Saturday, January 24, 2015

Window 10 is coming!

Windows 10 is coming soon to your (insert device name here). Microsoft has found the one true OS, the OS to bind them all. Personal computers, phones, tablets and game consoles shall bow to Win10.

C/Net reports you’ll be able to switch effortlessly with Continuum between your PC and tablet. Touch versus mouse is of no concern in Microsoft-earth. Notifications will sync between devices faster than a Nazgul on his fell beast. Apps made by the clever hands of Misty Mountain’s dwarves will work as expected in the hands of Rohan’s men. Spartan, like Sauron’s Eye, will see all that the internet can offer. Oh, and Cortana will learn your idiosyncrasies and only share your personal desires. Wait, not done, Hololens is coming. We should bow to Win10.

Cynical? Okay, a little. I’ve lived through Microsoft announcements since Windows was a gleam in Bill Gate’s eye, a gleam reflected from an Apple computer. I bought my first personal computer in 1978, pre Microsoft. In the early eighties, my business started using MS Dos compatible computers because they offered software that was not pretty, like Apples, but worked. MS Dos was a workhorse and served the business world well. Business enterprises and a good contract with IBM made Microsoft a success. Other factors contributed, but a relationship with business is, I believe, much more important to Microsoft than many people understand.

The company has put pressure on its business relationship more than once. For example, there was a time when different operating systems were required depending on the CPU chip used in a computer. Many applications written for a 286 chip wouldn't work on a 386 chip. Finding out witch apps worked was left to the business users, not the most profitable use of their time. Then Windows 1 and 2 were released, coming close to destroying business’s relationship with MS. Windows 3.1 saved the day, that and a massive rewrite of applications by Microsoft’s third party developers. 

My take on just some of the Windows variants since 3.1. WWYT= What were you thinking?

Windows XP = okay. 
Windows ME = WWYT. 
Windows Vista = WWYT. 
Windows 7 = Okay. 
Windows 8 = WWYT. 


What will Windows 10 equal?  

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

A Single Woman's New Year Limerick

A Single Woman's New Year's Limerick
By David P. Cantrell

New year has a boisterous cheer
That we all hope to hear
   You're the one I love
   You're my snuggle-dove.
Can this be our new year?

If you know my name
And it's not a game
  Of course it can
  My new found man
If you lie it's your shame.

I do not lie
I hope to die
  Your name's no stranger
  But your face is angered
Should I fly?

No my beau
I await your show
  That I'm you pal
  Your real gal
That's all I need to know.

Watch to the ball
It's about to fall
  I'll show my stuff
  I'll not be tough
If you'll give me your all.

I think not my New Year's knight
Your silver tongue is a fright
  I'll give you a kiss
  That I hope you miss
But, home alone I'll go this night.

Thursday, December 25, 2014

A Dark Christmas Poem

A Dark Christmas Poem
By: David P. Cantrell

Christmas is a time of year.
Christmas is a time of fear.
Is all correct?
Is all a wreck?
Are they snugly placed?
Are they really safe?
Will the morn be bright?
Will the presents be right?
Christmas is a time of year.
Christmas is a time of fear.
Is love unbound?
Is love unfound?
Are they tickled true?
Are they actually blue?
Will time be fine?
Will minds unwind?
Christmas is a time of year.
Christmas is a time of fear.
Is family the reason?
Is family the treason?
Are they here for me?
Are I here for them to see?
Will I be glad I came?
Will I bring them shame?
Christmas is a time of year.
Christmas is a time of fear.
Is mercy and forgiveness what’s it about?
Is money and sales the thing to shout?
Are religion and god the important thing?
Are mercy and forgiveness the real thing?
Will we seek a better way to reach the sky?
Will we seek a quicker way to die?
Christmas is a time of year.
Christmas is a time of fear.

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Damn Spellcheckers


Damn Spellcheckers

By: David P. Cantrell


Spellchecker's made me a horrible speller that spells better.

“Huh,” you might say. Well, let me explain.  


I went to grade school at a time of weekly spelling tests. A list of words was provided on Monday. I don't recall if definitions were provided. But, I know I was expected to spell the list on the following Friday without error.


The results of this difficult challenge weren't subject to any kind of student-teacher privilege. Oh no, the 14th Amendment's Due Process Clause didn't apply. Mom and Dad were the judge and jury. They confirmed their deliberations by signing the graded test, which was returned to the inquisitor (i.e. teacher) on the following Monday. And, then the torturous cycle started again. 


Phonetics would save me, I was told. If I pronounced words correctly and knew the convoluted rules of phonetics, I could ace any spelling test. I can't argue with the premise. Perhaps phonetics could have made me a spelling bee champion, but damned if I could master the phonetic rules. I tried, but an a, e and i are very difficult for me to distinguish. Is it terrible or terrable? That brings up “el” and “le,” they were just as mysterious. If label is correct, why isn't cable cabel? You might say, “Listen for a bell sound.” I'd answer, "To what purpose, they both have it."

I struggled through school, dictionary at hand, and finally landed a job that offered a technological solution to my spelling disability. That's what it is, you know. Good spellers don't know it. To them only idiots or slackers misspell. They'll never give a dispinsation, I mean dispensation, to a bad speller. But, bad spellers know it's a congenital condition, like freckles.


The Dictaphone was a wonderful invention. I could record whatever I had to say, and make someone else spell it. If they mistyped my dictation--no matter how poorly pronounced--it was their fault, not mine. Unfortunately, I came to Dictaphones at the end of their usefulness. They were soon replaced by the next new wonder "Word processors," computerized juggernauts that could catch my spelling errors for me. I'd finally learn how to spell. Ya, right. I actually did improve as I started typing my own documents, at least for a while.  


But, over time I came to depend on the spellchecker. If I couldn't spell a word I wanted, no worries I just got close and right clicked. More times than not, the word I wanted would appear. If it didn't, I'd make another attempt by changing something. Changing F to PH often helped, for example. If that didn't prove successful, I'd stop, close my eyes and visualize the shape of the word while saying it out loud. Then I'd look at my last attempt. Oh, it needs something tall in the middle, "I'll try an L," I might say. Think of the technique as a reverse Rorschach test. In this case you form an ink blot shaped like your chosen word and see if the computer gets it right. It usually does.  


I don't misspell any more, but I often misuse words. Did I have a prostrate or prostate exam?

Monday, December 1, 2014

Are you a bigot?


Bigotry is a state of mind: someone who, as a result of their prejudices, treats other people with hatred, contempt, and intolerance on the basis of a person's race, gender, sexual orientation, gender identity, national origin, religion, language, socioeconomic status, or other status.

I hate bigotry; it's a disease.  Stereotyping individuals and groups is the first step to bigotry in my mind. I'm not immune to the disease, when times are tough, innocents are hurt, or you feel out of control, it's easy, maybe natural, to blame those that are different than you. It's their fault not mine. I'm better than that, I'm superior. Stereotyping is the foundation of bigotry.  

I'm not a psychologist and I don't know if the following test is meaningful. The test is easy, there are no right and wrong answers. Just carefully read each word in the list and note your emotional response. If you feel anger, disgust, frustration or superiority, ask yourself why. After all, it's just a list of words. You are the one that put emotion in them.

MICKY MOUSE
REPUBLICAN
MUSLIM
IMMAGRENT
BANKER
WELFARE
CHRISTAIN
NRA
MEXICAN
ATHIEST
RICH
MOHAMMED
LESBO
WHITE
TEA PARTY
FRANCE
LIBERAL
POPE
BUSH
HOMOSEXUAL
BLACK
MIGHTY MOUSE

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Could you be an Accountant?


 
You, or a loved one, might be on the road to ruin if you have the characteristics of an accountant. To help you avoid this horrible future, a team of psychologist developed the following list of traits. If one or more of these traits apply to you, please seek professional help.

 If you have a tax loophole named after you,
You might be an accountant.
If you call your child My Little Dependent,
You might be an accountant.
If your child thinks there are five seasons in the year: spring, summer, fall, winter, and tax season,
You might be an accountant.
If your child thinks Little Bo Peep got a casualty loss deduction for her sheep,
You might be an accountant.
If you know the cost of everything, but the value of nothing,
You might be an accountant.
If you sort your socks before you wash them,
You might be an accountant.
If you think you’re popular because someone asked you for directions.
            You might be an accountant
If you go insane when someone folds a map the wrong way,
You might be an accountant.
If your alarm clock has a calculator function,
You might be an accountant.
If you think Ex Lax is a deductible moving expense,
You might be an accountant.
If you don’t know that GAP is a clothing store,
You might be an accountant.
If you solve problems that people didn’t know they had,
 in way that they don’t understand,
You might be an accountant.
If you don’t have the charisma to be a mortician,
You might be an accountant.
If you don’t know that CPA stands for Constant Pain in the Ass,
You might be an accountant.
If you think God created Attorneys to make your fees look reasonable,
You might be an accountant.
If you get upset that the bank Debits your account when it takes money away,
You might be an accountant.
If you know what a debit is, you’re doomed.
If you round off numbers to two digits just to prove you are not anal,
You might be an accountant.
If you inventory cattle by counting their legs and dividing by four,
You might be an accountant.
If you can’t sleep because counting sheep is too exciting,
You might be an accountant.
If you see everything in black and red,
You might be an accountant.
If you refer to April as harvest season, or think April 16th is a national holiday
You might be an accountant.
If you’re considered the life of the party at insurance agent’s conventions,
You might be an accountant.
If your cardiologist asks you to be an organ donor to assure that a deserving person will get an unused heart,
You might be an accountant.
If you know that there are three types of accountants: those that can count and those that can’t,
You might be an accountant.
If your car gets 50 miles per gallon and you never go anywhere,
You might be an accountant.
If you think pocket protectors will have a revival, and that green eye-shades are a fashion statement,
You might be an accountant.
If your idea of trashing a motel room is refusing to fill out the quest comment card,
You might be an accountant.
If you stared at your orange juice for three hours because the box said Concentrate,
You might be an accountant.
If your wife cures her insomnia by asking about your work day,
You might be an accountant.
If you think IRS stands for I’m Rarely Sexy,
You might be an accountant.
If you’re jealous that a male sperm has a 1 in a million chance of becoming human,
You might be an accountant.
If you know 30 ways to make love, but have never done one of them,
You might be an accountant.
If you get sexually excited when you hear double entry,
You might be an accountant.
If you think a marginal tax rate is the cost of getting some on the side,
You might be an accountant.
If you think an early withdrawal penalty is a sexual dysfunction,
You might be an accountant.
If you consider sex a charitable gift,
You might be an accountant.
If your personality is an effective form of birth control,
You might be an accountant.
If you go to sleep with the prayer, “Oh God, please give me the wisdom to distinguish the important from the trivial, and help me relax about the insignificant details, please start at 10:53:16 am, Pacific Standard Time, tomorrow,
You might be an accountant.
And finally,

If you didn’t laugh at these jokes,
You might be an accountant.

Monday, February 17, 2014

The Follies of Man Episode 1

Napoleon Bonaparte

     I’m Roland Grompdigger, my friend and nominal boss is Grover Bostarus. We work for CBS, Centauri Broadcasting Systems. We specialize in alien reality programs. Grover is the face of the program, also known as the anchor. If Grover is the anchor, as the Chronicler, I’m the ship. In the old days we would have had a team consisting of the anchor, an executive producer, an investigative reporter or reporterett, a camera man or woman, a sound woman or man and a stylist, gender undetermined, plus some kind of administrative assistant. Well, it isn’t the old days. Now it’s just Grover, me and my helium crystal computer. One thing hasn’t changed from the old days. The anchor still holds the ship back. Sorry, a little Chronicler’s humor.

     Maybe I should be angry at Grover; after all he gets all of the attention and public acclaim. But given who the public are, I can forego their acclaim. And besides, my purpose is to be a chronicler. It’s a position I was trained for and I’m good at it. I’ve been trained to absorb vast amounts of data, when it is subjected to the appropriate algorithms the data can be used to create 3D chronicles of events. In a sense, I’m a 3D camera with a brain for a hard drive. While I like to think of my abilities as phenomenal, I do have my limits. Fortunately, if I overload on data and suffer factual constipation, I can download the excess to my HC computer. I know factual constipation is a sophomoric phrase, but when I compared it to fecal constipation, at last year’s Chronicler’s conference, I got a big laugh and three free drinks at the lounge that evening.

     Originally reality programs revolved around beings in our solar system. The genre was a huge success, consistently capturing the top ratings for the three to fifteen year old demographic that controls most spending. Shows like Duck Realm captured everyone’s attention and Infantile Bo Bo made the audience cry with laughter and touching, Sappy Bo Bo, mommy-moments. But, then the Great Deceit of 2510 was uncovered when Edward Sleazeden released the GSA papers.

     Sleazeden had been hired as a low level contractor by the Galactic Spy Agency. As a low level contractor he would not, ordinarily, be given access to all secretes being kept by the GSA. However, Sleazeden was no ordinary low level contractor, he was competent. After watching his GSA boss struggle with syncing a desktop computer running Pain 8.1 with a new pPad, Sleazeden sneakily offered to help. Being thoroughly frustrated, his boss jumped at the offer and didn’t hesitate to provide his password when asked. Sleazeden got the ostensibly incompatible devices cooing like doves.

     Like most senior managers, his boss used the same password for everything and thus Sleazeden had the keys to the kingdom. While surfing through the GSA files, Sleazeden made his world changing discoveries. The beloved reality shows were being manipulated by their producers to create suspense and conflict. Who knew? And, even more disheartening, Infantile Bo Bo was, in fact, a 23 year old dwarf, and the men of Duck Realm were actually women in male drag. Upon learning these disarming facts, Sleazeden felt compelled to release his ill-gotten information to the normally uncaring population. He released the information on 10/10/10, a day of infamy. For once, the population did care about the deceit. The GSA closed all of their window blinds and disappeared. Sleazeden found refuge in a country with an abundance of e-mail brides. The government promised investigations. But, on 10/13/10 the first round of play-off games were broadcast and the population moved on, but the old reality shows were gone forever.

     CBS was fortunate, in a way. They hadn’t produced any of the formerly popular shows, so they escaped most of the fallout. Unfortunately, they hadn’t produced any popular shows at all, let alone the disgraced ones, so they were desperate for a hit. Luckily for CBS, Sheldon Parade came along.

     Sheldon first postulated his theory of multi-dimensional time travel just after the Sleazeden hoopla died down. As it turns out, Sheldon had eyes for Rose, the daughter of CBS’s President, Charlie Thorn. Before anyone expected it, Rose Thorn became Rose Parade. Wanting to please his new father-in-law and being ignorant of its value, Sheldon agreed to sign over the rights to all broadcast events that could be created by the application of his theory. Charlie was greedy and didn’t want to pay for the rights, but after all, it was his daughter’s husband, and the legal department warned him that consideration was mandatory for the contract to be binding, so Charlie gave him a small advance plus residuals.

     At first, the other networks laughed at CBS. They thought the time-travel paradox would make Sheldon’s discovery useless and a big embarrassment for CBS. You’ve heard the paradox; if Jenna traveled back in time and kicked her grandfather, George, so hard that he couldn’t procreate, how could she have been born in the first place to go back and kick him? This is a rhetorical question, so stop trying to answer it. What the other networks missed was the “multi-dimensional” part of Sheldon’s theory.

     It seems we can visit the past and not worry about the paradox. Because, it’s not our dimension’s past that is visited, it’s the human dimension’s past that is affected. We can return to our dimension without impact. Of course our visit might impact the other dimension’s future, but what do we care, and besides they won’t know that anything changed. As a bonus, Sheldon’s theory took account of the fact that time doesn’t flow in a straight line. It’s not a chain where the current moment is linked to a preceding moment, the past, and the next moment, the future. Rather, time is more like the junk drawer in your kitchen. Everything is in it, but it looks like a mess and makes no sense until you grasp an item, a moment, and then you grasp another moment and another, which gives you the impression that one moment, was linked to another when in actuality each moment was a random occurrence. The beauty of this arrangement is that we can go to any point in time and space in an instant.

     Charlie Thorn and his programing department soon came up with a new, scandal free, concept for reality shows; find historical events in the Sol system, send a team to chronicle the event and then produce 3D holo shows for the public’s pleasure. No one in the audience had easy access to the Sol system’s history and, therefore, couldn’t question the authenticity of the shows. The first attempts were disasters, however, as demonstrated by the Dang incident.

     Centaurians are anatomically similar to humans. We are both bipedal, have feet, arms, hands and only one head. But in other respects we are different. One of our teams created quite a stir when they opened their MDTT portal and found themselves facing a Chinese Emperor and surrounded by troops armed with spears, swords and bows. They had hoped to reach an agreement with the emperor to chronicle the building of a wall he was planning. The anchor tried to communicate with the emperor but with little success. All he got out of the conversation was the emperor’s name, Dang. Dang didn’t know what to make of the strange creatures before him, so he made a regal decision and ordered his troops to slaughter the creatures. Realizing their peril, the crew immediately escaped through the portal with their tails between their legs. Oh, by the way, tails are one of the differences. The most lasting benefit of the incident was the addition of “Dang if I’ll do that again,” to our lexicon.

     CBS realized live crew’s weren’t going to work. Besides, everyone in the industry had adopted, “Dang if I’ll do that again,” as part of their employment contracts. CBS needed a way to surreptitiously record events. This gave manas a new opportunity, provided they wanted it. But, few Centaurians, manas or not, would welcome the chance.

     Centaurians are a sedate and ancient society. Most of us don’t do much, mainly because we don’t need to. We have a robust robotic economy that provides enough wealth for all of us to meet our day-to-day needs and be quite comfortable. Basically we have two classes: those that want more and those that don’t. The don’ts tend to pursue activities that bring them personal pleasure, but not necessarily financial gain. The wants tend to pursue activities that provide financial gains in order to purchase things that give them pleasure. But neither class is inclined to put themselves at risk. That’s what robots are for. There are, however, a small percentage of us that are open to risk. Our popular media despairingly calls them, “adventurers.”

     I guess I’m an adventurer, because when I learned of the opportunity to combine my innate mana abilities with my learned chronicler skills I jumped at it. As a mana I can merge with most sentient and semi-sentient beings and some creatures that are hard to classify. I am usually able to encourage their cooperation and get them to do my bidding. Grover is also a mana, but his mergers are pretty much limited to full-sentient beings. We both have the very handy ability to read thoughts and sometimes influence others with our own thoughts. We have to be quite careful about how we go about it however.
  
     I once found myself surrounded by a pack of wolves. Fearing they would find me a very satisfying meal, I needed a way to distract them so I could make my escape. All of a sudden, I sensed one of the females thinking; “No, not now! Not estrous! Not here! If the Alpha smells me, she’ll be angry and think I’m after her mate. If he gets wind of my condition, she’ll be more than angry. I’ve got to slowly back away.” It may have been wrong, but I was scared, I projected the thought, “Back away won’t work, turn tail, shake it thrice and run.” She did and the pack followed. I got away. But, I was concerned. The last thought I sensed from the Alpha was: “Bitch, you better run!”

     Mana’s have to be careful with our merge and thought partners. Generally we can’t force them to do something they find repugnant, nor can we force them to love or hate another. If we tried to do these things, we’d run the very real risk of making our partner psychotic. As manas, harming a partner is the last thing we want, even to our own detriment. Being a mana is a precious thing and should never be abused. But, that doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun now and then.

     CBS wanted a show that could go on for years. Everyone knows the real money is in syndication and syndication takes lots of episodes. In response, “The Follies of Man” series was developed. The series proposed to follow some of mankind’s greatest blunders looking for new ways to please our audience with the outrageously silly and often foolish things humans do to themselves and others.

     So, while our bodies stayed safely behind in stasis, Grover and I found ourselves, by human reckoning, in 1803 Virginia at Monticello just as Thomas Jefferson was reviewing a treaty that James Monroe and Robert Livingston had brought from France for the purchase of New Orleans. This was our first project and was mostly intended to get the lay of the land and a sense of the characters that might be the subject of our pilot program. We couldn’t stay very long, unless we chose a merge partner, but we were hesitant to do that until we had a better idea of the situation. So our initial plan was to observe things for a little while.

      “James you have greatly exceeded my instructions. I trusted you would find success in your task to purchase New Orleans and thereby gain the United States a port at the mouth of the Mississippi. But never did I expect a treaty of this nature,” Jefferson said.

     “Honestly Mr. President, I do not fully understand these events myself,” said Monroe. “We negotiated diligently for New Orleans and had thought the deed was at hand, when an agent of First Consul Bonaparte interrupted our conclave and declared an abrupt end to it. He informed us that the First Consul refused to sell New Orleans, but would make a non-negotiable offer of his own when his schedule allowed him the time. Robert and I were greatly disappointed and worried that we had failed you. He kept us waiting for days, during which time we tried to image what the First Consul intended. We really had no concept of his intensions, but we hoped he would, at the least, offer access to the port of New Orleans or a site where we might build a new port, perhaps Baton Rouge.”

     “Bonaparte is a clever man; he most certainly had some plan in mind when he stopped the negotiations. Had you no clue?” said Jefferson.

     “None for two days, then Bonaparte’s Minister of Finance came to see us. He inquired as to our authority to act on behalf of the United States and under which circumstances we would be obliged to return for further instructions. I assured him we had your full support and authority to act on your behalf, but that all treaties required the approval of the Senate. With great difficulty, I kept a straight face, as I added, Senate approval was just a formality. The fact that the Minister of Finance had made these inquires, rather than the Minister of State, made me think that Bonaparte might have issues other than politics to consider,” said Livingston.

     “Oh my Robert,” Jefferson said, “You better hope no Federalist spies were in attendance, demeaning the Senate’s role could be a costly political blunder. But I see your point. I was concerned too, that after Bonaparte took Louisiana back from Spain, our attempts to acquire New Orleans would be misinterpreted as a political maneuver to lay claim to all of Louisiana.”

     “Exactly Mr. President, but why send the Finance Minister?” Monroe said. “The only logical reason was that he needed money to support his European desires and considered his new world assets a source funds. The next day our delegation was summoned to Versailles.”

     “Versailles, that is strange. It is neither his seat of government, nor his residence,” Jefferson said.

     “For those very reasons we thought it most likely to be an embassy ball or some such affair and wore our best attire. You can imagine our surprise when we arrived and saw no other embassy coaches. We were lead into an opulent room and sat at a table capable of seating thirty or more. And still had no idea of what was to come,” Monroe said.

     “It appears that Bonaparte was attempting to impress you, or perhaps to intimidate you to gain some benefit for him,” Jefferson said.

     “I think you may be right Sir, for moments later, large ornate doors opened and in strode Bonaparte and his entourage. I know much has been said about Bonaparte’s lack of height, but he projected a stature that was not associated with physical measurement. George Washington was the only other man to elicit this response in me, although he was quite tall,” said Monroe.

     “What was Bonaparte’s demeanor?” Jefferson asked.

     “Very determined, but gracious I would say. He approached me with an open hand and in English, thanked me for meeting with him. As if I had had a choice, but still it was gracious. Our negotiations, as usual, had been in French so his use of English was clearly intended to be a polite gesture. He went on to say, and I quote: The United States of America was the midwife of the French Republic’s birth and, as such, deserves special consideration amongst the nations that share France’s orbit about Sol. Accordingly, it is my intent to sell Louisiana to the United States of America for the paltry sum of 60 million francs plus the cancellation of the 20 million francs currently owed by France to America,” said Livingston.

     “He gave no reason or explanation for refusing to sell New Orleans?” asked Jefferson.

     “No Sir, none at all,” Livingston said.

    “Did he shed any light on why he wanted United States to purchase all of Louisiana?” asked Jefferson.

    “Again none, other than his previously stated kind feelings for the United States,” Monroe said.

     “Very interesting, I suspect his disastrous losses in Haiti and his failure to obtain Florida from Spain may have had a hand. The threat of war with Britain must have been on his mind too. I imagine these things had more to do with his decision than his abiding friendship for the United States,” Jefferson laughed.

     “Frankly Mr. President we were dumbfounded by the offer. I asked Bonaparte if we might have some time consider his proposal. Bonaparte stared at me for what felt like minutes but were only seconds I am sure and said yes but not long,” said Livingston.

     “We then said our goodbyes and retired to our quarters in Paris, with the understanding that the First Consul expected an answer forthwith. I think it fair to say that we were most excited about the proposal as we discussed it during our carriage ride,” Monroe said. “We did not have maps of Louisiana with us, but we both recalled its size to be approximately equal to all of the lands controlled by the United States, some 820,000 to 830,000 square miles. The purchase would, in one fell swoop, double the size of the United States.”

     “I’m curious gentlemen, how did you find it acceptable to commit your country to an amount of $15 million when you were only authorized $10 million for the acquisition of New Orleans and its environs. In addition, I wonder if you considered whether, or not, you had authority under the Constitution to acquire so much new territory?” asked Jefferson.

     “Well Sir,” Monroe said, “we had discussed, well before we left for France, that the purchase of New Orleans, in order to protect Mississippi shipments, could be justified under the Commerce Clause of the Constitution. So the idea of securing the west shore of the Mississippi did not seem to be an unreasonable extension of the concept. But to be honest Sir, Robert made the strongest argument with his figures.”

     “Interesting, Robert please explain,” said Jefferson.

     “As I saw it Sir, Bonaparte was offering us New Orleans for $10 million and the remainder of Louisiana for $5 million. That meant the cost of the Louisiana territory, excluding New Orleans and its environs, was less than $0.01 per acre. Good heavens Sir, I could buy five acres for the cost of a tankard of beer. So James and I decided to execute the treaty as soon as possible. We both feared Bonaparte would change his mind,” Livingston said.

     “You make a strong argument Mr. Livingston. It would seem only a fool would reject this opportunity. It is my hope the fools in Congress are outnumbered. Sirs, you have accomplished more than I could have prayed for, you have given our republic the ability to stretch its wings of freedom to the Pacific shores. And to have received the treaty on July 4th seems most appropriate,” said Jefferson.

     Grover and I were amazed at Napoleon’s blunder; he effectively gave away a country twice as big as France. He could have sold New Orleans for $10 million and subdivided the rest at a giant profit. We felt we had enough to prepare a half-hour pilot after padding our live recording with background information about Europe in Bonaparte’s day and the future wealth created by what came to be known as America’s Breadbasket. The facts made Bonaparte look pretty foolish. We considered expanding the program to demonstrate more of his follies, like his failed Egypt expedition and his decision to invade Russia in the winter. While those events did occur, plus others, we feared our audience would accuse us of making them up for dramatic effect; after the Great Deceit of 2510, we couldn’t take the chance. So we wrapped up our pilot and submitted to the network. We hope to hear soon whether or not there will be more episodes of The Follies of Man, stay tuned.

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

The 10 things I've Learned as A Quadriplegic


Being a quadriplegic is a learning opportunity. I found my opportunity a few years ago when an odd confluence of events left me laying on the floor of my home office paralyzed from the neck down. Actually, I don't remember laying on the floor, I learned it later from my wife, and I didn't know I was paralyzed. The first thing I clearly remember is being transported by ambulance to a hospital about twenty miles from my home. I wasn't quite sure why I was in the ambulance, but I knew something very strange was happening.   At that point, I don't think I knew I was paralyzed, but I knew I was immobile. 

  1. Paralyzed means: crap I can't move and I can't blame it on an indiscretion. That may be the first thing I learned; there is a big difference between the two. Immobile means I can't move right now because I'm drugged, strapped down or really sleepy, perhaps all three. But, paralyzes means so much more.
     
  2. The love and support of a good women should never be discounted or abused. And, if you have done so, shame on you and clean up your act. The first thing I remember about the next day was my wife's swollen-eyed smile. The memory is vague, but I think real. She was holding my hand, which I could not feel, saying we've got your heart and your mind, that's all we need. To this day that's our motto.
     
  3. People are at a loss when confronted by someone that has suffered a devastating injury. Friends visited in the first few days after my ICU incarceration. At that point, I could talk, smile and turn my head side to side. That was it. My friends were kind and sympathetic and certainly hoped I'd get better. Some offered to pray for me, while others made awkward attempts at humor. But, all of their eyes held a similar message: "Poor bastard!" And what else could they think. Lets face it, there just isn't a good way to deal with situations like mine.
     
  4. People that have suffered a devastating injury are at a loss when confronted with well wishers. I did appreciate seeing friends, but in some ways I was troubled by it. I found myself wanting to make it easier for them because they were so uncomfortable. I had the sense that I had cracked their personal shell of invincibility. You know the shell. It allows you to drive on roads full of idiots, fly in 875,000 pound airliners, and eat at Taco Bell without being frozen by fear. My situation, and the unpredictability of it, scared the hell out of them. I knew it and didn't know what to say.
     
  5. ICU nurses are angels.  The nurses in ICU were more than nurses, they didn't focus on my injury or paperwork to the exclusion of my person. They knew I was going through a difficult situation and did all they could to help. One of the wonderful things they did was scratch my nose without complaint. Prior to my spinal cord injury, I itched constantly. My shins were often covered with claw marks. And, some sun deprived parts of my body forcefully demanded the attention of my finger nails when no one was looking. After my injury, all the itchy demands of my epidermis, below the neck, moved to my nose. My itchy nose drove me nuts for a time and the nurses were there for me. I learned to live with the itch without asking for help; they had enough to do, without my nose being in the way. But, I am thankful they gave me the support to get myself to that point.
     
  6. Rehabilitation is not what you think. Dictionary definition: to help somebody to return to good health or a normal life by providing training or therapy. The dictionary is what I had in mind when doctors started talking about sending me to a Rehab hospital. And when they compared the distant facility that specialized in spinal cord injuries to the closer generalized Rehab hospital, my wife and I chose the distant facility.  The distant facility was a 5 to 6 hour drive for my wife, assuming good traffic, verses a 90 minute drive. We made a bad decision based on bad information. We chose the distant facility. We also learned that a more accurate definition of rehabilitation was more like: to help somebody live with their infirmary and make their loved ones put up with it as quick as possible. Rehab was rarely about getting better, it was about getting by.
     
  7. Embarrassment dies a quick death. I was taught to cover my private parts and not allow others to see them, unless those others answered to mom or wore a white coat. Of course this doctrine had to be modified during gym showers and on my wedding night, but still ,I was adverse to inappropriate displays of nakedness. My embarrassment lasted a few seconds: maybe. I figured I could live with it, after all, I needed the help, the nurses had seen it all before, and they didn't laugh at me. Well at least not in my presence.
     
  8. There is a caste system in all social groups. I guess I didn't need to be a quad to learn this, but becoming one made it very obvious.  The caste system at Rehab was roughly based on the nature of an injury and the prospects for functional recovery. The top, and by far the smallest, caste were the Temps. These were the few who had suffered a severe spinal cord injury but were likely to have a full or almost full recovery. Then there were the paraplegics. They had lost the use of their legs, but had functioning hands and arms.  They might be able to get around, hold a job, scratch their nose and maybe drive a car. Then came the quads. They had lost the most function and often had the worst prognosis, so they sunk to the bottom.

    When I arrived at the Rahab center I was put in a room with three others. They were para's. At quiet times we would talk, at first about how we got there, and then about the inane things all of us discuss at a social gathering.  As we talked, I sensed a feeling of pity from the other guys. My roommates changed over the weeks. But, the feeling that they pitied me continued, it was like they were saying, "Poor bastard," at the end of each sentence. I understood that attitude from able-bodied well wishers, but not from these guys. Then a new roommate joined us. He had suffered an injury some twelve months earlier and had been recovering from various surgeries. He was really anxious to start Rehab as soon as a bed sore healed.  A few days later he was hauled off to a convalescences hospital because his bed sore wasn't healing fast enough. As I said good bye, I thought, "Poor bastard." And then I understood the whole caste system. I felt bad for his plight, and as a result, I felt better about my own plight.  I hope I ask a question the next time I look at someone with pity. Which one of us deserves it?
     
  9. Insurance is not my friend but I do love it. Apparently, and not so many years ago, patients stayed in Rehab for months on end. I got the sense patients stayed until there was no reasonable expectation of further help from the hospital. In my experience the criteria seemed to be, you're out of here in five weeks unless you're about to demonstrate a miracle recovery that will make the hospital look good on performance reports. I definitely was ready to go home, but I honestly think I would have benefitted from another month at the facility.  At $7,000 a week, the insurance company didn't agree and I went home. On the other hand,  my wife and I would be bankrupt had we not had insurance. So if you want to complain about insurance, go for it, but pay your premiums.
     
  10. I'd rather be happy. It's been over four years since my injury. I've recovered a lot of functions, bladder and bowel control being two of the best. With the help of my primary caregiver, see number 2 above, I've got a good life. During this journey people have told me I was an inspiration to them. I've said thank you, and to be honest I've been proud of their statements. But internally, I've shaken my head in confusion. I just don't get it. The only thing I could think of to cause their statements was that I've tried to be positive about the future and not focus on the negative.

    A few days ago, I was at physical therapy and encountered another patient that I had seen only once before. She said, "How are you?" I responded, I'm good, actually I'm great." She said, "Your so happy?" I said, "I'd rather be happy than not. There's no joy in the alterative." Then it dawned on me. It wasn't inspiration I was instilling, it was some kind of awe at being happy.

    So, I think the most important thing I've learned as a quadriplegic is: I'd rather be happy than not. Happiness is not given or withheld by others. Happiness is within you. If you expect others to read your mind and thereby create happiness for you, you will be disappointed. If you think gifts or winning a lottery will create happiness, you will be disappointed.  Happiness is within you. You won't find it anywhere else. 


























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    Tuesday, December 17, 2013

    Kale Chip Saga


    My wife and I made Kale Chips yesterday and I thought I'd share my take on the experience. First, I should point out that what I know about Kale, especially before yesterday, could fit in a thimble and have ample room for what I know about collard greens and passion fruit. I heard that Kale chips offered a low calorie alternative to real food like potato and corn chips. I'm always on the quest for the holy grail, a snack that you can eat until you're sick and not gain weight. So, I went to my extensive  culinary library, also called the internet, to find a recipe. I looked at a lot of recipes, but focused on just six. Three things stood out immediately. Everyone lies about prep time, nobody agrees on oven temperature and cook times were nonsensical.

    The prep time to wash, dry, de-stem, cut chip sized leaf pieces, gather cooking utensils, mix the marinade, coat the leaf pieces, line the pans with parchment paper and carefully arrange the coated leaf pieces on the lined baking sheets varied from 5 minutes to 15 minutes. I know I'm not the quickest bunny in the warren, but really, 5 minutes? It took five minutes to dust the baking sheets and get the dried batter off of the mixing bowls. Wait a second, if Wife reads this, her feelings might be hurt. She keeps a very clean house and I don't want to disparage her housekeeping in any way. So, I want to make it very clear, I tend to exaggerated for comic effect; there was no dust on the baking sheets. At any rate, prep time is certainly more than 15 minutes and I think 30 minutes might be conservative.

    Oven temperatures ranged, I kid you not, from 130 degrees to 400 degrees.   Okay, you might say, provided the cooking times followed suit. But, the times swung between 12 minutes and 4 hours. I have to admit the temperature and time relationship for the 130 degree recipe, the lowest temperature, was at least logical in that it was also the recipe with the longest time of 4 hours. That neat inverse relationship didn't work for the other five recipes.   One 30 minute recipe called for 400 degrees while a different 30 minute one called for 250 degrees. A 20 minute 375 degree recipe stood next to a 12 minute 350 degree one. Needless to say, as kale novitiates we were confused as to our proper course of action. So we picked the one in the middle that offered wiggle room.

    The marinades also varied, but mainly by how they were seasoned. The simplest called for oil and a small amount of salt.  The most complicated one called for almonds, lemon juice, grated ginger, tamari (ninja soy sauce), honey and cayenne pureed into a thin sauce. We chose one consisting of toasted sesame oil and soy sauce. I voted for this one because: I love the smell of sesame oil, we had some that wasn't rancid, and it was simple to make.  

    None of the recipes mention the type of kale to use. I first planned to do this dish last Wednesday and bought kale at that time. I knew it was kale because the tape that held the bunch of leafs together had bold print that spelled K-A-L-E. It had large, dark green, bumpy oval leafs.  I foolishly mentioned that I planned to make kale chips at my Rotary meeting on Thursday and promised to post on Facebook how it went. Then at therapy, on Friday, I also touted my proposed endeavor. My therapist, Bob, requested I bring some chips for him to sample at our next session on Tuesday. "You bet," I said, or something to that effect.   

    For some reason, probably closely aligned with laziness, I didn't get around to actually launching the kale chip ship until therapy morning. Woe and behold, my six day old kale wasn't looking very perky when I pulled it out of the refrigerator. (Wife would be proud that I didn't compare the droopy kale to the anatomy of an aging female.) I pondered my alternatives. I figured if I passed on the chips my Rotarian friends wouldn't remember it long enough to cause me a problem.  But, I wondered what my punishment would be if I failed  my physical terrorist, or worse sickened him with bad kale chips.  Wife encourage me to take the high road and blow a few bucks on fresh kale.  

    Fortunately, my longtime caregiver Christina was scheduled for that Tuesday. When she arrived, I  ask her to go to the store for a fresh bunch and showed her my wimpy produce to make sure she knew what kale looked like. She assured me she knew what kale was, with a bit of attitude I thought, and headed off. When she returned I looked askance at the greenery she had acquired. Thinking she had relied on the signs posted by the produce folks, you know, the ones that are several feet above the produce and notoriously misaligned horizontally, to identify the location of the kale, that she had, understandably, chosen the wrong item. I promptly announced that she had purchased collard greens or whatever, because her produce was a lighter green and crinkled. It didn't look anything like the wimpy stuff in the trash. Nervously, but with spine, she said, "No, it was kale," and she exposed the tape holding the bunch together that spelled K-A-L-E. Boy, I can be a pompous ass. 

    It turns out there are several varieties of kale. Who knew? The most common grocery varieties are Lacinato (a.k.a. Dinosaur kale), the type I bought, and curly kale the type Christina bought. You can imagine my abashment for my reaction to Christina's valiant shopping effort. Obviously we used curly kale, but if I do it again, I will try the dinosaur kale. I mean, doesn't everyone want to eat dinosaur. Seriously, the curly kale doesn't lay flat and the curly parts cook quicker. As a result, you can have very crispy curly parts and undercooked flat areas that were originally near the stem.   

    I kid you not.  As I was writing this, the phone rang. It scared the crap out of me, but I only spilled a little wine. The caller was Wife's cousin, Joni. Wife answered while I wiped up wine.  Wife listened, smiled and said to Joni, "Tell Dave." She put the phone to my ear and Joni sang "Happy Anniversary to you." Wife and I stared at each other and then at a nearby digital clock to confirm the date and laughed. We had both completely spaced; it was our 37th anniversary. Thankfully, I can claim that I made dinner. We had a robust beef stew that I made; it seemed perfect for a clear, but cold December night. I wish I hadn't made it a month ago and Wife didn't have to defrost it and heat it up for our anniversary. 

    Okay, back to the recipe. I'm really going to provide it. But first, the kale chips we made were a little odd to me. I don't think that I have knowingly eaten kale before, so my initial reaction might be based on the strangeness of new flavors. Also, when first cooked, the toasted sesame oil and soy mixture turned out to be a bit stronger and saltier than I expected.  We stored  the uneaten portion in two air-tight containers lined with a coffee filter to catch excess oil. I took one container to therapy. Bob sampled them and was very polite when he said he might prefer olive to sesame oil. I kept my mouth shut.  Today I tried them again, the chips were a bit less crispy, but the flavors were also milder. I liked them more. Still, if I do them again, I think I'll use olive oil seasoned with garlic and a little salt for the marinade.  

    Here is what we did:
    Pre-heat oven to 300 degrees
    Place two oven racks in the center
    Line 2 or 3 Rimmed 12 x 18 inch baking pans with parchment paper
    Ingredients:
    2 tablespoons toasted sesame oil
    2 tablespoons low-sodium soy sauce
    1 bunch kale, washed, dried, de-stemmed and cut or torn into chip size pieces (2" to 3")
    Wisk the oil & soy in a large mixing bowl until emulsified
    With tongs toss the kale pieces in the oil mixture until evenly coated (keep turning and tossing until you don't see dry leaf parts)
    Spread the leaf pieces on the lined baking sheets evenly. If they over lap a little bit, don't worry because they will shrink as they cook.
    Bake two pans for 6 minutes.
    Rotate the pans and shift top pan to the bottom rack and bottom to the top rack and bake for 7 minutes.
    Then use your own judgment to decide if the chips are done.

    Good Luck.
    If we do these again, Wife says our thirty-eighth anniversary will be iffy. 

    Monday, December 16, 2013

    But I Digress - Maine

     
     
    Kennebunkport, Maine.  For some reason I like the name Kennebunkport. I’m not sure how, or when, I became aware of it. It might have been because of George Bush the First. I know I should say George H. Bush, but that doesn’t do justice to the amazing set of circumstances that led a father and son to be presidents of these often un-united states while both still live. As I recall, George the First’s family vacationed in Kennebunkport during his presidency. I have memories of the President, his gray hair blown back by a stiff sea breeze, while standing on a large, rough granite rock saying, “Read my lips. No new taxes.”

    You know, as you age, memory has a way of becoming less reliable. In my youth, I could make statements with complete confidence that they were accurate. I could argue vehemently for my point and even site sources to support it. But now I find it difficult to be so sure of myself.  I probably should blame my self-doubt on my aging brain, but I’d rather not. I’d rather assume that my hesitancy to be self-assured is a sign of wisdom. After all, not only poor memory comes with age. Wisdom is supposed to come with age too. But, I digress.
    ***
    I don’t know much about Maine. At one time I thought it was one of the original thirteen colonies. Maine tried to be a colony but never pulled it off.  I imagine the constant bickering between the French and English over borders didn’t foster a safe environment for family settlements.  
     
    Maine, as we know it, didn’t exist until 1820 when statehood became official. Prior to statehood Maine was a province of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. The MBC, as I like to say; to be honest, I don’t say it, I type it, because typing Massachusetts Bay Colony with one finger is tedious. As I was saying, MBC was really a big deal in the Colonial days. It stretched from Martha’s Vineyard in the south to Nova Scotia in the north and included what is now Maine and Vermont. Apparently Martha’s Vineyard was popular even without the Kennedy’s. New Hampshire was not included. It’s rumored that MBC excluded New Hampshire from its administration, because its inhabitants were rotten hockey players. MBC even claimed authority as far west as the Pacific Ocean at one time. They didn’t mind stopping at Nova Scotia because it bordered on New Brunswick and nobody wants to go there. Notice, I haven’t used British to identify the colonies. I haven’t done so because people born before 1990 know that already. Also, I seriously doubt anyone is reading this, let alone someone born after 1990. The constant reporting by the media about poor performing American students, with extra emphasis if it involves a global competition, has led me to believe that people born after 1990 don’t know anything that doesn’t appear on Facebook or one of its clones. And, I’m sure there’s nothing about Britain on Facebook unless it involves music, clothing, or Kate & William plus baby George. On the other hand the media has led me to believe several questionable “facts.” Like the USA states are either red or blue. I’m not sure the media is reliable.  I can understand calling North Carolina a red state. While in North Carolina’s Fort Brag, I learned what red clay was. But, I’ve lived in California for sixty years and I’ve only seen blue soil at Disneyland. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t natural. But, I digress.
    ***
    A friend of mine went to Maine. I think he may be the only person I’ve met, in person, which can attest to Maine’s existence based on his own experience. He regaled me with stories of lighthouses; beaver’s carved out of logs with a chain saw and the many virtues of blue berries. Oddly, I don’t recall him mentioning lobsters. He even provided me with blue berry preserves to prove he went to Maine. I must say, blue berries were never in the top ten of my favorite fruits. To be honest, they weren’t even on the list. But, those clever Maineanites know something about blue berries. They make a mean preserve out of then. Wait, Maineanites doesn’t sound right, or does Maineians. Maineiacs isn’t it. How about Mainetarians, like Rotarians? What do you call someone from Maine? But, I digress.
    ***
    Many people think that Maine is the most northerly state in the continental United States. Being born before 1990, I know that the modifier continental, when used as it is here, means to exclude Alaska and Hawaii from consideration. If born after 1990, the phrase “contiguous 48 states” would serve the same purpose. But, the out dated “lower 48 states” made sense for only 6 months and 18 days of 1959, because Alaska became a state on January 3 and Hawaii on August 21. Accordingly, the lower 48 states no longer included Minnesota because Hawaii is a much lower state. But, I digress.
    ***
    Northwest Angle, Minnesota on the shores of the Lake of the Woods is the most northerly point in the continental USA. In 1818 Great Britain and the USA established the 49th parallel as the border between their spheres of influence starting from the Lake of the Woods in the east to the Rocky Mountains in the west. Later, in 1846, a presidential campaign promise was broken (sadly not the first or the last) by James K. Polk. He had been elected in part because of his slogan “Fifty-four Forty or Fight,” which referred to the 54th parallel as part of his desired boundary between Canada and the USA.  The slogan should have been “Fifty-four Forty, but not if they want to fight about it,” but that wouldn’t have been very catchy. In case you were wondering, the phrase, “Pig in a Polk” doesn’t apply, in spite of his broken promise, because that phrase should be “Pig in a poke”, an altogether different thing. But, I digress.
    ***
     At any rate, the 49th parallel was set as the boundary. “But wait,” you might say. “How did Minnesota end up with the northerly honor?” you might add. Well it seems we have Benjamin Franklin to thank for it. He and his British counter-parts used an inaccurate map to establish the border between Canada and Britain’s former colonies in 1783.  The border ran from the headwaters of the Mississippi River to the Atlantic Ocean. The map incorrectly showed the headwaters starting at the Lake of the Woods. As a result, a small exclave of land that illogically is not part of Manitoba became part of Minnesota.
    Isn’t exclave a cool word? It’s the mirror of enclave from a map maker’s perspective. Look it up.  I’m not positive, but I think old Ben may have known about the map error but didn’t say anything. It gave him a great trivia question to ask Tommy Jefferson at dinner parties.  But, I digress.
    ***
    The boundary between Nova Scotia and the USA was not clearly settled in 1783. Nor, was it when a peace treaty was signed in 1818 to end the War of 1812. The War of 1812 was tough on The Providence of Maine. The bankers and merchants that ran Massachusetts had done well for themselves since the Revolution. They had developed lucrative trade with England and the British colonies in Canada and the Caribbean.  It’s hard to be sure, but some folks think the first off-shore tax shelters were setup by Boston bankers with the help of their Bermudian brothers around the turn of the 18th century. Well, maybe not some folk, probably just this folk.  But, I digress.
    ***
    The Massachusetts bankers considered war with their best customer to be a very stupid policy decision by the numbskulls in Washington D.C.  Therefore, they did their best to keep a low profile in the hope the Brits would forget where Massachusetts was or at least in the hope that they were still using Franklin’s map and wouldn’t be able to find them. When I say low, I mean low in the worst possible sense. I’m thinking lower than political radio hosts, or Jerry Springer in the day. The bankers actually made loans to Britain to help them with their war effort. Secretary of War, James Monroe, yes the one with a doctrine, sent an envoy to negotiate loans and request troops in support of the United States’ war effort. The envoy left empty handed when, amazing, the bankers refused to make loans to the Government of the United States of America. I could understand their refusal today; after all would the Government of the USA lend money to banks, just because they made stupid policy decisions? Oh wait, it would. Damn, it even did. But, I digress.  
    ***
    Massachusetts’ attempt to hide might have worked if it wasn’t for that darn Province of Maine being part of Massachusetts. Almost everyone born before 1990 knows that Britain was a major sea power at this time. It had a massive fleet of war ships that relied on solid, straight white pine for their masts and spars. Maine had a lot of it. In addition as far back as 1779, Britain had toyed with creating New Ireland by annexing Maine as part of Nova Scotia. The current war gave them the perfect opportunity to give it another go.  So, after Britain defeated the mighty Napoleon in 1814, they felt confident enough to invade Maine. It turns out lobster traps are a poor defense against war ships. So Maine lived with British occupation for several years and put up with Nova Scotia and the infantile province of New Brunswick yucking it up while Maine was told that they are now part of New Ireland and must drink Guinness. They could put up with Moosehead, but not the stuff from the far side of the pond. But, I digress.
     
    ***
    Well you can imagine how the people of Maine felt when the government (i.e. bankers) of Massachusetts wouldn’t send troops to help them. When the war was over, and Britain returned New Ireland, our Mainetarians made a big stink about separating from good old reliable Massachusetts. And they would have, sooner rather than later, but for the desire of Congress to maintain competitive parity between the NNC and SSC. There were 11 teams in each conference in 1819. The Northern Non-slave Conference was very concerned that the Southern Slave Conference would be able to elect a league commissioner (i.e. President) of their own choosing if a SSC team were admitted without an off-setting NNC team. Along comes a proposal to admit Maine to the NNC, supported by seven true sons of the prospective state. At virtually the same time, if you define virtually very broadly, Missouri petitions to become a state. The SSC agents in the Senate see an opportunity to use the Maine proposal for their own ends. So they refuse to agree with Maine’s statehood proposal.  The conferences were at an impasse and the expansion of the league was at risk. Even if people weren’t using the phrase at the time, most believed in manifest destiny. Everyone knew the league had a god given right to expand in the west, provided there was parity. So along comes a New Yorker that proposes a compromise. Basically he advocates that no new SSC teams can join the league if their geographical location is north of Parallel 39 degrees 30 minutes except for Missouri. Wait our seven true sons of Maine that had voting rights in Congress might have said, “That is the southern border of Missouri. So you are allowing an SSC team in what should be an NNC location.”  “Well duh,” the New Yorker said. “That’s why they call it a compromise.” Our seven Mainetarians didn’t see it that way. They very much wanted to be part of an independent state within the United States of America and given the suffering Maine went through they deserved it. But, the seven were so opposed to the concept of slavery that they refused to vote for the compromise. Congress accepted the compromise and Maine became the 23rd state and Missouri the 24th. That’s how it’s told on Maine History Online. I’m not cynical. Wait, I don’t know why I said that. I’m very cynical, but I don’t want to be. I don’t want to believe that our seven unselfish representatives of Maine’s true desires voted against the compromise to garner votes at home for the next election, knowing full well statehood was going to pass no matter what they did. I want to believe that our forefathers always looked out for the little guy and thought the common good was the only good. But, I digress.
    ***
     
    To be continued. Maybe