If you’d like to do so, here’s the items to follow that she and I did to create this sample.    Then simply scan in your paper (remember to show your work!  Hee hee.)

1. Name/Blog Name
2. Right handed, left handed or both
3. Favorite letters to write
4. Least favorite letters to write
5. Write: The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
6. Write in caps:
CRAB
HUMOR
KALEIDOSCOPE
PAJAMAS
GAZILLION
7. Favorite song lyrics
8. Tag 7 people
9. Any special note or drawing

I have to apologize; since becoming computer-literate, my handwriting has gone completely and totally south.   But that’s ok, I rarely have to use it for anyone but me.   But…here’s my sample!   Enjoy interpreting!  (click on it for a larger version)

P.S. — In question #8, I have tagged the following people, but really — if you want to do it, I highly encourage you to go for it:   Queenie Carly, Stacey at This Just In, Corn Fed Girl, Mark at Avablog, Five Second Dance Party, Randomly Yours, Julia, and Tara Septembre

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 8 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

I’d like to start something for myself and my online friends called, “The Real Mail Project”.   This isn’t some idealistic attempt to say that email has taken something away from us, or there’s some inherent goodness or inner peace in writing actual letters — no, plenty of people have done that and frankly, writing too much makes my hand cramp.   I wasn’t built for it, clearly, and my handwriting attests to that.

No, this is simply because I like the idea of putting something physical into your hands and maybe getting something physical back.   I still read a newspaper because I like holding the print in my hands while I recline in a chair, the trees be damned.   My books are some of my most precious possessions because they bring something to reading that electronics just can’t.

I’d like to send you — gentle reader — a piece of mail.   Handwritten by me.   A postcard, probably, although it depends on the day and my mood.   I also can’t promise when you’ll get it, because I might be swamped with work and so forth, but I will keep at it until I hit up everyone who is interested.    I don’t care if you’re near or far from me, down the street or across the globe.   The relatives of mine who read this, go ahead and sign up if you want, that’ s fine.

I would love and adore to get something back from you in return if you’re so inclined.   I’d also like to do some posts on who I am writing to and if I get something back from you, what I got.    I might scan it in, who knows!   There’s no requirement to reply to me, but it’d be fun, wouldn’t it?    There’s also no necessity for carrying on past these two pieces of post unless we want to; it just sounded like a fun idea.

Many of you I may not meet for a long time, so let’s write, shall we?

If this sounds interesting to you, here’s how to participate:    Click here to fill out the contact form:  Contact Me

Make sure to give me your full mailing address if you want to get something, otherwise it’s kinda pointless, eh?

I don’t know how well this will work, and it all depends on who signs up, but — I’m in the mood to write.   Do you want to get some GOOD mail for once?

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | No comments....YET! Make one! | Subscribe RSS

Nathan Pralle, Guest Blogger on Time

Please head on over to check out my guest post on the subject of Time and how it’s getting a bit too accurate !!and while you’re there, check out a few of Tom’s other great postings on various topics!

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2010. | Permalink | 2 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

A wish — an invocation — a blessing;

To all of you at this holiday season, with adoration:

I could wish for many outlandish, pricey, or grandiose things this holiday — most are certified loads of hogwash; idle fantasies that we toy with to amuse ourselves and dig ourselves out of our miserable existence.    They are difficult if not impossible to achieve.   Scores desire, many try, most fail.

There is one thing, however, that I have observed and it is so incredibly fulfilling and truly awe-inspiring that I wish it to each of you ever so much:

Real Time

Our daily lives are inundated with piles of mental requirements and “multitasking” is the key word to much employment these days.    Whether it is juggling departmental projects, remembering to pick up the milk, or to shut the door to the basement so your toddler doesn’t bounce down the stairs, we are always thinking ahead, planning our moves, strategically shuffling the chess pieces of our lives to ensure the best of outcomes.

Suffice it to say, we don’t spend a lot of time observing the current moment because we’re distracted by thinking ahead.   And most of that’s good, but it can be overwhelming at times, and most importantly, we can miss things.

Real things.

In Real Time.

Think not that Real Time is what you are sold on Hallmark commercials and jewelry sales.    It is not the eggnog and the mistletoe, the Christmas turkey or the shining menorah.  You cannot be sold a moment of bliss.

Real time is not simply appreciating what you have now.   It is not “taking a moment” or “slowing down” to observe the holidays.    “Peace on Earth” doesn’t capture its unique nature.    Hallelujahs do not hold the key to this phenomenon.   It is not necessarily found in a manger.

It is a unique form of momentary existence that is rare, hard to achieve, and precious to behold.   It is the elusive diamond in the rough, the unexpected treasure, the gift that gives only fleetingly yet lingers for a thousand times more.

You cannot work for it — indeed, doing so chases it away, and you cannot plan for it, carving out a spot on your calendar.    Real Time comes when it warrants and stays as it pleases and whisks away just as quickly.    And if you don’t realize what it is, you’ll miss it, too.

Real Time is when all the pre-planning, preparation, and foresight vanish from your mind; not simply on the back burner, but gone from existence.   All the multiple layers of multi-tasking collapse and flatten into a silky smooth pool of thought.   The balls you are juggling fall sharply to the floor and disappear.   You are left, for only a moment — nay, a second — with a clean slate; a bare tablet and freshly-sharpened pencil for which to cherish life.   You have nothing to prepare, nothing to plan, nothing to anticipate.    You simply ARE for that moment in time.   Real Time.

It is — without question — incredible.

For once there are no demands, no pressures, no influences.   Jumbled thoughts disappear into the ether — analysis goes away.    All faculties are suddenly finely tuned towards the exact happenings right in front of you and absolutely nowhere else.    All that horsepower hitched to one single, colorful cart is simply overwhelming in its intensity.

We are not wired for such a state.    Humans are not programmed to stay at a rest, un-touched by the outside, all resources focused so narrowly, so Real Time does not linger.   It will leave no instructions, no calling card, no evidence that it came.

But you’ll know.    You will know afterwards that what you had was a moment in your life so brief you couldn’t possibly tie it to something so large and arbitrary as a calendar or clock or describe it in terms so harsh and garish as clichés or epitaphs, but it was there, and you were, too.   For once you were completely and totally there and nowhere else.

Real time can be anywhere and can be triggered by anything, but unsurprisingly it often happens most frequently when we do those things that connect us and ground us and centre us — the smell of your child’s skin, the depth of your lover’s eyes, the silence of a soft snowfall, the twinkle of a candle.   You cannot search for it; Real Time caters to none.   But it lurks in that which means most to each of us.

May you find a few, unexpected, surprising,  but sparkling moments of Real Time this holiday season, and may they warm your heart for a long, long time to come.

From all of mine to all of yours, the best of repasts.

Nathan, Yolanda, and Keston

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2009. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

“Yeah?” I said, groggily.

“You folks still there in one piece?” he asked. “Sure,” I replied, “why wouldn’t we be?”

Turns out it had rained quite a bit in the night and since the ground and assorted bodies of water are already sufficiently filled, it had proceeded to flood out quite a lot of places, including his basement. I trotted downstairs and checked out the scene, prancing about the house in my skivvies, until I was reasonably assured that nothing was overly wet and/or missing.

I was just looking up local weather and news when he called again. “They said on the radio that they are evacuating the nursing home and want volunteers to help. You might want to go help your grandma.”

I blinked. “Gotcha…I’ll toss on some clothes and get moving.” I grabbed myself a quick bowl of some generic cereal and headed to the shower, got primped in my best “dirties”, grabbed my shitkickers, and headed out the door.

Upon driving to the end of main street, I was stopped by a familiar face in a fireman’s uniform. “Hey, Jeff,” I said out the window. He asked where I was going, and I indicated that I had heard that they needed help. “Sure,” he replied, “but go to the high school; they’ll shuttle you down there, we don’t have room for all the cars.”

Upon parking and jumping onto the fire equipment truck with a bunch of other folks from around town, we headed on down. The sight that greeted me was impressive; water in every direction up to and starting to flow over the driveways of the nursing home, trucks, piles of sand, sandbags, and lots of people. This was going to be interesting.

The residents, as it turns out, were already evacuated to Ridgestone Golf Course, a local club with a rather sizable restaurant space. I smiled as I imagined my grandmother sitting up at the bar and ordering a cold one.

So, instead I busied myself by jumping in on the sandbagging, helping to offload bucketloads of completed bags and forming a chain of sandbags in a ring around the structure three deep. Three hours and some 1,500 bags later, we were not only done with the barrier for the care center but managed to fill the better part of the back of a dump truck with bags as well in preparation for coming weather. Dirty, soaked to the bone (it didn’t fail to piss down rain while we were working, of course), tired, but happily so, I headed back to my car and then home to shower and spend the rest of the day relaxing and getting minor things done.

Later in the afternoon, after most of the excitement had let off, we went for a small drive and collected a lot of pictures of the flooding. I post them below for your general enjoyment and amusement.

I’ve never really been involved in any sort of emergency assistance/recovery/prevention/whatever and I have to say that today was a wonderful experience, even given the circumstances. Seeing people from all sorts of statuses, creeds, backgrounds, and experiences come together simply because they were a community and, by god, we were not about to let a staple institution of our town get destroyed was nothing less than inspirational. It made me have some brief hope for humanity in general by seeing what a small but organized effort could accomplish given the opportunity.

Now — on to the pictures! (remember, you can click on the thumbnail to make them bigger)

The sidewalk leading north from our street to the city swimming pool park, and the poor schmuck’s backyard that suffered as well.

I don’t think this guy will be mowing lawn very soon.

This was, at one point, a corn field. I doubt the viability of it now.

This is an empty lot and in the background, Sukup Manufacturing, which also flooded out somewhat.

On Gilman Street (C-13) headed east and our first glimpse at the care center and the line of sandbags on the west side.

The south side of the care center and its front lawn, deeply under water. You can clearly see the sandbag line here. I didn’t personally work on this side; I was on the crew on the reverse (north) side, but the idea is the same. It’s not really rocket science — sand, in a bag, stacked. Kinda self-explanatory.

The eastern driveway into the nursing home and the east ditch. The brown gunk is floating, rotting corn stalks from last year; the water there is about 3′ deep at the bottom of the ditch and, as you can see, is already flowing over the concrete. You can also see the pile of reserve sandbags in the background by the line. We left several such piles in the case that something broke and/or had to be bolstered.

The parking lot of the Sheffield Vet Clinic, looking north.

Looking north along Highway 65, across Gilman Street.

Looking south along Hwy 65.

The pumps at Casey’s General Store (NE side under water) and the intersection of Gilman and Hwy 65, ditches full.

The north ditch by Hwy 65. The water here is probably 3′ deep at least.

The massive amount of suction at one of two culverts attempting to empty the ditch as fast as possible. The culverts are about a foot wide at the intake and I’ll bet the suction would rip the hair right off your leg or worse.

The output of the culvert above and the southern ditch. Given the speed of the water rushing through, you suddenly realize that this is a A Lot Of Water.

Looking west along Gilman Street and the south side of the Vet Clinic, ditch full and getting worse.

The front of the Vet Clinic. Hope those doggies remembered their boots!

A very wet, muddy, sandy, tired, but satisfied me after the adventure in the morning. Why is it that sand can get into the deepest of crevices with little or no effort? Yike!

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 7 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

P.S. — I would caution my readers against using Jim’s Cash Generator for supplying your main income stream — it doesn’t appear to be working out for Jim very well.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

However,  I wanted to share these crappy-ass cell phone pictures with you.   Every day my commute to Charles City takes me past the 75-megawatt, 50-turbine wind farm that is being built as we speak just on the edge of CC.   I love the fact that Iowa is getting tons of these farms going up — wind power is a great resource; clean, fairly economic, and plentiful.    Plus, I think the farms look very majestic and are fascinating to watch being built.

I’ve been taking photographs as I go to work with my phone; not the best, but there’s some pretty sunrises and you can at least see some progress.    Enjoy.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 2 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Time for you to give me some criticisms! If you feel up to it, please post a comment and say a few words about the following items:

• How did you find me? – I’m curious to know, as I’ve tried various ways to ‘get my blog out there’ and would like to know what’s working and what isn’t.
• The design of my blog site - What do you like about it, what’s annoying or distracting, does it look good in your browser or crappy, can you read everything? Easy to find stuff? Other design comments welcome.
• Posting Frequency - Too frequent, not often enough?
• Posting Length – Do I make them too long? Too short? Ramble on or get to the point? Do you find yourself reading all of them, or just the shorter ones? Getting lost/bored because of length?
• Posting Content – Do you like the subjects I’m writing about, or do you find them boring? Out of all the posts I’ve made, what percentage have you actually read? (skimming doesn’t count) What type of posts do you like the most — humor, philosophical, religious, rants, other?
• Posting Language – Do I make sense when I write? Can you follow and understand the language I use? Does the profanity add or subtract from the presentation? Is my vocabulary good, bad, or cumbersome? Does the writing flow or do you find yourself stumbling?
• Other - Any other commentary?

Why all these questions? Well, I like my blog. But that’s me, and this is my blog, and you get used to what you do all the time and how it’s done. But that doesn’t mean it’s either the Right way or the Best way, and I’d like to get some honest opinions from people who read this blog (there are some of you, I see you lurking in the shadows) as to what you really, truly, honestly think of it.

PLEASE be honest. Be brutally honest if you must to get your point across. I will take all commentary as constructive criticisms, not offenses, so feel free to be frank. If you prefer not to comment publicly, you can use the contact form on my main website to send me a private message, which I will keep in confidence.

I’d like to submit my blog to get some more “professional” reviews (such as they are), but would like to know what my readers think, first, before I do so. I will consider every angle presented; whether or not I change is still my prerogative, but I’ll think about it.

I appreciate it, and you, very much. Thanks tons!

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | 3 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

I propose, “Medium Talk”.

It’s not small talk, because it is more than simply about the weather. It certainly isn’t a long, drawn out conversation, either, because we don’t get massively involved. It’s in between and I’ve found myself engaged in this sort of communicative banter more and more often of late.

I think part of it has to do with the ways in which people are becoming more connected with various people in the world through such services as MySpace, Facebook, Twitter, IM programs, email, blogs, and so on. I now keep “in contact” with a wide range of people from my life, past and present, through such means, far more than I would have if I didn’t have these resources.

And yet, if you notice, nobody contacts someone via these channels and has long, drawn-out conversations with them. At least, not very often. The most common type of contact is greeting, finding out, “what’s new in your life”, reflecting a bit on those “big” things, and then either deliberately signing off or simply letting the conversation wither and die on its own. They all allow us to digest small snippets of people’s lives every day instead of taking all the details in at once during a real-life meetup. I would almost imagine that, for most people, this is an easier way of managing relationships.

I think it reflects very little on whether or not we care about the person on the other end of the string. I have genuine interest in things that people on my contact lists do every day, although the level of detail necessary can very depending on my mood. While I might not talk to Kim all the time, it is interesting to me to see new pictures of things in her life or notes on what she has done. There’s no need for a conversation; indeed, I’d be hard-pressed to find out anything to talk about should one come up, but getting those little tidbits is enough to sate my curiosity and need for connectivity.

Personally, I’m constantly amused by the human race’s need for contact with each other. We are autonomous beings, capable of enduring massive amounts of trauma, stress, and other difficulties, and yet toss one of us on a deserted island or cut off our means of communication and we all start to climb trees after a bit. One would think after this many years of evolution and adjustment that we would start gaining the ability to be isolated without cracking. But there’s a definite reason that all of these online social tools are booming and becoming so popular — we need them.

I think in some ways, our need for contact derives from our mental craving for affirmation, the feeling that whatever you are doing is “normal” or “correct” and is probably developed from a very young age. As kids, we look to those older to make sure that whatever we have done is the right thing to do — that we drew the picture the “right” way, we made a “good” speech, we behaved properly when meeting the Pope. This doesn’t disappear as we grow older, although we may rebel slightly against it, on the whole we are still looking to each other to offer approval, acceptance, and confirmation of ourselves.

So, I’m playing along with my innate need to feel connected with the rest of the world by updating my places online, writing in a blog for who-knows to read, and sparking short but informative “Middle Talk” conversations with the various people I watch online. I may not have very deep conversations with any of them soon (although I certainly wouldn’t mind it!) but for now I’m happy to stay informed and to follow along with the highs and lows of you all as you follow my antics and doings that I display to you.

I can only hope that the changing environment for staying connected is a beneficial one to more than just the networks that promote and then reap advertising benefits from it. Much of what we do as humans would be better interpreted if we bothered to communicate intention and viewpoints to each other during the process; through these networks, I can rapidly share such information with people, either in detail or in macro format, so they are forewarned or at least know my positioning on things. Perhaps someday this will result in worldwide networks of humans acting in lockstep to do good things and promote a spirit of acceptance simply by being able to see all facets of the crystal at the same time.

I think this will be for the good in the long run, at any rate. And, hey you — shouldn’t we talk sometime?

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | 2 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

You’re enjoying the day off from work, aren’t you? Don’t lie to the screen — the Screen Sees All.

Are you honouring veterans with potato salad and watermelon? Did you light the grill to thank a soldier?

In Weber We Trust

While I do reflect on those who have served our country on this day, I prefer to think of it in levels of honour, not as a blanket thankfulness. Most people classifiy this day (and Veteran’s Day) as a day to thank any serviceperson who has ever been a part of one of the armed organizations. I think this is unfair and, frankly, rude to some of those who have given more than others.

Level 4 – Very Little Honour: These are the folks who voluntarily chose to go into the armed forces as either a career choice or because they “didn’t know what else to do”. The unmotivated, directionless masses of high school graduates that pick the military over sitting in a cardboard box and smoking gutterweed. They serve their four years, do some grunting at boot camp, and basically exit with a bit more discipline, money, and a lot of parenting courtesy of the US government. These people chose to do what they did and don’t deserve more than a curt nod on a day like today. Nothing impressive here, folks.

Level 3 – A bit of Honour: The same as the above, except they get sent into a conflict and fight and perhaps die in action. These folks deserve a bit more than a nod because they actually did something as opposed to just bunking with Uncle Sam for a few years. Good job on that. But at the end of the day, if you got hurt or damaged, you asked for it — you chose this as your career, you accepted the risk. I dislike those people who give these people accolades because they wanted to do this. If you go into the military and hope to have a desk job, good luck on that, in this day and age nothing is guaranteed. If I go into skyscraper building, there’s a chance that I’ll fall and die on the job. If you are a coal miner, you run the chance of being buried alive. If you’re in the military, you might get shot and killed. Tough nails.

Level 2 – Honourable: These are the folks that, in a time of great need for our country, these people volunteered to go fight to defend the country and/or the world. These are people like my great uncle who faked their age to get into the air force in WWII and thousands of others like him that stepped up when the threat was highest. These folks are due a lot of salutes and songs on the day and a fond remembrance by the masses, for they applied themselves when the need was great.

Level 1 – A Great Honour: These are the highest of veterans to honour by us — the ones that went into service involuntarily, the draftees, conscriptors, the ones torn from their lives and family, whether or not they believed in the cause being fought for, they sacrificed their sanity, their health, and quite often their lives. These are the folks I shed tears for at the Vietnam Memorial, the ones I envision when I see the monuments and edifices built to honour them, the ones I think of when the flags march down the street and the rifles fire salute. These are the people who deserve most of our thoughts, gratitude, and applause.

So, on this Memorial Day, I urge you to enjoy yourselves, but think fondly of those that spent their sunny, summer days in a trench because their country forced them to do so, who dodged bullets in the jungle not out of choice, who instead of munching on succulent burgers fresh from a grill choked down dry rations in the cold rain. These folks did what was necessary to ensure that your right to grill, eat sugared tomatoes, and rip corn from a cob on a beautiful day didn’t come to an end.

And we are eternally grateful for that.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | 2 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Sounds rather Big Brotherish, doesn’t it?

And yet, this is exactly what is happening in today’s world, says Viktor Mayer-Schönberger of Harvard University. An Associate Professor of Public Policy, he believes that with the massive databases sported by websites such as Google, Facebook, and MySpace, as well as the other corporate databases, file servers, and scads of personal storage space, we face a future where a person’s entire life history — at least, that recorded by computers — will forever be a part of the searchable and readable past. With devices such as cellphones, PDAs, and other “life” devices being constantly used by people to keep track of each other and schedules, more and more of our daily happenings are crossing, if not being stored upon, a network of some type.

In my old-fashioned filing cabinet in my closet at home, I keep a lot of different folders. Most of them are terribly boring — tax paperwork, bank statements, medical receipts — but a few contain some more personal information. One is all the letters I’ve gotten from all girlfriends in my past, no matter how serious or trivial.

Boy, are some of them terrible.

There was a great portion of my life where I hadn’t figured out the opposite sex to any great degree and oftentimes made some horrible stumbling blocks in my communication with them — much of which is reflected in those letters. The immaturity, the naivaté — it’s all there in paper and ink if you really want to read it. I try not to on a regular basis, as it makes me cringe most times.

However, having this sort of information about myself accessible to myself is also very educational and revealing. It gives me past history of myself, how far I have (or haven’t) come, what things I have gone through, the mistakes I have made. There is nothing more humbling than reading through a stack of letters from your early college years to realize just how incredibly stupid you really were.

If, however, those sorts of things were to be released to the general public — well, I’m not so sure. There’s a great deal of things that I said back when I was a Bible thumper that would make me absolutely shrink today. I did and said things with the opposite sex that should never see the light of day, and I’m sure there’s some old programming code and documents that should never grace the desk of my employer or they’ll wonder why they ever trusted a system to a guy who couldn’t get, “Hello, world!” to display on a screen.

99.998% of what we do and say is steeped inside of the context surrounding it — the place, the people, the history, the mood, even things as benign as the weather, how I felt that day, if I slept in, if I got laid; these factors make huge differences in the interpretation of the event. Yet, if only portions of these things are stored within the computer databases of the world the context is forever lost to the void of Time, never to be reconnected.

An example: Say, perhaps, that you and a friend in high school had developed a long-running joke about being homosexual lovers, complete with the various innuendos and remarks that accompany something like this. (I know what you’re thinking — high schoolers would never do such a thing! I’m shocked I even thought of it, really.) You chat and giggle about it between classes with your friends and even act it out occasionally, much to the immature humor of your cronies. Now, say that you also used your cellphone, IM program, Facebook, and MySpace to construct this alternative persona of you — just for the fun of it.

14 years later you are grown up — a responsible adult eager to enter the meeting room for your interview as the CTO of a rather large corporation. You walk in, sit down, and the interview committee starts asking you questions. At some point in the conversation, the head manager tosses a packet of paper down in front of your eyes containing printouts from that particular homosexual acting experience back in high school and asks, “Would you care to explain this?” The context being lost from the original event (we were kids, goofing off, it was nothing…), you are suddenly in a pretty hot seat.

I’ll admit, this might be a bit of a stretch, but it wouldn’t be the first time that an employer has explored the Internet to see what sort of dirt could be picked up on someone else and then dooced them for it. The fact is, many websites store vast amounts of information about their users long after they have performed it. Most have a privacy policy about these sorts of things, but what happens if it is released, either accidentally or purposely?

Should computers be like people where they essentially forget a lot of things you did when you were younger, especially the extremely dumb things of youth? Well, we should define “remembering”, perhaps, because while your buddy George might ‘remember’ about the homosexual thing, he may not recall the finer details. Whereas, a computer will have every detail down to the last comma and period in its databanks, without memory degradation, for as long as someone sees fit to keep it.

Computers also have the inability to recognize the progress of maturity in a human and the ability to switch viewpoints (even drastically) based on one’s aging and experiences. Things we said and believed when we were young aren’t applicable here, but nobody teases me about believing in the Easter bunny when I was 3. Likewise, with the fading of memory, nobody would fault you for being “stupid in high school”, yet if they can pull up word-for-word something you did back then with your friends, you suddenly have a very vivid “memory” made real and relivable in a bad way.

In some ways, I’m glad things are being recorded about me in the computers of the world. Maybe at some point in the future, when I am dead and gone, they will be a bit of a lasting legacy to my existence. Someone may notice decades from now that a guy named Nathan once lived in Iowa, was a computer programmer, and did certain things. It is in some ways a bit of an immorality program for the wired of the world.

What do you all think? Should computers be retaining information this detailed and this long, or should there be limitations? Are people allowed to be stupid when younger and wiser when older, or do younger people need to start watching their backs more often, given how much more of an impact their words and actions now have on the world?

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | No comments....YET! Make one! | Subscribe RSS

And, frankly, Iowa driving license law is to blame. While I fully support the ability for all ages of people to possess a license to drive, the fact remains that it is a privilege, not a right, and the laws are too flexible for those who have reached their golden years and past, allowing them to continue to renew over and over with only passing a simple eye exam. I fully believe that if these folks were required to take a driving test every so many years to maintain their license, 50% on the road right now would not pass.

Let me describe to you the scene as I left work for lunch today. I pull out from the parking lot to the side street and drive up to the stop sign on main street, where traffic is headed perpendicular past me without any signs to stop at all (as one might reasonably expect of a main through street). After I pull up, stop, and have my indicator blinking for a left turn, a decrepit old lady in a older tan car approaches the intersection from the left, followed by one of those stupid-looking jacked-up trucks with the big Mud Gripperâ„¢ tires on it, towering over the Buttoldmobile by six feet or so.

The lady sees me sitting there, blinker flashing, and STOPS — right in the middle of the street! Remember, there is NO stop sign on her side whatsoever, but contrary to how you think this intersection should be approached, apparently no sign means to stomp on the brake and bring her vehicle to a screeching halt in a hurry. WHY??!?!

Not that she was going at a rip-roaring pace to start with — she was flying by at all of 10mph beforehand. It wasn’t like I had started to pull out, like I sometimes do (it’s a rather blind corner — for the side streets). I was sitting there, patiently, but as soon as she saw that I had the potential to pull out, she went into panic mode. OH GOD, ANOTHER CAR ON THE ROAD — WHATEVER SHALL I DO!?

*headdesk*

I am sitting in my car, screaming obscenities and incredulousnesses at her, completely flabbergasted as well as being incredibly annoyed all at the same time. The driver of aforementioned idiotic-looking Bigfoot truck was looking less-than-pleased himself as I’m sure he was contemplating letting his huge-ass tires roll right over the damned car and put it (and our clueless granny) out of its misery.

This isn’t the first time this (or something similar) has happened, of course. We’ve all gotten stuck behind the occasional bluehair driving at 43mph on a country road, the one weaving from side to side as they gawk at everyone in town, and the dumbshit who hits their brake randomly on a straight road, just because they get a giggle out of being hugged tightly by their seatbelt.

What to do about this?

Well, I think 2 essential things need to be done to help alleviate this situation:

ONE: All persons, once you have reached 70 years of age, should be required to take a comprehensive driving test every 3 years (at least) to maintain their license. The fact is, over 70, people start going downhill fast. Some slower, some faster, but it’s very, very easy for someone to go from good to bad. This is NOT the fault of the individual (usually) — it’s just a phenomenon of getting older. But the fact that it exists is very real and we should not be putting other drivers’ safety at stake just because we’re uncomfortable about giving Grandma a test to make sure she can still navigate properly. Sure it’s a bitch for those older folk, but look — it’s for your safety and mine. Tough crap if it offends your sensibilities or pride; suck it up.

TWO: There needs to be some re-education for older folk there on proper driving habits, and some of them need to learn how to drive from the get-go, as technology has changed a lot since they learned how to drive by taking the family pony to the General Store and double parking it at the hitching post. Here’s some things I wish older drivers knew and would practice:

1. Even though the signs say, “Speed Limit”, the meaning between the lines should be interpreted as, “Speed Average”. True, according to the letter of the law, you CAN do 35 in a 55 zone, but it is dangerous to do so and any competent driving instructor will tell you the same. Cars all traveling near the same speed on a road keep everyone safer, because nobody is causing any backups nor is anyone zipping ahead and around people. Think of a boat in a river: If it’s going slower than the water, it causes ripples. If it is going faster than the water, it causes ripples. Only by going the same speed does it leave the water smooth and uninterrupted. This principle is the same on the road. If driving near the speed limit makes your heart beat fast and palms sweaty like they did when you were a teenager in heat, please avoid subjecting the rest of us to your “country drive” attitude towards speed. “Sunday drive with Grandpa” is also now obsolete due to the fact that people now have more places to go on a Sunday than to get home to the roast in the oven.
2. Brakes are used for 2 reasons: Adjusting speed when coming to an area that requires slower speed (lower speed limit, going into a turn) and stopping at an appropriate crossing that is marked for a stop. Other uses of brakes, including “I felt like it”, “I thought I saw a paper bag roll across the road”, and “my goddamned gout is acting up” are inappropriate and dangerous; kindly keep your fucking foot off the pedal at these times.
3. If you are unable to easily see over the dash of your car, turn your head to observe events to the sides and rear of your vehicle, and/or spin the wheel from lock-to-lock without shifting your hands more than twice, you are physically unfit to drive. Getting shorter as you get older must be a real drag, but stiff-necked, weak armed old ladies who can barely peer over the dash of their car, let alone tell where the nose of their 1979 Buick Boatmobile is, are a huge danger to the rest of the people and should be prevented from operating a large piece of machinery. You wouldn’t dare throw Grandma into the backyard with a chainsaw and tell her to trim the hedge, so why toss her into a 3,000 pound bullet on wheels and send her for milk?
4. You must observe normal traffic rules, not the ones you make up in your head as you go along. The rest of us aren’t psychic enough and we do not subscribe to the publication that your ass makes as it pulls things out, so please don’t subject us to your every whim when you’re headed down the highway. Stop signs are for stopping, turn signals are for turning, lane markings are to mark where the lanes are, and, if you can believe it, roads are for driving on. These are not items subject to interpretation, even though I regularly observe people using stop signs for gawking, chatting with passengers, or taking a breather; turn signals to celebrate the festive feeling of the day or indicate where you used to be; lane markings as decorative flair on the road upon which to weave your car’s path; and roads as a personal rollercoaster ride, white knuckled and unpredictable, where everyone is surprised at the outcome.

I think these are pretty decent rules to follow and don’t really require much out of the ordinary of the drivers on the road. I’m not trying to be an asshole, I really like older people (they taste like chicken), but my patience and sense of safety is wearing thin. I’m happy to see Old Miss Leary out and about and enjoying her golden years, but not if she’s going to end up sideswiping a cow and causing a ditch fire.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | 2 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

As I stood there, mesmerized by the roaring inferno in front of me, it happened again — the same car, sans exterior illumination, but this time it stopped in front of the neighbor’s house. “Hrm,” I thought, knowing that there is at least one teenage girl living at that house and wondering if this could be someone coming by to “visit”.

Sure enough, with the precision of a surgeon disconnecting a major artery, I heard the driver attempt to eek the door open. It was an almost completely calm night with very little background noise, meaning that I could hear every squeak and creak as the guy inched it open little by little. I have no doubt, given his extreme care, that he was cringing and losing a few minutes of his life every time the well-worn vehicle let out a squawk from its hinges. Had it not been a rusty old vehicle, it might have worked. The reality was that it sounded like two can openers trying to screw quietly enough so as to not wake up the kids.

Eventually he got the door open, stepped out, and repeated the painstaking process of closing the door. I chuckled to myself as I could only imagine his beating heart at that moment. Ah, young love pursuits in the depths of night; how I miss those so…not.

He approached the house and began walking around, looking into the windows. There were a few lights on, but not tons. Eventually, he came back around to my side and the side door, where the teenage girl appeared at the window. She made some sort of recognition to him, and then looked past him and saw me standing there, tending my fire. I wasn’t looking directly, only out of the corner of my eyes, but I saw her suddenly get really annoyed.

She made a gesture and came around to open the door for the guy. They must have both gone to the same British covert operations school, as the Door Opening Ceremony again commenced. Turning into a snake, the guy slithered into the house with all the grace of a burglar.

For the next 15 minutes or so, one of them would appear at the window momentarily to see if I was still out there or not. You could just feel the daggers I was receiving from them each time they caught sight of me.

I eventually figured that they weren’t about to do anything interesting as long as I stayed there, my fire had burned down to a steady glow, and my toes were getting cold from the dew-soaked grass, so I picked up my things and trudged back inside, shutting off the outside light after a minute or two. I went upstairs and into the darkened north bedroom, however, and sat a vigil, watching the house.

On their next visit to the window to peek they were terribly excited and the girl made some sort of gesture. I don’t exactly know what it meant because within the next couple of minutes, all of the lights in the house went off. I thought that a bit strange, but perhaps they were ready to retire to the couch to watch, The Price is Right.

Unfortunately, that was the most excitement of the evening as nothing else happened and I got tired of watching after a bit so went off to do other things. I had an incredible desire to do something like find an air horn and sound it off outside the window or let the air in the guy’s tires out or something, as it would have been highly amusing. Alas, my sense of betterment got to me and wrestled the amusement to the ground, pinning it and choking the life out of it. But I at least got the pleasure of shaking my head like the old man I am and saying to myself, “Tut, tut — kids these days.”

This morning the car was gone, supposedly leaving sometime in the darkness of the night, probably with lights off, his “mission” completed.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | One comment. One lonely comment looking for a friend. | Subscribe RSS

Afterwards, I decided that the grass had paid enough for its sins (heathen as it is) and removed the blade and made my way down to the local repair shop. Now, you have to realize that this was at 9:25pm tonight, way past hours that would normally encompass such things.

B&L Small Engine Repair was, however, open. Not only was it open, but there was lively activity there as the proprietor and his wife were running the shop and their son was conversing with some patrons while everyone milled around the various numbers of motorcycles, lawn mowers, and other garden paraphenalia. I left the car running and walked up.

“How’s it going?” the owner said. “Fine,” I said.

“What can I do for ya?”

“Can I get my mower blade sharpened?”

“Sure!” he replied and immediately took it from me and trotted off to the back part of the shop.

Now, I had left the car running because I fully expected him to put one of those wire tags on it, label it “Nathan Pralle’, and do it tomorrow sometime. But no, before I could ask or even guess, he had a healthy gush of sparks eminating from the grinding wheel. So, I went back, shut off my car, and came to stand in the doorway for a bit.

Thinking better of it after a few minutes of watching, I said to his wife that I was going to get my checkbook and headed back home, snagged the fake money billfold, and ran back. The blade was done by the time I got back, shiny and new looking, and an edge that announced that it meant business. Grass would no longer philosophize with this blade — they would BOW and bow hard.

The next pleasant surprise was the bill: $3.21

No, that’s not a typo. Three fucking dollars and 21 cents for the bloody government. Where else in the world can you show up at a repair shop at 9:25pm, ask to have your mower blade sharpened, get it done on the spot, and waltz out of there 12 quarters, two dimes, and a penny lighter? Is that fucking awesome or what?

There are a lot of disadvantages to living in a small town. The bank is open from 9-12, 1-3. The grocery store is open 8 to 6 only. The post office is open 10-12, 2:30 -4. But there’s definite plusses, too.

Like a blade of Ultimate Sharpness (+2 attack).

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2006. | Permalink | No comments....YET! Make one! | Subscribe RSS