Experts vs. Kooks

Things have changed dramatically over the years in the science world.  As a child, I was very interested in the sciences but eventually changed my mind of pursuing a career in that field because of a lack of cogent answers to questions.

 

In elementary school, science was taught to us by nuns who were not scientists.  They read from texts that gave us “facts” written by textbook authors who may, or may not, had a background in the subject about which they were writing.

 

Way back when, our lessons included the demise of dinosaurs.  Their carcasses were eventually covered with foliage that essentially composted their bodies into oil, hence the term “fossil fuel.”

 

Not being a scientist, I find it hard to imagine there were that many dinosaurs roaming the planet to result in the amount of oil we have in the world.  Still, that was gospel.  Amen.

 

Protagonists of questionable science can be found nearly everywhere.  It seems as though everyone is an expert on the contrived problem of “global climate change.”  The use of aerosol deodorants was the ultimate cause of the diminishing ozone layer.  Ozone is a gas that protects Earth’s inhabitants from being baked by the sun’s rays.  Ozone was allegedly disappearing at an alarming rate so, a ban on aerosol products using certain chemicals needed to be banned.  They were eliminated from store shelves decades ago but, clearly they were not the problem as society is on the verge of ultimate destruction from global warming.  No, it is global cooling.  Uh, maybe we’ll simply call it global climate change.  That, amigo, is weather.

 

And, the expert scientists continue with their drivel.

 

Science used to be a, well, science.  That field was one which was based on facts – cold, hard facts – that needed test upon test to prove or disprove a theory.  People who spurted out random ideas were known as “kooks.”  Kooks were merely average citizens who came up with nutty ideas about things such as NASA’s space rocket launches causing hurricanes.  Nonsense.

 

But, these kooks have become the norm for many world citizens who hang on their every word.  There is little science behind the alarm of the planet spontaneously combusting because I tote my groceries home in plastic bags.

 

Fortunately, we have the benefit of renowned scientist Leonardo DiCaprio, who must have secretly received his doctorate in ecological sciences, pointing out our shortcomings on how to keep our planet inhabitable.

 

Yet, the answers to questions I posed as a child are still unanswered.  The beginning of civilization on Earth is easily explained by evolutionists.  They believe that the Earth was revolving around the Sun, minding its own business, when a lighting bolt struck a pool of ammonia, creating an amoeba. This one-celled critter eventually evolved into a fish, then a dinosaur, then an ape, and now man.  These evolutionists are the same people who laugh at my belief in God and God’s creating the environment and man.  No word on where evolution scientists think the Earth, ammonia, or lightning came from. 

 

It is the thinness of such facts that make me believe in God and creationism even more.

 

Now, the scientists are saying the seven continents were all in one clump at one time.  Yes, if you take the continents and maneuver them around, you will find they fit pretty well – much like a jigsaw puzzle.  This new theory overlooks the fact that the continents are anchored to the ground through mountains and volcanoes from which many land masses arose.  Scientists think these continents moved around the oceans like air rafts in a swimming pool.

 

According to these geologists, this idea would explain how wooly mammoths and apes and other animal species wound up in places that would seem odd by today’s standards.

 

Perhaps I should feel grateful I didn’t pursue a career in the sciences as they are not as solid as demonstrating proof of much of anything.  But, don’t call me a kook, either.

Off We Go

 

We are all familiar with the mystery or suspense movie scene in which the person about to be killed reveals to his assassin that he has strategically hidden information about the identity of his killer.  In the event of his death, that package of incriminating evidence will be sent to the authorities, guaranteeing an arrest and conviction.

 

The good news is the killer usually relents, with a sneer, and allows the potential victim to live, thereby giving the story’s author more time to create more twists and turns than Chubby Checker on a skateboard.

 

My sainted wife and I just returned from a lengthy road trip after some time away from home.  It seemed as though we were packing for a covered wagon trip across the Great Divide.

 

While dutifully packing our spacious SUV for the ride, I actually incorporated one of those nifty baskets that slide into the trailer receiver, allowing for the moving of even more unnecessary junk.

 

Our trips also include the transportation of Smokey the Cat.  He has a particularly large metal cage in which he silently rests.  The cage size precludes us from fitting three sofas and a recliner hence, the exterior basket.

 

Packing must begin two nights before the actual trip so as not to spook Smokey who is truly adept at hiding.  Although he doesn’t scream during the fifteen hours of the fifteen-hour trip, he doesn’t enjoy being locked in a cage for length of time, either.

 

He has many placed to hide, and does so, well.  Finding him to situate him in his cage is laborious.  So, we fake him out and rely on his short-term memory loss to pack a day in advance.  Then, we pounce on him before he knows it.

 

But, it’s my sainted wife that gives me chest pains.  Much like that aforementioned movie scenario, I am telling all of you that my sainted wife is ardently trying to kill me.

 

She knows what our car looks like but fails to see the volume of space available.  When we pack, she invariably proclaims she has only “two small bags.”  These “two small bags” are roughly the size of sea bags – akin to the type in which sailors schlep their belongings around the world for two year periods.

 

This regular surprise is presented to me just as the cooler the size of a snowmobile is stuffed into the remaining two-foot square space.

 

“Here are my ‘little’ bags,” she cheerily announces.

 

With Smokey looking on in bemusement, I offer her ‘thanks’ to begin the unpacking and rearrangement process.

 

T.J. Lawrence, also known as Lawrence of Arabia, didn’t take this much stuff on his adventure in the Sahara Desert.

 

With the trip now delayed another two hours, we finally have everything in place.  Six miles down the road, though, my sainted wife mumbles something about stopping for ice for the cooler.  Too bad the cooler is now tucked neatly beneath the “little bags” and cast iron bathtub.  Smokey grins over the situation.

 

In the event of my untimely death, call the police and tell them she was responsible.

Radio Mall

While traveling the country with my trusty radio, I visited many, many cities.  I take a radio with me as sort of a security blanket.  Most shows I listen to are syndicated and therefore may be picked up nearly anywhere a signal exists.  There are, however, some that are just local in nature but, not unique by any means.

 

One type of radio show that I enjoy is the classified ads show that airs on more stations in more places than one would think.

 

Not being certain of the origin if these as shows, one this is certain – they are entertaining.

 

The Eastern Shore has its share of these shows which features callers inviting listeners to either sell or buy something, and making those items seem quite in-demand.

 

After a few weeks of listening to these programs, it would appear as though there is nothing one could not buy.  Items include pecans, apples, walnuts, and tomatoes, as most folks have access to various fruits and nuts on the Shore.  Vehicles are common with cars and trucks leading the way, with bicycles, mopeds, and jet skis, following close behind.  Furniture and appliances – with refrigerators the most popular – can be had here.  Clothes of nearly every size and shape are also available for weddings, proms, and even bee keeping.  Kayaks, boats, and motors abound, as well.

 

But the most fun calls come from locals selling unwanted rabbits, ducks, chickens, Guinea fowl, and turkeys.  Often described as “laying chickens,” or “producing rabbits,” one would like to think of otherwise livestock and farm animals.  The occasional stray cat or dog also makes its way to the daily list of items that “must go.”

 

Then there are the “regulars” who call in practically every day.  They appear to be lonely and less-than-connected with the real world by desperately looking for hats or free “unwanted” cars.

 

Too often, the callers slur their opportunity to reach their audience with unhelpful drawls or dialects that are indecipherable.  This is where a quick on-line visit to the host radio station’s website can be of assistance in figuring out what the actual item or description was.

 

It becomes obvious when viewing those websites, that you were not alone in missing the gist of the call or details connected therewith.  Very often, the written descriptions are equally vague or miswritten. 

 

“Stainless steal sink,” is exactly what?  “Bikes for sale: $25 each, three for $75;” really?  “Free Cocker Spaniel; $50 re-homing fee.”  What is a re-homing fee, and why is that “free” dog now fifty bucks?

 

And, anyone looking for a used riding lawnmower should wait for someone selling a “grasscutter.”  Beware of grasscutter sellers when they advertise their machines as “in great shape, runs good, no battery.”  If they don’t have batteries, they don’t run.

 

I have personally sold and bought stuff on these sites with great success, and will continue to use these tools as long as they are available.

 

In any case, these ad shows can be entertaining and insightful with free advertising on both the radio and the internet, reaching a fairly large audience in both media.

Filing Woes

Not all of America is digitized.  My Mother, who is well into her 80’s, is.  She recently bought a new laptop computer and uses it with aplomb.  But, she still relies on a Rolodex to maintain most of her telephonic contacts.

 

For those of you too young to remember record albums, a Rolodex is a desktop device that holds small cards attached to rings that permit its user to flip through them.  There are alphabetical separators to allow for quick retrieval of names and associated numbers and any other data desired that is placed on the cards by the user.  Often, addresses, birthdays, or other critical information can be included to assist the user and make them more efficient.

 

Although somewhat antiquated, a Rolodex has its place as a powerful tool to find contacts in an otherwise automated world.

 

While visiting my Mother, she needed to find a phone number of a friend of hers which led to the emergence of her Rolodex, which is where this story begins.

 

She was searching for an out-of-town lady friend named “Bobbie.”  After thumbing through this Rolodex, she displayed some facial frustration.

 

“Can’t find it?” I asked.

 

“I know it’s in here.  I’m just not sure where,” was her reply.

 

Logic would dictate it should have been filed under either “B” for Bobbie or under “J” for Johnson, Bobbie’s surname.  It wasn’t under either.  Pirate Blackbeard could find his loot along the North Carolina coast easier than we could locate Bobbie’s number.

 

Mom is a pretty-well organized person with her tax paperwork in the appropriate folder, banking stuff in another, and her medications arranged according to times of application.  Unfortunately her phone number filing system isn’t that efficient.

 

“Try looking under ‘F’ for friend,” she offered.

 

No dice.  I even checked under “P” for pal, and “A” for acquaintance, to no avail.

 

Eventually we found it filed under “C” for Christmas as she sends Bobbie an annual Christmas card.

 

Searching this filing nightmare for a doctor is also grueling.  Rather than filing her doctors under “D”, she files them under their names – some under their first, others under their last, and even other under their specialty such as ‘podiatrist.’

 

Such treasure hunts are unnerving coming from a woman who places her spices in the cupboard alphabetically.

 

Since Mom also uses a cell phone, I offered to transfer these paper numbers into her cell phone directory.  She expressed consternation about being able to find them once in that electronic directory.  Do we file them by first name or last name?

 

We need a filing convention to simplify this otherwise daunting task of sorting and e-filing phone numbers.

 

Much like a shady business, we’re going to have to set up two sets of numbers for her.  It appears as though she’ll end up with one set of just phone numbers and the other with addresses.  Otherwise, most of her Rolodex contacts will be in the Christmas card section.  Except the eye doctor and podiatrist, that is.