Nuttin, honey

Overheard: “That guy is the stray nut left in the bottom of the bowl at the end of a party.”

Here’s the stop-action video for this week, honouring those who have given their time, talent and lives for victims of disasters, including the latest in the United States — Hurricane Sandy.

Reminds me of a joke.

Q: What do you call a werewolf elf on the beach at Christmas?

A: Sandy Claws!

For the record books…

In which part of the year is your area setting new maximum temperatures?

In which year: HSV-record-max-temp-year?

Thanks to the NOAA NWS Huntsville website for this data.

Real question:  is there a pattern in the data that we can do anything to change?

Subjects and Objects

In domestic news lately, political candidates have, in the course of speaking, in the cause of getting elected, voiced personal opinions about rape.

Most of the time, men rape women.

Some of the time, women rape men.

But, for the sake of this blog entry, let us consider only the first case.

I have a personal stake in this discussion.

Quite possibly, I exist because my grandmother was raped by my biological grandfather.

Certainly, family lore says that my biological grandfather abused both my grandmother and my father before he abandoned them (or was forced to leave them).

Every day on this planet, without a doubt, a man forces himself upon a woman for sexual pleasure.

He may pay for the privilege or take his pleasure for free.

Men, for the most part, are physically stronger than women and rarely sexually engage a woman stronger than them.

I agree that rape is a terrible injustice for the raped as well as for the institute of marriage and against the joys of consensual sex.

But, in the eyes of an omniscient being (or Being), am I a gift of/to God because of rape?

Am I, instead, merely the lucky offspring of a man who was the unfortunate result of a rape?

I do not exist in the public eye as a celebrity who feels driven to share opinions constantly or an expert authority who must answer questions about the validity of abortion.

However, I have an opinion about myself.

I like me, for the most part.

I have enjoyed my life.

I can understand my father wanted nothing to do with his father and all but forbid me to contact his father’s family until after my father was dead and buried, especially if he was the result of a rape and subsequently abused physically/mentally.

It’s tough for me to believe my grandmother could have aborted my father if she was raped.

Being a staunch member of the main (Central) Baptist Church in her community, she probably never considered abortion, but I have no way of knowing her thoughts/opinions on the matter, other than through her general opinions/actions in relation to her Christian faith.

I only know I exist.

I like existing.

I suppose most of us do.

Those who were aborted or will be aborted never get to know if they do or do not like existing.

Those who choose abortion have made and make that decision for their offspring.

A mighty BIG decision I never have to make.

I exist.

I hope you like existing.

If you don’t like existing, I can understand why you wouldn’t want the fertilised egg in your womb to exist.

If you do like existing, I can’t understand why you wouldn’t want the fertilised egg in your womb to exist.

We exist and choose to accept the legal/moral/social/religious issues surrounding our decisions.

To say one wants the freedom to abort a fetus is as grave a desire as there is in this world, more important than any words that can be assembled together in one blog entry.

I can’t change the circumstances of my father’s conception but I’m just glad my grandmother didn’t abort my father, no matter whether she was raped or abused before/during/after sexual intercourse.

Am I alive?

While I wait for my new LCD monitor with HDMI connection to arrive, thus turning my smartphone into my desktop/laptop PC at home and Internet phablet on the road, I shall write here once more.

That, and the overwhelming reader response to ending this blog, as usual.

This afternoon, I attended the funeral of a 98-year old man, met his widow, and am friends with two of his children, one who is a girlfriend of a longtime friend of mine from our college days in Knoxville.

I also saw some familiar faces from my time here in this community — 27 years or thereabouts — people like Peggy Sammon and Butch Damson.

Ninety-eight years young…

I cannot imagine living so long.

Meanwhile, a house wren hops up and down the window screen, looking for food, digging through the debris in the old, broken, rusted gutter hanging off the rotting eave.

I did not know the man who was buried today.

I felt like a fifth wheel, a stranger inserting myself into the graveside mourning of others.

So, to hide my face from the crowd, I stood behind a pocket camera snapping pics for the daughter and friends in Germany who could not be there while we who were gathered recited prayers together for the deceased.

I am of the walking dead myself, but my friends say Jesus loves me, this I [should] know…

Sorry, that last bit slipped out, a verse from a children’s song.

I did not know the man who was buried today but I was able to join his family and a group of strangers, sharing a subculture full of familiar songs, poems, prayers and rituals.

It was a window opening up the sounds and sights of my childhood.

It was a window of opportunity, listening to the stories about Rudi Schlidt from his closest friends and relatives.

Of course, I can’t hear so well so I’m not sure what anybody said, using their body language and voice inflection to tell me when I was supposed to smile, laugh, cry or do nothing but listen attentively.

Rudi was nearly twice my age when he died.

He made important contributions to the advances of rocket science.  He, like many in this town, could easily say, “As a matter of fact, I am a rocket scientist/engineer.”

His wife was secretary to Wernher von Braun, who may or may not be familiar to you.  Today, her face still shines with beauty at 91 years of age.

There is more and less than meets the eye, to be sure, but today I simply let the sights suffice to register my presence on this planet another day, amidst those who registered the absence of a friend, [(great)grand]father, coworker and fellow member of the community.

Am I alive?  I don’t know.  I explore the universe from atop this tiny planet of ours and wonder.  That’s all I care to know.  The rest is none of my business.  Gott behüte.

Auf wiedersehen, Herr Schlidt.  From the crowd at your graveside service today, know that you are/were loved.  Gott liebt dich.  Gott segne.

Sad News

A family left their native Germany because, if I remember correctly, the country of Germany would not let the Schmitts educate their kids at home the way they wanted (“home-schooled”), rather than through a nationalistic public education system.

Anyway, they came to the U.S. and opened a restaurant.

Sadly, they lost their son this week:

Dear Tennessee Valley Big Orange Crew,
Regrettably I must pass on some very heartbreaking news.  Most of you remember that we conducted our first 2012 TV viewing party at the Schnitzel Ranch when we [the University of Tennessee football team] played NC State two weeks back.

One of our UT TV party servers was the restaurant owner’s son Christian (Chris) Schmitt, he was 17 years old.  On Sunday (yesterday) at 3:30 PM approximately, Chris lost his life in a plane crash at the Moontown airfield. Chris was the student pilot riding with Mr. George Myers. I am sure most of you heard the news but here is the link:  http://whnt.com/2012/09/16/plane-crash-at-moontown-airport/.   The Schmitt family is devastated.  As most of you know they are here from Germany trying to start this restaurant on an investor’s VISA.   The restaurant is routinely closed on Mondays, but the family must now plan a funeral and run their business this week.  They could use some support from the people of the Tennessee Valley — some of the best people I have ever met and I proudly proclaim it.  If you want to help, please contact me at tnrustic@yahoo.com; page me at 256-512-6000, or call Gabi’s cell at 256-655-4085.

In dealing with this tragedy, the Schmitt family needs support in their domestic affairs (food preparation, love donations, or advice on how to proceed with Chris’s final preparations), they will soon need HELP at their business too.  Over the years, I have routinely asked for your support, but this call for TV_BOC help is my most important request ever.  I will gladly discuss the Schmitt family needs with anyone who wants to help. Please contact us if you want to get involved.

In Memory of Chris Schmitt,

Randy Hooser
TNrustic@yahoo.com
256-512-6000
256-655-4085 (Gabi’s cell)

PS  Finally to express any condolences for the Schmitt family and their loss, please post them to their Facebook account at https://www.facebook.com/schnitzelranch.  Be sure to tell them you are with the TV_BOC and we CARE.

Latest score in preserving world peace

For those of you keeping count at home, here’s the latest score:

Non-U.S.

2,977 victims and 19 hijackers on 9/11/2001
3173 and counting deaths of U.S/ally military in Operation Enduring Freedom
4 U.S. embassy personnel in recent Libyan attack

U.S.

1 (Osama bin Laden)
2,562 – 3,325 (via drone attacks)
countless thousands of “insurgents”

Annual domestic U.S. deaths by category:

  • Heart disease: 599,413
  • Cancer: 567,628
  • Chronic lower respiratory diseases: 137,353
  • Stroke (cerebrovascular diseases): 128,842
  • Alzheimer’s disease: 79,003
  • Diabetes: 68,705
  • Influenza and Pneumonia: 53,692
  • Nephritis, nephrotic syndrome, and nephrosis: 48,935
  • Intentional self-harm (suicide): 36,909
  • Accidents (unintentional injuries) ………………………..118,021
        Transport accidents ………………………………..39,031
        Motor vehicle accidents……36,216
        Other land transport accidents….1,033
        Water, air and space, and other………………………………….1,782
        Nontransport accidents ………………………………78,990
        Falls …………………………………………24,792
        Accidental discharge of firearms…………………………..554
        Assault (homicide)…………………………… 16,799
        — Assault (homicide) by discharge of firearms …………………..11,493
      — Assault (homicide) by other unspecified means……..5,306

Winner?  You decide

What I went through with my mother in-law in 1997…

…I go through with my mother in 2012.

My mother in-law was 80 years of age when her husband died.  My mother was 78 when her husband died.

In both cases, as in any longterm relationship between two people, the survivor learns new forms of daily decisionmaking.

My mother in-law depended on her now-deceased son and living daughter (my wife) to help her make decisions after their father died.

My mother depends on my sister and me to help her make decisions after our father died.

When my father in-law died, my wife was almost 35.

When my father died, I was 50.

In between: fifteen years of wisdom gathered through life experiences, some shared between us, some accumulated individually.

Fifteen years of social changes/progress, including new technology (think about how much the Internet has changed in 15 years), new businesses, failed businesses, climate change, fashion cycles, pop music tastes, entertainment choices, medical science advances, etc.

Are we more or less tolerant of Iranian atheists/humanists?  Liberal Quakers?  Non-heterosexual relationships?  Physical/mental challenges?  The unemployed?  Cute cat videos?

Is there room in your life for a late night TV talk show host with a robotic skeleton and cloth-horse costumed actor(s)?

Would there have been such a creature 15 years ago?  Could he have been a reformed Scottish alcoholic comedian?  Do such creatures exist in real life today?

I learned a new phrase today: conformity to tomorrow (from book, “Without Apology: The Heroes, the Heritage, and the Hope of Liberal Quakerism” by Chuck Fager [which I read, quickly, in the book section of Unclaimed Baggage Center]):

“Conformity to tomorrow: …consists in a moderate opposition to the existing political power, together with the espousal of the ideas and doctrines of the most sensitive, the most visionary, the most appealing trend in society. This is a trend which, from the sociological point of view, is already dominant, and is the one which should normally be expected to win out….In this way, the political stand has the appearance of being independent, whereas in reality it is the expression of an avant-garde conformism.” (Jacques Ellul, a French Reformed theologian and sociologist, 1972A, p. 123.)

I would toss musical acts like Rage Against The Machine, political groups like the Tea Party and Occupy Wall Street, and economic movements like the EU handling of the PIIGS into the realm of avant-garde conformism, as well as most official social protest groups not included in terrorist lists for “wanted: dead or alive” drone attacks.

We always have to have enemies toward whom we formally direct our confusion/fear-based hatred.

But, as usual, I digress.

Earlier today, at a roadside restaurant called Carlile’s in Scottsboro, Alabama, a town where a plentiful plethora of people met for camaraderie and shopping bargains, my wife and I held a wonderful discussion with Autumn, mother of three boys aged 7, 6 and 2, the first taking the role of the responsible eldest (“Mom told you not to do that”), the second a quiet child who puts up with the physical shenanigans of his two brothers, and the youngest, the rowdiest one of the bunch.

Autumn, raised by her grandparents, lost them both nine months apart five years ago.  The emptiness inside is slowly, very slowly, wrapped up in new friendships and new experiences we call the passage of time.

When she wants to turn to her grandparents for guidance, they are not there and she feels an instant pang of pain.

Although she has a beautiful tattoo of a heart on her arm where every one of her three boys first rested and for whom she tattooed their names, she would never tattoo the names of her grandparents or the name of her husband on her body because the reminder of their losses, in plain ink visible under skin, would be too much to bear (beauty is not the only thing that’s skin-deep).

She, like all parents, believes deep down that her kids will outlive her, their futures bright.

To those who’ve lost their children to congenital conditions, I give you my sympathy.  No one wants to survive the death of offspring with a promising future.

My wife outlived her parents and her only sibling.

I have outlived my father but not my mother and my only sibling.

As this storyline grows more complicated, my life and the lives of my family members are intricately intertwined.

Not a loss, not a gain nor a zero-sum game is life.

The sets of states of energy are constantly in flux.

Every waking moment is an opportunity to learn.

Is new technology an enabler of your relatively expensive entertainment addictions or an avenue of opportunity for increased wealth?  Does it increase the credit or debit side of your account ledger?  In other words, do you go into debt to play games and watch videos?

These and other questions lead us to thought trails about the costs and benefits of a globally-connected economy, where plenty of leisure is available to the masses.

If this laptop computer and these blog entries are using up CPU cycles for the sole purpose of entertaining myself, is that okay?

What about the urgency to act, the desire to change our society significantly so that spare CPU cycles are used to ensure survival of Earth-based lifeforms here and elsewhere as long as potential energy states are available to support them in this part of the universe?

Does it matter if the majority of our species believes in self-centered activities?

What are a few decades compared to 1000 years?

What is 1000 years compared to 200 million?

Can we really know the future, no matter how much we bunch together to conform to one vision knowingly, unknowingly, voluntarily and/or coercively?

All for the sake of family, whatever that means to you/me/us?

Are we alone?

Talking with a friend in south Florida about some of her clients, one of whom she nicknamed “Sybil,” and, for the protection of many I won’t detail here (but suffice it to hear that multiple personality disorder may be more myth than fact, except in rare cases like this one), I wonder what to do next.

My grandparents built a house in North Port, Florida, in 1964.

So did my next-door neighbours (built a house in Big Cove, Alabama, in 1964, that is).

My grandparents and my father are dead.

So, too, one of my next-door neighbours.

My mother considers selling the house in Florida.

The surviving next-door neighbour was convinced by his real estate agent to sell his song for a dance, or less, and he did.

From the death of his spouse to the sale of his house in less than a month.

Makes me question the integrity of the real estate agent (the agency is Keller Williams — more on that later) and/or the sanity of my neighbour.

My mother has been advised not to make major life decisions until six months after her husband is dead.

Someone didn’t tell my neighbour the same thing.

Sure, he wants to be closer to his children and grandchildren.

I know he’ll be lonely without his dear wife.

My wife and I will miss seeing her in her yard, dressed in long-sleeved shirt and long pants during the heat of summer, a beekeeper’s headgear protecting her from sun and insects.

I am winding down from a once-in-a-decade holiday trip with my wife a few months after my father died, after which I spent a week with my mother and sister going through the house in Florida where my grandparents savoured their retirement years year-round and my parents enjoyed their retirement years as snowbirds.

Meanwhile, people have killed each other by the hundreds, if not thousands, thousands of babies have been born, businesses opened/closed and other aspects of our planet’s lifecycle — killing and eating each other to survive — moving along as it always has and always will.

In the meantime (why don’t I say “in the happytime,” instead?), I examine historical documents to prepare myself for a future filled with humour, satire, comedy, tragedy and words.

Last night, I had a dream.

My mother, sister and I sat down at a large table.  Two or three other large tables were spread around the restaurant where people were sitting down in order to get a good view of Dad opening his birthday presents.  Several people walked up and described the special, unique gift they had brought/made and hidden in a back room so my father wouldn’t see when he walked in for the surprise birthday party.

I looked through the gifts, marveling at the personal touches so many people had put into their gifts, feeling a sense of anticipation rise in me at seeing Dad come back and open so he would know how special he was to so many in his life.

Then, the realization of reality crept into my dream world and I woke up shaking, my neck and back muscles tense, my face twitching.

Dang it, I miss Dad!

My subculture wants me to believe Dad is out there somewhere watching over me (i.e., heaven) but I don’t care about some imaginary space that defies gravity.

I want to share time and space here with my father now, talk about the U.S. Navy material I found in his father’s (my grandfather’s) sea chest, ask him what he remembers about growing up during WWII, go fishing one more time, hit golf balls into the park and retrieve them, look at new sports cars and wonder how people can afford them.

But life doesn’t work that way.

We are born, maybe get married, maybe have children, and then we die.

I have lived into that part of the lifecycle that I never wanted to face again after my best friend/girlfriend died when we were 10 years old.

Forty years later, I’m facing the same emotions I couldn’t handle as a preteen, when I dove into my Boy Scout training, schoolwork and marching/concert/jazz band practice to hide the mess of thoughts inside me.

Where do I hide now?

Am I alone as I feel?

Do I even exist?

Does any of this matter?

Today is an imaginary time period created to account for the rotation of Earth on its axis while tilted.

Tomorrow is another such imaginary time period.

I shall let my imagination take me into a world of stories where writers pluck plots and characters, harvesting them at just the right time to entertain themselves (and, perhaps, others later).

Storytelling is my comfort food, a habit I turned to when I was 10 and didn’t have anyone to share the pain of losing my girlfriend with, how I compensated for the fact that the universe is neutral to my existence as a temporary conflux of states of energy.

In the near-term (both time and space), we appear to exist through experimentation from birth that shows an environment of similar groups of states of energy responding to us.

From a great distance, we do not exist — we do not move this planet through our individual actions, although collectively we influence the condition of the planetary environment around us.

Most of us only care about our local conditions, our circle of influence.

But if I don’t care, if I see conditions — past, present and future — that are, practically, independent of the existence of me, what then?

The story continues, with or without me…