The galosh situation.

When I was a kid, galoshes were a thing. Now they are not a thing. What happened? 

Actually, they do make a lot of galoshes still. One can be as galoshed up as one wants. But does one?

So, back in the paleolithic era of my childhood, when I attended P.S. Ogg, it was hardly unusual for kids to wear actual shoes instead of sneakers to school. But all kids were expected to have some kind of galoshes or rainboots for hard weather. They would typically be stowed someplace near the entrance so that we wouldn't get the halls slippery with snow, ice, or just lots of water. 

Every office worker had some kind of galoshes, because they didn't want to schlep around the joint in wet shoes. Even my blue-collar dad eschewed boots, preferring to wear big rubber galoshes over his usual work shoes. Those things were almost waders. 

For such big ol' galoshes (mine were halfway up my shin, just like the ones shown above) you wanted some genuine Baggies, the plastic bags made in those days by the plastics division of Mobil. Unlike Ziploc bags they had no seam, so they were perfect for putting over your shoes so they would slide right into those gum boots. And they offered an extra layer of waterproofing.

By the time I was in high school, of course, you'd rather die than not walk to school in your sneakers, at least if you were a guy. 

For a few years in the early part of my fabled career, when men still wore suits to work, I would use galoshes to protect my dress shoes. Later on I just kept a pair of decent black shoes in the desk and wore boots. Still later I got boots that were nice enough to wear with the casual dress required, but could still change to those desk shoes if it was a particularly messy trip in. 

Since then, galoshes have played no part in my life. People wear jeans to the office, and I work from home now anyway. I don't think I'm alone in saying my galosh days are likely over. 

But you never know. Weird things pop up all the time to help us deal with winter weather, and galoshes may make a comeback. Look at this thing from Cotosen:

As a ski hat it is kind of brilliant, combining head warmth and ski goggles into a single package. On the other hand, I think it would make you look like Dumb Donald. 

Styles change, but I don't know that they'll ever change that much. 

🥾👢🥾👢🥾👢

P.S.: You will never believe it, but the strange and wonderful word galosh may actually share a root with the word artery. Here's Merriam-Webster on the etymology: 

Middle English galoche "kind of sandal or clog with a wooden sole held to the foot with leather thongs," borrowed from Anglo-French & Middle French, borrowed from Old Occitan galocha, perhaps going back to Gallo-Romance *caloctium, borrowed from Greek of Massalia (Marseille) *kalóchtion, altered from *kalórtion, from Greek kâlon "wood, timber" (of uncertain origin) + -ortion, compound form (as in Middle Greek cheirórtion "glove," podórtion "gaiter") of Greek artḗr "kind of shoe," probably derivative of aeírein "to bind" with -tēr, instrument suffix — more at ARTERY

There's one for the philologists! 

Let's get Izzy!

So, the winter decided to dump on us at a really inconvenient time. Inconvenient for me, anyway, but not for school administrators who have to decide whether to close the schools and lose a day, and folks like that. But it was bad for me, and here's why. 

I believe I mentioned a while back that little baby dog Izzy needed joint surgery. He was born with a form of elbow dysplasia, and over time it would cause him more pain. Arthroscopic surgery was the answer, but that's not something our local vet can do. So, we had to take him in to the nearest good hospital for the job, 33 miles away. I dropped him off Friday morning. He was to have the surgery that day, stay overnight for observation, and go home Saturday.

The snow moved in on Friday night. 

And it snowed.

And it snowed.

Damn you, white crap!

The forecast had been all over the map, but I had been optimistic; the Weather Channel initially said it would stop by seven on Saturday morning, leaving plenty of time for the town to clean up the streets. By one in the afternoon it had not abated. And at this point, no plows had come by, including the guy who plows my rather steep driveway, and there was a real question as to whether we could leave if we even wanted to. I'd gotten stuck on that driveway once in a four-wheel-drive SUV, slipping off the snow and into the mud, and never made it to work that day. I didn't fancy trying my luck again. 

The snow finally did stop, around 2:30, and the dig-out began. By four p.m. everything was plowed, including my driveway. Let's get Izzy! 

The snow that had fallen was very powdery stuff, great for skiing I guess but impossible to clean off the streets entirely. I don't want to make it sound like I was white-knuckling the whole way there, but it was not ideal, shall we say. The temperature was plummeting and the wind was roaring and there was a scrim of snow on the best highways, and I could feel the wheels below me being very coy about their relationship with the road. Passing a semi was a test of nerve. But we made it. And it was all worth while when they brought out our little conehead, all smiles and wagging tail. 

It was a long day that ended with soup and sandwiches and large dog Tralfaz being a jealous weenie because of all the attention paid to the kid. But as I write this, I have toast crumbs on my sweatshirt and Izzy is under the table on my feet, and life is kinda okay today. Hope yours is too.

Women drivers!

It is a great advance of respect for women that the idea of the woman driver being a menace on wheels has disappeared into the comedy past. Whereas "women drivers" was a popular punchline up to and through the seventies -- one that seemed so permanent that it was the focus of a Jetsons episode -- the idea that women are naturally lousy drivers has been banished at last. 

Of course some women are lousy drivers. As are some men are. Some women are really good drivers.  

Purty, too!

I suspect it was the insurance companies that cured us of this comic misconception. Statistics are what they are, and when money is on the line, they are usually trustworthy. When it became well known that young men had to pay more for car insurance than young women because the boys were a higher risk, that seemed to stop the jokes. As the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety's Highway Loss Data Institute puts it, "Many more men than women die each year in motor vehicle crashes. Men typically drive more miles than women and are more likely to engage in risky driving practices, including not using safety belts, driving while impaired by alcohol, and speeding. Crashes involving male drivers often are more severe than those involving female drivers."

But even this is only part of the story. As it turns out, for example, it's only young men who suck more at driving, just the kind of "hold my beer" guys we'd expect to exhibit the least safe behavior. More from the IIHS: "The number of driver fatal crash involvements per 100 million miles driven in 2016-17 was 63 percent higher for males (2.1 per 100 million miles traveled) than for females (1.3 per 100 million miles traveled). Rates were substantially higher for males than for females ages 16-29, but were only slightly higher for ages 30 and older. The sex difference was largest among drivers ages 20-29." Furthermore, "For nearly every year from 1975 to 2019, the number of male crash deaths was more than twice the number of female crash deaths, but the gap has narrowed. From 1975 to 2019, male crash deaths declined by 22 percent and female crash deaths declined by 12 percent."

Possibly the female empowerment folk would say that women are naturally better drivers, and that's because they value life more than those brutal and thuggish men. Conversely, male supporters (har har) could counter that women have a timidity that makes them safer but makes discoveries and advances less likely. Then the women blame the men for that and everyone starts screaming again. 

The main reason I mention this is that my anecdotal evidence says the bad women drivers are getting to be as bad as the bad men and for the same reason -- a feeling of invincibility coupled with ignorance. A couple of doors down from me is a stop sign on a T intersection. Drivers come up the stem of the T and have to stop; they can only go right or left, but cars could be coming from either of those directions. Most commonly they turn right, and because of the rise of the road, the visibility is worse toward their left side. Therefore, a full stop and some caution is required. 

Now: Who blows through the stop sign like it isn't there most, men or women?

My experience is, it's about equal. Same with those speeding down the street. 

One problem with anecdotal evidence is that comparing populations on the street is not the same as looking at a population at large -- who are these people, what are the sex ratios between people going this way or that, etc. But -- anecdotally -- my observations should favor the women, as most of the men I see driving during the day are local contractors, while most of the women are moms shuttling kids. Why are these moms driving as poorly as the plumbers and lawn guys?

Maybe it's because I live in New York, where drivers are fairly lousy on the whole. It is worth noting, though, that in 2011 a study reported that women are more dangerous drivers than men: 

Women drivers are more likely to be involved in an accident, according to scientists.

Researchers looked at 6.5 million car crashes and found a higher than expected number of accidents between two female drivers.

     They also discovered that women have a tough time negotiating crossroads, T-junctions and slip roads.

     The results are even more surprising given that men spend more time behind the wheel than women. On average, men drive 60 per cent of the time, and women 40 per cent.

     Michael Sivak, of the University of Michigan, said: "The results indicate that in certain crash scenarios, male-to-male crashes tend to be under-represented and female-to-female crashes tend to be over-represented."

Was that well reported in 2011? Not that I recall. 

I just throw it all out there as a question that we all ought to think about. Just obey the stop signs and try to stay somewhere in the orbit of the speed limit, is what I'm saying. At least on my block. I won't say it's because "We Love Our Kids!" the way some neighborhood signs will tell you. Nah, a lot of people here might be indifferent to the kids. We just hate mopping up blood. 

Cud be worse.

 

MFP and we!

Stacy McCain, the invaluable blogger known as the Other McCain, called upon Thursday, January 27, 2022, to be "Everybody Blog About Mass Formation Psychosis Day," and I said I would. 

Here's some crazy now!

In the unlikely event that you see this post and not the one at McCain's much more popular blog, I thought we ought to go through the basics for my own benefit as well as everyone else's. 

What Is Mass Formation Psychosis? 

MFP is a supposed mental illness that is said to affect crowds--thus the mass part. Dr. Robert Malone says this is a kind of induced psychosis caused in the population by a lack of social cohesion on one side and a large fear stimulus on the other: 

The conditions to set up mass formation psychosis include lack of social connectedness and sensemaking as well as large amounts of latent anxiety and passive aggression. When people are inundated with a narrative that presents a plausible "object of anxiety" and strategy for coping with it, then many individuals group together to battle the object with a collective singlemindedness. This allows people to stop focusing on their own problems, avoiding personal mental anguish. Instead, they focus all their thought and energy on this new object.

As mass formation progresses, the group becomes increasingly bonded and connected. Their field of attention is narrowed and they become unable to consider alternative points of view.  Leaders of the movement are revered, unable to do no wrong. 

 

Both of these conditions were present at the outbreak of the Chinese Death Virus known as COVID-19, so if the theory is correct, it was an ideal time for mass formation psychosis to take hold.

Is MFP Real?

Well, it isn't recognized by the American Psychological Association, which got its collective knickers in a twist when Dr. Malone described it on Joe Rogan's show and listeners attacked a psychologist who disputed (or as they like to say, "fact-checked") a claim that "millions of Americans have been 'hypnotized' into accepting mainstream messages about COVID-19, including the importance of vaccination, through 'mass formation psychosis.'" It certainly seems like some of the attackers were very personal and rude, and even threatening, and I will not excuse that. Anyway, that's not the question; the question is, is there such a thing as Mass Formation Psychosis?

I have reason to think so. There have been so many crazy stories in the past year on all sides, like the mom who locked her kid in the trunk of the car when he tested positive for COVID-19. Who does that?

On a personal note, I know a perfectly respectable woman in the healthcare industry who in 2020 thought Trump was going to send troops into the streets to enforce quarantine, but now is cutting off friends who won't toe the line on masking in all times and places. She cut me off cold, and I was being nice about it. 

So yeah, I think a lot of people have gone nuts over this virus, but the insanity was probably bubbling right under the surface anyway.  Which sounds like "lack of social connectedness and sensemaking as well as large amounts of latent anxiety and passive aggression" to me.

Why Is This Being Treated as a Conspiracy Theory?

Why shouldn't it? 

I know some very nice and intelligent people who are suspicious of the vaccines for COVID, but some people are close to the microchip-implanting theory level, that Bill Gates has personally put a microchip in each vaccine. I gotta say, if so, it is really small, because that was the thinnest needle I ever got stuck with. 

The problem, as I see it:

1) Despite the angry APA objections (in part, I think, to the idea of "mass hypnosis," which sounds like a supervillain plot), the MFP conforms with previous theories of mass delusion. Long before Eric Hoffer wrote True Believer: Thoughts on the Nature of Mass Movements, Charles Mackay wrote Extraordinary Popular Delusions and The Madness of Crowds (1841). And Hannah Arendt's Origins of Totalitarianism trod this ground mightily, although a lot of leftists hate its conflation of Communism and Fascism despite both being a form of totalitarianism (Mussolini's famous dictum of “Everything in the State, nothing outside the State, nothing against the State” applies to both). So what's the problem with writing about it? Do psychologists resent taking sociology and philosophy seriously?

2) Yes, maybe these days, because it goes against the desired zeitgeist. The problem is, there really have been conspiracies around, which no one wants to acknowledge even as the truth comes out. The Russia collusion that should have been a massive political scandal on the perpetrators, the strange billionaire who funds district attorneys who will not uphold the law, the complicity of our National Institutes of Health in the origin of the Chinese Death Virus and the refusal to stop funding said research in 2020 despite a presidential order, the code of silence and outright lies over Hunter Biden's laptop and exposed shenanigans prior to the 2020 election, the "fortification" of the election, the failure to report the weakness of the vaccines and even their risks (which was not the media's position in 1976 when there was mass vaccination but a Republican president), the criminal attacks on parents by school boards, the failure of lockdowns to stop anything but prosperity, the elite class's refusal to abide by the rules it wishes to impose on the rest of us for everything from policing and disease spread to global warming, the non-punishment of most upper echelon types for any malfeasance, the support by the same for rioters while our cities burned, and on and on.   

3) Which leads us to the fact the elites in our society have been failing us for a long time, and COVID exposed them not only as failures, not only as hypocrites, but also as thieves, cowards, and bastards, who do not care about the poor and actively hate the middle class that feeds them.

My advice to those in charge of stuff: If you want the people to stop believing in conspiracies, stop conspiring. As Jacques Abbadie once wrote, "One can fool some men, or fool all men in some places and times, but one cannot fool all men in all places and ages." What do you expect us to think when you've been so very bad?

Deep thoughts.

From the deep thoughts factory at FredCo.

🧠 According to the Cleveland Clinic, your brain processes 70,000 thoughts per day. This means that by the time you turn 50, you've had approximately 1,278,340,000 thoughts. That seems like a lot, especially if, like me, the bulk of your thoughts are devoted to Is there anything to eat? and I'm tired. But if you had one thought for every dollar spent by the federal government's $1.9 trillion budget this year, you would be more than 74. And that's just the budget, which doesn't include mandatory spending, or entitlements, which was $4.6 trillion in 2020. Think THAT many thoughts and you'll be almost 180.

🐕 Buridan's Ass is the philosophic example of the donkey that starves to death, being unable to choose between two identical and equidistant bales of hay. It is tough to be caught in a dilemma like that, as with a smart or athletic student who can't decide between two great colleges that offer a full ride. Most of us are more familiar in real life with the damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't type dilemma, where two or more choices all suck in roughly equal proportion. In real life, the donkey would probably just wander over to one bale and eat. If you tried it with a Golden Retriever, he would eat both meals and go running off to find something to play with or pee on. 

🐶 Speaking of dogs, one of the advantages of having them around is that they make you feel productive even when you aren't. Adult dogs sleep up to 14 hours a day. I only want to sleep that long. 

😴 Speaking of sleep, according to the National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke, the reason you don't usually punch and kick people while dreaming is that "Your arm and leg muscles become temporarily paralyzed, which prevents you from acting out your dreams." Isn't that helpful? Last night I dreamed I was with James Bond as one of a bunch of his sidekicks, planning to kidnap a foreign agent by getting him drunk. It devolved into a hunt for the hodag along a city street, all previous plot elements forgotten. If I'd been running and punching and leaping in bed as well as in sleep, someone could have gotten hurt. Or it might have made a video for the 'gram. 

💤🛌 Which brings us to what I was doing between bouts of sleep, which was taking out the dogs. Large dog Tralfaz got it in his head that he had to go out 700 times last night, and of course Izzy (a.k.a. Me2!Me2!) wanted to go as well. I tried to be patient because it could be chemo-related, but I am a tired puppy myself right now. The Harvard Health Letter reports that deep sleep may be when the brain clears toxic waste created in the normal course of cell life. And my brain feels pretty toxic this morning. So that's enough thoughts for now. 

The cold, hard truth.

I think I may have pulled this gag before, but it's still true. Oh, too true.

Cruel to be kind.

I poisoned one dog on Saturday, and I'm turning the other over to strangers to be cut up on Friday.

I'm feeling kind of guilty over it. You can't explain it to them. But it's for their own good. 

Big dog Tralfaz, who just turned eight, got these giant lumps on him last summer. Once some initial tests and a lumpectomy confirmed that it was cancer, we started him on radioactive chemotherapy. Just two pills, once a month, for six months. The first two doses worked splendidly, and the remaining lumps receded. His liver enzymes shot up too, so the vet said give it a month off and then start it again. So, I just did.

These chemo pills cannot be chewed, of course, and getting capsules into this hairy beast is a challenge. Ultimately I have settled on tricking him with the offer of a treat and then shoving them into his throat far enough so he has to swallow them. He coughed one up anyway, so I had to repeat it--and I have to move fast because those gel caps dissolve quickly. I only have the two, specially ordered from a compounding pharmacy; I don't have a whole bottle of chemo pills like aspirin. 

Dogs will never understand that the faster you swallow something, the less you have to taste it. It's the only way anyone eats kale, or so I'm convinced. 

The pills kill his appetite for a day or two, but he's otherwise doing marvelously well on them. I am in fact poisoning him; that's how chemotherapy works. Paracelsus stated a long time ago that the dose makes the poison, thus chemotherapy's mission is to kill you just enough to wipe out the cancer without actually going all the way. Some people on it react so poorly that they prefer to just let the cancer take its course. I'm grateful that Tralfaz is not suffering this much. We had decided out the outset of treatment that if this was very hard on him, we would stop the chemo, but so far so good. 

He's an older guy, and while we can't explain it to him, presumably has that philosophical nature that older dogs get about the misfortunes and vicissitudes of life. Baby Izzy, almost but not quite nine months old, does not have this attitude. But what he does have is loose cartilage in his elbows, and hip bones that aren't quite large enough to keep the leg bones from popping out from time to time. The latter doesn't seem to bother him as much as the sound of it bothers us, but the vet assures us that his hips will be arthritic and painful when he is older unless we get him a hip replacement. He's too young for that now, but they can do arthroscopic surgery on his elbows. 

They'll probably have to keep him at least one night, and there's the rub--this is the dog who can't stand it if I go upstairs for a shower while my wife's working. He hates to be alone and isn't shy about telling us. It's made for all sorts of problems at bedtime. How's he going to take it when we have to leave him at the animal hospital overnight?

Luckily the hospital is a 24-hour facility, so there will be staff around; also, they will probably keep him doped up pretty solid from the time we drop him off Friday. But I'll worry about the little dude the whole time he's gone.

On a less sentimental note, this is costing a fortune. Tralfaz has pet insurance, which helps, but Izzy started to limp at a very young age, before he was insured; we thought he'd just twisted something, so we took him to the vet. Bam, preexisting condition, no expenses at all can be charged to his health policy. Bleah.

All this comes on the heels of losing Nipper last February. He also had cancer, but it was so incredibly aggressive that there was no treatment that could help. Poor little chap. 

I wish I could explain everything to them in a way they would understand, but of course you can't. It makes me wonder how parents with babies who need serious medical care keep from losing their minds. God bless them all. 

Tire-D of the cold.

The last two weekends have been cold snaps, as if the weeks had been rubber bands and when Friday hit, SNAP! Ouch! Negative degrees for you!

I am usually out and about on Saturday mornings. A week ago I had taken my wife's car and left it in the cold for an hour; when I got back the dashboard helpfully informed me that all four tires were now about four pounds under optimal pressure. That was quick!

This is something that happens every year, at least when we have truly cold temperatures, as Firestone explains here. The thing is, I never knew it when I was younger and drove crappier cars. The 1988 Chevette did not tell you the tires were low. Even my old Saturn had no idea what shape the tires were in. But my wife's 2019 car tells you everything, including whether you forgot to buy eggs at the store. (You did.) The idiot lights came up all aglow when I was on my way home that Saturday. 

My wife is the kind of person who takes idiot lights seriously. But me, I figured, the car's in the garage, she's not going anywhere for a couple of days -- maybe they'll re-inflate! And then Wednesday came and she had to drive forty miles, and I knew she'd be upset if the car was still sending up flags. I figured I'd better find out.

So, I said, "Honey, before you leave, I must ascertain whether your tires are safe for the ride."

NO, of course not. I waited until she was in the shower, then I took her car out. At once--Ping! Ping! Ping! All tires showed up as low PSI.

I immediately drove to the nearby gas station that has a free air pump, only to find one guy filling his tires and two more waiting on line. No doubt they all had their wives' cars.

Then I tooled to my mechanic, who charges a buck for the air machine.

Looks just like this place.

A buck's worth was enough for the job, and the tires were satisfied. I returned her car and off she went. 

Yesterday, my car, a 2011, flashed its idiot light after I left it in the parking lot for an hour. Another cold snap, another pressure loss. My car doesn't tell me which tire is low, though. Hell, my car didn't tell me what had happened the day I got a spoon stuck in a tire. I don't know if it was one tire or all of them. 

So I just drove home. I'll get to it. Or maybe it'll warm up and they’ll re-inflate.

Winter haikus.

Snow falls on the path
One flake, two flake, three flake, and
Oh my achin' back

Dog sits on the ice
Rejoicing in nature's bliss
He got a fur coat

My friend has moved south
Shows me pictures of beaches
He can go cram it

Some ski in winter
Some sled, some skate, and some board
I pay the gas bill

Snow is the only
Weather with which you can play
Gimme a yo-yo

I hate summer's heat
But I won't die picking it
Up with a shovel

The jury gasped.

A shocking moment in Fred's competency hearing.

 

What, no crayons?

I know it's my age creeping up on me, but I'm tired of being treated like a child. If marketers don't stop, I'll hold my breath till I turn blue. (Do kids even do that anymore?)

One of the things that bugs me in this increasingly irritating world are the cute little bonuses that sellers throw in to make someone feel like they've just been accepted into the bestest kindergarten ever. For example, I bought a set of expensive sheets as a Christmas present for a family member who I knew would enjoy them. I wanted to get sheets made from Outlast fabric; this type of fiber claims to reduce temperature on sleeping surfaces, and the person I'm referring to likes to have the room cold enough -- in the words of Tony Kornheiser -- "that I can hang veal in the closet." I bought a set through Slumber Cloud; it arrived intact and on time, but it also included a little "welcome!" kit, as if I had just taken a job with them. The kit included stickers! 

Let me state so there's no confusion: I had purchased pricy adult sheets for a queen-size bed. The sheets did not feature any Disney characters, nor Minions, nor any figures from Nickelodeon. Why would I want stickers? 

The same thing happened on my birthday last year. New dog Izzy had chewed up three pairs of my shoes, and my wife thought I would like a pair of Vessis. Vessi shoes, she'd heard, look like normal casual shoes but are waterproof, and since I'm always outside with the dogs in all weather, she thought I would like them. And they weren't cheap.

Yes, I do like them, and yes, they came with an orientation kit that included stickers. 

I miss the days of buying and selling; I do not want to engage in a relationship with the seller. It bothers me because I suppose that's exactly what the seller expects to happen, and must be targeting those younger than me who grew up getting stickers everywhere. (We had to buy our own Wacky Packages, thank you very much.) Does this make the youths of America feel like they're being treated especially well? Is that a reason to max out your credit cards at an age where Payless is your real best shoe friend?

The whole thing feels very smarmy to me, a means of getting past the natural skepticism one should have in any financial transaction, and I dislike it. Companies don't give things away for free; it's all included in the price. Is it worth it to get a brochure on the product you already bought and a page of colorful stickers? 

Please tell me if I'm being too grumpy. I would rather spend less and make fewer "pals" among the sellers. Either I'm getting crazier or the world is, and I'm about as crazy as ever. 

Fredcoin!

I think I've finally figured out how I can best get rich make a contribution to improve the lives of others. Yes, I've decided to enter the world of decentralized digital currency. I am issuing my own version of Bitcoin, called Fredcoin, and you, my friends, can get in on the ground floor. 

Now, I expect you may have some questions. Like:

1) Do you know what you're doing? No, but that's the beauty of digital currency; I don't have to know! People can mine for Fredcoin all day long, and trade their Fredcoins for all sorts of things like... more Fredcoins! Basically it's like Minecraft, except unlike digital currency, users expect a base level of competency with Minecraft. If the Minecraft guys lost the password to the game and locked everyone out, that would be bad. You can't get away with that kind of foolishness when fun is on the line, but money? Sure, why not.

2) Isn't Fredcoin a silly name? Yep, but so are the names of other cryptocurrencies like Dogecoin, Titcoin, Ripple, Shiba Inu, and LGBcoin. Speaking of the last, a shoutout to Brandon Brown: If the LGBcoin deal falls through, give me a call! 

3) Do I get actual Fred-embossed coins with Fredcoin? No, you get something better! With every purchase you get a personally signed e-mail from me with the date and number of your Fredcoins, as well as my thanks and a virtual pat on the back.

4) Is Fredcoin completely worthless? Of course not! Like everything in life, you have to put something into it to get something out. If you will send me $100 today, I will send you one Fredcoin. Bam! A Fredcoin is now worth $100. See how easy it is? If you decide to sell your Fredcoin, make sure you get no less than $100 for it. Insist on more. Then I and all the other Fredcoin owners make money. 

5) Come on: Is this fiat currency or what? Yes, but so are American dollars. You just have to clap for Tinkerbell and everything will be fine. (Maybe I should have called it Tinkercoin.)

6) Is this legal? Good question!

I have high hopes for Fredcoin, hopes that include you, my friend. Send in your dough today and let's get started. As the great Barney Rubble once said, "When people get used to my money, they won't accept any other." If it worked in the Stone Age, it can work in the Digital Age! 

Wacky water writer.

Since we got baby dog Izzy, now eight months old and almost fully grown, I've noticed an odd behavior that late junior dog Nipper did not exhibit so much -- overwriting. That is to say, distastefully, that Izzy is determined to pee where Tralfaz has peed. This has become much more obvious in the snowy season, when I can see for myself where previous efforts have been laid out. 

Why does Izzy do this? I asked my wife, who reads endlessly on dog behavior. I was concerned that Izzy was trying to exercise a kind of dominance over Fazzy. The two seem to get along very well, better than Tralfaz did with Nipper, so it seemed strange. 

The Daily Puppy does consider it a possible dominance issue, that "If a dog feels tougher and more 'alpha' than another individual he perceives to be meek and timid, he might communicate that by concealing the other furry guy's pee with his own." But Nipper doesn't exhibit other characteristics one might expect with dominance. You probably can think of some behaviors without me mentioning them. It is true that Tralfaz has been neutered and Izzy not yet, and dogs pick up on this stuff, but again, that doesn't seem to have resulted in any other dominance behaviors. 

The article notes that what I may have been taking as overmarking to actually be adjacent marking: "If he does so nearby but not right over the pee, then he's adjacent marking." The article does not, however, explain the difference. An article in The Bark notes that "Both sexes, whether intact or not, appear to countermark in a competitive manner. Additionally, this study suggests that overmarking and adjacent marking may have different functions." It also sheds no light on what those functions might be.

My wife is of the opinion that Izzy is not trying to be obnoxious, but just trying to make his mark, as it were. He's not demanding top billing, but he wants to be on the bill. Tralfaz has had eight years to make the lawn his own, as it were, and Nipper worked the room for more than four before his untimely passing. Izzy just wants to get his scent up there in lights where the fresh pee is drawing attention. "I'm here, too, world!" he is saying. 

I think that's a good guess, and fits with their otherwise chummy relationship. Izzy studies Tralfaz, especially when outside, and seems to want to learn how to do all the dog stuff from him. Nipper would pretty much go his own way.

Whatever the cause, between the footsteps all over and the yellow spots, I have the least lovely winter snowscape on the block. Frank Zappa would be proud. 

Organizing junk.

My wife'd been after me for a little while -- maybe six or seven months -- or years -- to organize the junk drawer. 

Now, I feel in my heart that the junk drawer, a staple of the American kitchen, ought to be as full of junk as possible. After all, if it doesn't have a little something for everything, how can the thing you need be there when you need it? But I gave in on the issue when it got to the point that pulling open the drawer led to flying projectiles or unknown objects being dumped into the cabinet below. 

I intended to follow the four-step plan for organization:

1. Empty the contents into an area in which I could sort them;

2. Categorize the contents;

3. Throw out obvious garbage; 

4. Organize the remainder. 

The kitchen table was up to the task, so I got to it. 

The challenging part was categorizing the contents, because, let's face it, junk is by definition an amorphous mass that defies division into categories. But digging around I began to detect patterns, and those emerged as:

Tools: Screwdrivers, pliers, scrapers, box cutter, Allen wrenches, scissors, shoehorn, etc.

Batteries: AAs, AAAs, miscellaneous button batteries

Things that join other things together: Tape, plumber's tape, electrical tape, Command hooks, paper clips, twist ties, rubber bands, thumbtacks, superglue, string 

Keys and key-related objects: The latter being color-coded key caps, mostly; one (1) padlock too

Things that were supposed to help but didn't: Reflectors, napkin rings, toothpaste tube squishers, etc.

Things that were related to things that may have been thrown away: Charging wire fixed with tape, instructional booklets, etc.

Things that have been superseded: Chair leg floor protectors, tiny Post-its, etc.

Things that should go on my workbench instead: Many, many wood and metal screws, nails, pieces left over from furniture assembly

Things for writing: Chalk, Sharpie, pencil, pencil sharpener

Car stuff: Tire pressure gauge, vent air freshener (unopened), de-icer

Garbage: Everything else

The last category was joined by many things that were in the other categories as I went. I kept about 10 percent of the twist ties, for example, and half the Allen wrenches. Most of the rubber bands had dried out. A set of three napkin rings is useless for entertaining. The Post-its were bunched up and dirty. And so on. 

Car/key related things. Plus shoehorn.

Stuff for the workbench. I don't even
know why those wrenches were upstairs. 

Here is the completed junk drawer, with approximately a quarter of the mass inside previously:

The problem is, so much of that junk has to go in the cellar, and now it's all in a bag waiting to go down. So ultimately I've moved the problem from the kitchen to my workbench, which is also an unholy mess. So therefore the problem is in one regard not solved, but relocated. 

On the other hand, my wife is happy. She never uses the workbench. So really, the problem is solved. Hooray for me!

The knots that bind.

I know I said I wasn't going to talk about Christmas anymore, but one last unexpected thing has come up that I thought you might find interesting. 

It was time (or past time) to gather up the giftwrap and put it away neatly, which usually means I put the tubes of paper in a box and everything else in a huge bag. Well, I was trying to be a little neater this year, and as a result I came across a buried treasure from decades ago, something I inherited and have not yet used. 

This is an unwrapped roll of curling ribbon (or as it's billed here, crinkle ribbon) that my mom bought from Kmart in the 1980s. I'm not sure when, but the price tag says 87, and it could certainly have been that interesting year. The font used for "The Spirit of Christmas" screams mid to late eighties to me. And the price, $1.57 for 400 feet, is definitely old; I saw a similar roll of multicolored ribbon from Target, $3 for just 70 feet. 

I know my mom bought this. She loved to wrap gifts with curling ribbon. I'm not such a big fan, as it really wraps up a box tight and the ribbon often needs to be cut; moreover, half the time I'll have it all done and use the scissors to curl the ribbon, and wind up with a stretched-out busted Slinky of a decoration instead. When it works it makes an elegant presentation. The point is, I inherited a bunch of this stuff from Mom and haven't used it up all these years later.

Mom liked to shop at Kmart. In the late eighties, Walmart was just a rumor on the East Coast. Kmart was everywhere. Now there are only five of them left in the entire state of New York. 

Here's something interesting that ties into yesterday's post: See where the Kmart ribbon was made? 

Yes, the good ol' U.S.A.! Get this: The Target ribbon was also made in the United States! By golly, maybe we can't make appliances or clothes or electronics or furniture or tools or toys or picture books or car parts anymore, but by golly, we lead the world in curling ribbon!

Well, that wasn't why I wanted to post this. I wanted to say I miss my mom, especially at Christmastime, and it was nice to have this little reminder of her. That's all.

Caps off to America.

So I bought a new cap. One I really wanted. I resisted for a while, but succumbed at last. Just seeing the symbol on it brought back happy childhood memories. This was the official logo of the United States Bicentennial in 1976. 

What finally sold me was the knowledge that we are just four years from the U.S. Semiquincentennial, an event that already has an organization and a Web site. I want to keep my Bicentennial cap around long enough to wear it then. 

Of course, I do not expect the Semiquencentennial to be as big as the Bicentennial was. First of all, hundredth anniversaries are bigger than half-hundreths. Second, the Bicentennial was embraced by a strong civic spirit that barely exists in the United States today -- membership in everything from civic clubs, business associations, local boosters, lodges, churches, even bowling leagues has plummeted even as the population soars. We're all loners and wonder why we're so lonely. And third, despite Vietnam and Watergate, in 1976 most Americans believed that our country was good and worth celebrating. Now it seems that at least half of Americans despise their own country and vote for its ruin. I, at least, want to express the opposite opinion.

I bought this hat from Civil Standard, which sells a lot of gear with logos from all kinds of U.S. organizations of the past, from the Hale America campaign of 1942 to the TVA to Maine's 1901 state flag. For the socialists on your gift list, you can buy things with the logo of FDR's chock full o' unconstitutional Works Progress Administration. 

Seems like Civil Standard's stuff is well made. This is a nice cap, comfortable and sturdy. Unfortunately, and perhaps all too appropriately, it has this zinger:

Yes, this site celebrating American history has its products made in China, but still charges thirty bucks for a ball cap. For all I know this was sewn by Uyghur slave labor in China's work "campuses." Suddenly this looks wrong in several ways. 

"...it doesn't get much more American than that."

The Civil Standard site doesn't tell you anywhere that the stuff is made in China. I guess our rule of thumb now has to be that unless something is specifically said to be made entirely in the United States, it's going to actually be made in China. 

In the seventies we were all about the little guys, the workers who made America great. Crystal Lee Sutton was fighting to unionize her mill, for example— her story became a book and then the 1979 film Norma Rae. In the eighties the company she worked for was sold to WestPoint Home, and in 2003 Sutton's mill closed permanently. Now the new company does its manufacturing overseas. Guess where?

Good job, everybody! I've said before that if you think a factory town looks sad, wait until the factory is gone. 

My enjoyment of my new cap is thus diminished, but I intend to wear it as a sign of hope. We ought to celebrate our nation, not denigrate it. That is what I intend to do, anyway, on July 4, 2026. After all, America has been a beacon of hope for millions, and maybe even to the very person who made this very cap. One can hope.

Farewell to the Queen.

We seem to have had quite the rash of celebrity deaths lately, and I'm not talking about people who were on reality TV or TikTok dingdongs who fall off bridges for clicks. I mean real celebs like Betty White, Bob Saget, Ronnie Spector,. and the great Sidney Poitier. But some people have careers that bring them just to the edge of celebrity, where certain people know them well but the bulk of humanity not at all, and yet they have some fame and distinction that makes their passing more notable than that of a miscellaneous schlub like me. I am thinking today of Queen Kong, alias Matilda the Hun, tremendous heel from the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling (GLOW), who left this world on January 7 at the age of 73. 

I know very little about Dee Booher, who made a career out of being big and looking mean. She was 6' 3" and said to be more than 300 pounds of fighting fury. When I was a yout, I sometimes saw the GLOW syndicated show on Saturdays; it ran on channel 9 in New York, the same station that ran the syndicated show for the World Wrestling Federation (now the WWE, of course). That was before the WWF became a cable sensation, when wrestling was followed by a handful of cheap magazines on newsstands, and even then WWF made GLOW look like a trailer park next to its tract housing. (Believe it or not, the WWF Championship Wrestling program came on after Dr. Who on WOR-TV channel 9 at the time.)

Like all pro wrestling circuits, the GLOW wrestlers were divided between faces (yay!) and heels (boo!), and Matilda the Hun was one of the most memorable of the latter. For the first two seasons she walloped her way through the cute little faces, losing the championship in the end, as a proper heel should. 

Booher left the GLOW show after the second season, but turned up in other places. She appears in a cameo, dancing with a well-dressed little person, in Aerosmith's 1989 video for "Love in an Elevator."  

It's hard to explain the 80's.

She also played a small part in a movie that perhaps suited her talents better than any other you could name: Andrew "Dice" Clay's 1993 thespian turn, Brainsmasher... A Love Story. She played Bertha, and was billed by her other wrestling appellation, Queen Kong. She also played a bearded lady in Mel Brooks's Spaceballs. 

In later life she suffered from lupus, peripheral neuropathy, and wrestling-related spinal degeneration. The matches may not be real, but the pain is. She did have her own Web site, which at this writing has not been updated with the news of her parting.

I devoted the space to Booher's passing today not because I was a fan, nor because I was impressed by her saintliness (I suspect that was not an adjective any ever used for her, or anyone else in wrestling), but because celebrity is fickle and mean, often doesn't translate to money, and despite no hope of ever getting rich doing what she did, she was one pro wrestler who always gave it her all. That's worthy of mention. R.I.P.

Battleship with Grandma.

 

Explosive chocolate.

We know what you want in your hot chocolate -- C-4! And that's why Frankford Candy has given us the HOT CHOCOLATE BOMBS!

I didn't buy these, but I would be darned if I didn't try one. Frankford Candy, located in the great city of Philadelphia, does a lot of co-branded candies (partners include Trolls, Cocoa Pebbles, Disney, and Marvel), including Dunkin' Donuts hot chocolate bombs. This was just sold under their own name, though, and given to me as a present.

The second-biggest selling point with these hot chocolate explosives is the quality of the chocolate, which we are informed is genuine Belgian milk chocolate. The main selling point, of course, is that it EXPLODES when combined with hot milk. The non-selling point is that the tiny marshmallows released in the ensuing carnage are made in China. Of all the things for them to get made in China, they got the marshmallows?  

Let's get to business. The bombs are very light for their size, and wrapped in foil.  

You put the bomb in a big cup and pour the milk over it. And... Nothing! 

Actually I think I didn't get the milk hot enough. However, when I tapped the bomb with a spoon... BOOM!

Well. All right, not that much of a boom. Anyhoo, then you just stir and stir and stir some more, and the chocolate dissolves into the hot milk and the tiny oblong marshmallows float on top.

Or not. Because the milk wasn't hot enough, a lot of the chocolate remained clumped up at the bottom. As you can imagine, I found it a true hardship to eat the delicious chocolate off a spoon. I managed to snag enough of the Chinese marshmallows to get a taste for them, and they tasted like typical American marshmallows. They want to melt fast, though, even in inadequately heated milk, so you have to get to them quickly.

On the whole, I enjoyed the bomb, and look forward to trying the Salted Caramel and Peppermint flavored ones. But I won't bother wearing my explosive ordnance disposal suit next time.

The truth is out there.

 

Bang Gunley rides again.

Once again the unfortunate inspiration strikes to chronicle the Western adventures of Bang Gunly, Western Hero and saddle-sore specialist, as we have done earlier here and here. 

"BANG GUNLY RIDES AGAIN ONCE MORE"

by Frederick Key

Dedicated to Mike "Flangepart" Weller,

who created Bang and deserves the shame credit

Bang Gunly sat on the old hoss he called Irv, looking around to get a feel for the place. It was hot in Arizona territory, blisteringly hot, and dry as an Oxford don's jokes. But Bang was in Nebraska and he was freezing his behindular area off. 

"Hey, you!" came a voice from Bang's left. 

Bang casually put his right hand on his trusty six-shooter and turned to see who was talking. "What you want, mister?" 

"Get off'n that danged horse right now! It's my turn."

"Oh, yeah," said Bang. "Sorry."

Bang dismounted and let the little kid take a turn on Irv. Too bad Bang had run out of quarters. He'd found the mechanical horse soothing on his saddle sores. 

Bang sauntered away from the five-and dime and across the street to the quarter-and-dollar. He'd come to like this place well enough. Gold City, Nebraska, they called it, after the big silver strike that had been found by Herschel Gold. The silver mine petered out fast, but the name of the town kept bringing in prospectors who left their money behind as they ran out into the prairie with new supplies, looking for gold. 

Bang had a feeling that something wasn't right today, though. He'd always had a feel for trouble. And trouble always had a feel for him. It could be embarrassing if anyone saw them.

A yell from several doors down confirmed his hunch. "Help! Help!"

Bang hustled down the sidewalk, his boots galumphing along the wooden planks. His gun filled his hand by the time he arrived. 

It was the boot and shoe store, and the yeller was Lulu LaLou, the young lady who worked for her father, the owner. She was a nice piece of work, a corseted queen as loaded with buttons and bows as could make Bob Hope happy. Bang had been trying to get to meet her, and probably could have, but he was too cheap to buy new boots. "What's wrong, young lady?" he said.

"Trouble's afoot!"

"Yes, I know." Troubles Afoot was the name of the store.

"No, I mean we've been robbed! It's terrible! Someone has grabbed my pa and demanded the combination for the safe! When Pa wouldn't tell them, they dropped him in the outhouse hole!"

"That's terrible!"

"Please get him out!"

"I'll... go for help!"

As Bang arranged a party from the saloon to help with the disgusting rescue, he realized he'd seen this kind of dirty work before. There was one varmint who loved dumping his victims in the outhouse. And that varmint was the one and only Deuce Baggio.

🤠🤠🤠

Bang Gunly was just outside of Gold City, facing a pair of tents, one of whom held the man he wanted to see. He was tempted to just blast them both with his revolver, but he had to make sure. Not like that time in Minneapolis. That was a sticky situation.

"Deuce!" he yelled. "Come on out and say hello, you miserable skunk!"

The flaps on the two tents flew open. In the cold fading sunlight Bang could make out one face--it was Deuce. 

"Is that Bang Gunly I hear?" growled the miserable skunk. "This here's an honor, boys."

"I reckon we need to have a chat, Baggio."

With the clink and clank of spurs and firearms, Deuce Baggio and seven of his men arose from the tents. Bang tried to keep his eyes from bugging out, but he was thinking, How the hell did them fellers all fit in them tents? Maybe it was better not to know. Anyway, they all had guns and rifles out, pointing at Bang, and that seemed a little more urgent.

"How'd you find me, Bang?" asked Deuce through his mangy black beard.  

"Followed the bread crumbs from the bakery. On your way outta town you pinched a loaf."

"I sure did, and it was a good one," said Deuce. 

"You had a busy day," said Bang. "Went by the restaurant and took a dumpster. Find anything?"

"Just some old silverware."

"I heard you did number two."

"Yeah, the whorehouse at number two on Gold Street."

"Then you guys were heaving Havanas on the sidewalk..."

"We all enjoy a nice cigar."

"...saw a man about a horse..."

"Bill Jones, had a gelding named Oswalt."

"...left a floater in the outhouse..."

"I warned LaLou!"

"...released the Kraken..."

"Heh heh, didn't that bronco run wild!"

"...took the Browns to the Super Bowl..."

"And they said it couldn't be done!"

"Well, you've terrorized Gold City enough. You clear out of the county or else!"

"Or else what, Bang? Maybe you ain't noticed that we got twelve guns on you between us."

"And maybe you ain't noticed the fuse that's been burning this whole time."

Deuce Baggio and his men looked around in panic, but it was too late. The fuse had just run down on the dynamite that Bang had planted. Bang dove for cover behind a hillock as the explosion blew Deuce sky-high. Two other scoundrels were blown up a whole lot, one was blown up just a little, and the rest were dazed and blackened like Yosemite Sam on a bad day. They were easy for Bang to tie up and drag back to town for justice. 

The next morning, Bang and Lulu LaLou enjoyed a latte at the Gold City Trattoria and Bait Shop. The headline in the Gold City American Standard said GUNLY DROPS DEUCE.

"How brave, to face all those rapscallions and ruffians on your own!" said Lulu.

"Nuthin' any man with some guts and some dynamite couldn't do," said Bang. "How's yer old man?"

"He's doing well after his harrowing adventure," she said. "He wants to thank you personally!"

"Well, that's kind of him."

"Let's go," Lulu said, rising from the table. "Oh, you'll want one of these when we get to the house." She handed him a clothespin.

"I s'pose," he said, putting it on his nose. "Id's a berfecd fid."

🤠🤠🤠

Tune in next time for another adventure of Bang Gunly. No, I don't know when. We'll alert the media.

Final thoughts.

As I noted a few days ago, January 9 this year is the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord, and thus the official end of the Christmas season. 

Pretty much everyone has seen it go already. I bid farewell to all the decorations. My outdoor stuff was packed away on Thursday because we expected our first real snow of the season that night and I'd rather put it away while it is not covered in flakes. 

I'm saddest to see the old-fashioned things go, especially ones like this terrific display I spotted in Pennsylvania. It has woodwork, hand-painting, lights, and a real hat on Santa. I suspect it has been a beloved part of the family for many years. I hope it will be for many more years to come.   

Speaking of that first snowfall, it was Izzy's first ever, and he encountered it at four in the morning on Friday when he and Tralfaz conspired to make me take out the doggies at that early hour. Izzy went into a total Golden Retriever frenzy, rolling and thrashing on his back (the Loony Dance) with his paws in the air much as if he did not care, and otherwise going batpoop crazy with glee. So now I have two nuts who love the winter weather dragging me out for spurious reasons all day long.

Speaking of batpoop, look what Santa gave me in my stocking this year!

Yes, Pez makes a line of emoji dispensers, including the Poop Emoji, and this was provided for me by my loving wife in the guise of Jolly Old St. Nick. I thought it was pretty funny, but I had to act revolted, because really, who wouldn't? Since then I have made it a point to prop up M. Merde du Pez to look at her while she's having lunch, or to keep watch over the tank when someone enters the can. Keep your Elf on the Shelf; I've got a snoopin' poop.

And that's all I have to report for this Christmas. Join me in September when I start complaining about the Christmas stuff on the store shelves too soon. 

the warning sign of lowercase letters.

 I see that Target has changed its logo now. I think the company may be in trouble. 

Old

New

I've noticed that companies go to the lowercase letters when they are getting a rapacious image and want to look friendly again. Uppercase letters look dynamic and effective, but when your reputation turns from dynamic and effective to vicious and ruthless, it's time to break out the wee little letters.

we're your friend! we're here to help!

A few years back Walmart (then WAL*MART) was getting all kinds of bad press, for poor treatment of employees, ruining downtowns and mom & pop shops, killing U.S. manufacturing with a flood of cheap stuff from China, etc. They deployed a smiley face in their commercials, but it didn't help. Then they did this, and you hardly hear a complaint anymore. 

Citibank has been the home of many scandals over the years, but one that got a lot of press was when the bank was "involved in one of the biggest corporate scandals in United States history when it was accused of helping Enron disguise debt and agreed to pay $101 million to settle charges relating to the Enron fraud case," as HuffPost reported. And what did Citibank do about it? 

Yahoo! went from being a hotshot Internet stock to barely holding on for dear life. A series of terrible data breaches in the '10s was end of Marissa Mayer's career as CEO. What little rep Yahoo! had since its days as Chat Room King (remember those?) was swirling in the toilet. But don't worry; everything's under control!

I have to note that the lowercase rule does not apply to companies that have used lowercase from their founding, like Amazon and Google. They were early responders to the modern age of infantilization of consumers. Plus, they wanted to pillage from the get-go.

Has Target had any big scandals? Not lately that I know of, but for some data breaches and their expensive failure to launch in Canada. Maybe something is waiting in the wings and the logo change was preemptive. If your bank or investment company goes to a lowercase logo without warning, beware! 

I'm not sure how well this lowercase thing will work in the case of Yahoo! or Target, but it seems to have done fine for Citi and Walmart. Then again, in the case of some companies, nothing really seems to help....