What I can't understand.

With a fan like this, how could the 49ers have lost the NFC Championship game?

The first fuck.

I was going to blog about Chuck Berry today, but this just popped into the old beaner. Chuck will have to wait.

A couple of days ago I posted that I do not believe in any man-described god. I also consider myself a person of science for whom unquestioned belief has no credibility. I think that the theory of evolution is essentially, if not entirely, correct. But I also think that the process of evolution is guided by some form of higher intelligence.

Pure evolutionists claim that after billions of years all kinds of things could happen that would lead to our world today. But what about sexual reproduction, for example? It is a form of natural selection, but how did it get started? Let's imagine. Many kinds of animals (and plants) reproduce sexually, but let's use humans for visualization purposes.

If the first human was an asexual being with an indistinguishable, smooth crotch with only two holes for excretion, what accident led to the first male organs? More significant, how did the first female appear with her complex reproductive system? And did these two odd mutations just happen to be around the same fire on a Saturday night, with Neanderthals beating sticks on rocks, and look at each other, and nod, and decide to got into the cave for a bit of a boink, thereby starting the entire process?

It seems unlikely, unless Neanderthals had invented martinis by then.

I do hope to someday discover the nature of the higher intelligence, but I know it will not happen in my lifetime.

Odd Days: Lest you be judged...

Believe it or not, the circle of people I call friends and the circle I call excellent friends are not coincident. Most of the time, I consider an excellent friend to be someone who is interested in me and my life (and I theirs). But I also include those who pretend to be interested, as long as they pretend so well that I can't tell they are pretending.

I remember once having a couple of theretofore excellent friends over for dinner. They were with us for six hours and not once did either of them ask a question of any sort -- about us, our lives, our opinions. I don't always notice such things, but I did then because six hours is a long time.

And what about the "friends" you so eagerly meet up with at a party. When it's your turn to speak, you notice that your friend's eyes are wandering, wandering, looking everywhere but at your face, no doubt looking for a person to chat with who won't have the audacity to chat back.

Or how about those friends who ask you a question and in the middle of your answer, interrupt with, "Oh wow, will you look at that beautiful ____ (glass, dress, mountain, toilet... whatever)." Then, "Oh sorry, what were you saying?"

So a couple of days ago I was having a serious and interesting telephone conversation with my mother when what should I see outside my office window but a mother fox and her kit! "Holy crap!" I yelled into the phone loud enough to stop my mother in mid sentence. Then I oooo'd and ahhhh'd for a good 60 seconds or more before I excitedly described what I was seeing.

On the other end of the line there was silence. It sounded a lot like disconcerted silence. Then my mother asked, "Should I call back later?"

I'm thinking it's a good thing I'm her daughter because I'm probably not on her "excellent friends" list anymore.

Insta-thought.

Do I believe in God? I do not believe in any god defined by man. Gandhi, Mohammad, Buddha - these were gods of a type. But beyond human I have no answer for you.

Pheromone failures.

I went to a doctor a couple of days ago to get my medical marijuana license renewed. Before I saw the doc, an attractive young nurse took me to a room to take my vitals. (I hate that phrase, "take my vitals" - it sounds like an execution.) She weighed me and read my blood pressure. Then she sat in a chair a bit below where I was sitting on that crinkly-paper-covered table they make you sit on and put her hand on her thigh. She said, "Please put your hand like this so I can take your pulse."

I immediately thought of a brilliant joke. "If I put my hand on your leg like that, my pulse will be 220!" Fortunately, I put my hand on my own thigh and said nothing - a rare act of restraint.

When I got home, though, I told Twila that I'd had such a funny line and was sorry I didn't say it. She said, "That sounds like an old man's joke."

I was like, BOINK! She was right! It's the kind of thing my 112-year-old dad might have said. Was I turning into HIM???? Was I an old man???? I resolved to keep my guard up.

Yesterday I was in a grocery store buying fruit. I saw that blackberries were 4 packages for $5, a great price. I was picking my packages when a young woman stepped up next to me. I looked at her and said, "4 for $5! What a great price!" I wasn't flirting, I was just saying. She looked at me like I'd just landed from Mars.

A moment later I pushed my cart away as she was leaving. Her cart almost hit mine and she said, "Sorry, SIR."

SIR?????????

And I'd thought that losing my good vision was the worst part of this getting older thing.

Odder Days: Thinking without words.

A few years ago Twila and I traveled somewhere north of San Francisco to participate in a retreat where we learned and practiced meditation. Two impressions stood out: meditation is very difficult; it is also extremely rewarding.

There are different forms of meditation, but it is, basically, thinking about nothing. We were taught to make ourselves comfortable, such as sitting on a cushion, keep our eyes open (usually), and empty our minds of all thoughts. It isn't as easy as it might sound, because the devil thoughts pop in from all angles. When they do, you push them out and keep going. Eventually, they say, it becomes easier. After the retreat Twila and I invested in pillows and cushions and books, but for the most part meditating rather quickly slipped through the cracks as a regular activity.

A couple of weeks ago I was feeling tense and decided that a bit of mediation might help. I sat in a comfortable chair and emptied my mind.

OHMMMMM... OHMMMMM... OHMMMMM....

But I was out of practice, and I wasn't really very good at it when I was in practice. Then I had an idea.

My brain is always full of chatter, and getting rid of it takes real effort. But I remembered that people read more effectively if they don't form the words in their heads. Maybe, I thought, thinking works the same way. I decided to try meditation not by ridding my mind of thoughts, but by thinking without words.

I started by telling myself that I could think about anything as long as words weren't forming. To my surprise, it was much easier than simply trying not to think. If a verbal thought began to intrude, I just reminded myself to think without words and my mind was quiet again.

The only problem was… if it could be called a problem… that I didn't know if I was really thinking. Maybe I was just focusing on keeping words out. So I decided to try a test. I picked something to think about… Newt Gingrich… and a few moments later I got up and shot myself.

KIDDING!

Actually, I don't remember what I thought about that first time, but I was surprised when I stopped that I had actually made progress on whatever it was. A truer test came later.

A few days ago Twila posted a picture of herself wearing a mask before we went out for a walk. I had a similar mask, but couldn't find it. It isn't headline news when I can't find something, but not being able to find the mask was particularly frustrating. I'd shown it to Twila in our dining area, and I was sure it had to be between there and my office. We didn't want to delay our walk, but I resolved to find the mask the next day.

After a cursory search turned up nothing, I bore down. I started on one side of my office door and worked my way around the office searching everything. I went in all my desk drawers and looked on all my shelves. Then I went out of the office and continued following the walls. I searched the bathroom, the living room, the dining area, the kitchen, the pantry. Nada. I went into the garage and downstairs. Then I searched our bedroom, even though I really doubted the mask would be there. And when all of that proved fruitless, I did it again. And then Twila searched.

No mask.

A couple of days later I decided to try thinking without words again, and I chose as my subject places where I might find the mask. Then I went into the meditation-like state, not knowing whether I was really thinking about anything. When I stopped, though, three ideas of places of where the mask might be popped into my head. And one of them was correct.

I still have a lot to learn about "thinking without words", but it has been very interesting so far.

Odd Days: Vegas Anyone?

My father wants to go to Vegas. And he wants to take the whole fam damily with him. Never mind that he can't walk, can't stay awake for more than two hours at a stretch, and requires dialysis every other day. While the blood in his veins is moving, he's going to have some fun or die trying.

So why am I bringing this up? Because my dad called me on his new handy dandy phone and asked me to help arrange the trip. First he wanted me to call all of his kids and find out if they would sign on to this adventure. That part was easy.

Then he urged me to find a *good* hotel in Vegas. Good enough that any reluctant travelers in the family would have a hard time turning down his invitation.

Next he wanted me to circulate some proposed dates for the trip. "So what do you think," he asks cheerfully, "next week, or maybe the week after?"

What he blithely ignored was how he might get to Vegas (medi-vac?), whether or not the Vegas dialysis center could squeeze him in to their schedule, and whether his doctor would sign off on the travel. I broached the doctor, first, knowing how much my dad likes and respects him. "I guess I'd better call Dr. L and get his permission to whisk you away for a few days."

He replied, "Dr. L? Why would you call him?"

"Shouldn't we check with him to see if it's ok for you to travel?" I asked timidly.

"No," he said.

Long pause. No conversation.

Finally he said, "I decide."

Am I actually related to this person? I surely hope so.

Odd Days: Alternative Disguise

Yesterday when Durf and I began to contemplate venturing out for our evening constitutional, I knew I didn't want to walk around the neighborhood in my chemo head. And because wind gusts had hit 60 mph (as measured by our very own anemometer), the wig disguise was definitely out. It was damn cold, too!

By the time I finished dressing, I looked like this:
















I was pretty sure nobody would recognize me, but I had some concerns that one of the neighbors might call the Fringe Division.

Keeping sane by being crazy (video).

Bleeding reading.

This is a set-up post for my next post, because it would have been awkward to combine them.

When I was a freshman at Christian Brothers Academy in Syracuse I was required to take a developmental reading course. The teacher was Mr. Molessa, a layman. Naturally, we called him The Mole. He was kind of nerdy, but a nice guy. Unfortunately, he diminished my reading skills forever.

We took some tests and I was able to read at 2200 wpm with 90% comprehension. That probably sounds more impressive than it was. I was a good test taker, and I had a technique. I'd read the first and last sentences only of a paragraph, and usually I then knew what the paragraph was about. If I didn't, I skimmed the rest of it.

One day we were doing some exercise and The Mole said, "Class, look at how quickly Mr. Freund's eyes go back and forth." And I was like, "What?! My eyes go back and forth?"

SCREEECH!

That put the brakes on. From that moment on whenever I try to read fast I can feel my eyes creaking back and forth in their sockets. Fortunately, most of the time I am content to read slowly and savor the writing.

All I wanted to say for the next post is that you can read faster with no loss of comprehension... and maybe better comprehension... if you don't speak the words in your mind as you read them.

Odd Days: Hair shmair!

In response to overwhelming demand (three people) for a photo of me in my wig, I am posting two such photos.

My sister has managed to perfect the sexy mussed-hair look while wearing her long luxurious blond wig. I attempted to duplicate that sexy look. Here is the result:





















That is exactly what I feared I would look like after dropping my roller bag on my head.

On the other hand, if I stand in front of the mirror and spend 20 minutes positioning the damn thing, then comb it, then refrain from moving my head (let alone going outside where there might be a breeze), I can get it to look like this:





















I *really* hope you are not tired of the hair theme, because I will soon have more hair adventures to blog about.

Rejecting success.

Several days ago I stumbled on this quote:

(Sorry if that's really small... I don't feel like transcribing it, at the moment.)


When I first read the quote I wondered what kind of jibber-jabber it was. But after a while I thought, "Hey, I did that."


When I was 20 or a bit south, I spent quite a bit of time thinking about how I wanted to live my life. I'd pretty much screwed it up to that point and thought that having clear goals would help. I made two decisions that informed my life.


One was that I didn't want to do what everyone else was doing; e.g., woodenly get degrees, get a job and climb the ladder, get married and have children, retire, die. It was, and is, easy enough to see how that goes since so many people do it. Besides that, I've never felt like being one of the cogs.


The other and more difficult question, though related, was whether I wanted to succeed in a traditional way - make money, be famous, whatever - or concentrate on enjoying my life, whichever way it went. I chose the latter.


So I guess I rejected success as it is implied in the quote, but, even considering the miseries, failures, and embarrassments, I have greatly enjoyed my life.


Maybe there is some truth in the quote.

Need a trailer?

Update: BetOnline.

This is an update on my online gambling misadventure with BetOnline.com (posted 12/06/2010). After a while I decided to try to get my money first, then see what happens. I capitulated and sent them all the information they'd requested. Today I received via FedEx a check for $997. My original investment was $200, so thanks 49ers!

Now to see what happens.

Insta-thought: Peeing on the enemy.

As you've probably heard by now, the U.S. and Afghanistan and probably the entire world are in a tizzy because of an heinous act. Apparently (all the facts are not in yet) three Marine snipers shot a couple of Taliban and then peed on their dead bodies!

Okay, that's distasteful and unnecessary and it will probably rile up a lot of people, but WTF? The Marines just killed these guys, and now they're in really deep doo-doo because they showed disrespect to their dead bodies? Have our values gone that crazy?

There are way too many wars, and maybe one reason is that we ascribe a kind of dignity to them, mighty warriors fighting for just causes. But there is no dignity in war, no glamor, no glory. War is hate and blood and guts spilling out and mud and shame and dirt and piss.

Don't get upset over the meaningless things. Show war as it is and maybe we won't have as many of them.

Just wondering.

Is it immoral to be happy when your enemies kill each other? Because I sure have been enjoying the Republican debates.

Kate Wolf.

Some Kind Of Love

Odd Days: The Wig

I decided to wear a wig when I traveled to Columbus yesterday. I didn't want to traumatize my sister any more than she's already traumatized. And to be honest, I didn't want to traumatize any of my fellow travelers either.

But then it gradually dawned on me that I was the one most likely to be traumatized. What if my wig came off at an inopportune time? I started thinking about Andre Agassi whose life was essentially ruined by worry over whether or not his wig would come off during a match.

I can relate. I started worrying the night before. What if the wig has pieces of metal woven into the synthetic strands and I set off the metal detector. And what if the TSA person looks at me and says, "Take off that wig and go through again." But even if I make it through the metal detector, what if I knock the wig off while struggling to get my roller bag into the overhead bin. I've had some epic struggles with my bag that have ruined more than one hairdo.

Of course, none of those things happened yesterday, but something weird did happen. As we started our descent into Columbus, I began stewing about getting my bag out of the bin without dropping it onto my wig. Then through the fog of my stress I hear, "Ma'am, MA'AM! Are you all right?" I turn to the young woman on my right who is peering at me with some concern. I told her I was fine, but then I reached up, grabbed my wig and asked, "Why, do I look weird or something?" I just knew it had something to do with the wig. "Well," she said, "you were making some strange noises. I guess you're like me. I don't like flying either." Strange noises? What the hell?

I couldn't wait to get off of that plane. Got my bag. Wig stayed in place. Whew. Went to baggage claim and found my sister waving cheerfully. She took one look at me and said, "Oh, I like your hair. New style?"

The female brain.

A couple of weeks ago I bought a few books, one of which was "The Female Brain" by Louann Brizendine, M.D. The blurb on the cover (by another female M.D.) says, "Sassy, witty, reassuring, and great fun. All women - and the men who love them - should read this book." Couldn't resist.

Twila saw the book on our table and read it and said she has mixed feelings about what the author says. Apparently there is a lot of the nature vs. nurture controversy. I haven't read it yet, but I'm willing to say what I think.

It is obvious to most people that women and men are different physically. Not just in the genital area, but from head to toe. Size, softness, hair, whatever. And all of that is consistent with our #1 instinct, to preserve the species.

Men are bigger and stronger and more aggressive because their role in nature is to provide for and protect their families. Women are designed to create families and hold them together. With all of the physical differences, why wouldn't our brains be different? I think they are.

Lawrence Summers, when he was the president of Harvard a few years ago, got into a lot of P.C. trouble by saying that women have less aptitude than men at mathematics and science. It was like Jimmy the Greek ruining his career by saying that slaves were bred for certain characteristics (I can imagine that, but I don't know if it's accurate.) Even if you say something that is true or that you think is true, you will be spat upon if your views touch a specific nerve, and with gender and race those nerves are prominent.

Men need math and science because their primary function is to provide, to produce. Why wouldn't their native aptitude for those disciplines be stronger? Women need communication to keep relationships strong, so why wouldn't their skills in that area be stronger? And isn't there plenty of evidence that those differences are real? Even brain scans show that the male and female brains work differently.

What I don't understand is why people get upset when they hear that our brains are different. Well, why women get upset - I don't know many men who think that they can handle relationships and interpersonal communication as well as women. Left brain vs. right brain dominance isn't a value judgement.

Of course, nurture plays a large role in our actual lives. The feminism movement of the '60s was one of our great accomplishments, because it freed both women and men to be what they want to be. Now, partly because of feminism and partly because of technology, we are transitioning toward a matriarchy, which will be a great societal advance. Men don't know how to negotiate, they only know how to fight. It will be a better world when women are in charge and men are off doing math and science.

Odd Days: Money where the mouth is

I'm trying to prove to my sister that there are adventures to be found in the oddest places. So here's a pictorial of our NYE adventure.

WARNING! The following pictures are not for the faint of heart.

Before picture:
















As you can see, the anticipation required a calming cigarette.

In contrast, Durf, the butcher, looks amazingly calm. But why not? These clippers are at home in his hands. Know what I mean?
















But then something took hold of him...
















Hmmmm. Not sure I like that look in his eye...
















Here's the after picture. Sure glad I found another cigarette...and my lucky Broncos t-shirt.

Bloggage.

I know I've blogged this before, or at least I think I have, but this time it's a tad mite different because I'm changing my policy.

Blogging is talking. There are blogs about politics and sports and current events and fashion and all kinds of things. Blogs with a theme are easy, because you just write about whatever happened recently in whatever your theme is. Our New York blog was easy for that reason - and also because when I was working in the lab I had plenty of time to think of things to write about. Oui-Sez isn't quite that way. It is a blog with no theme, other than Twila & Durf. So that's a problem.

Twila figured it out and cut her work in half by choosing "Odd Days". She goes out and does things and gets blown out of her shoes and whatever, plus she has a great imagination. I told her yesterday that she blogs like I would expect Gail Collins to blog, so she could even make something like cutting her hair into an interesting and funny story. Not me.

As you can tell by my recent lack of posts, I haven't had much to blog about. It's not surprising. I spend 2-3 hours every morning reading newspapers, then I struggle with my computer, work on my helicopters, play pinball. And, whereas Twila is anxious to experience everything she possibly can to fulfill her bucket list, I'm more focused on internal things. I haven't been able yet to fully process all the experiences I've already had and figure out how they've affected me, so that's what I'm working on.

Anyway, I've decided to change my bloggage. Previously I had some rules: don't blog about politics or religion; say interesting things; try to be funny; write things our readers (I think there are 3 of you) would like to read. I hereby cancel all of those rules. I'm going to blog about whatever is on my mind at the moment. I'm going to blog for me instead of for you, and I feel okay about that because you don't have to read anything I write - there won't be a quiz. Promise.

One thing I want to write about is drugs and the war on them, which have been interests of mine for many years. That will probably cost us a couple of readers before I even write anything, but it is what it is. One of the biggest problems this country has with drugs is ignorance about them, and I'm retired now and can write whatever I want. Heh.

I also plan to write about the changes I'm experiencing now, after all these years. Who said an old Durf can't learn new tricks? People talking about themselves is usually boring, so I will at least try to keep it to the high (or low) points.

And Twilight Zone, about which I would write a book, if only anyone under 50 knew what a pinball machine is.

Brave new world, here I come.

:pNY

This is a holiday that makes no sense. I'm not complaining, of course. I think New Year's Day is a holiday for two reasons: 1) a soft landing after Christmas; 2) an excuse to drink heavily. In my view, Christmas is over-hyped and I don't need an excuse to drink heavily, but gather ye rosebuds and all that.

Odd Days: HNY!

To all the faithful readers of this blog: Happy New Year!

Thank you for reading and commenting on our blog. The whole endeavor was one of the highlights of 2011 -- for me anyway.

(Sorry, that's all you get. It is just too difficult to be interesting on two odd days in a row.)