Is Netflix a Romance Killer?

A 2017 paper in “Archives of Sexual Behavior,” which revealed that Americans were having less sex, on average, than they did three decades ago, offered streaming video as one possible culprit.

WSJ

An evening full of romance is a treasured memory

to many an old geezer, and I certainly include me!

Those nights of passion with my spouse; those were the good old days.

We didn't have the internet to tempt us with delays.

And so our fam'ly grew apace; the kids just kept a-comin'.

It was our way to keep the GNP up high and hummin'.

I guess that's 'chauvinistic' now; unpopular and trite.

But let me tell you, buddy, we looked forward to each night!

But nowadays with Netflix and those other streaming views,

couples sit around at night and wind up in a snooze.

No wonder that our birthrate is in nugatory zones,

what with ev'ryone addicted to that "Game of Thrones."

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More to come

Hobby Horse Girls

A veterinarian lectured girls on hobbyhorse vaccination schedules, saying “check that the eyes are clear and there is no nasal discharge.” The girls discussed hobbyhorse bloodlines and hobbyhorse temperaments, hobbyhorse training routines and hobbyhorse diets. There were rhinestone-studded bridles for sale.

NYT

I wish I was a hobby horse, with little child astride;

I'd take him on a marvel trip to open his eyes wide.

We'd breach the starry heavens and splash through the Milky Way;

circle round the foolish moon and pull a comet sleigh.

Gallop o'er the greenest hills and slide down deepest glade

to seek for cotton candy with a pail of lemonade.

Or I could be a bronco with a cowboy on my back;

buckin' and a snortin' as I ran around the track.

We'll ride into the sunset like all western heroes do,

and never worry or grow up -- like Peter Pan or Pooh!

Ah me, to find the secret of such ever-young enzymes --

but now I'd better get back to the Sunday New York Times . . . 

Notre Dame & Yellow Vests. Asian Carp.

PARIS—The campaign to rebuild Notre Dame, in eliciting vast donations from France’s richest families, has become a target of the yellow-vest protest movement.

Protesters taking to the streets Saturday for the 23rd consecutive weekend of yellow-vest marches, however, decried the hypocrisy of elites who they said were willing to mobilize large sums to rebuild the cathedral while allowing France’s working class to languish.

WSJ

When the poor and needy get a notion to rebel

there is very little that will shrink their tattered swell.

Once the bit's between their teeth they gallop steady on;

elites are left in terror at their peril, come the dawn.

And so a great cathedral needs expensive restoration;

 this adds fuel to demonstrations in the Gallic nation.

restoring ancient beauty now becomes a new crusade,

because the Yellow Jackets think that THEY deserve the aid.

I call them Yellow Jackets cuz they sting how'ere they please;

I wonder if they soon might bring the French unto their knees?

It's like the old Bastille again, and Uncle Sam should heed

how the disenfranchised can make any country bleed.

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

Southern states are ramping up efforts to control the problem, but some officials worry they may be too late. For years, Midwestern states and the federal government have spent millions of dollars on research, electric barriers and other methods to keep Asian carp from infiltrating the Great Lakes and hurting its ecology and $7 billion annual fishing industry.

WSJ

No one likes the Asian carp; it is a horrid fellow.

Its fangs are long, its gills do smell, its eyes are scary yellow.

It lurks upon the bottom of a river or a stream,

and jumps into your fishing boat to make you weep and scream.

From whence this interloper hails, we do not care to know,

or why it jumps so viciously and wriggles to and fro.

Enough to realize this fiend destroys our native catch

and turns the bottoms of our lakes into a desert patch.

Dissembling to the last degree, the Asian carp pretends

he is an honest immigrant and wants to be just friends.

But if you let him in your pond you'll soon find he produces

nothing but a muddy scum and plenty of excuses!

La Destrucción de Montana

Sucedió tan rápido que nadie lo vio venir, o supo a dónde fue después de que se hizo. En otras palabras, fue el mejor de los tiempos y la peor de las historias. Hasta el día de hoy, los medios todavía están decididos a silenciar las cosas en lugar de dejar que los verdaderos y horribles detalles de la destrucción de Montana se produzcan para que nuestra nación se ruborice y tiemble.       ¿Y quién puede ¿Y quién puede culparlos? Todo comenzó en una noche tranquila cerca de las estribaciones de las Montañas Rocosas, ya que se apoyan en el gran estado de Montana. Monty Mothballer, un ranchero de ganado robusto y patán de hachís, se estaba acostando con una dosis de aceite de ricino mezclado con caldo de cactus cuando escuchó un estruendo terrible que venía de las montañas distantes. Cuando salió a la calle para ver de qué se trataba todo ese ruido, tuvo que frotarse los ojos con incredulidad varias veces antes de reconocer que un Chinook canadiense se había escapado de sus captores del norte y estaba avanzando hacia su rancho como un grupo esclerótico que intentaba llegar al Mick Jagger. Puedes imaginar el resto, ya que no tengo ninguna intención de entrar en detalles.

culparlos? Todo comenzó en una noche tranquila cerca de las estribaciones de las Montañas Rocosas, ya que se apoyan en el gran estado de Montana. Monty Mothballer, un ranchero de ganado robusto y patán de hachís, se estaba acostando con una dosis de aceite de ricino mezclado con caldo de cactus cuando escuchó un estruendo terrible que venía de las montañas distantes. Cuando salió a la calle para ver de qué se trataba todo ese ruido, tuvo que frotarse los ojos con incredulidad varias veces antes de reconocer que un Chinook canadiense se había escapado de sus captores del norte y estaba avanzando hacia su rancho como un grupo esclerótico que intentaba llegar al Mick Jagger. Puedes imaginar el resto, ya que no tengo ninguna intención de entrar en detalles.

Headlines: Detroit. Write Your Own Obituary. Brazil. Postcard to the President. Boeing.

If teenagers are any guide, Americans’ love affair with the automobile may no longer be something car makers can bank on.

The percentage of teens with a driver’s license has tumbled in the last few decades and more young people are delaying purchasing their first car—if buying one at all, say analysts, generational experts and car industry executives.

WSJ

Seems the era of our teens/driving in their cool machines/is about to end at last/which will leave Detroit aghast/Kids would rather speed and race/with their games on cyberspace/This lets parents off the hook/and replenishes bankbook.

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

Once you resolve to write your own obit, how do you get the job done? My advice is to set aside 15 to 30 minutes once or twice a week until you finish. Don’t fuss about literary flourishes. Just write the story simply, in your own voice. As for structure, I’m going with chronological order. It may not show much imagination, but it provides a clear path for the writer and the reader.

James R. Hagerty.  WSJ

Born upon September morn/in the Minnesota corn/Never was one much for school/ran away to be a fool/Worked for Ringling off and on/often had my things in pawn/Had eight kids with just one wife/Crowning glory of my life/Now I'm old and fat and write/poetry that's awful trite.

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

BRASÍLIA—Brazilian judges are ratcheting up a campaign against what they deem to be misleading press coverage and offensive social-media posts, raising concerns among free-speech advocates.

Following a Supreme Court order, police this week raided homes and seized documents and computers of several Facebook and Twitter users who had accused the court on social media of corruption and other crimes, according to press reports and some of the targeted people.

WSJ

With their high and holy calling

judges in Brazil are bawling

for their citizens to cease

agitating cyber-peace.

Those who turn their face in scorn,

to the courtroom swiftly borne,

find themselves behind steel bars --

with time enough to write memoirs.

So if to Rio you must go,

watch your Facebook postings, bro;

otherwise a nice cadeia

is the hotel where you'll staya.

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

Postcard to the President

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

NORTH CHARLESTON, S.C. — When Boeing broke ground on its new factory near Charleston in 2009, the plant was trumpeted as a state-of-the-art manufacturing hub, building one of the most advanced aircraft in the world. But in the decade since, the factory, which makes the 787 Dreamliner, has been plagued by shoddy production and weak oversight that have threatened to compromise safety.

NYT

I think that I shall never fly

in Boeing planes up in the sky.

Their factories do shoddy work,

with wiring that goes berserk.

They used to be reliable

but now are way too pliable

with standards and their training schools --

employees scratch their heads at tools.

I think their unions better say

to immigrants "Please come and stay!"

"We need your fresh and younger brains

to once again make safer planes!" 

Timerick

Trump Lashes Out as Mueller Report Reverberates Around Washington

WSJ Headline

House Democrats Subpoena Full Mueller Report, and the Underlying Evidence

NYT Headline

Democrats are looking for/something that will make Trump roar/Mueller seems to be the one/which will give them greatest fun/With his club they hope to smash/Donald into hopeless trash/but beware just how you swing/if you miss you've made him king!

Postcard to the President

I only know what algorithms tell me

The algorithms that power Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and YouTube have a disproportionate control over our lives. And while there are certain controls that allow us to tweak what we see when we’re on these massively popular networks, there’s no real escape.
WSJ

I accidentally clicked an ad

for hotel spots in Trinidad.

So right away I hit delete,

then went to post my latest tweet.

But algorithms now awoke

and my news feed became a joke:

New recipes for Planters Punch

and having conch stew for my lunch --

I didn't read of Tiger's win

or of the Trumpster's latest sin.

Instead I got how very close

Trinidad's to Barbados.

Bargain airfares now appeared

and advice was volunteered

on the cheapest getaway

all around Montego Bay.

I tried to let my Facebook page

know that I was in quite a rage,

and fiddled with my Instagram --

but they gave not a tinker's dam.

Nothing I could do or post

could rid me of this awful ghost.

And so from now on I'll be seein'

nothing but the Caribbean . . . 

 
 ". . .   a mix of impassioned speeches with comic-book readings, comedy shows and a nail-hammering contest."
WSJ

If you want to save the whales

why not hammer in some nails?

If for freedom you would strike

give a blow to some small spike.

It has long been understood

liberty needs hammered wood.

Bards upon their lyre strum:

when you swing please watch your thumb.

Without nails and hammers we

could not change world history.

Joan of Arc, so pure and clean,

carried with her a ball-peen.

Jason and the Argonauts

carried nails of bronze in pots.

When in peril they had fun

shooting them with a nail gun.

Betsy Ross, though needles break,

used a brad our flag to make.

Roosevelt and his New Deal

needed carpet tacks of steel.

And today we cannot fail

if we use ten penny nail.

Though, depending on your view,

merit might be in a screw.

Friday. April 13th. 1979.

Once again I’m dipping into my old journals to resurrect this day, from forty years ago: April 13. 1979. With added commentary, of course.

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

Spent the morning writing up a little piece about paperwork to give to April Crowley at the office and T.H. (Tim Holst.) In the afternoon I went dutifully to work -- though it mystifies me what earthly good I do there.

(The ‘work’ referred to here was the nascent office/warehouse of Chad Ericson, located on Nicollet Island in the middle of the Mississippi River in Minneapolis. He’s the guy who started Harvest Queen Food Dehydrators, with his partner Dave Dornbush. Chad and Dave were friends of mine from the University Ward where I went to church. April Crowley was the office secretary -- kinda had a crush on her -- and I was their very first shipping clerk. I received orders for the food dehydrators and filled out the paperwork to have the warehouse ship them out -- I also did accounts receivable. I found the job very boring, so quit after just a few months. Had I only known . . . Chad and Dave built the company up until they were bought out for a tidy sum several years later. April got a hefty check for the stock she had in the company. I sold my shares soon as I quit -- I think I got about ten dollars for them . . . the line to kick me in the butt forms to the left.)

 In the evening I read the paper very thoroughly and renewed acquaintance with Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scherezad -- which I hadn’t heard (or spelled) in a long time.

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

That same day forty years ago I got a letter in the mail from my old pal Tim Holst. At the time he was still the Assistant Performance Director for the Ringling Blue Unit. I quote it verbatim:

Madison Square Garden, NYC

Dear Tork,

I truly enjoyed your last letter. I had almost given you up for dead. As always, things are just about as hectic as they have always been with me. I am rapidly approaching five happy years of marriage. One beautiful little girl, a bald head, and finally . . .. a home in Florida. Have you ever bought a home by mail? Well, take it from me, DON’T.

(Sadly, Tim’s marriage to Linda ended in deep acrimony several years later. Perhaps I shouldn’t write this, but at this late date I don’t think it matters -- I never really cared for Linda at all. She was a statuesque blonde, and Holst got her in as a showgirl -- but the day she met me, when I came back on the show as a clown after my mission, I can still clearly recall her first words to me:  “Please don’t take up so much of my husband’s time -- he’s a very busy man.”)

We decided to invest some of our savings so we bought a place in Sarasota County, and have it rented out. I am now a landlord. Br. Lutz from the Church owned the property, and another church member built the home, and I bought it. The church in Sarasota is building a new chapel out on Beneva (that’s where you turn to take the shortcut to the old church by the Sarasota Country Club. It is a beautiful building, almost finished.)

(I never went to church but a few times in Sarasota during my circus years with Ringling -- we always had rehearsals on Sundays. I do remember vividly one Sunday when I went up to church, I invited along my friend and future clown partner Steve Smith, and, wonder of wonders, he accepted. Everything went well until one of the Sacrament Meeting speakers, who worked as a town fireman, referred to blacks in his talk using the N word. Nobody else seemed to mind -- remember that this was the Deep South forty years ago -- but Smith blew a gasket and stalked out of the meeting. Smith is white, and has always been very liberal. He never again showed the least interest in the church after that sorry episode, and I can’t say I blame him.)

I’m looking forward to reading the first chapter, and will promise to give you a very frank opinion. I have not rec’d it in the mail as yet, but will drop everything when it comes.

(I have no idea what I was working on at the time, that I would send chapters to Holst. It may have been an abortive biography I was doing on Otto Griebling, the wonderful silent clown I knew on the show during my first year. Otto had throat cancer and couldn’t talk -- so he used pantomime to communicate, and did it superbly. I only ever finished 3 chapters of that forlorn book.)

Have you heard what Uncle Irv bought? (Irvin Feld, owner of Ringling Brothers.)  He and Kenny saved up a couple of bucks and bought, not one, but two Ice Shows. Ice Follies and Holiday on Ice are now part of the Ringling Organization. I’m up for promotion in a couple of months, but they haven’t cracked what it’s all about. Maybe it’s the old string-along routine.

They are busier than ever, and we hardly see them . . .

Every clown I’ve talked to has volunteered to be Frick & Frack, and suddenly everyone here knows how to be a skater. Especially the showgirls.  

We had a swell visit from my folks., and they just loved hanging around the show.

I really have no good advice about the opposite sex. Maybe after 30 years of marriage, I could offer some advice, as for now, I [am] just keeping my head above water. I do know that the older and more set in your ways you become, it’s really hard to change or be even flexible. I would however, hold out, until you know that you’ve got the best buy. Be a smart shopper. By the way, save your money . . . you’ll need it.

In case you’ve had second thoughts about coming to work here, I’ve slipped a show schedule in the envelope. Please note the 10:30 shows . . . clowns have the most fun.

(As you may recall I had my infamous run-in with Michu, the World’s Smallest Man, a few years earlier, and was still blacklisted from Ringling. It took many years to get back into their good graces -- and it was mostly because Holst kept singing my praises in the ears of Irvin Feld that it happened at all. I owe that Holst an ever-growing debt of gratitude for all he did for me over the years.)

Take care, Bear

(Holst got the nickname ‘Bear’ our first year together on Ringling as clowns -- he could be grouchy and growly at times, like a bear waking up from hibernation, and was built along the lines of a round rubber ball, so that was the nickname we gave him. I had several nicknames -- Tork, Pete the Pup (for the one black eye I sported as a whiteface clown) and Dracula -- because my canine teeth stuck out rather prominently when I smiled in whiteface, until I learned the old clown trick of covering my teeth with my lips when I smiled.)

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

Attached to that same page in my journal for some unknown reason is my “Statement of Tithing and Donations” for the year 1979. Back in those days tithing slips were organized along different lines than today. And there were different donations/contributions that were considered obligatory if you could manage it. For one thing, each ward had a ‘Building Donation Fund.’ Back then the Church did not pay for the construction of new chapels -- each ward was assessed for new buildings in their stake, and the bishop met with each adult member to see how much they could contribute. This was in addition to tithing and fast offerings. That year, according to this yellowed piece of paper in my journal, I donated $548.00 to the Building Fund. I have no idea where I got that kind of money, since I only worked a few months in 1979. Of course I was sponging off my folks, with free room and board, and I didn’t own a car.

I think I’ll go out and buy me a food dehydrator today . . .