A Point of Clarification

Atop the Stoa this afternoon I must expound upon something I wrote the other day. I don't mind expounding. Its the stopping thats the problem.

The other day I talked of Roswell and how an advanced alien race flew all that way just to crash in our desert and end up in our specimen jars.

The angle I was trying to take was this. They can build a ship that can withstand the rigors of space travel, the sheets of radiation that swirl between the stars, pulsars, magnetars and all the other hostile things one can encounter in deep space, and....AND....AND....a lighting bolt or a wind gust in New Mexico wrecks their fancy ride.

Man that sucks. Was the guy drinking and driving at the time when he plowed into the desert floor?

Do they even travel through space? Do they shift through dimensional cracks or "warp" space? Either way, we are talking about technology centuries ahead of us. And yet, the fury of Mother Nature can still swat these things from her skies.

Or, perfect quality control is a mirage and we will be dealing with plane crashes into the deep future.

Think about these things....

Live well.

--Zavost

Who are the 99%?

Atop the Stoa this sunny day I will perform one of my many duties. Reality Checks and Historical parallels.

Who are the 99%? They are really a fiction. As usual, there are lies, damnable lies, and then statistics.

The claim is that 1% of the people hold 99% of the wealth, and that it is people's civic duty to "occupy" the property and wealth engines of the evil 1%.

Ok, here is the reality check. Most of those 99'ers pay no taxes. Many of them do not even work. Most of them are on some kind of public dole. In other words, other people, namely those who WORK are supporting your parasitic ass.

So, now that we've discussed the general intelligence of these people, lets look at what passes for a strategy among them.

Occupying the places of wealth creation and the property of the wealthy. Is it wise to put out the businesses that pay the taxes that support you? Forget that, it was a Rhetorical question.

How come you avoided Mayor Bloomberg's estate in New York. He is rather wealthy the last time I checked. How about Nancy Pelosi in San Francisco? Nope, neither of them have had to disinfect their front lawns. Is this anti-establishment, anti-money, or is are you just a political tool to be used by puppet masters?

Since the Occupy people have the open and vocal support of Obama and Biden, then I'll have to assume that they have the support of the DNC and the various community organizations that Obama controls indirectly.

The Occupy people are also supported by the American Nazi Party, the American Communist Party, and the American Socialist Party, just to name a very few. That is interesting also. All left wing.

What I find funny is when someone bites the hand that feeds them, or when someone does not stay "bought".

I'm thinking of the recent move by the Occupy folks to shut down the port in Oakland, California. These sissy little anarchists had better not mess with the Longshoreman. Those folks don't play.

You see, historically, all of these left of center rebellions, or proto-rebellions in our case, start out with Anarchists and Communists teaming up against a common foe. Then, when it looks like they have the upper hand, they will turn on each other to see who gets to run the new game in town. The Anarchists always lose because they are not organized by their very nature.

The Occupy people seem to be run more and more by the Anarchists, or at least, in Oakland they are. Only those pinheads would be swift enough to take on the Longshoreman. You know, all the wealth that comes into and out of the country via those ports.

I'll get my popcorn and a beer and sit back and watch the fireworks.

Funny, Obama does not have his roots in Anarchy, his are in the Communist party.

Interesting that this poor black child grew up to be President all on his own...Hold, it. Reality check here. He is mixed race, grew up in a wealthy Leftist family on HAWAII, oh, the horror of growing up in Hawaii, and had tutors from the highest levels of the 60's and 70's Communist leadership in America.

He is going to have to deal with the Anarchists that are infiltrating his Occupy movement. They will feed on each other since I believe that have moved too soon. They should have started to tear up the place 60 days prior to the elections. This way they would be in a frenzy when Obama loses the election and can really wreck up the place.

Then again, even if he wins, this group can be used to CONTINUE to terrorize the opponents of the DNC and Obama. Didn't they wear Brown shirts in the 20's and 30's?

Live well.

--Zavost

Generational Leisure Time

Once more upon the Stoa this day, we will look at how the different generations view their places both within the work world and that of their leisure time.

We will track one or more members of each generation on their days off from work, to see how they blow off steam and recharge their batteries.

So, with that said, we will turn once again to our Moderator, fresh from a few days stint in the local hospital after being beaten up by a 95 pound Meth-head.

Over the next few days, the Moderator is going to visit our generational constellations around the country to see what they do for fun. It seemed, to him, that every time he held one of these interviews or symposiums, he got hurt, shot at, or gassed. So to prevent this while on the road, he decided to bring some muscle.

Three men. The leader of the group was an ex-office of the Marine Corp, a Gen X'er that served in both Desert Storm, Desert Shield, but also served in Somalia. He was tall, broad with gray hair shorn short. Gray eyes and a face that looked as if it had never seen a smile in all of his 45 years.

With him were two Millennials, also prior military. One black, one white, and each of them nearly as wide as they were tall. When standing idle, they never talked nor shifted their weight much. Hands behind their back with various pouches, Fannie packs and satchels strapped, hung, or latched to various points on their bodies.

His camera crew consisted of a single tall man with a main digital camera. Another man had a smaller camera. A third man had a sound boom and a small sounding board upon which he worked his magic.

Their first stop was out to the high deserts of Arizona. Sun City retirement community. This is where some of the more streamline GIs hung out in their golden years. The GIs were disappearing rapidly. The last of them being born around 1924, they were now in their late 80's and 90's.

The typical GI was young during WWI and a productive adult during the Depression and WWII. The older wave were adults during the Great Depression while their late wavers were adults during the end of the Depression and into WWII. The endured as a group, fought as a group, did great things as a group. They built dams and highways and rockets to the moon. These people thought and acted BIG.

They also played together, hunted together, formed clubs and civic service organizations. They also retired together. Those in government extracted a bonus from the younger generations, who should feel grateful for what had been bequeathed to them through their suffering and sweat. Pensions and Social Security. Medical advances and benefits into old age. They left their own children to have their own lives and then sort of retired into a community founded by their own kind, run by their own kind, and policed by their own kind.

The Moderator drove to the guarded gate at the edge of the GI retirement community. The Arizona sun was baking and the guard shack was properly air-conditioned. He could tell as he pulled up to the booth and the cool air rolled out on him.

There were two guards in the shack. One looked to be a vigorous 80 year old and the other a vigorous 70 year old. They were nice and wave him through, laughing as they did so since they watched his program and thought him a "hoot".

The outdoors activities were mostly occupied by younger members of the community. It was a hot day and the GIs were now very old.

Address in hand, the Moderator strode up to the home of the older of the GI.

A community nurse answered the door and let him in. The home was clean and well decorated. Paths had been laid down in the carpet for a motorized scooter to get about the place without damaging the carpet. Tasteful works of art adorned the walls. One wall had awards and momentous from a lifetime of travel and civic work. A display case was filled with medals and souvenirs from WWII and the Korean War.

The old GI was sitting at a desk with a 42" monitor in front of him. He was typing away at a keyboard.

"Good morning, Sir. May I ask you what you are doing to relax this fine Saturday?"
The Moderator said once he made sure that his staff was ready to record.

"Answering an idiot on the MilBlog. Fool kids can't seem to learn from history. I'm telling him that to take a fox hole you must fire and maneuver until you can drop a grenade into the opening. HE keeps telling me that in Afghanistan you shoot a rocket into the opening and then charge."

"These kids need to keep to the fundamentals. What are you going to do, sit around waiting for a counter attack while you wait for reloads to catch up to you. Shoot and scoot son, shoot and scoot!" His lips turn blue from the exertion.

"Is this what you do for fun," the Moderator asks.

"This among other things. I have a life you know."

"My Saturdays start at 0500. I go to the Gym and work out for an hour, then I have breakfast, then I go to the wood working shop and I make picture frames for my family. Then I answer emails until lunch. Then I work on my own blog until dinner. I usually go out to dinner with friends and hit the sack around 2030. Pretty typical."

The Moderator began to sweat while he listened. This guy's day off was busier than his work day.

"Oh, on Sunday I squeeze in church and the Senior dance. Gotta love those vibrant 70 year old women. Young and spry!"

"Thank you, Sir. Thanks for your service."

The Moderator leaves the home, surprised with the amount of living that his guy squeezes into a day.

Heading across the street, he knocks on the door of the younger GI.

The room was a little more cluttered, but still tasteful. This one too was on the computer, though he could still get about on his own two feet.

He too appeared to be working on a blog of sorts. He was going over blocks of government legislation and commenting on parts of it.

"Sir, what do you do on your day off?"

"The same thing I do every day. I'm retired, you know." He says a bit gruffly.

"You seem to be working on political legislation, sir."

"I consult on legislation initiatives and tie them back to older bills for legal precedence. Very important to have continuity of government."

"I understand Sir, but what do you do for fun?"

"Well, if you must know, I do this and I consult at a variety of civil groups in the area. I have a lot of friends that I go out with. They come over here and we have a good time. Every day is a Saturday for me."

So, with that, the Moderator exits the house. Busy, busy people these GI's.

With this, he flys to NW Illinois, to the rural farmland of the upper Mid-West.

He knocks on the door of the older Silent individual. He answers the door and allows them into his living room. The room is cluttered, almost like a distracted professor who does not file anything away.

The Silents were born between 1925 and 1942. These men grew up in the shadow of the mighty GI generation. The older of them worked hand in glove with their bigger than life predecessors. They worked in the control rooms at NASA, they ran the companies that built the great Highway system projects. They organized the movements in labor that made possible the great post-war booms under the leadership of the popular GI generation. They worked in the Universities that had expanded under the influx of the prior GIs. They set the stage for the education of the vast number of Boomers being born.

He lights a pipe and leans back into a recliner.

"What do you do for fun, sir?"

"Well, during the day I catch up on my reading and my hobbies down in the basement. I build architectural models and I edit technical journals. I'm retired but I keep active and I have fun when I have the time."

He continued, "Later tonight I will be playing cards with friends and chatting with family on Facebook. I get out, but I'd rather stay in."

With that, the Moderator departs. The fellow seems nice enough, but he also seems as dusty and stuffy as the books and stacks of papers around his living room.

Heading down the street, he visits the younger of the Silents. The yard was well groomed, the bushes well ordered. The house was painted and there was a hammock strung between the house and the tree.

Inside, the living room had an exercise bike and a small rack of dumbbells. There was a big screen TV and a mat for aerobics. There was a group of Silents drinking coffee and eating danishes while watching a TV program in the kitchen.

They smoked, drank coffee with some Irish Whiskey, and ate greasy bacon with eggs cooked in the grease.

A woman in the group spoke up at the question, "What does it look like we're doing. We are sitting around watching our shows. We do this all the time. Its is great fun."

A man in the group says much the same thing. Most of them go on and on about where they retired from, how many years they worked at the same place. Most were married more than twice and nearly half of them had an admitted drinking problem. The were loud and rude to one another, but got along. They played cards and argued over Matlock's legal cases.

Stinking of cigarette and cigar smoke, the Moderator beat a hasty retreat.

One of his body guards sneezed, earning a displeased eyebrow from his partner.

Onward they flew to downstate New York. Not the city, but near enough. There the Moderator was to meet the older of the Boomers. It took a while to find him, since he was just returning from a hunting trip and was catching up with his work.

He met him at his apartment studio. It was large and spacious. Costly for the city they were in. Flat panel TVs were all over the place, as were places to sit and drink.

"Oh, I get out to dinner parties and the office on my days off. When people are off on Saturdays, that's when I go in for the kill. I get work done by holding meeting at the racket ball club, at the Men's club, and at the bar. I don't really ever have any time off. When I'm not working I'm planning for work." He says this while answering eMails on his tablet PC.

"Do you have time for kids or grandkids?" The Moderator asks.

"Did that, done that. They are on their own. My kids are busy in there own right and so am I. I come to see the grandkids when I feel like it, but it is sometimes years between visits. I'm just too busy, and I grow tired of them after an hour or two."

"Touching."

"You sound just like my 3rd wife...or was it my 4th, either way, she gripped to much."

"I'm not shocked. Thanks for your time."

Out in the hall, the tall X'er guard informs the Moderator that the younger Boomer has been sleeping in the dressing room back in the studio and is not available for interviewing. When the guards tried to move him along he took an over dose of Ajax cleaning powder and is in the hospital.

"Oh, moving on."

Heading to Michigan, he stops to see the older of the X-ers.

This generation, coming as it did on the heels of the game-changing Boomers has been described as coming to a beach party and finding it trashed with beer bottles and empty syringes in the sand. A policeman standing there to blame you for the mess despite the fact that you just got there.

This generation was the first to have to deal with contraception on the part of their parents. It was also the first to see Roe v. Wade legalized, making it just fine and legal to kill your unborn children. They were the kids that the Boomers got to experiment on in the classroom. The first true victims of the PC culture, despite being the one most experienced in diversity. Theirs has borne the brunt of the economic losses of 2008, seeing their savings vanish while trying to support a home and young family. Often times losing that home their savings, and sometimes their family. They may have to work the rest of their lives to repair their savings.

A knock on the door to a relatively average home in an average neighborhood produced a simple, "Its open!"

Inside was a house of modest means. Virtually no artwork or "nicknacks" were seen. No coffee tables or end tables or lamps or things you would see in older homes. The home was functional with a minimum of fluff. It was not dirty, but it did not sparkle, either. It was not messy, but it was cluttered.

Taking up the center of a wall was a 62" flat panel TV, an XBOX 360 humming away below it. In the middle of the living room was a man in a recliner, earbud with microphone, and a controller in his hand.

"I'm going to be off mike for a bit, guys." He taps his ear but keeps his eyes on the TV. It looked like he was gunning down zombies while running around a maze.

With that he says, "What do you want, Mr. Moderator?"

"Well, what do you do for fun?"

A snort and more clicking on his controller he answers, "Just what you see. I put in 60 hours of work per week. I'm on call all weekend, and I have to help out with all the shopping and the chores. When I can get a moment, I take advantage of that moment."

"Don't you like to go out?"

"When my butt goes numb, I go play tennis or go walking with the family. I do spend time with the kids and family, but, man, they got to leave me alone when I need to stop thinking about my week. Oh, and when my back goes numb from playing tennis, I sit here and kill zombies. Great stress relief."

"You work full time?"

"And then some. I work hard, I work early, and I work late. I do whatever I have to do to keep my job. Life has sucked since 2008 and I need to make sure that it doesn't start to suck rocks. I do this by working my butt off all week. Again, just give me some time on the weekend to decompress and I'll be fine."

"Do you have friends and family?"

"Of course. We chat via IM and Facebook from time to time. I saw my parent a year or two ago. They got issues of their own and they don't seem to be that interested in mine. So I'm good, Dr. Freud."

"Ok, then, we'll be moving on."

Letting himself out, he was followed by the sounds of screaming and automatic gunfire.

They drove across town and took a phone call on the way to the younger X'er. It looks like they will have to skip the Homelanders. The team they were going to interview is now quarantined for the Measles. They also glued each other to each other on a dare.

The Moderator shook his head in wonderment. Well, at least he won't be going home smelling of pudding and chips. Man those kids ate crap.

They pulled up to a low rent apartment building. It was shabby but not too dangerous looking. They could hear TVs playing from the parking lot. A garbage bin filled with empty beer cans spilling out on the grass.

The Moderator buzzed an intercom that went with the name he had come to interview.

After a lengthy delay, the door buzzed and they were admitted. They went upstairs and rounded a corner to apartment #6. The door was ajar and the sounds of automatic weapons fire rolled out in to the hallway.

Upon walking in they saw a 42" flat panel TV on a pile of moving boxes, cables running back to a controller in the hands of a fellow on the couch. He was wearing sweats and a "wife-beater" t-shirt. A plate of half eaten chicken strips with honey mustard sat on a box next to his couch. The kitchen was clean and so was the dining room. The living room had boxes piled here and there, but for the most part it all looked rather lived in.

Zombies were getting creamed on the TV and he barked to other people to go pick up some guy who had just been surrounded.

Tapping his ear, he tipped his head toward the Moderator. "And....", he said impatiently.

"What do you do for fun on your day off?"

He piffled with his lips and then muttered under his breath. The Moderator could not be sure, but it sounded like he'd just been called a "dumb ass".

"I kill zombies and other people who irritate me."

"Is that all? Don't you get out?"

"This is not the belly or food of champions. I've been unemployed for 3 years and any job openings I can find go to people with more experience or less experience. I have not gotten a break for a long time. I apply to 8 places every week and get an interview every now and again. They don't ever pan out. What little money I do have goes to my ex-wife and children. I'm embarrassed to talk to my friends, many of whom are in the same boat as me." He looked over at the Moderator and then back at the TV.

"My work is my job hunt. My work is helping my kids with homework. My work is done every day that I don't put a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger. That I endure is enough for me. Playing games like this lets me forget just how crappy my life is. Maybe things will get better, but most likely not. I'll keep trying, but I try without much hope in my heart."

"Sorry to have bothered you, we'll be going now."

The Moderator spends a few minutes shaking himself out of the funk this fellow put him in. His main bodyguard has a sympathetic look on his face about the plight of this fellow X'er, but he does not comment on it.

Heading to another part of town, they meet their older Millennial, a different one from the night before, again, at an outdoors art gallery. They are raising money for one charity or another.

A different group of Millennials has gathered across from the art gallery with signs saying, "Lets occupy the "Occupy" movement's tents!" That might actually may be interesting, thinks the Moderator.

He finds the fellow using FaceTime on his iPad to talk to someone in the Sudan. He spoke English and the iPad translated it into some obscure African dialect. The man from Sudan would say something and the words would print out on the bottom of his screen. He looks over at the Moderator as he finishes up his conversation.

"What up, dog?" The Millennial says as he offers up a hand to smack.

"What do you do for fun," says the Moderator as he stares at the hand in the air and most definitely does not "smack" it.

"This and that. We flash mob, flash dance, and trade Flash games. I go to my veteran's reunions with my old unit from Iraq and I go to the graduation parties of my cousins. I'm always out of the house. With my iPad and smart phone you can find me 24/7. I'm always out hanging with my friends or hiking or riding my dune buggy."

"Sounds to me like you live a full life."

"It life. I enjoy it. I work so I can make money to do other things. Older people are so linear. They work to save up money to buy stuff and save. I work to buy stuff and have fun. I trade for other things and I even trade my time. I volunteer for old people and young people. I get gifts for what I do and I make money sometimes also. Its no big deal. The money will be. It always is."

"Say, we are going to dress up as sheep and raid the Serta mattress store in 20 minutes. You want to come?"

"No thanks, I still have some dignity left. I'll be moving on."

They hop a flight to Charleston, WV where they rent a truck to take them into the rural hinterlands of the Appalachian mountains.

As they near a small, rusted trailer park on the side of a mountain, the Moderator leans over to his guards, "watch this one. She tried to tie my tongue around my neck the last time I saw her. She is surprisingly strong."

"I've dealt with the Panamanians AND the Taliban. I think I can handle a little Meth-head."

Ok, then, he thought.

As they approached the entrance to the Trailer Part, they noted a police barricade pulled to the side of the entrance.

Coming to a halt next to a cruiser, the Moderator rolled down his window to speak with the policeman standing there, riot shotgun in hand.

"What's up, officer?"

"Oh, its the DeRoy's again. We've been called out here so much of late that we've just decided to hang out here for a few day. Saves on gas."

So with that, their limo rolled into the park and passed up dozens of rusted out single and double-wide trailers. They rolled up to the address provided by the show's producers. The name on the mailbox said, "DeRoy".

"Shit", swore the Moderator under his breath. He could see there was no mail in the box since the door had been blown off by a shotgun at sometime in the near past.

The sounds of breaking glass rolled out from the single wide as they approached the trailer. He looked over his shoulder at his guards and the police cruisers, not a hundred yards away.

Screaming and yelling seemed to roll from one end of the trailer to the other, though he could't make out what was being said.

The Moderator reached out and knocked on the door with a tissue around his hand.

Heavy footsteps stamped towards the door and the inside door was yanked open. A scrawny twenty-something year old man stood there wearing a white "wife beater" t-shirt with ratty NASCAR cap on his head. He had a cigarette dangling from his lips and smelled strongly of old beer and cigarette smoke.

"What the hell do you want?" He said in a heavy accent. His left tooth was chipped and his eye had been split along the right side of his face. Duct tape held the wound closed rather than a bandage.

A frying pan hit the man from behind and he staggered onto the porch. Before he could fall, filthy hands reached out and grabbed him by the t-shirt, swinging him into the door frame and then down the stairs.

"I WANT HIM OUTTA MY HOUSE. HE AIN'T WORTH A SH*T!"

The Moderator was speechless in front of this little force of nature. Her straggly, black/blond frizz whipped in the wind. Apparently, he was silent for too long and this earned a quickly kicked out foot to the crotch of his black body guard, who went over backwards and landed on the poor fellow trying to get up from the frying pan to the head.

"HE CAN'T EVEN HOLD A JOB!" She hollered.

The man groaned as he rolled off the crying guard. "I try baby, but you know how it is; but you kicked my last boss when you saw my first paycheck. I try..."

"YOU LAZY ASS MOTHER @#$%^&*!" She raged and whipped shoe at him, opening up his other eye. Blood poured down the side of his face.

"Look what you did to my face you crazy b...." Another shoe, this one a high heeled stiletto drilled him between the eyes, breaking his nose and knocking him out.

He slumped over the vomiting form of the black guard.

"I'LL DO IT AGAIN!" She screamed.

The white guard put his arms up to placate the woman, "Ma'am, the Moderator just wishes to ask you a few que...." The pan flew through the air, faster than the guard could even see. It caught him square between the eyes and sent him flying onto the top of the black guard, knocking both the wind and the consciousness from him. The pan spun in the air before landing on top of the pile of bodies.

"I just want to know what you do for fun!" The Moderator blurted out while looking for the cops. The police just sat there, eating donuts and drinking coffee. Apparently, 3 bodies at the bottom of the stairs was not enough for them to roll.

"YOU'RE HERE TO TAKE MY DEAD GOLDFISH, AREN'T YOU!"

The short, slight woman leapt back into the trailer and ran to the front.

The big body guard pulled the Moderator away from the door frame even as it exploded from a shot gun blast.

With splinters in his face and his ears ringing he staggered back to a rusted out car frame sitting in the yard. His body guard rushed in as he thought he heard her re-rack a pump action shotgun.

There was a scuffle and the sound of broken plates and glasses. Another blast blew out a side window above the car he was sheltering behind.

Blue and red lights began reflecting off the side of the trailer as the cops finally began to roll.

A large shape crashed through the remains of the window frame and landed on the roof of the car he was leaning against. His body guard had a gash on the side of his face and his eyes had the crazy look of someone trying to turn the world back right-side up.

"I'LL KILL YOU YOU SOM'BITCH" A smaller framed woman landed hard on his chest, a bent pump action shotgun in her hand. She whacked the guards head a few times and then scrambled over the hood toward the Moderator.

Screaming like a child, the Moderator scrambled backwards, seeing just how far and how fast the human butt cheeks can propel a full grown man.

A barefoot, ranting woman charged across the lawn with a broken shotgun in her hand. She must have broken it over his guard's head.

She jabbed the barrel into the stomach of the sound-man, he grunted and went down, obviously not expecting to become involved in the mayhem. A back swing took out the smaller, secondary camera man. The camera was blown into a dozen pieces, the pieces were hard to tell apart from the teeth that flew through the air next to them.

The main camera began to shake and jitter as the camera man realized the danger he was now in. The audience saw a huge, distorted face fill the screen, her face contorted in insane fury. A loud "crack" sounded and the camera fell over onto the weed-grown sidewalk. A drop of blood ran down the lens. The Moderator appeared to be scrambling away on the side of the wall, due to the camera laying on its side.

"YOU WASTE OF MEAT!" she screamed as she rose the steel barrel of the gun to use as a club. The human butt cheek was not designed for propulsion and she easily caught up to him.

Just as she was about to end the Moderator, 4 taser darts hit her in the chest and abdomen.

She slowed down, convulsing, the gun barrel falling from her hands. She continued crawling in the dirt towards the Moderator, determined to snap his little neck.

Another 4 taser darts hit her in the back, one of the sticking to the side of her head, "SOM'BITCH BUT THIS IS FUN!" She vomited on the Moderator and passed out, her body continuing to spasm and convulse in the electrical discharge.

In a very round about way, he found out what she considers fun.

Everyone responds differently, White Trash is no different. However, the current crop of young white trash is vastly more trashy then when my fellow X-ers were the young trailer park vixens.

Hope you enjoyed.

Live well.

--Zavost

Stoic Sunday Musings

Upon the Stoa this bright afternoon, I just want to throw out a few items that get caught up in the swirls and eddies of my mind.

Roswell and aliens. Now I am completely certain that there is alien life in the universe. Given that there are more planets in the skies than starts, and that there are more stars then grains of sand in all the beaches of Earth, then yes, the Universe is literally filled with life. Intelligent life may be rare, and if even only one life-form in a BILLION develops a high technology civilization then there could be over a million high technology societies spread throughout our home galaxy alone.

They may not care about us or be interested in the same things as us. They could be completely incomprehensible to our senses. They may have evolved for billions of years. Our culture went from hot air balloons in 1869 to walking on the moon 100 years later. Imagine if our culture continues to evolve at that pace for a million years.

We would be bacteria to that alien race. Dinosaurs were around for hundreds of millions of years and, to our knowledge, never developed space flight. I say that seriously because after a meteor impact and 65 million years of decay, much can be lost. We simply don't know. We don't even know who built Stonehenge and that was just 10,000 years ago.

The point I want to get at here is that despite their high level of technology they can still crash in a desert. They may have traveled thousands of light years to get here, whether by dimensional shifting, faster than light travel, or the high energy method of near light speed travel. Either way, they came a long way just to crash into our desert and end up in our specimen jars.

Perhaps another 1,000 years will see us doing the same thing. Perhaps there is a range of technological evolution that sees cultures spread out for a while, do the whole Star Trek thing for a while, before realizing that hanging around the house and contemplating the higher Universe is more exciting than seeing another rock or cloud of gas. Perhaps interfering with and blowing up a few other cultures was enough for them to realize the ultimate futility of it all.

If Roswell is true, then those people travelled a long, long way just to scatter their fancy ship all over the place.

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If I ever try to say something that is not 100% certain (or truthful) I wilt like a flower in a furnace. I'd like to know how a Harry Reid or Nancy Pelosi can stand in front of the cameras and their constituents and say things like "unemployment checks are good for the economy". In a very narrow sense of the idea, I guess I can buy it because NO money in the economy is worse than some money. However, if you create a conducive atmosphere for free economic trade then everyone will make money and not just those the government feels should have it.

How can they do this and not catch fire? Such a blatant lie and their heads don't explode?

-----

Buying on margin. Didn't we learn our lessen in 1929? Comex silver is trading at 1:7 today. That means that for every seven "shares" of silver they are trading they have only one "share" of physical silver. Unless it is written into people's contracts that there is to be NO physical delivery of silver then those people are buying and selling a pile of paper money. If paper money is tied to silver, then 6 of those dollars are vapor-dollars. Are these people simply speculating, or more commonly called, "gambling"? If so, then they must know that they stand to lose everything. Don't come crying when that happens.

----

SEIU has purple shirts. How are they being used any differently than the brown shirts of old?

----

Storage Units. Do we really, as a people, have so much junk that we need to pay others to store it for us? If you have to store it how often to you really use it? How much of the credit debt that Americans are drowning under is locked up in storage units all over the country?

Hoarders are of the same ilk. How does someone too ill to mingle in common society accumulate all that junk. How do they have money to do this? I'm happy if I can get all my bills paid let alone spend all day shopping and accumulating.

Can some brains start thinking about getting to the root of those issues?

----

Ok, I feel better for now.

Live well, everyone.

--Zavost

Generational Problem-Solving

Atop the Stoa this night we will be looking at how the various Generations deal with adversity. Though everyone responds to stress and life's curve balls differently, there is enough of a broad agreement within a generation to demonstrate the appropriate response.

This is the third Moderator installment and they will continue coming as long as my daughter continues "occupy" the Stoa and play the "daddy" card.

The Moderator surveys his auditorium with a hand on the gauze pad that has been wrapped around the back of his head.

The generational booths have been reinstalled. The protest signs and Obama stickers have been swept and scrapped off the seats, floor, and even the side of his moderator's podium.

A few other goodies have been installed since the armed insurrection the night before. Who would've thought that simple question and answer sessions would prove to be so dangerous.

Returning are the full spectrum of living Generations. The super-elderly GI generation, most of which are 80+ and up. The Silent Generation, the Boomers, the Gen X'ers, the Millennials, and the Homelanders.

The crowd fills in as the generational guests arrive. The elderly GI's roll in with their nurses and helper monkeys. This time, the monkeys are wearing diapers with suspenders. No poo flinging tonight, by God.

The two Silents arrived, elderly as well, yet seemingly with vigor yet. The one next to the GI had a walker, a track suit, and gray, slicked hair. The one next to the Boomer was wearing an older leather jacket and too tight jeans. His hair was shoe- polish black and too thin to form a proper Pompadour. Instead it looked like a shrunken soufflé that fell over into a bad comb over.

There was the Boomer-yuppie next. Just as with the other night, he had a Blue Tooth budding out of his ear. His hair was more gray then peppered, but groomed expensively. His suit was high end and fit his athletic frame professionally. Next to him was the same hippy from the the other night. Smoke seemed to ooze out from his box like it was from a Halloween fog machine. Stagehands were already setting up air circulators to pull the foul oder away from the crowd and the elderly among the panel. He seemed perplexed about the lack of donuts and about the opera that we was seeing, since he was sitting in a theater box.

Next to him was the older Gen X'er. Graying hair and scraggly facial hair, he was a working professional. He worked hard, played hard, and only donated to charity when felt like it. Usually, he helped a single individual or small group that he could help with no intermediate organization to dole it out. The younger Gen X'er did not look a whole lot different, other than having less gray hair. They were dressed similarly and had the same patient, resigned look to their faces.

Both of the Millennials had changed. Apparently they had both moved on to other things having already sucked the enjoyment out of the first forum.

The elder Millennial was dressed in the latest fashion. Not quite a suit, not quite casual wear. It looked nice but was indicative of social standing or professionalism. Though the Moderator could not know for sure, the average Millennial of this age had already worked 11 jobs with 6 or more companies. The only thing constant about this generation was the pace of change. Fast and frenetic. They were soldiers and scientists. Great people of courage and optimism. If any generation launched a mission to Mars it would be these kids. The shadows of the GI generation.

Next to him, was the first woman on the panel. This Millennial looked like a scrawny 17 year old with only half the number of appropriate teeth. She had dark circles under her eyes and her hair was mid-length and stringy. He could hear her trying to talk to the older Millennial who was doing his best to be polite but was paying little attention to her. He doubted he could understand her, the West Virginia accent was so very thick.

Next to her were the Homelanders. They alternated in making fun of the younger Millennial and each other. Though they were years apart, the two Homelanders acted the same. Poorly. They were boisterous, talking, shoving and beeping. He could not hear a coherent or complete sentence being spoke between the two or to the endless number of people they seemed connected to on the Internet.

The Moderator looked back at the crowd. Not a purple shirt among them. That was a relief.

He cleared his throat and pulled out the first card.

"Tonight I will read out a situation or condition and you tell us how you would deal with it." The Moderator said.

"Your car has broken down on a country road and you are alone. What would you do?"

The GI's look at each other. The younger one taps the older one's wheelchair. The older one takes a hit from his O2 tank and says, "First, I turn on the hazard lights and then tie a handkerchief to the ariel. I then pop the trunk and the hood and get my tools out. If someone happens by and can help, then I'm sure they will. I'd get it working again in no time.

The two Silents also exchange glances, indicating a similar reaction. The younger one speaks up, "I'd just get to work on the problem and fix anything else that seems wrong. I don't seem to think that this is that difficult of a question to answer."

The older Boomer puts his call on hold, "We'll, I'd call AAA and have them come get me right away. I would then look over the warranties for the parts and labor of all the work I've had on the car and there will be Hell to pay if it is not covered." With a click he gets back on his Blue Tooth, muttering something about how his car would never break down for what he'd paid for it.

The hippy squints behind his glasses and says, "There's something wrong with my car? I didn't know I had a car, man."

"You need help." The Moderator says.

The older of the Gen X'ers leans back in his chair. "I'd take a look at the car and if it wasn't a simple fix I'd call a tow truck or a friend and then kick back and take a nap while I wait. No big deal."

The younger of the Gen X'ers says, "I'd just call a friend since I can't afford a tow truck." It was a short answer but it seemed to cover it.

The older Millennial chuckles, "The question is not good since I never drive alone anywhere. I'm always with my friends. If something did happen to my car, the next guy coming along will help us to get it fixed. With all of us there we'd be able to figure out the problem and fix it with no trouble. We kept our Hummers going after being shot up, didn't we?"

"YOU LEAVE MY CAR ALONE!", the younger Millennial screeches. "NO REPO MAN BORN CAN TAKE MY CAR!"

"Ok, then, moving on."

"Homelanders, what do you think?" The Moderator asks.

A whine rips out of the box and a model monster truck jumps out of the box and flies over the Meth-head Millennial. Before landing it is blasted into a hundred parts by a double blast of buck shot.

"YOU LITTLE BASTARDS, I'LL KILL YOU FOR DRIVING IN MY LAWN!" The skinny woman screams. A moment later a feathered dart hits her in the side of the neck. She reloads and takes aim at the Moderator but before she can pull the triggers again, the tranquilizer FINALLY overwhelms her drug resistant body and she goes down on one knee, seemingly calmer.

"Strange, that should have put you to sleep for a week."

The Moderator shuffles the deck and pulls another card.

"Moving on."

"Your pet has died. How do you tell your children?"

The GI clears his throat and rasps, "It happens. It will happen. Pitch it in a hole and get another if you want. I don't care."

"Touching," the Moderator says.

The older Silent explains patiently about how every living thing goes to heaven and that they will all be waiting for them on the other side. The younger Silent nods his agreement.

The older Boomer again puts his call on hold, "I'd throw the little rat in the toilet and flush away. The brat can get another it they want. I'd also tell him that when you are dead you are dead and that it the end of that."

The hippie pops a pill and pulls a toke of his cigar, "No, man, everything is tied to the universe. We all become something else, man. We are all one in the...I can see my lips, man."

The older of the X'ers says, "I'd give it a funeral and let the kid deal with it in his own way. Not much else you can do." The younger one shrugs his approval.

The older Millennial gets a solemn and serious demeanor. He says, "we would have a wake for the poor creature. We would make a monument and a YouTube video celebrating the pet's life....

"MAY' GOLDFISH IS DEAD?!" The younger Millennial screams with horror in her voice. In rapid succession, two more darts her. One in the shoulder and one in her hip. The one in her hip, however, hits bone because of her lack of fat and muscle, but the first dart was enough to get her back into her seat, her breath calming.

The younger Homelanders begin to look sad but then say almost in unison, "we want another, get us another, why aren't you getting us another!"

Letting out his breath, the Moderator pulls the next card.

"You are gaining weight and your significant other is unhappy, what do you think?"

The GIs chuckle, "Don't much care. I'll eat what I want and as much of it as I want."

The Silents look at each other and then the older one says, "We follow whatever the doctors tell us to. I know things change and fads come and go, but if it is what science and the government tell us is good then it must be good. My wife would never be upset with my weight because we would be eating and dieting together."

"Exciting," the Moderator says.

"I eat out a lot and if I put on a few pounds I just work it off in the gym. No problem. If my wife doesn't like it I'll just get myself another wife. Again, no problem. I've already been married 5 times."

The hippie takes a white pill and then a green pill. He washes them down with whiskey and then puts his feet up on the podium box.

"Moving on," the Moderator says.

Both of the Gen X'ers pat their growing 40'ish paunches and shrug, "Everybody leaves, sooner or later. She won't be happy with just 20 lbs. After that it will be something else and then something else."

"Inspiring," the Moderator says.

The older Millennial, a strapping, strong veteran of war puffs out his chest, "I'd never let myself go like that so the question is pointless. Anyhow, I keep my entire daily dietary record here on my iPad."

The younger Millennial puts her finger down her throat and vomits all down the front of her podium. "I'M FAHT I'M FAHT I'M FAHT" This time, the older Millennial injects her with a yellow fluid from an auto syringe. She staggers, bile dripping of her chin, "SOM'BITCH" and then goes down like a pile of nasty rags.

"EEEEWWW", comes the noise from the Homelander box, followed by them vomiting all over their box, each other, and down the sides of the podium.

"Good lord!"

The Moderator hits a button on his podium and two stagehands come out and begin hosing down the kids and their box. He thought he'd have to use it stop a fight, not clean out puke.

"Final question....thank God."

"Who slid this question in here?" He says after looking the card over.

"Boxers or Briefs. Which to you prefer?" He shook his head. This was a sophomoric question asked of then candidate Bill Clinton. He preferred boxers.

"The only briefs I know of are the kind you read." Responds the GIs.

"Briefs are the latest fad. We've worn them for decades." The elder one chides the younger GI.

"If you want kids you better wear boxers," the younger Silent says. "I've got four, dumb-ass" "Sure they are yours," comes the retort.

A scuffle between 75 year olds ensues. In. Slow. Motion.

After a few half swings and slaps, they drop into their chairs winded. The monkeys are jumping up and down, excited by the activity.

The older Boomer speaks up, "Boxer, of course. You'd never catch me in a brief."

The Hippie, in a moment of lucidity says, "boxers? Are those a kind of underwear? If so then no. No boxers, no briefs. I'm just the way nature intended me...wow, look at my hands."

The older X'er says, "I've got both and I wear whatever is clean." The younger X'er shrugs his agreement.

The older Millennial starts to open his mouth only to be smothered by spindly arms and legs of the younger Millennial who seems to be trying to climb to the top of his head.

"YOU LEAVE MAH THONG ALONE! YOU GET AWAY FROM ME!"

A poo filled diaper hits her square in the face and knocks her backwards. The two Homelanders begin puking at the stench again. They've started crying for their mothers to come and make everything right again.

The Moderator ducked as a second diaper flew over his shoulder and nailed a stagehand in the back of the head.

With a cry of irritation the Moderator slaps his hand on a button. Glass partitions spring up around the podium boxes and they begin to fill with a gas that is heavier than air.

I short order the Generations are obscured from view.

The Moderator turns to the crowd, "It is just a knock out gas. Please file out of the auditorium and enjoy the rest of your night.

The glass barrier drops and the vapors are carried away by the air system.

Everyone is slumped in their chairs except for the Hippie, who continues to puff away on his "cigar" as if nothing is happening.

With a roar, the younger Millennial springs from her booth, unaffected by the knock out gas. "YOU SOM'BITCH, I'LL KILL YOU!"

The Moderator is able to get his hands up just as she is about to land on him.

With that, we close this story. It is fun to imagine just how the different generations handle things. Some cry, other get angry. Others just take adversity as yet another part of their day to endure.

How has yours been?

Live well.

--Zavost

Moderator Series: The Presidents

The Stoa, once again, is being twisted to serve the vapid needs of teenagers who can only learn if they are entertained. Can you tell that I am now sitting before you, a broken man?

Anyhow, this could be the start of a new series, to augment the "Bar Style" descriptors of real world history.

The intention here is to place the personalities of people on display for everyone else. There is no filter, no political hedging. Responses are based on how I understand these individuals. So stop whining, I am always right. These people will give answers just like outlined below.

So with that said, enjoy!

The Moderator has had the crew broom out the folks from the Generational discussion from the night before. The Hippie booth stinks of hemp and hippie, while the GI booth smells of Ben Gay. The Homelander booth is trashed and sticky. No one knows HOW it got sticky since they had not eaten or drank anything in there...

Tonight, the booths have been removed and a podium has been set up to give the Presidents something to hide behind when and if the junk from the audience starts to fly.

A series of questions will be posed and Presidents will be asked to respond. Each response will come from the gestalt personalities. Now, several of them have had to be resurrected, so you will have to pardon the smell.

On the Moderator's left is Thomas Jefferson, the writer of the Declaration of Independence and an experienced composer of Constitutions.

To his left is Woodrow Wilson, Creator of the permanent Income Tax and Champion of the "Ivy Tower" club of superior Presidential brains.

To his left is Calvin Coolidge, a quiet and well dressed man who seems very much out of place at the podium.

To his left is Lyndon Johnson (LBJ), creator of the Modern welfare state.

To his left is Ronald Reagan, the enemy of the Communist philosophy.

And to his left is Barak Obama, the first partially open Communist President.

The Moderator takes in a deep breath and thinks happy thoughts. He wonders if he should have had barriers installed between the Presidents, thinking back to the poo flinging episode the night before. Too late now...

The crowd is told to be quite. A baby cries somewhere in the distance.

Smacking the cards on the podium, the Moderator pulls the first one at random.

"The first question reads: How do you feel about Gun Control?"

"Mr. Jefferson, please respond first."

Jefferson clears his throat and looks into the audience, the lights making it difficult to see well.

"The owning of guns and the responsible use thereof is solely reserved for the people. No State or Federal directive can utterly remove firearms from public's use. I believe that this is written, in very simply language in the Second Amendment."

Reagan shrugs his shoulders knowing that this is a no brainer. As does Calvin Coolidge, though he does not shrug, he does arch one eyebrow.

Wilson and Obama get animated, but with a harsh look from the Moderator, both calm down.

"Mr. Reagan, what are your thoughts?"

"Well, Mr. Moderator, to me, gun control is more about shot placement and accuracy then it is about legislation..."

"That is the kind of irresponsible rhetoric I would expect from the likes of you, Reagan!" Obama blurts out, despite the moderator's gavel.

"Children, old people, and people of color...open season on them all, you RACIST!"

The banging eventually cracks the podium and a section of the crowd breaks into a screaming cheer and chant for Obama.

After 10 minutes of this, Obama tells a joke and asks the crowd to quiet down. A hush falls upon his section of the audience as they await his next utterance with zombie like attention.

The Moderator, tie half undone already after the first question, blows out retained frustration and then poses the question to LBJ.

"Guns should only be used by people I think should use them. Dang, boy, you can't just give guns to everyone who wants them. What's wrong with you, got scorpion piss in place of a brain?"

"Nice", answers the Moderator.

"Mr. Coolidge, care to respond?"

"The 2nd Amendment speaks for itself." He says through thin lips with a ramrod straight back.

"Care to elaborate, Mr. Coolidge."

"No."

"Ok, then, moving on."

Wilson cuts off the Moderator before he can continue, "The 2nd Amendment is rather vaguely written and should not be thought to apply to the masses as a whole. It is clearly intended to mean that there should be a well regulated militia that is under the control of the Federal Government, and not the Governors of the various states."

"I didn't ask you, Mr. Wilson." The Moderator says.

"Furthermore, the average citizen is not responsible enough, or competent enough to intelligently understand the proper application of their "rights"," Wilson continues.

Obama, not to be outdone shouts, "LBJ and Wilson are mostly right! The Government must regulate who can possess a firearm. Only properly vetted people should even be allowed to touch one."

The crowd roars its approval as Obama tips his head toward the rafters. A member of the crowd rushes the stage and kicks a stage crew member down the back steps. A moment later, he comes out with a spot light that he sets up behind Obama. The light creates a blazing halo about Obama's head.

With a cry, the Obama supporter is thrown back into the crowd by three other stagehands.

Obama lifts his arm and the crowd quiets once again.

"Stop that," says the Moderator. Obama ignores him.

"MOVING ON."

"Abortion, a Constitutional right or a horrible crime against God? Mr. Jefferson, your thoughts."

Jefferson's face slowly twists into a mask of horror as the question sinks in.

"We would never codify or sanction the legal right to kill an unborn child in our National Constitution!"

LBJ grabs the microphone, "Wat's the matter, boy, are you against the right of women to choose!"

Reagan is just shaking his head, more in disgust than in frustration.

Coolidge purses his lips together.

Obama jumps in before LBJ is even done, "Why punish your daughter or my daughter with this? Why condemn her to an impoverished life for a condition that easily treatable? You, Mr. Jefferson, are out of touch."

The crowd roars its approval. The Moderator throws the gavel into the crowd in frustration.

The Moderator turns around and yells for quiet. Obama's hand comes up and the crowd quiets down.

"Mr. Coolidge, do you have anything to add?"

"There is no right to abortion in the Constitution."

"Care to elaborate, Mr. Coolidge?"

"No."

"Moving on then...yes, Mr. Jefferson?"

"The Constitution was written with a moral, God-loving nation in mind, not some soulless, narcissistic, irresponsible and morally bankrupt society! What is wrong with you people?!"

Obama again speaks up, "That document is flawed and useless. It only gets in the way of my fixing this nation." The crowd roars again.

Jefferson shouts that the intention of the document was to keep evil little children from getting their hands on too much power.

Reagan pulls out a shotgun and fires it into the air. Things quiet down quickly.

"Thank you, Mr. Reagan," says the Moderator.

"See what I mean," shouts Obama.

"Shut up, you!" Says the Moderator.

A gavel comes out of the crowd and beans the Moderator in the back of the skull. He goes down like a sack of potatoes.

Wilson comes down and rolls him off the podium, "Silly, stupid, little man."

"Obviously," continues Wilson, "It should be up to the States to decide this since it is not completely outlined in the Constitution. At least in my day, we had not found the right in the document, though I'm sure if we looked hard enough we might find it in there."

"Screw the document," shouts Obama, "it is an impediment to the creation of a just and equal Nation!" The crowd continues to roar its approval.

Wilson furrows his brow at Obama.

"The people are not able to govern themselves and need to be shepherded along the way by the wiser individuals among us. You sir, are a Populist and Demagogue." Wilson sniffs as he pushes his glasses up on his nose.

Obama flicks a finger low, near his knee and slightly bends his head towards the podium. Three people in purple SEIU shirts start to make their way through the crowd.

"The concept must be studied and then have Congressional oversight. There must be meetings with the State's Governors and such. We can then tell the people how this right is expected to be..." The words are cut off as a bag is dropped down over Wilson's head. He is snatched off the podium, his cries of surprise cut off as one of the three hits the head portion of the bag with a hammer. The third individual glares at the rest of the crowd, daring them to notice.

A hand comes up to the podium and the Moderator slowly gets to his feet. He puts the gavel back on the broken podium and he looks about.

"That was weird, hey, where did Mr. Wilson go?"

"He go away." Obama says deadpan, "zip it Old Man." He hisses at Reagan, who, though startled, does back off.

LBJ is laughing raucously from his podium.

Coolidge takes a sip from his water cup.

Jefferson turns red and yells, "Tyrant! There is a tyrant among us!"

Obama, cool as a cucumber says, "The tyrants among us are the rich fat-cats who take and take and take and forget their responsibilities to give back to the community!"

The crowd is delirious. A woman faints nearby, Obama's name on her lips.

"I built libraries and Universities! I gave you limited and free government!" Jefferson shouts.

"You built all that for your rich, white friends. You better relax there or you may go away as well."

"I'm not afraid of you! A patriot is not afraid to bleed for his ideals!" Jefferson yells back.

"Well, thats good then," Obama chuckles to himself.

Ten pairs of hands rise up from behind Jefferson and with a muffled cry he vanishes behind the curtain.

"Hey, where did Jefferson go!" The Moderator shrieks.

"You better calm down to there Mr. Moderator. Who do you think you are? I didn't give you that job so you'd just be a good little guy there and mind your own business."

Reagan simply steps back and walks out, disgusted by everything. He puts a cowboy hat on exists, stage left.

"Hey, this isn't over!" The Moderator continues to shriek.

LBJ continues to laugh and pour himself a whiskey, "Damn, boy, I wish I had someone like you back in the 60's. Things would have been one HELL of a lot more fun!"

The hands reach out for LBJ as well, pulling him back out of his podium chair. The soles of his boots the last thing the crowd sees.

"No one calls me BOY, especially no redneck southerner." The crowd cheers and chants for Obama. The Moderator is looking back at the left side of the auditorium, the one where the Obama supporters are seated. For some reason, the rest of the auditorium has now emptied out. A sea of purple shirts now sits in their place.

"Mr. Coolidge, care to flee for your life with me?" The Moderator asks.

"No," comes the reply.

"I haven't said you could leave yet, Mr. Moderator. We still need to talk about social justice and equitable treatment. You seem to think you are the one asking the questions around here."

"Well, I am the Moderator, Mr. Obama."

"I already told you once before that I didn't appoint you to that position and you just better do as you are told!"

The frenzy of the crowds tone changes from cries of love and adoration to cries of fear.

A line of soldiers in olive drab with WWI type helmets on their heads are marching down from the entrance, row upon row of bayonets are fixed and pushing the crowd towards the stage.

A knot of purple shirts try to run the closing cordon but are impaled and stepped over quickly. Another line of soldiers has marched in from the wings and stand behind the Presidential podiums.

The Moderator stands with his mouth open, a line of blood trickles down the back of his neck.

Obama is shouting for his followers to resist the oppression, even while he is backing out, looking for escape.

Coolidge is standing directly behind him, blocking his way. This slight man in a well-worn business suit looks back dispassionately at him.

"Arrest him on charges of Treason against the Constitution." Soldiers snap to and grab Obama at each elbow.

"YOU can't do this! I am Barack Hussein Obama and I am a living GOD!"

"You are a tyrant and a child. I am sworn to protect the Constitution from enemies, both Foreign AND Domestic. Take him away."

The crowd is herded into buses, bound for detention and Obama is cuffed and placed in the back of one of the military vehicles.

The Moderator is still standing on his podium, mouth trying to work. The auditorium in nearly empty.

"Mr. Coolidge! Care to comment?" He yells.

Calvin Coolidge stops, turns slightly and says, "No." He then continues out the door to see to the clean up.

Poor, poor Moderator. He is not the guy from Fantasy Island, thats for sure. No special powers here for him.

I hope this as been educational for you.

Live well.

--Zavost

Generational Interviews-Theater Style

Once again, the Stoa is delving into the theater of the absurd to describe in every day terms the differences between the generations.

History shapes our interpretation of ourselves and our perceptions of the world. At the same time, those individuals so influenced create the new historical realities that shape the coming generations. Think on this.

I will be using the descriptions as outlined by the groundbreaking sociologists and statisticians William Strauss and Neil Howe to maintain consistency of terms and interpretations.

Imagine an old 19th century surgical theater. Only in place of a patient, or cadaver, there is a moderator, standing at a podium. Think Alex Trebec from Jeopardy! fame.

Up in the gallery, not high up, mind you, perhaps eye level with the moderator, is a wide ranging group of people, sitting together by age cohorts. It is 2012 and the generations will be depicted as they are now, not when they were/are/will be at the height of their generational influence.

On the left, in a wheel chair and on oxygen, is our GI generational man. Educated, hardened in the fires of war, though his body is broken his eyes still hold the twinkle of confidence. On his left, also in a wheel chair, is a similarly broken old man. This one has a nurse and a helper monkey provided by Medicare for his use. His eyes are rheumy and his oxygen tank hisses slightly with pressure. This GI did not serve in the war, nor did he suffer in the Great Depression. He went into politics and ensured that his generation was taken care of in its old age. He is still on Federal Benefits, Full Social Security, and a government pension. He never saved for old age and never had to. He made sure that the nation provided for him.

There is a slight divider between the GI and the next fellow. This one is able to stand, though he sits in his chair, a cane hanging nearby. He is wearing a jogging suit and sipping on a shake that looks like it was made in a blender. He is a member of the Professional Silent Generation. Those who grew up in the shadows of those doing great deeds. He chats with the two GI's and swaps stories with them on how he saw them do this, and cheered them on when they did that. He also tells them about how he helped to carry on their legacy when the GI's left the workforce. Efficiency and maintenance were the watch words on the Great Deeds of the GIs.

To the right of him is another man. This one has is gray hair pulled back into a small pony tail. He is smoking a cigar and has a glass of scotch in one hand. He looks like a typical older retiree, bored out of his mind and with nothing to do. He has a paunch and a greasy, thin comb-over. With his free hand he rolls two marbles around in his palm, seemingly as some method of relaxing himself, though what stress he is under is not apparent to anyone save himself. He tries to talk to the Boomer next to him and share in his fun, but the Boomer seems to not even hear him.

In the next section, there sits a well-dressed member of the Boomer generation. His gray hair is combed and full, likely due to the heavy use of Propecea. In his hand is smart phone and a blue-tooth growing out of his ear. He appears to be monitoring stocks and looking over his retirement portfolio. Oblivious to everything around him, he is speaking loudly about wanting to get on his trip to Hawaii and for whoever is on the other end of the phone to just get his parent in the nursing home, or else he will stop payment on his check. This man is at the height of his power and he loves to display this. He is in the drivers' seat and the world will bend to his will.

Next to him, a fog-enshrouded individual tokes on something the size of a cigar, but obviously is not. Long, unkempt gray hair frames a wrinkled, abused face. A red bandana tries to hold the hair out his eyes and mostly fails. He wears a ripped up jean jacket and doesn't seem very aware of where he is.

Next to him, sits a man holding a small table fan, vainly trying to keep the stink and the smoke over in the Boomer box. This man is wearing a business suit. Not too expensive, yet not off the rack either. He appears to be a balance of spending and saving. In his eyes, you can see Stoic resignation to the state of affairs in the world. He is organized and efficient. He carries what he needs and works as hard as he needs to, then plays as hard as he works. He looks to be in his early forties, though his demeanor marks him as much, much older. He is not very talkative, preferring to sit quietly and take in the surroundings. This is our mainline Gen X'er.

Next to him is another fellow. His clothing is old and he has a beer in his hand. He too has that same, resigned look to his eyes and face. Life has been hard on him. Not because he never tried, but because things just never seemed to work out for him. The only thing that differentiates him from his more successful peer is a simple break of luck. If the factory had not gone out of business he'd still be working. If he were working he would not have lost his house. If he had not lost his house his wife may not have left with the children to start a new life with someone more successful. He now lives at home with his elderly parents and does his best to be useful around his old home. His unemployment ran out ages ago and it does not look like he will be working anytime soon. The older, more experienced people and the younger, more energetic and more recently trained (and cheaper) kids are now getting all the jobs. This is our typical adult Gen X'er.

Next to him is someone dressed in a sharp business suit. On a rack behind him he also has a triathlon outfit, a chef's outfit, a white lab coat, and a military helmet. This fellow exudes confidence and energy. He is young, mid-to late twenties, though he seems to have already had a lot of jobs, and a lot of life experience. He has a bluetooth in his ear, though it is not very obvious. To him it is not jewelry or a status symbol, merely a tool to be used. He has an iPad under his arm and an iPhone 4S at his belt. He is busy chatting with the other Millennial next to him, showing him how to get a group of people together for a Zombie walk at the local mall.

The younger Millennial is excitedly chatting away with the other Millennial and telling him how they organized a glow-bike run the other night. They did it to raise money for cleft-pallet children who lost their father to a land mine and who's mother ran off to try to get on the Opra television show from Uganda. He is wired to the Internet as well, though in a very casual and comfortable way. Various dings and beeps emit from a variety of devices that tell him, constantly, what others of his kind are doing, thinking, drinking, or where they are currently peeing while requesting an update on when the other friend plans on peeing.

Next to him are the Homelanders, those born after the 9/11 attacks of 2001. Their box is LOUD! The older one is arguing with the younger one about batteries for his Gameboy while the younger one is demanding a new computer for his bedroom, the bathroom, and his living room. He can not understand why he must put up with this stupid 5th generation iPod and where is his lunch and when does his mom get home and why does he have to go to bed early his friend in Germany does not have to go home early and neither does his sister. Why can't he have friends over and go to the movies after he goes shopping for new online games that he can install and why can't he have that on or this one he needs it he needs it he needs it and he also wants it and why are you being so mean and stupid!

The stage is set and the stereotypes engaged. Lets have some fun.

Our moderator coughs a bit to get the attention of those gathered. An air-horn is necessary to get the attention of the Homelanders.

The Moderator pulls out his first card:
"What is your opinion of current world events," lets start with you, GI's.

"Its all gone to shit. We worked hard to build up this world and send people to the moon and the Hippies have gone and blown it." This earns a, "Incorrect, sir," from the well dressed Boomer. The hippy just takes a long draw on his "cigar". The GI simply sits back in his chair and ignores the Boomer.

The well dressed Boomer goes on to say that resources had been misallocated and that the GIs wasted money on huge projects while the rich got richer and the poor got poorer. You can't eat moon rocks.

The other GI complains that the Boomers took out the money for Social Security and Medicare and the other programs that were put in place by the GIs. Why did they mess with those?

The Boomer retorts that they were putting the money only into themselves and that there were plenty of Boomers who needed that money.

By this time, the Homelanders are arguing about who is better on Halo. The Millennials have printed up graphs and charts showing how money has been withdrawn from various government accounts and how much has been wasted and how much has gone into Boomer pet projects.

The Hippie coughs on a long toke and starts giggling.

Both of the Silents attempt to critique the charts and offer suggestions on how to do it better while the Gen X'ers simply sit there, knowing that no one is listening to anyone else let alone them.

The Moderator bangs a gavel to get everyones' attention.

He blasts the air horn again to get the Homelander's attention again.

Next question: "Apple or PC?"

The GIs both say, "I don't like apples, I like oranges."

The sharp Boomer goes on about the versatility of the PC and how he helped the PC to dominate the computer world. The Hippie stirs, opens his mouth, but then forgets what he was going to say and then pops some white pill he found in his pocket.

The Millennials are divided but discussing the question rationally. Both have their strong viewpoints but decide that each viewpoint has validity and decide to work together testing the strengths and weaknesses of each.

The Homelanders both yell that they want BOTH of them and that it is their right to have both of them and stop being so mean!

The Gen X'ers look at each other and say, "Me'h. They both work. Who cares? Whatever is cheaper."

Brining the gavel down, the Moderator tries to get silence again. This time the Homelanders are so outraged that there are not PCs and Apple products in their booth that stagehands have to taser them to calm them down. While their limp forms twitched, shock collars were placed around their necks.

When they came to, they were delighted to see that they had been given something and then argued about who got the better collar.

The Moderator leaned on the red button and their arguing vanished in short screams.

With quiet again, the Moderator pulls another card. "What about the military?"

The elder GI wipes his nose and a tear runs down his cheek as he remembers the young men that never came back from Europe or the Pacific. The other GI goes on to say that he would have served but his draft number never came up. Anyhow, someone needed to keep things going on the home front while so many men were away fighting.

The Boomer screws his face up like a lemon had been stuffed down his nose. "A tool of oppression is what it is. Murderers and thugs, all of them. Only those that can't do anything productive with their lives join the military."

The Hippie stirs from within his cloud, "F**ki'n pigs. Kill them all."

The Millennial throws a medal at the Boomer and describes how he earned that in his 3 tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. The younger Millennial is exited about joining the military next year and is anxious to serve his nation.

The Homelanders begin arguing about who has the larger army in World of Warcraft online. Who has the bigger ships and meanest monsters. You can pay real money for icons in the game you know!

A quick tap of the red button shuts them up.

The Gen X'ers each hold up a few medals and achievements. The older one reminds everyone how they defeated Saddam in 1991 at the height of his power. How they went into the very TEETH of his army and whipped them in 100 hours of ground combat. They are ignored by everyone, just as they were in 1992 when they came home.

No one pays any attention as the Boomer and GI begin arguing about the role of the military in society. The moderator is speechless as the helper-monkey for the second GI begins to throw poo at the well dressed Boomer. The Millennial bounces a football off the back of the Boomer's head for dissing the GI who served in Normandy, even as that GI has seemly begun to nap in his chair. A blue tooth ear piece lands in the first GI lap waking him. He mistakes it for his hearing aid and starts to try to put it in his other ear. Failing that he pitches it over his shoulder against the wall, earning a scream from the Boomer.

The two Silents try to participate, but they are split. One side loves the GI while the other one seems to love the Boomer, who continues to ignore him.

Banging the gavel and tapping the button, the Moderator gets order in the theater.

Next Question! And stop with this fighting! The moderator appears to be shaken from the constant bickering, shoe banging, and poo flinging.

"The war on drugs, working or not?"

The GI with the monkey says that they are not trying hard enough. A few divisions of troops on the border will keep the drugs out, the CIA can assassinate the drug leaders, and nukes can be used to burn away the drug plants.

The Boomer goes into a fit about the environment and the innocent people who would be killed by the bombing and have their civil rights violated at the border.

The Hippie snorts and yells, "drugs, who has some drugs?"

The Millennials each stand up and declare that they will march wherever they are told to march.

The Homelanders begin debating which is better, "Modern Warfare 3 or Modern Warfare 2" and don't forget the zombie packs.

The Gen X'ers each seem to be of the same mind, much as they have been all day. Poor people in Latin countries grow the stuff, people ship the stuff and people buy the stuff. Break the chain, any part of the chain, and it will stop. Instead the money goes to into the politicians' pockets to the friends of the politicians.

This sets off the Boomer again who denies such facts and calls the Gen X'er irresponsible for stating such facts openly. The GI is reaching for a gun that has not been on his hip in 65 years and the other GI is flipping through his Rolodex to write a letter to a Senator that has not died or retired yet to complain about the War on Drugs.

The Moderator simply puts his hands over face and sits on the floor.

Above the din a single voice rings out, "I thought you said someone had some drugs, man?"

So there you go. Each generation acting according to its own life experiences. Shaped by history even while they shape history. The shaping of history changes the next generation in line and so forth.

You will note the Silents did not say much, nor did anyone pay them much attention. They turned out to be history's great Functionaries, but produced few visionaries. The Gen X'ers accept that life is not fair and that you just have to be tougher than the next guy if you want to get ahead in life. The GI's wonder what happened to the great nation they handed their children in the 1960's?

The Boomers dominated the discussion and had ALL the answers to any question asked. Theirs was the only right answer and anyone who had any other point of view were uneducated, misguided, and obviously racist.

The Homelanders are the new Silents. Spoiled and cared for. They know only that they want and don't care what YOU have to do to get it for them.

I hope this has been educational. Feel free to ask the Moderator any questions. I'm sure he'll get back to you, once they let him out of the psychiatric ward.

Live well,

--Zavost

Pelosi and Dirt

Atop the Stoa this day I can see the fumes rolling in from Pelosi's muck-filled soul.

She is the perfect example of what is broken in government today. She confidently tells a talking head that the GOP will never put Newt up to run for President.

"Why," the reporter asks?

Now, in my world, her answer could have taken on so many different forms.

She could have said any of the following and I would have considered it a valid response:
1. He had his shot and blew it.
2. He was the Earl of Earmarks.
3. He worked for Fanny and Freddie Mac for 6 years and look at the mess.
4. He does not seem very ethical, I mean, look at how his marriages ended.
5. His vision is wrong for America.

She could have been as partisan as a Socialist can get and the answer would have been appropriate.

But no. Her answer is right out of the slime buckets of Chicago, San Francisco, and any other dark hole the Progressives climb out:
"I know things about him, they will never allow him to run."

So, not that you think he is incompetent, but that you have dirt on him.

What's wrong, you can't fight him in the Arena of Ideas? Your response is what sickens me of late, Ms. Pelosi.

As a Democrat/Socialist, she can get away with her outrageous behavior. She pays little taxes, less than Mitt. She refuses to allow unions in her Restaurants. She moved canning operations to Samoa so that she could avoid minimum wage laws, and on and on. She has enough dirt on her head to plane wine vines.

Knock it off Pelosi.

Live well, all.

--Zavost

America's Political Schizophrenia-Bar Style

Upon the Stoa this day, I once again delve into a pictorial representation of historical events. My daughter insists and I now stand before you, a broken and dejected man.

This is going to be about how the US has a spectrum of political responses and actions depending on a 5-way balance of power.

5 ways you ask? Here is a basic refresher course for those of you who need to brush up on the American Republic.

There is the Executive branch, one person elected every 4 years that requests budgets, requests Congressional authority for a variety of items, and represents the United States in foreign interactions. The President is responsible as the Chief Executive and responsible for upholding the law and protecting the Constitution.

Then there is the Legislative branch that is FURTHER subdivided into TWO chambers, the Senate and the House of Representatives. The members of the Senate are elected for 6 year terms while the Representatives are elected for 2 year terms. Why is that? Good question. The Senate was elected for longer periods so that the Senator could focus on the "Big Picture", free from the fear of constant campaigning and electioneering. This allows them to "deliberate" with "thoughtful" contemplation. They are intended to be the level headed, cool brother to the Representatives.

No, the House of Representatives is elected to 2 year terms, with 1/3 of the House up for re-election every two years. This was done so that this branch of government would be "closest to the people" in terms of current events and political needs. This is the "intake" valve for national ideas and frustrations.

Collectively, the Congress ratifies laws to go to the Executive for final approval. Congress also puts together the budget and appropriates (taxes or takes) money for operations.

The third branch is the Judicial. These folks are appointed for LIFE. The intention here is that they are never afraid of re-election and can cooly evaluate challenges to the Constitution from the Legislative or Executive branch. Think of them as a vast "spell-check". If a law is ratified by Congress and then signed into effect by the Executive, these folks evaluate legal challenges made by citizens or corporate entities. A sniff test. If it does not meet Constitutional muster than the law is VOIDED.

The fourth branch is the Media. The Press. The 4th Estate. Crap. They have been shilling for Communism since the 1960's.

The 5th branch are those Americans who have not forgotten that we are a special nation. The first and last great hope for a world drenched in blood and grief. It is those people who try to restore the order and balance before it all falls over.

Sounds cool, but here is how it all developed....

It was a warm fall day in 1604, the first wave of colonists were arriving in the New World. Intent on making a new life for themselves. Unfortunately, none of them could afford the ship or supplies needed to sustain them in a new land. So, the government, i.e. the English Crown, helped to finance what THEY saw as the first steps toward political dominance of an entire continent.

The cafeteria starts out made of wood with thatch roofs and only three walls. A hand full of people sit huddled around a camp fire. The glowing eyes of wolves, deer, and the occasional Native American glitter at the edge of the fire.

Soldiers in carapace armor stand guard with their muskets, swords, and pikes. Food is scarce and people fall ill all the time.

They wait for more colonists, more soldiers, and more supplies from England. They are completely dependent upon the mother country for survival. They have only their powerful faith in God to protect them from the elements and hostile natives.

Fast forward to the 1640's. There are now roughly 13 scattered nuclei up and down the North American coast. Still, they are beset on all sides by those who would love to see them pushed back into the sea.

The Cafeteria is little changed, though it is larger and now has 4 walls. The floor is still dirt and the ceiling is thatch with some wood planking. There is still a fire, though now there is more food.

The mother country dominates their thoughts and dreams still. The colonies need more of everything. More men, more soldiers, more scientists, more farmers, more supplies. God do they need more SUPPLIES!

The Native Americans were Stone Age substance farmers and had NO infrastructure for a modern society. The Europeans had to build everything from SCRATCH. Foundries, Blacksmiths, forges, mining, smelting, Industry. Complex tools had to come from over the Atlantic ocean. Storms and weather made traveling in the off-season treacherous.

Everyone is busy about the room, Georgia is a thug who was dumped here by Britain. He keeps to himself in the swamps and the others like it that way. New York is busy trying to construct harbors to accept what they know will be a wave of immigration from the Old World. Virginia, oh noble Virginia, all curls and perfume works also to create cash crops that could be exported back to England for finished items that could not be manufactured in the colonies.

The colonies are so closely knit to the fate of England that during the English Civil War, the nascent colonies are nearly destroyed as each side tried to sway the colonies to their positions. Fewer than 100,000 people lived up and down the coast. Modern weapons and Indian attacks nearly exterminated the American Dream in its crib. Lucky for us, this didn't happen.

Idle hands are the tools of the devil. Well, everyone was way too busy to sin in North America at this time.

So now we fast forward to 1750. The room is large and warm. Wood planking and brick and stonework have replaced much of the dirt and thatch. Heat is provided by several fireplaces and the food is served from a cafeteria cook area, the people free to mill and mingle among the 13 tables. There were other tables present as well, those of the French, the Dutch, the Canadians, and many, many indian tribes both roamed about and were partially settled in tables of their own.

England, now Great Britain after 1707, wears a giant apron and tends to the needs of his growing colonies.

One day, the French, fed up with the difficulty of obtaining tables among the Indians and irritated that the British were hogging up all the good spaces in the room, decided that he had had enough. Britain was a pain in the butt back in Europe and he was even worse here in the colonies.

As Britain rushed over to deliver some fresh metal blanks for horseshoes to Massachusetts, France tripped him and sent the material sprawling. The Indians surged forward and stole the metal blanks. Others set about tipping up the tables of the 13 colonies. New York, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Pennsylvania, and Virginia got it the worst. It was some time before Britain could get up, go back behind the counter, get his baseball bat and begin walking back into the fray.

By the time he got there, the colonies had pitched off the Indians and were actually holding their own against the French bully.

As Britain stamped over to France, shaking a particularly clingy Indian from his ankle, Virginia tugged at his arm. She asked in a kind, sweet voice, "we did good, didn't we?"

Britain sniffed and looked down at the ill-dressed child. My, the child was dirty. New York and Pennsylvania had France about the knees and was causing France no little amount of distress. The more he tried to shake off the colonies, the more they dug their teeth into his inner thighs.

With a dismissive "shooing" motion Britain strode over to France and began to break the bat upon France's head. The fight did not last long. The colonies HAD done a great job dealing with the French Indians and in blunting France's movements in the interior of the continent.

France ended up leaving the cafeteria, taking French Canada along with him. A single person now sat in for Canada and he ADORED Britian.

Britain then went back to working behind the counter, taking care of its ever growing Empire while the colonies stood, long-faced and hurt about how their contributions were completely dismissed and over-looked. As if they were useless, pointless, or worse, simply in the way.

This bothered the Colonies very much. Several of them decided to meet together, secretly, to discuss ways of running things themselves. Run things better than Britain. Britain was always so far away. Heck, they had the situation with France taken care of all on their own. All Britain did was take the credit and begin charging the colonies more for every little thing to pay for his effort.

No sir, that dog won't hunt.

The Thirteen Colonies moved their tables together and began to talk in earnest about how they can run things on their own. They still needed Britain for some things, but if they were on their own, they could trade for those things with France or Spain, or the Dutch. AND pay less for it as well.

As Britain was serving oatmeal paste to Jamaica, he noticed that the usual amount of sugar cane that normally came his way was coming up short. Following a trail of sugar, he found New York busy making Rum and Molasses...WITHOUT permission.

When he took the stuff away, New York had the gaul to act irritated. Harumping and tisking back to the counter Britain could not help but think those colonials were up to something. They could be up to something, but they were too stupid and dependent to really be up to anything serious.

Now the year is 1773 and the scene at the colonial tables is heated. The Thirteen colonies on the Atlantic seaboard are talking openly of moving their tables away from Britain. Canada keeps jumping up and down finger pointing and tattling on the colonies every time they huddle up and start whispering.

The events of the Revolutionary War have been chronicled elsewhere, so I'll move on.

The year is 1811. The Founding Fathers are passing away. The Republic has a new crop of people and more tables as well.

Britain is still irritated with "The Colonies" and is looking for an opportunity to bring them back into the fold. However, France has literally torn the crap out of Europe and Britain is very distracted.

The Federal Government sits at the head of the combined tables of the United States. Everyone at the table is pretty animated. Many see a war with Britain as confirmation that the US is destined to sweep away the old order of things.

Eventually, Britain irritates the Federal Government one too many times and declares war upon Britain. Pointing a finger and thumbing his teeth at the same time.

Britain, busy dueling with France hardly pays attention to the fellow jumping up and down on the other side of the room.

The US does what it did nearly 30 years earlier. It invades Canada, thinking that it will deal those snot-nosed little tattle-tales a thing or two. Again, New York comes back to the group, limping and spitting a tooth out on his plate.

"I said, knock it off, eh!" Canada calls from around the counter-top. New York inflates his chest and tells everyone to shut the hell up, even as he coughs up some more blood...and another tooth.

Eventually, Britain crotches France and kicks him in the face. France is down and SEEMINGLY out. Britain is irritated and ticked at those Foolish colonials. Turning about, he strides over to where the US has been throwing meatballs and meat loaf all over his coat, his table, his chair, his hair, and oh, yeah, pizza sauce all over the floor.

Britain slips a little as he nears Virginia, which only irritates him some more. Virginia and Maryland laugh at him and point. Final straw.

Britain reaches out and backhands Maryland away from the table and into the arms of Pennsylvania. Virginia, her face beginning to twist into horror and fear, tries to flee, only to smacked, open handed across the face. The blow throws her over the table and into the middle isle.

The other Colonies, so scrapping for a fight earlier, seem to shrink back in fear. All talk and no walk.

Britain upends Virginia's table and heads up the isle to where the Federal Government sits. A collection of leaders from the various colonies and a buffoon who calls himself a President sits at that table.

At the approach of Britain, everyone flees screaming. Crawling over each other in a panic stricken attempt to flee, they leave most of their stuff behind. A few, knocked to the ground, try to scramble off on their hands and knees.

Britain, with distain on his lips, pulls out a bottle of cheap Irish whiskey. Irish whiskey isn't worth drinking, so Britain pours it all over the Federal table, puffs on his cigar and then flick the ash onto the table, lighting it into an inferno.

He turns towards Pennsylvania and steps up to the table. Pennsylvania trembles but does not run. Britain reaches down to the table and takes a fistful of Brats and sausage and then turns back to the Federal table. Snapping off a chair leg and chewing it into a long skewer, he fixes the Brats and begins to roast them on the fire while all the others could do was watch.

In Europe, France begins to stir and reflexively begin calling for the elimination of Britain.

Sighing, and chewing a Brat in between swallows, Britain pitches the stick in the fire and shoves New York out of the way.

"You punks are lucky, screw with me again and I won't go as easy on you."

The US then began to party and high five each other for driving Britain out of their side of the room.

Time flies and so do the years.

It is 1848 and there is news from New York that most of Europe is burning in revolutionary fire.

The Federals are hard at work, writing and talking and talking and writing. Making and breaking deals with the Indians on the same sheet of paper. California has been added to the table, panning for gold while having a grille made for his teeth.

Texas is a new Republic, impoverished and realizing that perhaps they can't run things on their own. Plenty of scorpions and armadillos, though. They wait patiently for the US to decide if they can join their club. Florida is now a state and barely populated.

The States on the Eastern Seaboard are growing strong and they are growing big on all the people fleeing the turmoil in Europe.

The States are busy and paying no attention at all to the outside world. Slavery is a big issue, as is commerce between the states.

From 1850-1877, the US both fights among themselves and then patches each other up. The world keeps moving, but the US hardly looks outside of itself. Busy with gold, and land, and Alaska, and all that good stuff.

It is not until 1898 that the US takes an interest in other things. A table, close to Florida is called Cuba. It has been crying and sobbing for years, though Florida only now seems to notice. Florida passes up the line telling each state that Spain has been cruel to Cuba, starving Cuba, and taking away their cigars.

The Federal Government decides that with the backing of the various States, they will declare war on Spain. At risk is the Philippines, Guam, Samoa, the Virgin Islands, Puerto Rico and Cuba.

The US walks over to Spain, who is having a conversation with Portugal, and kicks him in the butt.

Angry, Spain turns around with a butter knife, only to look down the barrel of a cannon.

"You suck." Says the US.

"Ok, we suck." Says Spain.

"Were taking those tables away from you because you are mistreating them."

"Fine, whatever you want. You are the guy with the gun."

The US turns and gathers up the new tables. Britain, still powerful, clucks his tongue and says, "Yankee bullies."

The US points a finger at Britain and says, "Don't piss me off, OLD man." And stalks back to America.

The States are now in a quandary. They can't help but feel like bullies. They did the right thing. Those people were suffering. The States are thinking that even as they have to smack the Philippines back into his chair again and again. Poor fellow is so deluded he thinks he can live in this world without someone taking care of him.
How could Spain have been so cruel to them? The US thinks this even as it smacks him back down again.

From 1899 to 1915, the Federal Government works hard to pull the states closer and closer under its zone of control. For the most part, the states are quiet and peaceful.

New states are being added, oil has been found in Texas and people begin to flock there, now. Scorpions and cacti forgotten.

Michigan builds automobiles and North Carolina builds airplanes with the help of two brothers from Ohio.

After WWI, the US goes back its fields and its railroads. The Feds continue to centralize power and the States begin to find that they have less and less to do. Then an economic depression hits and all the States go into a funk.

In 1940, we see Virginia, sleeping peacefully in her chair. New York is sharpening his switchblade, eyebrows down on eyes that flick from side to side for some reason.

Texas is happy digging in the dirt and exporting oil to other countries. Ohio sleeps with his face in the crook of his elbow, drool pools upon the table surface. Michigan, not selling many cars, has his head tipped back, snoring loudly. Wisconsin watches Michigan in fascination as a snot bubble inflates and deflates. Money is being bet between them and Illinois as to how big it will get before it pops.

The Federal Government continues to grow and take over everything. The states just need to pay taxes and do what they are told. This is how the toads that sit about the Federal table feel.

After WWII, the Federal Government is wide awake and roaming the world. The states are awake too, but find they really don't have much to do, except compete with each other for Federal Tax dollars, earmarks, and expensive projects.

The rest of the world sees only the Federal Government. He struts about, doling money, money there, and some coin over here. He looks like Rodney Dangerfield on a golf course. The Europeans are horrified that this person, THIS person is the one they have to rely on now for money and military power. How low they have fallen.

In 1948, we love Israel and could care less about the Middle East. We dislike the Russians and could care less about China.

In 1956 we tell Hungary to rebel against the Soviets and then sit back while Hungary gets its guts kicked out through his mouth.

In 1968 we wink and nod at Czechoslovakia and tell them that we'll be there to help. We notice a squirrel and wander off just as the Prague Spring turns into a Friday the 13th marathon. Why people kept listening to us is beyond me.

During this whole time, we seem to like Israel.

All through the 1960's, 70', and 80's we seem to be coasting on our good looks and reputation, even as we develop a paunch...and a comb over. The Soviets are getting gray and paunchy too. They are so tired by 1985 that they can't even knock out Afghanistan any longer.

Oh, by 1993, we hate Israel. Then in 2001 we LOVE Israel again. Then we hate, hate, hate...no - LOATH them by 2009. Oh, yes, we Hates Israel...yes we do, precioussss. Iran is good. Israel is bad. Islam is our friend, its issss.

We are particularly schizy these days. The States have finally awoken and don't like that they have a Nanny in the form of the Federal Government. We love our cars and hate our oil. Oh, yeah, some people hate oil, others hate babies. We love our trees and hate our babies, thats right. Space is for movies, now give me a new GPS, I need to find the nearest Burger King to stuff my fat face.

In 2001 we destroy Afghanistan and begin to rebuild them. In 2003 we destroy Iraq and begin to rebuild them. Common factor? Radical Islam and thuggery.

In 2010, Morocco, Tunisia, Libya, and Egypt fall to radical Islam. The US is bored with Iraq and hands the keys over to a Jihadist hiding behind a pair of sunglasses and a sombrero. We wander about in Afghanistan, seemingly forgetting what we are doing there. Islamic revolution is replacing our old allies in the Middle East. So is Islam good, Democracy bad? The brain is addled these days.

I wonder if we will have a coherent nation again some day. The States want to be in control again, but the Feds keep suing them every time they act according to the Constitution. The Judicial is looking for shadows and "intentions" in the Constitution rather than simply reading the damn thing out loud.

Congress flings mashed potatoes and meat balls at each other (oh, I hope those are meat balls) while the Executive ignores what they say and does whatever in the hell it wants to do. Which is often times CONTRARY to our usual American values and traditions.

It seems like every 2, 4, and 6 years we undergo internal transformations. One year we love you, the next year we kill you, and then a year after that we are building a Walmart in your capital. OH, and then we forget all about you again next week.

What a world, what a world.

Live well people. We all love you. No we don't. WHO THE HELL ARE YOU PEOPLE!

--Zavost