Crypto Through the Tulips

Crypto Through the Tulips

Yeah. I know. It’s a terrible pun. But bear with me.

Over the past year or so, I’ve had the occasional contact with women with *ahem* obvious assets who, when questioned, say something about dealing in cryptocurrency. Just the other day, a woman tried to get me into a conversation about Crypto. Funny how the conversation came to an abrupt halt when I said no. No Crypto. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Nyet! Considering last year’s dramatic drop in the value (?) of Crypto, I wonder about the wisdom of even considering it as an investment, being somewhere between a Ponzi scheme and outright robbery. This latest exchange brought to mind “Tulipmania” as happened in Holland at the first part of the seventeenth century.

To recap: Between 1634 and February 3, 1637, someone had the bright idea that Tulips had value beyond just a couple of stray Guilders hanging around the windmill. The value of Tulips skyrocketed toward the end of the year 1636 and February 1637. On February third, the value of Tulips dropped like a rock, eventually hitting pre-Tulipmania levels in a few short weeks.

Although I can’t put a date on it, the same thing happened to Crypto sometime last year. It was floating high, then all of a sudden, the value dropped like a rock. Recent attempts to interest me in Crypto are likely from people who may have been burned.

I told the latest person who attempted to get me interested that whatever she did with crypto was her choice – I wasn’t going to discourage her. (Well, this may be construed as discouragement to her and others, but since I suspect that I won’t be hearing from her again, I’m not losing any sleep.)

Crypto is not the first time nor is it the last time I’ve brushed up against a shady investment. I mentioned the term “Ponzi Scheme.” Other variations are referred to as “Pyramid Schemes” or the more sophisticated (and somewhat more legitimate) “Multi-Level Marketing.”

I recall being out shooting pictures for my high school yearbook when I was approached by someone not much older than I was driving a top-of-the-line Cadillac. There was a short pitch, followed by an invitation to a presentation held at the local YMCA the next evening. I was one of a room filled with people who were invited to participate in something called “Dare To Be Great!” Someone named Glen Turner had been selling cosmetics to a large degree of success. We were invited to take his course, “Dare To Be Great” so that we could sell others on the course to be able to sell others on the course ad-infinitum. It only cost $400 (this was 50 years ago) I didn’t have, and I saw little or no reason to even find the money to invest. Mr. Tolliver (the person who invited me to the course) was disappointed, I’m sure. I wondered for a while how long he was going to be able to afford his Cadillac.

There were several points in time where I encountered Amway. One was when I answered an ad and was invited to a house in an eastern suburb of Columbus Ohio where I was pitched by a man whose wife was running a daycare business with boxes of soap and evidence of several other MLM deals the couple had going. One thing I will say – Amway had some decent products. For some time I was a regular purchaser of their laundry detergent – at first from my then, Father-in-Law, and later from a friend I used to work with. Neither made a career of the business but managed to make a few bucks on the side.

Most of us are looking for ways of making a few bucks on the side.

A woman I know in Japan is out-earning her day job by a side hustle involving something called “Bey Blades.” There’s a site where another woman I am acquainted with bares her body for “tips” on a site called “Only Fans.” Another former co-worker drives an Uber (or is that Lyft) part-time. Or there was the operator of a local pizza buffet who maintained a room full of machines vending cheap trinkets and gumballs in his son’s name. For that matter, I can monetize my little blurbs on this site for tips, or coffee, or to sell my books.

But not now.

Spring is around the corner and the better half is making noises about planting tulips.

Be Seeing You!

Smells Like

Smells Like

I totally hate the smell of cooked or cooking cabbage.

Hate it.

It all goes back to the time I was in the fourth grade. I went with my mother to the eye doctor to be examined for glasses. As part of the examination, he dropped a chemical in my eyes to dilate my pupils. The after-effect (and it still applies today) was that I became slightly nauseous and particularly sensitive to smells. My mother decided that it was the perfect night to introduce the family to something called “Cabbage Rolls.” I couldn’t stand the smell and gave them a pass.

To this day, the smell of cooked cabbage kills any appetite I may have.

My reaction to cooked cabbage became even more pronounced when we moved to a town with a paper mill. There were mornings walking to school when the smell was so bad that it was all I could smell for the rest of the day. The town and the paper mill were famous for creating a stink, leading some to call our burg the armpit of the Midwest. The TV weathermen in Columbus would regularly point out any stink coming from our paper mill whenever the wind was coming out of the south. They ignored the box plant between us and them which was much more aromatic. It kept everybody happy! (There might be a few people who will see what I just did.)

My better half is well aware of my aversion to cooked cabbage. When we went to the warehouse store the other week, she saw and wanted to try Kimchi. I know about Kimchi. It’s a Korean concoction made of fermented cabbage. Not cooked. She got a bottle of Kimchi and has enjoyed every bite she’s had so far. As for me, well, I know it’s not cooked cabbage, but somehow I just can’t handle the idea. Next week I might try it. And the Hindenburg will successfully fly into DFW after crossing the Atlantic.

There are all sorts of smells which are, shall we say, easily identifiable. Like Marijuana. (“I don’t smell anything, and you don’t either!” – Willie Nelson) Cigar smoke or the residual smoke from cigarettes. Or wet dog. Very few people don’t know what wet dog smells like.

The smell of wet dog doesn’t seem to bother the dog. Perhaps that’s because the dog is too busy smelling just about anything coming within a few feet from their noses – apparently even other dogs downwind of them. When I take the dog Filbrix out on one of her several daily walks, there are a few places where I can just count on being barked at by dogs behind six-foot privacy fences. I get in on the smelling when I am out with the dog. For instance, I can pretty much tell when someone in the neighborhood is doing laundry by the smell of dryer sheets vented outside the house. Pinion is another smell, as is barbecue, or wood burning in a fireplace, diesel fumes from passing trucks, and one other which I couldn’t quite place until another someone pointed out the source.

There’s a landfill a few miles north of us and fumes from the landfill seem to envelope our little corner of the DFW Metromess whenever the wind blows from the north. It’s not cooked cabbage by any means. But it’s getting close to being the second most annoying smell I’ve encountered.

As Simpson’s character Nelson Muntz would say, “Smell you later!”

Be Seeing You!

{For those not familiar with vaudeville entertainer Ted Lewis, his catch phrase was “Is everybody happy?” Ted Lewis is celebrated as Circleville Ohio’s native son. There was a cardboard box plant in Circleville at one point in time. Nowadays, they host a toilet paper plant.}

Ants at a Picnic

Ants at a Picnic

There’s an adage here in the Lone Star State – “If you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes. It will be different.”

Last Thursday evening, we went from some pretty nice weather to really crappy in no time flat. Just after supper, the tornado sirens went off, announcing the arrival of a severe thunderstorm with rain and high winds. Things started blowing around and the next thing we knew, we were in an interior closet with the dog Filbrix listening to a whole bunch of clattering and thumping – wondering if we were to lose power or our lives to what was going on outside.

The dog Filbrix insisted that she bring one of her tennis balls into the closet so we could toss it to her.

When the wind died down, we took a peek as best we could in our back yard, to find a major portion of our roof scattered about. When we got out on Saturday morning, we found that, indeed, large chunks of the roofing on the west side of our house had made it into the back and side yards. For the most part, it was just the shingles (as you can see in the photo above). The other half went to work, and I was left to take care of the mess as best I could.

Now, here in our little corner of the DFW Metromess (well, not just this corner, but in every corner), disasters are followed by contractors looking for work. Can’t say as I blame them. They swarmed our neighborhood like ants at a picnic from Friday morning and into Monday afternoon (while I was writing this). There were tarps going up almost as fast as they could be gotten from the home improvement stores with salesmen running about like kids in a candy store, trying to lock repair contracts as quickly as they could be written. I had a conversation with a fellow on a neighbor’s roof while I was in the back yard attempting to clean up the mess left by Mother Nature. He came to our door an hour later with a pen and a contract in hand, wanting me to commit then and there to having him take care of the damage done on my roof.

I told him that I already had a commitment with another contractor. No worries… but if you are unhappy with your contractor, here’s my card, give me a call.

Walking the dog Filbrix Friday evening, I was asked the same question about my roof, and did I need a contractor at least half a dozen times. Not surprising. I had a similar experience a few years back when I stopped at a fast-food restaurant with my son in an area where a storm hit a few days earlier. We were approached several times by contractors asking about our roof. While we were eating.

Ants at a picnic.

The fellow I talked to came by on Saturday morning to put up a tarp in anticipation of rain, possibly on Tuesday. He lightened my wallet by the better part of $500 for labor and materials – and the salespeople kept on a coming.

Sunday morning, the roofers were out at least at 7am and were out and about after noon. Sunday afternoon, we learned that the city was going to have a dumpster ready for people to come by to dump debris. The better half and I gathered what we had, loaded into the Jeep, and were the first to take advantage of the dumpster.

Tuesday morning I will be here with the contractor and the insurance adjuster to see what the damage to my wallet will be. It ain’t going to be pretty.

At this point, all I can say is that it could be worse. Crews could be rooting around the remains of the house looking for corpses. Other than a few aches and pains, we are intact and will be getting at least a portion of a new roof.

A couple of other notes.

The solar panels we have on the south side of the house were untouched. And our neighbor had the best comment about the whole ordeal – quipping that we were likely getting the indoor swimming pool we always wanted. It took me a while to realize what he meant. Sometimes I’m slow on the uptake.

Will update, maybe, later.

Be Seeing You!

Woke Up

Woke Up

“Want to have some fun? Find someone who insists on not being woke and ask them what it means. The fun starts when they start stammering and stalling, attempting to come up with a definition!” – paraphrased from a meme on social media.

Now there’s a nugget of truth. I’ve been seeing incidents where some politician or another (exclusively Republican) swears that they will never be “woke,” while accusing someone else (usually someone other than a Republican) of being “woke” or of “wokeness.”

Woke is a lot like the phrase I used to hear: “That’s just too liberal for me!” I haven’t heard that phrase in at least two years… since the demise of Rush Limbaugh.

The word “liberal” became a pejorative under Limbaugh’s watch. As was pointed out in a brilliant cartoon I saw at least 20 years ago, the dictionary definition of “liberal” is not what Limbaugh made it out to be. A “liberal” is someone who is open-minded, accepting of new ideas… something you would hope your children would be.

Almost as importantly, a “liberal” is someone who respects points of view other than his or her own. “Woke,” in my view, is much the same thing. It means that I can sympathize with other points of view.

Put another way – Sure. I am a straight, white, Anglo-Saxon protestant, but that doesn’t mean that I am unaware of some of the struggles experienced by the LGBTQ community; it doesn’t mean that I am unaware that being white or being male gives me certain societal advantages not afforded to people of color, or females. I see being “woke” as a matter of respect to other people not blessed to be in my situation.

This little essay will likely be lost in the flood of politicians using “woke” as a pejorative. There are various conservative think tanks out there which will suggest the use of the term “woke” as a pejorative and more than a few politicians who will use the term whenever they think it will be to their advantage. And there are more than enough willing dupes who will take the bait and firmly declare, “That’s just too woke for me!”

As Mr. Barnum once pointed out, “There’s a sucker born every minute.”

Be Seeing You!

Thirty-Nine and Holding

Thirty-Nine and Holding

This week I will be celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of my thirty-ninth birthday. As with most people I know, I wonder how I ever got this old. The other big question I have is if I want to go to a fancy restaurant on my birthday, where would I go? Reservations for Valentine’s Day are usually filled or at are odd times when people are not generally available.

There’s always McDonald’s – or in our case, Whataburger.

As to the question about how I got this old – well – considering the number of doctor visits I’ve had in the past two years, I’m pretty darn lucky to be here. On the other hand, the visits to the doctor have been a Godsend. Without them, the little bit of cancer in my bowel might have gone undetected and I might have been writing this essay from my deathbed. Now, there’s still the possibility of going outside and being hit by a beer truck – but that applies to just about anybody.

When I take stock of myself in the mirror, I’ve noted that I am far from the ideal specimen of a male human being. I could stand to lose another 40 pounds, need to pad out my skinny butt, slim down my pot belly and I wouldn’t mind having a little more heft to what I tell my wife are my “Hangy Down Parts.” I count at least three visible scars from having one surgeon or another remove or correct something. There are two others, not quite as visible – one on the front side and the other on the inside as the result of a surgeon guiding a robot nicknamed “Karen”.

On the plus side, I still have most of the hair on my head, making me look young for my age. Yeah, some grey is creeping in and there is unwanted hair in my ears (and on my back), but overall, my appearance isn’t that shabby.

Something which I find hard to understand is why so many people obsess over their appearance. A lot of it has to do with the idea that there is an ideal we need to strive for… even if it’s manufactured. For instance, I read a post on Facebook the other morning about a female runner who was depicted in an ad for a certain shoe company. The photo of the runner was taken when she was pregnant. Her belly was photoshopped out of the picture, while her breasts were kept as they were at the time of the photo shoot – larger because of her pregnancy. Flat bellies and large breasts sell shoes, I suppose. The shoemaker has been chastised for the photoshop.

The unfortunate part about photoshopping the way the shoe company did is that young women are now encouraged to have those flat (and untarnished by stretch marks) bellies and large, enticing breasts. Same for us guys. Six-pack abs, muscular arms and legs. Gotta have ’em. Shave in places not normally seen in public and have plenty of hair on top of your head. Unrealistic expectations are hard to achieve. Knowing something of yourself and tweaking what you have is the best thing you can do for yourself.

Yeah, I’m far from the ideal, but lately I’ve been to the gym a time or two a week. Sometimes more. Do I expect to lose gobs of weight? Not really. But I am doing what I need to do to keep myself healthy for at least another decade. If I don’t measure up to an unrealistic expectation, I don’t really care as long as I am happy with myself.

By the way, we made it to a decent restaurant Sunday afternoon before some football game or another. Two days before the birthday, but it was nice to spoil myself now and again.

Now… off to the Gym!

Be Seeing You!

All Roads Lead to a Detour

All Roads Lead to a Detour

We’ve hit a bit of a challenge lately going from place to place here in our little corner of the DFW Metromess. Seems that the most efficient ways of getting from point A to point B are unavailable at this time. The better half and I found out the other day on our way home from running errands in nearby McKinney.

The big errand was to head to Costco. Usually, we parallel the big road to the north, making a nice little drive which puts us in Costco’s parking lot without having to be on the big road. Unfortunately, the city fathers in McKinney decided to upgrade one of the roads we usually take – putting the road out of commission at least until February 10th. With the ice storm last week, it might be a safe bet to say the road will be closed well past the stated deadline. We managed the big road as best we could and made it to Costco safe and relatively sound.

Our second stop was a few miles to the south and east. We figured we would make good time by taking the southern parallel to the big road. All went well until we encountered the flagman. No one behind us and we were close to catching up to a line of traffic headed in our direction, but we were the ones stuck waiting for the better part of five minutes waiting for traffic coming from the other direction. Other than that, it was clear sailing until another detour took us on a barely improved country road leading in an almost direct line to the house.

Later, we headed into town to hit the gym. The two most direct routes to the gym were again, under construction. We had to use a detour. We took the long detour this time as the shorter detour took us on a short stretch of dirt road (inside city limits) which, at last look had one of those speed monitor signs reminding us of the speed limit and telling us what our actual speed was at the moment.

Our city has numerous detours which lead the casual visitor to believe that you can’t get there from here.

When you get right down to it, the situation with the roads here in our little corner of the DFW Metromess is a lot like life. We have all sorts of little detours we take while we travel the road ahead of us. Some are minor annoyances, others, major problems which require patience and understanding. Sometimes detours take us places we never thought of going in the first place – the roads less traveled mentioned by the poet Frost. We never get to go directly to where we want to go. And that’s okay. Sometimes the detour is a whole lot more fun.

Be Seeing You!

Snow Day!

Snow Day!

We here in my little corner of the DFW Metromess are having a snow day. Some sort of winter storm has descended on our little burg, closing schools, governments, and businesses so that we can sit at home (hopefully not in the dark) and not be out freezing our little keisters and/or being terribly inconvenienced by the freezing weather.

We’re taking advantage of it. Sort of.

The better half’s boss messaged us early this morning to say that she didn’t think that it was worth the risk to drive the five or so miles to work. We concurred. The only problem is that the better half can’t work from home – meaning that she will miss a few hours’ worth of salary because of the weather. A minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. It does give her a chance to work on renewing her nursing license – something she has been working towards on her last couple of days off.

Those of us in our household who are semi-retired or the dog Filbrix have anticipated the coming storm and have prepared for the onslaught. We have plenty of bread, plenty of toilet paper and plenty of milk, so I imagine that we will weather this storm. There’s no need to go out except for potty breaks for the dog Filbrix. So far, she has been inactive, negating the need for any such breaks. When it’s time, I suppose I’ll get into some appropriate outdoor clothing and go out with her to keep her company while she does her business. Maybe I can convince the better half to take out the dog – she’s already sitting and studying in her sweats, while I’m in naught but my bathrobe.

Yesterday, I prepared soup. Five quarts of soup. It required a trip to Wally World, and wouldn’t you know it, once I got the missing ingredients for my concoction, I found that I had to stand in line to be able to stand in line for the checkout. Wally World can be a busy place when there’s bad weather anticipated. But I made it home. And I made Chicken Corn Chowder – enough for both humans and enough to put in jars for later consumption.

Mmmmm! Tasty!

Now, let’s be mindful of a thing or two. Here in the DFW Metromess, just a little bit of snow and ice are enough to bring most outdoor activity to a standstill.

That’s most.

We’re not one of those snowbelt states which gets whalloped every winter with winter weather. I have friends in Cleveland, Erie, and Buffalo who would look at what we get here and shake their heads, wondering why we make such a fuss about just a tiny bit of snow. They’ll post pictures on the usual social media pages of them out shoveling several feet of snow out of their driveways to get to work to reenforce the Puritan work ethic ingrained in them from an early age. As for us here in this part of the Lone Star State, well, an inch or two spells catastrophe.

When things are at a standstill, though, there are some advantages. But for the occasional cycling of the furnace and the noise I make running my fingers over the keyboard of the laptop, it’s mostly quiet. No traffic noise. Nothing. Yes, there’s the occasional bark of a neighbor’s dog wanting to be let in after doing their business, but other than that, not much of anything. (While writing that last sentence, I caught the noise of the neighborhood kids going outside to experience the weather – and the dog Filbrix is whining – a sign that it’s time for her to go outside to relieve herself. So much for quiet.)

******

It’s now Wednesday. I gave up writing this entry to my blog when I got dressed to take the dog Filbrix out to relieve herself. At 4:00, nothing has really changed. More precipitation – this time, freezing rain. No school, no other activities, just like yesterday and just like tomorrow.

I had a bit of a panic Tuesday afternoon. I had to set up an appointment to renew my driver’s license at the DPS (Department of Public Safety. After being in a panic most of Tuesday afternoon, I finally went to the web site to find out that my appointment is NEXT Wednesday – Same Bat Time, Same Bat Channel. This afternoon I wondered about my EFM class. I found out that it, too will be put off until next week.

So, we are in for another day of having to twiddle our thumbs and toes while the weather decides to ease off and give us a break. In the meantime, we have enough bread, milk and toilet paper to see us through a while longer. Just me, the better half, and the dog Filbrix waiting out the inconveniences brought about by the latest invasion of cold weather from the north.

Be Seeing You!

Panic of the Week

Panic of the Week

Last week it was gas stoves – this week it looks like we need to be aware of the rainbows connected to the 50th anniversary of the release of Dark Side of the Moon, a recording by some rock group which incidentally stayed on Billboard’s Top 100 album chart for as long as anyone can remember. More on the record here in a bit.

But gas stoves. Seriously? The first I heard about some government agency warning about gas stoves came with the headline: “Biden Wants to Take Away Your Gas Stove!!” Yep, Joe Biden, President of the United States, to some the root of all evil (something about stealing an election by getting more votes), is set to send thousands of IRS agents to your house to confiscate your gas range! Just like Obama was poised to set government gun confiscation vans minutes after he was sworn in as President back in 2009.

Oh! The humanity!

It seems that we are bombarded by headlines from certain news sources telling us that we are on the brink of disaster on an almost weekly basis. I recall being told back sometime in October that we would run completely out of diesel fuel by Thanksgiving and that the economy would come to a standstill.

We’re still waiting on that to come to pass. Never mind that the 60-day supply of diesel fuel some portions of the media are trying to get you to panic about is what is usually on-hand and that the supply is being supplemented daily. Note, too, that the panic mysteriously went away shortly after election day.

Imagine that!

Every day there’s something trying to grab our attention – attempting to scare us into action or inaction, usually to the benefit of some group or another wanting power to… well, to twit whatever opponent they care to choose. It’s like the headline back there in the second paragraph of this little essay. There are people who dislike Joe Biden, and they love it whenever he gets even a small measure of comeuppance.

Can you say, “Classified Documents”? I knew you could!

It was pointed out the other day that time was that you had only three sources of national television news. These days, you have a multitude of sources to choose from – and people tend to choose whatever source they feel is closest to what they believe are their own views. Any source other than the chosen source is nothing but “Fake News!” Any opportunity to twit an opponent is good news – pure and wholesome, and 100% true!

Back to gas stoves.

There are risks involved in any sort of cooking as there are risks in every aspect of life. No need to panic. No one is going to come knocking at your door, wanting to confiscate your gas range.

As far as Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, fifty years is a landmark. Even more amazing is the fact that the album remained on the Billboard Top 100 album chart quite literally for decades. (Bruce Springsteen’s first album, Greetings From Asbury Park New Jersey, also hit the 50-year mark this month. Hardly anyone noticed.) The graphic artist who created the 50-year logo included a rainbow – something seen on the album cover. All of a sudden, there was an outcry from some quarters about the rainbow, and how there was an alignment with the Gay community! Think what you will about Pink Floyd’s Magnum Opus, I really don’t think that the musicians involved in making that album were signaling the Gay community. Yet, there you go. Someone with too much time on their hands and/or a chip on their shoulder is out there making something that isn’t about a 50-year-old record album.

It’s time to light up the gas stove, make some home-made soup, and take another listen to Pink Floyd!

Be Seeing You!

Spreading Cheer

Spreading Cheer

Wednesdays have been “Doctor Days” for me this month. For some reason the day seems to be good for everyone concerned. In order, I did blood work for my Primary Care Physician, seeing him the following Wednesday. Last Wednesday, I reported for bloodwork and a CAT Scan for my cancer doctor’s appointment today. Next Wednesday, I see my optometrist. The following Wednesday, I have an appointment to renew my driver’s license. The last one wasn’t a doctor’s appointment, but it fell right in line with the trend established on the first Wednesday in January.

Through the miracle of the internet, I can pretty much know what’s going on with me before I have the opportunity to see a doctor. The visit to the PCP a couple of weeks ago was more like an old home visit than it was a doctor visit. We checked on a couple of issues, came up with a way to address them, and he sent me on my way. Same today with the cancer specialist.

Before I was on my way, I expressed my feelings of guilt going into the visit in the first place. Nearly two years ago, I found I had cancer. It was localized, excised, and that was the end of it. We determined to keep a close eye on things just in case… visits every three months with CAT scans before every other visit. I’m thankful that there is no big deal going on with my diagnosis and follow up. What strikes me, though, is that there are people I know who have been through the wringer, so to speak, because of a cancer diagnosis.

In other words, I feel guilty for going to and from my appointments with the cancer specialist feeling happy and carefree when there are people in the doctor’s waiting room undergoing the fight of their lives.

And they don’t always win.

After expressing my feelings, my Oncologist told me that she had just seen two patients who despite fighting the good fight, were on the losing side of that fight. The fact that she gave her patients bad news made her want to quit her job. I see her point. It can be depressing having to tell someone the effort they have put forward has been hopeless. On the other hand, she was delighted to see me in relatively good health. I was her oasis amid a veritable desert of the soul.

I’ve caught the same vibe from my PCP and most of the other medical professionals I have rubbed elbows with, in the past couple of years.

I am about to finish a four-year program titled “Education for Ministry” offered through the University of the South. The goal of the program is to help us find some way of being of service – some way of ministering to others as part of our life experience. As I have stated before, the program does not necessarily produce Priests, Ministers, or Deacons working in the confines of the church (although it has). Ministery can be something as simple as providing a meal – helping to clothe the naked – or any number of likely endeavors. Including being a bright spot in someone else’s day.

I do believe that. When the Oncologist laughed at something I said, I told her, “My mission for today is accomplished.”

And indeed, it was.

Be Seeing You!