Here's an Idea!

 

 

It requires an enormous amount of energy to move a 20,000 ton freight train from a dead stop, but comparatively little to keep it chugging along at 50 mph. This is the result of a fascinating concept called “momentum.”

The following analogy is not perfect, but it does seem at least partially true. Returning from a 10 day vacation as a business owner feels an awful lot like that train. Getting your enterprise up and running again requires an awful lot of energy. Starting from a dead stop isn’t easy, but after a week or two things will be chugging along as if I never left. My momentum will have been restored.

The question then becomes, was the ten days away worth it to have to endure the heavy lifting required to begin again? The answer is emphatically, “YES.”

Pondering all of this has given me an idea. Practically everyone I know, despite their economic condition, takes some form of a vacation. Everyone that is, except government. Wouldn’t it be great if we forced government at all levels to take a two week time-out every year? Now, obviously not every department of government can just shut down. There are Social Security checks that have to be mailed out, etc. But couldn’t the country find a way to muddle through for 14 days without the Commerce Department, the Department of Education, the EPA, the IRS, Housing and Urban Development, and the countless alphabet soup of agencies, bureaus and administrations that populate the Washington landscape? Two weeks. Just shut her down. No Small Business Administration, no Bureau of Land Management. 14 freaking days.

Since we spend 287 billion every month, my two week time-out idea could save us some money. But even if it didn’t, there might be another benefit. Imagine the amount of energy that would be required to get the train of state started again from such a dead stop? Maybe, just maybe the effort would prove too much for every member over the age of 65. Who knows? Perhaps that would account for what…60% of Congress? This idea might work better than term limits!

WARNING: Proceed With Caution!

I feel it only fair to issue a warning at the beginning of this post. If you have not eaten your breakfast, what follows may take away your appetite. If you are either currently eating your breakfast, or have just finished it, take all appropriate precautions before proceeding.

This morning my psyche was permanently scarred by three images published overnight of Dallas Cowboy owner Jerry Jones in various disgusting sexual poses with very young women. Yes, Jerry Jones, the 71 year old with the comically contorted face that stands as visceral warning to anyone contemplating cosmetic surgery, the self-proclaimed “family man” who has been married to the same woman for 51 years, has been revealed to the world as an ass-grabbing dirty old man by the Deadspin website.

One might reasonably ask why I chose to click on the article in the first place, an excellent question to which I have no satisfactory answer except to say that it is after all, curiosity that killed the cat. Perhaps there lies within us a desire to see the proud brought low, maybe we take vicarious pleasure in the misfortune, the public unraveling of famous big shots. I am not proud of this inclination, but there can be no debate about the fact that Jerry Jones is one of the biggest shots of this or any era.

I am not a Cowboy hater, or as my friend Al Coleman refers to them, I have no beef with the “Bovine Cartel.” I am not necessarily against bravado either. I generally love confident athletes, Joe Namath’s guarantee and Muhammad Ali’s  “I am the greatest” shtick worked only because they were able to make good on their brags. What always has bothered me about Jones is the inordinate attention he gets as the owner of such a woefully inept franchise. After early success as team owner, he has meddled and fumbled his way to staggering mediocrity, often while fielding rosters full of superior talent. Combine this with his eerie plastic surgery missteps, and now his exposure as a philandering hypocrite and…well, one takes a bit of pleasure in his comeuppance.

Still, I was not prepared for Jerry Jones’ glassy-eyed, toothy-grinned sneer, groping the breasts of what looked to be no more than a twenty year old girl. Imagine the horror facing that girl’s parents this morning as they witness their little girls’ public humiliation. What am I saying? This is 2014 America. This girl way well become a star. She may get interviewed by TMZ. Katie Couric and Oprah may soon come calling. Eventually she may hit the mother load of 21^st century riches and land her own reality show.

I have chronicled the epic bad behavior of famous men on this blog at great length, but it should be pointed out that every sexual failing of these prominent men has been made possible by willing young women, more than eager to prostitute themselves to degenerate and mostly ugly old men. Ladies, I am forced to ask…what the heck is wrong with you??

Newlyweds...psshhtt!!

So tonight my recently married daughter made one of those adorable newlywed comments on Facebook. “Even emptying the dishwasher is fun,” she cooed. Of course, replies came pouring in from her more tenured married friends offering more sober answers to her question, “ how long does this last?”  They can be summarized succinctly with, “not long.”

I couldn’t resist pointing out all of the hilarity she passed up while living under my roof. Back then, both of our kids viewed all of the loud electrical appliances like dishwashers and vacuum cleaners as monstrously complicated beasts that could only be trusted in the learned and capable hands of Mom and Dad.

Still, there is truth to her assertion that “playing house is fun.” Although she will soon learn that the more mundane chores like emptying the dishwasher do become routine, the truth is, it’s the chores of life, the daily work of making a house a home that bring comfort and provide a sense of purpose. It may sound silly, but I do actually enjoy the rhythm of domestic life. After thirty years I know what my jobs are. I take out the trash. I take care of the yard. I load the dishwasher and clean up the kitchen after dinner. Most of the time I vacuum and clean the bathrooms. Pam cooks dinner. She plans meals and buys the groceries. She cleans the hardwood floors. She does the laundry. We divide responsibilities in this manner not because the other is incapable, but because we have discovered that Pam is a fabulous cook and I can clean bathrooms much quicker and easier than she can. It has been a trial and error system that has produced a dependable and workable division of labor. But it’s more than that. It’s…comforting.

So, when I see my daughter suddenly, miraculously having fun emptying the dishwasher, it makes me happy. Because while I know that her and Jon are just newlyweds and consequently know nothing about anything, they are in the process of figuring it all out. It is a grand and noble adventure that they have just embarked upon. There will be challenges along the way. But having fun emptying the dishwasher is a fine start.

IM BACK!!....and looking for a puppy.

My Maine vacation is over. After a rough beginning, it ended well, two clear sunny days in the upper 60’s. I return to Short Pump with several ugly bruises, 4 pounds heavier, but much more relaxed.

I see from a sweep of my news sources that nothing has changed since I left. The Israelis and Palestinians are still at it in Gaza. Our Secretary of State is still an idiot. Nothing has been done about the southern border except Congress throwing some money at the thing. The stock market shed 400 points. A famous basketball player broke his leg rather gruesomely. A famous golfer left the PGA tour for treatment of a cocaine addiction. Apparently, there is an Ebola outbreak in Africa some place and (gasp!) an American doctor has contracted it and has been allowed to reenter the country, proving that we will literally allow anyone into America. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddles masses…your violently ill with communicable diseases, yearning to be free…and maybe score some free stuff. The New Colossus indeed!

So now my new life begins, the one with no children claimed as dependents on my tax return. Kaitlin is married and living in Columbia, SC. Patrick is graduated and eagerly awaiting permanent entry into the job market in Nashville, TN. Pam and I did all we could for them to give them what they needed to succeed in life. Now it’s up to them to make something of themselves. Meanwhile, Pam and I have to decide what we want to be now that we’re all grown up. I mean, besides getting a puppy.

In the thirty years of our marriage, we have owned two golden retrievers, Murphy for 14 years and Molly for 11 and a half. Molly has been gone for over a year now, the wedding madness is over. It’s time. A few weeks ago when I shared our desire for another golden on Facebook, we were bombarded with advice, (both kind and vaguely judgmental) to get a rescue dog and avoid evil breeders. This “get a rescue dog” business seems the latest trend in fashionable West End causes, right up there with “gluten-free,” “peanut allergies,” and “Monsanto is the Anti-Christ.” Listen, I get it, there are thousands of unwanted and abused dogs living on borrowed time in animal shelters all over the country. Many of them would make fine pets. But when Pam and I had our two children, there were millions of unwanted and abused children living on borrowed time in orphanages all over the country. Many of them would have made fine children.

But we wanted our own kids. It didn’t mean that we didn’t care about the kids in the orphanages, we just wanted our own kids. Well, we want a golden retriever puppy, about eight weeks old that we can bring home and train ourselves, just like we did with Murphy and Molly. It doesn’t make us heartless and indifferent to suffering dogs everywhere. It just means that we love the smell of puppy breath, and we want a new dog that we can be best buds with for the next 11-14 years of our lives.

But, fear not. We will make sure that he is fed gluten-free dog food, and we will have him tested for peanut allergies.

...And THIS kids, is why we can't have nice things!

Remember show and tell? Back when I was in elementary school we would have show and tell every Monday morning, whereby we might be called on to share with the class some interesting thing we had done over the weekend. We would always have a special vacation edition show and tell after spring break. “Johnnie, tell the class what you did over break!”

Well, I will spare all of you the “show” part since it would involve highly personal photographs of various parts of my body with giant gashes and bruises. Instead, I will attempt to describe yesterday’s events for you with as little anger and resentment as possible, trying my best to keep the whining to a minimum.

I started my day with disciplined intentions. Since I had spent two full days eating enough food for three people, I purposed to start my day with a brisk run. I began at a fine pace, feeling rather cocky since my four days a week workout regime over the past five years has left me extremely fit. I ran down Beaucain road as it curled around the lake and made the long uphill climb to the intersection with route 52 with barely a deep breath. I turned left and began the miles long trek up the east side of majestic Megunticook Lake.

1.     Then I pulled a hammy.

I wasn’t a severe pull, more like an annoying twinge. I slowed down, then walked for a while, starting up again a quarter mile later. Yep, I had pulled my left hamstring. No big deal though. Sure, it would hurt a little for a few days and be mildly irritating, but I was on vacation and a simple pulled muscle wasn’t going to get me down.

After breakfast of this gloriously beautiful day, we all decided that we would hike the Maiden’s Cliff trail up to the top of the huge 800 foot wall of rock across the lake from our house. Our handy trail guide described the trip as a 30 minute frolic over a gently sloping pebble lined footpath. After the torrential rains of Monday, it might be a little wet, but the views sounded fantastic.

Thirty minutes into this adventure we not only weren’t at the summit, we had yet to find any pebbles, or for that matter any footpath. What we had found was a jagged canyon with ginormous boulders scattered across a “trail” that had it not been for blue marks painted on trees and rocks every fifty feet, we would still be wandering around up there. Paula and Ron were gassed, and since both of them have metal rods in their recently surgically repaired ankles, decided wisely to turn back. Pam and I, rather smugly I must confess, decided to venture on to the top. We were rewarded with a fabulous panoramic view of mountains, lake and ocean. We picked and ate blackberries raspberries and blueberries that grew wild along the flat rocks. However, it must be said that despite the beautiful view, we were not at our advertised destination. No 800 foot cliffs, just a bunch of very confusing signs that pointed off in conflicting directions with arrows and mileage. “Mount Megunticook Trail…2.5 miles. Maidens Cliff trail 0.8 miles. Wait, the sign we passed 0.5 miles ago said it was only 0.3 miles! Pam and I decided to take a different trail back down the mountain, since neither of us could imagine going down the same way we came up. Five minutes into our descent I…

2.     …placed my right foot on some dead leaves on a giant boulder which sent my feet flying upward and slammed me down hard on my lower back and ass with a resounding thud.

By the time Pam had shimmied down the rock and gotten to me, I had recovered a little bit of composure, but I had an ugly gash/bruise on my lower back, a skinned up elbow and a marble-sized knot on my butt!

Back at the cabin everything was cleaned up, Neosporin was applied, ice applied in all of the appropriate places, and soon this too, was shrugged off.

They say that bad stuff happens in threes. Well, after a delicious lunch, and despite a very sore ass, launched out in the kayak over the still water having put the days’ mishaps behind me. After a relaxing thirty minutes of peaceful solitude, I pulled the kayak up onto our grassy yard and decided to join Pam out on our float. I began walking down the dock plank and just as I reached the place where the dock is attached to the float I…

3.     Heard a horrible snapping noise. Then, in super slow motion I watched the dock tear itself away from the float and crash into the water. I began to fall and the entire weight of the fall was absorbed by my right knee and shin as a jagged and rotting board gave way and my knee lodged into the edge of the float. Somehow, I avoided being thrown into the water, but the knee and shin were pretty badly bruised and skinned up.

So, now I have a limp to go along with an only partially functioning backside. Pictures to follow.

 

 

A Vacation For The Mind

For all of you who have been quietly annoyed at me for posting Maine pictures, you will be happy to know that yesterday Camden experienced rainfall that can only be described as Noah-esk.  By 8 o’clock last night the radio was screeching out one of those horrible emergency broadcast warnings, the ones that sound like a cross between a fax machine signal and a dial-up internet connection. There were flash flood warnings for half of the state. There were reports of cats drowning in the raging torrents of water! We were reduced to eating take out clam chowder and fresh, warm biscuits from Cappy’s. I’m telling you…it was horrible!

But here I am at 5:45 in the morning looking out over the still as glass water of the lake watching the powder blue skies creeping in from the ocean, replacing the last of the low clouds from the night. I’m in long sleeves and my coffee is helping to keep me warm. I’m told that today is to be mostly sunny and 72.

Random observations about this place:

1.     The reason I’m up so early is because the sun rises earlier here, I suppose because we are so much further north. I generally wake with the first streams of light, so at home that usually means 6:30 or so. Here it’s 5:30.

2.     Maine should be called The Flower State instead of Vacationland. Everywhere you look there are lush flower beds, flower boxes in windows, flower pots outside of businesses. In the town of Camden, they even have flowers boxes on the top of the public trash cans. And even though it’s almost August, they all look May fresh, like the arrangements you buy at Strange’s for Mother’s Day to put on your deck at home. Only, in Virgina, by August first those flowers are an eyesore, looking as if they have just returned from a tour of duty in Afghanistan where they contracted the AIDS virus. I suppose flowers thrive here because they never have to endure stifling heat and humidity. Whatever the reason, the results are beautiful.

3.     Almost none of the public buildings here have air conditioning. The ones that do make a big deal of it, posting little signs in their shop windows, “We’re air-conditioned!!” It makes me wonder why these environmental non-profits like the Sierra Club and the Environmental Defense Fund have air conditioning in their office buildings. Seems to me that all these save the planet tree hugger outfits should be setting a better example for the rest of us by housing their headquarters in giant mud huts along the banks of the Potomac river instead of glistening towers on K street.

4.     You should see my wife in a kayak. The woman is amazing, she becomes a completely different person, transported to another place. The sound of the water lapping against the sleek hull, the speed of the thing cutting through still water, the majestic views all around do something to her. She’s been out twice so far and would have gone out in the rain yesterday if it hadn’t been for the wind.

There is a television at this cabin, but it hasn’t been turned on yet. I haven’t read a newspaper. For all I know peace could have broken out in the Middle East and I wouldn’t find out about it until they were fighting again. But I am reading a great biography of Ted Williams, so I haven’t abandoned all intellectual stimulation, just the kind that ages me.

Getting My Maine On

This is probably my 25^th trip to Maine, somewhere around there, and each time it’s the same. It takes a while. There’s a 24 hour period where your body and mind are still in Virginia. But the way you think and feel in Virginia won’t do.

After a day up here you began to feel the change. The muscles in your back begin to loosen, your blood pressure begins to fall. Before long you find yourself sitting in a chair on a dock listening to the water lap against the shoreline and it occurs to you that you aren’t thinking about anything. You’re simply looking and listening. That’s when you know that you’re beginning to get your Maine on.

Then you suddenly realize that you are starving. Even though you’ve done nothing but sit in a dock chair and stare out at the mountains across the lake for an hour, you feel like you could eat a horse. Then, when you are served a simple ham sandwich with chips and a beer, it taste like a five star gourmet meal. Such is the power of the Maine air…or something.

Yesterday the first part of the day was sunny and delicious. We spent much of the morning kayaking all over this meandering lake that stretches itself for miles in all directions, full of islands and inlets, nooks and crannies, dotted by one postcard camp after another. To paddle by these sanctuaries is to do battle with envy, to commit the sin of covetousness more times in an hour than you have previously in the entire 56 years of your existence.

By afternoon, it started getting cloudy, then the rain came. Today will be a washout. The rest of the week looks glorious, with high temperatures in the low 70’s with bright sunshine. We will spend the day in Camden shopping and eating. It’s only Monday morning and I already never want to leave.

When we first arrived, Pam and I sat on the back porch in silence for a moment, taking in the beauty. Then she said to no one in particular, “I miss my kids.” It was as if she was saying it to the lake, a simple statement of fact, an acknowledgment of the realty of our new life. Of course, she’s right. We do miss our kids. For most of our lives together, Maine has been associated with family vacations. Maine was fluffer-nutters on the beach at Dummers. So to be here without them feels incomplete. The fact that both of them have better things to do than to be here with us seems like a small betrayal.

But then I remind myself that the kids weren’t invited. Besides, with each passing hour, we are both missing them less and enjoying this place more.  We are getting our Maine on, which includes adjusting to the primitive conditions of a cabin built 75 years ago. The bathroom sinks have one cold faucet and one hot faucet and gasp, no stopper! How are we to wash our faces under such barbaric conditions? Absent a “proper stopper” we are reduced to fetching a bowl from the kitchen and mixing cold water with hot ourselves! Oh, the humanity!!