LGBTMFX Bathrooms.

What the hell are we talking about?  Bathroom preferences for sexual non-conformists in some bar in North Carolina?

By now, most of us know what LGBT stands for--the awkward acronym slides off the tongue of every TV host as easily as a greased pig slips through your arms at the county fair. (For those of you who don't know what the letters T-V stand for, LGBT stands for Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender).

LGBT is called a "community," although I fail to see how millions of unique people living thousands of miles apart qualify as a community. I guess they mean internet community. It's not like there is an L, a G, a B and a T on the street where you live--probably a lot of Ms and Fs, with an occasional surreptitious visitation from an X.

I added the M and the F to the familiar acronym to cover Male and Female, which would represent my "community," I guess, but I'm really not intimate with a lot of them, and I certainly wouldn't want to share a bed with most of them. The X stands for unknown, but it may involve sheep on a hillside or horses in a barn, so I won't talk about that.

If you have doubts about your gender, or which "community" you belong to, search between your legs for a clue. I'd call that a good start, although you may not want to settle for the evidence--suit yourself.

How ridiculous do we get?

This debate is only appropriate for two obnoxious patrons at a local bar. but we're hearing it on national news programs and among legislative jackasses in government. Nobody cares when a homosexual comes into a public bathroom, and if you're a really good transgender, nobody would know it anyway. As for the children, what are they doing in a lousy public restroom without supervision in the first place?

For perfect privacy, go home. Otherwise, restaurants will have to set up a line of private bathrooms like a row of porta-potties along the dining room, and we'll all pay for it in the check--until we decide that eating out is too expensive and all the restaurants go out of business.

I've heard somewhere that "this is a solution in search of a problem," and the saying has the ring of truth. I'm sure the disputes are extremely rare and can be resolved one at a time in any local setting. If you have special needs, you can always patronize The Pink Petunia Gourmet Lounge or Bullmoose Bill's Bar and Grill. The real problem is that somehow, somewhere along the way, we gave the government--state and federal--the power to decide such matters for everyone. "Problems" are, of course, the lifeblood of lucrative government office, where politicians can promise to solve anything.

Why don't we follow the axiom, "When in Rome, do as the Romans do."

Otherwise, if you want to go on a Crusade, get on your horse and get out of town. Jerusalem beckons.

The Worst Generation.

Check out how the various generations living today look to very savvy businessmen, marketing professionals at Marketing Teacher.com, dominated by some insightful, and  perhaps extravagant impressions of my own:

The oldest people still alive in 2016 belong to the GI Generation (born 1901-1926), famously known as The Greatest Generation. As kids, they survived the deprivations of the Great Depression, then went to war and crushed European and Asian fascists in World War II, doing away with Hitler, Mussolini and Tojo, all.

This old generation were great customers. They preferred to save and pay cash rather than go into debt, and they had a strong sense of morality and personal responsibility. They worked hard to get ahead and pay the bills, and so ushered in a renewed American affluence. They actually remember watching their parents living without airplanes, radio and TV, still worrying about food, clothing and shelter, so you can't sell them virtuoso technology like Google Glasses, which would just cause them to bump into walls.

Hey, it's okay. They're old.

Their kids became part of the Silent Generation, born 1927-1945, the first generation to take American affluence for granted. They are the richest, most free-spending generation in history, enjoying peace and good jobs enough to buy TVs, rock'n roll, flashy cars and Playboy magazine. They fought the Korean War to a stalemate and tried to conform to their parents' moral values. They could afford to indulge in social causes like racial equality and feminism, sewing the seeds for overdue civil rights and bra burning. You can sell them anything.

Fast forward to 2016, to Generation Z, the Boomlets (born 2001-on), our little babies. It's a huge bubble coming along the rubber hose of history (how's that for aggrandized metaphors?). And look: it's 49% Hispanic. Up until 2006, the most common last name in the United States was Smith--now it's Rodriguez. To make a sale, think Spanish.

Mattel. the iconic creators of action toys like airplanes, trucks and dolls, had to change their target market from 10 years old in the 1990s to 3 years old in 2000. The kids want technology. Don't worry about giving them action fun or teaching them math, just sell them a faster calculator and a new video--plus a new website for music and socializing. My suggestion would be for a site based on lyrics from a Prince song, "Crazy Nutsite" to reinforce their right to party. The results remain to be seen.

Before them came Generation Y, the Millenniums (born 1981-2000), aka the Echo Boomers. Naturally, they took for granted the affluence of their parents, including video games that could knock your eyes out and solid gold trophies for tiddlywink tournaments. They know that the world is not a very safe place, but they don't take it too seriously because they have never experienced conscription into the military for The Big War.

If you want to sell them something, do it on the internet because that's where they waste most of their time browsing and socializing. They need hand-holding, so keep them reassured as you sell them fulfillment in the form of hoodies and a better smart phone.

Generation X, which came before Y.... These gems were born 1965-1980.

Who are these people? I'm not sure I ever met one, but the marketing experts say they go to a lot of Rock concerts. They are notorious for trying to "find themselves," and I hope they do--because I can't find them.

Let us flash back to the Boomers, born 1946-1964, aka the Me Generation, the last children of the Greatest Generation and the first children of the Silent Generation. I call them the Worst Generation, and to my undying shame, I'm one of them. Heroically--and conscripted--some of us fought the war that nobody except geopolitical strategists in Washington DC wanted, dying by the tens of thousands without popular approval. You might also call them the Entitlement Generation because the luxuries of affluence had morphed into all kinds of new entitlements. President Franklin Roosevelt laid the groundwork with his famous advocacy of what he called the "Four Freedoms," notably the "freedom from want," and the "freedom from fear."

What? I'm supposed to have my "wants" satisfied, and my "fears" eliminated--by the federal government? I can get whatever I "want" from somebody else? I can get my food from a farmer because the government will force him to give it to me? If I'm afraid of a bully, I can have him arrested? If I "fear" thunderstorms, the government is supposed to prevent them? If my feelings are hurt, I can petition the government to stop all such "microaggressions"?

I could actually live in La-la Land--FREE?

The Boomers bought this agenda from their parents, who were mostly Roosevelt fans--the Four Freedoms and the good life, minimum wage, unemployment insurance, social security, food stamps, and everyday security for everyone--and they're passing this fantasy on to their kids. They are self-righteous and self-centered. They like to buy now and pay later. Of course, in the end, someone has to pay for all these luxuries, meaning someone will have to work and pay taxes for all the debt accumulated for my generation's government largess. This money is not just bullshit, as some economists think--just paper. Money represents exchange for labor, and somebody has to work for it, now or in the future.

That's you, Generation Y and Z.

Thanks kids.

Best Planet So Far.

What's happening to our planet?

Whatever it is, I'm not worried, any more than I worry about a tough winter in New Hampshire, though I shiver while warming up my car in January.

Al Gore, of course, claims to be very upset. He says the ice caps are going to melt and extinguish whole species, but this doesn't worry me either. After all, when's the last time you needed a penguin or a polar bear, much less a mastodon, a dinosaur or a dodo bird? He made a movie entitled An Inconvenient Truth full of graphic depictions of sea levels rising dramatically and swallowing great big chunks of the East Coast where I live. I doubt that Al is especially committed to "Truth," but I'm sure his scenario would be "Inconvenient." Still, I'm not worried. Long before the water level reached my neckline, I'd shag ass to Kansas where I hear there are lots of good people, just like here--even if I had to leave some material goods behind. Even in Al's predictions, it would take many years for sea levels to rise, so you have plenty of time for a retreat to Kansas.

Al blames his gloom and doom predictions on man-made carbon emissions, which is like cave-dwelling shamans blaming your bad luck on insufficient worship of the gods, or Texan cowpokes in 1880 blaming the weather on bovine flatulence--actually primitive ideas.

Skepticism of "global warming" comes naturally to a resident of New Hampshire, especially every year in January. But, of course, the Gore crowd changed "global warming" to "climate change" to make their theories more believable, proclaiming them "settled science," but we have an old saying in these parts: "If you don't like the weather in New England, wait five minutes. It'll change."

Still, Al likes to call us "deniers" and I don't mind. At one time "flat Earth" was "settled science," widely supported by all the ignorant and promoted by most powerful religious rulers of the Western World. Galileo went to jail for denying it--so I could be in good company.

SETTLED SCIENCE c.1600:

In the meantime, look at the bright side of global warming. The fish would love it. We could set up Times Square at the South Pole (North Pole is in the ocean), mount spectacular shows on the Southway in South York. We could vacation in semi-tropical islands in the Canadian Arctic, where only brave and half-mad explorers have been. Ever see a map of Northern Canada? There are a gazillion islands. Janitors will be able to afford beachfront property. Greenland would be our massive Florida with room for millions of condos. Alaska would be teeming with senior citizens, and Siberia would be a lush forest full of monkeys and fruit.

Life--including plants, animals and humans--love the heat. Today, if you try digging down through the ice, you won't find much evidence of life--maybe a mastodon here or there. Monkeys were too smart to go there.

Maybe we could sign up for seagoing excursions from South Boston (located somewhere on the coast of Antarctica), on a cruise ship equipped with submarines for taking tours of ancient East Coast America. Say we left the inhabitants of Washington DC (our rulers) encased in a bubble down there behind a big window with Al Gore. We could knock on the window and give them the finger.

Okay, now I'm dreaming.

Bad Bad Gun

We just found out about a bad bad gun that killed nine innocent people gathered in a church, and maybe us good folks everywhere should get together and--well, we can't lynch this bad bad gun, but we could confiscate it, melt it down and make political campaign buttons out of it--you know--buttons that say, "Guns Kill," or something like that?

It would be a sorry end to the gun's promising career, but--after all--it deserves it. Where was that gun when a cop or a soldier--or a citizen--could have used it to defend us? Where was it when a defenseless woman in the neighborhood was beaten, raped and robbed? Nowhere in sight.

Get rid of it.

As for the guy who pulled the trigger, he must be the victim of hate feelings or insanity roiling in his unfortunate mind, some inhuman affliction. Maybe we should help him, keep him in a cell until we can understand his psychological dilemma, pay for his bacon and eggs for the next fifty years or his sex change operation. Maybe he can explain what led to the tragedies of nine innocent families while he talks about himself.

Or, maybe we could take him around back and put a bullet through his head.

With a Good Gun.

Some Things Never Change.

In the 1890s, bicycles were all the rage, thanks to the demise of that awkward monstrosity with the big front wheel. Everybody was buying the new designs which used two identical wheels, and two brothers in Dayton, Ohio took advantage of the fashion by opening a successful bicycle repair shop featuring their own versions.

The two brothers, Orville and Wilbur Wright were interested also in what was commonly considered science fiction: a machine that would fly like a bird, so they spent all their spare time working tirelessly on the challenge.

Meanwhile, the U.S.War Department and the Smithsonian Institute funded their own experiments on the idea and Samuel Langley from the museum was in charge of the government money. While Orville and Wilbur were working on their experiments at Kitty Hawk, S,C. with their bicycle tools, Langley hired a team to put together his flying machine and a launch pad on the Potomac River in Washington (this might be considered the first aircraft carrier, except that there were no actual aircraft to carry). Both Langley flights ended up pretty much the same way:

Notice the downward trajectory of the "aeroplane" and its landing:

Back in Kitty Hawk a few days later, The Wright brothers celebrated a soft landing:

Cost to the taxpayer for the Langley flights: $70,000 (millions in today's dollars).

Cost of the Wright brothers' flights: $1,000 of their own money. Cost to the taxpayer: $0.00--zero.

Some things never change.

Watch Hillary.

If you like watching Hillary Clinton, don't stop now--there's lots more coming.

I especially enjoy watching her in her head-nodding mode, as in her famous "listening tour" when she ran for the Senate in New York, or whenever she sat listening to Bill pushing hot air for the crowds. Her head would nod continuously, and if you keep your eye on her, it becomes almost comical.

What's wrong with her neck?

If she was an actress in a show, the director would have to ban such nodding from the scene because it's over the top, too much. "You're indicating," he'd explain, which is a basic faux pas taught in Stagecraft 101. "We want to keep the focus on the main character. The scene is not about how much you understand and agree with the speaker. Nod on the high points, not through the entire scene. It's distracting."

Now, Hillary has bestowed upon us an agreement to attend a congressional hearing to investigate--I forget--some or other of those shenanigans she's always hiding, anyway.

Watch her. Watch how it works. Her legal eagle already declared that her time before the investigative committee will be limited to one session, so we're down to a few hours of Hillary on the hot seat, and the clock starts ticking when the gavel falls. First comes a speech from the committee chairman, tick tick tick. Then, Hillary makes an opening statement, the longer the better for her, tick tick tick. Then inquiries supposedly begin but, first, each political hack scheduled to ask questions will start with a time-consuming speech because, after all, the whole nation is watching, and these hacks must keep their own re-elections always in mind. No doubt voters in his or her district are tuned in.

A typical government committee.

Only a few questions will penetrate this peacock parade to reach clean air, and Hillary will be able to bat them away with long, evasive answers full of speechifying that add up to essentially nothing, aside from eating up the clock. If one of the hacks sums up the courage to ask a specific follow-up question that heats her seat too much (which could happen), Hillary can always throw a hissy fit, as when she threw her arms up and said, "What difference does it make?" at the last hearing she attended, which she coupled with--yup, you guessed it--.a "let's-move-on" speech.

Uh-oh, looks like she's upset. This will strike fear into the hearts of all the politicians in the room. What will the media say about this dramatic outburst? Hillary might be president someday soon, with lots of powers to oppose their re-elections--not to mention that she is actually, at this very moment, still married to William Clinton, who is working on his wife's behalf to re-enter the White House and check out the interns. Bill has many many very very rich friends--also known as political campaign donors. And, George Stephanopoulos might brand the interrogators as a bunch of bullies on ABC next morning.Yikes!

The investigative hearing might have been interesting up to that point, but it will rapidly grind down to a tiring ooze of political posturing from all sides.

Then, tick tick tick--bam--DING-A-LING-A-LING--the gavel will come down. Time's up and everyone goes home. The final result, most likely, will be another long expulsion of flatulence out of Washington.

This may be depressing, but at least it's interesting. And, don't forget, surprises happen sometimes. Meanwhile, if you miss Hillary's entertaining head-nodding show, you could get one of these Bobblehead Hillarys for your dashboard:

Available at Amazon for $19.95.

The Children's Pool: Blubberasses on the Beach.

Way down south by the sea in La Jolla (in California, that is), there's a sweet little cove originally dubbed "The Children's Pool," because it was perfect for the kids, sheltered from violent surf, with waves rolling on a shallow bottom. It is small enough so that no child can be lost on the beach and you could reach either end of the beautiful cove in 5 seconds if your child needed help. The breakwater wall construction was paid for and gifted to the city by Ellen Browning Scripps  in 1931 specifically so the children would have a perfect beach to play on and swim.

Seals, too, loved this cove with its comfy rock formations.

And the kids loved the seals, so fascinated that they would cavort and shout to see the seals react. These childish shenanigans alarmed the environmental crusaders--the little shits were chasing the seals away, they thought.

So the Powers That Be posted a lot of rules restricting the people's behavior--no running towards the seals or shouting. But, of course, no one could control the children's celebrations. So, the authorities decided that the seals needed protection. They were anxious to coddle nature, excepting, of course, the nature of children, which was a lower priority.



Thus, The Children's Pool was closed to swimming in 1991 because of "continuously high fecal coliform counts." In other words, it was full of shit and became a sanctuary for seals. They roped off humans from all approaches to the water and relegated them to 20 feet in the back of the cove, where you are free to stand in the hot sand and take pictures of nature at work--no swimming, kids.

One San Diego resident told me that the trained seals at the famous aquarium at Sea World are the cream of the crop. Any seal too fat, lazy or otherwise unattractive is taken out to sea and dropped off near La Jolla so they can take advantage of The Children's Pool.

Don't imagine a delightful proliferation of seals swimming, smooching and jumping off rocks. The population lays on the sand all day like giant slugs on a bed of wet dirt. You can stand on the cliff above watching for thirty minutes without detecting any movement beyond the twitch of whiskers or the lazy flop of a tail. In fact, some of them may be dying or dead right before your eyes. It's hard to tell, until they start rotting.



Thirty feet above the cove, an extravagant new lifeguard station is under construction. Whose lives will they be guarding?

Children have been pushed off to adjacent beaches where the surf knocks adults on their asses and, if you're downwind, the stink from The Children's Pool (still so named) stings your nostrils.

Pretty soon, the lifeguards will probably be assigned to feed the seals by hand because the poor animals are too fat to fish--welfare for seals.

Won't that be nice? You can watch the seals swallow fish and see and smell the remains ooze out the other end.

Ah, nature.

Never mind the children, why didn't Michelle Obama put these blubberasses on a diet.