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DOG WHISTLE
For some reason when I was a kid we had a dog whistle. We didn't have formerly trained dogs. Our mutt dogs lived outside, came when they were called and crapped in the neighbors yard. They barked at strangers, did not bite and were great with kids.
One definition I found was; A "political dog whistle" is a coded message communicated through words or phrases commonly understood by a particular group of people, but not by others.
Ironically the only people who possess the ability to hear these secret words and phrases are in the media. They by definition are the targets of these secret words and phrases because they seem to be the only ones who can hear them....woof woof!
Serious journalists like Morning Joe and Mika can hear them but they are not alone in this.
There are dozens of pundits on networks and cable outlets that can clearly hear and interpret every secret word, phrase, hand gesture and symbol. I have learned so much about all of the secret coded messages I am supposedly guided by.
They say with only a few speeches Nixon convinced racist southern Democrats to switch political parties. They say he did it with secret coded words and secret messages or dog whistles.
I have heard about the Southern Strategy for decades but no one explains why a racist would leave a racist party. The shift might have been because Nixon offered and alternative to non-racists to leave a racist party.
The media obsession with the KKK is great for starving actors because Netflix may have employed more of them to dress up like clan members than there are actual clan members.
Citronella Tiki torches are for more then mosquito control, but I do hate mosquitos.
Displaying a flag and singing the National Anthem is secret support for Nazi nationalism, racism and hatred.
A truck driver honking twice means Hail Hitler or maybe you just cut him off, I'm confused.
Hand signals like okay is now a secret symbol for white power. Who dreams this up? I must have missed the memo, it was probably a secret memo or a super secret memo.
In middle school it meant I get to punch you on the arm because I made you look. So I guess in a way it is a symbol of violence. (made you look)
There are so many normal things that have been assigned secret motives, obeying laws, respect for authority, a work ethic, pride in your country, free speech, professional sports, the Constitution and US history.
I really don't have the time to figure all of this out. It is easier to listen to the actual words people say. I know the words people use may not be what they mean but to run them through a secret decoder ring is just stupid. I have a feeling this tactic has more of a purpose.
If you can't make an argument, make shit up. I think that is what this is about.
Lazy journalism is one thing but slander and stirring division is all by design. Inventing secret messages simply shows a lack of reasoned arguments.
I have grown weary of these highly paid blow hards. They are lazy and ignorant or they are willing liars. They say they are educated and smart so they can do better. Please do some research and come up with some convincing arguments and give up this secret message silliness we aren't on the playground anymore.
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ORDER IS SOOTHING
This was my world for almost 40 years, order was the goal everyday.
The idea of arranging pieces of dead animals in an appealing display at a reasonable price for homemakers to purchase to feed to their families that eventually processed into shit was how I paid my bills. I have no buildings, bridges or inventions to claim, everything I did turned into actual shit. I know this is a blunt statement but bottom line that is what I did.
Enduring cold, working with sharp objects, the steady march of code dates, power mad inspectors, rude customers, back stabbing middle management and repeating the same ritual day, after day, after day, after day was about it.
Now that I have depressed you there was a bright side. I learned how soothing order can be. As I arrived each morning I surveyed the damage from the day before. I would start again not skipping a step. Each step was vital as I reconstructed the perfect display.
Outguessing the public is a fools errand but a "computer assisted" ordering system, warehouse screw ups, special holiday orders, the weather and "dog and pony show" visits from corporate were also part of the fun. It was a combination of traffic controller, jigsaw puzzle champ, fortune teller and weather man.
In the midst of chaos I found those moments when the case was full, fresh, properly signed, on schematic and in code. Every package was aligned, the garnish was fresh, the glass and countertops were spotless and everyone was on time ready to work and in proper dress code. For that one brief moment everything was perfect.
Then, in the blink of an eye, one sweet little old lady would appear. With some strange super power she could in one pass move, flip, poke and destroy my perfect work of art.
Allis-Chalmers CA built in the 1950's
I had four acres of lawn/field that I kept mowed in Ohio. I had a small farm tractor with a brush hog mower that was shaft driven from the power take off. I restored it with new paint, rubber parts, a tuneup and the original decals.The hours and hours of mowing these fields would last until dusk. I would sit on the front stoop with a glass of sun tea smelling the fresh cut grass and admiring the perfect pattern of my wheels. After 30 minutes it was dark.
I would eat, sleep and leave for work before sunrise to return to see the spring rain had produced four inches of new grass/weeds.
There are many things in life that are like this. I shave my head and have for around three decades. Every two to four days I shave my head but it is only perfect for about four hours.
We wash dishes, sweep floors, wash windows, wash cars, shovel snow, dust, do laundry, mow lawns, shower, eat and sleep. No awards, fan fare, parades or trophy, only the satisfaction of doing it to the best of our ability.
I did not fall into the trap of resenting my employer. I worked for some real characters in some very miserable conditions but I agreed to work for the wage they offered and always had the choice to stay or leave.
The economy was bad, good jobs were scarce and inflation was as bad as today. I worked the jobs I could find but I was never oppressed, a servant or a slave. I was a man in a working agreement to do a task for an agreed wage, nothing more and nothing less.
I found that pride that he talked about, I took pride in my work and always tried to do it well, I was my own man. The secret I had discovered was not to expect praise or recognition. I had higher expectations for my performance then my employer. This insulated me from their criticism.
I wrote this post because of a conversation I had with a group of men. A few were whining about how they hated their jobs because they were not getting recognition for their hard work. I guess I sound heartless because I asked if they had been paid for their work and when they said yes I asked them if they were waiting for a hug to go with it.
Maybe I'm old school, not woke and out of touch but I survived a life of toil and sweat with very few resentments. I have a few regrets about my choices but they were my choices.
I still seek that precious moment when everything is in order, clean, fresh, spotless and perfect. If my external world is in order somehow my mind, body and spirit are also in order.......
....but I could have more issues.
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The world wide web isn't the Wild West as it was in the beginning. There are powers trying to control the flow of information but the Genie is out of the bottle. With a little effort and a desire to find information the truth is still out there.
First you need to ask yourself the question, do I want to know what is actually true or do I want to settle for my truth or what I want to be true.
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My parents were part of possibly the last generation that saved their money to buy things. Today we don't look in our savings account, that is if we even have one, instead we check our credit line.
My parents were shaped by the depression and the Second World War. After the war, the returning soldiers got married and began to build the American dream.
My Dad built the small house I was raised in. He worked full time as a machinist, rented a room from a relative and spent his off time salvaging materials from a two story house he had contracted to demolish to make room for the new high school.
He saved everything, lumber, windows, nails, doors and whatever he could reuse to build our tiny house. He did all of this with the help of an eccentric local farmer named Drexel Harris.
Drexel still farmed with horses so my Dad scooped out the tiny basement and graded the hillside lot using his horses. He built the house himself as he got the money and never borrowed a dime.
I'm one of the sixties rebels who rebelled and questioned the social and moral norms. Music, fast cars and the sexual revolution, that I am grateful I missed, and a new way to feed our impulsive wants, revolving credit.
Living up to and beyond our means with a line of credit was becoming normal. I was responsible in the beginning but later on I dabbled in high interest credit card debt. This was partly because of circumstances but for decades I lived under a cloud of these plastic taskmasters.
I have righted the ship and have things under control but I still don't own a home or anything building equity. I do however have an excellent 816 credit rating (whatever that means) and a long line of credit waiting in the shaddows for another weak moment.
I fought with my parents over this issue like most kids. I bought new cars, had the latest toys and refused to live by a budget. I paid my bills but investments and compounding interest would have ment a very comfortable retirement.
"I have enough" and "simplify, simplify, simplify" have been a guiding principle for much of my life. I have learned to be creative with what I have, avoid giving a damn what the cool kids think and living below my means.
My bike trips have taught me the adventure gets better when I have less money to spend. I would not camp as often or cook as much if I could stay in nice motels, eat in restaurants and get massages.
Connecting with people is now my goal so asking for permission from a farmer to camp in a pasture or asking the local police about a safe place where they "don't look" is much more interesting then negotiating with a motel office employee.
I have shared meals with hungry strangers along the road. We usually combine whatever ingredients we have to create a unique hobo stew. I love that I have a humble bicycle rig. I have learned what I really need and what I really don't need.
Perhaps this has nothing to do with how smart or wise I am it is how this mode of travel has made me learn this. My mistakes have forced me to change, I take no credit for this other then my initial selfcentered mistakes.
I doubt I have a unique story. This younger generation is living the life they will learn with and hopefully they will move on to the life they will live. I'm just grateful I survived my stupid past.
If you can keep wealth in perspective I admire you. Many if not most have learned these things the easy way. Unfortunately that has never been my style.