Debug

Debug: (v) to detect and remove errors

Our protagonist quietly walks into a room, using hand gestures to signify to his close companion to be quiet.

After our hero searches the room for about forty-five seconds, he discovers several listening devices, which he removes so that  conversation can return, and they can discuss where these bugs might have come from and why it was important to debug the room.

It is a staple of American movie folklore.

For after all, no one wants to believe they’re being overheard and therefore manipulated into doing what someone else wishes.

Yesterday I asked myself a very valuable question.

How much further along would we be in overcoming this present pandemic of Covid-19 if the media was not covering it?

What if there wasn’t a camera in every corner, a microphone for every politician and a running death toll displayed to the side as a constant reminder of the horror which is afoot?

What if we had to solve this problem in silence?

In other words, let the experts talk among themselves, come up with ideas on how to battle the disease, and then, as in olden times, print flyers and distribute them from house to house, explaining what is expected of each citizen in pursuing and maintaining a solution.

If the arguments were removed, the politics were squashed, commentators silenced, and people with jobs just did their bit and passed along terse but well-worded demands to the general public—who would have to believe the reports because they were the only insights available…

Well, would it be better if America were debugged of the electronic albatross that listens in to see what frightens us, so more fear can be delivered?

D & C

D & C: (n) a surgical method for the removal of diseased tissue or an early embryo from the lining of the uterus by means of scraping.

After thousands of essays, I have arrived at the letter D.

And D is not dainty.

D is daring.

D feels a dutiful decision to be direct.

So D begins with D & C.

Taking on one of the more controversial subjects of our time, D startles us with deadly determination.

Did you read the definition? “The removal of diseased tissue or an embryo from the lining of the uterus by scraping.”

Could anything more simply capsulize the debate on abortion?

There are just some individuals who believe there’s a difference between disease and a fertilized egg and there are those who certainly contend that a woman should have the right to decide what remains in her uterus, whether it be disease or embryo.

Perhaps they could just give us the dignity of making the two processes somehow different. Maybe one could have a name which is separate from the other. Otherwise, the same process that removes disease abolishes embryos.

Is there any way to gain intelligence, or shall we say, wisdom, from this matter?

Let’s consider this:

Maybe, if it’s as bad as it sounds, it might be worse than we portray.

Or maybe, as horrible as it seems, it is actually less offensive in application.

I guess each person has to decide.

And since we live in a land of freedom, that contemplation belongs to the woman with the beating heart and the thinking mind.

That is the way of a democracy. Such a form of government does not function on morality, but rather, liberty.

And sometimes the pursuit of liberty can insult our morality.

 

Curvaceous

Curvaceous: (adj) description of a woman having a well-shaped figure with voluptuous curves.

There are two immutable facts that cannot be denied but certainly would open up debate among those concerned.

  1. Girls who are curvaceous and buxom in high school normally become heavy-set and what we might call “chubby” as they get older.
  2. Boys who seemed to be in great shape in high school, playing football, become portly, often sprouting a beer gut after their escapades on the gridiron.

When high school reunions come around, men who used to be svelte or women with curves which produced great desire arrive at such celebrations looking, shall we say, very “domesticated.”

On the other hand, those students who were ignored, thin or obese, have often gone out and changed their appearance and persona completely.

I am fully aware that a woman’s breasts are a delight to view, interesting to touch for about a minute-and-a-half but are not what you would call “the main course” of a sexual smorgasbord.

A bosom of that sort is a banquet for a baby.

But because we are foolish, we insist that women who have huge breasts are very sexy—until we realize that these curvaceous wonders are really just fat cells.

And consider this: if it’s easy to build up the fat cells in the chest, it is equally as easy to build them up in the waist, the thighs and the cheeks. Both sets. So be careful.

Our society, which is obsessed with curvaceous women, must evolve into a more mature understanding:

Breasts can be problematic for everything—from dressing to disease.

And once we gain a more sophisticated approach, maybe we can just learn that ninety percent of our sexuality is in our brain.

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Cotillion

Cotillion: (n) a formal ball given especially for debutantes.

A cotillion used to be subtitled “a coming out ball.”

Now that phrase would evoke great laughter—because “coming out” means something completely different from it did when we were funny wisdom on words that begin with a C
referring to the first time a sixteen-year-old girl was dressing up like a woman and spraying perfume in her hair.

Somewhere lodged between the fallacy that “everything in the past was better” and the hard sell of “everything now is superior” lies some sort of compromise.

Maybe if we approached the passage of time similarly to the way we eat food at a smorgasbord, we might just arrive at a blending of practices which would be satisfying and beneficial to our well-being. For after all, at a buffet you grab a plate and walk the line, take a little bit of half-a-dozen or more items, go sit down and discover what is pleasing to the palate.

This is exactly what I try to do with my human life.

I have no desire to live in the past, filled with disease, pestilence and prejudice. Yet I’m not particularly satisfied with being overwhelmed in the present, with forms of idiocy which have merely donned contemporary costumes.

I do like a little bit of the cotillion to go along with my Facebook and Instagram.

I like the idea of the transitions in life being honored with celebration and a touch of reverence instead of the crude way of thinking that a young girl becomes a woman by losing her virginity.

How can we balance the human heart, spirit and brain? The heart wants to be moved, the spirit wants to be inspired and the brain desires learning.

So I guess my goal is to feel my way along, looking for those things that inspire me, and then try to make them my own.


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Coronary

Coronary: (adj) of or relating to the human heart, with respect to health.

There are really only four choices.

There may be varieties—but when you completely boil it down, there are a quartet of ways that life uses to get us off the planet.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

And we will leave. How we leave is what is perplexing—and I’m afraid may take up too much of our time contemplating.

You can croak by disease, make your eternal journey by accident, be blown away and murdered, or you can have a coronary—your heart suddenly deciding not only to quit, but to walk off the job.

These four loom and threaten the human race with personal extermination

I am normal (at least I think I am.) I have done my fair share of fidgeting over all the possibilities.

For a while, I didn’t want to watch medical shows on TV because I was in danger of sprouting the symptoms of the diseases they discussed.

There are times when I’m driving, and I envision what it might be like to be rolled over by an eighteen-wheeler.

Of course, in the middle of the night when I hear that sound creaking in my house, I wonder if it’s a murderous Second Amendment advocate, coming to prove to me why I should have a gun.

And because I am a chubby, overweight, even a sometimes-considered-fat fellow, the possibility of my heart disrupting my future plans is never a distant thought.

The problem with all such consideration is that it leads to anxiety.

Anxiety not only robs us of time, but also simulates our death in our mind, wasting precious moments we could be using to, shall we say, literally dodge the bullet.


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Commentary

Commentary: (n) an expression of opinions about an event or situation

I will now offer my commentary:

I have a small penis.

I bring this up to you without apology, biological explanation or some silly sidebar like, “Had no complaints…”

What is interesting about my statement, and makes this commentary worthy of publication, is that the little fella has done some amazing things.

He ended up fathering four children, and from them–not many complaints.

He has survived being in a bedroom with a woman without ridicule.

He has also seen that particular human female leave with a pleasured smile. (Basically, it had little to do with him, and was courtesy of other digits and doo-dads, but he will still take the credit.)

I suppose at one time in my life I would have been embarrassed by the size of my “unit” (that’s what people who feel they are well-endowed call it).

Or should I refer to it as my “package?” But if it is a package, I could send mine first-class reasonably. But call me crazy, I am too overjoyed with my life to complain about my wiener.

I would not want to be around people from the “pecker patrol,” who would stare at my small friend and find him to be disgracefully inadequate.

He has been dutiful. Every time my kidneys want to urinate, he shows up–often bright and early.

He has the good sense to stay out of neighborhoods where he does not belong.

And he’s remained clean and free of disease.

He’s a rather admirable chap.

And even though some of my family would be embarrassed at me talking about him in such a fashion, I think it’s time for us to get over the idea that men and women are going to hump their way to satisfaction because of the enormous size of the male dangling participle.

Making love is like everything else in life. It demands much more conversation than it does struggle.

Thus ends my commentary.

 

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Cistern

Cistern: (n) an underground reservoir for rainwater.

Until I was twelve years old, I thought a cistern was the female version of brethren. (Well, I probably didn’t, but it seems funny,)

I’ve had one encounter with a cistern. My grandfather lived about two miles outside town in a small home which most dignified citizens would call a shack.

It had no inside toilet, but offered an “outlander” version for brave souls who didn’t mind. Also, right outside the door of this humble domicile was a pump, sitting on top of a cistern.

For years, my grandpa asked me to go out and pump it until I got water to come out of the spout, and bring him what he called “the good drinkin’ stuff.” Matter of fact, he purposely attached his indoor sink to the cistern, so when he turned on the tap he received the superior fluid.

I didn’t think much about it.

One day I was sitting with my grandfather in the front room as he was chewing his tobacco, and trying, with his fading eyesight, to spit in his ‘toon. He offered me a glass of water, and I poured myself a cup. I was just about to drink it when my mother raced into the room as if she were saving me from a burning building, knocked the glass from my hand and scared me to the point of eunuch.

My grandpa laughed. He turned to me and said, “Your Mama thinks the water’s bad. No accountin’ for taste.”

Two weeks later we stayed overnight at the house, and my mother drew a bucket of water from the cistern and set it out on the porch. She left it there for about five minutes and then called me out in the moonlight to look into the bucket.

I had never seen water in a bucket moving around.

It was filled with tiny, tiny little worm-like creatures, swimming like it was their weekend at the Riviera.

I nearly threw up.

I don’t know why the water didn’t make my grandpa sick.

I suppose after you chew tobacco for enough years, it just might be difficult to find anything else that would kill you.

 

 

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Cirrhosis

Cirrhosis: (n) a chronic disease of the liver

I do not remember his real name, but I know it wasn’t Hank. So for the sake of the story and his anonymity, we shall call him Hank.

Hank was married to Barbara.

Barbara owned an antique shop which was really just an extension of her home in the basement. She was a nice woman. Of course, when
you’re a kid, adults tend to blur.

But I remember that once every two years or so, Barbara came to our house and spent a few days with us because “Hank was on a binge.”

Now, I did not know what a binge was. When I asked about it the first time, I received a frown, so didn’t feel it was a good idea to pursue.

But hanging out behind doors and listening to conversations, what I gathered was this: sometimes Hank decided to just go down to the town tavern and drink until he got “good and mean” and for some reason, blamed Barbara for all the problems in his life and started hitting her.

Eventually he would pass out, wake the next morning–apologetic–but still head off to the tavern again. Apparently this process was repeated for a week every couple of years, until Barbara would finally call the sheriff and have Hank put in jail until he could dry out, come home and act normal for a while.

The interesting thing was, in the process of Hank going in and out of rehabilitation, he developed liver disease.

Cirrhosis. It’s what happens when you choose to pickle your internal organs instead of your beets.

So at the age of fifty-two (which I thought was ancient) Hank died.

Barbara was a mess; as they say in the Midwest, “fit to be tied.”

She sold her business, left town and was never heard from again. I remember the last thing she said to my mother: “I just don’t understand why God took Hank.”

Fascinating.

You see, God didn’t understand why Hank took himself.

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Childlike

Childlike: (adj) of an adult, having good qualities associated with a child.

After avoiding it for decades, I finally went to one of my high school reunion luncheons, to meet up with the old gang, whom I had not seen since I held diploma in my hand and dreams fluttered in my brain like butterflies.

We were older.

Unfortunately, we live in a society that deems aging as either a crime or a disease rather than a natural situation which is meant to garner advantage.

What is the advantage of being older? You have sorted through the younger things to do and eliminated the ones that cause humiliation and disease.

That’s pretty powerful.

But what I discovered when I sat down to eat my lunch was that my classmates from a former time were very concerned about their health–cholesterol, salt intake, circulatory system and bladder. I probably should also throw in a few mentions of bowel movements.

It started off well, but when I ended up being glib and funny instead of decrepit and dying, a resentment settled into the room.

I think my friends found me childish. “That guy never grew up. Doesn’t he know there’s a certain protocol for being our age?”

I kept talking about the things I was still doing, the places I wanted to go, the things I was seeing, the passages I was writing and the songs being composed. I was not bragging. I was thrilled to be alive, to share with these old haunts.

Try as I would, the conversation was incapable of reaching the level of being childlike. I brought up some of our former escapades, only to discover that rather than giggling over the incidents, heads were dipped in shame.

I don’t know much about heaven. Nobody does. It is an advertised hot spot without an adequate brochure.

But from what I have learned, it will be a mind trip into discovering the joys of being childlike, simple, joyous, playful and jubilant.

I sure hope we’re up for it.

 

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Chemical

Chemical: (n) a compound or substance

The medical field is hampered by two delusions:

  1. There are chemical cures for everything.
  2. So much progress has been made that it should be trusted.

Both concepts make the health field insipid and often dangerous.

Medicine is the lady and the tiger. Do you remember that story? You come upon two doors, and you’re told that behind one is a lady and behind the other is a tiger. If you open one, you receive pleasure; open the other, you chance death.

This is where we are in medicine.

As long as we’re taking poisons in an attempt to heal disease, hoping that those poisons will not destroy all of our good parts, our solutions will remain Neanderthal.

I, for one, have taken medicine and gotten the lady. I felt better and by the grace of healing, I was able to continue my life. I’ve also taken the same chemicals and gotten the tiger, and been cast into even deeper sickness or infection.

Somewhere along the line, as we study, we will realize that the power of healing is regeneration. It’s why we’re studying stem cells–living tissue encouraging dying tissue to live again.

It works for the alligator which loses its tail–and the more we understand in our treatments that this is the answer, the less we will appear to be merely alchemists.

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