Befuddled elderly gentleman can't find lawyer's office to sign will

I had a moment this afternoon when the thought crossed my mind that maybe I'm a little further along the Alzheimer Highway than I realized. One of the great joys of aging is planning for your death. When you're younger you figure why would you give a shit - you're dead! That's been my attitude most of my life, but the closer you get to your inevitable meet-n'-greet with the Grim Reaper, the more I've thought, oh, what the heck, maybe I should avoid leaving a big headache that will aggravate the heirs for years to come, or even longer. So a few months ago, based on queries to locals I know and trust, I made an appointment with a local lawyer whom I'd never met before, and we hashed out a draft last will and testament. A few weeks go by, and I get an email advising me it's ready for review and signing. Great! Much as I resent the entire process, I'm looking forward to getting it out of the way. The signing ceremony was scheduled for 1 pm today. So I pull into the parking lot a good 15 minutes early. I'm pumped! I'm ready to go! I'm finally doing some really important adult stuff that's a little overdue, and I'm feeling good! The parking lot wasn't quite the way I remembered it, but I'd only ever been there once, and didn't pay much attention. Then I went to the back entrance, and that's changed too. Last time, I was welcomed there, and today I'm greeted by a sign asking me to use the front door. Well, that seems a little odd... I go around to the front, and I notice there's no mention of any lawyerly enterprises on the sign at the street... WTF? Am I in the right place? I go into the memory files...two or at most three old red brick office buildings past a low-slung modern building on the corner. The modern building is right on the corner where it should be, but... so I go into the second place past it. The sign mentions a wellness spa and a tattoo parlour, and I realized instantly those were one and the same. There were at least four employees, and as far as I could tell, one client, but clearly this was an up-market tat joint. Everybody had enough piercings none of them coulda gone anywhere near a metal detector, and there was ink as far as the eye could see, and presumably where it couldn't too. I've had a little ink for fifty years and have always had an eye for top-shelf artists, and what I saw was first class. So, I apologize for interupting, and explain that my lawyer's office used to be in that building and would they know where it went, because I have an appointment blah blah blah... All four stop what they're doing and consult amongst one another. These are the sweetest, kindest people in the world, but they all agree there's never been any lawyers in their building. They enquire as to the name of the firm. I can't remember, and a panic attack is starting to move in as I realize I may have been duped by some shady fly-by-night operation... do I at least remember the name of the lawyer? Yes I do! Jennifer! I guess that wasn't quite enough for them to work with, and they seemed genuinely sad they couldn't help this obviously confused wretch who had wandered into their day. I get out and look up and down the street. I definitely remember the low-slung building, and there's no corners like that further west, so I shuffle eastward. By now I'm sweating profusely and just below panic threshold, when I get to the next light. As I push the crosswalk button I realize... there's a low-slung building on the corner opposite... is it possible? Could it be? By the time they let me in the back door at precisely 1 pm I was begining to recover, but I gotta say it gave me a wee fright for fifteen minutes. The old "steel trap" ain't what it used to be...

Doo-doo rising; what's next for the deranged occupant of the Offal Orifice

OMG did you see what autocomplete just did? I swear I wrote "Oval Office," and look how it came out?! Maybe the AI apps that are always looking over your shoulder these days are smarter than I thought! Anyway, it's getting all-too-obvious that Donny J is well down the Alzheimer Highway. In fact, I'm pretty sure he was in that convoy of black SUVs that passed me at very high speed not too long ago. Lake America? I mean... the level of imbecility on display here is off the charts! It's obviously playing on his mind double-plus big-time that the Towelheads 'o Terror have embarrassed the greatest military the world has ever seen! I'm surprised there isn't more alarm afoot re the obvious cognitive impairment of the leader of the Free World. Given all the headwinds bearing down on the flailing and failing American Empire at this moment, the Commander-in-Chief finds the time for a juvenile PR stunt to rename Lake Ontario!? It's hard to see happy endings emerging from the disaster Trump and Bibi triggered with their war. Sometimes Karma just gotta run her course.

Has the Stable Genius gone insane?

I saw a podcast today wherein Jeffrey Sachs made a strong case that 47 has slipped his moorings. I have maximum respect for Sachs. He spent his entire career in the service of Empire, in the highest reaches of academia and the bureaucracy. It's gotta take a lot of courage to turn your back on that Empire and begin proselytizing against it. It's not so much that I think Sachs is mistaken, but I think he's too quick to skip over a possibly more plausible explanation. I too have more than once pondered the "fucked in the head" narrative, and while it's compelling enough, what about this theory; that all the crazy talk is first and foremost intended to move markets. Trump has unprecedented power to move markets, he knows it, and everything we know about Donnie J, Mafia Don, or The Donald tells us he's not the kinda guy to let such an opportunity slip by. My theory, purely speculative of course, is there are Trump operatives planted in select tax havens all over the world, feeding billions of dollars through derivative trades buried under many layers of anonymity. Donny can literally pull a complete whopper out his ass and every bourse and exchange around the world groans under the stress of all the wild swings in trading he just triggered. Since those Trump insiders in Guernsey or the Cayman Islands know what's coming, they must be making utterly eye-watering profits! The point is, maybe Trump is just a stupid old man heading down the Alzheimer Highway. Maybe. Or maybe he's the most spectacularly successful grifter of all time?

Pitch for new Netflix series... this one's a winner!

Had this brainwave, not sure where it came from, but outta the blue, I said to the Farm Manager; "you know what would make a good show?" I figure I'd bounce it off her on account she watches Netflix all the time, whereas I rarely get past Al Jazeera and Jay Leno's Garage. "Follow the adventures of a guy who's coming to terms with mortality. You know; one foot on a banana peel an the other foot on the gas as he's steering that Dodge Hellcat down the Alzheimer Highway at 200mph. You could follow him through life as he grapples with one existential crisis after another. The solutions are always readily at hand by he never recognizes them. Instead, he is constantly forced to MacGyver his way out of calamities largely of his own makeing." Yup, I think that could be a winner all right! I'm a planner, not a doer, so I'm not looking for a starring role or anything. But I do have quite a range of story ideas, and could be persuaded to take a consulting role.

The day Dad talked to a banana

Back in the day, before everybody had a cellphone in their pocket, my folks had a phone on the kitchen counter.

Next to the phone, they had a fruit bowl.

One night at dinner, the phone rings. Dad gets up from the table, picks up a banana, and says "hello?"

That was at least thirty years ago. We laughed uproariously, but there was also a dark edge.

Has Dad taken the on-ramp to the dementia highway?

The dude is gonna be 90 this year, God bless him!

And all the marbles are still rolling in the right direction.

I bring this up because we've recently been wondering where I am with respect to that on-ramp.

This afternoon me and the Farm Manager settled in front of the TV to binge watch the doc about Janet Jackson. I was never a fan, but I have a new respect for her now.

This went on most of the afternoon, and at some point I felt I needed a snack.

Fixed myself a dish of pickled beets, a pickled egg, and a slab of blue cheese on caraway rye toast.

And what a tasty snack!

But back to the point. I got up to wash up my dish, got to the sink, and realized I forgot to bring the dish.

The other day, I got up from my usual perch in front of the fire, meaning to grab a beer out of the fridge.

On the way to the fridge, I thought maybe I'll step out for a breath of fresh air before I get the beer.

I was back on the couch before I remembered I forgot the beer.

So I get up again. Bruno is by the kitchen door with his throw-toy. I figure I'll just step out and entertain him a bit. The Big Boy makes me laugh out loud multiple times per day.

It's the least I can do.

Fifteen minutes later, I take my place in front of the fire again...

Oh, for fucks sakes!

Still no beer!

I don't know what that means for the long term. 

Plenty of dementia on Mom's side.

None on Dad's side.

Another reason I just want to be like you, Dad!

I've got the pedal to the metal...

Which is not at all the same as having the petal to the medal, which is when CF vets who got their Libya medal pin a couple of rose petals to their "operation Unified Protector" medal just to say they're sorry.

Sorry for destroying Libya.

Ya, sometimes when you're spreading freedom and democracy, bad shit happens.

But I digress...

I'm turning onto the Alzheimer Highway and I've got nothing but clear lanes ahead of me.

Put the pedal to the metal!..

And so I did.

The best place to figure out the top speed of your car, back in the day, was out on the Hanlon Expressway. At least before the Hanlon Expressway was a through road.

You'd have to pull off at Clair Road, but before you got there you had a two or three mile run of four-lane straitaway.

That was always an opportunity to keep the pedal to the metal for a couple of minutes, instead of the usual fifteen seconds or so...

I owned a few vehicles that made the best of that stretch of the Hanlon.

How about a 1967 Chrysler New Yorker with a 440 4bbl having enough time to get up to 5000 rpm, which was about 140 miles per hour.

Four thousand and eight hundred pounds of sheet metal and brocade upholstery hurtling down the Hanlon at 140 mph?

Why not?

I had a couple of 340 cars that easily topped 140.

The most memorable trip was when my old pal Kipling and his wife of the time were having a marital dispute in my 340 Dart just as the speedometer touched 150.

That was nasty... all I could think of was the fact that I'd not got around to new tires yet... the latest round of legal bills had put the kibosh on that.

So there we were, Kipling and the Missus having a fist-fight in the back seat, while I've got the pedal to the metal, touching nearly 160 mph on that stretch of the Hanlon, with the steel cords peeking out of those fibreglass radials.

Ya, I know. That's some crazy shit.

Luckily, after she delivered the knock-out blow, I was able to get off the gas a bit.


But it's way later now...

There's no hurry.


You can drive as fast as you want...


Or, you can slow down and enjoy the scenery...

Globe and Mail normalizing Trump

Seems to me the guardians of Canada's democracy at 351 King are letting their guard down. All through the first section, not a single headline with the name "Trump" in it. Nowhere in the Opinion section either. And not a single letter to the editor mentions Trump even in passing.

Let's hope they're over their obsession with Trumpian doggerel. It's nice to have my newspaper back.

Silly Philly demonstrated a new trick this morning on our trip to ransom the Saturday Globe from the Korean extortionist. Exiting the car via the window. I had just parked the car out at the water treatment plant to let the girls out for a romp, when she popped up outside my window. She'd let herself out. For some time she's been able to lower the back windows by standing her front paws on the arm rest, a trick the gals at the Timmies drive-thru window find really cute. Today was the first time she actually went out the window, though.

Then she did it again five minutes later, as we're driving by the marina on Bayview Street. That's not funny anymore! Luckily, there's not much traffic there in February, but after that I figured I'd best activate the child locks for the first time in many years. In another month her ass will be too big to fit out the window, but in the meantime we'll play it safe.

Another thing that's not funny any more is what screen addiction is doing to our society. The Opinion section features a lengthy discussion between psychiatrist Norman Doidge and Jim Balsille of "Crackberry" fame. Me and the Farm Manager have long been skeptical of all this supposed connectedness technology has gifted us.

We'll be sitting in a restaurant and there's entire families around us so connected that they completely ignore one another.

Mothers are pushing strollers down the street while texting.

Otherwise respectable people think nothing of giving iPads to their pre-schoolers.

Anyway, that alone is well worth the price of the paper.

Elsewhere, I found myself agreeing with both Saunders and Wente's opinion pieces. Not sure what's going on there... maybe those folks are finally coming to their senses?

Or maybe that's just another marker on the side of the Alzheimer Highway. Either way, it's boring to read stuff you agree with.

Dan's Republic of Congo, Marc Faber's (career) suicide note, and the Alzheimer highway

I've been trying to make sense of Faber's harikari.

I simply can't.

None of it makes any sense. Unless...

Unless Faber is motoring carefree down that Alzheimer highway with not a worry in the world.

Thank God America was colonized by white people?

Well, he's got one thing right; America certainly was colonized by white people. No doubt about that.

But he seems oblivious to the fact that it's also white people who have totally fucked America up.

Was it brown people who decided to teach those gooks a lesson in Viet Nam?

Was it brown people who decided America should intervene in Grenada and Panama and El Salvador and Nicaragua and Honduras?

Was it brown people who made the decision to invade Iraq? Afghanistan? Syria?

Are brown people pushing America into war with Iran? Russia? China?

I think not.

And who is pushing the never-ending wars in the DRC,  also known in some circles as "Dan's Republic?" Sure, there's Museveni and Kagami, but who do you think the enablers are?

It's the interminable wars against brown people the world over that are destroying America. The more America bombs, the more people hate America.

It's not rocket science.

Or perhaps we can call it Political Rocket Science. Polyrocketsci for short.



The Marc Faber who made a stellar rep for himself by being a savvy analyst of what's going on in the world would know all this. He's been around for a long time. He's basked in oodles of mainstream adulation. He's always known where to draw the line in terms of crossing the line, if you know what I mean.

The fact that he's lost it tells me one thing; he's lost it.

He's careening down the Alzheimer Highway with the pedal to the metal and no place to go...

When the system breaks down

Around here I have a system. Diesel goes in the yellow jugs. 50:1 two-stroke mix goes in the one gallon red jugs. Any larger red cans have straight-up gasoline, high-octane in the smaller ones and run of the mill ethanol-gasoline mix in the larger.

That ethanol thing is quite the scam. Farmers grow corn. Mostly they grow it by the Industrial Agriculture standards approved by Monsanto and the rest of the Big Ag overlords.

Corn grown, you can choose to use it as food for your family or food for your car.

But the food you feed your car won't ever feed a family...

It's a fucked-up thing.

But I digress.

Systems.

They can go awry. They can be corrupted. They can get fucked-up.

You'd be surprised how often my simple system with the fuel supply goes in the ditch.

Sometimes it's just driver error, as in when I can't remember what runs on diesel and what doesn't. I'm always clear that the Ninja needs high-octane gasoline. But the cars can be confusing. I mean, last year I was piloting that diesel VW. It becomes habit to stop in front of the diesel pump at the Pioneer.

So you change cars but you still stop in front of the diesel pump... ya, you gotta keep your wits about you.

And the further you go down the Alzheimer Highway, the bigger that challenge becomes.

Who is in the passing lane on the Alzheimer highway?

Make no mistake, it is the Farm Manager who keeps the pot-addled hillbilly focused and on topic.

So when the pot-addled hillbilly can't remember what he planned to rant about on any particular day, it's natural that he'd want to consult with the FM to get the low-down on the day's targets.

It's generally a pretty small target pool; American Imperialism, capitalism, capitalism in the service of American Imperialism, Eisenhower's expose of the Military Industrial Complex, the Military Industrial Complex, hedge-fund shit-bags who have enriched themselves by destroying the American working class, our cats, dogs, Junior, and so on...

Or as they would say in German academic papers, "usw..."

But we've entered a new era where the Farm Manager can't remember...

Oh great...

Calling Sister Midnight

As an old guy who ain't gonna do nothin' but get older, I have to say I take a certain amount of comfort from the pop culture icons who have championed my generation all the way down the line.


Guess they're all getting older too!


From rocking and rolling to the Alzheimer highway...


Keep the pedal to the metal!...


There'll be plenty of time left over to drool and shit your pants and wait for somebody to clean up your mess...

Finally, some good news for a change

I'm not one to burden Canada's "free" health care system with unnecessary visits to the doctor. Far from it. In fact, when I went in for a visit the other day the dude noted that I had successfully deferred my annual check-up for four years!

I would have been happy to defer it even longer, but alas, my strategy of wheedling prescription renewals over the phone had hit the wall.

Now, as the regular reader well knows, I'm not much for Big Pharma and prescriptions and all that shit, but I do have a blood pressure issue that is mitigated by the regular consumption of a particular combination of Big Pharma products that seems to work, as evidenced by the fact that I'm not dead yet.

So I was delighted beyond belief to find this spot of good news. Seems that folks with low blood pressure hit higher speeds on the Alzheimer Highway! That means having high blood pressure slows ya down!

WHEE-HAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!

Pour me another rye 'n coke baby, we gonna party tonight!

Racing down the Alzheimer Highway

I know a thing or two about racing down highways.

Or at least I used to.

I've owned a lot of cars in my time, and at least a handful could manage a good honest 150 mph.

But the Alzheimer Highway is another matter.

Around this time of year the extended family likes to get together in Waterloo for a Christmas Party of sorts. We eat lots of East European food and we sing Christmas carols. We gather at the home of an esteemed professor who used to deliver lectures at universities in Heidelberg and Tubingen and beyond.

The professor was not in attendance this year. He is now ensconced in a nearby critical care facility where he may or may not be tethered to his bed, depending on whether he is having a "good" day or not.

The first car I ever took over 100 mph was the family station wagon, a 1967 Chevrolet Bel Air. The folks would take the other car in to church on Sunday morning, and I, having by then lost my faith, was left with the keys to the second car, wide-open highways in all directions, and no supervision.

The fastest looking car I ever owned was a 1973 Trans Am SD. Amazing torque, but that puppy was totally winded at 120 mph. A bit of a disappointment.

Had a '67 Chrysler New Yorker that came out of the family stable, with the old high-compression 440 in it. That was a car that would, if you had enough reasonably straight road, pass 6,000 rpm on a flat-out top-speed run. That was over 150 mph in something that weighed well over two tons and had the aerodynamics of a shoe-box.

Then there were the 340's. If memory serves, I had at least four versions of that gem. In the high compression days (before '71) they'd rev to 6500 and beyond, on their factory hydraulic lifters. Couple that with 3:23's and you were good for 150 mph easy. Do the math.

The craziest of the crazy-fast cars had to belong to my cousin Johnny. He had a beauty 383 Super-Bee that he picked up cheap at Weiland Motors in Kitchener, before the Weilands landed the Ford franchise.

Took about two weeks of abuse before a rod went through the oil pan. So we scrounged up an old drag car, a Plymouth RR that had been running SS/F or something, and popped that drag race motor into his street Bee with the 3:23's.

Ya, you know what happened then!

Scary shit!

You hook up a 500 hp motor that will rev to 8 thou with a 3:23 axle...

I haven't done the math, but that had to be good for somewhere around 180 mph.

It is only due to the grace of God that no one died while we were testing that theory out.

Forty-five years later, things are all fucked up. All the way down to Waterloo and back I'm sure I never got more that 10 kilometers over the speed limit.

But there's no speed limit on the Alzheimer Highway.