Good evening Boys and Girls!

surrogate reporting from sunny Florida where today I learned that (a) I'm a blood thirsty ravenous monster well on my way to hell and that (b) I don't know God from Godzilla.

This second point may be true.

Although in my mind's eye I've never really tried to put a physical face on God, I suppose that when faced with such a visage, perhaps I might make that sort of mistake if, in fact, God resembles the Japanese movie icon with who's features I am, in fact, very familiar.

To take each of the points in order, the first being that I, and any of you, who like every single court that has weighed in on the subject, and who cherish the hard work (I use the phrase in honor of President Bush's like use of the words so many times during the presidential debates) that our founding fathers diligently performed while  painstakingly drafti ng our (with apologies to those of you who live outside the U.S.) Constitution, have been named "blood thirsty ravenous monsters" because we won't capitulate to the misguided notion that personal decisions are the business of anyone in the world who decides they have a right to make them for anyone else as long as "God" is referenced in some out of context manner and, more specifically, for expressing our desire to ensure that Terri Schaivo's decision about her own life is respected and acted upon.

At long last, and regardless of the horrible effects absorbing such name calling may do to our collective psyches for years to come, "we" seem to be prevailing, though we stand accused of "murder" and even "executing" this poor woman rather than accommodating wishes so many judges have determined to be Ms. Schaivo's alone.

This "blood thirsty" bit of hyperbole was hurled by one of the protesters at the Pinellas Park Florida Hospice where Ms. Schaivo, along with dozens of other forgotten and obviously unimportant patients, await the inevitable. It was aimed toward, I assume, anyone who disagrees with the hurler's point of view, which when distilled seems to be that while blood continues to pump through a heart, regardless of the level of brain activity in the head connected to the cavity holding said heart, that loud shouting of pointless insults will make the brain in question, though many yards away, leap into a magical overdrive instantly justifying the obscene taunts.

Yesterday I saw footage of the relative of another patient residing at the hospice who, frustrated by having to push through so many people as she ran the gauntlet on her way to her car after having visited her own loved one, made the mistake of telling a few of the sign waving, epitaph screaming, showily praying mob there that they ought to be ashamed of themselves for creating this circus.

OH LORD! She was attacked like chum by hammerheads.

This morning, thankfully the 11th Federal Court of Appeals in Atlanta (another bunch of blood thirsty ravenous monsters, I gather) tersely denied Ms.Schaivo's parents' umpteenth appeal, going so far as to blast Congress and the White House for gatecrashing the situation.

So. Here's my question. If, in fact, those of us who feel that this is, first, a tragic situation and, secondly, another in a long string of examples of improperly assumed power criminally misused by men and women entrusted by us all to act on behalf of us all in far loftier ways then they have over the past few weeks surrounding poor Ms. Schaivo's end of life ordeal, then - does God really look like Godzilla after all?

Is ours a mistake other well meaning, good hearted, blood thirsty ravenous monsters might make under the same circumstances?

Is Mothra involved in any of this?

Be good to everyone.

Good morning Boys and Girls.

Jesus reporting this morning.

Wow. Cool Easter. Went to Rome to watch the service there. Poor Pope John Paul. He tried so hard. Not looking too good.

The went farther east and had an early dinner with some friends very near my birthplace. Man they stuffed me.

I was back in the U.S. for a sunrise service at a little church in a very rural part of South Eastern Kentucky. Thirteen people and two dogs praying fervently. They forced a breakfast down me of grits and sausage....I couldn't say no.

I went to the 10:00 a.m. service of a big African American congregation in Miami and had a ball. They had a singing preacher who gave me goosebumps. Amazing.

They were having breakfast too afterward, though I have no idea how they could fit everyone in the fellowship hall there, but I said I had to move on.

Went to Chicago for another 10:00 service at a big Episcopal Church and got a little bored, but maybe I was just getting tired. The people were very friendly though. One guy actually gave me business card: Don Armstrong, Life Insurance...  "have you protected your family?" I got a good laugh out of that one.

Then I went back to Florida to have brunch with surrogate and the family he's been staying with. They're Jewish so I felt right at home.

Took a nap, played with a couple of kids down at the park tossing a Frisbee. Went back, watched some CNN, saw the crap with poor Terri Schaivo. Made me so sad.

Too bad the parents and "supporters" don't have enough real faith. They wouldn't worry about her even a little. She'll be just fine. Dad'll make sure she doesn't suffer too much as she dies either.

Long day. All in all a wonderful day. Watched the ducks swim down to their perch too.

Be good.

Jesus Reporting.

This is about surrogate. And it's so condensed that it may not make sense, but maybe it will explain his strong feelings about the Terry Schaivo case.

When surrogate and his wife moved into their family's home in Michigan, the first day they were settled in, he and his wife came home from work to new flowers planted along the front porch and a hot dinner waiting for them sitting, wrapped carefully along with a card, next to their front door welcoming them to the neighborhood.

As the years went on, the neighbors who'd shown this initial kindness became very important people to surrogate and his wife.

At the time, Mr. and Mrs. Simpson were in their mid seventies. They had no children, but adopted, in spirit, not only nieces and nephews, but quite a few of the kids in the neighborhood.

By the time Mrs. Simpson died in 1987, for surrogate and his wife, it felt like they were losing a member of the family.

After surrogate's divorce, he and his son occupied the family home. surrogate continued to visit Mr. Simpson daily, joining him at his dining room table which for years had been Mr. Simpson's watch post for keeping an eye on the neighborhood, gleaning more information than one would have thought possible just from his constant vigil, which he loved to share.

"The Clarks got a new dishwasher today. I figured they would be getting something new soon, the repairman's been there twice in the last week."

"Larry started a new shift. He always left at exactly 8:30, but now he's home till after noon."

Never gossip, really, just informational tidbits that kept him in touch with the world he knew. And it was Mr. Simpson that kept surrogate from going any crazier than he did after his divorce. But Mr. Simpson was failing. He'd fallen a time or two, and he almost started a fire with one of his 80 daily cigarettes. At 91 years old, he figured he was entitled to his single vice. His smokes, and his home. He hated doctors almost as much as he hated the idea of not dying at home.

On a beautiful crisp Thanksgiving morning in 2001, surrogate walked the mile or so to Mr. Simpson's house, surrogate and his son having moved a few months earlier into an apartment. surrogate let himself into the house and found that Mr. Simpson wasn't up yet so he busied himself doing up some dishes, and straightening up and then sat watching parades on T.V. waiting for Mr. S. to wake up.

At about 11:00 a.m. surrogate walked into Mr. S's. bedroom and discovered him lying in his bed looking like he'd been shot, drying blood covering his whole face and pillow.

He'd fallen in the night on his way to the bathroom. A deep gash ran from his forehead to his chin, just missing his eye. surrogate never did figure out what he hit his head on and Mr. Simpson couldn't say, but surrogate knew something had to change.

Six weeks after Mr. S. moved in with surrogate and his son, he became completely bedridden. For the next thirteen months he slowly declined. Doctors actually made house calls and hospice stopped by to say it was too early yet for them to be involved but gave invaluable advice to surrogate on ways to keep Mr. S. comfortable.

That year was in some ways a wonderful experience for surrogate and his son. Mr. S. loved being there and actually quit smoking about three months into his stay after succumbing to the chastising of just about everyone who came to see him. surrogate used to tease him that he looked silly smoking in the hospital bed anyway.

But he was slowly fading. His ever-present smile was still there most days, but his enthusiasm for telling stories and joking slowly disappeared till by the next Thanksgiving, he was a shadow of himself.

Christmas day he ate a little dinner, but not much. He just didn't want to eat.  New Years Day 2003, Mr. S. stopped eating altogether. He'd had it. He'd smile and shake his head. His voice was by now, nonexistent too. surrogate would try to at least give Mr. S. water and keep him hydrated by using little chips of ice on his lips, and then try to sneak them into his mouth.

The last real reaction surrogate got out of Mr. S was a sly smile and a shake of the head after one of these ice chip insertion ploys.

surrogate called hospice again. They were wonderful. They came and said that yes, he was going and that it was quite normal for people who are shutting down to discontinue taking nourishment before they die.

Two days later, January 9, 2003, Mr. S. died. He was 93 years old and he was loved.

Death is simply part of life.

Good morning Boys and Girls.

Surrogate here.

Nine times.

Nine times Michael Schiavo went to court on behalf of his wife.

Nine times he won.

But somehow the religious right in this country - our quickly growing theocracy -  have decided to make this poor woman a symbol of the amalgam of f*cked up political and cultural ideas and ideals that they hold so dear.

Terri must live! they cry.

I wonder if this same bunch would give two shits if Terry was black. Or if Terry was Iraqi. Or if Terri was one of the 32 million Indonesians starving to death slowly, or one of the three million Palestinians who face starvation over the next few years, or any of the tens of millions of Africans who will starve during the next decade.

Oh, and remember, none of these folks are brain dead. None of them have cerebral cortexes so damaged that the only doctors who give them a chance to recover are mouthpieces for the same morons who have voted to make this unfortunate case a cause celeb.

I have never been so sickened in my life.

Now they make Michael Schiavo into a bad guy. His wife, for all intents and purposes, has been dead for years,  so he tries to do the only thing he can do to both fulfill her wishes - and be a good person. What do they do? They change the argument into whether he is a greedy guy for hoping to receive the paltry million dollar life insurance settlement he's paid for all these years. I knew he'd spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on legal fees, but now I'm hearing that more than half of the million will have to go to lawyers.... and if he doesn't get it, he'll be broke for the rest of his life, just for trying to do the right thing.

I was married for 23 years to a woman I dearly loved. My wife and I had a pact that if either of us became incapacitated and had to be kept alive by any artificial means that the other person would see to it that no extraordinary means were taken to extend our lives.

I understand exactly how this guy feels. I know my in-laws would have created the same kind of stir - and I'd have been fighting like crazy to fulfill my promise, being called every name in the book along the way.

How much would these guys have to pay for the free publicity they are getting by doing this whole weekend vote thing?

And yet, getting behind these publicity seeking morons would be the right thing to do if they decided to wipe out hunger in the world, a doable thing, by the way, and they thought they ought to be consistent and throw poor Terri Shiavo into the mix. But no, this is proof that they are simply hypocritical fake Christians. If they had any faith, they wouldn't worry about Terri Schiavo's body being kept alive. Oh, and I love the fact that they are sooooo worried by the pain she'll feel because starving to death is "such a horrid way to die." According to people who have been lucid and yet starving to death, the pain is a dull throb that ends long before death. (You can read about it in quite a few books about the Holocaust - a little event caused by other people who loved power for it's own sake.)

I don't mind the stupid folks who have been swindled into thinking this is somehow a legitimate thing for the government to get involved with - there will always be fools. But the politicians themselves KNOW FOR A FACT that they have taken the position they've taken for the most egregious of reasons, and I do hope that if God is as judgemental as these same people like to claim, that they are judged fairly for this awful ploy.

Let's face it, if they were sincere they'd have passed this law ten years ago, or at least five years ago when they first had the majority and the White House. No - this is all show and photo op.

If I had my way.... well, let's just say I'm not proud of what I'd like to do to them, but they wouldn't be eating for a few months, except perhaps through Terri's feeding tube, which will hopefully be available for better use in the near future.

Be good to each other and I really hope this poor woman dies.

Good Morning Boys and Girls!

Jesus reporting today.

I arrived Friday. surrogate has been showing me some
of the sights in this part of Florida.

Yesterday we drove along the Sawgrass Expressway - a twenty mile lazy "L" shaped toll road that connects the Florida Turnpike up near Boca Raton with I-75 near it's intersection with 595. For about 12 miles of the route, the Sawgrass runs almost due north directly along the Eastern edge of the Everglades. Incredible!

Looking west from there, all you can see for a hundred miles is that enormous natural aquifer that is still so rich with flora and wildlife that if you don't feel special just to be near it, and see it, I'd think you'd have something seriously wrong with you. It's funny too, because if you look the other way, (east) it's almost completely built up with upscale developments, schools, churches and shopping centers.

Last night, just before dusk, surrogate showed me something that was truly wonderful to see.

Not so very long ago, maybe forty years ago, this whole area was also part of the Everglades.

In order to make the land usable for development, hundreds - maybe thousands - of perfectly shaped mini lakes have been dug. There are square ones, rectangular ones, circles, ovals - some are even supposed to look randomly shaped, but they sure don't look "natural" - though surrogate says you get used to it.

The dirt from the holes that make up these lakes are spread around the shoreline to build up the elevation enough for houses and everything else. If you fly into any of the South Florida airports, you can't help but see all the hundreds of lakeside developments, looking very cookie-cutter-ish from above.

Well the home where surrogate's been living - and where I'll be staying for the next few days - is set along the west edge of of one of these rectangular lakes. I was told the lake is one hundred and fifty yards wide, by a half mile long. This house is situated along the short end of the rectangle. The back porch provides a wonderful view of the sunrise.

One more thing about these lakes before I go on. They are all connected. If a storm is expected? Water can be pumped back into the everglades, lowering the water level in this huge grid of canals and lakes to reduce the chances of major flooding, and then that same water can be allowed to flow back into the lakes once the situation changes...

About fifty yards down the street is a little inlet surrounded by Palm trees, tall hedges and Black Olive Trees, plus there's a little boat ramp there, though no motor boats are allowed on the lake. During Hurricane Francis last summer, a tall thin Black Olive tree growing along the bank blew over into the water. Its many branches hold the main trunk parallel to the water's surface about eighteen inches up.

Every evening, just as the light starts to change, signaling sunset and dusk, eight Muscovie ducks slowly swim from different directions all over the lake to this long perfect perch.

Upon the ducks' arrival to the little inlet, the same ritual takes place every single night.

First they clean themselves. They dunk and splash in the water and then shake and peck at themselves with their beaks, then repeat the process with each duck taking turns cleaning one or more of the others.

Then they wait while the largest male swims slowly around the perimeter of the inlet checking, I assume, for disturbances or predators.

Once he's back - signaling the all clear - one by one they hop up on the fallen tree, taking a few minutes each to get comfortable. Then, just as it starts to darken a bit, they still themselves.

And they stay there till morning.

I got up before sun-up this morning to see for myself. They were all still there.

Then, as the sun peeked up over the horizon, one by one, they shook themselves awake, stretched a bit and then, once again - one by one - they simply left. Some flew away right from the perch, others just hopped down into the water and swam slowly away.

Pretty beautiful thing to see. Thanks Dad.

Good Morning Boys and Girls.

The first stanza in a conversational fugue and round.
(To be performed at the breakfast table over decaff)

"You don't care what I think."

"I do too. Why would you say that?"

"Because if you gave a shit about what I think you wouldn't treat me that way."

"What way?"

"SEE? You don't even care enough to recognize the way you take me for granted! You.."

"But...But I'm not sure what you're talking about. I just want..."

"You just. YOU JUST! You just what? If you cared you'd know."

"Damn it! How can you expect me to read your mind?"

"Read my mind? What are you talking about? You've gone crazy."

"Probably."

"What's THAT supposed to mean? That I've driven you crazy, right?"

"Did I say that?"

"You don't have to. I'ts wrtten all over your face."

"Oh, I get it now. So by looking at my face, you can tell what I'm thinking right?"

"Is that what you think?"

(Repeat ad infinitum without pause - with the opposite character taking the first line each time through. Volume levels should vary with each repitition with vocal emphasis changing randomly from the verbs to the subjects of the sentences. The verse ends when either one of the characters drops dead, or (of course) if the phone rings. Variations would be to have the conversation take place between two women or a woman and a man. Two men could never have the conversation, unless perhaps it was a couple of gay men.)

Good Evening Boys and Girls.

Last night I watched the Daily Show with John Stewart. The guest was Harry Frankfurt, Professor Emeritus in Psychology from Princeton. An essay he wrote 20 years ago called "On Bullshit" has been released as a tiny little book.

It's probably completely silly of me to write about a book I haven't even read yet, but just listening to the interview and having this fellow differentiate between "lies" and "bullshit" was so interesting and disturbing I wanted to throw in my two cents.

Professor Frankfort defines lying as the act of telling an untruth when you know the real facts to be different.

Bullshit, (the more pervasive and scarier problem, in his opinion, practiced by more and more individuals, people representing organizations, and governments) is when you say something not really even knowing or caring whether it's true or not. A good example that which comes immediately to mind is Rush Limbaugh and most of the statistics he uses to back up his opinions, which in far too many cases, he pulls out of his ass*. They are usually very easy to check, which many people do, and when confronted by the real facts he always sloughs it off by saying it didn't make his point any less valid - whatever that point happened to be.

Yeah I know Rush is old news, but he came to mind the instant I'd started to understand what Professor Frankfurt was saying...and it leads to my point.

As I said, I haven't read the good professor's essay so I don't know whether he addresses a third category that concerns me a great deal. A category, in fact that has become a huge problem in these here U-ni-ted States of A-mer-reee-ka. That third category, rather than being an act exactly, instead are people. I'm talking about the millions of people who listen to liars and bullshitters, believe them, and then go on telling what they now believe to be "the truth" in earnest and frank ways to the people over whom THEY have influence.

They're not lying or bullshitting really, because they believe what they are saying is true, often fervently - which is what makes it so very infuriating to try to talk with them about anything substantially meaningful. It's pointless. And every time I discover that someone I've respected has ingested any one of the Jim Jones Brand Kool-Aid products out there in the land, I am saddened beyond all understanding. Dare I get specific? Nah. It would be preaching to the choir.

These folks, "the regurgitators" I'll call them, not only swing elections, but represent the stock pond from which the next generation of fanatics and religious zealots will be fished, the hook having been already set.

Be good to everybody.

*thanks to Al Franken and his radio show for that term regarding Rush.

Good evening Boys and Girls,

surrogate here.

Over the last month or so, I've disappointed three people I care about. It hasn't been  on purpose, nor intentionally malicious, but I've hurt people none the less.

Not only do my apologies ring hollow once the hurt settles in, but it's a lousy feeling for me as well.

Good intentions are simply what they are. No more. No less.

Sometimes you just have to keep plugging away, and hope that in the long run, things turn out okay. They say - the infamous "they" - that it's not arriving that's important, but the journey we take. That may well be true, though sometimes the detours and delays make the journey a far less high minded affair than I suspect "they" had in mind all those years ago at the secret committee meeting at which the expression was unanimously approved for general release.

Regardless, we plod on don't we? Even when firm ground turns to cuppy mud, threatening to yank our shoes with each lifted foot, we plod on.

Be good to everybody. I wish I was.

Good Morning Boys and Girls!

surrogate here today.

About ten months ago, after hearing my son's band play in nearby Baltimore, I visited Washington D.C.  I'd never been there so I took the opportunity to do some sightseeing and visit some friends.

Along Pennsylvania avenue, about three blocks from the White House, is a little shop that sells political memorabilia. Hundreds of books by the politicians, pundits, wannabes, and never-quite-weres are proudly displayed; the publishing industry's unintended representation of the national time line.

They have hundreds of books written by all the power players associated with every administration going back to F.D.R. showing in about as thorough a way as possible the country's evolving political landscape.

On the store's shelves are buttons, bumper stickers, leaflets, mugs and all sorts of other promotional trinkets from the campaigns of every major Presidential candidate for at least the last hundred years, as well as tons of stuff from lesser campaigns that featured well known senators and congressmen.

Even though political advertising has traditionally been gaudy and low brow, advances in the graphic arts industry are also easily discernible as one looks over the thousands of items displayed there.

It was interesting to me how some of these items evoked such strong feelings in me. There were the series of books written by all the Watergate players from Woodward and Bernstein, to John Dean, to Charles Colsen's tome about his jail house conversion. There were campaign doo-dads from all the big third party candidates over the years. George Wallace, John Andersen, Ross Perot and even David Duke were for sale in all their failed, faded and hopelessly lost glory.

I picked up a mug from the George Wallace campaign and then put it down quickly, suddenly worried that somehow the karma associated with his twisted view of humanity might somehow rub off on me all these years later.

A bumper sticker supporting the Walter Mondale / Geraldine Ferraro ticket for 1984 evoked a feeling of hopelessness in me. I remember so clearly knowing immediately that they had no prayer at a time I knew the country desperately needed a change at the helm.

There was a not so very old book by Orrin Hatch, penned if I remember correctly, about five years ago at a time he was considering his  ;own run at the White House. I remember feeling queasy even seeing it included there.

For more reasons than I care to go into here, Hatch is a man, who to me represents the the height of insensitivity and smug self righteousness found so frequently within the American political scene. Last night I heard him gleefully praising this overhaul of the personal bankruptcy law the senate passed yesterday.

To be honest, I haven't read much about what is proposed, and don't have a clear notion of what it will mean to poor folks, but based on who supported it and who spoke out against it, I'm sure it will screw the little guy in favor of companies who contribute heavily to the campaigns of those who think it's a peachy idea.... meaning Hatch and his ilk.

It was hearing Hatch's whiney voice last night, sounding thrilled with his triumph, that reminded me of my lengthy browse in that store, and my eventual single purchase of a button with the words "Princes of Darkness" printed on the top, a large "666"  across the middle with pictures of G.H.W.B, G.W.B. and Jeb centered in the circles of the sixes. I bought it for a friend who really dislikes the Bushes because I thought it was funny and cute.

I find less and less humor, and more truth in that button as the months go by.

Be good to everybody.

Good evening Boys and Girls!

Surrogate Here.

I've been thinking about the strangest things the last few days.

My mind, usually a semi-valuable tool that I can use, when things are going well, to give form and substance the ideas that continuously pop from the subconscious, has of late been a randomly scrolling 1970's era microfilm viewer, whirling and zipping through hundreds of thousands of snippets of memories. Then, seemingly of it's own accord, it screams to a stop on an aparently insignific ant tiny sidebar segment of a of an incident from my past.

- two glasses sitting on a desk
- the spring supports of a shelving unit
- a picture of Popeye my son drew
- stitches working their way out
- a baby deer lying by the road injured but alive
- red pigment on the floor in my parents basement
- yeast foaming in a batch of pizza dough...

I don't see the headlines or the opening paragraph of the accounts that might give these memories continuity and shape.

No, instead I always seem to enter in the middle some place - the continuation of a newspaper story picked up on page five from a below the fold front page opening that, if visible, might give better context to what feels, for a few minutes anyway - at least till I've really thought through whatever partial glimpse of what always  seems an innocuous bit of scenery, and made the connection to the rest of the tale - like the internal silent rantings which if audible would be very like the empty banter of the stereotypical urban homeless psychotic person loudly cursing some old boss, lover, or relative in a nonstop soliloquy performed 24-7 for anyone in within muttering distance.

I don't consider this an especially telling sign of my impending old age or demise, since from time to time, even when I was younger, I'd go through these phases for a month or so.

The difference now, since I'm at least familiar enough with this "process" to recognize it as a temporary personal phenomenon, and even though I don't understand what triggers these bouts of...what? - I have no idea what they are really - is that now when they take place, I'm usually able to relax and enjoy them and see what, if anything, they (it?) produce in me.

I do know that sometimes what seems to happen after the fact is that I seem to make connections between what had always seemed to be entirely unrelated doings previously - sometimes even seeing clear mappings of not only what now is so obviously there, but also the reasons why I never saw, or at least understood, the flowchart before.

And sometimes, as those connections become apparent, and as the pictures transform from grainy black and white newsprint photos sans captions into crisp and exceedingly clear color prints (all of which happens very slowly in stark contrast to the the initial barrage of rapid fire thoughts when they flood in), I sometimes come away from the experience(s) feeling - for lack of a better word - wiser.

It happens.

Be good to everyone!

Good morning Boys and Girls!

Jesus reporting here with a consumer alert straight from Father and me!

I was checking my Email yesterday and for the umteenth time I received an offer from one of these web scammers who are using their "faith" to rock and roll in the business world.

This is an example of one these outfits:
http://cb.adprofile.net/lrs/10/index.html?CID=46481&" title="http://cb.adprofile.net/lrs/10/index.html?CID=46481&" target="_blank"http://cb.adprofile.net/lrs/1...;SID=YAHOO_CFM_030305F&am p;ADTBID=84801&xid=0

I grant you that the website home page isn't anywhere near as offensive as the email they send out, quoting both Corinthians and Matthew in big bold print for the duel purposes of letting you know they actually had to go through the tedious effort of finding semi-pertinent bible verses, but also to establish that insiders connection (*wink, wink* "We're just like you! Do business with us!") with those more gulible members of society who happen to consider themselves Christians. I'm not saying all Christians are gullible, by the way, far from it, but let's face it, these companies aren't going to attract geniuses with this tactic, nor are they trying to.

I just wanted to let you all know that I checked with Dad, then checked my own records very carefully, and I don't find a single entry anywhere suggesting that we approved of or sanctioned the use of the word
"Christian" in the advertising these morons are doing.

Plus, Dad said while there isn't a hell now, that he's reconsidering the whole thing and may in fact create a special kind of hell after all just for people who pull this kind of Doggy doo doo.

No real Christian would use Father's love to sell mortgages, credit cards, extended warranties or even hamburgers! In fact I doubt a devout Hindu would sell Vishnu Aluminum Siding! Nor would a sincere Buddhist sell Buddha Shakyamuni Hockey Pucks.

You know that awful feeling you get when the bile rises up in your throat after one too many packets of hot sauce on your taco? That's the taste in my mouth when I see this sort of thing.

Be good to everybody!

Good afternoon everyone!

surrogate here.

So. I've decided to go to jail.

I've been an entrepreneur all my life. I've done okay in a few things, but my ideas have never made me even close to wealthy. And I suppose it's a disease but I keep plugging.

Finally though, I'm feeling real relief. I'm breathing easier, I'm looking forward to tomorrow in that Tony Robbins big toothed grin sort of way. I just can't wait.

You see, I've finally figured out how to make it big. It's as clear to me now as Pat Robertson's vision of heaven is to him. Why I can make $130,000 an hour if I do it right. (Shhh don't tell anyone, it's just between us!)

Here's the plan:
I going to buy stock in my own company. Lots of it.

Then, I'll get the government to prosecute me for some minor insider trading infraction typical of what goes on daily all over the country amongst my peers.

Then, I'll agree to do the time after my trial and forgo my right to appeal, "just to get this horrible ordeal over with and put it behind me."

Then, I'll do five months jail time and then five more months under house arrest.

Here's the cool part! While I'm serving the five months jail time, I can rest, make new friends, think about future projects, and even make some decisions for my company (if they really need my input - I'm figuring it'll pretty much be on auto-pilot by then.)

Then, when I get out, I'll have made $500,000,000.00 for my troubles! Five hundred million! That's a five and eight zeros!

That's a hundred million dollars a month,
or twenty-five million a week,
or three and a third million a day,
or one hundred and thirty thousand an hour,
or twenty-one hundred dollars a minute.

That is, dear people,  thirty-five dollars... per second. At my normal breathing rate, I'm figuring about $273.62 for every single breath I take.

Count it out with me! One, two, three STOP! $100.00

Let's do it again! Let's see... car payment is $350.00 for lot's of people. Why, let's count to ten!

God Bless dear Martha. Boy, they sure showed her!

Be good to everybody.

(By the way, this took me about forty-five minutes to write. $93,000.00 Cha-Ching!)

Good Morning.

Surrogate here apologizing to those who read regularly for not posting the last few days.

I'm reading a wonderful novel by Saul Bellow called "Ravelstein."

At one point in the story, Mr. Bellow is trying to illustrate how sometimes people with money don't understand the plight of people without means, and seem to make the assumption that everyone is either, as well off as they are, or could be or should be if the the poorer folks would just work harder, or be smarter, or do whatever it takes to "pull themselves up by the bootstraps."

The illustrations he uses regarding the sense of entitlement and aloofness of many folks who, for lack of a better term, have it made, are priceless.

One anecdote related is about a poor man who came to a rich woman's house and knocked at the door. When she answered the man told her that he hadn't eaten a mouthful of food in three days. "Well for goodness sake" she responded, "force yourself!"

Most everyone I know who has any money seems to think that either (a) they deserve it, and those who don't have it are either stupid or lazy or both, or (b) that if you give money to a poor person that they'll just "waste" it and end up right back in the same situation they were in before - which is true if the the help given is sufficient only to put out an immediate fire.

A side note to this attitude, or philosophy really,  well absorbed by the "haves," is the old bromide that if you give a person a fish, they'll eat for a day. But, if you teach them to fish, why, there'll be food aplenty till death grabs them.

The problem with the logic is that if a person can't afford to take the time to learn because he or she is busy tale chasing trying to cover last month's electric bill, or can't concentrate clearly enough to learn well because of the constant worries they face, the whole idea quits holding water. There are times that just providing a nice trout would be more appropriate.

Think of the people you know who have had to turn down incredible opportunities because of the lag time between getting started and the obvious reward.

Then again, in the current economic climate, where the wealthy reap the benefits of policies specifically designed to make them even wealthier at the expense of the rest of the population;  and where the rare person who does invent a new and more lethal mousetrap is held up as an example (by those same policy makers) of what could be typical (if the poor weren't so damn lazy); I'm reminded of that man who, after being invited out on the fully rigged and stocked bass boat by his wealthy friend for an extensive fishing lesson, discovers to his shock and dismay, that even though now that he knows what to do, he can't afford the tackle and bait, (or the really cool polarized sunglasses), let alone a boat to get to the reef his friend who'd taught him said was THE spot to catch a good dinner.

Be good to everyone.