"Tweeting...and why you Shouldn't:- Follow-Up:

Back on April 20th I uncorked a multi-faceted condemnation of "Tweeting," to include lots of reasons why we shouldn't.

As in, "Tweet."

"Tweeting," as I covered in this exhaustive and amazingly well-written presentation, is not only a waste of time...the time of the tweeter and the time of the tweetee...it's also potentially hazardous.  Hazardous to the target of the tweet, as well as the to the bozo who took the time to conjure it up. Trust me, I admonished you, I know whereof I speak...

And for those who missed my point by then, I present to you, Prosecution Exhibit A:  

Roseann Barr...

Any questions?

So Where did This "Unleashed" Thing Come From, Anyway?

Those of you who live in California may well remember that I, The Chuckmeister, used to be a prolific contributor to the "Letters to the Editor" section of the Newport Mesa Daily Pilot.

Now this little paper is the main way that residents of Newport Beach and Costa Mesa, California, find out what's going on in their little piece of what used to be paradise.  And I was a happy resident thereof for decades.  Yet, I often spied something that proved interesting to me, and thus might well be interesting to others.  

And so, being a bit handy with the written word, I would crank off a quick opinion piece and email it to the Paper.  And they would publish it.  Almost every time.  And over a period of years the total number of such published offerings grew to more than 300...

As a result I grew to be something of an opinion "leader," or at least "former" among the conservative element in that community.  A community that, like the rest of what used to be the Golden State, was slowly, inexorably turning Blue.  As in liberal, doncha' know.  So I built up a following.  Not intentionally, you see.  Just kind of by accident.  When you feel you have to write something, and then do, you don't really need an ulterior motive.  Kind of like having an itch and needing to scratch it.  And if others are moved to have an opinion about those opinion pieces, so be it.  

The Daily Pilot was, and is, owned by the "Lost Angeles Times."  And you know by now that the LAT is one of the very most liberal papers in America.  So how did the Times wind up owning a more than 100 year-old paper in a reliably conservative enclave?  Because the Pilot, like nearly every other local newspaper during the past few years, ran out of money and needed an investor.  So, picture this: my submissions would necessarily be poured over by some 19 year-old intern in the Editor's office.  Some kid with a newly-minted journalism degree would be charged with "correcting" my submissions and the submissions of others.  And more often than not, he or she or it would make all sorts of "corrections" which could, and often did, change the thrust or intent of my essays.  Which pissed me off, Bigly!

All this came to a head, so to speak, when, deep in a debate about literary freedom with an editor steeped in liberalism one day, I was offered my own weekly column.  I jumped at the chance, hoping against hope, that I could finally, finally be permitted to puke forth my mind without some weenie figuratively looking over my shoulder.  Oh yeah, and they agreed to pay me $50.00 for each submission.  Wheeeee!

My hopes were in vain.

I launched my new column to no fanfare whatsoever.  It just showed up one day.  But loyal readers expressed their glee that there I was, offering up my oft-strange opinions.  And those who didn't like me before, liked me even less.  

But then one day some miscreant somewhere shot up a school.  And I opined in my column that the "answer" to solving such crimes was to first, tear down the "Gun Free Zones" signs.  They are nothing but an invitation to evil doers to "Please kill us."  And that schools and shopping malls and sporting events and concerts should be "hardened" so that Bad Guys with guns couldn't blow away dozens of unsuspecting citizens without having to face armed resistance.  Resistance as in arming teachers, for instance.

Oh God, the howls!  The screams and shouts and condemnation from the lefty weenie contingent poured forth!  We're talking a community-wide case of the vapors!  They wanted me tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail!  Who was this freak who actually had the temerity to suggest that soft, weak and lily-livered teachers should and could be trusted to actually carry a concealed weapon?  Oh, the horror!

Well, my friends, we went back and forth.  The naysayers clouded up and rained all over me while I fought the good fight, trying my best to educate an entire population of folks who were unfortunately born and raised in a place where the mere thought of shooting back when attacked was anathema ("Go ahead and kill me, but please don't make me touch that awful gun!").

The Editor asked me politely to resign.  I politely resigned.  And in my last offering, I was nice enough not to mention that the $50.00 per submission fee I was supposed to receive from the Paper for my professional submissions had yet to be paid.  

And it still hasn't.  The Pilot, and its daddy the "Times," is short of cash, doncha' know...

My good friend Geoff West, another prolific contributor to the Paper, called me to commiserate.  Geoff had a wonderful blog at the time he called "A Bubbling Cauldron."  It was universally read and appreciated, earning him awards and notoriety throughout the area.  And having had his own problems with the Paper, Geoff suggested that I start a blog of my own.  It was easy, he said.  And I could write what I wanted without some wet-nosed kid rearranging my "1's" and "0's."  And so he showed me how to get started.  And I did.  That was more than 10 years ago.  And I'm still at it.

Now, many of you know that I got the "Chuckmeister" moniker when I was saving America from communism while stationed in Germany.  So the new  "Unleashed" part was to signify that no one, nowhere, nohow could thereafter tell me what to write, or change it once it was written.  And they haven't.  Oh, I've made mistakes that a good copy editor could have, and likely would have caught.  But the price for that bit of assistance, like the rent in New York City, was just too damned high...

Putting your thoughts down in a blog is, to me, therapeutic.  I write something that needs to be written, I feel, and then push "Publish."  And then I more less forget what I've written, my spleen having been thus vented.  And I frankly don't care what people think of it.   

You might want to try it for yourself...

BTW, if the Times somehow comes into some extra cash, and would like to settle old accounts with the Chuckmeister, they know how to reach me...

To Whomever, I Hereby Apologize...

In our highly-partisan, highly-charged society, it seems that no matter what anyone says or does these days, somebody, somewhere will be offended.

It matters not whether the offender intended to offend.  It appears that now the offendee is the one who calls the shots as to whether an offense in all actuality took place.  And often the offender doesn't even know that he offended, or that an offense took place.  And the words or deeds that offend today, will be superseded by new and different offenses that will be unfurled tomorrow.  And you won't know what they are until you use one, and then it will be too late.  And just as often, he/she/it will have to read about the offense they committed on social media.  And then apologize profusely for an extended period until the offendee accepts it.  If he/she/it ever does...

Just think:  You tell an off-color joke around the water cooler to the horror of a passing snowflake.  Or you open the door for a woman and are scathingly rebuked for your transgression.  Or you refer to someone by their gender and they get the vapors, having decided that they are devoid of gender.  (That last one is especially common here in California, where folks are increasing unaware of exactly which gender they are). Or you're just a political enemy and no matter what you do, it will result in somebody taking offense.  

Example?  Sure.  So Trump calls North Korea's dictator Kimmie Jung the Un "Little Rocket Man" in response to its provocations.  The Leftoids among us, from members of Congress to Hollyweird celebritards, to the blow-dried talking heads on CNN/MSPMS/NPR/Alphabets, were horrified!  They thought that The Trumpster would get us into a nuclear war, like right now!  

But the tough talk turns into warm words and high-level meetings and a planned summit in June (see "Art of the Deal.").  The Leftoids said, "No, you're moving too fast!"  Or, "No, you can't trust them!"  Or, "You're just a businessman, what do you know about diplomacy?"  But then the Chinese got involved and NoKo started talking tough again and Trump called off the summit.  And the Lefties were horrified!  "You blew it, Trump," they said.  "It's your fault the summit was called off," they say.  Or, "You had a chance to end the Korean War and you were outfoxed!"  Or, "You said all the wrong things," or "You didn't say any of the right things."  Yada, yada, yada...

But then The Un-Man feels the heat of an impending nuclear war under his collar and wants to restart the summit.  And the commies, predictably, wail in shock and anger because they had their talking points all worked out and Trump ruined them by wanting to end the Korean War!   

It's said you can't make all the people happy all the time.  But anymore, it seems you can't make anybody happy any of the time, especially if you're on polar opposite political extremes.  

And the eternal understanding between the sexes that has always held that guys hit upon babes, and that babes are damned happy to be hit upon, recognizing that weddings and babies and family units tend to spring forth from such "co-mingling of assets," has come to a screeching halt!  Now, if you compliment a hot babe for being hot, you'll likely be slapped, then arrested for harassment, tried, convicted, lose your job, go to the Gray Bar Hotel for a nice, long reeducation period, and then be puked forth back into society a much chagrined and forever chastened, mere shadow of your former self.  

But maybe you'll be able to share a cell with Harvey Weinstein...

So the net result is that guys, who never understood women in the first place, are even more terrified of them now.  They never knew what to say.  And now they don't know what not to say!  And thus, the chasm between the sexes, all 27 of them, has grown inordinately wide.

Now one answer to this perplexing problem is to be old.  I'm fond of telling anyone who will listen that when you reach my exalted age, you can say anything to anyone at anytime for any reason, and nobody gives a s**t.  But a few years shy of my particular circumstance and you'd best tread on eggshells or you'll offend some snowflake somewhere.  And I find it extremely entertaining.

Soooooo, in this day and age where people identify as someone or something else, and people don't know which bathroom to use, and folks are punished for what they say, or didn't say, by those to whom they said it, or didn't say it, if you're not confused, you're just not paying attention...

Teachers are not Pansies!

The outrage from the increasing number of mass shootings at our schools is growing.  Predictably.  And necessarily.

I grew up in the Midwest.  Everybody had guns.  And nobody used them...on people.  But everybody was considered armed and dangerous.  And crime was nonexistent.

There's nothing, NOTHING that will keep a prospective Bad Guy from doing bad things more than knowing his intended victim could be armed, and ready to blow him out of his shoes.

And so it is with schools.  And shopping malls.  And train stations.  Etc., etc., etc.  In short, every time you see a sign proclaiming "Gun Free Zone," undoubtedly placed there by some well-meaning but misguided leftist, you know there could be a mass killer just licking his lips in preparation for the Big Day.  That's because they know they won't meet armed resistance when they carry out their murderous rampage.

But then we have another school shooting.  And another.  This sort of thing DID NOT happen when I was growing up.  It seems to be a manifestation of some greater hidden problem we've yet to uncover.  Single-parent, latchkey households, maybe.  Or Ritalin abuse.  Or bullying, harassment, or shaming on social media.  Or maybe mental instability.  Or perhaps we can blame copycat killings.  But in the meantime, we must employ new and more vigorous efforts to protect our kids from violent killers.

One of those efforts, suggested immediately after the Parkland, Florida shooting, was to arm teachers.  The theory goes that even a few armed teachers and staff, two or three or four, perhaps, whose identity was kept secret, could serve as a yuuuuuge deterrent against would-be killers.  I coined a phrase a few years back which is still appropriate today:  

"If only 5% of the ducks were armed, do you think anyone would go duck hunting?"

So, one of the things we could do to quickly stem this scary trend is to put the word out that prospective Bad Guys should enter school campuses at their own risk, for a change.  And arming trained, capable, stable and willing teachers could be an answer.

But wait!  The Lap Dog Media, blow-dried cable channel talking heads, politicians on the hunt for more contributions and Coastal Bubblers who get the vapors at the mere thought of a gun, went bonkers!  Teachers?  Pullleeeeezze! Teachers aren't soldiers, or cops, or security guards, they say!  They're teeeeechers!  They teeeech!  They're made out of spun sugar and doily lace.  They don't  shoot people!  And, according to their detractors, they're lilly-livered pansies who couldn't be trusted with a gun!  They might accidentally shoot themselves, or, perish the thought, one of our precious kids!  Noooooo!

Could it be that those who are clamoring the loudest against this possibility are signaling their own inadequacies?

Well, my friends, three-quarters of this Great Country is not next to an Ocean, where far too many folks grow up thinking that beef comes shrink-wrapped in plastic and then sold at your local Albertson's.  It is filled to the brim with tough, capable, sturdy, red-blooded grown-ups, and a large percentage like to hunt and fish and target shoot.  And maintain weapons at home for self-defense.  And these teachers, some small percentage, perhaps, would be anxious to undergo the necessary training to become certified to carry a concealed weapon inside designated schools.  And to then let the word out that THEIR kids are safe!  

"Hardening" schools against potential killers is necessary.  The NRA's "School Safe" program is the very best for this, and is absolutely free.  Limiting the points of ingress to schools is as well.  Staggered start and end times could make it possible to utilize only one entry/exit door.  Using metal detectors and School Resource Officers to check all bags and backpacks is also a requirement.  A sad reality, but necessary.  Asking retired military and police personnel to assist, perhaps for a tax break, is desirable.  But the one, quick, simple, immediate and effective thing we could - and should - do is make available training to teachers who are ready, willing and able to step up and carry concealed.  

If so, "Gun Free Zones" would turn into, "Warning:  School Personnel are Armed and Prepared to Defend Our Students."

"If only five percent of the ducks..."

This Moving Thing is a Young Man's Sport...

As many of you know, I, The Chuckmeister, have been deep into the process of moving.  As in, moving from one house to another. And trust me, it's not for the faint of heart.  Literally...

About five years ago my since-dearly-departed wife, Elaine,  and I purchased a nice little ranch-style home on nearly an acre in the lovely development of Meadowview in Temecula, Commiefornia, planning to live out what remained of our lives in peace and quiet.  Whilst quaffing loads of good wine, of course.  

It was fine for awhile, but before long grew to be waaaay to much for an old guy with an increasingly worsening back to care for.  And, with Elaine's sickness and then demise adding to the difficulty, I made the decision that it was the time to make my move.

I found a nice little 1,250 square foot, single-level place in a 55 and Greater (my descriptor!) community nearby my old digs.  I put my house on the market.  It finally sold, finally, and since then I've been treated to a front-row seat, witnessing that "Murphy's Law" and "The Peter Principle" were both  absolutely on target when they debuted more than 30 years ago.  

For those of you who aren't familiar with Murphy, his "Law" stated that, "If a thing can go wrong, it will, and sooner rather than later."  That's especially true if you pick the wrong "professionals" to represent you.  

"Peter" has it that, "People will be promoted to their own level of incompetence."  That means you'll get bumped up in your job, promotion after promotion, to the point where you are absolutely incapable and unable to do the job you've been given.  And there you'll sit, accomplishing little or nothing, while irritating the crap out of all those unfortunate enough to labor under your manifest incompetence.    

And boy, have those old adages proven to be true...

First, it took a year to sell my old house when it should have taken a month, at most.  The agent actually stated it would sell in five days.  She was wrong.  And then the escrow company associated with that agency employed a 12 year-old to work on my documents.  Well, she might not have actually been 12.  She just performed like it.

She "forgot" to do some of the paperwork entrusted to her, such as asking for my wife's death certificate, which extended my closing by eight days.  Which prevented the new house from closing by 14 days.  Which meant a process I was guaranteed should take no more than 4 or 5 days between the old house and the new, took almost a month.  Did I mention that this toddler was the granddaughter of the agency's owner?  

And that meant it was necessary for me to then accept the generous offer from one of my wonderful daughters, Tiana,  and her family, to camp out on their trundle bed.  Did I mention my bad back?

I should add that they were kind enough to purchase some plywood to place between the mattress and the springs and thus minimize the torment caused by a metal bar trying to break what's left of my ailing back.

Anyway, the Pod I rented to hold my stuff for "a few days," and the truck I rented for the same purpose and for that same short period, took mucho longer than planned, and cost mucho more dinero than expected.

Forgive me for lapsing into Spanish.  I live in Northern Mexico, you see, and just can't help myself.

And then there's the issue with size.  The size of the house I left, that is.  A guy who needs a cane to get around has difficulty packing up 2,300 square feet with one hand.

By the way, did I ever introduce you to "John, my Cane?"

Heh, heh...

So that process took weeks, not days.  And, of course, I had to divest myself of a lifetime's collection of all sorts of flotsam and jetsam.  The house before this last one was six bedrooms and four bathrooms, and a whopping 4,800 sq. ft. in size.  So the move to Meadowview required a remarkable 6 dumpster loads to force-fit us into the 2,300.  And now it was time to downsize once again...

Did you know you just can't "throw away" excess furniture?  No?  Well, you can't.  The garbage collectors...won't collect it.  They are sooooo particular!  So what you can't sell for a $1.00 at a garage sale, you have to pay some guy with a pickup truck to haul away.  Imagine paying good money for a bedroom set you now don't need and can't use, and then paying good money to get somebody to haul it away!  What's that I hear you saying?  Simply give it the Salvation Army?  Yeah, well, good plan, Pilgrim, but they're pretty damn particular also.  They will not take beds, or bed frames, or frame rails, or mattresses or box springs, or pillows, or sheets, or, or, or...  

Goodwill?  Same story.  And remember, Goodwill is a privately-owned outfit whose owner makes $Millions off of the charity of unsuspecting citizens.  And neither of these will come to your home and pick it up.  You have to deliver it to them, preferably wrapped with a nice bow on it.  And, they may not take desks or chairs or hutches or a whole lot of other stuff.  When did charities become so damn persnickety?

BTW, you simply must hear about my divestiture of one particularly large and heavy "day bed."  That's a trundle bed with a fixed back frame.  I acquired it somewhere along the line.  Or maybe Elaine acquired it.  Probably Elaine.  But it weighed about 100 pounds, was fitted out with springs and bars and all sorts of things that will bite you.  I tried to sell it, and couldn't.  So I offered to give it away.

I got a call one Saturday noon.  The lady offered to take it, and showed up in an aging Toyota Prius.  She weighed at least 400 pounds.  I handed her a wrench and she began taking the bed apart, bolt by bolt, spring by spring, rolling all over the floor.  And carrying it out to her car.  By then her "boyfriend" arrived.  In an old Prius.  He also weighed in excess of 400 pounds.  Maybe 500.  They proceeded to wrestle the day bed pieces on top of the Prius-ses-es.  And tying them on with bailing twine.  Bailing twine!  That's the brown stuff about the diameter of a pencil led.  It was a hoot to watch.  And it took hours.  They even took a break, got some lunch from the local MickeyD's and sat down in my driveway to graze.  

I mentioned, jokingly, that I had a couple of well-used, wooden deck chairs and cushions that needed a new home. And, knowing there would be no way they could take them, I offered them anyway.  They glommed on to them immediately, began taking them apart, and hoisting them atop the Priusssesses!  

So, to sum it up, here we have two old Priussessessses, two extremely large 60+ freebie-gatherers, with a big bunch of day bed and an even bigger bunch of deck chairs and cushions, precariously perched upon their cars, about 7 feet into the air, and only scarcely secured by a ball of bailing twine.  I can tell you I was keeping my fingers and everything else crossed until I saw them leave and drive out of sight.  Whew!  What a memory...

So anyway,  with the help of my daughters, Tiana, Dana, Lauren and Jennifer, and their husbands and some of their kids, we were able to throw a bunch away, sell some for bupkus bucks at dreary garage  sales, and then stuff the rest in a Pod and a truck.  Moving Day was here!  And I was exhausted!

Finally, after a month at my daughter's, Moving Day #2 was upon me!  The Entire Family showed up and began furiously unloading.  The Plan was to get everything off the Pod and the truck and inside, with the locked doors closing everything in by sundown.  We achieved that lofty goal on a Saturday.  And then on Sunday, the Fam returned and set about unpacking the boxes, setting up the bathrooms, making the bed, hanging pictures and making the kitchen into a kitchen.  

Oh yeah, at least another dumpster load didn't make it in.  Back in Missouri we used to call this a "blivit."  That's "two pounds of s**t in a one pound bag" for all you non-Midwesterners.    

And then dealing with all those "vendors."  You know, the gas company, and the electric company, and the water company, and the cable company, and all the other outfits you have to deal with to effect a move.  And it's uber-frustrating.  I have to tell you that the level of intellect and competence at "customer service" at nearly every company is horrendous!  This is "hire the handicapped" gone berserk!

I actually had to call my cable company five times in order to finally get them to do what I wanted.  I had to hang up three times because they couldn't find my account.  You know, the one I'd been sending them $Thousands a year for. 

But "move in" was finally complete.  The Fam went home, the water and gas and lights were turned on, and the cable guy came and turned on the internet and the TVs.  And so I stayed my first night in my new house.  And it was thrilling!  My old bed welcomed my aging frame with a warm embrace.  And I drifted off to my first really good night's sleep in a month.  Hallllaluuuyaaaa!

So, the moral of this story is:  If you've done your job as a parent, you do for your family when you can, and they do for you when you need it.  And boy, did I ever need it.

The Chuckmeister is now all about finding the perfect throw rugs for this room, and the perfect lamp for that one.  Now, you should know that like any good husband I never, ever was forced to make decisions of this magnitude.  And it's kind of therapeutic to be forced to make them now.  It reaffirms one's ability to call upon the lessons one has learned over the course of living, and to apply them to solve new and challenging problems.  

And it serves to keep one young...