I Hate Banks

I hate banks. I haven't always hated banks. They used to be almost exciting places to visit. When I was a kid, I remember how awesome it felt to take my very first paycheck to the F&M bank in Ashland to make a deposit. I felt like such a big shot. I think the teller even gave me a lollipop. But now, although they still hand out lollipops, it's just not the same.

I am part of the problem since I am every banker's dream. . .the ultimate loyal customer who takes whatever they decide to dish out because the prospect of switching banks is so daunting, I don't dare even consider the prospect. When I first got married, I opened up my first grown-up account at Central Fidelity Bank, largely because they had a branch right down the street, and I didn't live in Ashland any longer. For ten years or so, Central Fidelity was perfectly fine. Then suddenly, for no discernible reason, my perfectly fine bank was purchased by a high roller outfit out of Charlotte, Wachovia. The transition was annoying but uneventful, and the new boss was promising the very, very best in modern banking technology. Before too long I discovered what this meant...monthly service fees. When I protested, they offered me a chance to do away with annoying fees forever if I signed up for a bank issued credit card. I did. For several years this worked well, then I discovered that in banking the word forever has a highly ambiguous, nuanced meaning. You see, my checking account fees got replaced by a raft of mysteriously appearing credit card fees. About the time I had had quite enough of this shell game, Wachovia started settling a series of Federal investigations into their activities. . . everything from cashing a ton of unsigned checks to serving as the number one launderer of Mexican drug cartel money! Then the financial crisis of 2008 brought them to the edge of insolvency. One minute my bank is the fourth largest in the country, the next minute they get bought/bailed out by Wells Fargo. Not the sort of thing that inspires confidence.

So, that's how I wound up with the stagecoach guys. At first, all was well. The employees at my branch of choice were friendly and helpful. I eventually refinanced my mortgage with them, and opened a line of credit. My kids opened their accounts with them. My business checking account is with them. Sure, I read the papers, I'm aware of the recent controversies regarding shady dealings and the huge settlement with the government. But hey, if I bailed every time my bank got into trouble, I would be on my twentieth bank by now. No, no. . .I'm loyal.

How do they repay me? A while back I noticed a service fee pop up on my business account. This account serves as a holding company basically, a place where I have random paychecks directly deposited so I can pay business related bills via bill pay, their automatic service. It's the most boring account I have. Not much happens there. I might actually write three or four checks a month. The average balance usually hangs in the low four figures. So, why on earth were they hitting me up for $14???? The friendly and helpful banker explained to me that there wasn't enough activity in the account. Incredulous, I looked her in the eye and with as much restraint as I could summon replied, "So, wouldn't that lack of activity mean that your bank had less to do to service the account? Why is this a bad thing?"

I know what you are all thinking. Why don't you close all of your accounts and find a better bank? Simple, when I add up all the automatic deposits, the fixed bill paying strategies I have employed at my bank, to unwind all of that financial architecture would be a headache which would require a name more menacing than migraine. My bank knows this full well. So, they exact their $14 pound of flesh from me every month. The bastards.

Maybe one day I'll snap. Some dim bulb at the home office will come up with a new fee for, I don't know, walking inside and using a teller, and I will flip out and in a fit of rage rip every dime from their greedy grasp. Then the problem will be finding a fair dealing bank to do business with, one that I don't have to drive halfway across town to.

Grrrrrrrrr......

The Christmas Marker

Thanksgiving is over with. Christmas is coming. Soon there will be snow. Days are getting shorter and the weariness of winter awaits. I struggle with Winter. The holiday season is very much a mixed bag for me. The weeks in between Thanksgiving and Christmas bring an unsettling melancholy. Always has. I can't explain it because I've never understood it myself. Of course, this year Castro is in hell, so that should help a little!

I don't know very many people who have been blessed with good fortune like I have been. I own a successful business, I married an amazing woman, have two wonderful children and enjoy the benefits of a large and loving extended family. For the most part, my health is good and nobody I love is suffering. In other words, I have absolutely no good reason or room for melancholy in my life. And yet...along with the Christmas greenery, it comes.

The odd thing is. . .I love giving gifts, look forward to Christmas morning much like I did when I was younger. Only now the excitement comes with the giving, not the getting. But always just above the din of activity and the sound of laughter hovers a gnawing sadness. Why?

Perhaps it's because Christmas serves as a marker, a milestone. It's the end of something, the curtain closing on another year, the sense that you have fewer Christmas celebrations left than you already have enjoyed. The new year brings with it another birthday, yet another marker on the road of your life. The question festers in my mind. . .Am I using the time wisely? Am I taking advantage of all of this good fortune or am I simply marking time. What has been the result of all of my consumption? To what end do I work? What is the purpose of my spending?

Reading through this, it strikes me that I sound like the writer of Ecclesiastes. It's not that bad! I guess it goes back to something my Dad used to say..."have you been a blessing to someone today?" Maybe during the holidays when we focus so much on all that we have to be thankful for, I start to notice all the people who don't. The panhandlers on Broad Street weigh more heavily on me when it starts to get cold outside. The injustices of life seem somehow more unjust when I'm buying expensive gifts. The more delicious and abundant the feast, the more the hungry creep into my consciousness.

I'm 58. Using my parents as examples, I've got roughly 30 more years left on this Earth, 20 at full physical capacity. Every Christmas I spend much of my resting moments pondering how I will finish the race. What will I accomplish over the last third of my life? I desperately want it to be in a flourish. But more importantly, I want to be a blessing. I want to have earned my place, to have been worthy of the blessings I have been showered with. Maybe the melancholy comes with the realization  that I'm falling short and running out of time.

Thanksgiving 2016. Perfect.

The reviews are in and by all accounts, Thanksgiving 2016 was a raging success. The ministrations of my wife carried the day to sublime heights, earning her a record setting 16th consecutive Martha Stewart award. From a table decoration display that rivaled anything ever seen in Southern Living to a meal planning and space utilization scheme that was not only flawless but had NASA engineers scratching their heads in fascination.

Twenty souls sat down to eat around 2 o'clock. I stood to read George Washington's 1789 Thanksgiving Proclamation. Those two hundred year old words resonated with all of us, at the same time charming and transcendently true. Then, Pam had placed a verse of scripture at everyone's place setting with the theme of thankfulness. Each of us took a turn reading them aloud. Beautiful. Then Grandad said the blessing. These pre-meal readings took all of five minutes, but added immeasurably to the day. It calmed all of us, prepared us to be properly thankful. It was a comforting moment, a time for reflecting on our amazing good fortune as a family.

The meal was a triumph. Turkey, ham, an array of casseroles featuring cranberries, sweet potatoes, and green beans. There was stuffing, corn pudding and mashed potatoes. The dessert table was heaped with pies of every description. There was hot coffee and cider. If you fully participated from appetizer table to dessert tray, the caloric intake per person would have surpassed the weekly consumption of many of our fellow human beings from Sub-Saharan Africa. But, this was no day for Western guilt. There was a football game to play.

This year's tilt ended up being a battle between age and youth. Yours truly, my son and son-in-law, vs. my brother in law, and two of my high school aged nephews. Mixed in each lineup were our two family dogs, Lucy and Jackson. On the first play from scrimmage, Jackson was flagged for multiple penalties when he took the legs our from under his master, sending him sprawling. Not only clear pass interference, but unnecessary roughness as well. He was sidelined for the remainder of the contest. But Lucy never left the field for even one play. While it was unclear which team she was actually playing for, she was always in on the action, and particularly fond of being in the middle of any huddle that happened to form! The rugged game came down to an overtime Hail Mary which deflected off of a tree limb into the waiting arms of Mick, sending the "home team" to a crushing defeat.

After everyone left we all got in our pajamas and waddled around trying to summon the requisite energy to rouse ourselves from lounging on the sofa. For a couple of hours we had no success in this effort. Eventually Patrick and Sarah coaxed me into playing one of those New Age board games whereby no one plays to beat any other player, but rather, everyone works together to accomplish some grand project or public good( in this case, saving the world from rampaging diseases ). Clearly, this game has the ulterior motive of dulling the competitive instincts of Americans in favor of coorperative behavior. Sadly, perhaps because of my strategy of saving America first, we failed and the world was overrun with four plagues. Bummer.

By this time we were ready for turkey sandwiches and a movie. Lucy and Jackson were ready for the deep, peaceful sleep of the righteous. It was a perfect day.

A Safe Place?

I've been using the term parallel universe a lot lately, mostly because I'm half convinced that we are living in one. Somewhere out there is the actual universe where America is going about its business like it always has, where say, Jeb Bush has just won the election and is busy assembling his new cabinet to the collective yawns of the press. His Vice-President. . .Nikki Haley goes to see Hamilton and nothing happens. That sort of thing.

Just a few days ago there was another PU moment when Chicago mayor, Rahm Emanuel called a press conference to announce his intention to defy any attempt by Trump to alter his town's status as a sanctuary city. Without an ounce of irony and with an amazingly straight face, The Godfather actually said that his city would always and forevermore be a safe place for immigrants. Let the ballsiness of that statement sink in for a few minutes, then continue reading. I'll wait.

It is astonishing that a mayor of a city which has experienced over 600 murders in 2016 alone and a full 3000 shootings would choose to describe his city as safe for anybody!! Consider this. . .there have been more Americans killed in Chicago during the five years of Mr. Emanuel's mayorship than have perished in freaking Afghanistan...a lot more. Oh, and American soldiers have been slugging it out in that hell hole for 14 years!!! And yet, we send National Guard units to Iraq and Afghanistan but never to Chicago.

I understand that there is a Chicago company doing Hamilton. You know what I would love to see? I would love for Rahm and his wife to go to see that terrific play one night. After the thrilling performance, when the gifted cast comes out for their curtain call, I would love to see one of the actors step up, acknowledge his presence, then read him a prepared lecture with the line, "Mr. Mayor, we are the diversity of this great city and we are afraid that you are not willing to protect us!!" Just once, wouldn't it be grand to hear a liberal politician get lectured by some show folk?

But, enough with the politics. Thanksgiving is upon us and I am feeling magnanimous. There will be twenty of us around my table. In a PU where it is no more difficult to host a hundred than twenty, I would love to have one of those infinity tables filled with all of the people who I am so thankful for. There would be my extended family, the Dunnevants, the Dixons. There would be good friends from church and the office. There would also be the random souls I drive past at intersections in Short Pump panhandling. Maybe the cast of Hamilton. Barack and Michelle would sit right across from George and Laura Bush. I'd even have Donald and Melania here, although they would probably be at the kids table. After the meal, Frank Sinatra would drop by for an impromptu concert. How cool would that be?

The Great Poop Bag Scandal

This falls into the catagory of "Life's Little Annoyances." It may seem trivial what with all of the political upheaval running rampant throughout the land, but often, it's the little things. Am I right?

Ok, so. . .if you have a dog, you go through these things faster than Donald Trump through the Miss Universe dressing room.

Because I have yet to successfully teach a dog how to mount a toilet, the poop bag is a staple of any dog owner's life. With Lucy, sometimes when so moved, she can go through three of these babies in one day. The things work like a charm. You just drape it around your hand, reach down and pick up the offending deposit, then reverse the process, twist the bag a few turns and tie a knot in it and you're done! But, there's a problem.

Each roll is held together by an insidious piece of clear tape. If you look closely, you can see the shine above. This is no ordinary tape, no. . .this tape could hold the space shuttle together. First of all, it never fails to take me at least three minutes to find the leading edge of this tape so I can begin the arduous task of peeling it back. Once found, it's another couple of minutes of slow, painstaking progress before the first bag is freed from its cellophane prison. Then it happens. The newly freed poop bag unwinds itself revealing a giant rip right down the middle. Every. Freaking. Time.

We can put a man on the moon, but we can't figure a way to package poop bags in a manner that doesn't sacrifice the first bag of each roll! Come to think of it, Pam bought the giant package which advertised clearly...BONUS! 20 Free Bags. Well, not exactly. It's more like 8 free bags, since the first of each of the 12 rolls will be worthless. It reminds me of the famous hot dog bun scene in Father of the Bride. I'm thinking that the big shots in the poop bag industry know exactly what they are doing.

So, sure, in the grand scheme of things this poop bag scandal might not seem as important as Hillary's server, but in the real world where real people live, this is just one of many annoying, indignant straws which when combined with thousands of others eventually break the camel's back. Who knows? Someone fixes this poop bag snafu, maybe people chill out a little, and we don't end up with Trump.

Christmas List 2016

Lately the pressure has been mounting on me to come up with a Christmas list. For my family this means going to our Christmas Central Google Doc page thing and broadcasting my selfish desires for  the entire clan to inspect. To help me in this task, my Christmas lists from the past ten years or so can be pulled up from the archives. It has made for very interesting reading.

First of all, I never get the hat. Seems like every year I ask for a cool hat, but I never get one. What does this say about me and my family?? Do they not feel comfortable in their ability to determine what cool is? Perhaps. So this year I added the modifier, "befitting someone of my age and station in life." We'll see.

I did notice that this year's underwear request specified a waist size slightly larger than previous years. The reason for this remains a profound mystery.

I also keep asking for a Bacon-of-the-Month Club membership, to no avail. I understand that they are quite expensive. Perhaps so, but considering the ridiculously luxurious gifts I have bestowed upon my children, one would think that they would step up to the plate in this area. Besides, the more bacon I eat, the sooner they might enjoy their inheritance.

Something new was added to my list this year...a remote controlled rodent for pranking purposes. (I have somehow lost my old one.) After a while you get tired of fart machines, pocket sized air horns after grace at family meals, fake dog poop and vomit on the floors. It's time for something new.

So, there you have it. My Christmas list for 2016 is up a full six days before Thanksgiving. Now, get out there and do your best!

Quoting Jefferson

"Thomas Jefferson wrote to a friend that University of Virginia students ‘are not of ordinary significance only: they are exactly the persons who are to succeed to the government of our country, and to rule its future enmities, its friendships and fortunes.’ . . . I encourage today’s U.Va. students to embrace that responsibility."

UVA President, Teresa Sullivan


This is the unfortunate paragraph that has sent over 500 students and faculty at the University of Virginia scurrying to their safe spaces in horror. Mr. Jefferson's high opinion of the quality of future UVA students has had the effect of sending some of them to their fainting couches. Perhaps if the old man were alive today to see what has become of the student body of the school he founded, his exalted opinion of them would come crashing back down to earth. . .where it surely belongs. For us, the living, we must devoutly wish that UVA graduates do "not succeed to the government of our country."

The petition signed by the aggrieved parties at UVA objects to the use of a quotation by its founder not on the merits of what he said, but rather who he was, namely. . .a slave owner. The complaint is that although Jefferson was a great man, he also owned other human beings, so quoting him cannot be allowed because of the message of exclusion, and disunity which his past sins represents.

Ok. . .

Yes, by all means, let's throw out the wisdom and contributions of our ancestors whenever we discover them acting like men and women from the 18th century. I mean, how virtuous can they really be if they particated in an institution like slavery? No, men like Thomas Jefferson, James Madison and George Washington have nothing whatsoever to offer  enlightened 21st century humankind. No mention of their words, no matter how lofty, any longer has a place in polite society.

I feel quite confident in my conviction that the combined future output of the entire student body at UVA will not produce anything more lasting and durable than the Declaration of Independence. I feel sure that all the future scribblings of the 500 buttercups who signed this letter will not eclipse the Virginia Statute for Religious Freedom for its advancement of liberty. But yeah. . .the bastard owned slaves. 

Our heroes often disappoint us. We wish they were more consistent. That a man who wrote, "All men are created equal" could own slaves jolts 21st century man. How could a man with such progressive attitudes towards government like Woodrow Wilson be such a bigot? How could someone who did so much for the poor and downtrodden in America like FDR be such a homophobe? The answer is, A. We are all deeply flawed, and B. We are all reflections of the times we grow up in. I hate to break it to the tender reeds in Charlottesville, but it is quite possible to have been a great and even indispensable man and to have been a slave owner in  the 1700's. The two are not mutually exclusive. We can at once acknowledge the greatest of Mr. Jefferson and ponder the inconsistencies in his life. Why was he such a spendthrift? Why was he so late in acknowledging the abuses of the French Revolution? Why did he lie about Sally Hemings? Why didn't he take up arms during the revolution? Why did he own slaves? But friends, I am here to tell you that without the man, the American experiment would have failed, and the delicate flowers in Albemarle county would be matriculating elsewhere.