It’s Grimm! So, it’s impo-tent you laugh


What is it good for?


(unless, you don’t have any)


First nation folk developed their own means of exchange.

In USA 5th grade social studies texts, little people, like myself, heard the condescending explanation that a worthless, semi-desert, pain in the tush to canoe over, island, was handed over by gullible-indians to Dutch colonial types for a few cases of beads. (Retail in Amsterdam about $24 Dutch Kroner. Or 24 million in 2020 dollars)

And so, New York, Manhattan, Island, where now 1000s are dying every day, April 1, 2020, proves the adage:

 there is no fool…

Greater than an april fool!

Unless, you have a pink elephant in command getting his jollies over the misery going along the streets of his home town,

Thus, bringing horrible suffering to the snobby descendants of dutch masters cigar makers,  who showed no respect for the poor little rich boy, now, unable to resist at least a gloat.

So sayeth the pink elephant, “Money, you can’t take it with you. And our country needs the money right now…”

He/she who laughs last…

What goes around, comes around…

Revenge, a dish best served cold!

At WWII concentration camps, confused jewish prisoners, dragging out their dead humankind from gas chambers over to the lime pits, heard the peals of laughter from the guards in uniform…

“What’s so funny to those Nazi-goons keeping their distance from this pathetic human stench?”

It’s called a “Gallows sense of humor.” Or laugh at death, if he laughs with you? You get another day…

Laughs at you? Make your final arrangements…

It’s chemically, humanly, impossible to be angry, and laugh at the same time. 

Norman Cousins published a book describing how he stood up to his stage-four cancer (death sentence) by watching every funny silent movie comedy from the great’s of their era like:

Charles Chaplin, English communist,

Fatty Arbuckle, convicted child raper of a 13 year old

Al Jolson, selling “darkly toothpaste” for a whiter smile

Carol Lombard, before killing herself over a “one and only” had drpped her for a less controlling witch, with a capital B.

I predict, in my never humble opinion, one day American History textbooks will devote about 12-13 pages to the year, 2020.

The pages will be borrowed from the 12- 13 pages we now devote to the war of 1812, fought in 1813. (trick question on old-fashion history-teacher tests.)

In the 1700s,  the new colonial governments were tangled in a love triangle: 

the french guy wanted to trade beads

the native semi-naked lady wanted her warrior to bring in the deer, or bacon, if that’s all he could scrounge, 

and then there was the german King, sitting on his royal privy, and tut-tuting he should have complete CONTROL, and thereby, OWN, everything in sight, in order to better rule BRITANNIA or its another way of saying…

The sun never sets on the British JACK! or…

There’s a yardarm somewhere in case…

You’re the one with an over-fondness for a morning “wake-me-up” tequila sunrise,  or morning tonic & gin, or both.. 

Understand something! Once upon a time in showbusiness the drunk got the biggest laugh!

Exaggerated portrayal of drunk-behavor, was the most common belly laugh in show-business from the Shakespearean Stratford on Avon, right up to the digital brats declared what was “Politically-correct.”



The pilot episode of the Dick van Dyke show has a cast of characters that made their original living from the stage.

In NY, all around the cities that we now think of as “The Greater Metropolitan Area.” Actors thrived on small stages doing their little stage acts which became to be called Vaudeville.

Is anyone laughing in 2020?

The tribal communities?

Once again ignored by the white media and discussions. The first nation folk are collectively, the invisible kid in a school, who everyone can see, but no one pays attention to..

Who “sold” to “whiteys” something that can’t ever be “owned.” A piece of our mother.


You can trash, poison, and abuse mother up to a point. Then you reach the point-of-no-return.

Native tribal communities are run by women. Especially, the old haggard crone one, nobody “likes.”

The United States elected their first woman president, by 3,000,000 popular votes, in 2016. 

We could have had mama, doing the right thing and making us sit up and take our medicine.

But no, “the boys” with the wampum mind-set, went for: 

BOZO! The clown 

He that entertains, with a painted face, orange hair, and red-nose.

The great-one, Red Skelton, was never afraid to laugh at his own jokes. Funny is funny.

Robin Williams believed laughing at his own material, was insulting to the “profession of comedians.”

Therefore, by stubborn resistance, he let the disease of “anger-at-self” or “depression,” kill him. 


2020, it’s no laughing matter…


In a maelstrom of death, a  camp guard at Andersonville Prison, during the War of Northern Aggression, circa 1860-’65, was overheard:

“Ya, I gotta have a little fun weith these damn Yankees, teach’em a thing or two about the southern way a doin’ thangs.”

“Whatch-ya gonna do bubba?”

“Well, if one of these yahoos decides to make a break for the fence, escape, and go back to their line and kill more of our boys, how much distance can he cover before I reload this Winchester, and take a second shot?

In case I miss the first time?”

“Stevie-Joe, the last time, ya’ll missed the first time, was age 14 when you was so over-jugged at your own birthday party, ya tried to kiss bette-Jean, and laid a big wet one on Bubba Bob!”

“Shut up! There’s one of those yankee sprinters right now, figuring he can dash, jump, and clear out! Whatch this!”


“Why’d you do that?”

“Save lives and ammunition.”

“I cain’t follow you there Capt slim-pickens.”

Well now, P.t. Slim-Jim, ,”I just taught those 1000s of New York-jersy-Boston yanks the meaning of a:



The Little School Within a School

Dr. Owen Martin Henson was one of three vice-principals at Topeka, Kansas’s “Flag-ship”High School, Topeka High School. 

The Vice-President of the United States, for a time, was a native American, with roots in Kansas, and managed to repurpose an original mast, from the USS Constitution, undergoing renovation in Boston shipyard.

The mizzen-mast has a job different from the other two, it Carries “the colors” or ship’s flags. The nation of originw is not the  only one, but it is the most prominent. 

Red White and Blue are the flag colors of England, France, Russia, as well as the United States. They are most visible from a distance, to another ship sailing on a mostly grey-desert of undrinkable salt water. 

The antique mast was shipped by rail to the yards of the Sante fe, unloaded, to a logging truck, erected to the east of the state’s flagship gothic structure of education.

State law required attendance to grade eight. Many rural parents would become angry with a youngster wasting time in a classroom when they could be 

plowing new ground.

English private colleges of secondary education were the most respected when kansas entered into the union of states 1854, and declared a “free state,”

The location chosen for THS is a stone’s throw from the Capital-Dome and office of the governor. A government “of the people” likes nothing better than to show off, and make their folks feel they are a bit “better,” than the neighbors. Especially, the border-ruffians to the east.

The border-wars between “The Jayhawkers” that burned the town of Lawrence, Ks twice, and the “Freedom Fighters” smuggling rifles under boxes of Bibles has never really disappeared. 

Back to the installation of the famed war-ship relic, preserved under the auspices of Smithsonian expertise. Converting it to petrified wood.

The VP came  to be a part of the festivities, take a bow for his boss,  and fake-blush during the accolades of the mayor and the press. Also, maybe, Kansas would vote for his boss in the next election? Even if they did, his boss was only a one-term president. The mast remains!

Since it is illuminated in the dark hours, there was no need for raising and retiring the colors every day. But once in awhile, there is a ceremony to replace by a color guard of military units, by marines of course, or the national guard if the Marines are too busy sharpening their swords..

In simple words, there is as much history, tradition, and an ingrained pride in Topeka High, as the building itself.

The idea of a constructing a new High School, out on the west edge of the city limits, for an expanding population fleeing from “those people” would generate a backlash.

Alumni and alumnae loudly voiced there support to the 501 school board!


Hmm. To get this accomplished is going to take a genius, someone who enjoyed being told, “It can’t be done.” So, then they could go and do it, just to show off a bit…

Some candidates for a doctor of Philosophy, or Ph.D., are required to write a DISSERTATION!

Usually, it’s filled with some inane collection of obscure important sounding vocabulary, a sort of fake elevated version of the king’s english.

It helps the “included” feel they at last have “their club.” Without all the boys club secret recognition rituals.

Also  to demonstrate, occasionally to the unwashed lower certified or people for not understanding the meaning of a simple vocabulary word like “Parameter.”


returning to our story after Georgia roadside interlude…

Dr Owen-Martin remained a learner his entire career. Sometimes something would happen, and based on prior experiences, his stage of inner-development, and level of understanding at the time, he would make a decision, and later, have second thoughts.

The principal he worked for was a former coach. Not particularly successful as far as winning games. He thought it more important that every kid on his team have a chance to “get in the game,”  than win the contest…

So, he was kicked downstairs to the Principal’s job. A sort of Icon, with memories dating back to the one-room-school, once dotting the prairie grassland. They often multi-tasked.

On Saturday, a place to flirt and fish for a “special” someone. On Sunday, a community church awaiting for a circuit-preacher to show up for a few months, perform marriage rites, memorial services and speak THE WORD on Sunday. 

In the absence of an ordained minister, a Deacon would fill in for “a month of sundays.” (kansas slang fer a long long time)

During the other six days of the  “Rev. Visit.” He might assist a blacksmith, help at the general store, teach some math and hold morning prayers at the school. The school “Marm” could be anybody, but females were the tradition west of the Missouri, River. 

A girl who finished grade six and hadn’t found “the right man” yet, was a prime candidate for the job of “school-marm.” If she made it through her first year, when the sixth grade boys were mostly interested what was below her belt, instead above her chin, she did okay. The next year, she had  a two-year age gap, then three…

By the time her 3rd graders, horrified by the bad example of the sixth grade boys two years ago, were now the sixth-graders, and carried forward high respect,because she earned it.

Also, as any real teacher can tell you, it’s not until the third time through the same material a person has the confidence to handle content. And focus on what the kids really want and need, love and attention. Not goals and objectives. Or a text and materials designed to do all the “drudgery” for you. Grading exams, entering grades in the grade-book, and all the bookkeeping to “earn parents” if their child is in jeopardy of getting a D or F, “flunk slips.”

If a rural community, had a good year, a rare bit of surplus cash in the bank, the city fathers turned the newspapers, full of classified advertising. 

Education: Teacher seeking employment in the west. Certified. Write to the following address:

“Smith College,” was founded by women for young girls to teach them a profession. Not so much the nuts and bolts, but more the confidence to seek an advance study in law, medicine, or politics.

A realm usually set aside for male domination.

There were no smith classified ads!

At commencement, they were challenged to go forth and do something besides “multiply.” (math humor)

SMITH! Expected it’s graduates to serve their nation and the borders beyond to make a difference for all human-kind.

The field of healthcare involves a scientist, education a leader, and most  often, a Business needs some common sense with a dash of intuition. ENTER! SMITH GRADU-WOMAN! 

The typical teacher, in the early 1900s, might go for a 2 year “teacher college” to maybe give the age-gap problem take care of itself. 

Maybe, the preacher would fill-in while the young lady who go away from home, get a certificate, and come back in 2 years, and resume her position at almost double her salary. 

A graduate of a two-year college might place this ad at the cost of 5 pennies:

“Send letter of inquiry or telegram care of this newspaper for possible placement of a qualified teacher in your community.” 

For decades, that was a “normal” way of matching students with a teacher. BUT,  “what’s normal” is really only “temporary.”

Smith, was founded by women with a mission to inspire a young girl away from the tradition of “barefoot and pregnant” (a contemptuous philosophy in the minds of evil-men.”

Smithites taught Literature, the humanities, and a high level of how to “carry oneself” in order to demonstrate against the masculine power structure!

A woman is more than a trophy, around for male  amusement, indulgence, and the occasional pat on the fanny, on her way to the kitchen or supervise, “the help.”.

The Smith girls were different. In the earliest days, overwhelming comprised of lesbians. What today (2020), is “gay” or “CIS-gendered, Comfortable In (their) Skin. Back in the day were referred to as the “Nancy Girls.” Any male associations, “The Nancy” boys.

After the conflict between the states, halted in 1865, a group of “prominent-ladies” assembled in New England in the Northeast corner of today’s United States, and signed a sort of Declaration of Independence for the Feminine mystic. 

Katie Stanton and Susan B Antony were wife & wife. They adopted over a dozen orphans and managed to raise them without molesting a single child. Susan B. Anthony is still with us, etched in metal.

An honor based on her famous defiance of the law of the land. She marched into a polling place in her voter district and cast her vote in an election for president of the united states.

Immediately arrested, then held in jail without bond, awaiting trial. She was found guilty by a jury of 12 men. All the men were unanimous, thundering a loud chorus. “GUILTY!”

The judge let the echo of outrage float out the windows of the small New-england crowded courtroom. 

The rows of open windows were jammed with the overflow of faces to hear what dramatic vile sentence his honour would impose…

A hanging in the public square? Stripped and flogged? Or maybe a boring life sentence of hard labor?

“Would the defendant rise. Young woman, anything you would like to say before I pass sentence?”


“Very well, the jury has found you guilty for the crime of voting in an election for president of these United States. You have been prosecuted legally by the laws and the Constitution of this state.”

I therefore sentence you to pay a fine of one dollar. The minimum allowed by statutes.”

“I refuse to pay a dollar.”

“Very well, then I release you on your own recognizance, and either side is welcome to appeal this decision to a higher court than my own.”

Susan never paid the dollar, but the dollar she refused to pay, did finally honor her: 

Susan B. Anthony, a smaller sized useful for laundry and other vending machines requiring dollars for service.

This essay dedicated in honor of:

Dr. Susan Lynn Alexander

Professor Washburn University 

Topeka, Kansas 

by her never humble wise-ass brother!

(For those history bluffs that want to point out any “error” in facts. Do the letters F.U. mean anything to you?

Crawl back in your ivory-tower and rant to some paragon of triva pursuit of facts, preferably a bronze one. At least the LEARNED figure-head won’t interrupt. )

Need TP?

Toilet Training…a wide spread problem

Some topics defy location. Toilet training, fortunately, is beyond the memory of most grownups. The pain of dirty diapers, training pants, and if you are lucky, wet sheets, challenges us more as parents than our personal experience as children.

Overseas, toilet training begins all over again, no matter what our age. The commode we all grow up with is a gift from the first Queen Elizabeth of England. It seems that the traditional method of the times was not dignified enough for Her Majesty and the odors of the Royal Privy were to “foul” for her majesty’s nose.

So, she called upon the talents of one of her subjects famous for his imagination and reputation as an inventor, one Thomas Crapper, (I’m not making that up).

It was Thomas that conceived the idea of another type of throne with a volume of water suspended above her head. A chain dangled from the water chamber, and when her majesty pulled it, the water rushed to another chamber and removed the waste matter down a pipe, out of sight, out of mind. He called it a Water Closet.

Her majesty was so thrilled with his invention; she knighted him for contribution to sanitary engineering. Unfortunately for Sir Thomas, his name became associated with his invention, the material it disposed of, and a lot of other crap.

We take it for granted today. But most of the world handles this operation in an entirely different manner. If you observe any three year old, you will notice that they have a natural ability to plant two feet firmly on the ground, rest their chin upon their knees, and prop their little bottom on their ankles. Try it yourself as a grownup and you will feel off balance and want to fall backwards. A clear example of the maxim, if you don’t use it, you loose it.

Well, that is the posture that most of the world assumes to handle their daily chores. Imagine Marilyn and my amazement when we first arrived in Ethiopia and were told that in this country there were no left-handed people.

“What? How can that be?”

“Well, the left hand is toilet paper.”

I know, Yuk. Now before the picture that this brings to mind revolts you, it is not exactly what you think.

Most of the world cleans themselves by splashing water on themselves rather than using paper. They think we are the folks that are unclean. Imagine that I sent you out to the back yard to pick up after the dog without a pooper-scooper, and then handed you some tissue paper to clean up after you came in. You would think, “gross.”

The French answer to this problem is a Bidet. A sort of fountain you squat over to clean yourself. Maybe they were the first to be worried about clean underwear if they are taken to the hospital after an accident.

Indonesians have a hose with a sprayer attached to the wall, much like we use in some homes to wash dishes. Or there is a tank next to the commode with a scoop perched on the ledge of it. Most Indonesians remove all their clothes and splash water with the scoop down their back until they are sure that they are squeaky clean.

The Japanese have solved this problem almost as an art form. It is a sort of marriage between East and West.

The first thing you notice upon entering the bathroom, much to your relief, is the familiar throne. But then your level of concern begins to grow after you sit down and notice a panel with buttons jutting out on your right. Hmm… unfortunately, all the instructions are in Japanese characters.

I always caution my student writers about not using bathroom humor, so I will try to describe this as delicately as I can. After you complete the usual operations you are familiar with, you push button number one. This gives new meaning to the term, “jet stream.”

Traditional jet steams whoosh aircraft along their flight paths and help you arrive earlier than expected at your destination. “Whoosh” may be only one of the words that escape your lips when this new sensation attacks your backside. The term “lift off” comes to mind.

Button number two. You will probably never be able to set through an automatic car wash, notice the hot wax application with the same attitude ever again.

Button number three. Well, of course, an automatic hair dryer. But it is not the usual hair that gets dried.

One of the luxuries is that the seat is heated. And if it isn’t, then you want to make sure the panel is activated, or the wash and wax is going to be the Eskimo version instead of the tropical.

There are other buttons. I chickened out and decided it was more than I wanted or needed to know. I’ve read enough Steven King novels to imagine some kind of horror novel event that I could do without.

Now for the kicker… If you go into a public restroom in the United States and gaze on the commode, the word “standard” is embedded on the rim of many of them. In Asia, the word is “Toto.”

Now… for someone from Kansas…

Dave Alexander, back in the world of SaVANah safe

Show less

Home school Free lesson

Tips for parents at wit’s end on what to do with whiney-kids bored, at home:

Below is a link to a black and white film, “King of the Cowboys” starring Roy Rogers. It’s Pluto TV, but not ad-free unless you upgrade, Since it’s black and white, I suggest using dpi setting on dpi 166. YouTube or the lowest dpi possible. It will be true to the time it first made the movie theaters.

This pre-WII film (90min.) has a great capacity to entertain, learn from, and connect generations.

Parents, children, grand-children and aging 70-99s stuck in hospital, nursing homes, and assisted living need our attention not platitudes. They want a chance, want to teach, share, and feel needed, now more ever! Forget the platitudes and the usual verbal love pats.

Maybe, your family is lucky. The loved ones you want to reach live next door or down the block, but they can’t come over because it would violate quarantine protocol to come over with popcorn.

Before you watch the film with anyone else, watch it alone, end to end. One sitting.

If you are team teaching with a spouse or teaching partner, have them do the same with ear phones on.

Have a discussion after you both have set through it. You will be surprised on your two very different takes and what the other got out of it or remembers.

Now watch as a couple, pause at every commercial break, and discuss… or make out for a bit…

Now class is about to begin.

The teaching team’s main job is to shut up, sit in the corner, and have remote in hand to pause the film after each commercial has finished and before the next segment begins.


1. If you retain the modern commercials, it reminds your students of what decade they are living in. OLSO CHEAPER!

2. It’s also respecting the fact: Not every bladder holds the same volume of urine.

3. Breaks are for chores, math-mini lessons, read-alouds from Dr. Seuss, or take a granny-break to visit shut-ins on Skype with her in hospital or assisted living. Get creative and let the kids come on live with breaking news around home.


LIVE from the front porch of the hodgepodge family this breaking development:

Little davy forgot to hit the bike’s breaks, and put a HUGE UGLY DENT in the side of mom’s BRAND NEW FORD PICKUP!

We are here with dad live for comment. Daddio?

“Uh, jenny is trying to hide fact she skipped a rock at Lil Davy and it nicked a paint chip off the 49 ford you guy’s just spent 15,000 back to original condition…

“Oops! Well, sorry vampires, all we have time for today. As usual our dad still likes making up “fake news” about his innocent and darling little children. Now for our commercials:

Well, this lil davy, and what my dad said is sorta true, what he left out is the blood gushing out my hand after her stupid rock ripped it wide open. So, good thing I had a can of this here Johnson and john Dr Dan the bandage man color corrected super stips for kids. See! Patched me right up the nick in my thumb.

Now, I would like to demonstrate on lil karen just where you can stick one of these bandaids!

High mom! We parents would like to interrupt this childish play that’s maybe going to be a “little TMI” nod if you agree. Cheshire mom fades out!

Moral: Chase away elder loneliness birds.

3. Bribery! By letting kids discover what’s really good, and good for them when granny is on speaker teaching her grand children “the right way” to bake a cake and fry chicken.

Also serve extra cold milk on cereal and accompany with warm cinnamon rolls made by mom and dad ahead of today’s boring school lesson!.

(Also pop some corn for parent’s snack, smooch while the kids are watching on the floor, etc.. Etc…)

Ramping up you knowledge base unlicensed or uncertified teaching teams:

Ok, “Why the hell I make my kids watch this old crap?”

Good question oh neophyte.

For the same reason us American History teachers ran 16mm films of fake WWI scenes for a 55 minute class period.

The films were really fakes made in New Jersy and Forsyth Park, Savannah, across the street from where this blog meister lives!

Besides, we coaches needed time to review our 8mm game footage from last weekend’s crucial loss in the last 5 min. OF COMPETION, we needed to figure out how to win next Friday night, and not get fired on Monday. SO THERE!

If you even think for a moment that is not true, you have no real understanding of what’s important in education in 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s american education.

The next 30 years were instituting professionalizing student competitive sports. With lifelong disability as a consequence.

This last season of college sports, The stars from university, skipped the bowl games, for fear an injury could torpedo their walk onto a professional team roster and field.

School Sports? It really gotton out of hand. Good riddance.

Let’s return our attention to the team of unlicensed-education “helpers” about to start their first home lesson:

PRE-PLAN WITH BACKGROUND INFO! (Clothing optional) or…

Putting “King of the Cowboys” in the context of it’s time:

Before world war II, 80%-90% of US employment was in agriculture, directly or indirectly.

“Black-Smith” was the most often held profession, and often held in the highest esteemed, nationwide, outside the NY city limits.

In the big and medium size population centers, delivering ice in huge cubes to homes, barely edged out black Smith in numbers. But not by much.

When the automobile first became common, the wisdom of the time became the following:

“Finally! We’re going to get an end to the pollution problem! The stench! The flies! The Rats! Gone forever!”

Because horses would be no longer pooping in the streets!

The horse, the cowboy, the music all became romanticized by the writer, Zane Grey. Fake name, so a woman could get a job.

Our nation’s romance with the horse has never completely disappeared. To this day, an engine is rated as well as ‘reved’ in a unique meaningless measurement. (horse-power).

Electric cars are rated in voltage and “distance on a single charge.” Also held in contempt, to a large extent, by elders.

And now! Ladies and Gentlemen!

Time to start the movie!

(If you want to follow this blog, leave a comment, suggest, or best of all CORRECT incorrect info. [I some-times invent details just to make a story sound better…]

It would be an honor, if my dear readers would start “adding-on”, and but not waist time “piling-on.”

Later taters!

Stupid questions are the BEST questions to ask.

And… wait there’s more…

After your team’s unlicensed tediously ridiculous preperation, thanks for, “giving it the ole college try” THEN!


Say, “Roll’em!”

Then shut up, sit back in the corner, and take vids to send to shut ins.

The kid’s reaction to the film is way more entertaining than the film. Also get ready for a shock!

If you get out of their way, kids always teach you, more than you can ever hope to teach them! Via @PlutoTV 

———- Forwarded message ———
From: RayJean Raley <>
Date: Mon, Mar 23, 2020, 10:52 AM
Subject: King of the cowboys- home school free lesson
To: Debbie Miller-Barber <>, Malindilynn Stacey, OT <>, Ora Jonasson <>

Tips for parents at its end:
This pre- WII film (90min.) has a greate capacity to entertain, learn from, and connect:Parents, children, grand-children and aging 70-99s stuck in hospital, nursing homes, and assisted living. Or maybe they live next door.
First, be a teacher. Watch the whole thing ahead of time and leave in the modern commercials because that’s an opportunity to discuss, bathroom, chores, math mini lesson, read aloud, and take a granny break to visit on Skype with those far away. Also cold cereal and cinnamon rolls. Pop some corn. Etc.
But when you watch the movie, try to do it one sitting.
Putting king of the cowboys in the context of it’s time.
President world war two, 80% of employees were in agriculture, directly or indirectly in servicing, black Smith was the profession most held nationwide. In the big urban population centers, delivering ice in huge cubes to homes, barely edged out black Smith. But not by much. When the automobile first became common the wisdom of the time: Finally! We’re going to end the pollution! The stench! The flies! The Rats!
Because the horses won’t be pooping in the streets.
Our nation’s romance with the horse has never completely gone away. To this day an engine is rated in (horse-power). Electric cars are rated in voltage and distance on a single charge.
Time to watch, more suggestions tomorrow if you want to reply. Via @PlutoTV 

The nation of rising Sons…

A narrow finger of a giant cliff jutted into the Sea of Japan. At the shore below was a village dependent on fish for sustainable life and health.

The tiny ships would launch before the rising sun peaked over the horizon.
For 1000s of years before a clock was even invented their village was the most successful. Because they always had a secret for awaking and launching the boats.
A wise elder with the assistance of two honored grandchildren under the age of five, too young for fishing, would escort the elder to the edge of the giant Cliffside, so he could face east, and catch the first rays of the rising sun.

When his grizzled features were lit, the Fishermen, more than a mile below, knew it was time to launch.
Five years earlier they didn't launch because the elder had ordered his boy&girl-chans to get firebrands and set the rice fields on fire. The outrage of the villagers was  so great they raced up the narrow cliff path to put out the flames. 

When they learned that it was deliberate arson, the villagers was even more furious.
They formed a mob, and prepared to toss the old bozo down to the rocks below, and install a younger replacement.
Surrounding with a half circle of outrage, they began the count- down, 5, 4, 3, 2, ...
And before the count of 1 and the big push to eternity, the elder lifted his arm and pointed east.
Stunned. There rose giant tidal wave, in japanese tsunami has a divine interpretation. The two words are not synanomous.

It lifted,in slow motion, then titled toward the coast, swamping the tiny village constructed of paper thin rice paper and bamboo.

Meter by meter the hand of a mighty fist of the sea soaked up the cliffside and crested six inches below the edge; every villager and child were saved.
After the ebb, one of his grandchildren asked how did he know? 

A Five year old know (even an honored "chan" know nothing about respecting, being embarrassed by anger, motivations by pride, or adult mind frames such as always cocksure of themselves.

So the obvious question hung in an air of silence.
The birds.
BIRDS? shouted as a chorus of incredulity almost as full of fury as 30 minutes ago.
The fisherman always full arrogant superiority and coxswain-sure of himself for his uncanny instinctual knowledge of tides and current...
Sneering,"You are crazy you old idiot. There are no birds!"
Exactly. And they weren't here 90 years ago when my grandfather ordered me to set the rice fields afire.

Sequel:by 5

The old wizard is now, 102 and has not missed a day of honored duty, but this time their problem is seemingly: the sun hasn't come up!

Panic. The villagers stare and see, the elder is just doing his usual unblinking stare!

WAIT! This time there's no smoke. Maybe its the work of a devil, an evil that is bringing the end of time.
Repeating the last mad raced to the top. This time terrified. 
Whispers of terror are surreal swirls envelope the immovable kimono. Will he confirm the ending of the world?
Alas, he again points east. A snap, ramrod finger reaches forward to touch a single ray. The finger glows like flame from some supernatural candel.
"Do not be so frightened my children. My first memory is the age of two. The last time the sun did not rise. 

My grandfather, also age 102, held me aloft with an inner-strength that could only be god-given.

"As the shadow of a tiny moon reminds the Shining mass of light of nourishing the world...

that occasionally, for a long day, Mr. Sun, will only be a shadow racing across the earth!

Small does not mean unimportant..."
The year 2020:

Once again, something
small, even invisible to the human eye; without malice, is going to change everything.

It's an ancient lesson, small never means unimportant.

And now dear human, the choice is in your tiny capable brain...

What are going "to do" to help your neighbor?

Waiting on television commercials, naps grater than 45 minutes, distracted into digital porn, evangelical doom, and glued to ears of misinformation ...

Are at least 3 ways to help the tiny microbe feed on more of us.

The Learners will inherit the earth...

While the Leaned perish in a perfect world that no longer exsists...

- Annony-moose
Here's my tip: Avoid trying to cash in on it!
Love Poppy-d 
Snuggle bug for Papa Dave
Here’s a show for you… How to Succeed at Journaling episode of How to Succeed Podcast

Sent from Yahoo Mail on AndroidVery very good!!!

Show quoted textThanks Karen. I’ll tweak the grammar and spelling and post it on wordpress.
Lil davyHide quoted text
On Tue, Mar 17, 2020, 2:33 PM <> wrote:
Very very good!!!

On Tuesday, March 17, 2020, 10:40:33 AM PDT, <> wrote:

A narrow finger of a giant cliff jutted into the Sea of Japan. At the shore below was a village dependent on fish. The tiny ships would launch before the rising sun peaked over the horizon.
For 1000s of years before a clock was even invented their village was the most successful. Because they always had a secret for awaking and launching the boats.
A wise elder with the assistance of two grandkids under the age of five, too young for fishing, would escort the elder to the edge of the giant Cliffside so he could face east, and catch the first rays of the rising sun, and when his grizzled features were lit, the Fisher men, more than a mile below, knew it was time to launch.
Five years earlier they didn't launch because the elder had ordered his kids to get firebrands and set the rice field on fire. The outrage of then villagers was  so great the raced up the narrow cliff path to put out the flames. When the learned that it was deliberate arson, the village was even more furious. 
They formed a mob, and prepared to toss him down to the rocks below, and get a younger replacement.
Surrounded by a half circle of outrage they counting down, 5, 4, 3, 2, ....
And before 1 and the big push, the elder lifted his arm and pointed east.
Stunned. The giant wave, A tsunami, (in Japanese) rolled toward the coast, smashed the village of rice paper and sticks and then crawled up to the cliff where it crested six inches below the cliff face, and every village and child were saved.
After the ebb, one of his grandchildren asked how did he know? Five year old know nothing about respecting, being embarrassed by anger motivated by pride, and cocksure of themselves. So the obvious question hung in an air of silence.
The birds.
BIRDS? They shouted as a chorus almost as full of outrage as 30 minutes ago.
The lead fisherman always arrogant and so sure of himself with knowledge of tides and current...
Sneering, "you are crazy you old idiot. There are no birds!!!
Exactly. And they weren't here 90 years ago when my grandfather ordered me to set the rice field afire.
Now the guy is 102, and there is no sun. Also no smoke. Must be the work of a devil, an evil that is bringing the end of time.
Again they raced to the top. Terrified. And began to whisper. Afraid that he was going to confirm the ending of the world. 
Again he pointed east.
Do not be so frightened my children. My first memory is the age of two. The last time the sun did not rise. My grandfather held me aloft with an inner strength that must be god-given. 
WHATCH MY PRECIOUS! As the shadow of a tiny moon reminds the Shining massive light of the world that for a long day, he will only be a shadow racing across the earth that small does not mean unimportant...
Something so small, its invisible to the human eye. Its going to kills millions of us. Change everything. It is your choice to learn...
Here's my tip: Avoid trying to cash in on it.
Love Poppy-d 
Snuggle bug for Papa Dave
Here’s a show for you… How to Succeed at Journaling episode of How to Succeed Podcast

Sent from Yahoo Mail on Android

Now is the time…

When Cher, famous actress, song bird, and Cherokee goddess, and I were young people, our parents were worried about the “red menace,” a nuclear attack, and our teachers asked us to crawl under our desks to protect from the fall out from A-bombs that might come any minute.

Today, 2020, our kindergarten kids hide in a closet and don’t speak, and their teacher is in there with them, ready to take the first bullet from a gun slinging creep.

My grandchildren and great-grandson are learning how to dodge bullets before they get to their first reading lessons.

We baby-boomers, as young rebels, were not going to take the bullets fired in the jungles of Vietnam.

The government of LBJ said the communists had to be stopped! And when our m16s didn’t do the job (mostly from malfunctioning) the military industrial complex dropped a chemical agent to clear jungle habitat and reveal the commies, the jungle grew back, but the agent is currently the main culprit in the life expectancy of our Vietnam veterans finally getting to huddle in a tiny house.

The architects of our generation’s war, finally admitted they made up the dominoes, and the “secret plan” candidate, Richard Nixon, (had up his butt) was to send his buddy Kiss-my-ass to a hotel in Paris, and whisper “Nixon has a better deal, nespa?.”

They spoke enough french to believe him and went back to Hanoi.

Our dead were 33,000ish in 1968. About half the names on a famous wall in Washington.

About a hundred are etched on the Vietnam memorial in Savannah. Maybe 50 or so shouldn’t be there because of one man’s ego (or maybe two) got in the way?

Now another egomaniacal elephant is in the “offal” office march 2020.

Elephant turds are huge, and the “red menace” we were warned about in the 1950s is more real than ever! Democratic forms of government are fragile.

The boomers of the 60s are a demographic that has distorted every statistic since our parents came through a huge economic depression a massive war, in Europe and on the Pacific rim. Came home and gave begatting a whole new meaning.

They didn’t understand their children, a massive group of long-haired rebels marching in the streets yelling “Hell no! We won’t go!”

Now, it’s our turn to be confused by young people.

The digital divide between the boomers and the Gen Zs, with their tiny bluetooth ears, seems to us like a lot of “Mickey Mouse.” (I had the watch, never wore the ears), and a lot of us think Bernie, a defiant jewish type, is “too old.”

Moses was old, 900 bible years. When he went up the mountain did the voice he heard say, hey, you’re too old, send up your younger brother, Aaron!

Sorry voice, he’s too busy teaching the kids to worship a golden calf. (Bible talk for wealth and power.)

If we listen to our young people, willing to stand for justice, like a young girl absorbing Taliban bullets in Pakistan, or a swedish girl willing to skip school to bring attention to a planet in trouble.

I notice today the overwhelming support of gampa-Bernie by the kids! However, perhaps because they can’t vote over their phone (yet), they skip their citizen obligation.

So? It’s up to the boomers! Finally, we need to lower the boom on the red menace. They call themselves Republicans, their color is red, and they’re backed by the Russian state and the former KGB. It’s really happening! Not fiction about a menace in a faraway jungle!

A cartoonist from our time had a character named Pogo. One of his most famous lines:

“We have met the enemy, and the enemy is US. (United States)

Let’s give the kids what they want, grandpa Bernie, and send Stacey Abrams from Georgia as a backup VP. She is very smart, but even her brains could not compete with our current new governor (candidate furklempt). Rumor has his nick-name: “The Count of Monte Crisco” for the slick way his secretary-of-state office managed to shave 50,000+ (mostly people of color) off the roles of eligible voters.

Then he “won” with a micro-thin margin.

Miss Abrams didn’t concede, why should she honor and shake hands with a cheater?

Maybe it’s water under a bridge too far, but November is only as far as the Georgia March 24 presidential preference primary, 2020. Bernie, Joe, and the Trumpet.


(Sorry Trumpet, only the best goons win, back to the zoo)

Life Journey’s

I created this travelogue on a storytelling gig involving short residencies in three international schools in Puebla, Tampico, and Mexico City.

I’m 72 today. February 16. I was still 50 something when I first created this piece.

Today we have our neighbors in cages, and I won’t be too shocked that some future leader stands in Elpaso and says:


It’s memoir and satire, but remember a storyteller never lies!

Our tales are true! Or just as true as we can make them. Even if we have to stretch it a bit!

Circa EARLY OO’s:


This week I can´t help hearing in my mind the lyrics of the song, Mexico, by James Taylor.

“Oh, down in Mexico

I never really been, so I don’t really know

Oh, Mexico

I guess I’ll have to go…

Oh, Mexico

I never really been, but I’d sure like to go

Oh, Mexico

I guess I’ll have to go now…”

I´m back on the road this week basking in the reveared sun of our neighbor to the South, Mexico, the founders of the first pyramid scheme.

Around 2,000 years ago, a variety of ancient tribes began building stepladders on the sides of massive stone pyramids to get closer to their own version of the trilogy: the sun, the moon, and the stars. It is only a coincidence, of course, that this took place at just about the same time Jesus was making plans to change the world in his own inimitable way on the other side of the planet. Another sort of triolgy in the making.

Each successive Mexican tribe would build another temple after smashing up the old one. Of course, the next one would be bigger, better, and higher than each of the succeeding ones.

Each one renamed in the honor of a more powerful and sometimes, blood thirsty god than the last one. The Christians, ironically, finally got the last word on most of these structures, at least in Puebla.

A massive church sets atop a huge pyramid mound out on the Western edge of the city. A monument to the old adage…he who builds last…gets the best view.:) As well as the final “Word.”

Of course, Cortez occomplished this in the finest of gentle Christian persuasions.


Puebla, approximately two hours outside Mexico City, is home to the Colegio Americano de Puebla, my employer for last week. My guardian angels are Miss Frann, elementary librarian, and Miss Pam, English Coordinator for the Middle School. This is their first time to have a visiting author-storyteller at their school, and they are to be congratulated for pulling it off with a lot of panache for a first time event. The kids were wonderful participants and the wrote some of their own amazing stories!

The drive from the Mexico City airport to Puebla reminds me of the forest around Durango, Colorado before the devastating fire last summer. Puebla too has been threatened by fire as well as earthquakes as recently as a few years ago.

The school escaped serious damage, but some of the local apartments, businesses, and even a church or two sustained major catastrophes, and it is only now that things are reopening and getting back to normal.

Residents keep a wary eye on the volcano to the west that dominates the horizon in the morning when the air is clear, and then in the evening the sun sinks directly behind it and turns the sky into rosy streaks of an artist´s dream. Once in awhile ashes will spew forth and create clouds and even hot lava has oozed down the mountainside in the current generation´s living memory.

Puebla is also the birthplace of the 1910 revolution in Mexico which eventually lead to the un-seating of a very powerful dictator, one Porfiriato Diaz. It was that same revolution that inspired a Mexican of small means, Pancho Villa, to ride in support of the revolution and the chance to be portrayed in many Hollywood movies as a fat, slovenly, gun toting, murdering, idiot.

Hollywood was so enamored with him as box office, that they actually sent camera people to Northern Mexico to film some of his exploits against the succession of dictatorships that followed Diaz after the original met his demise.

Doroteo, his real name, (no dorito jokes please) started out as a decent sort until some low life raped his sister, so Doroteo tracked him down, cut his throat, and revenged his sister in a blood fued. Hence his name change once he became a fugitive for murder.

Ten years later, the revolution comes along and offers him a way out of his life as a bandito. He financed his part of the war by trading stolen cattle across the US border for guns and ammunition. Naturally, this didn’t set well with the US government, and when they tried to put a stop to it, Pancho launched a raid across the US border at Columbus, New Mexico. A state park outside of Columbus still exsists to this very day in memory of this daring exploit. Perhaps the only raid on US soil that has ever gone unpunished. We are rather famous for our revenge tactics for transgressions against our homeland, hence the current state of affairs.

Despite almost of year of chasing around Northern Mexico, the US Army under ¨Black Jack¨ Pershing, accompanied by a young officer, George Patton IV, couldn’t track down the elusive Mexican War Lord.

Eventually, quarreling got the better of the revolution, the good Senor´Pancho, and finally, the whole fiasco was settled with a peace agreement in Mexico City right after the end of WWI.

Pancho was allowed to retire with a General´s Pension, at least one of his 26 wives, and a nice Hacienda. Alas, some assassin ended his colorful career when the General was on the way home from doing errands. I guess you just never know when you are going to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.

But I digress. It is here in Puebla, where one can still walk down a sidewalk and observe the original bullet holes in the outside walls of the Serdan family home. The bullet holes are courtesy of Presidente Diaz, who somehow caught word that the family was a key component of the disloyal opposition. Taking a lesson from Ceaser, Diaz thought better of waiting for the knives to fall, so he struck first.

His soldiers fired from the roof of the closest church. Hmm, Church or Mosque, looks like this tactic has been around for about as long as religion finally got organized.

When the first bullets came flying into his Casa, Senor Serdan dropped down into the family water cistern for safety sake and almost escaped detection, but alas, for want of a tissue or a cough drop, his self-control was lost. And because his self-control was lost… you get the picture. The revolution was lost by a nose.

His daughter was allowed to survive, and now his great great granddaughter works for the United Nations in a respected position that eventually led her to East Timor where she became involved as an advisor in the restructuring of that country.

The 20th of November, 1910 is still wildly celebrated here in Puebla with a major fiesta and school closings to honor the sacrifices of these revolutionaries. I guess there is nothing like the end of November to figure out some reason to take a day off and give thanks.

Dave Alexander, on the road in Mexico, Oh Mexico!

Life Journey’s — STREET PEOPLE!

I created this travelogue on a storytelling gig involving short residencies in three international schools in Puebla, Tampico, and Mexico City. I’m 72 today. February 16. I was still 50 something when I first created this piece. Today we have our neighbors in cages, and I won’t be too shocked that some future leader stands […]

Life Journey’s — STREET PEOPLE!

The Journey Begins

Thanks for joining me!

The road less traveled is often coated in-oozable mudd, the other choice is sometimes rotted ruts of habitation.

So, imagination, can lift one on an old tattered carpet…

left aside in some alley…

Ready to a cloud of re-birth.

“Take a ride no one’s traveled…”

— Sir Izaak Wanton and his sibling twotun!

(Ignore virus warnings if your worry is an infection of your imagination)

Your gut fears? Exactly, so turn off your damed TV, relax in place, breathe deep, exhale as much poison vapor as possible and exhale on your coldnosed puppy.

(Your dog’s immune, but not your vet… granny lap or cranky neighbor.)

So, send fido over to steal a newspaper before cranky wakes up, blames grandma, and pees on the veterinarian small animal hospital up the street.

Tell your dog to return the paper to Mr. Cank, after stealth following the ole boy on his morning constitutional required digital 6,500 steps, but…

Only if he lifted his leg and drained side-saddle!

If you spot Mrs. Crank first, deliver, wag, and get a cookie.

If it’s a frankie cranky brat pack open wide… take as much ice cream, cooked leftovers, a dog can stand.

Then drag your butt to the vet clinic and sleep around the bushes until nature has disgorged as much damage as possible, return before sunrise, and snag the latest edition…

Get it?

Well, drop by one morning all the bright blooms on the flowers surrounding the un-conditional clinician.

He’s the old guy in the white lab coat. Started when it was for the love of the animals.

Not marketing pet health insurance plans.

Go pet your pet, scratch an ear, and whisper…

The Doc Mark’s are watching over you…

Good night Winston, where ever you are.