16762--Reality From A Certain POV

I'm pretty sure I'm not looking at things like the majority of people, what you might be inclined to call a "normal" person.

I remember it used to be limited to things I was writing.  That was fine.  I would analyze my writing as I constructed it.  That seemed to be quite practical, allowing me to assess whether or not I was moving things in a proper direction.  If it wasn't making me happy, I could change it.  "Oh, I'm building a cliched story, or at least something I've seen done before.  Looks like I need to do something else."

Now--and though I say now, it's something I've seen building over several years--I can't just sit and watch a movie or a TV show or enjoy reading a story.  As I take them in for processing, my mind is analyzing them.  This isn't to say that I can no longer be entertained, but I've got a whole other nerd processor running simultaneously.  I guess that means they're not doing enough to engage my brain.  Yeah, I was that kid in school, with mom exchanging pages of notes with teachers about giving me extra work in class.

When it's entertainment time, I'm trying not to be spoiler guy for anyone else in the room.  Fortunately, working out the mystery set-up of TV shows or movies ten minutes in doesn't mean I can't enjoy a good story and entertaining characters with well-written dialogue.  In fact, it makes me look harder for them.  It also makes me look for more news and read more non-fiction to give the Nerd a rest, but that's OK, too.  I like learning.  The Nerd loves Jeopardy!



With fiction, though, I'm looking for something that's not wasting my time.  I want something that's well-written, whether comedy or adventure or drama, because while I'm immersing myself in the alternate reality the Nerd is at work.  "Ah, here's the conflict character," he says.  "Here comes the climax," he tells me.  "This would've been better if--" or "Oh, they still need to do ______ because they still need the plot element of this character to ______ in order to justify the others doing ________."  "Remember how all this started?" he asks.  "Look at these changes _______ has gone through."  "Oh, this is going to work out to be ________."  "Needs more cowbell."

The Nerd isn't so much a critic as a clinician, breaking written works down into analytical elements.  I suppose that means it lives in the left brain, being all logical in there.  I know it's tied into the writing part because, as mentioned earlier, it does it to me, too--analyzing my writing as I'm writing, figuring out story formulas, story needs and such.  Sometimes, it's almost like having a co-writer, I imagine, but with smoother communication.  "Look, irony!  Call Alanis Morrisette."

"What're you doing?" she asked as I backed up the movie for the fourth time to replay a single line of dialogue.  "Is something wrong?"
"No, I just love the way he says that line," I explained.  "It's this perfect inflection where you can tell he's in pain after being tortured, but sounding surprised that it hurt.  It's just enough to make it sad and funny."
"You're such a nerd."
"It's a great delivery," I said, pushing PLAY.  "Sorry."  Sometimes it gets out in the open.

Eyes aren't just the windows to the soul, they feed your brain a tremendous amount of information you're not even fully aware is there.  So what's that brain of yours doing with it?  How is it affecting the way you interact with what, in effect, is your particular world?  Something tells me that other writers must go through this sort of internal interaction much as I do, watching people as character studies and absorbing entertainments as analytical examples as well.  You tell me, though.  How does the world look from your POV and does your reality have enough cowbell?

16756--And What Do Lost Boys Do?

  Neil Armstrong has left the building, not that I'm going to talk about him behind his back.  The thought was just occurring to me that we can put a man on the moon (people used to love to say that when they were about to let you know something that had them both really pissed off and very disappointed), but we're still plagued by pirates.  And I'm not talking about 21st century information pirates or audio/video pirates.  I wish I could say it was even roguish elements roaming the high seas aboard black market Russian battleships and some sneaky submarines.  None of that would be true, though.















I don't know whether the classic pirates like Blackbeard and Anne Bonney would be impressed with their ingenuity or aghast, but most of the pirate action I've been hearing about off the African coasts seems to be perpetrated by small squads of guys in small motorboats.  They're driven off by fancy piloting of larger target vessels and sometimes by fire hoses, but that just makes it all the more surprising to me how successful they are the rest of the time.  These brigands are capturing big cargos and holding crews for ransom in defiance of the miltary efforts of several countries. 

Rather than continuing to expend resources on failing to stop pirates, though, I think some television producers need to jump in and create new reality shows.  We've got lots of tough guys out there who I imagine would need little encouragement to hop into fast boats with big guns to go deep sea hunting.  Throw in prize money on top of that and let the competition begin! 

Lost Boys: East Africa     Lost Boys: West Africa     Lost Boys: China Sea

I think our friends at Disney have a lock on "Pirates of the Caribbean", but I'll know there are pirates to hunt down there, too.  Pirate hunting would have to be more watchable than "The Bachelor" and wouldn't have to manufacture action like "Survivor".  It could easily rival the danger of "Deadliest Catch" or "Ice Road Truckers" and freelance pirate hunting could even make world travel a bit safer.  Let's face it, the pirate industry has survived for so long that if more isn't done about it, ships are going to be running into them the next time we send people off to the moon or Mars.  Obviously, we don't want that, so let's do it for Neil and all those other pioneers--those who've been and have yet to be.  Throw some tough guys at the problem.

I don't know how the pirates will react to being hunted, but I expect it will make for some great ratings.

16602--I Can Tell You It's Chewy

It was a peaceful Saturday morning.  All the cartoons I cared about watching were over and I was getting ready to visit one of my good friends.  We were single guys with free time and a Saturday ahead of us.  Before I could leave the house, though, the phone rang.

My mood being what it was, I took a chance and answered.  On the other end of the line, rather than a caller I knew, I found myself chatting with a telemarketer asking me if I'd like to take a survey.  I was feeling generous or perhaps just mildly adventurous, so I told him to bring it on.  He sounded surprised and maybe a little excited about not being rejected.  As I said, I had free time.  And he was going to send me five dollars and a bag of Fritos.  I was in.

The caller proceeded to ask me if I had cable television service.  I did.  With that confirmed, he told me to tune to a special leased channel so he could show me a commercial.  Just for me?  Cool!  Plus, I just learned what those strange extra channel spots were being used for.

The private show began and I was treated to two slick commercial spots for a new chewing gum.  The ads had clearly seen the touch of computer wizardry as well as creativity.  After watching them, the survey began.  I was asked about my impressions of the commercials.  Had the appropriate messages about the virtues of the new gum been conveyed to me?  Going through that, he asked me the deal-closer: Would the commercial make someone like me buy their gum?

Answering honestly, I told him, "No."

I think I actually heard his crest fall.  "Oh?  Why not?"

"Because I don't chew gum," I said, "so I would assume that someone like me wouldn't either, so..."  There it was.  We had a few seconds of silence as, I imagine, he realized the time he could've saved if a question covering that one basic thing had been added to the front end of the process.  We were already several minutes into the whole mess, though, so he pressed on like a trooper.

I'd seen this sort of mentality before, in Congress of all places.  The Department of Defense had this project they were developing called the Sergeant York.  It was an anti-tank weapon that, even after having had over a hundred million dollars thrown at it, literally couldn't hit the broad side of a barn.  That's no hyperbole.  I saw the video footage.  The decision was made to continue throwing money into development because they had already invested so much at that point.  You may sigh now.

The survey droned on with the two of us slogging through a staggering list of questions that all seemed to end with the exchange--> Me: Not likely at all.  Him: Why not?  Me: Because I don't chew gum.

I kept smiling and refrained from laughing.  In return, every few questions, he muttered an apology.  Hey, we were both getting paid for it, so we did our jobs.

We finally wrapped up the awkard call, put the survey behind us and got on with our lives.  When I finally made it to my friend's, I got as far into the story as starting the survey when he looked at me with puzzlement and that cocked head thing that people do.

"I don't think I've ever seen you chew gum," he said, shaking his head.  "You don't chew gum, do you?"

There it was!  Like I said, cover those crucial basics early.

Now, I'm going to imagine that there are some life lessons in all this somewhere, but I'm going to leave it to you to pull them out this time.  I've got to go recover from that mind-numbing survey all over again.

16521--Old Business

Old Business

To all appearances, an ordinary man stepped into view from the surrounding darkness. His short black hair was perfectly groomed. His simple black suit and narrow tie hung without a wrinkle on his slender frame. A slight creasing showed on his beige flesh at the corners of his mouth as it smiled enigmatically.

“Submitted for your approval,” he spoke, “a man and a woman, their names don’t matter.” His head moved slightly as he made minor gesticulations. “Tonight is different from any other, as they will soon learn, for it will decide the remainder of their future. Tonight, on the edge of understanding and the border of mortal comprehension, these two will plunge headlong…into…into…”

The aforementioned man led the aforementioned woman into a deserted doughnut shop and politely offered her a stool at the dining counter.

“Well, half the lights are on, but nobody’s here,” she said, looking around the empty diner. “That means no waiting. Life is good.”

“Ain‘t life a snood,” he said, looking around the establishment, “not a cop in sight.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she muttered.

“Probably.”

“Do you think I can get my pizza with relish?”

“You can’t be serious,” he told her. “You’ve had too much to drink already.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she challenged.

“Sure, I do. Your blue snood. You wore it last week.”

“A taxi backed over my mother, somebody shot my cow, etcetera, etcetera. Why wouldn’t I want a drink? Flying aardvarks, man! Did you know that Sigmund Freud had died?”

“That was a puppet.”

“A puppet?”

“Yeah, a puppet,” he explained. “Someone with somebody else’s hand up his pants. He was a legend.”

“Well, when life gives you melons,” she said, “make melonade.”

“That’s so sad,” he said with a sniff, wiping at a nonexistent tear on his cheek. Then, grabbing her by the shoulders and looking his companion squarely in the eyes, he told her, “You take your melons! Take them and shake what your mama gave you!”

Nearby, the man with the enigmatic smile came to life once more. In a soft voice, he spoke again, saying, “Variation on an age-old theme: If an economist gives a lecture, but no one shows up to hear, will it still be boring? Of course it will be.”

“Look, everyone’s entitled to three or four vodka martinis when the mood strikes!” she insisted.

“They don’t even serve leopard here,” he tried reasoning with her. “You’d have to go across town for that. Nothing else goes with martinis the way leopard does, but you just can‘t change its spots.”

“Damn spots! That’d be a horse of another color. I’m gonna go take a bath,” she said seductively. “Care to join me?”

“No, Lucy,” he said, spinning playfully on his stool, “you can’t come out to the club and be in the show.”

“But I have to be…or not to be,” she replied. “I can’t go hungry again! We’re having company for dinner.”

“Well, are you coming or not?” she persisted.

“I don’t know. Is that legal?”

“Cream cheese isn’t illegal,” she told him, “just flattening, but if you warm it up first, it even feels good.”

“Be careful,” he said, reaching out a gentle hand to her cheek. “I couldn’t bear it if anything were to happen to you.”

“Me, either,” she responded softly.

She stood, knocking over a container of coffee stirrers as she moved. They both looked at it as though it had come to life.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I don’t know what it is,” he said. “Let’s shoot it and see what happens.”

“That’s all you ever think about,” she complained. “You never lick my eyeballs the way you used to.”

“Life’s a snood,” he said. “Get used to it.”

“I have an announcement,” she said dramatically.

“The penguin died?”

“How’d you know?”

“You have that glow. Don’t look at me, though, I don’t even own a blender.”

“I’m so drunk.”

“Should I be surprised?”

Once again, the strange but well-dressed man spoke.

“Black rain falls from the cloudless, blood-red sky. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this place.”

Then, his body stiffened, becoming completely still. Across the shop, the man and woman had also become motionless.

“That’s enough!” a man cried out from the darkness. “No more! My ulcers can’t take this.”

Three men walked into the doughnut shop, one overweight and visibly disturbed, the second not quite as agitated though still concerned and the third dressed in gray coveralls and indifferent to the stressful plight causing so much anguish around him.

“Ya see what I gotta put up with?” the first man asked, waving his arms at the lifeless figures. “Whatta ya think it is?”

“After what I just saw,” the man in the coveralls said. “I’d say that their CK9Run logic dots probably burned out a while back.”

“They blew that entire scene,” the second man said.

“Yeah,” the man in coveralls said, “I’ve seen this before. They’re not going to make any sense till we replace those processors.”

“Can ya have ‘em done by morning?” the first man asked.

“No problem,” the repairman said. “I’m going to have to take them back to the shop, though.”

“Just make sure you have them back in the morning,” the second man said. “They’ve cost me enough time and stress already.”

“They’ll be ready.”

“Alright, get these piles of junk outta here,” the first man grumbled. “Jeez, Morrie, this is supposed to be the best hardware in the business and we can’t even get through a week without it breaking down? How does anybody ever get programs made?”

“I dunno, boss,” Morrie said, watching the repair crew walk the androids out of the studio, “life’s a real snood.”

“Oh, well,” the producer sighed, turning to walk back into the dark, “still less trouble than live actors.”

“Definitely, sir.”

“All that food talk has me starving. Get us sandwiches for lunch, will ya?”

“I’ll order in,” Morrie answered. “You know what you want?”

“Surprise me.”

16505--At Home with Harry, Estelle and Rusty

UNDER PENALTY OF LAW

Saturday

Harry’s middle-age spread filled the seat of his worn recliner. He seemed almost a permanent fixture, as much a part of the furniture as its collected food stains, as the weekend’s football games were displayed on the flickering screen before him, hour after hour with no apparent end. The special, super-deluxe, command center remote control in his right hand allowed him to do everything he could conceive of doing from his chair, so he almost never released his grip on it. During a game, that only happened when he had to actually get to his feet to go to the bathroom. Everything he ate or drank was handled with his left hand. Getting everything he ate or drank to his chair was handled by…

“Estelle!  Estelle!” Harry shouted.  “Bring me another beer, will ya?  Awww, geez!  New York’s getting stomped.”

Harry scratched his forty-seven-year-old belly, the most significant movement he had made in the last hour, through his white, cotton T-shirt. The shirt fit him snugly, long ago stretched tight by his often enthusiastic, but usually mindless, consumption habits. He ran a meaty hand over his thinning grey and black hair.

The doorbell rang. Several seconds passed and the bell rang again. Rusty trotted into the living room from the kitchen. The small, tan mutt paused at the front door for a moment. He let out an uncaring bark that sounded like a huff or a belch or some combination of the two before walking over to Harry’s easy chair and curling up at the sluggish man’s feet.

“Hey, Estelle,” Harry called out, “you gonna get the door or what?”

“You get it,” Estelle called back from the kitchen. “I’m on the phone with my mother.”

“And I’m watchin’ the game,” Harry said. “And bring me another cold one, will ya?”

Whoever was outside the front door switched to insistent knocking which quickly came to border pounding. Estelle finally emerged from the kitchen, shuffling to the front door in fuzzy pink slippers while mumbling about beer, football, home runs and television. She had left her mother chattering away about the week’s soap operas, but figured she could get back to the phone before her mother noticed Estelle’s absence. One hand pulled her yellow terrycloth robe shut while the other fussed over her new perm, making sure she was presentable before opening the door.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” Estelle said, reaching for the door knob.

Two men, sporting neatly cut black hair, jet-black sunglasses and equally black suits, ties and shoes stood motionless on Estelle's stoop, their shadows falling over the housewife as she looked up at them. Their faces were as expressionless and inscrutable as mannequins.

“Well?” Estelle asked impatiently. “Salesmen, angry neighbors or Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

“That‘s classified, ma‘am,” one of the men said.

"Oh my gawd," Estelle said, her eyes lighting up.  "You sound just like...and you look...Are you...Jack Nicholson?"

"No, ma'am, he's not," the other man said.

"Oh," Estelle said, getting confused as though trying to work a puzzle, "you sound like him, too.  How come you both sound like--?  Are you two brothers?"

“What do you think, partner?”

“Fits the description,” the other man-in-black said, his voice disturbingly similar to his partner’s.

“What‘re you talking about?” Estelle asked.

“Bag her,” the first stranger said.

“Right,” the second acknowledged, throwing a heavy black sack over Estelle that quickly covered her from head to waist.

Rusty lifted his head just enough to make another huff belch, but lowered it again as the black-clad pair yanked the wriggling Estelle out of the house and closed the door. Only a single fuzzy pink slipper remained to mark Estelle’s passing.

“Hey, Estelle,” Harry called out.  “Hurry up with that beer.  This one’s almost empty.”

The heavy sack was yanked away to allow a hot, bright cone of light to shine down on Estelle’s naked face.  She tried to lift a hand to shield her unprotected eyes, but one of her captors reached from the surrounding darkness to slap it down.

"OW!  What'd you do that for?" she asked, rubbing her hand. 

“Naughty, naughty,” one of the men said, slightly amused. “Just sit tight, lady. We’ll be right with you.”
"If you want me to sit here for long, I'm gonna need a better chair," she insisted.  "This is too hard.  It's not comfortable at all."

Estelle could see only shadowy figures in the darkness beyond her cone of light. She listened for any sound, but heard nothing. She began to worry and fidget.

“M-My ma’s gonna start to get real concerned if she notices I ain’t there no more,” Estelle said. “Wh-Wh-What’re you gonna do with me?”

“Do you like living in this country, ma‘am?”

“Huh?” a puzzled Estelle responded. “Well, yeah, a’course. What kinda question--?”

“Are you a communist?”

“Or a liberal?”

“Who‘d you vote for in the last five elections?”

“I--I--I--” Estelle stammered.

“Looks like she‘s going to be difficult,” one of the men said.

“Should I get the equipment?” the other asked.

“Looks like you’d best, partner.”

“Equipment?” Estelle parroted. “What equipment?  What’s going on?  What's with all these personal questions?”

“Don’t think you can play games with us, you commie pinko subversive maggot slime.”

“We know who’s been naughty and who’s been nice,” the tag-team badgering continued.

“We see you when you’re sleeping and know when you’re awake.”

“We know when you’ve been a filthy, law-breaking maggot, so come clean for goodness sake.”

“About what?  I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Estelle protested.  “I ain’t done nothin!”

“Oh, really?” one of the men asked, rolling his eyes behind his obscuring glasses.  “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen...this!”

A swiftly moving hand passed into the light, flinging a small plastic bag into Estelle’s lap. She picked up the clear, sealed bag and looked at the piece of white paper contained within. Smooth on three edges, jagged on the fourth, the torn scrap of paper bore bold print that read: UNDER PENALTY OF LAW THIS TAG NOT TO BE REMOVED. The frightened woman’s eyes widened and her jaw grew slack. As swiftly as before, a hand darted back into the light to snatch the evidence bag from Estelle’s trembling fingers and disappear with it into shadow once again.

“I suppose you’re going to try telling us you’ve never seen that before,” one of the men said with a chuckle.

“And that you didn’t tear it off the bottom of a chair,” the other added.

“But I--”

“But me no buts,” one of the agents said. “We’re on to you!”

“The jig’s up, Lillian,” his partner said. “You’ve done the crime and we’re going to do the punishment.”

“Crime doesn’t pay, lady,” the first one said, leaning close enough to show his toothy grin.

“But--”

“I warned you…” one of the agents said, the clicking of switches being flipped and the sound of a whirring electrical motor spinning up to speed penetrating the blackness.
"Now you wait just one doggone minute," she said, defiantly shaking an index finger at where she thought someone might be.

"Waiting time's done," an agent said.  "You had your chance to confess."

"Now," the other told her, "you're going to find out what happens--"

“My name’s not ‘Lillian’.”

“What?” the men asked in unison.

“My name’s Estelle,” she told them.

“That can’t be right,” the agent said, losing his grin.

“If you’re trying to pull a fast one, lady,” the other man said, “I’ll warn you now--”

“So you’re claiming you’re not Lillian Dumont?” the other asked her.

“Well, no,” Estelle told them. “I mean, yes…”

“Which is it, lady?”

“I ain’t her,” Estelle clarified. “She’s at 123 Oak Street.  Me and Harry are at 132 Oak Street.  Oh, that woman’s just awful.  I could tell you stories...and she thinks she's so high class...Have you got any gum?”

There was a long silence in the dark, finally broken by the nervous shuffling of papers and a dry cough.  A half-empty pack of gum flew out of the dark, landing in Estelle's lap.

"Thank you very much," she said, taking a stick of gum.

"Keep the pack," one of the voices instructed.

“Well…damn,” one of the agents said. “You know how many forms we’re going to have to--?”

“There’s been a mistake ma’am,” the other man told her as more switches clicked and the electric motor whirred slower and slower.

“Sorry about the commie, pinko, subversive…Well, all of it,” the other agent said.

“Yes, completely our fault, ma’am.”

“Oh…it’s OK, boys,” Estelle said. “I guess there’s no real harm done. After all--”

“Bag her.”

“Right.”

The front door flew open as Harry flicked a bottle cap at the television.  Estelle tumbled into the house in time to hear Rusty huff belch and Harry grumble something unintelligible at whatever game was on the screen.  Still shaking, Estelle closed the door and wriggled her bare foot back into its forlorn slipper.

“Harry,” Estelle said.

“Estelle, you got my six-pack, baby?” Harry asked her, his eyes never leaving the game.

“But, Harry, I--”

“Could ya hurry it up, Estelle?  I’m dyin’ ovah here,” he told her, “and the game’s goin’ inta overtime and…Holy--! Would ya look at that?”

Estelle shuffled off into the kitchen.  She picked up the phone, still where she had left it on the counter and held the handset to her mouth and ear.  Her mother was still talking and had only gotten as far as Wednesday’s soaps.  Estelle put the phone handset back on the counter and sighed at the sticky mound of dirty dishes that looked like they were growing larger in the sink.  She turned to the refrigerator, opened it and took a cold six-pack of beer from inside, then closed the door again. Setting the cold cans on the kitchen table, Estelle reached for one of the padded metal frame chairs. She tipped the chair back and looked at the underside of the seat cushion with an odd smile.

“Estelle! Geez!” Harry bellowed from the living room.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” Estelle responded, hurrying in from the kitchen.

She stopped beside Harry’s recliner and set five of the beers on the table next to her husband, handing him one. Harry took the can, already anticipating the refreshing feeling of having it in his mouth as he heard the hiss of opening it.

“Ahhh…that’s good,” he said as he suddenly noticed that Estelle was still standing over him. “What?  You want a medal?  Dinner ain’t gonna cook itself.”

“Sorry, Harry,” she said, taking a last glance at the little table before she left.

Looking past the waiting beer cans, Estelle’s gaze focused on the torn piece of paper she had placed next to them. She smirked once more as she read the bold, black words “UNDER PENALTY OF LAW” and felt a little bounce in her step as she turned to saunter off to the kitchen to decide what she would have for dinner while waiting for the doorbell to ring again.

14886-Give me liberty or die

Awhile back, I was talking with my wife about health care. She related to me someone's proposal to nationalize America's medical care. I suppose this is an issue that's just not going to go away. It's certainly not the first time I've heard it and I doubt it will be the last. The federal government isn't supposed to be involved in this and doesn't have a track record that shows it'll be able to run such a program to our benefit. This isn't to say it can't be done. Many countries have excellent healthcare programs that are nationalized and their people are very happy with them. They do not live in our country. We have a government that once took control of a brothel (through the IRS) and mismanaged it out of business. I can't even begin to fathom the depths of ineptness required to mismanage running a brothel. That alone should make enough of my point, since medical care is supposed to be for the benefit of those receiving care, nationalizing it isn't likely to put it into the best hands.

Our federal government has an instruction book that defines how it's supposed to work. It's called the Constitution. It's the law of the land, but it gets ignored a lot. That's not the way the system is supposed to work. You don't sit down to a board game, play around the rules that everyone's agreed to and expect it to work right. If you don't like it, find another game. Oooh, listen to me, sounding all radical and conservative simultaneously. Face it, we have a lot of rule-breaking politicians in the game. Many seem to want to get into it just to see how much they can cheat the system.

Anyway, with our government being run that way (don't act like it's a surprise), the people who keep getting into it try to meddle in ever more areas outside the set boundaries. With more meddling comes more mess (classic red tape, price increases) and less of people taking care of their own affairs. Unfortunately, people receiving "free" stuff (actually, the stuff of others that's been legislated away from them in a Marxist redistribution of wealth), is one of the great lures of a governmentally run program. Under such relentless socialistic assaults, personal responsibility is very nearly dead. Once the ball gets rolling, people just keep asking the government to do more and more for them. "Somebody should do something!" "There oughta be a law!" Personally, I feel like we have plenty of laws already. I don't get up in the morning and phone a politician to ask how to get through my day. I wouldn't even ask one to hold my wallet for me, let alone housesit. I'm sure not going to ask them to babysit.

One of the ongoing battles involves the efforts to use legislation to protect children from internet and television content. The danger of tarnished innocence is just a click away they tell us, whether it's from a remote control or a mouse. These cries always smack of hyperbole to me and make my eyes roll of their own volition. Whether the dangerous content is on your TV or on your computer, the safeguard is a simple one. Follow: it's your television and your computer. What shows up on them is up to you. You have the right to make those choices. These are rights that have been fought for and it is of criminally tragic proportion to give them up without as much of a fight. If you don't like what's on, change the channel or turn the thing off, but never never ever abdicate your authority away to a bunch of people who can't even handle the things they're already assigned to do.

Likewise, the law and the nature of Freedom saddles you with the burden of making decisions for your children. Anyone attempting to change that should make any responsible adult spew forth bile like a geyser from the depths of his enraged innards. They're your kids watching whatever on your stuff in your home. Should a bunch of strangers you wouldn't let babysit really be responsible for what you can watch? No. The solution is (write this down) that you pay attention to what your kids are doing and watching. No, you don't get to cop out and tell me you're too busy. I pay attention to what my kids are watching on TV, whether we're watching something together or not. I know what's in their video games and sometimes play them with them. They ask for permission to use the computer and are subject to having their shoulders peeked over frequently and randomly.

Blame my parents. Yes, both my parents worked in demanding careers, but I still managed to have home-cooked, balanced meals so often that I barely remember the times it didn't happen. More impressively, that low-incidence of take-out meals occurred even with great New York pizza and Chinese food being readily available.  With such dedication came parents who knew what my favorite TV shows were, what music I liked and sometimes even watched Saturday morning cartoons with me. We were also known to actually talk with each other and they encouraged me to read and...Well, the point is, be in control, don't hand it away. Exercise self-discipline and taking charge of your home will be easy.

We have all the local cable channels available and high-speed internet. External media product is piped into our home daily and the only nakedness I see on a regular basis is my wife's. How is this possible? My choice. I click and click and click, yet I don't find myself accidentally staring at hours of erotica. Neither do the kids. Trust me on this. I don't sleep much, so I know. Maybe Congress is keeping me awake with all the noise they make. If only there were some way to keep those government guys under control. There oughta be a law.