Min Tull. Sunday. October 14. 2018.

11:51 a.m.
For those of you wondering what happened to chapters 14 through 23 I can only say that they were so erotic and scandalous that I posted them on a different blog site, a very discreet one. I didn't want my friends and family to read about that kind of stuff, but I felt compelled to put it down in writing somewhere, out of a sick, foolish vanity. Sort of a Frank Harris thing . . . 

This morning at 3 there was a ruckus out on my patio. It might have been the wind blowing things around or it might have been a raccoon or it may even have been a prowler. As the photographs below show, nothing was missing:

While nosing about for clues as to the cause of the disturbance I noticed that several of the rocks I've put in my vinegar pool have begun chemically reacting. Two of them are slowly breaking down into a fine grey silt, and one of them has a ring of white lace around it, like frosting, thus:

 I don't know the cause of this, except that obviously the acetic acid is reacting with the minerals in the rock to create the phenomenon. I'll spend some time later today out on the patio staring at this rock and wondering about it, but will probably never find out what exactly is happening. Still, it's a little bit of knowledge I have now that I didn't have before -- Joseph Smith said "A man is saved no faster than he gets knowledge." So I'm ahead of the game, anyway.

I have had several people comment on my vinegar pool, mostly wondering out loud why I am wasting my time and good vinegar on such a piece of balderdash. I waggle my eyebrows mysteriously at them and reply "Just wait for my research to be published in The Lancet."

Last night I read up on Hugh Herbert, the comic character actor that enlivened so many otherwise dreary movies back in the Thirties and Forties. When I was done with his Wikipedia article I idly clicked on Random Article in the left hand column just to see what I could see. After a few sea snails, soccer players, and train stations, I got Hikikomori -- a Japanese sociological term for the half million loners in the country who have turned their backs on society, refuse to marry, and become hermits, never leaving their rooms unless absolutely necessary and refusing to interact with the rest of the world. 

According to Wikipedia, Japanese clinicians list the symptoms of being a Hikikomori as:

• Spending most of the day and nearly every day at home.
• Marked and persistent avoidance of social situations.
• Social withdrawal leading to an atrophy of socializing skills.
• A marked self complacency and satisfaction at becoming increasingly isolated.
• And no apparent mental or physical pathology to account for the social withdrawal symptoms.

As I brushed my teeth and put on my pajamas I said to myself "You, my boy, are certainly becoming a Hikikomori."

Looking back at last week I only went out 3 times at 5 a.m. to the Provo Recreation Center for swimming, and got back home before sunrise and without interacting with anyone. I had one doctor's appointment, during which I only spoke to the doctor and the nurse who took a blood sample. I never talked with or even said hello to anyone in my apartment building. And the only phone calls I got were robocalls. I emailed several people to tell them that I prefer to communicate by email, not by phone, since I am very stingy with my TracFone minutes. And I wrote two dozen poems and several pieces of personal memoir which I emailed to friends and family. I felt, and still feel, perfectly normal and not at all isolated or alone. Oh, and I watched the whole first season of DCs Legends of Tomorrow on Netflix. 

So yes, I'd say on the Hikikomori Index I'm at about a 7. 

5:10 p.m.

Just got off the phone with Sarah; I'm taking her and Brooke out tomorrow to Joe's Cafe in Orem for biscuits and gravy, and in return she's taking me to a health food store for a big nasty bottle of cod liver oil. I'm getting outlandishly desperate to stop my complete slide into an inert mass of flab. Both Amy and Madelaine are big believers in cod liver oil, so I'm gonna give it a try. What's the worst that can happen? I'll be out thirty dollars and have fish breath. 

It may interest myself to know (and it does) that I am readjusting my Hikikomori Index rating to a 5. That's because I made a slow cooker full of beans today and served it in the lobby after Relief Society was over in the Community Room, and it was a smashing success. Several sisters pleaded for the recipe. I did not feel either superior or inferior to any of them and talked in a normal tone of voice about normal subjects -- broken hips and rotten children who never come to visit. I was a regular bon vivant. So those old Japanese hermits can go mow the lawn for all I care.

My friend in the Pacific emailed me today, wanting to know "How do you personally receive revelation or inspiration from Heaven?" He follows this question by narrating a dream he had, in which he felt inspired about something, but when he woke up he knew he didn't believe in inspiration so why did he dream that he did -- or some such folderol. I had trouble following his narrative thread, probably because I need a dose of cod liver oil. And probably because I can feel that incipient pettiness and meanness of spirit creeping up on me like it did on my mother when she got old and cranky. I'm tempted to copy his email and put it in here, with his name and his wife's name -- just to make him upset and unhappy. Now why in the hell should I do that? He has been a steady and generous friend who has helped me out numerous times over the years. When I complained about my laptop being on the fritz two years ago he sent me a Chromebook. He's always on the lookout for nubile Asian girls who want to hook up with a fat old white man like me. And yet here I am contemplating embarrassing him in front of . . . well, let's be honest, in front of dozens. (Nobody reads my blog anymore -- most of my readers are from someplace Blogspot calls "Unknown Region." The dark side of the Moon, no doubt.)

In answer to his question I have to admit that direct revelation and inspiration from Heaven, like in seeing an angel, has never happened to me. And it especially has not happened to me since I took the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory test 25 years ago. One of the questions in it was "Do you believe in angels?"  As a matter of fact, I do. But when I answered yes to that question it was enough for my therapist to recommend I commit myself to the Utah State Hospital in Provo where a straitjacket and pablum three times a day would be provided free of charge. Luckily my bishop at the time got wind of this and rushed over to our house to stop me from signing the papers. 

But on occasion I feel a deep welling confidence that I know comes from outside myself.  It happened when the missionaries were teaching me down in Venice, Florida. It happened when I read Spencer W. Kimball's address "Every Young Man Should Serve a Mission." And it happened when I met Amy for the first time. And that is all I'm going to say about it, for now. As was said by others long before me, I was born ignorant and I've been losing ground ever since -- but every once in a while there's a divine spark kindled in me and around me. Only a young fool or an old liar can deny the reality of such things in their own lives. Might as well call it what it is -- revelation and/or inspiration.

Time to go stare at my vinegar pool before the sun goes dark behind the mountains . . . 

My pen pal in Thailand responded to this chapter thus:

Dear Tim,

Sawaddii K.Tim. How was your sleep? Hope you are feeling alright this morning. Thanks again for your email on the truth and this Min Tull. 24. 

It's nice to see the pictures of your patio. And its nice to live on the first floor. Atleast there is space to plant some flowers. With your bowl of vinegar pool experiment, to me its like your science project. And the reaction between the acetic acid and the reacting of the mineral in the rocks is like the work by the aliens. UFO hahaha!!!  I'm kidding okay Tim. It looks interesting to see how it created a ring of white lace around it. I would keep an eye on to see if there will be more of the white laces or any more reaction from it. I have a question to ask you Tim. What did you planted in those square space? Let me know if you would like to plant some of the Thai vegetable. Morning Glory ผักบุ้งจีน is the easiest thing to grow. You can put in your Ramen Soup or Thai Sukiyaki or stir fry with Oyster sauce. It is really nutricious, lots of vitamins. 

About the good sauce called Panthai Norasing, I mentioned last time. This is how you would pronouce it Pan taay norasing พันท้ายนรสิงห์  It is really yummy. 

I enjoy reading about your Japanese Hikikomuri, Cod liver oil, and about revelation and inspiration from heaven. I wonder how do you like your Cod Liver Oil?  I believe you will get so much of Omega 3 and lot of calciums. 

These couple of days I have a cold. So I did not feel well to make it to church this Sunday. I have watched the General Conference through You Tube at home. Now I think my cold pills going to put me to sleep. 

Tim I hope to hear from you soon. Hope your health is good to you. Please take good care of yourself. May God bless you. Bye.

U.S. Poised to Destroy Immigrant Families -- Your Right to Vote is in Peril -- Mohammed bin Salman

WASHINGTON—President Trump advocated on Saturday for the controversial policy of separating families that cross into the U.S. illegally, saying that fear of being separated from children deters some immigrants.   WSJ

Our borders are sacred, you see;

so we must destroy family

that thinks we're a shrine,

when crossing the line,

of freedom and nobility.

*******************************

Nine months after President Trump was forced to dissolve a panel charged with investigating voter fraud, GOP officials across the country are cracking down on what they describe as threats to voting integrity — moves that critics see as attempts to keep some Americans from casting ballots in November’s elections.  WaPo

There was an old man from Bemidji

who wanted to vote, but was fidgy

about his ID

from last century

and so he stayed home and felt tidgy.

************************************

In an initial wave of executions after Mohammed’s abrupt installation as the immediate heir to his father, King Salman, followed by waves of arrests over the past year, he has been ruthless in asserting power. Saudi authorities have spread fear by detaining billionaires and grass-roots activists alike, showing that no one is untouchable. And they have worked to ensure that the arrests are hardly discussed, threatening the relatives of those arrested and forcing them to sign pledges of silence, and holding trials in secret, the rights advocates say.   WaPo

A prince of Arabia said

dissenters are losing their head

about his regime

but there'll be no scream;

the issue, it seems, is quite dead.

Deceived

And whoso treasureth up my word, shall not be deceived . . .
Mathew. Chapter 1. Verse 37 (JST)

There is in this world a tremendous degree

of rumor, surmises, and chicanery.

The truth has been rendered beyond understanding

by experts in all sorts of disguise and branding.

I find myself lost in the welter of sound

that passes for fact but is merely hidebound.

The pundits and poets and pirates all prate

but never reveal what's to be a man's fate.

To leave the deception of this world behind

I study the scriptures to know the Lord's mind.

With study and prayer and sincere application

I can find truth that leads to exaltation!

My Teaching Career at Liberty Bridge Academy

Celebrating the Fourth of July at Liberty Bridge Academy. 2011.

I cast my lot with an eccentric band of educators and students in Woodbridge, Virginia, several years ago. It was my daughter Madelaine's idea. She was on the board of directors for a private school called the Liberty Bridge Academy. They needed teachers; I needed a job. At the time I didn't own a car, and so found it hard to get back on the road with the circus. Since I had just come home from teaching English in Thailand, Madel convinced me that a career in education was the next logical step in my somewhat mildewed career. I decided to believe her, so she scheduled an appointment for me with the Principal of the school, Elaine. 

I passed my interview with colors flying gloriously aloft, mainly because I was willing to take the job for room and board, with a stipend of one hundred bucks per month to keep me in shirt pocket protectors. 

I boarded with the Trubnakovs. Their son Alex was enrolled at the Academy, and since they were feeding me and giving me a cozy little bedroom of my own, they were not charged any tuition. In fact, as the school year progressed, I discovered that none of the students were paying for their education -- such as it was. Their parents were all on the board of directors, like Madel, and exchanged various favors, goods, and services with Elaine for a free ride for their son or daughter. I think she got a new roof on her house out of the deal. 

I had a spacious ground floor bedroom that looked out upon a wide and verdant suburban vista of split level homes with elegantly barbered lawns -- the abode of mid-level Federal bureaucrats who commuted into Washington DC, just fifteen miles away. The Trubnakovs were connected in some vague manner with the World Bank, and spoke off-handedly of huge volumes of cash being poured into one Third World country after another to build koi ponds and squash courts for avaricious politicians and bankers-cum-sneak thieves. The love of money may be the root of all evil, but the lack of same ain't no picnic, Tallulah. 

 Our teaching staff at the Academy shrank rapidly after the first month of school, until there was just Elaine and I handling all the classes. The other teachers all got jobs in the real world, with real incomes. I stayed on because I was promised rich pickings from state education grant money that seemed to stay as elusive as calorie free eggnog.

Elaine was the boss, so she elected to teach Spanish and Religion (we were not specifically affiliated with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, but Elaine patterned the curriculum after Church academies out in Utah) and I was stuck with everything else -- English, Math, Geography, Creative Writing, Gym, History, and Home Economics. 

English and Creative Writing were a cinch to teach. I had the class read classics out loud for an hour each day. We started with Little Women, progressed to The Vicar of Wakefield, took a hair raising detour with H.G.Wells' The Island of Doctor Moreau (it wasn't on the curriculum at all, but I snuck it in while Elaine was vacationing with her family in Idaho), and finished the school year with Shakespeare's The Tempest.

 My blood pressure steadily mounted as I gave the kids writing assignments -- they never finished them or else lost them or claimed they were purloined by the numerous squirrels that infested the oak trees in the yard. One day, in desperation, I threatened to make them write on the blackboard one hundred times "I will finish my writing assignment," and do it in Klingon. I didn't know Klingon, they didn't know Klingon, but the idea turned on a switch in their devious little brains, and they began to improvise a dictionary of Ancient Klingon that would have made Gene Roddenberry proud. Too worn out to guide them back to real literary pursuits, I let them work on it every afternoon just before school let out -- to keep them from slipping out the door when my back was turned. 

"Very advanced pedagogy" commented Elaine, when I told her about it. Well, I told myself, she's the one with the teaching license from the state of Virginia, so I'll let her worry about it. I didn't need a license or certificate or anything, since I was simply listed as a 'volunteer' on the books the Academy kept. 

We started out with a dozen students, ages seven to twelve, in a section of Elaine's cramped basement next to her fruit preserves. Each student had their own desk and brought their own backpack, which they inevitably threw on the floor any which way so that I constantly took screaming nosedives into the carpet as I moved around to supervise my darling pupils. 

Elaine was big on the function of rote memorization in education, so I showed the kids Animaniacs doing their countries and state capitals songs -- and then had them sing 'em back to me. So much for Geography.

They had dreary math workbooks. They plodded through two pages each day, which I then had to correct. I had a teacher's key for each page, but kept misplacing it -- so graded them on penmanship and neatness. Nobody seemed to notice, or care. 

They had an hour at noon to eat their sandwiches and run around in Elaine's back yard, which was bristling with oak trees and sickly pines that dropped large branches on my student's heads without warning. They didn't seem to mind. The noon hour was also their Gym class, so I scrounged Frisbees and tennis balls out of Elaine's basement and let the kids have a go at breaking some of the casement windows. They never succeeded, since they had lousy aim. 

When the weather was inclement we stayed inside for Home Economics. Madel gave me a Walmart juicer when I first came back from Thailand, so we used that to experiment with the different flavors and properties of fruit and vegetables. Did you know that you cannot get juice from a banana? Even if you include the peel. And the combination of celery, tomato, and potato juice tastes pretty darn good. We also produced cucumber and grated ginger finger sandwiches for the Parent and Teacher Conference, which generated quite a stir --inwardly, as well as outwardly. 

Elaine wanted a diorama, a timeline, of world history that would stretch completely around the classroom. I encouraged my students to get creative; accuracy and realism were secondary. So they drew antediluvian dinosaurs cavorting with unicorns, a Minecraft version of ancient Rome, and placed Spiderman at the head of General Grant's army during the Siege of Vicksburg. 

Towards the end of that first school year Elaine wangled the entire second floor of the Woodbridge YMCA/YWCA building for the Academy to move into. We now had access to an indoor gym and a computer lab. Those should have been palmy days for me, but two sudden kidney stone attacks, one right after the other, laid me lower than a turtle's tummy. Lacking any health insurance, I got the bum's rush at the  ER -- both times they pumped me full of painkillers and sent me home with instructions to irrigate myself until the stones passed. They eventually passed -- at least some of them did -- but I stayed so exhausted and listless that I had to resign my teaching position. A few months later I moved to Provo, Utah, at the invitation of an old friend who teaches at BYU. I appreciated the offer because it put me close to most of my own children and their children. When I felt better I interviewed for another teaching position at a local language school called Nomen Global. Why not? There's always something good just around the corner, right? 

For those interested, just click on the following Newsweek headline to find out what happened to me next:

EDUCATION BLOGGER FIRED FOR WRITING ABOUT HOMOPHONES AND CONFUSING HOMOPHOBES.  

Most Americans still welcome foreigners -- Which Food Additives are Harmless? -- North Dakota Farmers stabbed in the back by Trump

Nearly seven-in-ten U.S. adults say America’s openness to foreigners is a defining characteristic of the nation. While Democrats overwhelmingly say that openness to foreigners is essential, Republicans are divided: 47% say America’s openness is essential, while 44% say being too open carries with it the risk of losing our identity as a nation.   Pew Research Center.

We still welcome pilgrims who come

to work for a loaf or a crumb,

depending on which

political pitch

they use as their new rule of thumb.

*******************************************************************

The food industry is grappling with just how far to bend to consumer whims about chemicals—even when those whims seem clueless. And this is giving America’s food scientists indigestion.

WSJ

I thought I was a picky eater when I was a child,

consumers now, however, are consistently so riled

with additives and processes they claim have spoiled our food

that all they ever want is seaweed that's politely stewed.

No sodium, no capsicum, no flavoring, no taste;

no nitrites and no sugar to corrupt their palates chaste.

They want it raw, organic, and of course not GMO --

they'd faint if they were given a big bun of sloppy joe.

I ain't afraid of chemicals, and vinegar is fine;

I pour on the Worcestershire wherever I may dine.

So let the eggheads fiddle with my food; I have no fear.

I'll neutralize all poisons with a bottle of cold beer.

*******************************

For the past decade, North American soybean production has exploded, driven by an intense demand from China. Peterson and other Great Plains farmers directly fed the overseas markets, harvesting more than 243 million bushels in North Dakota, at a price of $2.1 billion in the last market year. 

But in July, the Trump administration announced 10 percent tariffs on more than $200 billion of imported Chinese goods. Beijing responded with tariffs on $60 billion of American products — including soybeans.  WaPo.

Soy beans are orphaned out upon the frozen plains.

No one wants to buy them just because of trading strains.

The farmers may go broke but by gosh they are GOP,

and so they'll march with Trump like lemmings going out to sea.

Kanye West -- Cold War With China -- Voter Fraud? What Voter Fraud? -- Our coming chemical utopia

For more than 10 minutes Thursday, President Trump was struck nearly speechless as rapper, activist, entrepreneur and MAGA-hat wearing, Trump-loving, dragon-energy-exuding Kanye West held forth in an Oval Office soliloquy that included an f-bomb, references to male genitalia and a presidential hug that looked more like a mauling.  Washington Post.

A rapper whose last name was West

performed as the President's guest

by spouting such smut

that Trump's mouth stayed shut

as Kanye his host did molest.

*********************************

It looks like ol' Trump wants to fight

with China all day and all night.

Why can't he behave

and possibly save

our commonwealth from Jinping's spite?

******************************

Kobach has made uprooting immigrants who voted illegally a centerpiece of his efforts as secretary of state in Kansas. After more than two years of being empowered to prosecute fraud, he’s charged two noncitizens with having voted.  WaPo.

I find it exceedingly odd,

this worry about voter fraud.

The real fraud occurs

with dumb racial slurs

the White House is spreading abroad.

********************************

Going down the rabbit hole with Alice is quite fun.
And Puff the Magic Dragon has his moment in the sun.
Mild hallucinogenics that stun folk into a grin
are trending more than ever in this world of stress and din.

So why let thugs and hooligans the market corner so,
when bizness types are anxious to invest and make some dough?
The money found in vaping is an iceberg tip, my friend;
the cannabis bonanza doesn't look to have an end.

So alter your perceptions to go ride the unicorn.
You will not need prescriptions, just as sure as you are born!
As soon as they get blockchains up and running for our dope
you won't care if you're rich or poor -- one hit will help you cope.

My friend in the Pacific left me a phone message asking how long I pray each day. This is my reply . . .

How long do I pray, is that what you’re asking me? I don’t hold a stopwatch when I get on my knees (which is a challenge in and of itself, since my osteoarthritis makes kneeling uncomfortable.)

But I will come up with a reply, in a roundabout manner, since this morning I’m not feeling too well and don’t want to occupy my mind with much of anything more than skimming the surface of my very superficial thoughts.

Yesterday I was at the local supermarket across the street from my building, Fresh Market, getting a fresh baked cheddar/jalapeno bagel for my breakfast (I love having one smeared with smoked salmon flavored cream cheese and a couple of green onions, with a big cold glass of milk.) As I strolled down the condiment aisle, gazing in fascination at the varieties of vinegar, hot sauce, dill pickles, olives, ketchup, mustard, worchestershire sauce, fish sauce, soy sauce, pickle relish, pickled peppers, cooking wine, and bottled capers, I noticed the pharmacy had a sign up saying GET YOUR FLU SHOT HERE. That reminded me that my doctor didn’t give me a flu shot when I went in last week cuz they didn’t have the full strength stuff, and when you turn 65 you’re supposed to get full strength, cuz now you’re officially old and feeble and liable to keel over at any moment without it. The doc said to get a full strength shot at any pharmacy I wanted, but to get it soon. So I asked the Fresh Market pharmacist if they had full strength, she said yes, I asked how much, she said free with Medicare, so I said shoot me up, doll. Then she recommended I also get a Hepatitis A shot, and I suggested I also get a shingles vaccination -- cuz under Medicare those two  cost just two bucks each. (I’m beginning to love Medicare.) So I got three shots yesterday morning, and this morning I’m feeling especially woozy and indolent, and my shoulders ache like H-E-Double Toothpick. So my prayers have been rather truncated, at best.

I remember in Thailand President Morris really emphasized long, detailed personal prayers each day. So I made a list each morning of everything that was on my mind for the day -- investigators, diarrhea, conflicts with my companion, finding a new chapel when I was up in Khon Kaen, what comedy bits to do with the Singing Group at our next concert, etc.  Those prayers lasted about 20 minutes apiece. As I mentioned each item on my list I paused to check it off with a red pencil.

But for most of my life as an active Christian I guess my prayers ran about five minutes on average. I remember a real long prayer I said with Amy one stormy evening after she threatened to walk out on me because I liked to play Monopoly with the kids on Sunday; rather than yell back at her that she was a certified loony, I swallowed my anger and fear and invited her to kneel with me in our bedroom to seek the Lord’s help in getting over this problem. I prayed a long time, asking for help and understanding to be considerate of Amy’s feelings and for forgiveness for not taking her thoughts and opinions serious enough -- when I had finished we were both in tears, and hugged each other. The spirit was very strong, but, alas, a few weeks later, after our last child Daisy was born, Amy decided I was too wicked to raise our children, so she left with them and filed for divorce. I believe now she was suffering from a serious case of postpartum depression, and was egged on by some of her brothers and sisters who had a long-standing animus against me which they hid with false smiles and hypocritical bonhomie. The momsers.

My prayers were pretty short after that. Usually a perfunctory flop by the side of the bed in the morning and evening with a rote thanks for the day and a plea at night for some sleep. I took a lot of melatonin, on the advice of my therapist, which didn’t do much good at all. But that’s okay -- if he’d prescribed something stronger I’m pretty sure I’d be an addict to this day. I have a friend who is a prof up at BYU who has been hooked on prescription sleeping pills for twenty years, by her own admission. And she’s considered a ‘pillar of the Church.’

(We now pause a moment so I can finish my can of Mountain Dew and take my feet out of the tub of ice water I have had them in since starting this reply to you -- I just got up from my first nap of the day -- starting at 9:30 in the morning! -- and couldn’t revive myself without a jolt of caffeine and a shock treatment to my tootsies.)

There, that’s better. Now where was I?

Oh yes, how long do I pray? Well, yesterday when I oozed out of bed onto my knees I spent about 3 minutes in thanksgiving for a decent night’s sleep (only up once to pee), for my apartment with a kitchen and a soft comfortable bed (it wasn’t all that long ago that I was living in an unheated basement with no cooking facilities and sleeping in a $30 recliner from DI), for the proximity of many of my kids and grandkids, and for the opportunity to write and share some light verse to make people laugh. I have been telling the Lord for many years now that I don’t think I could live if I couldn’t spend time trying to make people laugh -- it’s what I’m on earth for, in my own estimation. Plus I have prayed really hard, and, I hope, humbly, for His help in finding appropriate news stories to write about and to refrain from being just insulting and snarky and critical -- to have a light touch like Stephen Leacock and a crazy touch like Robert Benchley and a mischievous touch like S.J. Perelman. My literary idols. I sincerely believe He has heard my prayers for help and inspiration and answered them so that over the years my stuff has gotten better and seems to enjoy some favor with professional journalists now. But I doubt I ever spend more than five minutes on my knees in prayer, even when I’m feeling good. It gets too painful. I’ve tried saying my prayers while sitting up with my head bowed, but I’m not comfortable personally addressing the Lord that way. Never have been.

My prayer last night was very short and contrite. I wanted a cheese omelette for dinner; when I pulled the egg carton out of the fridge it slipped out of my hands and crashed onto the kitchen floor, sending shell and yolks all over the place. Furious, I loudly took the name of the Lord in vain -- several times. After I cleaned up the mess and got my omelette toasted I dropped to my knees by my bed and asked for pardon and for help in controlling my tongue better in the future. That was about a two minute prayer. I felt so discouraged at my failure to live even the simplest basic commandment that I hadn’t the heart to keep on going with anything else, like please bless me to sleep well or please keep my kids and grandkids safe and sound.

So there you have it: the length of my prayers, in excruciating detail. I wonder why you had to call me and leave a message with that question instead of just emailing me? This reply of mine, as fine an example of logorrhea as ever disgraced the pages of literature, is of course going on my blog site. But you knew that already, didn’t you? Maybe that’s why you didn’t dare email me in the first place . . . ?

A Tweet from Trump -- Carbon Dioxide -- "Trump 2020" is not Fireproof -- The Cost of a Stamp is Going Up Again -- The Space Race and Your Wallet -- The Sears Saga: Another One Bites the Dust

The U.S. Postal Service proposed raising the price of a first-class stamp by 10% to 55 cents and increasing rates on a popular option used by Amazon.com Inc. and other shippers by more than 12% as the agency seeks to shore up its finances.  WSJ

The postman's ringing twice

to let you know the price

of mailing stuff

is getting rough;

your wallet's in a vice.

*************************************

The powerful new rocket NASA has been developing for years in its quest to get to the moon and Mars will require a massive amount of additional funding that would double the initial cost of the project to nearly $9 billion, according to a scathing government report released Wednesday.  WaPo

Getting to the moon is gonna cost an arm and leg.

And Mars is gonna need large golden ducats by the keg.

Trump got his start in real estate; I guess he wants to lease

condos on the Martian plain and parcels of green cheese.

But if the Martians read his tweets I think they may decide

to stick us next to Tharsis, hoping for a good landslide.

The one percent with all the wealth can dream of outer space;

the rest of us are stuck on Earth, and going broke apace.

**********************************

For years, there have been reports of Sears death spiraling toward the corporate graveyard alongside other popular brick-and-mortar retailers.  Now, reports say Sears is working with advisers to prepare to possibly file for bankruptcy, as soon as this week.  USA Today 

Nothing but warehouses dot the landscape.

Stores that sell merchandise are in bad shape.

Sears is the latest to take a nosedive.

Amazon will make sure they don't survive.

I knew all the staff down at Sears long ago;

now algorithms sell me a gizmo.

I don't like to rhyme of despair and defeat,

but we're getting too good making folk obsolete.

*********************************

A TRUCK WITH 'TRUMP 2020' BUMPER STICKERS WAS LEFT AT A BAR OVERNIGHT: SOMEONE SET IT ON FIRE.
headline in WaPo



The last resort of freedom is the bumper sticker, friend.
When that is threatened we have reached the cotton pickin' end.
If civil discourse can't be had with cars and trucks, beware;
internment camps are coming and there's napalm in the air.
Perhaps Betsy DeVos can help us in this hour of need --
for soon all of our children will no longer learn to read! 

**********************

Carbon dioxide remains
part of the Earth's growing pains.
Unless it's decreased
the skids will be greased
and Noah will sail the Great Plains.

**************************

Despite so many positive events and victories, Media Reseach Center reports that 92% of stories on Donald Trump are negative on ABC, CBS and ABC. It is FAKE NEWS! Don’t worry, the Failing New York Times didn’t even put the Brett Kavanaugh victory on the Front Page yesterday-A17! @realDonaldTrump

When negative stories occur

about me, they all are just pure

fakery, see,

and plain ornery --

the Saudis have got the right cure.

Beaches

There is something about a beach, freshwater or ocean, that pulls me irresistibly into a good and generous mood. Find me on the beach anywhere in this distended world and I'm liable to treat you to the best meal available in a hundred mile radius, or offer you a string of pearls, or at least build a sand castle with you. Whatever is fine and decent in my usually crabbed and crusted soul expands like a Ja-Ru Magic Grow Capsule whenever the shore is near.

Growing up in Minneapolis, I often walked or biked down to the Mississippi shore around the Hennepin Avenue Bridge. Now gentrified, homogenized, and sterilized, the Mississippi shoreline fifty years ago was an overripe, pungent, fascinating landscape of lazy carp gulping sewage direct from large brick tunnels, littered with bed springs and beer bottles, and smelling of peppery weeds and urine. Waves slapped at the speckled, gritty shore as coal and grain barges majestically sailed past in water that was a peculiar kind of brown -- more of a stain than a color, with diesel rainbows wavering on top of it. 

Sitting on an elm stump, I watched the crows and pigeons wheeling in the pale blue sky over the water as the sluggish tugboats thumped sullenly by. There was always something interesting to pick up on the shore. Snags of driftwood. A large leather boot with a black rubber sole. Solitary burned out headlamps bobbing in the backwash. And slack rusted steel cables that ran out of the river and up the steep wooded riverbank to who knows where. I yanked them out of the muck in a vain attempt to see what mysterious objects they were attached to, but never succeeded in finding an end point. They were dangerously untwisting with age, with individual steel threads broken off and forming vicious pointed spikes. Only the mercy of the water gods kept me from jabbing myself and perishing with septicemia. 

I also cavorted on many a lakeside beach in Minneapolis. Always on the lookout for minnows, tadpoles, turtles, and frogs. Dragonflies perched on the cattails, owlishly observing my efforts to corral a shiner in my cupped hands. As a boy I always felt overpressed with useless and capricious rules imposed on me by hoards of adults, but when I was by the water those same stifling ukases always seemed remote and unenforceable. I grew up believing that the beach meant freedom.  

When I arrived in Venice, Florida, at age 18, to attend the Ringling Brothers Clown College, I was met with a tantalizing and intoxicating smell that curled my toes. Saltwater! 

I spent every spare moment at the beach in front of the Venice Villas, where I shared an apartment with five other students. I relished standing stock still in the sand as the water washed over my feet and they gradually sank into the fine grains right up to my ankles. A canal emptied into the Gulf a few yards down the beach, forming a lagoon where alligators patrolled for little white poodles that old ladies incautiously brought down on their flimsy leashes to exercise. 

 There is no breeze to match a saltwater beach breeze. It stiffens the hair and picks at the eyes. Hunger and thirst are magnified into an insane animal lust that can only be satisfied with grilled red snapper steaks, mugs of steaming crab bisque, baked potatoes the size of bowling balls, and flagons of hissing mineral water (what did you expect: the drinking age in Florida was 21.) A half dozen veteran Ringling clowns had their winter homes in Venice, and they had me over for such meals on a regular basis -- I think they were half enthralled and half repelled by the stamina and urgency of my ravenous gluttony. I ate a dozen oyster fritters in one sitting at Swede Johnson's house -- a feat of digestive folly that inspired the old clown to nickname me 'Pinhead' for the rest of my professional career with Ringling. 

A few years later I was in Thailand as a missionary for my church. There are nearly two thousand miles of beach in Thailand, but Elders on a mission for the Church were verboten to go anywhere near them. A swim in those inviting tropical waters meant being sent home, defrocked and disgraced. So I could only gaze longingly at those luscious beaches from a sanctified distance for two whole years.

But twenty years later I returned to teach English, a sad and divorced middle-aged waif, and began a steamy love affair with beaches from Kho Samet to Khrabi that soon cured my melancholia. 

On a beach in Thailand you first rent yourself a large canvas deck chair, at one hundred baht for the full day. (That's about three American dollars.) You station it under a nearby palm tree and immediately send one of the little boys that hang around the beach like sand fleas to the nearest bamboo seafood shack for a banana leaf filled with shrimp fried rice, for 50 baht. Also some green papaya salad that is prepared with a mortar and pestle and that is concocted with a generous portion of lightly boiled shrimp and raw crab. (It's a lot of fun to spit bits of crab shell, like a kid spitting watermelon seeds.) After your repast, you stroll down the pure white sand and take a leisurely dip in the water, which is the temperature of lukewarm soup. Thoroughly refreshed, you return to your deck chair for a snooze. When you awaken it's time for another dip, and then, as the tropical sun begins its descent and the breeze freshens to a cooling caress, a lovely girl comes by to offer a foot massage for two hundred baht (about six American dollars.) At the same time another lovely young thing may come by to offer a haircut or a manicure. And the kanom jiin vendor stops by to see if you'd like a bowl or two. After your foot massage it's time to walk along the beach awhile, looking for bits of brain coral and sea glass to take back home for the whatnot cabinet. Chances are good you'll run into a not-too-sober mahout with his baby elephant in tow, and for 20 baht you can take all the selfies you want with the cute little pachyderm. Even ride it, for another 20 baht. Time for one more swim and then settle back into your deck chair as the local Thais start a driftwood bonfire and pour out their hearts with traditional romantic ballads while they pour in gallons of Chang beer. 

One may, of course, meet Someone on the beach in Thailand, and then the night becomes more than gem-like stars and dazzling moonlight that reflects playfully off the gentle waves. Or one may not. If the latter, there is always a nearby pier where the fishing fleet has dropped off a fresh catch of something or other that goes into a communal pot of spicy curry. A bowl of it, with rice, will set you back 20 baht. 

You end the night with a freshwater shower on the beach, which costs all of 5 baht. And then toddle off to bed. 

Since Thailand has over sixty school holidays during the year, I had plenty of opportunity to enjoy the beach just as described above. When I had to leave Thailand due to some work visa issues, I felt I was abandoning the nearest approach to Paradise a man could have in this nasty old world. It's been eight years since I left those entrancing beaches in Thailand. Today I look out my patio doors as the snow settles over the grey Wasatch Mountains for the winter. But I've got my memories of those glorious beaches -- and a bit of brain coral tucked away in the drawer where I keep my stamps, fountain pen, and envelopes. 

Overweight Tourists Discriminated Against in Greece -- Shh! World Noise Crisis -- Those Sneaky Advertisers -- Teacher Pay

Along with the cacophony from planes, trains and automobiles, the din pumped through headphones, at fitness classes and during rock concerts is damaging our health, the WHO’s guidelines published on Tuesday said. Even toys can present an auditory danger.

WJS

When you go to Upper Volta to escape the awful din

of the traffic and construction, and those tunes that ring like tin;

when, I say, you flee in panic, to Lake Biwa in Japan,

decibels will fly around you like some noisy Peter Pan.

There is no escape from clamor; caterwauling is our fate --

Lest librarians can conquer noise pollution at the gate! 

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Those sneaky advertisers with 'Paid Content' written wee

keep fooling me so that I read their ads consistently.

It's true their graphics sparkle with a gorgeous sex appeal,

but I ain't in the market for a Rolex or oatmeal.

I'm going to the news stand for a paper copy so

the ads stand out so plainly I can notice friend from foe. 

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The wages of American teachers have dropped over the past decade. That’s a long way from similarly wealthy European nations such as Germany, for example, where teachers are among the nation’s top earners and can make more money than Web developers or sometimes even entry-level doctors.  Washington Post

I do not think our teachers need big paychecks anymore.

It would make them cocky and they might become a bore.

Teaching for good money is not how this country works.

Not when you are training generations of store clerks.

Pure ignorance is something that we dare not really douse;

for look how well it's working up there in our own White House!

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Greece has banned "overweight" tourists from riding donkeys on the popular island of Santorini, after activists complained that they were suffering spinal injuries.  CNN

A tourist who sits on a burro
in Greece will be given a thorough
test of his weight,
and if it's too great
he'll walk in a humbling furrow.