07 January 2013

Cup of Kindness


I read an obit from a neighboring town for a lady who lived to be 93.  She lived and worked all her life in the town in which she was born. From all appearances she looked as if she'd not really accomplished much.  She worked her entire adult life as a waitress in various venues; the article didn't mention any higher education.

The posted picture showed a kind and gentle face smiling at the camera, gently frosted with wrinkles.

The article said she was loved by many and would be missed by everyone in the town; they all knew her by name and remembered her fondly.

You think about a remarkable life. You ponder about what makes fame or how to measure success...

I wonder if she considered herself successful.

She'll be missed by thousands who knew her by name... thousands! Yet, she didn't build any cathedrals, or fly a plane across the Atlantic. She didn't write a best-seller, or sing like an angel on stage.  You'll not find her on the silver screen or standing behind a politician's podium.  She wasn't a prestigious CEO. She didn't make a six-figure income or live in a mansion.

But, I'll bet you my last dime she kept your coffee cup topped off and hot, and knew exactly what you wanted for breakfast by the look on your face or the temperature outside. She could serve you up a smile on the gloomiest of days and never utter a harsh word to even the most cantankerous customer. And, I imagine, she never felt as if she was a less than... or treated anyone else like one, either.

You could measure success by the number of bodies you trample to get to the top. You might consider yourself successful by rubbing elbows with the creamiest of the crop, and turning your nose up at your employees, or the hotel maids, or the rest of the ribble-rabble you consider less thans. You can put all the pretty little initials you want behind your name... but, I can guarantee the people attending her funeral will be there because they loved and respected her in life.  The people at your funeral will be there because they're expected to be.

So, how do you measure success? Is it in the kind memories and warm thoughts you leave behind in others; others whose hearts fill with love at the thought of you? Or, is it measured by the title you procure in your career; the highest rung you achieve on the corporate ladder; the number of lowly less than employees you can bully and ignore on your trek to greatness?

I have no answer. The careerly (it's a word now) successful have buildings named after them. Sometimes they secure that honor in life by having a building remodeled while they hold the highest office, giving them the credit and accolades, complete with their pretty, little names on a big, shiny plaques for all to admire.  Other times they donate obscene amounts of money to have something built in their honor - in essence, their names live on for centuries (barring the zombie apocalypse).

Yertle the Turtle, the king of the pond...

I have no illusions about my own impact on this world. If I have a funeral, it won't be attended by many. (There should be coffee, though... It wouldn't be right to not have coffee... and maybe some good coffee crumb cake. Hot and cinnamon-y. That would be nice.)

Anyway.

I'm envious of this woman who, in the typically successful person's eyes, didn't amount to much during her 93 years on this planet.

She's contributed more to this world than the best of the elite, and, although I never met her, she's earned my respect - for what that's worth. It's more than I can say for any executive.

She should at least have a tasty sandwich named after her, that's all I'm saying.

Sandwiches are more functional than plaques.

In Joy & Enjoy


05 January 2013

Zombie Lies and other important thoughts


I've been contemplating zombies...

Do zombies really need glasses?
(she hates this picture)
Not because I see them every day on the streets where I live, stumbling in their drugged out, stupor-ish lives from one corner of existence to the next. Not because I'm afraid that's all life has to offer me in the choice of a Friday night date. But, because, like our current socialistic-bent economy, they're not sustainable.

Follow me here...

That's a good crowd... you can do it...
We all know what part our muscles play in our movement - it's not all just nerves, spine and brain function. In fact, even after we die we sometimes sit up on the table while Morty the Mortician is preparing us for our final show.

Or, we fart... just sayin' - we're not at our best.
Muscles move our bones and joints; they propel us forward. Without muscles, our brain can bitch all it wants at us to move but a'n't nothin' gonna happen.


So, here we have decomposing bodies stumbling toward us, grasping for our tasty brains because their brains have been infected with... well, to be quite frank, they keep changing it up on us - from gamma rays in space to some sort of plague or man-made virus.  Supposedly, the only way to kill these beasts is to unplug their brains - a hole through the brain with any sort of sharp, blunt or heavy instrument... or a bullet, seems to do the trick.

...or, not.
Okay. I'm not buying it. I think TPTB are setting us up for epic failure when the zombie apocalypse comes around.

Much like they do with the old wives' tale a vampire can't come into your home unless invited. Gives you a false sense of security, it does. And boy, is your neck red when you realized, too late, you've been led down the garlic path...

which is yet another lie.
But, back to zombies:

The way the body works is after you die, the components which are "you" cease to function.  Your digestive system no longer operates. (We know this because in every movie ever made about zombies, not one is squatted down to take a dump.)

...well, $h!t.
Hrm.... anyway, you can no longer turn brains into energy... so your muscles will, of course, deteriorate. Without these muscles, like a marathon-pot-smoking teen you a'n't going nowhere... fast.  Or slow. You'll be piled in a heap of rotting flesh and bones, hoping some hapless soul will trip on your corpse and into your gaping maw.

Unfortunately, there are just too many real images of corpse piles...
Which brings me to another thought I've often had - Wouldn't you be the most safe in an old-folk's home? After all, they have no teeth, can't get around without some kind of assistance and are already slow as hell - especially when they're in front of you in the supermarket aisle.

Same goes for babies.
I'm tangent-ing all over the place.

My lost-in-the-haystack needle of a point is, 'they' have been lying to us. IF a zombie is walking, it is not dead, only mostly dead.

...and mostly dead, is slightly alive.
IF it's mostly dead, it would have to be damaged in the frontal lobe - the part which apparently effects personality and behavior.  Therefore, you probably CAN stop a zombie by destroying its heart, spine - any part which would kill a living person.

Why are they lying to us, you ask? Maybe TPTB are hoping to watch the destruction of this civilization from the sidelines; taking bets and swapping statistics.

Wouldn't it suck to be working on the set of The Walking Dead when the Zombie Apocalypse breaks out? 
But, to be safe - if a zombie starts coming after you with hunger in its eyes, shoot it in the head. Jest sayin'...

Please ensure it is a zombie, and not your blind date.

In Joy & Enjoy 

pass the popcorn, please!