Intelligent?

By Design

Zillions of years ago the intelligent designer was sipping a strawberry daiquiri by her kidney shaped swimming pool when that same pesky piece of dust that has bothered her for years once again landed in one of her many eyes. Damn you, she said as she flicked it out toward one of the light globes nearby. I am cursing you with, …uh, I know, “life!”
Time went by and she decided to check on life’s progress on the piece of dust. Very disappointing, most of it was stuck under water. Waving her magic wand, she said “Some of you get out of the water and onto the hard part and make something of yourselves.”
A million years or so later, she checks and finds the land critters have progressed quite nicely. Some are walking about on their hind quarters. All the various animals are quite happy living off the vegetation that the designer provided. But wait- this is hardly entertaining! I hereby decree that at least half the critters be carnivores. That should provide some sport.
Inspection a few millennia later finds some of the more advanced things have formed into tribes and help each other out and share and share alike in the bounty of the land. That’s got to stop. Simple enough, I add jealousy, envy, and greed into the picture. “Hey pal, look at the nice stream your neighbor has running thru his area – wouldn’t you like to have that?” “And check out his woman! Whoo ha ha!”
Let the fun begin!
The entertainment value of this piece of dust has improved dramatically on the next visit as scores of warriors are slaughtering one another because they each believe they own the “truth” about the designer. Their numbers are still increasing nonetheless. Time for some more fun to be added to the mix. How about pestilence, famine and the plague. That ought to slow them down. Maybe a few incurable excruciatingly painful diseases as a lagniappe.
On her last visit the designer sees that the critters have almost developed to the point of being able to extinguish themselves thru ever new and more powerful inventive weapons of mass destruction. Well, perhaps she has seen enough and will be merciful and flick the piece of dust into the lighted ball of fire it has been circling.
Now, if YOU were omniscient and omnipotent isn’t that the way you would have gone about designing your piece of dust? No? Not enough pain and misery for you?
Then you can go to hell, that’s where the REAL action is.
Benediction: Dear Designer, thank you for the many fine diseases and the aberrant minds that cause the critters to slaughter one another in your name, but, especially for the recent natural disasters that only you can wreak upon us: the tsunamis, earthquakes and hurricanes which have brought so many innocent children to a horrific untimely death. Pax vobiscum. Amen.

Ednor Gardens

Kimble Rd Redux

In the last few years of World War Two, I was beginning my formal education at P.S. 51, Waverly Elementary School, Kindergarten (I love that word “a garden of children”) thru grade six. Every morning began with the “Lord’s Prayer” and the “Pledge of Allegiance” (sans “under God”). If you recall, my hometown, Baltimore, was the place where Madylyn Murray began her campaign to exclude religious observances in schools.
My musical career was enhanced by being a bugler in the school “drum and bugle corps.” Even though we had a piano at home and I was taking weekly lessons from Mr. Stern, who made house calls, I decided an accordion was what I really wanted.
Ever indulgent to my whims, mom took me to Freitags Music Store on Greenmount Ave. where I began taking lessons on a child-size instrument from “Tony.” That experiment lasted about two months, so the piano remained as my main instrument of torture.
Some of the kids learned to cycle on junior-size bikes. We could only afford one shot at it so I started with a ‘big” bike. There were no training wheels in those days. Dad fashioned pedal extenders with wooden blocks and bolts so my feet could reach the pedals. I learned by the “push and pray method.” A few years later when I was a veteran cycler, big brother, ever the inventor, bought one of the first battery operated portable radios and attached it to my handlebars. Was I cool, or what?
Although our television had been improved by the addition of a tele-rotor (remember them, a motor attached to the antenna on your roof turned the antenna to provide the best reception), radio was still a major source of entertainment in the evening. The squeaking door of “inner sanctum” and the stealth of Lamont Cranston (the “shadow”) were weekly “must hears.”
I was a skinny little kid so Mom provided a steady stream of snacks as we lay on the living room floor listening to the radio or watching TV. Staples were potato chips and marshmallows, which were preferred slightly stale. A real attempt at fattening me up was eagle brand sweetened condensed milk, which I spooned right from the can. I remember there being maybe 2 or 3 brands of potato chips but they were all the same style and flavor. Today there are umpteen brands, a zillion flavors and shapes, not to mention the multitude of ways to cook them, fried, baked, sautéed and fricasseed. MMMMM…Yummy.

And Away We Go

The Burbs

By the time I was twelve, the row house in the city had become too small for our family of six (and our puppy, Mikey), so it was off to the suburbs, 621 Sudbrook Road, Pikesville, just outside the northern city limits. At that time, we were at the far edge of suburban sprawl, open fields to the north and west of us.
Our house was a working man’s dream, a bungalow in the suburbs, complete with a white picket fence. The heating system had progressed from the old coal, then oil furnace in the city to the latest marvel, gas heat. Air conditioning was still for the rich so we “cooled” with window fans. There were four bedrooms, two on the first floor and two “upstairs” where the headroom in both rooms was cut short by the slant of the roof. Mom and Dad had a first floor bedroom and the other was shared by my twin sisters. Big brother and I had the luxury of our own rooms on the second floor. The kitchen was small and the cooking area was separated from the eating area by a four foot high, six inch wide divider. The eating area was just large enough to accommodate the customary chrome and formica table and chairs. This was the site of thousands of bitterly fought pinochle games. Amazing as it seems now, three adults and three pubescent youths shared one tiny bathroom.
It wasn’t too long after we had moved that brother found the “love of his life” and moved out to pursue married bliss. This allowed a shifting of bedroom assignments. I petitioned for, and got to move downstairs, next to the bathroom, where I had discovered new pleasure in my daily ablutions. The girls were happy, as they each got their own room upstairs.
One by one, we children married at too early an age (all before 20) and moved on to seek our fortunes. This house was always “home” to me through several marriages, separations and divorces. Dad died here in his bed at age 76 from prostate cancer and Mom made it through a series of illnesses until she was almost 100. My “home” is in other hands now but my memories will last forever.

Bridge TKO

I don't know of a matchpoint pair player who does not cringe at the obscene number of master points awarded in KO's. I don't know how the system works - but when, in the recent Las Vegas regional, a list of master point leaders was published, I said (not jokingly) "Oh, those are the Knockout players."
Perhaps it is time to segregate players who have to beat a field of several sections in two sessions to get as many masterpoints as a pair who luck in to winning the first two matches of a knockout.
This will give the ACBL yet another way to honor players in additional areas of expertise. As you know, 25 years ago there were maybe 4 or 5 levels before you became a "Life Master" with all the benefits that accrued therein. (free membership and lifetime bulletins- ha ha ha ha)
It is easy to see why the ACBL working directors prefer Knockouts - the number of idiots to deal with is halved after one session, then halved again and yet again. There are no hand records to contend with, no screwed up pick-up slips (with the computer input), rarely a fouled board, no burners to publish or scoring corrections. When I become a director, please let me do the knockouts.
Meanwhile, for God's sake, do something to make the masterpoint awards more equitable - right now it's a joke. Only I'm not laughing.

The ACBL long ago abandoned any pretense of maintaining the respect and honor that came with the title of “Life Master” when they succumbed to a system whereby one could become a Life Master without ever having played against a Life Master.
Now we have “Stratified Pairs” where “B” and “C” players earn more masterpoints for lesser scores than the “A” players and “Knockouts” that pit players who can barely follow suit versus their peers and award handsome sums of masterpoints for outwitting the opponents. If the goal of the management of the ACBL is to market membership by showing how easy it is to obtain the once lofty goal of “Life Master”, congratulations, success is yours.

Scofflaw

Guilty

From time to time, the Gummint passes laws and regulations that are oppressive to the general citizenry. One such pain in the ass is the annual “safety” and “emission” inspection required of car owners. I would be very interested in the study which shows the reduction of accidents and improvement in air quality as a result of this farce.
As an avid fan of this system I have often let my “sticker” expire before getting it updated. There is no penalty for lateness unless you get caught by the eagle eye of the law driving with an oldie. In February 2004 I went to “Sticker Stop” to renew my decal. It was then I discovered that regulations differ for cars based on age with the years 1995 and 1996 being the breaking point. (for what reason I know not)
I have a 1996 Nissan. The kind mechanic asked me is I was sure it was a ’96. I think so ,why? He pointed to a sticker inside my door frame that said it was manufactured in 11/95! Gasp! Had I been ripped off?– or what? I was told that my car would fail the emissions test if it was a ’96 but would pass if it was a ’95. Suddenly, my dismay about owning a car one year older than I thought melted away, and I confessed that it was a ’95 indeed. My sticker was applied and away I went.
Merrily I rolled along until the middle of September 2005 (yes, my sticker expired in February) when an officer of the law with nothing better to do was spying for scofflaws. I paid my fine ($126) by mail a week before my trial date and in trepidation of another ticket waited for a new inspection until the first of October to gain a month on the sticker.
I went to get a new sticker. Two minutes into the work the inspector told me the left front tire was faulty and unsafe and the car would not pass inspection. (crap!)
OK, gimme the keys and of I go to Discount Tire Co, to get it replaced. No problem there, other than a two hour wait. Back to Sticker Stop. One minute into the work I am asked who did the inspection last year? Your Company. “This is a ’96, not a ’95 and it will not pass inspection because the “check engine” light is on. "(It has been on for about 2 years) “Hah!”, says I, “look at this inside the door -11-95!” Pish-posh, or similar words, cars made in the last three months of the year are next year’s cars! (shit!) I was directed around the corner to an auto repair shop that would take “care” of me. There, I was told that for $45 they would do an analysis and then be able to tell me what was wrong and how much it would take to fix it. Aloha. I had had enough for one day and decided to try “something” the next day. Perhaps another station would be more sympathetic to my plight.
Alas, it was not to be. They were, unfortunately, all law abiding citizens and knew the difference between a ’95 and ’96 car. I was screwed.
Today, I am living outside the law, one step away from another hurtful citation.
I slink around the back streets hoping to avoid the ever vigilant eyes of our protectors of the peace. Shhhhhhhh…

PS. Two days after I wrote this I got a call from the court house asking why I missed my court date. My check was supposedly lost in the mail and I had to appear today with a replacement or have a warrant issued for my arrest. God Bless America.