Cooperation

         
           I've been meaning to write a blog on the beauty of cooperation. Although in the aftermath of our recent presidential election, where we elected an admitted racist, it seems silly to talk about cooperation. I'm not sure how much cooperation there will be. So, I'll discuss the topic on the micro level, and not the macro, for people are far too agitated right now. 
           What I mean by cooperation is the giving of yourself, doing what you need to do to make life easier for somebody else. The opposite of cooperation is resistance. It takes more energy to resist. Of course resistance is necessary, especially now, but a cooperative resistance is stronger and more fulfilling than going at it alone. You can cooperate with yourself, but it's not as fun as cooperating with others.                    
            We need to get in the groove of cooperation. In other words, don't be a dick, or try not to be. It's hard I know, I have trouble with it myself. I want to resist at every twist and turn. When people talk about love, they're really talking about a form of cooperation. 
             So don't be a dick, be nice, give of yourself, cooperate. The rewards are greater than the demands.
         

         

           

           

Bill The Piano Man

         
            I used to sing jazz at bars, Tin Pan Alley, the American song book. I didn't know much about singing then. I didn't even know what keys to sing my songs in.
            A friend of mine recommended a piano man named Bill to help me find my keys. Bill was a crotchety old man, but he could play any song in any key, and that's what I needed.
            I met Bill at his house on a Saturday morning. He sat at the piano and we started to work. I hadn't even sung three notes when he abruptly stopped playing and said, "I know a good singing teacher."
            I was offended by his comment. We hadn't even found the right key yet.
            I'd pay Bill twenty bucks and leave his house with the information I needed and a cassette tape to practice to. Sometimes Bill and I would butt heads while working. We'd argue about the key to sing in.
            "You can't sing it in that key! It's too low for you!"
            Or too high. I'd always defer to Bill in the end. He was a better musician than I was, and I trusted his old-man judgment.            
            I'd pop the tape in to practice when I got home, but it was always the same. It was a strain to hit the notes. No matter how hard I tried, I never got any better. I finally got discouraged and gave up singing standards and began writing my own songs again.
            Recently, I learned some of the songs that I'd sung in bars on my guitar. I played them in the same key that Bill taught me, but I still couldn't sing them. They were either too high or too low for my voice. I tried playing them in different keys to see if that helped. Bingo. I'd been singing the songs in the wrong key all along. Thanks Bill. I thought about the nights I sang in bars and how horrible it sounded. No wonder.
            How many other singers did Bill mess up? Probably a lot. He was pretty busy.

The Algorithm

         
            In the future, when I'm dead and gone, governments will be run by algorithms. Politicians will cease to exist. Hackers will try to infiltrate the algorithm to divert money, to slow the system for their own causes, or just for the fun of it. So, not unlike governments run by people, the algorithm will be immersed in gridlock from time to time.
            Power will be in the hands of those who create the algorithm and who have the ability to change it. Every four years the public will vote on whether the algorithm should be changed or not. But it will be just a formality, because nobody will really know if it was changed or not. 
            Essentially, the algorithm will be a giant treasury that collects and distributes funds much like what current governments do, but instead of people deciding who gets what, the algorithm decides.
             There will be an algorithm to check "the algorithm," and an algorithm to check the algorithm that's checking the algorithm, and so on. Instead of complaining about politicians the citizenry will complain about the algorithm. People will say, the algorithm is getting me down! And, fuck the algorithm!  

Clowns vs. Streakers

         
           I'm not sure where the clown fad came from, or why. It took me by surprise. One day I woke up and everything had turned to clowns. There were clowns on social media, pictures of people dressed like clowns, videos of clowns, lots of clowns.
           When I was a kid the fad was streaking. There were naked people running in their white tube socks and tennis shoes through the streets. No gas station, grocery store, college campus, sporting event, was safe from the sight of balls flopping, and titties jiggling. It was great.
            Once when I was a kid, I was watching the Academy Awards on television, when from out of nowhere, a man who looked like Burt Reynolds streaked across the stage at the Dorthey Chandler Pavillion. I couldn't believe my eyes. It happened so quick the censors had no defense for it.
            I'd like to get into the mindset of a streaker. One minute you're enjoying the ball game, and the next minute you're running stark naked onto a field, trying to avoid being tackled by security.
            Times have changed some. Not many people running naked as a jaybird in public these days. No balls, no flopping. 

Pussy Grabber

         
            In other news, the national dialogue has turned to pussy. Or more specifically, grabbing pussy. There's forty-six thousand, eight hundred and seventy-four homeless people in Los Angeles and we're talking about pussy. 
            I'm wondering what the bible thumpers in the South think about all this pussy talk. It's got to be tough to justify voting for the pussy grabber now. But I'm sure they're trying to convince themselves that grabbing a little pussy is not that bad. And it isn't bad if you have all your paperwork in order, and you have permission, and you wink, and they wink back. But El Trumpe didn't have his paperwork in order, he was doing it illegally. 
            I get it. I understand why the country is talking about pussy. I can't stop thinking about pussy either. So in my mind, the country is finally being honest. But it's still amusing to me. It's like sexual harrassment is finally fun again. 

Sick Of The Right

       
           I was sick for the last week or so. I had a headache and was feeling weak and tired. My body broke out with little red spots. It was a rash of some kind, but it didn't itch. I'm not sure what I caught. I was taking ibuprofen, but it made my mouth taste funny so I stopped taking them. My illness eventually, magically, disappeared. Just like that. And now I'm back to normal.
           Speaking of being sick. I'm sick of the election cycle we've been embarked upon. It's annoying. It would be more interesting if people were capable of engaging in intelligent debate, but as far as I can tell most people simply believe what their parents taught them to believe about politics. My mother is a lefty. And now I'm a lefty. But I remember sitting in class in college and asking myself if what I believed politically was because of my mother. The answer to my question was yes, definitely. I am the product of my parents' teaching. Then I thought, what if my belief system was wrong and what my mother taught me was wrong? Maybe conservatives are the true and righteous. It's not like my mother was educated. Let me think this through. So I did just that. I thought about my place in life, how and where I was raised, and I thought about my economic situation. I am part of the proletariat. I thought about conservatives and how they relate to the proletariat and I came to the conclusion that my political beliefs were in accordance with the struggles of my everyday living. It's obviously more complex than that, but this is a blog, not a book.
            I worry about the people who don't take the time to think things through. Who don't ask the question of why do I believe what I believe? The people who blindly follow, not fully aware that their beliefs may not even be their own.
            

High Five!

         
          It occurred to me that there's a generation of kids and young adults who for the rest of their lives are going to be teased for playing video games. 
           What's wrong with Charlie?
           Too many video games. 
           Is that why he can't talk?
           I think so.
           Does he know how to high-five?
           Of course.
           It also occurred to me that there's a generation of kids and young adults who were conditioned by their parents to high five for celebratory occasions. It's interesting to see adults in bars giving each other high fives. Although I like the high five, it's probably one of the dorkiest things you can do in life. And I'm guessing these same adults will teach their kids how to high five and on it will go.
           Growing up we used to say, "give me five," and then slap somebody some skin. I'm not saying it's better than the high five, but maybe just a tinge cooler.