Crazy App... Lazy App...

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:         Crazy App...  Lazy App...

At the speed of something, not light, or sound, possibly the "speed of ideas" coursing through a creative mind, and then pausing at a Eureka millisecond-moment,  technology tends to confound, confuse and dent a Geezer's brain.  The speed of it, the collision of techno marvels onto an aging psyche...  It's all too bewildering.

Consider, for example, the smartphone, its profusion of "applications, or "Apps," in the vernacular of today's wunderkinds and their endless inventions that in a blink supplant those of others mere microseconds past!  

"Wait a second," I muse.  "What was that wondrous thing I saw in this morning's Chronicle?  What??!!...  Whoa!!??  It's already obsolete??!!...   (Returning to the primary subject matter!)...  Those of us in the tightening vise of GeezerHood who continue to labor on, denizens, more like captives of the "Gig Economy," we have to re-train our brains of necessity, in ongoing efforts to grab hold of and absorb those new, if fleeting flashes of technology.  Otherwise, and only if financial security permits, we may as well retire to the recliner and the hypnotic pulse of the large, flat screen and its relentless pump-streams of pap and pulp.  

The elastic brain!  Do those of us of a certain age continue to enjoy a mind that can in fact function, absorb and decipher the codes of modern society?  Well, yes... maybe, some of us, possibly...  maybe...  When SweetHeart and I ply our current trade as exemplary food delivery drivers, we are compelled to use and understand "Apps."  So what's the problem?...

We're on a delivery with a sense of urgency and purpose.  The app rudely interrupts our trains of thought, or maybe a pleasant conversation.  "In the upcoming right lane, turn left onto Dinglebalm Street..."  

"But," SweetHeart wisely notes, "we're already on the correct route.  The delivery's on this very street, about...  lemme check the map...  a mile and a half from here.  Be Quiet...  stop talking, 'Nellie.' "

 Or the app has us taking an absurdly circuitous route, with the map sometimes acquiescing foolishly, and we know the right way to drive to our destination.  "Just keep going straight," SweetHeart states assuredly.  "Then turn right on Clementine Avenue.  It's the fourth house from the corner, on the left..."  

Sometimes the app insists, "Continue on McFarley for three-quarters of a mile, using all three lanes..."  

"I mean," I say in an attempt at comic interpretation, "is it appropriate for us to weave
in and out of all three lanes of traffic, so that no one but us can use them?  But that seems an obvious invitation to a traffic citation.  Do you see any police cars, SweetHeart?  If

not, I'll start deviating wildly..."

At times the app gets inexplicably lazy!  The mechanical direction-shrieking voice of "Noxious Nellie" refuses to speak to us...  shuts down completely.  It's maddening.  We tend to rely upon "her" for proper, or comic, directions to our destinations.  I opine that Nellie is on a coffee break or off to the ladies' lounge or has possibly swooned over an impossibly handsome artificial intelligence of the male variety.   "Hello!  Nellie!...  Hello!"

SweetHeart walks to the door of a recipient's home.  A foot or so removed from the person who ordered, she hands a sack of food to the customer.  She looks down at the app.  It says, "You are too far away from the delivery."

"If I were any closer I'd be on the customer's toes, our noses making direct contact!  Are you nuts, app?!  I couldn't possibly get any closer!"

Here's a good one:   SweetHeart leaves a sack of East Indian cuisine on a customer's porch.  The instructions clearly state, "Please leave the food at the door."  The app chimes in, "Remember to leave the food in a safe place."  SweetHeart looks around at a busy and well-populated neighborhood.  The food is highly visible on the porch.

"How?" SweetHeart wisely asks.  She rings a bell if there is one, and knocks loudly on the door.  No one responds.  She's done the best she can do.  "What else can I do?" she asks of me, her partner, or rhetorically.  If payment and a tip appear eventually on the

app, we know she's done everything correctly, short of house-breaking or throwing the sack onto a roof and then leaving a crude "treasure map" as to its whereabouts!

Picture-Taking as evidence of a proper delivery:   Rules demand, on many occasions, that SweetHeart take a picture of the food sack in situ, when instructions ask that the delivery be left at the door.  She takes a photograph using her phone and its terribly clever app.  Nothing happens.  "Please take a picture," the app demands after she's taken the picture.  She cannot verify the delivery unless the app acknowledges that she's taken the picture.  "Please take a picture," the app repeats demandingly.  SweetHeart takes a picture of the sidewalk, a dead worm, a flight of wooden steps leading to the porch.  The app responds, allowing SweetHeart to slide the "Complete Delivery" bar to the right!

"In other late-breaking crazy-app news," the imaginary anchor announcer shouts, sounding nearly hysterical and slightly demented!... 

  

App:     "Do you wish to contact the customer?"

SweetHeart:    "I've just delivered the food personally to the recipient customer.  We chatted amiably about weather, porches and the quality of local Thai take-away..."  

App:     "Be alert!  Look both ways before crossing busy intersections!"

SweetHeart:    "What...  You think I'm 6 years old and barely conscious?!"

App:    "Make a U-Turn..."

SweetHeart:    "Don't be silly, Nellie.  I'm already at the customer's door!"

App:    "Doodledly Doot...   Doodeldy Doot..." (New pickup / delivery summons from

global headquarters) -- Pickup from Sheldon's Authentic Real Napolese Pizza Pie Parlor...  Location at 5th and LaughHam, on your left...  

SweetHeart:    (Upon arriving at the app-stated and apparent location!)  "This isn't right!  There's a chain link fence on our left on which we see an acre of litter blown up against it!  Beyond the fence is the Freeway.  We can't pickup a pizza on the Freeway."  (She telephones the pizza parlor, and is correctly informed the location is on South 27th Street just south of Howard Avenue...   miles away from the Freeway address!)   The pizza proprietors are heard consumed in mirth as she rings off... 

One supposes, or perhaps, one confesses, it isn't nice to ridicule a person.  But the app is an inanimate "someone," and Nellie is a mechanical entity, not a real person.  Therefore, a bit of innocent ridicule is entirely appropriate.  One hopes readers can empathize with this non-tribute to Apps and their sometimes...  um, maybe quite often...  absurdities, ridiculous pronouncements and erroneous instructions.  Thank you for your kind attention to this bit of nonsense.  Comments, questions, complaints, (minor, verbal) hostilities and rebuttals always welcome!  

Humbly Submitted 03-24-2022 -- by Joel K.

  

  

    

 

    

 

 

        

   

That Bowl Thing...

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:         That Bowl Thing...

The picture shown above is a classic helmet-to-helmet sort
of confrontation icon, sort of, seen often in the 
panoply of professional football images...  like!

 It's a kind of ritual.  We all have them, I suppose...  rituals.  Some are pleasant, even delightful, if spent with family and food, laughter and fun.  Some are purely insipid, like having to listen to the tedious droning of a vapid and vacuous politician...   A certain male senator in our state is a prime example, like a leaf blower at full and obnoxious volume when there are no leaves to be blown!   

There's a point to this lament, or complaint or explanatory narrative:  I prefer college football.  I tend not to be among the rabid devotees of the professional variety.  But, on the Sunday that has a great percentage of the populous anchored to their enormous television screens with bibs on to catch dribbles and drooling, chips and dips and other foodstuff droppings owing to a kind of inattentiveness when eyes are focused primarily on giant screens, I join my family for this particular ritualistic mayhem.

SweetHeart makes her famous and delicious chili, an enormous pool of the stuff, a complete dinner in a pot.  I help by cooking the meat that forms an important component of the stew.  And, I open cans and toss the empties into our recycle bin.  The day is so frenzied that sometimes I feel I'll land straight-jacketed in a bin of a different sort.  But, one has to be strong and brave; one is compelled to participate or one may incur various forms of torment.

On the Sunday in question, our family members watched a team called the "Rams" defeat a team known as the "Bengals."  One would think a tiger should be able to defeat and devour a member of the sheep family.  Apparently that's not how it works in the

Wait a minute!  Are these guys supposed to
be pals?  I mean, why isn't the guy on the
left eating the guy on the right??!!!

violent arena of professional football, bets and predictions, team spirit and hearts' desires notwithstanding! 

I suppose it is fitting that we fill large bowls of chili during the contest...  It's that bowl thing....   Continuity, sort of...   I watch pieces of it, the contest, that is, but spend most of my time talking nonsense or interacting with my much-loved children, grandchildren, or wandering around the home of my younger daughter who hosts the ritual annually.   

My eldest grandson is an encyclopedia of films, you know, movies, motion pictures.  We enjoy our conversations, and he reveals names of good films, favored directors and film score composers.  He's quite wonderful, and he actually makes films and scores them himself.  Remarkable talent, he is!

Our younger and also much-loved grandson and his uncle, my beloved son-in-law, spend a bit of preliminary and half-time moments competing in an electronic game we disparagingly term "Hut, Hut, Hut, Doodledy Doo," owing to the strange voice of a

presumed Quarter-of-the-Way Back "artificial intelligence" automaton announcing signals!  (We don't know what the voice really says, but it sounds ike "Doodledy doo..."  Could be some other sort of gibberish?...) 

He, the aforementioned grandson, has a new version of "Hut, Hut..." that he variously identifies as "Madden" or "Hut, Hut... Doodleldy NEW..."  

We enjoy pre-contest stuff, like Charcuterie platters and tasty hors 'doeuvre that both daughters concoct.  For me, these are pleasant diversions, distractions that allow me to remove myself from the pre-game babble, player profiles and re-run snippets of contests past.  I like to wander about, pretending to be interested, seeking other outlets to occupy my brain, such as it is.

And then there's dessert, cookies, ice cream with SweetHeart's homemade chocolate-y fudge-y topping that, when allowed to harden, becomes a delicious fudge, like the kind one might find in a candy shop (or "shoppe," if one prefers that rather overly cute and

fatuous version.).  Other baked goods from time to time, and depending on who decides to bring what!  

Did I mention dog walking?  Another necessary distraction that removes the walkers from the warmth of home and hearth allowing for an aid to digestion.  We all tend to overly consume, all of the comestibles being so delicious!  A good walk helps to re-locate the consumed stuff into different compartments of the belly, or maybe creates more blubber nodules...  Something like that!  

And consider this:  My brother once lived in a suburb of Cincinnati, but he also lived in Milwaukee, Denver, and now Dallas.  I think he has mixed allegiances!  I mean, it's a bit tricky, isn't it?  Bengals, Cowboys, Broncos, Packers??!!  I wonder if his children had a feet ball jersey sewn from fragments of all four team logo designs?!  Perhaps that's a topic for another time...  and another rant!  

Readers may note that the
helmeted rat boy is also 
a bit perplexed...  

(I mean, isn't loyalty supposed to be sort of exclusive?  Confined only to one team, not four?  This is a ponderous concept...  One needs to give this more thought, maybe an essay...  a manifesto?)

 Um...  One more observation:  As a society, we're obsessed with superlatives.  I mean, "Why 'Super'?" Baseball has the World Series.  Maybe play that "last game of the season" in footsball using the best of seven concept.  Oh, I see, them padded combatants, they'd all be dead or near dead by that time!  It's a Big Money thing, isn't it?!  The more hype the big money guys create, the more money they all make.  Yeah, it's a money thing...    

[A Confession:  If I'm being honest, I do enjoy "That Bowl Thing" ritual.  It's a fine reason to gather with family members, even if the giant television screen is a kind of distraction, roaring and chasing us from other more scholarly pursuits, butting and battering our heads and brains with mayhem and chaotic scenes of people knocking one another about, trying to dismember and maim!  (Is that what's meant by, "Heads will Roll...")  Such fun, aina??!!] 

Humbly Submitted, 02-17-2022 by Joel K.

   

     

     

 

The Simple Joys of GeezerHood!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:              ...The Simple Joys of GeezerHood!

It's like trying to grab hold of the spark of a sun crystal tossed from the white crest of a breaking wave...  Dazzlingly bright, elusive, slippery!  Akin to a dreamy concept of Retirement!...   Seemingly unattainable, at least at present.  Semi-retirement is, perhaps, a more plausible aim, however, and we cling to its pretense in various forms, cheerfully if, at times, a bit delusionally optimistic.

When free of workday hours, or from caregiving or the joys of being with children and grandchildren, we seize, for example, a certain delightful "Tea Time."  Heading for a favorite coffee house, we order Sport Tea, the extra large variety, with lemon and a quantity of ice that doesn't over-

whelm the tea.  Adding a bit of natural sugar, we seek the waters of Lake Michigan, or those of the confluence of rivers just west of the the huge arcing bridge that aims itself south, or north, depending on one's desired trajectory.

In summer, primarily owing to their greater occupancy (but in fall and winter as well!), we love watching big ships plowing the waters of the Great Lake, or tug boats,

sometimes the ferry.  We tend to sit and relax and sip that delicious sweet tea, equally savoring the scene in front of us, the waves and the palette of ever-shifting colors painted by the sun and the skies.

Among the most enjoyable sights are the St. Mary's Conquest or Challenger, cement-carrying ships that sometimes emerge like giant grey apparitions beside the Breakwater Light.  They inch with agonizingly deliberate slowness into the confluence, turning left as does the Menomonee River, heading for the river-front factory and its dispensing trough.  When filled to capacity, the ships back out of the narrow river, turn past the Light, pivot forward and then cruise to their (mysterious) destination ports on the Great Lakes.  

Wonderful sights.  Beautiful to witness for those of us so inclined and interested.  We're not always alone.  There are others of our ilk who enjoy the spectacle, not always of the GeezerHood variety.  The young are also sometimes in evidence at the water's edge, their eyes following the slow, grey, nearly waveless progress of the ship, whichever is in port at the time of its sighting.

On at least one occasion, hoping to prolong the nautical adventure before us, we hurry to "The Point," park our vehicle facing the Lake Front, and follow the ship's more urgent exit journey as it plows northward or eastward to deliver its viscous cargo, like exceptionally thick grey soup, too long left sitting and hardening in the pot.  Both ships have towering tugs attached like barnacles permanently to their sterns, guiding and steering the big ships into and out of our port with its narrow, meandering waterways.  

At other times, tide and time permitting, we take ourselves in a northerly, followed by a westerly direction to the banks of the river named after our state's largest city.  Prior to landing ourselves at the river's edge, we stop for our golden tea at a suburban oasis serving the same sought-after potions as those of  locations in the City we call home.  

(To be fair, truthful and accurate, we favor two different coffee houses, one for our preferred

This Aint Us!

coffee beverages, the other exclusively serving the sport tea of which we're so fond!)

The River and the park location we discovered a few years back gives us a very different set of spectacles.  An Osprey family that nests high atop a baseball field's "night-game light" --  a family we hope returns to its nest in Spring -- and bufflehead ducks, the black and white variety that dive into rivers and lakes for their dinner, geese and other species of duck, occasionally turtles and other amphibians.  And small furry woodland creatures and white-tail deer.  Nature and a natural setting at its most beautiful and gratifying. 

Such are the Simple Joys...   If we can't actually retire in the relatively near, or distant, future, we can in fact approximate a kind of semi-retirement, in which we can snatch a few restful hours with delicious tea, not necessarily "and sympathy" (if you get the reference!), but glorious nature and so many of its natural denizens, those native to our world and the specific biosphere we're privileged to inhabit. 

(Special Note of Attribution and Dedication:  For SweetHeart, my constant tea-savoring and much-loved partner, who, with me, so enjoys the ship sightings, the beasts, the waters and the flora, the natural settings we long to spy through our binoculars or naked eyes when we can in fact savor a semblance of leisure time, of "semi-retirement"... the Simple Joys of GeezerHood!)  

Humbly Submitted, 01-31-2022 -- by Joel K.  

    

 

  

   

 

       

  

TORN!...

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:             Torn!...

We find ourselves, at this juncture in time, a short while removed from the Holiday Season that renders 
Christians utterly jubilant...  at least for a brief period just prior to, on the two special days of the actual event, and in some cases for the week that follows into the eve of and the start of a New Year. 

Decorated House!

Many of us, I'm certain -- myself included -- find reasons to decry the Season for its orgy of spending, its specious bloom of "good cheer," the multiplicity of artifices, idols, iconic representations, yes, and also that profusion of electric lighting intended, we're often told, to brighten the drabness of winter.   Or else to inculcate, many would
insist, a belief system with appropriate symbols of the "true meaning..."   

  

I was raised by a gentile father and a Jewish mother; a fact that to this day tends to confound and confuse my sense of self-identity, my psychic awareness!  I'm TORN!

I often tell SweetHeart, my life partner and the love of my life, that I intend to allow the Jewish side of my persona to prevail during the Christian / Christmas holidays.  SweetHeart demurs.  "You were raised Christian," she argues.  "You have the Christmas tradition in your bone marrow.  Whether or not you accept its mythology, its religious significance or the pageant of the Santa-infused idea of an anti-religious feast day...  Doesn't matter.  We're celebrating Christmas, as if we are true believers, or merely Santa-obsessed revelers.  And that's the end of it!" she states demandingly, and quite forcefully.

I groan acceptingly, if grudgingly!  But, still, I'm TORN, I tell you, and I tell her, and everyone in my family, myself...   An old friend told me often, "Your face is the map of Israel."  My neighbor who is a Jew and who understands my matrilineal heritage, insists, "Then you're Jewish, sonny (she's a bit older than me!).  If you wanted, you could

emigrate to Israel where you'd be immediately accepted and with full Israeli / Jewish citizenship."  I try to find my passport (but furtively!)...

A neighborhood rabbi, for whom I wrote a personal history (needed for a chaplaincy quest!), revealed my story, my lineage to his colleague, a proselytizing rabbi.  The latter appears at my door with some frequency -- mainly, I think, on Jewish feast days.  He tries valiantly to bring me into the light, into the fold.  I resist.  I've been too far down a different pathway, and, for the past many years, I've practiced no form of religion!  None! 

Undaunted by my failure to respond to the rabbi's inexorable efforts, he brings me Chanukah candles, boxes of them, "gelt" in the form of foil-wrapped chocolates, 

dreidels, boxes of matzah and other Jewish gifts and artifacts.  He once appeared at my door, invited himself in and placed tefillins (phylacteries) on my head and arm.  He blesses me.  He brings his children to sing Hebrew songs.  I continue to resist...  

(I have boxes of unopened Chanukah candles; of the opened boxes, I bring some of the colorful content to birthday parties...  just in case!  You never know...  possibly the party host is experiencing a regrettable paucity of candles!  One likes to come prepared!)    

Still, in all, I guess I must confess to a certain and thinly veiled delight in The Season, particularly when the shopping and the (ugh) mall visits and the spending have all  finally, at last!, yielded to the actual Eve and the family celebration that commences with song and greetings and expressions of love and welcome.  (I grumble and make sour faces to disguise my delight, however!).  

We order beautiful pizzas from our, and my, favorite parlor.  It's a once-a-year indulgence and our family's principal Christmas Eve repast.  And salad, loaded with pepperoni, spicy peppers and other tasty ingredients.  (I pick off the cheese cubicles...  I don't care much for cheese cubicles or other forms of that specific dairy comestible!)

We chat endlessly, share "What's new's...  and What have you been doing lately's and Tell me about your life and recent adventure's...  How's your work coming along's..."  We stuff ourselves with the aforementioned edibles, sing more Christmas songs.  Our daughters bring their ukuleles and song sheets, and we warble on, harmonizing to familiar favorites.  The house fairly rings with music and song.  Wonderful stuff, in all, a really terrific day surrounded by and among the people we love best in the world.  (I check my online bank balance frequently!!)

 

Finally, we remove piles of gifts from beneath the "gorgeously adorned" artificial tree and distribute them to the celebrants gathered round the drawing room and its wonderfully effective gas fireplace.  

Following the gift-giving element with its frenetic ripping and tearing of holiday wrappings (I try to salvage the paper like my mother taught me...  but to no avail!), we sing more tunes, drink celebratory artificial wine-like juices, toast one another again and again, walk the dogs (there are two of them, one each in our children's families -- Petey and Yoshie, both male canines!), or sit and sip and nibble the endless cookies and gingerbread effigies and salted nuts.  (I'm particularly fond of mixed nuts and Virginia peanuts...  I tend overdo the nut thing; a flaw in my character, I suppose...)  

As if the joyous celebration at SweetHeart's and my family home isn't enough, at approximately 6:00 PM we pack up our necessaries, our "dish or dishes to pass" and repair to the home of our niece.  She and her husband have a large dwelling with a subterrranean space where the younger revelers gather to "talk treason" and to remove themselves from parental interference.  The food is always plentiful and "nummers" as my dear departed mother-in-law would say -- her word for yummy.  

Eventually, following this grand reunion with hosts of cousins, grand nieces and nephews, other relatives and friends, as the clock alarms us (particularly me as "I should be in bed by now!"...) with its reading, we begin to "Welp," my brilliant son-in-law's coinage for "I've had it.  I'm tired and it's time to go!"  (Another translation is, "Well, I see by my watch or my Cellular time reading that's it way past time to get the hell out of here!"). 

As I now reflect on the Season just past, I smile, or, more accurately, effect a silly grin and remind myself it's over for another full year.  Hooray!  Next year, I'm adopting my Jewish half, and I'll brook no objections from any quarter.  I mean it!  (Fat Chance...  Yeah, like that's gonna happen Man, Dude, Bro...  I like to use all three!).  See ya next year, Santa, you fat old obnoxious, red-nosed bankrupting jerk!!  

Humbly Submitted, 01-05-2022 -- by Joel K.  

  

 

   

  

Insomnia, Somnambulism and Plaid Dreams!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:           Insomnia, Somnambulism and Plaid Dreams!

As one firmly ensconced, more like inextricably mired, in the challenging Age of GeezerHood -- a time in which simple facial blemishes become permanent purple blotches on a once devilishly handsome mug -- peaceful and uninterrupted sleep has become a kind of illusion!  Let me elucidate...

While some of us can fall asleep during root canals and children's school concerts that sound more like conventions of screech owls, SweetHeart has a lifelong battle with insomnia, and on a nightly basis.  There are, however, lighter moments in her quest for sleep.  I recall one evening, long ago.  She often uses television as a kind of sleep-inducing medium.  We happened upon a sermonette in which the clergy person was doing an excellent imitation of Boris Karloff:

"Sleep is your friend," he began.  "But one mustn't wallow in sleep, nor use it as an escape from our sacred duties, the performance of good works.  Sleep is merely an interlude between acts of charity and kindness toward our less privileged brethren.  Rise up and contemplate what you will next do to give purpose to your life in full wakefulness...!"

 

As "Boris" droned and prattled on interminably, we chuckled somewhat mirthlessly as we threw socks and shoes at the screen.  (Television screens were more solid and durable in the 1970s, you see!)   In spite of his amusing exhortations, sleep, on that particular night, was another elusive shadow as we both lay wide-eyed, tossed, re-adjusted our bodies, pillows and blankets in feckless efforts to fall into a well of peaceful slumber.  I think I dropped off about 2:30AM, while SweetHeart's turn came at about 4:00AM!

As a younger man, following my time in the military, I experienced strange periods of somnambulism.  On an evening in the late 1960s, in mid-autumn and durning my often-drunken college years, I was briefly billeted at the home of my parents.  I entered the upstairs bathroom, filled my mouth with water, then, according my my mother's account, scratched at her bedroom door.  When she opened said door with considerable irritation in the middle of that strange night, I spat the mouthful in her face.  Mother was displeased, to put it mildly.  I apparently walked back to whatever unoccupied bed I happened to find and slept quietly, and without further perambulation...  at least I think so...!  

There were other episodes of sleep walking.  One of them ending at a kitchen table where perhaps I was planning a late-night snack or a breakfast of eggs and toast.  There was physical evidence to support both probable choices of foodstuffs.  (SweetHeart's father -- in his own GeezerHood -- once

awoke while eating eggs.  He had no idea where he was, how he got there, or who prepared the eggs!)

My dreams in the Age of Geezerhood, are remarkably odd.  I'm a barrister in an old sports car, driving while seated on a bent-wood kitchen chair.  I'm working on a newsletter or a manifesto, searching for an old edition from which I can cut and paste.  I'm pounding on an ancient typewriter, manually flipping the carriage so vigorously that it sails out a window.  Sometimes I can fly!  I soar over a cityscape scouting for evildoers.  Or I'm fretting over an upcoming examination for which I failed to read any of the required philosophy tomes.  (Or was it theology?) 

And gunmen!  Often I'm fleeing from villains wildly shooting their pistols, obviously with intent to do me a grievous injury, or worse!  I fall down stairways and into sewers.  Sometimes I'm on roller-skates or skateboards, neither of which I cannot now nor have ever mastered!  If I'm honest, sometimes I'm the aggressor.  I'm often playing volleyball in my dreams, or football...!    

Most recently, I dreamt in Plaid!  Each dreamscape mostly obliterated as I attempted to see through a tartan kilt or a Scotsman's earasaid or tonnag.  I can't make out the scenes behind the annoying plaids.  I could be in mortal danger, but I can't see clearly through the fabric.   Are they Piper's plaids or Drummer's?  What the hell difference does that make?  The whole business is terribly strange...   Sometimes patterns change in mid dream!...  

Oh, and one more result of ridiculous dreams.  I sometimes scratch myself and draw blood.  What does that mean?  Too much violence in dreams, I suppose.  Perhaps the answer is a machine that makes soothing sounds, like ocean waves or a gentle breeze to lull a person into a more peaceful realm of slumber...  Wait a minute; I have one of those!  Ach!  It's all too bizarre...     

Hmmm...  Perhaps what the nation really needs is a Department of Dream Interpretations! Maybe get rid of one of the less effective departments, and replace it with one staffed by competent interpreters of dreams; and perhaps add staffers or a sub-department that can assist with other sleep-centered disorders -- insomnia and of course somnambulism!  Yeah...   That's the Ticket!!  (I know people who claim they interact routinely with celebrities in dreamland; I find that a bit hard to accept!  I'm happy if occasionally my dreams are inhabited by dead people, relatives and friends alike!  Always delightful to see them!!)   

Humbly Submitted, 11-30-2021...  By Joel K.