Admission

Alert Readers may sometimes notice a comment in a Monday Funnies post like this one:

…as did Longtime Friend & Reader mnshaw, a while back:

Okay, I might as well ‘fess up:

There is no such account as Kim du Toit@MYOB.

If I see a cartoon, joke or meme that elicits a response, I simply edit the pic by adding this little button

…and the comment (see above).

I have no “social presence” in any of the Usual Suspects (Twatter, FizzBuke, Snapshit, TickBite, MySpecs, InstaGroan, TroofSexual etc.) so I created a fake one because, well I don’t know exactly why I did it, other than maybe to poke fun at the concept.  And no, I’m not tempted to create a real one, either.

I do stupid shit like that occasionally.  (So I’m sorry if you fruitlessly wasted your time trying to hunt me down, mnshaw.)

Oh, and if there’s an egregious spelling mistake in a meme (egregious enough that in my eyes it takes away the enjoyment thereof) I sometimes edit the damn thing because:

Finally, one more thing.  Almost without exception, the “Dear Diary” meme family:

…is of my own creation.

So there you have it.

So That’s What I’ve Got

This article caught my eye a while back:

Harry Judd’s wife Izzy has claimed that one of their children suffers from what some experts describe as ‘pathological demand avoidance’ – a controversial behaviour pattern said to make even simple requests, such as tidying their room or saying please and thank you, trigger anxiety.

I have no idea who the Judds are — some obscure Brit celebrities, I guess — but reading that sentence would have made my mother go “AHA!”

If “pathological demand avoidance” could also be described as a hostile (and sometimes even violent) attitude towards authority figures, then oh boy:  that would describe me perfectly.  There’s an old English expression that my former housemaster actually used to describe my attitude:  “He’s always kicking against the pricks.”  (Look it up;  it’s quite funny.)

The only thing that sets me aside from the kid above would be the fact that if said authority figure has earned my respect, then the process will sometimes become easier (for them).  The only problem is that my respect is seldom given, to just about anyone and anything.  And by “anything”, I mean conventions, rules, regulations and even — on occasion — laws, if they make no sense.

My attitude is probably the cause of at least a third of the problems I’ve experienced during my lifetime (my love of women is about half, and I couldn’t be bothered trying to think of what constitutes the balance).

Anyway, whenever the occasion presents itself and I stand accused of willful disobedience / outright rebellion,  I can now just trot out the excuse that I’m not a stubborn and disobedient asshole;  I just suffer from this “pathological demand avoidance (PDA)” thing, and claim victim status.

No I won’t.  What a load of old bullshit.

Next thing you’ll be seeing one of those foul Big Pharma TV ads that features — guess what — a pill that promises to alleviate PDA (at $400 per pill, no doubt), as long as you don’t mind the side-effects that include eventual cessation of heart function, a 90% risk of cancer and toenails that grow six inches per hour, in no specific order, and you should talk to your doctor to make sure that Rebyniflorbitylhexacholate (brand name:  Rebate) is right for you.

In case anyone missed it, I am NOT in a good mood today and I’m going to go for my personal cure for the condition:  a couple hours at the range.  Fortunately, the range I call home has few if any range safety nazis, because nothing gets up my nose like some 19-year-old wanker wearing a SIG 320 in a plastic holster telling me about range safety as though my 60-years-plus experience with handling Teh Dangerous Guns doesn’t mean anything.  That doesn’t “trigger” anxiety, but rage.

Bloody hell, I get irritable just thinking about it.

Falling Over

For once, I discovered an interesting article in the ghastly New York Times — motto:  “Other Than That, The Story Was Quite True” — because it has nothing to do with politics, for once:

Public health experts have warned of the perils of falls for older people for decades. In 2023, the most recent year of data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, more than 41,000 Americans over 65 died from falls, an opinion article in JAMA Health Forum pointed out last month.
More startling than that figure, though, was another statistic: Fall-related mortality among older adults has been climbing sharply.

I don’t know quite when I started to lose my balance.  I think it was in my early sixties, when for no reason at all, I would stagger a bit when turning a corner (walking, not driving, of course).  I wouldn’t fall over, but it nevertheless alarmed me.

And when getting dressed, specifically putting on pants or briefs, I suddenly found myself unable to balance on one leg without toppling over;  which means that now I pretty much have to either brace myself against a wall with one hand, or else make sure that if I do fall over, there’s a bed close at hand to catch me.  It’s irritating.

Going down stairs has a similar effect.  Where once I could bound down a staircase with no effort at all, I find myself having to grip the banister like my life depends on it, which it does, now.

Of course, I’m very familiar with the fact that we Olde Pharttes tend to have brittle bones, hence the distressing number of said group suffering things like broken hips, skulls or limbs after toppling over. (see:  novelist Jilly Cooper, dead following fall)

The famous expression “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”  is not so funny anymore.

The NYT article suggests this:

The author, Dr. Thomas Farley, an epidemiologist, reported that death rates from fall injuries among Americans over 65 had more than tripled over the past 30 years. Among those over 85, the cohort at highest risk, death rates from falls jumped to 339 per 100,000 in 2023, from 92 per 100,000 in 1990.
The culprit, in his view, is Americans’ reliance on prescription drugs.
“Older adults are heavily medicated, increasingly so, and with drugs that are inappropriate for older people,” Dr. Farley said in an interview. “This didn’t occur in Japan or in Europe.”

Some other guy opines:

The difference, he believes, is Americans’ increasing use of medications — like benzodiazepines, opioids, antidepressants and gabapentin — that act on the central nervous system.
“The drugs that increase falls’ mortality are those that make you drowsy or dizzy,” he said.
Problematic drugs are numerous enough to have acquired an acronym: FRIDs, or “fall risk increasing drugs,” a category that also includes various cardiac medications and early antihistamines like Benadryl.

Which might be plausible, except that in my case it’s not a reason because I don’t take any of the above drugs, or even drugs that are similar.

Of course, we all know that some meds like Benadryl can cause dizziness — FFS, it says so right on the pack — which is why if I do ever take one of those, I take it right before going to bed.

No, I have no idea why I’m suddenly so tottery on my feet, when in the past I always had excellent balance.

It’s also a well-known fact that Olde Pharttes are more likely to experience vertigo when faced with extreme heights or drops.  Just a photo of some idiot hanging from a sheer cliff face by only their fingertips will actually cause my stomach to heave;  I have no idea how I’d feel if facing a sheer drop in person, but I’m perfectly prepared to believe stories about elderly people inexplicably toppling over a cliff as through drawn to it.

I’ve said it before and I repeat it now:  this getting old business is not for the young.

System Update

Got a new laptop.  Lenovo.  (Hello, my little yellow friends over in Beijing!  Enjoy what you read here!  You fuckers.)

Busy re-installing my entire life, which may take a while.

Blogging will be light today… and maybe even tomorrow.

I haven’t broken anything yet, nor have I felt the urge to throw the thing in the pool;  but the day is young.  At least all the keys respond when pressed, and I don’t need packing tape to keep the power cord plugged in, to mention just a couple of benefits.

Interesting Thought

Couple nights back I had dinner with Tech Support II, who was in town for some geek convention or other, and in the course of our (long) evening together, I asked him what car he was currently driving, and was not really surprised when he said “Tesla SUV”.

Of course he would drive a Tesla (because he’s a techie), and of course an SUV (because he has a family).

But along the way something really interesting came up.  He’d recently driven the Tesla (with the family) from Florida to Houston (because he’s also a space geek, duh).  The interesting part is that by his estimation, he didn’t drive about 90-95% of the 1,600-mile drive at all;  he simply left it to the Tesla’s auto-drive program.

When I asked why, he said simply, “Because the Tesla is a better driver than I am.”

The thing about the Tesla self-drive function is that every trip made by every Tesla is recorded and uploaded to their system at headquarters (or wherever they store it).  What that means is that Tesla can not only combine all that data into a global “behavioral” database, but they can also create subsets of that to, say, a “Florida-Houston” drive, with all the characteristics of said trip — choke points, places where accidents frequently occur, speed data and so on — all combined to make the next Florida-Houston drive trip all the safer for any Tesla driver because those characteristics are then folded into the Tesla self-drive computer in the car.

All very interesting, especially for an old retired data geek like myself.

But what TS said next is what stopped me in my tracks.  When I asked him why he’d elected for the self-drive, he admitted quite simply, “Because the Tesla is a better driver than I am.”

He’s not a bad driver, just so you know;  in fact, he’s an excellent driver.

I myself have admitted on these very pages that at age 70, I’m no longer as good a driver as I once was when I was, say, 30 or even when I was 50.

And it makes me think:  would I not be better off by delegating the driving to someone (or something) else?

Of course, this isn’t limited to owning a Tesla (because #Duracell car), and in any event in my case this is purely a hypothetical “If I won the lottery dream” because I could afford neither a driver nor a Tesla.

Nevertheless, it’s a different and quite disturbing thought for me, because it goes against a whole bunch of personal philosophies, viz.  distrust of electric cars, not being in control of my driving, losing my independence of action, being spied on as I drive — to name but some.

And make no mistake:  this would not be an action born of conveeenience, but of safety concerns.

As I said, it’s an interesting thought, even if nothing ever comes of it.

Bygone Times

Reader Old Texan sent me an email with this enclosed:

…and purely coincidentally, The Divine Sarah published Long Ago, It Must Be, which starts with the hypothesis (not hers) that time stopped in 1999, and everything that’s happened since then has been just a dream.  In that piece, Sarah talks wistfully about how 1999 was a time when some of her friends were still sane, and of other friends since passed away.

Well, 1999 was an okay year for me, I think:  living on the lakefront in Chicago with Connie, doing consultant work and traveling to Britishland occasionally:


(that’s the Bath Weir in the background)

It was a good year, no doubt about it.  But if I look back to my favorite years pre-2000, I’d have to choose 1981.

Oh man, 1981…. I had a job I loved — imagine that — which also involved travel (only all over South Africa, not the UK) and which earned me a decent salary:


(Cape Town)


(just north of Durban:  Umhlanga Rocks, where my Mom lived)


(Port Elizabeth “PE”)


(Kimberly, with its “Big Hole” diamond mine)

In 1981, I was still playing in the Atlantic Show Band — we’d pretty much given up playing clubs and were doing gigs at proms, wedding receptions and office parties etc. — and that, believe me, was a blast.  The music we were playing?  Bette Davis Eyes, Fire, Angel Of The Morning, Stop Dragging My Heart Around, Another Brick In The Wall, Crazy Little Thing Called Love, Heartache Tonight, You May Be Right… aaah, kill me now.

I was driving a very nippy little Opel Kadett (company car, ergo free), and I was still single, with a very active Little Black Book.

I was twenty-seven years old, and I ruled my world.  If I could choose a year to relive, then 1981 beats all the others, in spades.

Feel free to tell me in Comments which year you’d like to go back to, with reasons.  (Email if Comments are still screwed up for you, and I’ll post it.)