There Are Raccoons in My House

Those lovable little rascals have a way of knowing when you’re gone, leaving your house free for them to go exploring.  Well, I think our government is much like a pack of raccoons that are always into mischief.  While our friend the raccoon is busy looking in the refrigerator, opening all the cupboards, finding and snacking on whatever he can.  The end result is similar to a bull in a China closet.

Now, enter our government.  They have a different way of opening my front door and inviting themselves in.  They do it with our U.S. census that the constitution says that all the government need do is to get a head count.  The I.R.S. not only  wants your dollars, but there’s much to be learned in the way our tax forms are constructed. Then come all your regulatory agencies each with their own kind of information to collect.

We’re down to: “How is Uncle Sam going to save me from all the poor choices I’ve made?”  First of all, you have to have a problem. That means we need an agency full of bureaucrats to define the problem then do what they were hired to do, which is write regulations that may help and may not.

My favorite problem that Uncle Sam says he will fix for me is all that pesky rain that falls from the sky.  They quite correctly determined after many studies and conferences that it was unlikely that they could control the flow of rainfall from a storm cloud.  But, after it hit the ground, a rain drop is fair game to be regulated, to be charged a fee for crossing a state line and taxed if Mr. Drop finds himself stopped in a government  reservoir.

The government agency that was lucky enough to win this very sought after boondoggle was the Environmental Protection Agency. I’m sure that all the top bureaucrats in government wished they could have been the chosen one as the potential for legions of workers at all levels to put Mr. Drop where he belongs for the greater good.  So, as long as rain still falls from clouds and regulators maintain their zeal to regulate, this agency can have eternal life. Wouldn’t you know that the EPA has picked a name that nobody can be against: The Clean Water Act.  This act dictates that the waters of our country be restored and maintained and their chemical, physical and biological properties be upheld.  Again, who could be against cool clear water?  So how far do you carry a mandate like this?  After attending one of EPA’s hearings and reading extensively about the act, I’ve come to the conclusion that the EPA feels that everybody of water from the smallest puddle to every blue line stream on a topographical map is included in the Act.

What troubles me the most about government at all levels today is the total lack of trust that land owners could possibly also want to do what’s right.  I can’t stand this idea that regulations, to be just, must paint all stewards of the land with the same brush that we paint the bad apple with.  What we should be doing is rewarding those that are “slowing down water” as Mother Nature does.

A reward system would have a budget to operate with for pennies on the dollar compared to bureaucrats in Washington D.C.
“TRUST ME,” I say and we will all win.  Do I think that this is a realistic solution?  Yes.  Do I think this approach could be adopted?  I think it would be marked dead on arrival at the EPA.
See Ya
Jack

The First Step is Always the Hardest

Hank Williams was a famous singer/song-writer back in the 1940s and ’50s.  If the lyrics of one particular song fit your lifestyle then this blog is probably not for you.   One of the the stanzas goes like this: “live hard, die young and have a beautiful memory.”

I translate this to mean in today’s world: “get a beer, dive (the dangerous part) for the couch, turn on the TV with the remote, and watch a football game.”  For you ladies, the drill is much the same, only you might want to watch The Ellen Show.  Now, at the end of the day whatever hour that is, if you can sit upright on your couch and smugly say “what a great day, who could want for more,” then this very lopsided view of mine on how to have a beautiful day is most assuredly not for you.

I subscribe weekly to Time Magazine.  Quite often, their pages are full of words that make me grind my teeth and salivate at the absurdity of what some left wing journalists has written to solve each our individual or our country’s or the world’s problems.  I think he or she dreamed their gibberish up while diving for the couch!

But this article that made the front page of Time was about a miracle cure for what ever ails us.  First, it’s necessary to pay homage to the legal profession by stating: don’t do this at home.  Don’t pour all your drugs down the drain.  Don’t quit drinking that evening bottle of wine.  Don’t leave the couch.  So what is this miraculous cure?  It’s called EXERCISE.

What gives me the right to crow about this?  Well, I’m into the early years of my 8th decade on earth, and still standing upright on the ground.  I take comfort in likening my body to and old car.  You have to put gas in the tank.  My engine runs best on Regular.  Premium grade gives me a sugar high.  I’m not much on having my body all bright and shiny as it takes too much of my time doing something that’s only going to get dirty again.  Although, I do like a clean windshield so I can see where I’m going, in life, that is.

Now, finally, I’m going straight to the point of all these metaphors.

Take on a little nourishment, then, get off your ass, off the couch, out of the shade, into the light of day and shake your booty.  It’s called exercise.  Let it lead you to the sunny side of the street.
See Ya
Jack