Tag Archives: writing

TV & Reality

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As my wife’s illness progresses, she has more difficulty with TV. I keep telling her the shows aren’t real. It angers her, accusing me of not knowing.

Reality television has increasingly blurred the lines between authenticity and scripted entertainment. Take, for instance, the popular storage auction shows that once seemed genuine. Initially, I believed in their raw, unscripted nature, much like how professional wrestling was once perceived as a legitimate sport. However, as I continued watching, the interactions became noticeably more choreographed. The verbal exchanges began to feel less spontaneous and more like carefully crafted dialogue, revealing the manufactured drama behind the scenes. This realization prompted me to question the credibility of reality programming and the extent to which these shows are actually “real.”

In contemporary television, scripted dialogue has evolved from polished, rehearsed exchanges to more spontaneous narratives that draw inspiration from current events, challenging viewers to engage more critically with the storytelling.

In our increasingly complex media landscape, discerning truth from fabrication has become a challenging endeavor. News programs, despite their polished studios and professional veneer, often present conflicting narratives that shift with alarming frequency. While these broadcasts remain our primary source of information, critical viewers must carefully navigate the terrain of reporting, constantly evaluating the credibility of each statement. The more inconsistencies and retractions emerge, the more skeptical audiences become, eroding trust in traditional media platforms and challenging our understanding of objective reality.

As I confide in my wife, professional football stands as our sole bastion of authenticity in a world of manufactured narratives. The raw intensity of athletes competing for championship glory seems unparalleled, a genuine spectacle of human determination. Yet, with recent gambling controversies casting long shadows across the sport, I find myself questioning its integrity. Perhaps the gridiron is slowly transforming into just another scripted performance, trading genuine athletic passion for manufactured drama.

Milkshakes & Memory

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It had been ages since my wife and I indulged in a milkshake, a simple pleasure we’d long forgotten. After running an errand at the local pharmacy, we spontaneously decided to stop by McDonald’s. The moment the creamy, cold beverage touched our lips, nostalgia washed over us. The familiar, sweet taste transported us back to carefree moments of our past. My wife, savoring every last drop, continued to draw from her straw long after the liquid had disappeared, her contentment evident in her lingering smile.

During my freshman year of high school, I often relied on milkshakes as a quick meal replacement. These creamy beverages provided a satisfying blend of calories and temporary fullness, perfectly suited to my slender teenage metabolism. At a lean 130 pounds, I could indulge in multiple milkshakes without concern for immediate dietary consequences.

During my time in Da Nang, an unexpected craving haunted me: milkshakes. The mess hall had spoiled us with exceptional cuisine—diverse, well-prepared meals that defied the challenging circumstances. Yet, amid the culinary abundance, milkshakes remained conspicuously absent from the menu, leaving a sweet void in my dining experience.

During my R&R in Sydney, I embarked on a personal mission to savor a milkshake each day of my six-day stay. However, my culinary expectations quickly deflated when I discovered the local interpretation of a milkshake dramatically differed from my own. The beverages served were more foam than substance, with an airy composition that seemed to be at least 70% empty space, leaving me utterly underwhelmed and craving the rich, substantial milkshakes I knew from home.

Upon my return to the United States, two vivid memories stand out: savoring a creamy milkshake and enjoying a slice of pizza, though not in a single sitting. Curiously, the details of my actual arrival remain a blur. I can distinctly recall boarding the initial flight, spending a memorable week exploring Okinawa, and then embarking on the return journey. Yet, the specifics of landing on American soil—including the location—have completely escaped my recollection. The peculiarity of forgetting such a significant moment puzzles me, leaving me to wonder how one can simply lose track of such a pivotal experience.

So many little things I remember as if it were yesterday. My return from Vietnam is completely blurry. I sit here pondering, just how can this be?

I Thought It Was a Little Mistake

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I forgot to tell the doctor that my wife was low on two of her medications. No big deal. We went back today, and he wrote the prescriptions for them. We then headed to Walgreens. As I was entering the store, I saw a well-displayed sign: their pharmacy was closed.

There ought to be a linguistic term for this peculiar incongruity—something akin to an oxymoron, but manifested through actions rather than language. Consider the irony: a pharmacy store chain store without a pharmacy seems as absurd as a McDonald’s with no burger inventory. The dissonance is palpable, a logical disconnect between expectation and reality.

I glanced down at my watch, a sudden urgency washing over me. While numerous Walgreens dotted the local landscape, only one remained open around the clock. Given her critical medication shortage, I knew I couldn’t risk waiting. The catch? This particular pharmacy was located in Memphis—a city I habitually steered clear of—yet tonight, it seemed to be our sole lifeline.

We embarked on our journey, my apprehension stemming not just from navigating Whitehaven, the Memphis neighborhood notorious for its frequent media appearances, but also from the anticipation of a prolonged wait at the sole open pharmacy—a scenario all too familiar from past experiences.

Navigating the congested highway, I felt the weight of my earlier error intensifying with each passing moment. The surrounding vehicles seemed poised to exploit my vulnerability, their drivers laser-focused on potential opportunities to alter my trajectory. In this unforgiving urban landscape, lane discipline had become a forgotten art, with each motorist operating as if turn signals and careful observation were mere suggestions rather than essential safety protocols.

My trip to the store was uneventful, a fact for which I am grateful. The wait time passed quickly, and during our browsing, one detail stood out dramatically: the heightened security measures. Compared to my usual Walgreens, this store seemed to take precautions more seriously, with numerous items securely locked away. Despite being less than 10 miles from the store I usually visit and crossing a state line, the difference in security protocols were striking, suggesting they might experience more significant theft challenges than my familiar shopping environment.

On the positive side, the folks at the store seemed friendlier and more professional than where I usually visit. Didn’t expect that.

Answer: Because We Make Mistakes.

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Question: Why do they put erasers on pencils?

It’s true, though I must admit, I didn’t think of it. However, you will have to go far and wide to find a person more mistakes prone as I am. For the most part, the mistakes can be eradicated. As with the eraser, the error can be figuratively and easily rubbed out.

Life’s challenges aren’t always simple to overcome. Some wounds, both physical and emotional, leave lasting marks that we carry with us. Forgiveness might come, but the consequences of our actions or accidents can persist. My own journey with a severely damaged ankle serves as a testament to this reality. Despite an orthopedic surgeon’s meticulous hours of surgical intervention, the injury continues to haunt me. The persistent throbbing pain seems almost independent of the physical limb itself. When I sought a solution, the doctor’s stark response was chilling: surgical removal was an option, but the pain might well remain, a phantom reminder of past trauma. Some scars, it seems, transcend physical boundaries, etching themselves into our very existence.

Navigating life’s pivotal moments requires careful reflection, especially when facing choices with lasting consequences. Our decisions can echo through time, leaving indelible marks that no simple correction can erase. Like permanent ink on the canvas of our existence, some choices demand thoughtful consideration before we commit. Not all mistakes can be easily undone, and wisdom lies in pausing to truly understand the potential long-term impact of our actions.

In one respect, I have been fortunate. I have never directly taken part in the taking any human life. The thought that I might one day scares me. Yet one day, either by accident or in defense, it might happen. It might happen on the highway or in defense. As I contemplate such a remote possibility, I wonder how I might cope with it. This is especially true if it be an innocent child by accident.

Some people have no problem living with it. They take the lives of innocent unborn babies. Some doctors do this by the hundreds without hesitation and not an ounce of guilt.

Some women, in the name of freedom of choice, pay those doctors. I would say that they do it without a second thought. Their conscience becomes seared to a point they don’t care. How-some-ever, I suspect, sometimes, it might strike later in life. Disagree with me as you will, I have found God does have a way of calling things to our attention in ways and at times we least expect. And yes, it hurts more than the broken ankle. And it nags at you any time you’re awake.

Some mistakes leave permanent marks, etched into memory like scars that time cannot fade. The consequences of our actions linger, a constant reminder of choices made and paths taken. No amount of wishful thinking can erase the emotional weight we carry, a burden that becomes part of our very essence.

Our Phones!

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The subtle tremor against my sternum stirs me from slumber. Logically, the smartphone nestled in my breast pocket is the source of the disturbance. Yet, in the stillness of the night, I’m perplexed by the unexpected interruption, wondering who could be reaching out at this hour.

Groggily, I fumble for my phone, its screen a blurry mess of light and shadow. With heavy-lidded eyes, I swipe to answer the call, mumbling “Hello?” three times before a human voice briefly breaks through the static. Suddenly, the voice morphs into a robotic recording, draining away any hope of meaningful communication. Resigned, I disconnect the call and sink back into my pillow, sleep beckoning once more.

Unsolicited advertisements intrude on my personal space, flagrantly disregarding my privacy. Unlike traditional media where advertisers fund the platform, I bear the full cost of my communication device, yet receive no compensation for these unwelcome interruptions. The disparity is stark: television and radio ads are subsidized by marketing budgets, while my personal phone becomes an unpaid billboard for corporate messaging.

Frustrated by the constant barrage of unwanted calls, I long for a platform to reach millions and share a crucial message: ignore these intrusive telemarketing attempts. If consumers collectively refused to engage, these disruptive businesses would quickly disappear, allowing us all to reclaim our peace and quiet. By simply hanging up and refusing to participate, we could silence these persistent interruptions and restore tranquility to our daily lives. The one and only reason they continue to persist is that sometimes they succeed.

During the period from late October to early December, unsolicited marketing intensifies, particularly targeting seniors like myself who are Medicare-eligible. These advertisers seem to have access to demographic information, though their targeting isn’t always precise. In one instance, I received a call claiming to offer thousands of dollars from Tennessee, despite living in Mississippi. Such blatantly false claims reveal the desperation and disregard these marketers have for potential customers, using the pattern of lies in hopes of our business.

Some corporate sharks swim in boardrooms, armed with MBAs instead of machetes or guns, plotting to extract every last penny from our wallets with surgical precision and spreadsheet finesse. Their weapons? Slick marketing, fine print, and a smile that says, “Trust me, this is totally in your best interest.”

And… They use the phones we pay for to do it.

Will the US Ever Become CA?

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At first glance, this scenario appears improbable, even unthinkable. Yet, a careful examination of California’s historical trajectory over the past several decades reveals an underlying inevitability that cannot be easily dismissed.

In my early childhood, my family relocated to California, initially settling near San Jose before moving to Garden Grove, a modest city south of Los Angeles. At that time, the population was barely fifty thousand, and Garden Grove High School stood alone as the sole secondary educational institution. As I approached my high school years, the city’s growth became evident, with four high schools emerging. Today, Garden Grove has expanded to a vibrant community of 172 thousand residents, reflecting the dynamic transformation of this Southern California suburb.

During my teenage years, a popular sentiment circulated: families would visit California for a vacation and ultimately choose to make it their permanent home. This notion wasn’t merely a baseless rumor; I personally witnessed numerous acquaintances who, after experiencing the state’s allure, decided to relocate and embrace the California lifestyle.

Its reputation speaks volumes, rendering further explanation unnecessary. A brief encounter would swiftly illuminate the circumstances, and I’ve already delved into the underlying details previously.

However, lately, people have started going the other way, rapidly, to the point they lost a U.S. representative. There was no way I could have imagined that just 5 years ago. I should have. I left the Golden State over 40 years ago. Although there is much I miss there, I have never regretted leaving the crowds and later, the political climate.

As I consider all I’ve observed, I am starting to see many parallels between CA and the US. Right now people come here and then stay. If not for immigration laws, there would be far more here. And eventually, it too would become crowded. It would lose many of those things that draw people here. Conceivably, all those who decided stay, might decide to leave as have those from California.

I mean, who wants to live in a country that is run by tyrants who call themselves communist? I don’t think I will live to see it. However, I am beginning to think my sons will. I’m beginning to think my generation will be the first generation to leave a worse country than we received. And, by the way, a worse and more dangerous world.

Three Hours a Day

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During a brief moment of leisure, I idly flipped through television channels when a compelling speaker caught my attention. His articulate commentary was not only insightful but also delivered with an engaging style. Though I cannot recall the specific C-Span channel, the presenter’s words resonated with clarity and a certain captivating charm.

I lingered, captivated by the broadcaster’s passionate monologue, and soon discovered I wasn’t alone in my fascination. His radio presence grew exponentially, ultimately reaching over six hundred stations and broadcasting three hours daily. Rush Limbaugh’s profound impact on national discourse remains undeniable, a legacy so significant that his name resonates instantly, even after his passing. The immediate recognition in listeners’ minds speaks volumes about his enduring influence on American media and political conversation.

Now, the networks are full of programs similar, but still unlike the one and only Rush. I’m not going to name all the programs. It would take so long. Besides you already know them. Even if you’re an advocacy of Bush’s point of view, you can’t deny his affect on today’s society and the many broadcasters who follow his leadership. Oddly, one of his followers even successfully competes with Sunday Night Football.

Still, there are a few who have also left their mark with much shorter programs. Consider Paul Harvey. Years after he has left us, people will instantly recognize the two words he made famous: “Good day.”

The idea has sparked my imagination. Imagine hosting a concise, three-minute daily show that could potentially catapult me to unexpected fame, even at this stage of life. Despite not considering myself particularly articulate or possessing a naturally smooth radio voice. I figure all I need is just a three minute spot on TV each day.

Modern news broadcasts have devolved into a spectacle of fragmented attention, where substantive reporting is marginalized. Within a typical thirty-minute program, commercial interruptions consume a third of the airtime, while meteorological updates and sports coverage claim another third. The remaining sliver—a mere five minutes—is allocated to actual news content, leaving viewers with a superficial understanding of current events.

In just three minutes, my innovative news program would distill the day’s most critical information, delivering a concise, comprehensive update that keeps viewers perfectly informed without wasting their time. I mean, do we really need ten minutes to find out if we will need a coat or umbrella?

In the cacophony of modern media, I confront a stark reality: entertainment trumps information. While listening to the radio, I heard a news segment devoted to Cher’s appearance on Saturday Night Live—a trivial detail that seemingly captivates the masses. My aspiration for concise, meaningful news appears doomed. The public’s appetite craves celebrity gossip, rendering substantive reporting nearly irrelevant. The hunger for superficial entertainment overshadows my idea for three minutes of real news.

Rush understood that a successful news program requires more than just reporting facts. By infusing entertainment into his broadcasts, he transformed traditional news delivery and captivated audiences. This innovative approach likely contributed significantly to his remarkable professional achievements.

News must be entertaining. If not, it will fail.

The answer: A Newspaper

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The question: What is black & white and read all over.

Okay. It’s an old joke in reverse, sort of Jeopardy style.

it’s sort of a segway into my subject matter, newspapers and how drastically they have changed in just a short time.

Throughout my youth, newspapers never appealed to me. Reading was not my strong suit, and broadsheets were particularly challenging. The oversized pages seemed designed to frustrate readers like myself. Despite having long arms, I struggled to manage the unwieldy sheets. My typical approach involved spreading the newspaper on the floor and scanning for interesting articles. Inevitably, I would encounter the dreaded “continued on page…” instruction, only to discover that the remaining text could have easily been accommodated on the previous page. These layout choices only reinforced my disinterest in newspaper reading.

They couldn’t deceive me. I quickly understood their strategy. The goal was to divert my attention from the main content to the page filled with advertisements. The publication’s revenue primarily came from advertising, not the actual articles. Regardless of their tactics, it added to the irritation of the oversized pages.

My brother shared insights into the unique reading culture of New Yorkers during their subway commutes. He explained the skillful art of newspaper folding, a technique that allows passengers to navigate cramped spaces while reading without inconveniencing fellow travelers. By the time they arrived at their destination, most subway riders had thoroughly consumed the day’s news, making them remarkably well-informed about current events.

In the digital age, journalism has undergone a profound transformation. Traditional print newspapers have evolved, migrating from physical pages to vibrant online platforms. Readers now consume news through smartphones, tablets, and digital devices, maintaining their reading habits while in transit. Despite the technological shift, the fundamental human tendency to remain absorbed in personal digital worlds persists, with commuters still largely disconnected from their immediate surroundings.

There is, however, one major difference that I wish were the same. Back then, in that day, they printed the truth. The quality of delivery is a great deal better, while the quality of the reporting has suffered horribly.

Training Cats

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In the wake of our heartbreaking loss of two beloved canine companions to cancer, I discovered a calico cat seeking refuge in our storeroom. Recognizing our ongoing struggle with a persistent rat problem, I cautiously extended a gentle invitation to the feline, hoping she might become an unexpected ally in our household.

Over the years, I perfected a gentle approach to winning her trust. With small offerings of treats and tender petting, I gradually earned her trust, then her affection. My strategy proved remarkably effective, perhaps even more than I anticipated. Now, she greets me with such enthusiasm that whenever I settle into my chair, she eagerly leaps into my lap, seeking closeness and comfort.

Our unexpected journey into cat parenthood began when our feline friend’s expanding belly signaled an impending litter. Soon, our household welcomed a charming array of kittens: Goldie, a stunning gold and white beauty; Bridle, a spirited Broncos-themed companion; and the aptly named Gray and Blackie. Oh. How could I forget patches, the voistrous gray and white. She thinks she can talks and comes close to it. The veterinary bills quickly accumulated, leaving me both financially drained and certain that our feline family had reached its final count.

Over time, our efforts to domesticate the stray cats proved successful. A few gradually disappeared, and I choose to believe they discovered welcoming new families. Goldie, Blackie, and Brindle’s absence suggests they found more suitable environments, which brings me comfort. I prefer this optimistic narrative to considering less pleasant possibilities.

During my wildlife observations, I noticed an unexpected camaraderie between cats and a raccoon. Initially, I found myself intervening to protect the cats’ feeding area, but their calm demeanor surprised me. The raccoon seemed non-threatening, and the cats appeared remarkably tolerant, willingly sharing their meal with an unlikely visitor. This peaceful coexistence challenged my preconceived notions about inter-species interactions in the wild.

While I appreciate the diversity of wildlife, the prospect of a raccoon leaping into my personal space remains distinctly unappealing. Yet, I’m intrigued by the universal applicability of certain training techniques across various animal species, from nimble squirrels to other untamed creatures.

Hey, I’ve heard rumors that these techniques might work on people too. Who knows? It probably depends on the individual. What really gets me is when someone tries to manipulate another person like this. I think some folks might call it slavery, or maybe tyranny – even “soft tyranny” sometimes. Bottom line: be careful when strangers offer you stuff like food or favors. Always think twice before accepting anything from strangers, or even the government. Do we really want to be tamed or trained by those who reside in DC.

The Theory of Rain

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During my military service, I was assigned to Naval Air Station Memphis, located in Millington, Tennessee, a suburb north of Memphis. The region was notorious for its generally predictable weather patterns, particularly its tendency to rain at the most inconvenient times. My fellow service members and I frequently discussed the frustrating meteorological phenomenon where clear, sunny skies would suddenly give way to intermittent rainfall starting Friday afternoon and persisting through the weekend.

As a sergeant, my crisp class C dress uniform demanded immaculate presentation. That day, which had begun with brilliant sunshine, transformed into heavy rain just prior to time to secure. Approaching the exit, I paused, studying the rain through the window with a mixture of resignation and frustration. Experience had taught me the harsh reality of local weather patterns – this downpour would persist with stubborn determination.until I was in my car.

An attractive lance corporal approached from behind, her footsteps light and purposeful. She halted, a wry smile playing across her lips. “Don’t worry, sergeant,” she quipped, her tone laced with playful reassurance, “you aren’t made of sugar and you won’t melt.”

I gazed back at her, taken aback by her unexpected comment. With a hint of irritation, I responded, “My priority isn’t personal comfort. I’m focused on preserving the integrity of my uniform.”

The rain cascaded around her as she burst into laughter, stepping into the downpour with carefree abandon. Her practical work attire, unlike the dress uniforms, meant she cared little about the water’s impact on her clothing. An instant later, I abandoned the shelter of the building, stepping into the deluge. Within seconds, my clothes were drenched, clinging to my skin. Predictably, the rain ceased its assault the moment I settled into my car.

Actually, rain almost anywhere does seem to arrive at some of the most inconvenient times. This particular uniform was hardly the only one that was soaked, just maybe the more frustrating.

Nonetheless, over the years, I did come up with a theory about rain—one that held true even during the hard rains in Vietnam. You can only get so wet. After that, the excess simply falls off. As uncomfortable as it may be, it cannot cause real harm.

While I appreciate staying dry, I’m not alone in my sentiment. Recently, I learned the Marines have updated their regulations, now permitting personnel to carry umbrellas while in uniform. Such a practical change would have been welcome decades earlier, offering us marines much-needed protection from the elements during outdoor duties.