So Far From Heaven

Jack wrote this in June, 2005:

There’s been a lot of discussion on the lottery threads about the statements people who think they know, (politicians, academians, religious zealots, know-it-alls, doogooders and others with the wisdom to know what’s best for people who aren’t fortunate enough to be them) that most of the people who play the lotteries are poor and under educated.

The Poor:

I’d be the first to agree that people who are one or another level of ‘poor’ play the lotteries.  Most of us are poorer than we’d like to be…. that’s why folks such as Hollywood Henderson and Jack Whittaker bought tickets.

But how poor can a person be and still buy lottery tickets?

The poorest people I know are living on the streets panhandling.  They have their values straight, as a rule.  Priority one, when some money falls into their lives:  A bottle of something, a fix of something.

Priority number sixteen, or thereabouts:  Something to eat.

Priority number twenty-seven:  A lottery ticket.

Those folks aren’t buying a lot of tickets.

The somewhat higher level of poor people do buy some tickets, I’ve observed standing in line behind them at the convenience store.  They drive up in automobiles, buy a case of beer for the evening, some chips, and probably go home to watch the results on television.  They mightn’t have a nice home…. maybe a trashed out mobile home in some park full of human lessons to be learned, anger and loud music, but they aren’t actually poor.

In fact, by any standard besides the one we judge such things by today for social reasons, these ‘poor’ people are generally enjoying a level of wealth seldom experienced in human history.  There’s food available to them through food banks all over this nation to keep them from starving.  They have shelter from the weather and warmth in the winter.  They can purchase clothing at any garage sale for a quarter.  They drive automobiles or use public transportation unless they choose to walk.

In a world where the history of human living conditions have predominantly involved worrying about where the next meal is (or isn’t) coming from, where death by exposure to the elements has almost always been a reality, the US doesn’t have more than a smattering of poor people by standard that existed a century ago.

Those poor people referred to by the politicians and statisticians are adults, making choices about what risks they wish to indulge with the money they have in hopes of improving their lot.  They’re submerged in wealth.  If you don’t believe it, imagine those pictures you probably see on television of villages somewhere with kids lying around with pot-bellies, flies walking all over their faces, them without the energy to lift a hand to brush them off, one step away from exiting the vehicle because there’s nothing to eat and there’s not going to be.  That’s poor.

The Under-Educated:

I happen to have a pretty fair formal education, though I’m ‘under-educated’, as is everyone I’ve ever met.  Which boils down to all lottery players being under-educated, and that being a shared trait with all those who don’t play.  Until someone invents an educational level that includes being ‘over-educated’, and ‘just-the-right-educated’, none of the above tells us much about who plays the lottery.

But it does tell us a lot about manipulative rhetoric, politics by guilt, religious posturing, hypocrisy, and a willingness (or unwillingness) to allow adults who might be just as smart and savvy as we are to make their own choices about how they want to spend their money.  About what risks they’re willing to take in life.  That comes under the heading of something called, “freedom”.  Not a lot of it floating around these days.

Jack

Jack wrote this in May, 2005:

Jack wrote this in May, 2005:

There’s an ongoing thread on the lottery discussion site, though maybeso it ends and begins again the way the head of a snake on a Hopi tablet pursues the tail, or poor old YinYang has to always go back to the place it began.

The thread is a carnival, a celebration of what the posters would do if they won the lottery.  I’ve been thinking about that a bit, wondering what I might be wise enough to do or not do.  Wondering what some of my best friends, as well as what some fascinating strangers I’ve never met might do.

Anyway, I think I know what I’d do.  Naturally what I’d do would be jammed to the gullet with wisdom, good tastes, subdued good manners, though probably lacking in ostentation.  Therefore, unworthy of sharing here on the blog, where I feel the responsibility to entertain and edify in equal parts.

So, let me discuss discerning tastes a bit.  How good tastes have been demonstrated by close friends and associates.

When I was in the cabin waiting for the catastrophe of Y2k a jellicle cat of a certain size wandered in and hung around making a nuisance of himself to the other cats, but yearning for fulfillment as a barn cat.  I always welcome cats if there’s room for them in my organizational chart.  Particularly jellicle cats.

This one came to be known as Xerox.  (Most of my adult life there’s been a place for a Mehitabel, a Hydrox, a Xerox, and a few other names.  When there’s an opening in one of the names and a new animal arrives, it gets the empty name.  When this one came there was an opening for a Xerox.  Simple enough.)

Anyway, Xerox was a good cat.  He caught a lot of mice, never succeeded in becoming an indoor cat, and dodged coyotes, owls and hawks for the duration of his tenure.  He was holding himself back for better things.

After Y2k didn’t happen for most people, after it became obvious that I’d made an error in judgement that would require me to move back to town, Xerox naturally came with me.  It was there in Grants, NM, while he stalked vermin along a ditch bank that Xerox had his moment of glory.  A pair of bald eagles flew along that ditch a couple of times a day doing roughly the same thing Xerox was doing.  Not many days passed before the male made a dive from a hundred feet and ended Xerox’s hunting days until the next life.

That, my friends, is discerning tastes.  That is going out in high style for any cat, being killed by a great bald eagle.

On the other hand:
Naiad.  Littermate to the current Hydrox, never cared much for Xerox, never paused to indulge in a moment of awe, respect for the discerning tastes of Xerox.  She has her own methods of discernment, of demonstrating her breeding:

A couple of days ago she brought this to the front porch, placed it at my feet for my examination.  It’s a rare bird in the US, particularly this far north.  It’s a Streak-backed Oriole, usually found in Mexico, but sometimes in Arizona.  This one can be found lying on a box in the carport in northern New Mexico.  Haven’t arrived at a proper disposal approach.  Anything I that comes to mind seems inadequate or inappropriate.

Anyway, I’m reasonably certain if Naiad won the jackpot her main ambition would be to kill an American Bald Eagle, preferably a male, and drop it at my feet on the porch.

There’s a man in Mullinville, Kansas, I’m betting has the most votes in all Christendom in favor of him not winning any lottery.  His place borders the highway.  Here’s an example of the kinds of things he’d most likely do a LOT more of if he won the jackpot:

It goes on for most of a mile, cartoon characters of plate steel.  Everyone would probably as soon he sticks with the resources available to him now, as opposed to a sudden and unexpected means of acquiring a forest of shiny metal.

I have exquisite tastes, myself, and I can’t tell you how glad it makes me to see along any fence line, the least display of good tastes.

Jack

Jack wrote this in November, 2005:

Old Jules, what happened to folk music?

My personal view is that it bulged in popularity among the young people who were the driving force in defining popularity with the Kingston Trio release of Tom Dooley, 1957 or ’58. It stayed fairly popular until the early ’70s and fell from grace in favor of the next wave of Stones and acid rock [after beatniks vanished in favor of hippies]. When Bob Dylan came out with “Everybody Must Get Stoned” and introduced “Folk Rock” it was the beginning of the end of the folk boom. I’ve heard it’s making a come-back on public radio stations.

I spent the day at the Kerrville Folk Festival a few years ago, which used to be attended by all the big names including just about anyone who was anyone. Sad to say it’s been replaced by something called ‘new folk’ which is the rough equivalent of what’s happened to country music. As we shuddered with revulsion on the way to the parking lot the volunteers asked if we wanted our tickets stamped so’s we could get back in.

“I’d pay $100 never to have come here at all,” was my response.

Old Jules, would you agree that the roots of the American Civil War lay in the westward expansion of the nation from 1820-1860?

I wouldn’t agree. The roots of the Civil War lay in the fact the US Constitution made no mention that, once joined, states couldn’t withdraw. It did state that whatever powers weren’t given specifically to the federal government belonged to the states.

The southern states believed they had the implied Constitutional right to withdraw. It was a Constitutional crisis for Lincoln to deal with. Probably the southern states believed he’d deal with in a Constitutional way. They underestimated the degree to which he was insulated from his oath of office and influenced by northern industrialists sufficiently to ignore the Constitution.

Old Jules, who would you like to see and talk to right now?

Albert Einstein, hoping he could clear a few things up for me.

Jim Bridger, just to ask him a few questions that have troubled me.

A guy known as ‘Old Jules’, hardscrabble settler in the Nebraska panhandle in the 1860s through 1890s because I used to be him.

Old Jules, who is the bigger coward, atheists or theists, to believe in GOD?

Atheists and theists who are preoccupied with prolonging their lives by worrying about second-hand smoke, air-bags, red dye, the Mayan calendar, and eternal life don’t appear to possess much courage, moral or spiritual. Some occasionally demonstrate physical courage.

Old Jules, why does the unexpected happen in life so much?

Plotting mainly. Think of yourself as a product of characterization. It’s a necessary ingredient, but it’s worthless, even in a single frame cartoon, without dialogue, plot, and suspense. Characters come and go but plots rely on the unexpected for momentum and energy.

Jack wrote this on Thanksgiving, 2005:

Jack wrote this in April, 2005, when he was studying the behavior patterns of lottery numbers:

This is the great pick. (Note: Sorry, can’t locate the photo of the pick- Jeanne)

 It was found in a collapsed tool shed in the Zuni Mountains, handle intact, though it had been hidden there at least 50 years and maybe 75 or longer.

It’s Bowdil 6-10, an extremely unusual tool.  Has an axe handle instead of the usually cylindrical handle found on picks, replacable tips, so’s the man using it can wear them out with impunity.  The man who once owned this amazingly high quality tool managed to break it completely out of the handle (see the vertical weld along the left side – there’s a similar one on the flip side), but valued it high enough to weld it back together.

You don’t see picks like this one much anymore.  Certainly not on Power Ball or Mega Millions.

So. What do we really know about 43? We actually know quite a lot.

For beginners, we know that despite all that pink and her preference for black lace undergarments, 43 is not a lady. She prefers to hang out with low company, the Power Ball draws, far more than with the highbrow Mega Millions cliques.

We know she’s a bit promiscuous, though she’s maintained a long-term, if intermittent relationship with a few rangy specimens such as 15, 18, 32, 34, 26, 46, 47, and 48, all of whom are known to hang around in biker bars, covering the political spectrum from anarchist to pink.

We know she’s something of a racist, repudiating the Red Ball flamboyance when she’s able, though she doesn’t mind putting on the dog with her friends, 31, 34, and 26 have come into a bit of unexpected cash and want to whoop it up a bit in the Red Ball Saloon.

We know that, while she doesn’t frequent any date consistently, lately she’s been putting her two-bits in on the 22^nd and that in the past she’s done the same on the 26^th, the 12^th, the 3^rd, and the 17^th.

We know she recently made a trip to  Georgia, where she was seen in familiar company.

All in all, I’d look for her to dance a bit more when she shows up again.

But don’t make the mistake of believing she’s a lady, despite all that pink and the black lace underwear.

Jack

Jack wrote this in April, 2005:

Hello readers.

I stopped in to the Pinon Cafe down the road here yesterday.  It happened that Wednesday evenings are a time and Pinon is a place where pilots, home built aircraft enthusiasts, vintage aircraft and warbird enthusiasts get together to show one another pictures of airplanes they own, used to own, wish they owned, and talk over a buffalo burger or taco.

I saw on the chalk board out front that it was happening, noticed a couple of vintage humans sitting across from one another at a bunch of tables that had been pulled together.  Blue haired lady of a certain age, and a geezer.  I told the dishwasher who was doing double duty as a waiter in between reading through a dogeared, worn, vintage copy of Carlos Casteneda, that I was taking a table outside.  There’s a good view from there of the knife-edge northwest face of the Sandias where rosy cheeked, robust flat-lander doctors and entrepreneurs are always getting themselves dead trying to climb the cliff face.

Anyway, I watched the old airplane enthusiasts trickle in until they filled the tables, aging wives of pilots finally able to go somewhere with their hubbies, now he’s too old to take some other woman.  Watched through the window by the table as they passed around picture books and photos.  Got me thinking about airplanes, which got me thinking about my own old darling.  Cessna N90172.

Jack spotted a Cessna like his when we were in NM in 2015.

A fine old hellion it was.  Might well be partly responsible for the fact that I can’t hear too well these days, except for a lot of ringing in my ears.  Lots of noise inside the cabin of that old bird.

Anyway, watching all those worn-out has-beens with their once glamorous wives, I noticed there weren’t any youngsters among them.  Youngest one there was probably my age, maybe older.  I found myself wondering why it is young people don’t care anything about flying anymore.  Which led me to wonder why they don’t care much about doing anything else, either, except spectator sports and television.

I visited my old friend, Jim, out in Grants the other day… he’s looking a bit worse for the wear, having retired from the military and a couple of other professions during his working years.  We were talking about the fact that nobody around today seems to be anyone you’d like to be young and grow old having to associate with.  Jim allowed that for the last 50 years we’ve created an ignorant, gutless society.

Ah well.  That’s Jim.

I didn’t get around to talking about risk-takers, gamblers and tools, except that old Cessna.  But I will.

Jack

Jack wrote this in February, 2006:

Time was I thought this range of subtle energies we use, that we’ve found ourselves with, somehow implies something more.  Some level of wisdom, higher perception, of realization and deeper meaning than the run-of-the-mill, non-metaphysical population carries around.

But as the years have progressed I’ve gradually had to accept it isn’t so.  Not for me, not for almost any of us.

We discover we can fix pain, injury, illness in people, animals, or we can convert subtle energy into intent, and no matter how good we get at doing it, we’re like snakes slithering around still burdened by last year’s skins.

That box we keep in the corner of the room keeps squirting the brainwash into our heads, telling us it matters what the stumblers in Washington did today, what happened somewhere that we can’t do anything about to and by people we know nothing of.

We pull our intelligence down, our perceptions, and we focus on what we can’t change, mightn’t change if we could.

The old Universe has provided us with an amazing obstacle course to wind through.  It’s lined the paths with candy bars and bright red automobiles to give us something, anything to think about so’s we don’t have to know we have do die someday.  We stare at those red hunks of metal and salivate over the candy bars while the minutes, the days, the years pass without our looking inside ourselves, at what we’re doing, what we’re wasting.

We’re mostly just asleep at the wheel, same as everyone else.  Same as old fat Mehitabel, lying there letting it pass without notice.

Jack

Jack wrote this on November 19, 2005: