Learning to Use an iPad

Ipads are not unknown to me. I have never actually seen one or held one in my hand until my two year old grandson arrived for a visit the other day. I did find the device intriguing; however, I am still not certain what it can be used for except providing information. I do not think you can send anything to another person on it. I should admit, however, I have not yet tried to do that. Another shortcoming, it seems to me, is that I cannot write a story on it then have it printed on one of my printing devices. I am certain, however, all those issues will be resolved some day. Probably by doing away with printers and paper. That is a change a septuagenarian may not be able to accept. Holding sheaves of paper in my hand to read the fine print is a habit I probably will not break.

My age and lack of technical understanding came back hard on me when my two year old grandson began to show me how he can use and iPad. He knows which "app" he wants, he knows how to move the screen, and he knows how to use the "apps" he has chosen. Using an iPad he already knows how to spell words like mule, elephant, and home. When he has finished spelling those words he wants to move on to "Ant Smasher." This is a game where ants crawl across the iPad screen and he attempts to smash them as quick as he can. This is an amazing hand-eye coordination game that teaches dexterity but not much else.

Being upstaged by a two year old is hard on an old man. Nevertheless, if it were any other two year old, I would be very upset. But, since this is my two year old grandson, I am very proud of him. He is a genius!

Skyscrapers and Thirteen Year Olds or Vice Versa

After conducting some business in the City or undergoing a medical procedure there, my wife and I like to stop for lunch at a well known and by now an ancient hamburger restaurant. Mainly, I like the idea of eating in an establishment that has a history of being around for a long time. Apparently many people do; otherwise, it would not have been there since the days waitresses wore quaint uniforms with headgear that sort of reminded one of nurses. Their appearance had a hygienic look and that made eating there seem safe. We look forward to the large and tasty French fries the milk shakes (actually, I prefer the chocolate malted) and the large onions on the hamburgers. The meat appears to be freshly ground, but the burgers themselves are a little thin, so we have to order a "double" in order to have the sense something of consequence has been consumed.

Two days ago we had the opportunity to visit this restaurant once again. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary when we pulled into the parking lot. A full lot at lunch time is not unusual and the line of cars with drivers waiting to shout their orders into the squawk box (I think this is a relatively new innovation) did not seem out of the ordinary either. However, when we entered the din, the noise, of a hundred or more 12 and 13 year old middle school students all talking at once did shock us. Nevertheless, intent on having lunch at our favorite hamburger place kept us there. We believed that the young people would soon leave and go to wherever their field trip ended. We were mistaken. The group we encountered on entering did leave, but before they departed another hundred or so, and then another hundred or so followed. Hearing ten or 20 excited juvenile voices talking at the same time can be charming (I love young people--I am not a crumudgon), but hundreds and hundreds of them talking at once is a trial.

Ordinarily, we can order and be served in about ten minutes. This time we sat for 30 minutes waiting for two doubles, an order of French fries, a vanilla milk shake, a chocolate malted, and two cups of coffee. I should clarify that a little, the coffee arrived promptly. Looking about I noticed the size of the crowd, the number of lunch time diners, had no impact on the delay. "Skyscrapers" and lots of them caused the delay.

A "Skyscraper" I saw amounted to a giant glass of something pink and frothy. Since the menu had not been returned to our table or never been there, I am unable to tell you what a "Skyscraper" contained. I assume, by its appearance, that ice cream, carbonated water, flavored and colored syrup, and whipped cream made up the ingredients; oh yes, a maraschino cherry topped it off. In all the times we have eaten there a single "skyscraper" has never been served in our sight. But the tasty looking and absolutely decadent dessert is not the reason our lunch hour lengthened. No, the fact that one of these things found its way off the menu and on to a table had nothing to do at all with making us sit for over 30 minutes; the waitresses (to use a quaint term for a quaint restaurant) had to sing an inane and primitive sounding song while beating on percussion instruments of various kinds. I had not expected that such a thing happened at this fine old establishment.

Limited conversation, no impossible conversation, highlighted the lunch of us. Although my wife and I have been married for over 50 years we still like to talk to one another. Between the din of hundreds of 13 year old voices and waitresses singing about "skyscrapers" and beating primitive percussion instruments conversation became impossible. But, we did not want to leave. We saw some potential customers back away when they entered the establishment, but we stayed and stayed.

My supposition is that this place, filled with young life celebrating the end of the school year and waitresses enjoying singing a strange song filled with weird sounds changed the mood of the day for us and woke us up from the lethargy of sitting around in a medical office looking at all the other Medicare recipients who were having a lousy day. They were not in the restaurant so all I can do is guess is that their day never got better.

Weather Challenges: Learning to be an "Indoorsman"

Coming home from the City in a driving rain the other day reminded me of times I have been caught in downpours and other unpleasant natural challenges.

I will never forget waking up in the middle of the night in a pup tent a fellow Marine and I erected on what was called the outpost of our command post headquarters. The event happened at the base of Mount Fuji in Japan, probably in the spring (I don't recall the date, just the event). I awoke to the shout of my comrade who was the awake sentry and as I moved I placed my hand in about three inches of water and my air mattress was floating. The more I moved the wetter everything got and finally the pup tent collapsed. It was a struggle to get out of the soaked sleeping bag and entangled tent. We spent the rest of the night trying not to drown. We had to abandon the hole we had dug as part of the perimeter defense. When daybreak finally came the rain slowed only for a few minutes and then we were deluged again. Later that day the gunny sergeant came to tell us we were relieved of our post and that hot chow was waiting for us at the mess tent. We got to the mess tent by clawing through a forest and ankle deep mud. When we arrived, we broke out our mess kits getting them ready for the hot meal that awaited us. Spaghetti with meatballs, garlic buttered bread, and canned peaches were slopped into the mess kit pans. I looked forward to eating all of it. However, as I stepped out from under the galley tent flap to sit down to eat, the rain poured into the pans of the mess kit and I watched it all float away in a cascade to the mud in which my boots were immersed. At that moment I wished I had joined the Salvation Army instead of the Marine Corps.

Another of those military moments that made me reevaluate my choice to be a military man came in the last days of my career. By this time the career path had changed from Marine Corps to the U.S. Army. Retiring in just weeks I had one more duty to perform and that was to set up the security for the 2nd Armored Division's big exercise at Fort Hood, Texas. Everything began as planned. The security arrangements I made worked and the extra top secret detail we had added to the exercise remained un-compromised. Then on the third day of the exercise one of those rains like the one that brought to mind these experiences started. A down pour does not adequately describe the weather. Deluge probably doesn't either. This storm came closer to be of "Biblical Proportions." Nothing could or did move. A personnel carried flipped over in a gully full of water and everyone inside drowned. The conditions were terrible. The last night of the exercise I finally got some time to rest. Back in the tent designated for our use I climbed into a damp sleeping attempting to go under into oblivion, but just as I finally felt the gentle call of deep sleep someone yelled, "Gas attack!" I awoke and found my gas mask, went back under the sleeping bag and slept with that damn thing on my face the rest of night. The next morning I thanked the powers-that-be that my military career had an end in just a few weeks.

One of the storm incidents I recall came on a cold Friday evening. By this time I worked for the Bureau of Indian Affairs at Wingate High School at Fort Wingate, New Mexico. A meeting in Albuquerque of church people of the Episcopal Diocese of the Rio Grande planned for that weekend put me on the road. As I departed Fort Wingate I noticed a large wall of precipitation off to the north west. I had to stop in Grants, New Mexico for gasoline (where the man at the pump wanted to sell me leaded instead of unleaded and my car was not configured to take leaded gasoline). I told the station attendant a big storm could be seen off to the north west and probably headed his way. Not more than ten minutes later, on Interstate 40 headed for Albuquerque the storm engulfed me and it seemed to be coming now from the east. Blinded by snow and not able to feel the highway or even to make it out I continued to my destination. Driving in the blinding snow at speeds of five and ten miles an hour put me behind the schedule I planned. Nevertheless, no turning back plan worked in my mind. I could only go forward. Finally, I arrived at Nine Mile Hill east of Albuquerque. The snow just stopped. The sky over the city sparkled with stars. When I arrived at my destination and spoke of the snow storm just nine miles away, everyone looked at me puzzled and asked, "What snow storm?" When I returned to Fort Wingate the next afternoon the evidence of the storm I had driven through had totally melted.

Weather like that I have described has turned me into an "indoorsman." No camping, no snow play, nothing out of doors interests me. I do not like picnics and certainly camping is off the list. I don't even like sitting out of doors on my deck in the back yard. Just give me a comfortable chair, and 47 inch TV, and a good cup of coffee in my house and I find full satisfaction. I can commune with nature of the National Geographic Channel.

Having Fun and Good Luck

A few days ago I had an opportunity to stay in a hotel resort and casino. The comfortable hotel room met all my requirements for a good night's stay, but I could tell that the hotel did not make up the majority of the business transacted at that location. The first clue came when I checked in. The registration desk, small and almost inconspicous. reminded me of one of those old fashioned post office windows where I used to buy stamps. In fact, I had a difficult time finding the hotel part of the resort and casino. There seemed to be no clearly marked entrance. The main entrance to the facility, with a covered drive and valet service, took the visitor directly to the casino.

I have not quarrel with the "gaming industry" and I have been known to have visited a casino and even bet on horses at race tracks, but this is not something I look forward to and have very little confidence in the whole process of "gaming."

Don't you love that euphemism, "gaming." It's like children out in the back yard playing in a sand box, or as in my army days we "gamed" a problem to decide what tactics to use or to discern what the enemy might do next. Possibly, there is a connection between the two, army men trying to discern an outcome and putting money into a machine or betting on a horse. If I worked hard enough at it, maybe the connection would be more evident to me.

Anyway, I was at the hotel resort and casino actually to perform a wedding and the bride's family arranged for the hotel room. The religious duty that brought me to the hotel resort and casino did not mean I could not investigate the casino part of the hotel resort and casino.

So, later in the evening my wife and I walked to the casino, which is called "the boat." That gets me everytime I hear about one of these places. Missouri law requires that casinos be on one of the two rivers that give most of Missouri its character--the Missouri and Mississippi. I believe the supposition had been these places would actually be boats floating on the river; however, none that I know of are. To get around the river requirment the casinos are constructed near a river and then some sort of moat is dug around them making the place something like a boat. Nevertheless, the boat quality is lost when you discover that the structure is not floating but is solidly constructed with a foundation down to hard rock.

As we crossed onto the "boat" we were greeted by smiling hosts who encouraged us to have "fun" and wished us "good luck." We walked into what I  would think Dante would have included in his description of hell. Lights blinking in a darkened space big enough to house a 747 airplane. The blinking lights did not illuminate the space, just blinked and announced that you could be the next winner of thousands of dollars. First, we were confused. We had walked into the casino with a twenty dollar bill and could not figure out how to reduce it to nickles or quarters. Finally, we found a person with a badge announcing employee status. We were told we did not need coins. The machines took twenty dollar bills. However, there is alternative, we could go to a machine that seemed to me to require a degree in electical engineeing to operate or we could talk to a human being at the cashiers' desk.

We chose the latter. The young woman at the desk gladly handed me twenty one dollar bills for my twenty and told us that the machines only took bills, not coins. As she finished counting she looked up at me and said, "Good Luck, sir; have fun."

We strolled about this din of iniquity looking at the machines and the various "gaming" tables to get oriented and try to figure out how to have fun. Everywhere we looked we saw bored people sipping on bottled beer aimlessly pushing buttons in hope of winning a ton of money. Because no coins are used, there was no sound of winning. As we moved about the people at the slot machines looked like zombies inhaling deadly cigarette smoke (at least we thought it was) and downing beer after beer. There were no shouts of glee. In fact, it appeared to us that no one was having fun or good luck.

Nevertheless, we had to try. The ten one dollar bills each of us held in our hands were demanding to be spent. We found a machine that seemed interesting, we put a dollar in the slot pushed a button, watched numbers spin in front of us, and then waited for something to happen. Nothing happened. Pushed the the button again and nothing. Finally one more time and card zipped out over my head. "What's this?" I asked. I had apparently won a dollar. I found if I slipped the card into the money slot it let me play again. That was the end of "good luck" on that machine.

We thought we would try another. So, we roamed about looking for another machine that seemed interesting. We found one that someone had just abandoned and took it on the theory that it might now be ready to pay off. Instead of paying off it robbed me of a dollar and broke down. We had to get someone to come to fix the machine, but it never really got fixed; only robbed me of another dollar. Anyway, I will say the young man who came to fix the machine was very polite and when he had finished making the machine more robber worthy he said, "Have fun, sir and good luck."

We looked about at the glittering misery of the place and decided we had all the fun we could stand and all the luck we needed. We walked out and went to our room to have fun and the good luck of being together.

Celebrating a Death?

Religious leaders and pundits have commented on the spontaneous celebrations that arose on the announcement that Osoma bin Laden had been killed by U.S. Navy Seals. The gist of their comments seemed to complain that celebrating a death, regardless of the decease's history, is not appropriate. I mostly agree, but in this instance I thought the celebrations were appropriate.

The celebrants may have been happy that OBL or UBL as some have used for Osama/Usama, is dead but it seemed to me the celebrants were joyful that for once in recent history something has gone right. The military operation was successful, the person who organized the attack on the people of this country died, and justice has been served.

There is no way that OBL can be seen in a human context. When we watched the World Trade Center buildings collapse and knew that inside were thousands of innocents being crushed and mangled to death, the perpetrator acted inhumanly and therefore lost his status as a human being.

I believe that no one is beyond redemption, but I am not certain about OBL qualifies. However, that is not my call. The best thing that could happen to him after death is to be unremembered. Having a memory of him in anyway keeps him alive. However, that cannot happen. The world will always remember this man as a plotter who wanted people killed, not just dead, but killed. The world will remember that this man saw good in people being chopped to pieces by the shards of a collapsing buildings. This man wanted to see people cremated alive as airplanes exploded. No, there's nothing good about him.

Celebrating his death makes all life worthless. We need to celebrate that our government does work, our leaders lead, our people who swear allegiance the Constitution and commit themselves to serve the people the Constitution protects are so professional at what they do. That is what the spontaneous celebrations were about on Sunday, May 1.

My Birth Certificate

Long ago, when I lived in California, I often used the bus to travel from one city to another. Invariably the bus would be stopped by the Border Patrol. The officer came on board and asked every passenger their place of birth. My answer, "Panama." Yes, that's right, "Panama." I am a Panamanian by birth. My parents, both U.S. citizens (mother born in Minnesota and father in Mississippi) had the temerity to give birth to me in a foreign country.

Most of the time the place of birth gave me little difficulty other than I could not brag about being a Texan or some other chauvanistic locale. All I could say, when people bragged about their home states, "I have none." I think that made me a boy or man of the world.

"Oh, sure," I can hear you say, "you were born in the Canal Zone; isn't that a U.S. territory?"

My response is, "No, my birth did not take place in the Canal Zone but in the Panaman city of Cristobal."

That means that I often have to show both my birth certificate and a certificate of a child born abroad.

Nobody asked John McCain if he were born in the U.S. nor did they accuse him of being a secret illegal alien, but if I understand things, he may not have been eligible to run for President. The Panama Canal Zone never became a U.S. territory like Alaska, Hawaii, Guam, other Pacific Islands; the strip between the Atlantic and the Pacific had the title of "zone."

No where on my birth certificate, which is in English, is their a reference to race or religion. The only distinction, other than my gender, is that my parents were U.S. citizens. Because of that the U.S. Consul in Cristobal issued a certificate of a child born abroad. This fact alone, clearly, disqualified me from seeking the office of the President of the United States.

In light of the current controversy over our president's birth place and his citizenship I recommend that everyone should be prepared to display their birth certificates on demand, especially if approached by a "Birther" or the Tea Party. You never know, maybe somebody like me will get into the country and serve in its armed forces, or build a better mouse trap, or even become a U.S. Senator. You never know.

"Upstairs, Downstairs" Reveals Television's Decline

The servants and aristocrats are back on the Public Television System. This time Jean Marsh is the head of an agency providing servants to the rich nobility. Also this time the series is only three hours long as opposed to over twenty episodes when the series "Upstairs, Downstairs" was watched by millions of people in the 1970s. Back in the late sixties and through the seventies I often organized my Sundays to be certain that I could sit in front of my new color television to watch the PBS's Masterpiece Theater and I still do. But something has changed. The acting is good, the scenery is beautiful, the story line remains interesting, but Masterpiece Theater is not the same as it was thirty years ago. That is probably true of many things, and television entertainment should not be an exception. Nevertheless, Sunday nights sparkled when the highly skilled British actors filled the television screen with sometimes deeply profound stories of the nineteenth century, the world wars, and the culture of empire.

Since there has been only one episode of the new "Upstairs, Downstairs," I am reserving judgment on it. I will say that Jean Marsh reminds me how old I have gotten. Probably if I ran into high school classmates they too would remind me of my age. Thirty years ago many things were better, including me. But the new series of servants and aristocrats reflect change that had taken place in England after World War I; change I largely regret. So, change regardless of culture, seems inevitable. Change is especially inevitable after cataclysmic events such as the Great War.

Not only had the Great War (WWI) changed British society the social structure further declined as a result of the Great Depression. Working class people lived desperate lives and did not hold the aristocracy in as much awe as they had in previous times. I think we have seen similar changes in our own social structure. The changes in Western Culture have come as the result of not only the Great War, and the Great Depression, but also from World War II and the euphoric decade that followed, the cultural disillusionment of the 1960s, and finally from the breakdown in social mores that has followed. Television reflects those changes and breakdowns and PBS is not immune.

I have just about given up on television as a source of information and entertainment. I still have a television set but use it mainly to watch movies and the old Masterpiece Theater series I loved so much. Today we see burly men shouting at one another over disputes with logs, motorcycles, and fishing trawlers. Then there is the unscripted (I use that word advisedly) reality (I use that word advisedly also) shows. The worst of these is Donald Trump's "Celebrity Apprentice." This is likely the most scripted of the unscripted reality shows. Further, the people vieing for Trump's favor are near celebrities. I have to be reminded who some of them are and what they do. A few are interesting , but they are easy targets of the loud and crude who dominate the show.

The mostly junk passing as news is depressing. I do not care much about a starlet caught stealing and has a drug problem or the actor who tears up New York City hotel rooms but I cannot escape them. Most
that sort of news used to be confined to magazines that had titles like
"Hollywood Confidential." Sometimes I turn to the British
Broadcasting Corporation's (BBC) news program that shows up on PBS, but it comes on too early in the afternoon where I am. The PBS News Hour is dull and lingers too long on Washington. We need to know what is going on in the world, but our provincial attitudes keep us too close to home. The majority of senators and representatives in Washington have so little to contribute at an intelligent level it is difficult to listen to them talk about anything.

Local news on television is even worse. Murder and mayhem are the headlines. Out of the million or more people who live in the area served by the local television stations there have been twenty or more homicides but to listen to the breathless news reporters every night I could be led to believe that hundreds, if not thousands, are being killed daily. The way the local news is presented makes it scarier than rebellion in the Middle East, but unlike rebellion in the Middle East that news has less impact on me. I feel sorry for the victims of murder and mayhem and I worry about the quality of life in the big city, but those events do not affect my life like the rise in gasoline prices.

Television stinks! That is my unequivocal evaluation. I wish television people exerted more energy to produce meaningful drama and good comedy. However, I know that is not going to happen. Their bottom line (to use a cliché) means doing things cheaply and that every eight minutes five or more commercials interrupt the stinky programming. So, it is back to movies on DVDs.

Still, "Upstairs, Downstairs" does hold my interest and "Mystery" still calls me back to PBS, and occasionally something on the History Channel or Discovery makes me sit and watch, but by and large a good book is better.