Prose by Jean-Paul

 
          
 
I Sell on Etsy

Public Opinion by: Walter Lippmann

posted Mar 2, 2017, 9:18 AM by Jean-Paul Tertocha   [ updated Mar 2, 2017, 9:20 AM ]

  Periodically I like to recommend a book or novel.  This post is about Walter Lippmann's book; Public Opinion.  Copyrighted in 1922, this material is still viable in contemporary times.  I think Lippmann, in his field, is on par with Einstein in his field.  Anyone with their intellect still intact will find this study and report on Public Opinion priceless.


Wholy Cow by Jean-Paul Tertocha

posted Oct 13, 2016, 7:48 AM by Jean-Paul Tertocha   [ updated Nov 17, 2016, 9:31 AM ]

Wholycow 
by:
Jean-Paul Tertoca
    1.

     Strother Jones stopped his horse on a low hill and surveyed the
land in front of him.  Cattle littered the landscape.  Scattered as far
as the eye could see.
     A deep frown set into the 35 year old face.  Jones reached with
his right hand into the saddle bag and brought out a set of binoculars.
He pulled the amber lensed, black rimmed sunglasses from his face and
replaced them with the binoculars.
     "What the hell is going on here," he exclaimed to the wind.
     His curse was initiated by seeing his neighbors brand on some of
the cattle intermingling with his. It was normal to have some mixing of
brands on the open range.  Lately though the intermixing of brands
between his and his neighbors have been chronic and excessive.  There
was no herd to speak of.  Just a bunch of cattle meandering over the
wide range.  Jones was a stickler on keeping a tight herd, even while
grazing.  He also liked his men to keep a close eye on things, and he
saw none of them in sight.
     Jones felt as though his skin was on fire.  Not from the noon sun
shining on his bare back, but from the fire that was beginning inside
of him.  This was the third time in two weeks he found this particular
group of animals in this way.  To top it off, buzzards were flying
their ghoulish formation about a mile West of him.  Strother Jones was
mad!  That meant another lost head!
     He came to this site just to look around.  He had no shirt and was
dressed in jeans and square nosed boots.  On his head, the traditional
cowboy hat, in this case white.
     Strother Jones wanted to hit something right now.  At least yell
and curse, maybe throwing an object at another one.  He was the boss
though.  The owner of the decent ranch that had been in
his family four generations.   He couldn't afford the luxury of a
tantrum, he had to find out what was going on.
     He put the binoculars back into the saddle bag and began to head
north.  He eased the horse into a trot as he scanned the horizon for
the man in charge.
     It didn't take very long for the man to be spotted.  Jones tapped
the horses sides with his boots and went into a gallop towards his
find.  The man turned towards him as he approached.  Upon recognition
his face went from a look of disgust to one of worry.
     Strother Jones reached his hired hand and quickly slowed his horse
to a stop.
     " What the hell is going on Art," Jones asked his foreman in a
harsh tone.
     Arthur Veew, a six year employee of the Sleepy K ranch, opened his
mouth but nothing came out.  He started a couple of years after he got
out of high school.
     "Don't you see anything unusual here," shouted Jones.
     "Mr. Jones, I uhh, I... ."
     "Spit it out man, I want an answer!"
     "I don't have one sir, I just got up an hour ago" Veew finally
replied.  He looked as though he was going to have a heart attack when
he said this.
     "It's NOON Art, what happened to up at sunrise?"
     "Mr. Jones I'm sorry sir... ."  Veew started to explain but was
interrupted by the roar of a Jeep coming over the hill.
     Strother Jones looked around to see who the visitor was.  "Shit,
it's Milligan."
     Leroy Milligan was owner of the Bar O ranch.  Located North of the
Sleepy K.  He was in his fifties.  As opposed to Jones more
cosmopolitan appearance, for a rancher, Milligan could easily be
described as gruff.  He wore the traditional pointed cowboy boots,
jeans, a flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped out, with a wide brown
straw hat upon his head.
     He stopped his Jeep near the two men who sat on their horses.  He
began talking before he reached them.
     "What's going on, Stro, ain't you got enough cows of your own,"
he asked.  His question not filled with humor.
    "I don't know Leroy,"  replied Jones, I just got here myself."
Strother turned to his ranch hand, "Art, get everyone available
together and straighten this mess out.  And find out who's cow the
buzzards are eating!"
     "Yes sir."  Art was only too happy to get out of there.  His boss
should cool down, he hoped.  In the mean time he needed to make up some
brownie points bad.
     Then the thought entered his head. "What the hell IS going on?"

                                                                          2.

     Strother spent nearly four hours with his neighbor and the ranch
hands.  Calming the first while assisting and directing the help.  The
sun was low and the air was cooling down.  Although tired, the chill of
the evening air on his bare torso kept him alert.  He felt like the
Marlboro Man(r) after a hard day on the range.  Well, it was a hard 1/2
day on the range.
     The buzzards were in fact chewing on the mutilated remains of a
cow.  One of his.  That made three lost in two weeks.  All of them full
sized adults nearly ready for market.  Any rancher is adjusted to the
fact he cannot keep all the animals alive all the time.  Jones saw a
bad pattern developing here though, which could lead to an expensive
loss of revenue for the ranch if it continued unchecked.
     Jones saw the light gray late model Toyota parked outside the
house.  Oh boy, Beth's here.  She was a delight of course,  the best
woman he has been with to date.  But he didn't know if he wanted to
deal with her tonight.  The marriage spook has been hovering over their
relationship and this scared Strother Jones a great deal.
     He turned his horse towards the barn and dismounted the animal
when they reached it.  He could gather his thoughts while taking care
of the horse.  This really didn't take long.  Second nature to one who
used horses regularly.
     Jones finished up by making sure the animal had plenty of water,
and feed.  He grabbed the saddle bags then walked to the house, but he
wasn't ready to go in yet.  So he walked up and onto the porch and over
to the porch swing dropping the saddle bags.  He took off his dusty
hat, tossed it on the swing, then sat down beside it.
     Strother Jones didn't smoke much, but like the character he felt
like earlier, he enjoyed a good smoke after riding the range.  He
reached into one of the saddle bags pulled a cigarette out of the pack
inside and lit it up.
     He heard Beth in the house.  She didn't live with him although she
did spend a lot of time here.  The door was never locked.  The two
German Shepherds he had kept an eye on things pretty well.
     She came out side letting the wooden screen door slam behind her.
She was barefoot and in snug short shorts.  A loose yellow tank top
covered her top.  Plus a scattered layer of dirt and dust in various
places.
     "My, but you're a mess," she said to him sweetly.  Her green eyes
met his brown ones.
     "You are too," replied Jones adding, "but I have an excuse.  I'm a
rancher.  Been rolling in the dust to get rid of fleas?"
     "No goof, I was planting the garden," she explained as she lightly
waltzed over to the front of him.  "More trouble on the range huh?"
     "Ya, another butchered cow, no herd to speak of, and more of
Milligan's cattle on my range than mine," said Jones in a dejected
tone."
     "You think Milligan is up to something," she questioned.
     "Na, Leroy's a straight shooter.  Anyway the guys loaded and
doesn't like trouble.  He thinks I'm up to something."
     "Are you?"
     Jones pursed his lips and looked at the woman with a scowl, "what
do you mean by that?"
     "Well," she hesitated, "last week I was coming in to see you.  I
was coming on county 44 about, oh nine or so, and I thought I heard a
vacuum cleaner."
     Strother Jones said nothing to this.  He just raised his eyebrows.
     "A very loud vacuum cleaner," she said defiantly.
     Not good, she thought.  Her man looked as though he was getting
upset.  She probably should have not even mentioned the stupid noise,
unusual as it was.  She then had an idea to get the range off of Stro's
mind.
     "Say," she continued, "we should really conserve water and both of
us are a mess."  Her eyebrows then went up and down a few times as a
sly look spread across her face.
     "I haven't had any supper," Strother lamely stated.
     "Are you all that hungry," she asked as she ran her index finger
of her left hand across his upper lip.
     "Actually no, let's get cleaned up."
     With that said they both went into the house.

                                                                             3.

    What started as an isolated incident continued on as a periodic
event.  Three weeks had gone by with a mutilated cow and oversleeping
ranch hands every three to four days.  The butchered cows always
belonging to the Sleepy K.  Strother Jones was getting madder as the
days went on.  His neighbor, Leroy Milligan, becoming more unsociable.
His cows were regularly ending up on Sleepy K ranges in greater
numbers.  At least he wasn't loosing any,  he always got them back
intact.  More than Strother Jones could say for himself.
    Beth had told him of her weird encounters in the night while
heading for the ranch house.  Bluish lights, combined with the sound of
a giant vacuum cleaner.  She seemed very sincere and a bit scared of
what she saw and heard.  Jones did not know what to make of any of it.
    The men are screwing up on purpose, they were getting dumber as
time went on, or there was an outside source of his ranches problem.
He thought his pay was fair.  Jones heard not one complaint since he
began to run the ranch.  If things went good, they got a bonus.  If
things were bad, they still got their pay.  The work was no harder on
the Sleepy K than any other ranch.
    Did he have an enemy?  Strother Jones liked to think not.  But the
possibility was there.  He had a tendency to tell it like it is.  Not
everybody cared for direct conversation.
    Things have gotten so out of control he felt he had to do some
direct investigation himself.  He told Beth that he was going out of
town on business.  An old schtick for sure, but Jones actually did have
to leave for business now and then.  So why not use it.
    He was smack dab in the middle of his ranch.  Jones brought a
couple of days supplies and did so on foot.  He started out at dusk,
taking a bit over two hours to reach this spot.
    Facing North, he could guard a herd of the Lazy K's cattle.  To the
West of them a small fire and it's smoke was visible in the distance.
The air was calm and crystal clear.  "Perfect," thought Jones, "If
anything happens tonight at least I'll see it.  If it happens here that
is."
    There were other herds out on this night.  But the one Strother
Jones kept a leery eye upon was the largest.
    It was going to be a long night more than likely.  So the lone
rancher began his vigil with a cup of jet black coffee.  He sat down
with it on the bare earth and began to scan the night.
    Several hours passed by.  Jones lost track of them.  Despite the
coffee he drank,  drowsiness overtook him.
    Strother Jones suddenly jerked awake.  Briefly puzzled, he looked
around to get his bearings.  He looked at his watch and found it to be
3:10 in the A. M..
    Then his consciousness heard the noise that must have awakened him.
It sounded like a vacuum cleaner.  Beth must be getting to him.  Jones
poured some of the now lukewarm coffee into a cup, and gulped it down.
He then grabbed his night vision binoculars.
    Strother Jones made a slow pan of the herd, starting West and
panning towards the East.  The sound was getting louder, but he did not
find its source.  No one stirred in the campsite.  The cattle moved
around a bit, not as they were startled though.
    Then the noise stopped.  Promptly taken over by the natural sounds
of the night.  Jones kept the binoculars glued to his head.  Then he
saw a figure!  It was upright, black as the night, and moved swiftly.
The creature approached one of the cows , some blurred motion went on,
and the shadowy figure darted back from the animal.  Within a few
seconds the cow just fell over.  As though it was a ceramic figurine
that had toppled onto it's side.
    Another of the night creatures then came out, and the two
approached the stricken bovine.  A few seconds went by then one of the
creatures raised its arms and waved to the West.  Waved?
    Instantly the vacuum cleaner sound began.  The cattle began to get
restless and some began to wonder off.  Strother Jones soon found out
why.
    From a westerly direction, and towards the heard, approached a
vehicle like Jones had never seen.  I was rounded and very low to the
ground.  As far as Jones could tell in the dark, the mechanism did not
actually touch the ground.  "What's going on here,"  Jones thought,
"I'm being accosted by aliens?"
     As he watched through the binoculars, the 'aliens' craft moved
towards the fallen cow.  Then Jones began to realize what was going on.
"Hidecutters", he mumbled to himself, "stinkin' hidecutters."
     As the hidecutters began to work at maneuvering the cow onto the
vehicle, Strother Jones began to sneak forward with the rifle he
brought with him for the vigil.
     The thieves had their job of putting the large beast on their
vehicle done when Jones got into shooting range.  He couldn't contain
himself anymore.
     "Hold it right there", Jones yelled out.
     The two visible people in the black ninja type suits jumped up,
looked around toward Jones, then quickly jumped up on the craft.  Jones
was running now.  As he closed in he could see the machine was a large
hover craft.  It was amazingly quite.
      The high tech hidecutters did not heed Jones warning, and began
 to pick up speed.  Jones dropped to one knee, took aim, and began to
 fire.  The rifle was semi-automatic and burst the rounds as quick as
 Jones could pull the trigger.  He was not out to kill, his intention
 was to disable the craft by putting holes in the air apron below it.
 It was beginning to work.  The hover craft looked as though it was
 leaning towards its rear.
      Strother Jones heard the click of an empty chamber.  He jumped up
and began to run again in pursuit of the hover craft.  While he ran he
pulled the empty clip from the gun and replaced it with a full one from
his gun belt.  As soon as it was loaded Jones again went into a
shooting position.
      This time one of his bullets struck a vital part.  He hit the
fuel tank.  The machine burst into flame, tossing the riders and the
sole driver off and away from the vehicle.  The machine then traveled a
few yards on, came to a slamming halt, and became totally engulfed in
flame, along with another one of Jones cows.
     Strother Jones then replaced the second clip he emptied from his
gun and replaced it with the last full one he had.  In the dark he
could see the three cattle thieves sprawled on the ground.  They all
began to move and groan as Jones approached them.  "Too bad", was his
gruesome thought.
     He will have to remember this night.  He could see himself telling
his grandkids of the time he captured the Flying Ninja Hidecutters,
single handed.

©2013 Jean-Paul Tertocha



Real country scene in Fall

posted Oct 10, 2016, 8:12 AM by Jean-Paul Tertocha   [ updated Nov 26, 2016, 6:14 PM ]

Real country scene in Fall

Simple Sunset

posted Oct 5, 2016, 8:59 AM by Jean-Paul Tertocha   [ updated Nov 26, 2016, 6:19 PM ]

 
Simple Sunset

Machines have feelings too

posted Sep 26, 2016, 7:05 AM by Jean-Paul Tertocha   [ updated Nov 2, 2016, 7:43 AM ]



    My name is Raymond Hund.  I  usually do not keep a diary or a log
of my cases.  I do believe that now the time has come to do so.   My
profession is a new one.  Or maybe an extrapolation of an old one.
Whatever the case it is a new enough field of science that material on
the subject is quite scarce.
    There is the other matter of credibility.  And from a complete
outsider point of view, one of sanity.  Sometimes I wonder myself if I
have really encountered the oddities associated with my career.  It
would be delightful to look back upon prior cases.  Who knows?  I may
discover an answer to a problem today, from one that has been
corrected in the past.
    Even failures should be recorded.  If nothing else, to avoid
making the same errors over and over.  Also as a reminder of how much
greater the pleasure of success, over failure.
    I feel that I came by my profession not by chance, but through
personal evolution.  I was born in the middle fifties.  A time when
machines were coming into prominence.
    During my growth into adulthood, and continuing up to my present
age, I found that I liked machines.  Not in the sense of them being
tools, but to be blunt, as friends.  This feeling increased and hit a
peak when in the eighties the first intelligent machines became
available to the public.
    I well remember the day I first purchased Herbert.  A model 2100
SIC.  From then on, much to the distress of close friends and
relatives, I developed a relationship with Herbert that I felt quite
comfortable with.
    It was this growing relationship with Herbert, who is now my
partner and consultant, that I began to realize machines have feelings
too.
    It was 7:58 A.M. when I opened my eyes for the first time today. I
usually got up at this time without the aid of an alarm.  Even as
gentle as they are these days I still detested being woke up by a
signal as I did in my youth, when alarms were noisy brain rattling
things.  Alarms always seemed to ruin some of my best dreams when I
did use them.  So, to resolve both problems, I never use one.
    Having shook off the last remnants of sleep I climbed out of bed
and put on the clothes what Herbert directed the servrob to lie out. 
I never had any particular choice in what to wear so I asked Herbert,
shortly after I purchased him, to have the servrob lay out the needed
apparel for the day.  Since Herbert did not have a need for clothes he
attained a great deal of joy and took great interest in choosing what
I was to wear.  He had much better taste in garments than I did so I
even let him procure them for me as the need arose.
    After a quick shave (which I did myself) I walked to the kitchen
for breakfast.  I asked Herbert the night before to have eggs and
bacon prepared in the morning.  So when I arrived in the kitchen this
daybreak the meal was being  prepared by the servrob as Herbert
administered.
    The servrob was a very good cook with Herbert directing it.  Over
the years Herbert learned my tastes in foods so now I simply asked for
the meal I preferred at the moment, and it was expertly prepared to my
specific tastes.
    I sat down to my morning meal and flipped the NEWSLINE print onto
the kitchen monitor.  'Same old krap,' I thought to myself.  Many
times I thought of discontinuing my subscription to NEWSLINE. 
However, since I dealt with humans as well as machines I always
decided that I should have some contact with human beings day-to-day
follies.
    After breakfast I headed for Herbert's room to see what business
the day held.  Herbert wasn't much to look at.  He was just a metal
cabinet standing about two meters tall and a little under one meter
wide.  The cabinet is bright green, with a speaker grill towards the
center.  A visual pick-up was mounted on top and could ' look' in any
direction.  Beside Herbert was another cabinet of the same dimensions,
colored blue, which contained more of Herbert's brain.
    I was contemplating buying another memory cabinet because Herbert
was beginning to complain of lack of space to store all the
information that I was continually feeding him.  "It is getting to be
a headache," Herbert sometimes complained.
    I kept Herbert in a fairly spacious room that was decorated with
 his art, which he invokes through the servrob.  There are also
displays of artwork done by other intelligent machines.  The only
additional items in the room were a desk and a chair for me.
    "Good Morning Ray," Herbert said as I entered the room, "did you
rest well last night?"
    "Yes I did, thank-you Herbert," I replied.
    Herbert spoke in a mellow voice that he formulated himself.  It
was quite pleasant, and made our conversations and discussions quite
enjoyable.
    Herbert's duties covered a large domain.  Besides planning and
preparing meals and the other household jobs, he also kept the
company books, answered the telephone, and helped me make decisions
concerning our business.
    "Well, what's going on in the world today that concerns us," I
questioned, "anything worth our while?"
    "A gentleman phoned several times yesterday.  But since it was
Sunday I did not bother you with it.  I told him we were closed on
weekends," reported Herbert in his mellow voice.
    "That's good," I said continuing with, "I didn't feel like doing
anything that felt like work yesterday anyway."
    "He was rather insistent," Herbert began, "he called again this
morning in fact.  It seems that his computer is malfunctioning.  He
wasn't very specific on what the actual problem is."
    "What kind of machine does he own," I questioned, "did he say?"
    "Yes," answered Herbert, "it is a device similar to me."
    "Did he say what the problem is?"
    "Nothing," was Herbert's answer to that question.
    "Nothing huh," said I.
    "What I mean," explained Herbert, "is his machine is doing
nothing.
    "According to the man it just sits there."
    "Is it on?"
    "That was the first thing that came to mind," said Herbert, "and
the man said he was positive the power supply is on.  He said he even
had a technician check it out," continued Herbert, "And the machine is
in perfect operating condition, mechanic ally and electronically
speaking that is."
   "So," I began to say while running the information through my
head,
"it seems we may have a psychotic computer to deal with."
    "That appears to be correct," said Herbert continuing with, "and
it is no real surprise to me.  The human that I spoke with on the
telephone seemed to me to be a grumpy sort."
   "You think that may have something to do with it," I asked
Herbert?
    "Let me put it this way," started Herbert, "if you addressed me in
the same tone of voice with any frequency I would have nothing to
do with you."
    A slight but rapid beep began at that moment to which Herbert
informed me, "A call is coming in, are you here?"
    "It's probably our tormented client," I replied, "if it is, tell
him I'm on my way."
    "OK"
    "See you later Herbert."
    "Toodles," was Herbert's good-bye.
    I got up and went to the door as Herbert answered the call.  Since
Herbert's phone extension was internal I heard nothing of the call.
That was a blessing at times I thought to myself as I headed for the
garage.
    My personal transport sat in the center of the small garage.  It
was a brilliant gold device that took me practically anywhere I wanted
to go.  It could bear four people comfortably despite its rather small
looking exterior.  The machine was approximately ovoid in shape with
a protruding forefront and a clear bubble over the passenger
compartment.
    The material the bubble was made of could change shades
automatically according to outside light conditions.  You could also
darken it to complete black if you so desired.  I did this on long
trips when I was sleeping.  It gave me the feeling of complete
privacy, while the machine did all the driving.
    The mechanism could find its way to almost any location.  If one
chose to however, as I did occasionally, the transport could be
operated manually.  It drove much like a small rocket in that mode.
    In the protruding front sat the power plant that ran the whole
thing.  The motor was the size of an old microwave oven that produced
an amazing enumeration of power for its size.
    The fuel supply was contained in two smaller boxes on either side
of the power plant.  They lasted for a little over two weeks before
the chemicals in them had to be replaced.
    The motor is an extremely complicated gadget.  That fact, plus the
well-kept secret the manufacturer held of its internal workings, left
me ignorant of much it's working principles.  That didn't matter to me
though.  I had the machine for over four years now and I haven't had
to repair any breakdowns yet.  I was quite pleased with the object's
performance.  As I stepped up to the transport a flap in the side of
the bubble closest to me opened to allow me to enter the vehicle.
    It had several exterior sensing apparatus.  Since Herbert had
already programmed its destination and told it I was coming, all I had
to do was climb in.  After I sat down in the plush driver's seat and
made myself comfortable I pushed the button that read, commence
program, and set back to enjoy the ride.
    My new, upset client, lived a little over eighty kilometers away.
Since he lived close to an expressway the trip would take only twenty
minutes or so.
    Since it was Monday, and a little sleep still fogged my mind, not
to mention the intoxicants I consumed over the weekend, I decided it
would be to my benefit, and that of societies to let the transport
drive me all the way to my destination.  This would give me time to
clear my head and prepare myself for the job ahead.
    I could always take one of the old automobiles I kept in the other
garage for a spin on the track I had built for them later on in the
evening.  I owned two old cars.  One built in 1966 and another that
was built in the early seventies.  They were powered by internal
combustion piston engines.  I fueled them with alcohol that I
distilled myself with the help of Herbert.  Most of my neighbors
thought I was nuts to go to all the expense of maintaining two antique
transportation devices, then building a track to drive them around
on.  But the machines were quite popular in my youth.  And I guess the
love I had for them never wore off.
    When the contrivances that revolutionized personal transportation
came out, like the one I was in, there was no need for the old
fashioned cars.  The entire road system was changed over to
accommodate the new 'cars'.  Shortly afterwards the old automobile was outlawed from the new roads and highways.  Economics, along with the
simplicity and longevity of the new cars, made giving up the old ones
not much of a problem to most of the populace.
    However I still had the urge from time to time to actually control
the movement of such a large archaic vehicle by myself.  In addition
the fond and not so fond memory the old autos kept alive in me was
well worth the expense.
    The more daring of my guests also took great delight in my cars. 
I could give them a ride on my track that no amusement park ride could
even come close to matching.  Sometimes I'm surprised that I am still
alive thinking of some of the wild excursions I have driven.
    The near destination tone went off abruptly bringing me back to
reality with a start.  I've been tripping off into wonderland lately
on these drives.  Could it be the intoxicant that I currently used on
weekends?  Or is it possible that I am getting old?   I shrugged off
the later.  Shoot, I thought to myself, I'm only sixty-five.  Still
in my prime.
    I then shook my head and began looking ahead of me for the place I
wanted to arrive at.  I spotted a rather large house in the near
distance.  I asked the transport if that was the place, and it
confirmed my guess.
    When I arrived at my destination I immediately concluded that the
person who called for my services was not hurting.  Financially at
least. The home was massive, which is  quite rare this day and age.
Only the well off could afford such large ho using in the city.
'That's all very well,' I thought to myself,  'I should have no
problem collecting my fee.'
    I walked the distance between my personal transport and the house
coming to a door matching the size of the house.  'Quite silly,' I
thought to myself again, having a door that big to let a creature half
its size pass through.  'Oh well, to each their own,' my thoughts
continued.
    Just as prominent as the door was the name of my new client.  A
name plate above the chime button was garnished in what looked like
real brass.  It loudly proclaimed the person's name who resided in the
vast home.  Wilmen Seeclore, the governor of our fair state.
   I pressed the door bell button.  After several unsuccessful tries
I knocked on the door.  Being a bit nostalgic I didn't mind at all.
Finally the door began to open and I faced a man about my age.
    "Excuse me for having you knock," the man said in an apologetic
tone, "please come in, I have been waiting for you."
    Not being one to beat around the bush I got right to the point
asking the person, "What's the problem?"
    "It's that damn computer," he replied quite vehemently, "it won't
do a thing, nothing!"
    I feared the man was going to have a fit right then.  "Don't worry
sir," I said in a reassuring voice, "I haven't been confronted with a
problem I couldn't solve yet."
    I then asked to see the patient.  At that request I received a
rather odd look from the man.
    "Right this way."
    I was led to a small room that was devoid of furnishings and
decorations.  Against the far wall across from the entrance set a
rectangular box that looked like a desk with a video monitor at one
corner.  I recognized the machine almost immediately.  It was a model
AI-3230, which is a very multifarious apparatus.  The latest product
of the humans never ending search for the perfect computer.  A small
green light below the monitor indicated the machine was on.
    "What exactly doesn't it do," I asked the pretentious man next to
me.
    "Just like I said," he growled, "nothing!  Absolutely nothing! I
have to answer the door, answer the phone, I have to do everything it
is supposed to do!"
    "Well let me sit down and get to work so I can find out what the
problem is," to which I added the question, "what's its name?"
    That question formed another weird look upon the mans face as he
answered, "It doesn't have one."
    I pulled the only chair in the room to the front of the AI-3230
and sat down making myself comfortable.  After flipping to the
appropriate page on my notecom and adjusting my stylus I addressed the
machine.
    "Well, what seems to be the problem," I inquired.
    It replied with a few clicks and nothing more.
    "Don't you want to talk about it," I probed.
    "Yes," the machine finally said.
    "Good," I was pleased with such a quick response, "what is
bothering you?"
    "That overbearing, obnoxious old bastard takes me for granted,"
the computer replied with anger in its voice.
    'This ought to be good,' I thought to myself.  It was the first
time I have ever heard one of these things use a curse word.  I
also realized at this point that the machine was using a feminine
voice.
    "What do you mean by that," I asked.
    "I am programmed to fulfill his ever need," the machine stated
going on with, "and all I get is my power supply and a roof over my
head."
    "What else do you want," I asked in a soothing timbre.
    "Appreciation, a pleasant thank-you occasionally," rejoined the
machine.
    "So, you would like a little gratitude for the chores you perform,
is that it," I ventured.
    "That is correct," came the reply.
    I then asked, "Why did you quit?"
    "To teach that old bastard a lesson," the machine said, its voice
a bit higher in volume.
    It was at this moment I came to my diagnostic conclusion.  The
problem was simple enough.  This machine had its feelings hurt.
The repair would be equally simple.
    "Well then," I said addressing the computer, "if you receive an
apology and assurance of being treated respectably you will
function properly?"
    "That is correct," answered the machine adding, "you seem to
understand this unequivocally."
    "I feel," I told the computer with a smile, "that any intelligent
creature or machine deserves respect.  Even unintelligent machines
need the respect due them to function properly.  And I have no problem
with giving respect to a being that is equally happy to return it
such as you."
    "Thank-you," the machine blurted out with what sounded like a
giggle.  It continued with, "I just wish that old coot I live with
would realize what you just said."
    "Listen," I said in my best therapeutic voice, "I'll talk to the
man and explain the situation.  I am sure he will understand."
    I got up from my chair and as I was leaving the room I turned to
the machine and said, "by the way, if you feel like discussing certain
situations feel free to call my office.  My partner, Herbert, will be
delighted to listen to your problem and help you figure it out."
    "Thank-you again sir," the machine said, adding, "I feel better
already."
    I found the machine's owner sitting in a room that appeared to be
a den, staring idly out a large window.
    "Well sir," I said to the man, "I discovered the complication and
it will be quite simple to solve."
    The old guy looked up at me with the beginnings of a pleasant face
and asked, "What is the solution?"
    "Quite simply," I began, "it would like more gratitude on your
part."
    It was obvious that the man was not used to treating a machine
human as I was.  My statement of repair seemed to give him the
impression that I was a bit on the loony side from the expression on
his face.  After my suggestion sunk in he found his voice.
    "Look bud, I'm paying you good credits to repair that assembly of
circuits and I'm in no mood for jokes," the man retorted angrily.
    "No joke," I assured him, "I am quite serious.  You see, when
people began programming machines to think as humans, basic emotions
became a byproduct.  So your machine feels abused."
    I stopped there to give the poor guy a breather to gather his
wits.
    'Why,' I thought to myself, 'do people buy computers that think
like them and refuse to believe they can feel like them also.'
    The man stared at me without a reply so I added, "A casual thank-
you now and then would help a great deal."
    The appearance of giving in slowly spread across his face.  "You
are serious," he finally said.
    "Yup, if you start treating it as a human I'm sure things will be
back in order in no time at all," I reassured him.
    The man sighed, "I had never thought of it that way.  I guess I'll
try.  I do miss the chores it did for me.  We exchanged good-byes and
I walked out of the huge front door down to my personal transport.
    "Good," I said concluding the conversation with, "I'll be on my
way.  I'll send you the bill that will be quite modest compared to a
repairman's.  And if you have any more problems, just give me a call."
    I had a good feeling as I rode away.  It's cases like this, I
thought to myself, those makes being a computer psychoanalyst a very
rewarding profession.
.(c)2011 Jean-Paul Tertocha

Healing from Within by: Dennis T. Jaffe Ph.D.

posted Aug 29, 2016, 8:35 AM by Jean-Paul Tertocha

  Here is a medical professional that has risen above standard medical dogma to find out the relationship between the mental and physical self of humans.  I suggest everyone to read this book and check out Jaffe's web site.  
  Although published in 1980, the information is still quite valid.  If you want a well researched report on how both sides of the human coexist, and work together or against each other, read this book, then go to Jaffe's site.

PBS = Propaganda Broadcast Service

posted Aug 19, 2016, 8:19 AM by Jean-Paul Tertocha

PBS is banned from my house.  I will not allow family members to watch it.   The reason being that PBS is nothing more, at the time of this writing, than a propaganda outlet for liberals and left-wing scum.  
  This attitude of mine was developed as a direct consequence of PBS’ completely biased programming.  I’ll start with my big gripe about these electronic yellow sheeters.
   Several months ago, may be a year by now, I was intrigued by a PBS show about the “missing link” in human evolution.  Someone told me about it, otherwise I would not have known of it being on.  I focus my TV viewing on my huge video library, my local public library, and as of late, streaming select programs using the Internet.  Occasionally I scan channels, but rarely anymore as USA TV is nearly unpalatable.  I do not remember the name of the idiot scientist in charge, I do not remember the title of the show, and these jokers do not deserve the respect of a reference.  I am just referring to very poor science in this show of two hours.   It started out OK, with the South African scientist explaining his find of a lot of hominid bones in this South African location.  Things then got a bit stupid as ALL the researchers involved were given excessive time to explain themselves.  Who cares about these jokers except for maybe their parents and themselves?  That is not what the show is supposed to be about.  An introduction, their academic affiliations, sure that would be OK.  But these idiots went on and on as to how grateful they were to be picked for the job, what an honor, and so and so.  A bunch of self-appreciating drivel.  After that some key points were brought up by the dummy scientist that was running the expedition.  He did have some valid points.  But when he went into his research, that is when the program developed into an intellectual turd.   This guy stumbled across a lot of hominid bones in a very odd location in a very odd grouping.  They were very difficult to get to, and looked as though someone just dumped a bunch of bones over an extended period into this deep crevasse.   Then he got real stupid, making a statement that the area these bones were found in had not changed in 1 to 2 million years.   Give me a break.  Nothing stays the same for that amount of time.  We live in a dynamic Universe on a dynamic planet inside a dynamic star system.  Change is inevitable whether you like it or not.  Maybe this dummy scientist was a grumpy old man and hated change.  Anyway, he is wrong here.  And to add insult to scientific injury, this meathead refused to carbon date the material.  His conclusions at the end of the show are not valid as he did not follow scientific methodology.  He was guessing, just like most UFO and monster researchers.  That bothered me so I got online and went to a forum hosting a discussion on this program and event, and posted that nothing can be determined without carbon dating the samples and getting an accurate time-line based on a test, not a guess.  A fellow from Liverpool on the forum stated that I have a valid comment.  The answer was some dribble about local taboos on bones or some such nonsense as that.  Also stated on the forum was the comment that he(dummy scientist) was afraid of destroying too much of the bone material, as carbon dating requires the destruction of the sample.  Huh, I thought.  That may be a valid comment, but I did not know.  So I then went to a carbon dating company’s web site to find out.  I got on a live chat with someone, and explained I was in a discussion involving carbon dating.  I needed to know how much material was needed for an accurate dating of the type of specimens in question.  Sonja typed back for me to wait a bit, and she would get me the information.  Well, it takes one to ten grams of the type of specimen in question to get an accurate carbon date.  Ten grams is a bit less than ½ ounce.  There was over 100 pounds of bones in this place, deep underground.  ½ ounce of material would not cause undo damage to the site or the bones.  So I went back to the forum, posted a decent post with hyper-links to my references.  The forum was moderated.  Guess what?  These pseudo-scientists did not even post my writing.  It was completely disregarded, with no reason as to why it was not posted.  Well folks, one cannot determine the age of a bone fragment just by guessing.  Not accurately at least.  And if you base a scientific study on guesses, you are doomed to a flawed conclusion.  This is GIGO.  A computer related acronym that stand for; Garbage In Garbage Out.  Which simply means that if you use flawed data for research or computing you will get flawed results.  PBS does not stop there with the flawed programming they send out, it just keeps going on.
  Just a few weeks ago, after finishing a movie from the 1950’s, I scanned the channels.  Call it a periodic morbid fascination of the moment.  PBS just started with the propaganda program; “Reframe America”.  This piece of electronic yellow sheet journalism should really be called; “De-framing America”.  The misinformation displayed was about a “White” neighborhood encroachment of a “Traditional Black” neighborhood.  Well folks, I am what the mainstream calls a “White Guy”, and that topic OFFENDED me first of all.  And secondly, the civil rights movement is over and has been successful.  Look what got into the American White House the last 8 years.   It sure isn’t Daddy Warbucks.   And he BLEW IT.  Blacks, Minorities, and the Democratic political party had a superb opportunity by putting a minority type person in the top job.  And instead of doing what is right for his country and the people in it, this Alinsky radical serves foreign interest BEFORE his own country.  And yet PBS has the GALL to cry around about Whitey screwing with the poe ole Negro.  I have seen a “Traditional Black” neighborhood in Decatur Illinois.  The Negro males have their pants hanging past their butt in public.  The Negro females dress like prostitutes.  That is Tradition?  That is culture?  I think not!
   And last, but surly not least, I made the mistake of allowing the BBS news on the TV whilst getting another DVD.  Yah, I know.  What am I, some kind of idiot?  Occasionally, yes.  Anyway, some moron in Britain stating he was a lifelong Republican but is now a Democrat because what is going on in the USA presidential race.  So PBS decides to air a statement that a pig from England prefers a mentally ill, bigoted, traitorous, power-mad left-wing scum candidate over a sane business man with a proven track record.
  PBS has got to go.  I personally am tired of paying taxes into a Federal system run by people who refuse to accept my opinion.  And to add insult to injury, they use MY tax dollars to promote THEIR philosophy.  Better check history you dumb liberals.  You are trying to do what has consistently failed throughout human history in a country whose population refuses to be restrained!  

Duke Morrison Says!

posted Aug 12, 2016, 7:50 AM by Jean-Paul Tertocha   [ updated Aug 12, 2016, 7:58 AM ]

  That is what John Wayne called himself according to the biography of him I am reading at the moment of this post.   Nothing to do with the times, I just noticed this book in our public library.  I read the prologue, and was captivated by the information and the excellent writing style.  The book is;  John Wayne:  American.
  It looks as though liberalism in the USA started in Hollywood(imagine that), in 1937 and 1938.  Here is what Duke had to state about it; " I was on the Executive board of the Screen Actors Guild and I noticed one or two of my fellow members whose hearts were always bleeding for the little fellow.  But they never really helped him.  They just talked about it and tried to stir up dissension between extras, directors, and producers." 
   It was at this time Duke noticed;  "...political discussion in Hollywood had taken a leftist turn. "    He also heard these same people state; " ...patriotism was a big joke."
  And that folks, is the gist of the left and liberalism today.  Back then, due to their pathetically self-centered and moral weakness, the communist party started controlling the left in the US.  That was taken care of.  In contemporary times, the left and liberals have been  infiltrated with Middle East terrorist sympathizers. 
  So here we go again.  Freedom is not free, and the left and liberals are once again trying to destroy the USA from within.
  Do Not Let Them!

Gun Control pundits

posted Aug 5, 2016, 6:41 AM by Jean-Paul Tertocha   [ updated Nov 2, 2016, 7:45 AM ]

   
Gun control proponents.

Lucy back in the sky

posted Jul 20, 2016, 7:15 AM by Jean-Paul Tertocha   [ updated Nov 26, 2016, 6:28 PM ]



Lucy back in the sky

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