and rescue personnel will be your main government employees. But since currency is worthless, they will become volunteers.

So how will you survive? Become a “prepper.” Here’s what is required:

First, have enough food stored to last a year, in two places. You should have medicine and medical equipment to last a couple of years. If you can’t get enough prescription drugs from your doctor, don’t overlook your vet. Many animal and human medications are the same.  

In addition to your hoarding at home, You will need a place to “Bug out.” It will have to be rural where few know of its existence. And it will have to be well guarded and camouflaged. It will have to have a clean water source in addition to the thousands of bottles of water you will store there. You need to clear land for crops, and at least a two-year supply of seeds. Don’t overlook everyday essentials such as female sanitary needs, tissue and toilet paper. Laundry detergents for cleaning clothing and dishes are also necessary. Pack all the clothes you can and have clothes in all sizes if you have children. Have them anyway. You may need them.  Your “bug out” site shouldn’t be more than 90 miles from your home location, so you can reach it safely.

If at all possible, have it equipped with solar panels. DO NOT use wind turbines, as they will reveal you location.

And Bug out as soon as you can. The longer you wait, the more treacherous the roads become. Be prepared to kill people.

Be armed. You will eventually have to defend yourself. Have a pistol, rifle and shotgun with thousands of rounds for each weapon and every person. And train at local rages, even the kids.

You will need at least one vehicle – pre 1980s without any chips. You should have it constantly filled with gas and it has to be in top shape. Have new tires on each wheel and a new spare for each wheel as well. Have a new battery and a new back-up. Try to have a vehicle for everyone – licensed or unlicensed – who is capable of driving.

Equip all everyday vehicles you have with a “bug out bag”. That’s a bag or backpack that will include water, food and clothes to last long enough to walk home if your everyday vehicle dies from the EMP. Be sure to include shoes you can walk in. A woman in heels won’t be able to walk more than a few miles.

There are electronics you can save by placing them in metal containers such as ammo boxes that could insulate them from the EMP. Wrap them in towels to prevent short circuiting. Try to have at least 4 walkie-talkies that operate on the same frequency. E-Readers are essential. Pack them with lots of books – especially about pioneer skills. But also pack them with fiction and non-fiction books, music plus games. They can bring comfort and entertainment. Be sure to add chargers designed for cars. They can be modified to charge the readers. I said readers – at least three or more -- and the contents should be identical in regard to reference materials. Why? They might break or more likely need to be recharged while you are in the middle of reading something important. Take an old cell phone just in case service is restored. You may want to download some games for entertainment.  If you are able to get solar power, bring a laptop or two and lots of DVDs. But don't run the lights at night. It makes you much too visible.

OK, you get a general idea about what “prepping” is. But the most important thing is people. We live in an age where work skills revolve around the computer. People without other other skills could be useless. Yet the larger your group is, the easier it is to defend your bug out locale from marauders. First and foremost, be very careful whom you ask to join you. People who learn about your prepping but don’t want to join you will suddenly want to be a part of your plans when the shit hits the fan, but they haven’t done any prepping. You can’t afford to feed them. Keep your bug out local secret. If they insist on knowing, give them a false one in the opposite direction. Skills such as farming, carpentry, electricians, mechanics, plumbing and other skills are necessary. And having a nurse and/or EMT is a blessing. Military people will not only guard against outsiders but are usually disciplined enough to do other tasks. Most soldiers have a combat skill and another skill.

OK, I’ve just spent about 1700 words trying to give you an idea on how to survive an EMP attack. If this happens, perhaps 10 percent of the population will survive. I’ve deliberately created a horrible scenario because only the strong, smart and skilled will survive. And they will need to be all three. Two out of three ain't bad but won't survive, nor will our way of life.

As for me, l plan to go to the cellar with whatever I have stockpiled and wait to die. I’m too fucking old and too fucking sick to survive.

JUST AN AFTERTHOUGHT:
If this happened, it would end the threat of global warming for some time to come. Perhaps saving the human race would be something better than destroying the United States?

The bullied and the ignored

I was a mid-year transfer into Morristown High School in my freshman year (1962-63). The first thing I remember being told is there was a crazy girl named Hillary who was obsessed about Charles Lindburgh, the first person to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean back in the 1920s. I had read Lindburgh's biography and thought little of it. He was a hero and should be admired.

It turned out, though none of us knew it, she was indeed suffering from mental illness -- she was a childhood schizophrenic. Yet she was also a genius. So I supposed many of us viewed her as eccentric.

A homeroom classmate of mine for those three and a half years, I just felt sorry for Hillary and sort of ignored her. The only time I remember being involved in a conversation with her was in front of my homeroom teacher with several other people. For some reason the size of her breasts came up. I remember her saying it didn't matter because no one was interested in her. I had no idea she was schizophrenic. But I was aware that certain girls bullied her, mocking her in the hallways and after school. Short and very wide at the hips, she had this unusual running style. I thought she used it to escape her tormenters. It wasn't until nearly 50 years later that I learned she was imagining that she was a horse galloping with other horses. But the thing that really impacts me in hindsight is that no one fought for her. No one stood up for her and told off those cowardly bullies. No one invited her to join them at a lunch table. No one invited her to parties or any after school activities.Hillary wasn't the only one who was bullied. Another home room member, Joyce, left school in the middle of the year after a night out of drinking and carousing. Her parents had sent her to a private school where she could pull herself together. But the rumor mill said she had gotten pregnant that night. It was completely untrue. I was with her, along with several others as we partied in Greenwich Village after the last night of our high school play. The fact is, she was a virgin.Anyhow, some horrible people sent Joyce's parents diapers. I am still amazed about how cruel high schoolers could be; how little sympathy we have for those who don't quite fit into the norm.Now all this was more than 50 years ago. But there are still those who attend high school who are bullied and tortured. I know a 10-year-old boy whose mother is a drug and alcohol addict and he has endured her insanity nearly all of his life. She had him place in a small Christian school where he grew to be accepted. But his mother lost custody and the youngster now has to enter a new school system. Who is there to befriend him? To help him, protect him and defend him? And he is now suffering from these things. He acts up frequently and refuses to participate in activities. He has family, but they have difficulty coping with him.For all these children, there is no one who will walk in his shoes. And those who who have will avoid the same road because they don't want to go back to a place of such pain.About eight years ago, I found out about Hillary's later life. I had made contact through Facebook with her sister, Paula. I composed a letter to Hillary that Paula read to her. Paula had told me she was living in a group home near Miami. I had asked if I could visit her and perhaps bring a couple of other classmates for a visit. Hillary wanted nothing to do with the horrible years she was subjected to. This was just prior to our 45th class reunion and I promised not to disclose anything about her present life. When our 50th reunion happened, she was listed as dead as a result of a third person who didn't know anything but what she heard from someone else. She wasn't – and it reminded me about how she had been ignored and mistreated by us.So I want to say this to you: Pick out one person who is considered an "outcast" and learn about them. Be the friend they need. It will benefit you far more than the outcast.Paula wrote an amazing tribute to her sister on Facebook that follows.* * *Hillary Susan Schiff was my sister’s full name. She was almost 6 years older than me. She was different. She was brilliant (asked to join Mensa). She could paint in both oils and water colors and could sculpt. Her favorite medium was simply drawing with a pen on paper and she drew almost constantly. She also wrote long rambling stories. Her love of music (show tunes and opera and classical) pervaded our house.My father made the molds for 5 of the major record labels so we always had the latest vinyl, gratis.As a childhood schizophrenic, she escaped into her own worlds that were less painful than the one around her. As a child, it was horses and dinosaurs. When the space program commenced, it was her love of all things related that provided her escape. She graduated Summa Cum Laude from Fairley Dickenson University but had no real skills to offer in the workplace. After a stint in Greystone, she was offered a job as a part time proof reader for a small publishing house in town. Like many schizophrenics, whose meds that keep the symptoms at bay have their own side effects ,she did not stay on them and fell back into her world.We had to have her committed in order to get her medical care for a growth on her neck back in 1996. That turned out to be salivary gland cancer. Luckily we caught it in time and after surgery and radiation she was cancer free for the rest of her life. In 1997 she entered into Assisted Living care in a small family owned facility in Ft. Lauderdale. They made sure she stayed on her meds and she could come and go as she pleased. She had friends, clubs, volunteered locally and finally a life. A few years ago, that began to change as Parkinson’s and dementia took over. This past summer we had to move her to a nursing home . In moments of lucidity, she knew where she was and gave up. She retreated further and further until she recognized no one.Hillary left us yesterday all too suddenly. Parkinson’s robs you of so many abilities and for Hillary, it was the ability to swallow properly. Yesterday, while resting in her chair she had an episode that took her very quickly.I sit here with very mixed emotions. I’m angry that she never had the life she should have had. I’m sad that she’s gone. And I am also relieved that she has left the world that caused her so much pain.I have no idea if she is in Heaven because God judges us all, but I can’t imagine that she isn’t. She suffered her entire life but never became bitter. She was a sweet soul and even though living with and caring for her for a lifetime was tough, knowing it wasn’t her fault made it a bit easier to endure.

Rest In Peace, Hillary. I hope you are enjoying your place in Heaven as your reward for such a painful life here. Kiss Mom and Dad for me. I love you and miss you already.

Memo to a fringe element of the me-too movement.

Memo

To: the female species

From: one somewhat pissed off old man

Subject: Know something about history and sex

Date: December 1, 2018

A joke from a 1960s Pocono honeymoon resort comedian: Two little children, one boy and one girl, are sitting near one another on an airliner. The boy says to the girl, who is about seven and a couple of years older than the boy: “look what I have, a new toy truck.”

“Little boy,” the girl replies, “I have a Barbie sports car.”

Well, being a boy, he doesn’t want a girl to top him so he says, “My daddy built me a swing set.”

“Little boy,” the girl answers, “I have a swing set next to the swimming pool my father had installed.”

This goes on for a while and finally the boy is completely frustrated. He tears down his pants and points to his little male part and screams “well I have one of these and I KNOW you don’t have one.

The girl runs away to her mother. In a minute or so she returns to the boy, pulls up her skirt and points to her little female part and says: “Little boy, my mommy told me that as long as I have one of these, I can get all I want of those.”

I really don’t give a rat’s ass if you like the joke or not. But you should. The joke, however, is a statement about sexual relations. And that is the woman has the right to choose where, when and with whom she wants to be intimate. Lately, the “me too” movement has exposed sexual abuse and we have learned it is far more common than we thought. But the “war” between the sexes has usually defined the roles of each sex. And that can be summed up in a three word sentence: Men pursue women.

Now I realize this isn’t true in many countries, especially in Asia. But let’s stick to the culture here in the United States.

Since the advent of the birth control pill, women were given the choice to have sex when they wanted it without the risk of pregnancy. It was the beginning of the sexual revolution and even today in an era of deadly STDs, an earlier form of birth control, condoms, is used rather than going back to our puritan values. But while we are doing things somewhat differently, there has been no turning back. And it still remains the woman’s choice. And men will continue to pursue women.

I understand this, and I endorse it. Why? Because in the courtship ritual, both the man and woman get to know one another. Now sex comes in several flavors: the one-night stand, the friends with benefits, recreational sex, affairs, and a course of developing true intimacy with the idea of a long-term relationship. And frequently the partners have different ideas of what is going on.

But the bottom line is still that the woman, other than in a criminal situation, is in control of the decision. Now don’t get me wrong, I applaud the goals of the ‘me-too” movement. But there are times when things get out of hand. And the controversy over the song “Baby, it’s cold outside” is simply way overboard.

Baby, It's Cold Outside" is a popular song written by Frank Loesser in 1944. It is a call and response duet in which a host, usually performed by a male voice, tries to convince a guest, usually performed by a female voice, that she should stay the evening because the weather is cold and the trip home would be difficult. While the lyrics make no mention of any holiday, it is popularly regarded as a Christmas song due to its winter theme.

Loesser wrote the song for his wife and himself to perform at parties. It’s intent was to advise guests it’s time to leave.

He sold the song to MGM, which used it for the 1949 film Neptune's Daughter.  It was sung by Ester Williams and Ricardo Montalban and won the Academy Award for best song. Since 1949 it has been covered by many singers. Here are some of the people who have sung this duet: Dean Martin, the cast of “Glee.” Zoey Deschanel, Ray Charles, Lady Antebellium, Willie Nelson, Kelly Clarkson, Rob Stewart with Dolly Parton, and my favorite, Margaret Whiting and Johnny Mercer.

I personally enjoy the song because it is so flirtatious. It’s truly a fun reflection of the late 1940s. The man is, of course, trying to get the woman to spend the night. Hey – news flash – that’s normal for today as well as 70 years ago!

The main lyric that seems to offend is the woman saying: “say, what’s in this drink?” News Flash #2 – There were no such things as “roofies” back then.

And let’s look at the entire lyrics. The woman is choosing to stay longer by having a drink, smoking a cigarette and other things. She is performing a mating dance with the guy saying things that were the norm for the time such as judgmental aunts and worried parents. But the fact is this song has, to my knowledge, rarely if ever been sung by teens or teen idols. It is a song for adults to sing.

So anyhow, what aggravates me is this wanting to ban a song goes way too far because people don’t understand history in general, the history of the song, and the values and mores of the time it was originally performed. Mainly after the second world war. And people were creating babies like crazy in those days. That’s why they call people like me baby boomers.

There are many, many other songs – mostly rap music – that deserve to be censured. But not this one. So anyhow, I simply ask the fanatical fringe of this movement to shut the hell up and let people enjoy a funny and harmless song. Ladies, get over it! 

Thanks for the platform to speak out.