Forget College

Today is the 22,359th day in a row I haven't used Algebra.

That's my opening salvo in my never-ending war against bullsht,* almost worthless college degrees.  And I'm here to lay out my case for all to see.

When I (barely) graduated from high school (if my typing teacher wasn't a first cousin, I wouldn't have) I attended college to make my parents happy.  Not me, my parents.  They wanted me to have a college degree.  I didn't, they did.  

They knew instinctively that a degree makes a kid more employable.  And that means more money for the rest of your life.  Except I didn't need no stinkin' job.  I was a professional pool player by then, knocking down more dough than the mayor.  

And that there was a two-track system back then, as there is now.  When you graduated high school, you either joined the ranks of the lower class work force (ahem!) and become a plumber or carpenter or truck driver, or you became a white collar earner.  Staying clean, sitting behind a desk, talking on the phone, boring yourself to death.  Or at least that's what they claimed.  

It hasn't been true for several years, now that UPS truck drivers start at $176,000 a year.  Or roughly twice what an entry level white collar job pays.  And that lie still makes worried parents dip into their 401(k)s to the tune of $30,000 a year for tuition, or even more. 

Sometimes much, much more.

I didn't care.  Like I said, you could find me in a pool hall somewhere peeling some unsuspecting rube like a grape.  I had walked past a pool hall when I was 13 and decided to go in.  I won $3.60 that afternoon, when my after school job paid $0.60 an hour.  

I was totally enchanted with green felt and those cast phenolic resin pool balls banging together.  Nine ball was my favorite game, but 8-ball, call shot, bank pool, anything involving a cue and an opponent - and money - was a-okay with me.  I'd been winning major bucks across a hot pool table for several years by then, and I intended to continue doing so.  And if I had to pretend to attend classes to keep my folks happy, while spending my time on the road hustling, I'd do so.

I thought everybody wore a money belt and carried a gun.

This was pre-Viet Nam, BTW.  That war (police action) was just heating up, so going to college to maintain a 2-S deferment and avoid the draft had yet to become a thing.  Just mom and dad paying tuition and me at the pool hall.

Oh, I'd attend the classes that interested me.  I was attending a state school so a liberal arts focus in its  curriculum was what I faced.  Now, I believe there's literally no reason at all to learn about sub-sarahan Africa's environmental challenges.  Or learning all there is to know about Black Studies (how much is there to know?).  Or any left-wing social studies class they might dream up.  I actually heard of a gal earning a degree in Medieval Lesbian Poetry.  Me?  I majored in Psychology.  And Economics.  If I had to go, I wanted to learn why people do the things they do, and then how their decisions impacted their bank accounts.  

To make a long story short, I flunked out of 5, count 'em, FIVE colleges before the newly installed draft caught me.  It's not like I wasn't smart enough to pass, it's just that I didn't attend classes.  They sort of insisted on that.  I could only keep my 2-S deferment for 5 and 1/2 years.  I didn't know that, BTW.  When I reached that milestone without a degree, they nabbed me.  So I had no choice but to interrupt my pool career, and also my college career, such as it was, until I took care of that "other" matter.  That's a whole 'nother story, which I'll cover in depth one day. 

4 and a half years later I returned to college to finish up.  I only had 76 transferrable credits to my name, believe it or not, so I took 44 semester hours over a 12 month period and earned all "A's."  Even so, my accum for those 124 hours was a 2.78.  Yes, it was that bad.

I took my diploma, ink still drying, and visited a sales recruiter in Kansas City.  To try and score a job for which I was qualified before the degree.  Fortunately, a district manager from Pfizer was there interviewing.  He saw me in the hallway and asked if I was interested in a sales position.  I had a job before the sun set that day, for which a college degree was only necessary to prove I could stick to it enough to earn one.  Nobody ever asked my major, nobody cared.  And I never used a single thing I learned in college after that.

Not one single thing.  Including algebra.

Doubt me?  In my final semester I trained a white rat to stuff a marble in a beer can.  In a Skinner Box.  In a 500-series psychology course.  Selective reinforcement, they called it.  Yawn!  I named him Frank Lloyd Rat, BTW.  Since this was a private school, I paid serious money for that course.  Yet, I can tell you there's never been an instance where rat training has benefitted me in my professional career.  Nor has the requirement to train them popped up.   

Oh yeah, algebra.  If someone decides to make "a" equal something, and "b" equal something else, my mind goes out to lunch.  Especially if you ask me to find an answer when you put them into an equation.  Oh, I can deduce the answer in my head without the equations, as I've trained myself to do, but my algebra teacher wanted to see the way I found it.  Fortunately, Mr. leach gave his students 2 points on their tests for spelling their names right, so I eaked out a "D." Just enough to pass the class.

And there was this English teacher.  She had a Phi Beta Kappa key in three subjects, Math, Music and English. And she wore all three keys every single day.  When she walked they all clanged together.  Very disconcerting.  And she only had two dresses.  Both of them covered with gigantic flowers.  She would alternate them week to week.  And she never had them cleaned, either.  You didn't have to look to know it was her coming into the classroom.  Her voice was like rocks banging around in a tomato can.  There wasn't a day I sat in her class that I didn't contemplate suicide. 

And yet both of those classes were required to pass.  Once again a major reason to avoid college.  Those folks "profess" some knowlege.  And want you to pay them to profess it.  What if you simply don't want to learn it?

I go through all this in order to make you understand that a college degree that doesn't end with a license to practice something or other is almost totally worthless.  That's why so many kids with shiny new degrees today are asking, "Would you like fries with that?"  As they try and earn enough to pay back their student loans.  While electricians are earning $200,000 a year, almost from Day One.  Farriers, guys who shoe horses, are knocking down $250,000 a year.  And they're working outdoors in the fresh air. These folks have been succeeding for years while these kids have been cooling their heels in a classroom somewhere.  Trying to convince themselves that doing this same thing over and over, every year is other than insanity.

Want to be a doctor?  Great.  A nurse?  Sure.  A lawyer.  Totally okay.  An engineer?  Yessiree!  But a dufus with a degree in math or music or English, you're sh*t outa' luck.  Those kids will be competing with each other for entry-level jobs in 2026 America.  And if they'e lucky enough to snag one they'll probably be starting in the mailroom.

Oh yeah, before I go, let me advocate for a career in the military.  You can enlist, or hopefully get a slot at a military academy and become an officer, in any of the 6 branches of our military.  They're all good.  Some feed their kids better than others, like the Air Force, but pick 'em.  Spend 4 years in uniform, travel the world, grow the Hell up, have lots of fun, and be discharged honorably with a DD-214.  Proof that you served.  You'll be better received when you apply for a job than those with b.s. degrees.  And the best part: The military will then pay for you to go to college.  No student loans, evah!  They'll even send you off to become a doctor or lawyer or nurse, if you want.  It's the best little known bit of news you never knew.

But don't let your kids spend 3 or 4 years going into debt to get a degree that makes them broke and employers yawn.  Have them start in the trades, or go to the Army.  Or Navy.  Or Marines.  It'll grow your kids up virtually overnight and save your retirement money so you can blow it on yourselves.  What's not to like?

You're welcome. 

On Growing Up.

I grew up in a really small town in Northwest Missouri.  Back in a time when there was no Internet, or 24-hour news cycle, or other attraction to keep us occupied.

Almost Iowa, almost Nebraska and almost Kansas, it was.  And just under 10,000 in population.      

The town, Chillicothe, Missouri, which means "Fork in the river," according to the Ojibway Indians, tried hard for decades to grow above that 4 figure number.  But without success.  It was the Livingston County seat, however, so there was a degree of importance in living there.  Big gray 4-story courthouse in the middle of the town, with banks and jewelry and clothing and grocery stores surounding it.  The kind of place where the farmers come to town on Saturdays to do their business.  In freshly pressed bib overalls.  The ones with the two straps over the shoulders and a couple of pencils in the little pockets in front.  And oh yeah, the straw hat covering their eyes.

Chillicothe was the kind of town where there was literally nothing to do.  There was no water park, or skating rink, or racetrack, or other attraction to keep residents occupied and happy.  Because they weren't.  Occupied and happy, that is.  We had to develop our own kinds of fun.  And God knows, we did.

We hunted, and fished, and camped, and took long walks in the woods.  That was about it.  Except for cars, that is.  Our salvation.

Cars were our way of gaining freedom.  The town was about 5 miles from end to end, and we'd travel up and down its 4-lane highway, burning rubber at each stoplight, and flashing our lights at each other as we passed.  And God help you if you failied to flash.  There would be a whispering campaign against you, wondering why you hated someone or other.

And then we'd park in the Dairy Queen, back in to a parking space, and open our hoods to show off our chrome-laden engines.

And since it was before the 24-hour news cycle and the Internet, we knew nothing about what was happening in the rest of the world.  Or even the town over.  All we could do was read the tiny town newspaper and the magazines to try and stay up.  I recall one of my best friends, Wayne we'll call him, for that was his name, saying that he'd just read about bi-sexuals in the latest issue of Playboy.  He held the issue up in my face and said, "You know Cass, I just learned something.  if I get any sex at all I think I'm gonna' have to buy it."

I swear this is true.  Sorry, Wayne.

About half the town went hunting in the fall.  In fact,  my birthday and my Mom's birthday bracketed November 11th, the day deer season opens.  The school closes, 'cause nobody would come if they didn't.

We didn't know about much of anything, either.  We knew that if you looked 21 you could buy two quarts of Falstaff for a single dollar.  And it would get you nice for the evening.  And I looked 21.  Which made me among the most popular guys in town.  Nobody knew there were drugs you could buy and take.  Except for what we read in Playboy.  We read about undergroud clubs in the big cities, where Black guys played bongos and smoked something called "reefers."  We didn't know what that was, or enough to know we should be finding some for ourselves.  No cocaine, no heroin, no dope, no nothing.  Just beer and fast cars.

My life consisted of getting up late and shooting pool until all hours of the morning.  And then maybe playing a little pot limit poker and drinking beer.  And then heading out to the Old Highway for some drag racing action.

There were 10 National Hot Rod Association record holders in our little bitty town.  Best and fastest cars anywhere near there.  And I managed to win enough playing billiards to buy the newest and latest and fastest car around.  

One of my professors in one of my colleges asked me why I didn't apply myself.  I told him it was because I made twice as much as he did, walking backwards.  He flunked me, BTW.  

So when my draft notice came in the mail I figured my life was pretty much over.  And since I was in charge of my little fiefdom back home, I wasn't anxious to leave it.  I had the fastest car and the prettiest girlfriend and the coolest pool cue, so I was king of my domain.  And being shot by some little Asian guy hanging in a tree, waiting for me to get off the plane, didn't sound good at all.  And this was before anyone had started heading off to Canada to avoid the draft, so I was stuck.  The time had come.

I was whisked off to basic training and was dumped into a melting pot of thousands of other guys from every corner of America.  Black guys, Asian guys, American Indians, Hispanics, Pacific Islanders, Chinese, from big cities and little towns like mine.  We were blended together into a stew.  Watch "Full Metal Jacket" to get a feeling what it was like.  

We were yelled at and marched and ordered around for 8 weeks, and then sent off to our duty stations.  Most went straight to Viet Nam to become cannon fodder.  Some, like me, were lucky enough to wind up with orders to Europe, or maybe Alaska, or maybe Hawaii  Me?  First to Fort Belvoir, Virginia for training to become a spook.  Yep, Army Intelligence had chosen me.

Seems like I did well on my entrance exams.  Well enough that they didn't want me to get blown up in the Nam.  They tapped me for Military Intelligence.  I know, I know.  It's an old joke.  But they actually knew what they were doing as regards intelligence.  The worst part was being stationed near Washington, D.C. at Fort Belvoir.  There were no dates among the local girls unless you pretended you were a liberal.  It was filled with lefties even back then.  And then I headed off to Germany to begin my tour of duty.

I go through all of this because you'll recall I told you I came from a small town.  With small town people.  Who knew not so much about anything.  And all at once I'm mixing it up with guys from all over America and from all socioecomic strata.  Rich, poor, Black, White, and all shades in between.  Smart, dumb, and all I.Q. points in between.  My best friend back in the Army back then was a Black guy from Detroit named Walter.  He thought it was funny my name was Chuck, as that was the negative slang term Black guys used for White guys.  Everytime he said my name he'd laugh.  

Oh course, I had to respond with a slang term of my own for his race, with no malice intended.  We learned that the folks we didn't grow up with were every bit as intelligent and worthy as were we.  We learned that we aren't so special without a helping hand from those around us.  

We learned there are no Blacks and Whites and Reds and Yellows in fox holes.  There are only our Brother Soldiers.  Who just might be called upon to save our lives.  Just like there's no athiests in fox holes.  We all prayed regularly for help in getting past this portion of our lives.  The portion between racing up and down the freeway and drinking cheap Falstaff and shooting pool, and shooting it out with terrorists in God-forsaken corners of the world.  Between growing up in an all White town and then having to depend on a Black guy from Detroit.

I tell you all this because a boy in today's America is considered fully grown physically when he's between 16 and 18 years old.  Girls?  14 and 16  years old.  So your kid is considered an adult at the age of 18.  And we absolutely know that our young men are nowhere near grown at that age.  In fact, I can tell you from my own experience that I wa still a Big Kid at 25.  I'd been doing the same things over and over again for several years without my horizons expanding.  Trust me, enlisting in one of our military organizations will grow you up.  Macht Schnell!  They will beat your name out of you and replace it with your service number.  Take you apart and rebuild you to become a lean, mean, fighting machine.  You'll lose what remains of your baby fat and replace it with muscle.  And tendons and sinew.  You'll gain weight and strength and speed.  You'll be conditioned to operate at full strength for hours and hours.  You'll lose your small town self and gain a worldly outlook.  You'll gain mastery over your own body.  And mind.  And you'll grow up.  Fully.

Your job, Fellow Patriots, was to birth your kids and then keep them safe as they aged.  Until they become Tall Children.  That's what I call our 18 year-olds.  They're nothing but hand grenades just waiting to go off.  Do yourself and them a favor.  Take them to the Recruiting office and help them sign up.  You'll send them off as brash, untamed, unfocused kids and welcome them back as hard, straight, well manered and sophistocated young men and women.  They'll get to see the world, rub shouldeers with other men and women their age and capabilities, and then gain confidence.  Confidence borne of proven performance.   

I speak from personal experience.  I was a smart ass pool pro with a fast car who didn't need and didn't want what the Army wanted to give me.  But I learned pretty damn quick that it's not what you want, it's what your Country wants.  And you'll learn fast that's more important.

Fewer than 1% of our population gets to serve in our militaries.  It's an all-volunteer service now.  No more draft.  And the men and women who now serve are slightly older than before, much smarter, far better educated and more able to protect us, you and me.  Whatever you think about the military, 22 countries demand 2 or more years out of their young men and women.  To give something back to the country that raised them.  I served.  Your kids can as well.  It made me who I am.  I shudder to think what I would have become had I not been drafted.  And I thank God it forced me to become who I now am... 

P.S.  Oh yeah, the Gubmint will pay for your kids' education after they come back from serving.  You won't have to spend a load to get them a degree.  Let Uncle Sam do it.  Use your savings for an RV so you can drive all around our beautiful Country.  It makes sense to do so.  Dollars and cents.  Call me if you need further convincing...  

On Growing Old(er).

(NOTE:  I usually write my postings of a length approximating a normal visit to the bathroom. Perfect bathroom reading is my goal for this unassuming little blog.  This one?  Let's just pretend you're constipated.) 

There comes a time when everyone realizes that there's more of their life in the rearview mirror than out the front windshield.

When you're young, or even young-ish, out to maybe 50 years old, you never consider your own mortality.  You believe you're immortal.  You think you can do the dummmest s*it and get away with it.  Nothing will bring you down.  You'll pull muscles doing stuff you shouldn't be doing (right Andy?), without a second thought.  Nothing will hamper your continued path to greatness.  Or even average-ness.  Because you're impervious.  You think, "out of sight, out of mind."  Like Scarlet from "Gone With the Wind," "Not gonna' think about that today.  I might think about it tomorrow, but not today."

And then one day you realize you're old.  You can no longer run as fast, or jump as high, or drive as well, or see as far or as clearly.  You no longer think in terms of what you're going to do when your grow up.  Because you're already grown up.  

You're like, waaay past grown up!  

And then you start accumulating ailments.  Your back begins to hurt when you exert yourself.  Your prostate takes charge of your pee breaks.  Your eyesight goes from 20-20 to 20-50.  Your hairline begins to recede, and then your hair falls out.  You develop a paunch.  You need a larger pair of pants.  You know, the ones with the stretchy belt.  You can spell neuropathy.  You actually watch intently those ads for ED medicines.  You can no longer clip your own toenails.  In short, you're a mere shadow of your former self.  Your get up and go has got up and went.  Your high school track and football records are a dim memory.  And those high school friends have begun to die like flies.  And you're wondering if you're possibly next.

When you shave you choose not to see your entire face.  Just the small area you're shaving.  Sort of like not wishing to be a witness to the results of time and gravity.  That's why you're shocked when you see a picture or video of yourself.  "That isn't me, is it?"  

Yes, yes it is...

I passed that milestone some years ago.  And I met it with grace.  In fact, I'm wondering why we're not all provided with one of those purple stamps on a buttcheek with a, "Use By _____."  Like a side of beef in an abbatoir.  (That's "slauterhouse" for those who don't read dictionaries like crime novels.)  I used to worry about it.  Now I just laugh about it.  Because it's truly funny if you come to know you're as deflated as an 8-day old happy birthday balloon.

I played pool professionally.  I was at one time ranked among America's top 50 by "Pool and Billards Magazine."  I toured with Minnesota Fats during the summer of 1963.  I won both the Iowa and the Nebraska State Billiards Championship.  In short, I did very little else besides play pool.  All day, every day.  When I really should have been attending class and actually studying, BTW.  My father and I co-owned "Cass's Cue Club," a truly fine billiards establishment.  And that's when I got that invitation from Uncle Sam to join the United States Army.  I mean, I couldn't say no to my Country, right?

I happen to be a car guy.  I owned a 409 while the Beach Boys song was on the charts.  And a '66 427 Corvette that should have been declared illegal.  I used to race semi-professionally.  I had begun to realize that my decades-long quest to own every car I deemed collectible was a fools errand.  I realized that my desire to have the biggest house in the neighborhood didn't make me special.  It just made me broke.  

I've owned 127 of those cars in my storied lifetime.  I owned 5 of them at the same time while I was in the Army overseas.  And trust me, that wasn't easy to do!  I shipped two of them home from Germany, a Porsche and a VW.  I owned 11 of them at one time just a couple of decades ago.  Including my coveted 1968 Mercedes 300 SEL.  The fastest 4-door sedan ever made.  Even though I had a 4-car garage and a 4-car driveway, somehow managing to find a parking space out front for the other 3 always presented a problem.  And the neighbors were always pissed.  I didn't give a sh*t back then.  Now?  Please forgive me, neighbors.  I was a dolt.

I wanted to accumulate.  To own.  To collect.  Not stamps, cars.  I think I actually believed that old saying, "He who dies with the most toys, wins!"  My sainted wife/business partner and I ate out every night for 40 years.  I didn't subscribe to one magazine.  I subscribed to 22.  I always extended my finances to own more clothes, more shoes, more cars, more watches, more jewelry, more lavish vacations, more, more, MORE of everything!

And then one day I realized I'd been an idiot.  You don't own all that crap, it owns you!  And you're always paranoid that someone might try and take it from you.  And when you die, it will be sold off or given to somebody else.  Or maybe just chucked into the trash can and carried off to the dump.

Owning 11 cars at one time means you have to pay for the insurance and registrations on vehicles you almost never drive.  Or enjoy.  Because you can only drive one at a time.  That Pride of Ownership thing begins to lose its luster.  You have to wash them.  And maintain them.  It's a never-ending expense.  And a problem you're plagued with. 

My wife and I bought a '53 Rolls Royce.  For giggles.  It was major cool.  It was gold over cream.  WITH a bud vase!  She used to drive it to Albertsons for groceries.  In her cut-offs while wearing a t-shirt and bandana.  Blowing everyones' minds in the process.  

And having 5,000 square feet of house, with 6 bedrooms and 4 bathrooms, and a yuuuge pool, means you have to pay a gigondo light bill.  And gas bill.  And insurance bill.  And property tax bill.  When you should be packing those $Dollars away for your impending retirement.  Which you don't really believe will ever come because you don't think you're old.  It won't happen to me!

Not to Me!

I had 88 pairs of shoes at one time.  I owned 213 Hawaiian shirts.  Why?  Because I could.  Maybe I wasn't hugged enough as a child.  Yeah, that could be it!

Then I woke up one day with one of those head- slapping realizations.  I was over-lifed.  Too much of a good thing!  I began to divest.  To sell all but the cars I could drive on a daily basis.  I sold the mini-mansion and bought a much smaller house.  I offloaded all the shoes and the shirts and the clothes.  The Salvation Army folks loved me.  I even sold most of my expensive watches and jewelry.  I simplified my life.  And began to prepare for the time when I'd be saying Au Revoir to this plane of existence and welcoming the next.  I should have done it 10 years sooner.  Or 20.  But later is okay also, so long as you don't die owning a bunch of stuff you didn't need (how about that present and past tense in the same sentence?)  Burdening your heirs with having to divest it.  Do it so they won't have to.  

Jimmy Buffet, whose shirts I owned by the dozen, died recently.  Even though he just played a guitar and went barefoot, he passed on with an estate valued at more than $500 Million Dollars.  That's a lot o' coconuts!  

But he still died.  

Frank Sinatra's Palm Springs getaway pad just went on the market for $8.5 Million.  But it's still for sale.  He didn't own it.  He couldn't - didn't - take it with him.  His money enabled him to only use it until he croaked.  Because he made a sh*tload of money, he could afford it.  But should he have afforded it?  And then it's now being passed along to somebody else.  And after them, there will be another.  And then another.  That's called life.  

Or death.

Think of it this way:  If you own stuff there will always be those who who'll want to take it from you.  So you're always paranoid.  And anxious.  On the alert like a cornered, would-be target.  And if you're rich and famous, there will be those who'll want to take those riches away and sully your fame.  To bring you down to their level.  Including your own Gubmint.  They're maybe the very worst!  Revel in your anonymity, Fellow Patriots.  Once you lose it, you'll never get it back.  And you're always on guard.  Learn to love walking down the street and not being recognized.  Not having paparazzi chase you is a blessing.

I had a scare recently.  I was diagnosed with Metastatic Small Cell Carcinoma of the lungs.  Sort of the worst kind you can have.  The most invasive and fastest growing.  When I got the diagnosis I Googled it.  It said I had 1 to 3 months to live.  I shut the computer down hard and tried to forget what I'd just read.  

I underwent a full course of chemotherapy treatment, which is just about the worst thing they can do to you.  They try to kill you by pumping your veins full of poison.  You get so sick you're afraid you won't die.  Then you get sort of well-ish for a week and then they do it to you all over again.  For 4 full rounds in my case. Thank God I'm now in remission.  I still have to have immunotherapy infusions forever, my oncologist tells me, but I dodged the bullet.  Since my oncologist is in her '40's, I'm guessing her "forever" and my "forever," are quite different "forevers."    

But at least I proved Google wrong.

Even though that ailment might not kill me, something else will.  For sure.  I'm like the proverbial '87 Honda Civic with 234,000 miles on the clock.  It still runs, but it has a leaky main seal and drips oil on the driveway.  The brakes are bad, and so are the tires.  There's this strange noise coming from the rear end.  The shocks are shot and need replacing.  And the transmission slips.  But it still runs.  

That's me.

I'm not long for this world.  I could get run over by a truck tomorrow.  Or today.  And you could too.  At your age, our age, at any age.  I'm cruising around the Clubhouse Turn and I can see the flags flying at the finish line.  You'll be there too one day.  In the meantime, here are some thoughts On Growing Old.

     - I'd advise everyone to simplify.  To buy only what they need and sell everything they don't.  In fact, I've now embraced the philosophy that if you haven't worn it, or used it, or driven it in the past six months, you should give it away, sell it, or discard it. 

     -  I'd advise you to eat less, exercise more, get plenty of sleep and learn that money cannot buy happiness.  No matter how much of it you have.  

(BTW, since fat is just energy, and we're told energy cannot be destroyed, I wonder where all that GLP-1 weightloss fat went?  Did the emaciated Chinese gain it?)

     -  Don't take life too seriously.  You'll never get out of it alive.

     -  Take care of your car and it will take of you.  It's  the second biggest purchase you'll likely ever make, so keep your car clean and well maintained.  And don't buy a new one, ever.  Buy one somebody else has turned in from a lease.  For 50% less than sticker price.  The average new car price is now $51,150.  With an $800 monthly car payment.  Ghaaahh!  Let someone else take the hit.    

     -  You're not special.  Your breath stinks and your feet smell, I don't care who you are.  And so does everyone else's.  You're imperfect.  We're all imperfect.  No matter how much money you make or how famous you become.  You were designed that way.  Some of us get lucky and live a more public life.  Or unlucky, perhaps.  We don't live in a fishbowl, you and I.  They do.  And their kids are a study in how not to raise children.  Plus, think about the fact that you'll likely never need a psychiatrist!

      -  If you have kids advise them to join the Army.  Or the Navy.  Or another of our military forces as soon as they get their H. S. certificate.  They'll grow them up macht schnell!  Making men and women out of your tall children.  And preparing them to live their lives in today's America.  You'll send off kids and welcome back grown men and women.  And then the military will pay for their education.  So you and your loved ones don't have to.  Taking a big load off your shoulders.  There's really nothing to even think about here.  Trust me.  

     -  Never upsize if you have a choice, and downsize when and where you can.  For the sake of living a simpler and longer and happier life, with a lot less stress.  My first house was small, only 1,148 sq. ft.  I felt bad about that at the time, and worked hard so I could buy a bigger one.  Always clawing upward.  Now?  I could easily go back to that simple home and be happy as a clam.  

     -  You'll never fail if you never take a chance.  Take those chances.  Only by so doing will you learn and improve.  Otherwise you'll always be delivering somebody else's mail, or ringing them up as a cashier at Wal-Mart, or selling popcorn at the local Bijou.  Stretch your talents and abilities to the extreme.  And learn to win more by losing less.  

     -  61% of us work by the hour.  Clocking in every day.  Including every cop and fireman out there.  They can become captives of their own secure, cushy lives. Golden Handcuffs, they call it.  Paid so much they cannot quit.  While 16.1% of us work for ourselves as entrepreneurs.  Selling hot dogs or running a 5-Star company.  Dancing to the tune of our own drummer.  Taking full charge of our own lives.  Wouldn't you really rather be an entrepreneur?  You can start today.    

     -  Spend your remaining time with those you love.  Doing only what you love.  And use the money you've saved living frugally for travel, and nice dining, and reading books.  And lazing by a quiet stream.  And taking long walks in the woods.  Or shooting pool with the boys once you retire.  Wal-Mart needs greeters.  But it doesn't have to be you.  You'll thank me...

I'll be visiting the Celestial DMV one of these days real soon.  If fact, I'm looking forward to it.  You can only dread something for so long.  Then you swallow a big gulp of reality and grow a pair.   Deciding to just go with whatever the rest of your life hands you.  You check in, give them your information, and are told to take a seat and wait 'til see your name up there on the TV screen.  I'm waiting... 

But doing so only after having performed what I call "pre-need" distribution of my remaining excess possessions to those who I think should have them.  Instead of just waiting for them to fight over my stuff after I go, why not give the stuff to them yourself?  Right now??   You don't need it, and they do.  Make sense?  I gave my grandson Jackson my coveted '57 Chevy car model the other day.  I'd owned it for more than 60 years.  His eyes shined brightly.  I beemed as broadly as he did.

We sure do waste a lot of time, effort and energy doing all the wrong stuff while we're alive, now don't we?  I've stated many times I believe that life is a Final Exam.  But we won't know whether or not we've passed until we die.  Hopefully some of us find out what's important while we're still alive and there's time to do something about it.     

I did.  I hope you will as well!

(P.S.  Thanks for being an address on my distribution list.  I vent, you can read it or not.  Either way, that's okay.  I just have a need to puke forth my thoughts using a keyboard.  It gives me an outlet.  And perhaps you another way to look at things.)