Be Better

Friendship is a funny thing. Some friends make perfect sense, others sometime make you shake your head in amazement. This past weekend, I had a visit from one of my head shakers...Deen Entsminger. 

I met Deen seven or eight years ago when my son went down to Belmont University for his audition. Deen would become one of his favorite music professors. We were walking through one of the music buildings on campus when we passed by his office. There he was, dressed in shorts, a festive and quite loud Hawaiian shirt, wearing bright red Converse Chuck Taylor high tops. Instantly, I knew I was gonna like this guy. In the following 4plus years, Pam and I were down for practically every chamber singers concert, partially because we wanted to visit our son, but also because the music that would come pouring out of that group was transcendently beautiful. Much of that beauty was a direct result of this chaotic, passionate, whirling dervish of a conductor. Before long, we became friends, not just acquaintances. Every chance we got, we would volunteer to house his choirs whenever they came through Richmond while on tour. The great thing about our friendship is that we don’t have a long list of things in common. I mean, we both love music, and we both love my son, and we both are quite fond of beer...but that’s about it. We probably don’t vote the same way, or worship the same way. But, none of that stuff matters. He’s just super cool and a blast to hang around.

While he was here over the weekend, I took him over to Big Al’s for a beer and we talked a mile a minute, catching up. We started discussing the sorry state of our politics and all of the hatred that seems to be dividing us. Out of nowhere, he told me a story that I want to share in this space. It was very moving, the kind of story that stays in your heart and mind long after the telling...

Deen is 8 years older than me. When he attended middle school in Virginia Beach, he was there when the first black student was admitted. Deen, like most middle schoolers in the early 60’s in Virginia had had very little exposure to black people. In the weeks leading up to the big day, his parents tried to prepare him for what it might be like. They warned him that because of the poverty that the kid probably lived in, he might not be dressed very well, might not have decent shoes...or shoes at all! Deen had no idea what to expect. When you’ve had no interaction with anyone of a certain race, naturally there is a bit of fear and apprehension. The entire school was filled with tension and anxiety.

The first few days after his arrival, Deen never saw him. But a week or so later, while Deen was at his locker between classes, he spotted him down the hall headed right for him...My heart began beating hard in my chest. I could see that we were going to pass within inches of each other. I was too nervous to even think about speaking! But, I did notice something immediately. He was wearing freshly ironed pants, and a madras shirt, which for an eighth grader was considered high fashion back then. He was impeccably groomed. But, when he passed by something amazing happened. It was the smell that I remember as if it happened yesterday...the fresh, familiar smell of...Ivory Soap. It was amazing, something like a revelation for me...he washed his face with Ivory Soap...just like I did, just like almost all of us did. Maybe we were more alike than we were different? To this day, whenever I smell Ivory Soap, I think of that brave boy...

Maybe this story needs to be told again and again as we approach this election. Despite the screaming headlines, and the voices raised in hatred, when we strip away all the noise, we are more alike as human beings than we are different. The love that is possible between us has got to become stronger than the hatred that so easily ensnares us. We can do better. We can be better.

1968 vs. 2018

Recency bias is the phenomenon that causes people to attach greater significance to things that have just happened than they do things that happened at some time in the past. For example, a young Baltimore Orioles fan might be excused the opinion that the 2018 version of his team was the worst team ever, only because he wasn’t alive to witness the 1962 Mets. A twenty-something kid who laments what has become of pop music today should have heard what it sounded like to live through the 1970’s disco plague.

 But, what about politics? I’m starting to hear this complaint...We are now more divided as a country as we have ever been. 

But, are we?

There is no denying the fact that our politics is toxic. The polarization in Washington is deep and getting deeper. Arguments over politics and politicians are more heated and emotional than they used to be, no question about it. Violence, especially politically tinged violence is on the rise. Our political disagreements are doing damage to friendships, families and entire communities. But, is what we are going through unprecedented? Is it, in fact, worse than ever??

Not even close. What is unique about what divides us today is the fact that we are reminded of those divisions 24/7 by multiple media outlets on radio, television, and social media. This is a very different observation than claiming that the news media is the enemy of the people. It is simply an observation that we all know about the ugliness of our divisions because we are constantly reminded by our technological advancements. This was not true during the Civil War, or even during the worst year I’ve ever lived through as an American...1968. Back then, we were informed of the latest mayhem only once a day, at 6:00pm by Walter Cronkite on a 15 inch black and white television set with rabbit ears. Occasionally there would be an interruption of our regularly scheduled programming for a NEWS BULLETIN, which amounted to Walter letting us know of some especially grevious developement from some riot infested, burning city.

In case you’re wondering, 1968 made 2018 look like a garden party. It featured everything from multiple political assassinations ( Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy), to over a hundred burning cities, a Democratic Party convention that had policemen beating protesters over the heads with clubs, while the Soviet Union was busy sending tanks into Czechoslovakia to destroy a democratic protest, and over 10,000 American soldiers were being killed in battle in Vietnam. I remember sitting on the floor in my grand parent’s trailer watching Robert Kennedy give his victory speech afte the California primary. I was ten years old and just becoming aware of the intensity of events happening all around me. Then, the chaos unfolded live. Something had happened. People were screaming and crying. Roosevelt Greer’s sad face on the television...the senator had been shot while walking through the kitchen of the hotel. Welcome to the land of the grownups, Douglas...

But, as divided as we certainly are right now, I do think that the 24 hour, insatiable news machine has amplified the divisions. How could they not? We can’t escape it. It’s in our face all the time. So, a real and substantive political division in America definitely exists. But, if we had the power or inclination to steal back the oxygen that the news machine sucks out of the room every day, we might discover a way to step back from the vitriol, to place our differences in a more historically accurate context. Maybe then, we will find that a middle way is possible, that an accommodation can be reached, and sanity and basic decency can be restored.

Or...maybe not.

My Country

This week, 2018 has continued its unrelenting campaign to claim the title of Worst Year Ever. First, a steroid-eating, body-building, strip-club bouncer, and owner of yet another infamous white van, was arrested for sending over a dozen pipe bombs to prominent Democratic Party politicians and partisans, out of some imagined fealty to Donald Trump. Next, a self-proclaimed Jew-hating Nazi who claims that Donald Trump is scum because he’s controlled by the Jews, walks in to a Pittsburgh synagogue and murders 11 worshipers while screaming... All Jews Must Die.

This is my country.

This isn’t the only thing that defines us, of course. We are a land filled with remarkable people doing remarkable things. We are a hard working people, generous and loving, philanthropic to a degree unmatched in the world. But we are also a land full of lunatics, eager to act out violent fantasies at the slightest provocation. Increasingly, this impulse for deadly violence, is what is defining us in the eyes of the world. 

And now, the specter of Jewish worshippers gathered in a synagogue getting mowed down by an anti-Semite comes to us not from Palestine, but Pittsburgh.

This is my country.

...It’s Never Ok To Lack Effort

I don’t remember how old I was, probably 11 or 12. I wasn’t particularly thrilled with the job I had been given by my Dad of mowing the lawn, and it showed. I had missed several spots, and was dragging myself around the yard with lots of attitude. Next thing I know, Dad is standing next to me tapping me on the shoulder. I turned off the mower...

Dad: What are you doing?

Me: I’m cutting the grass...(the reader will notice that I didn’t add...What does it LOOK like I’m doing?...to this statement, because this sort of snarky disrespect would have resulted in a severe, draconian response from my very Old School, greatest generation father, who didn’t appreciate snark)

Dad: No...you are cutting the grass poorly. Look at all the spots you’re missing! 

Then it gets a little fuzzy. I don’t remember the exact words, but he launched into a speech about the integrity of work, about how a man’s reputation is made by what kind of job they do on even the most insignificant assignment, about how you never want to put your name on something that wasn’t done to the best of your ability, blah, blah, blah...All I was thinking was, Dad, it’s just the grass!! But he was having none of it. He ended the speech with this...

Son, it’s ok to lack skill, but it’s never ok to lack effort.

It took me years before I understood what wise advice he had given me.

I thought about this last night while watching the World Series. Manny Machado, the most gifted baseball player on either roster, lifted a high fly ball towards the left field bleachers, stood at home plate briefly, admiring his work, then broke out into a self congratulatory trot towards first base. Only, the ball didn’t quite make it to the bleachers, instead, glancing off the wall, 365 feet from home plate. Instead of sliding into second base with a double in a tie game of the World Series with his team down two games to zero, Mr. Machado loafed into first base with probably the longest single in Major League history. I watched it with my mouth hanging open, astonished at his shameless lack of effort. This isn’t the first time, even in this post season, that he has loafed while running the bases. It’s what he does, it’s part of who he is as a player...a supremely talented, lazy player.

It is always this way in sports. It’s always the graceful prodigy who dogs it, it’s always the most gifted athletes who show the least desire. Maybe it’s because the game comes so easy to them. All through my life as a baseball fan, it has always been the scrappers, the gamers who I have loved...the guys who had to compensate for their lack of natural talent with relentless drive and hustle. It’s always been those guys who I can identify with. There’s a life lesson somewhere in all of this. But it all boils down to what my Dad told me that day nearly fifty years ago...

...its ok to lack skill, but it’s never ok to lack effort.

Do Teachers Have A Cushy Job?

My daughter is a middle school English teacher. She happens to be an award winning middle school English teacher. She is making a real difference in the lives of her students, instilling in them a love of reading and an appreciation for language. In doing so, she is doing God’s work. I am very proud of her. But her job is insanely difficult. She is reading a book right now by someone named Jane Morris called Teacher Misery. Last night, she texted me an excerpt. To say that I was appalled would be an understatement:

As I read this story, I tried mightily to imagine something like this happening in any classroom when I attended the Hanover County public schools from 1968 through 1976. I simply could not. This is not to say that we didn’t have foul-mouthed, disrespectful students back then. We had plenty. But had any of them used this kind of language, or behaved in this manner, it would have taken maybe five minutes for that kid to be escorted out of that classroom. Full stop. That’s how long it would have taken the principal to run from his office, and physically remove Raptor and his cocky smirk from school property. Maybe another ten minutes to draw up his expulsion papers, then another for his next of kin to be summoned to drive him away. 

But Kaitlin informs me that expelling students is frowned upon by today’s education bureaucracy. If the goal is to educate children, why would we want to expel them from school, they ask. My answer is simple and unpolluted by educrat groupthink:

Me: Education is a privilege. If some jackass doesn’t desire an education and his or her antics makes the education of others more difficult or in this case, impossible, then escorting said jackass off the premises seems wise. There is no way that any sane person can call this progress.

Just in case you might be laboring under the false notion that teachers have an easy job because they...have the summers off... consider the following disgusting asshattery:

Honestly. If I had to deal with this insanity on a daily basis, it would take more than a summer vacation...

Pipe Bombs

The complete and total collapse of our civil discourse now brings us pipe bombs. Yesterday afternoon, eight of them were mailed to a series of high profile Democrats, including former President Obama. This comes less than two weeks before the 2018 mid term elections, against the backdrop of a caravan of Central Americans making their way across Mexico. Even if, like me, you’re not one who takes politics all that seriously, it’s hard not to feel like something big and ominous is about to happen.

I consider myself a cynical observer. The last time I felt anything approaching confidence in Washington was at the dawn of Ronald Reagan’s first term, because finally we had a President who promised to reign in, to constrain, to loosen the government’s grip on American life. The fact that Reagan was largely unsuccessful in this effort convinced me that it was never going to happen, that my country would always be a place where government’s power and influence would always and forevermore grow. The best I could hope for was a slower growth rate. Consequently, ever since Reagan, I have had very low expectations of politics and politicians. I withdrew from the partisan wars as an active participant. I concentrated my actions and passions toward my business, my friends and my family. Whatever was going on in Washington was merely one of a thousand entertainment options for me, something to roll my eyes over, and crack jokes about. Voting became an excruciating experience. How could I possibly pull the lever for that insufferable moron? Well, if I don’t that leaves me with that other blithering idiot. 

But, suddenly, politics isn’t funny anymore. It’s becoming harder and harder to dismiss what’s happening in Washington as theatre, as merely a playground for egotistical narcissists. Now, faux hatred has turned in to real hatred. Now, scuffles are breaking out, and pipe bombs fly through the mail. The political and ideological divide is rapidly becoming a tangible, physical one. We are now red states, blue states, deplorables and resisters. There is talk of secession in the air. There are millions of people out there who have convinced themselves that if the upcoming elections don’t go their way, the country is finished and their lives will be over. I feel helpless to stop any of this. I’m just holding on to the rails of this national roller coaster.

But, you know what I’m really tired of? The blame game. The calculations that start with every new news cycle...who benefits? Who will be hurt? Does the Caravan help the Republicans? Will the pipe bombs boost the Democrats?

Here’s what I know...anyone who would assemble an explosive device, place it in the mail, with the intent of killing a politician, is a treasonous coward. I shouldn’t ever have to say this, but it’s 2018 so...it doesn’t matter who the politician is. I have no interest in living in a country where people feel justified in killing their political and ideological enemies. That’s not America. That’s the 1930’s Soviet Union. That’s Nazi Germany. That’s Mao’s Cultural Revolution. That’s Che Guevara’s purges.

I never thought I would long for the day when the people in Washington were just harmless buffoons. But, when buffoonery meets violence, it’s a game changer.

That’s where we find ourselves in 2018.

9 Miles in 52 Minutes

Yesterday was one of those days. I don’t have very many of them anymore. Up at 5:00, out the door at 7:45, home at 8:20 in the evening. Thirty years ago, this would have been like every Tuesday. Now, it’s a rarity.

I met with some clients in Burke, Va. late in the afternoon. I make the trip every year, usually in October. Since it’s in northern Virginia, there’s no good time to make that drive. But, yesterday was especially awful. I backed out of their driveway at 6:15. It’s exactly 9 miles from their house to the Occoquan exit onto 95. It took me 52 minutes.

In the midst of this interminable slog, it occurred to me that there are thousands of people for whom this is totally normal. The vast majority of the commuters around me on that 9 mile, bumper to bumper, 10 mph soul-crushing journey have to endure it every single day. To ponder this reality is to confront the disturbing truth that contemporary Americans who choose to live in such places...ie., most every large city in the country...have simply lost their minds. When, in the course of human development, did it become acceptable to live in a place where it takes 52 minutes to drive 9 miles? Can you imagine a real estate agent back in 1955 telling an upwardly mobile young couple with two toddlers that the rancher they have their eyes on is a steal at $18,000, and what’s more...It only takes 52 minutes to get to the interstate!!

I suppose it’s possible that eventually you would get used to it. Maybe after a couple of years you would learn to adjust. You would discover books on tape, and other Jedi mind tricks designed to distract you from the fact that you have become a hampster on a treadmill. But Doug, but Doug, you say...eventually self driving cars will mitigate these sorts of commutes. Well...I am here to inform you that the only thing more terrifying and dehumanizing than sitting in a 9 mile long parking lot with 10,000 total strangers is the thought that I might one day do so, surrounded by 10,000 people... fast asleep in their reclining drivers seats.

No thank you.

The Age of Adjustments

It’s 5:00 in the morning, and I am wide awake. My eyes opened at 4:30. I gave it thirty minutes but finally gave up. I have a mountain in front of me, no point staring at the ceiling in the dark. Might as well get up.

One of the great deceptions of life is the notion that at some point, by dent of hard work, discipline and force of will, it gets easier. Not true. What it gets is...different. I’m 60 years in and I find that I’m constantly having to learn new coping skills. The only constant seems to be the constancy of change. Just about the time you master something, a new challenge arises. 

Just about everything in this world is unrecognizable from how it looked when I was a kid. The differences aren’t all bad. Some things look better...my bank account for one. Other things are worse...our politics, while never truly civil, has now become toxic. Most everything else is just...different. A few examples:

Church. Completely different from what it sounded and looked like when I was a boy. I grew up with robed choirs, hymn books, ladies in their finery, men in their gray suits, older men nodding off, older woman fanning themselves with the funeral home fans provided them in the hymn rack right beside the King James Bible. The preaching was loud and forceful. There were alter calls, pleas for public professions of faith, emotional appeals.

Now, where I go to church, there are no robes. There’s a band. The words to the music are on a screen hanging from the ceiling. The ladies don’t wear hats, even on Easter, and not a single man wears a suit. The pastor wears jeans and an untucked shirt. There are no hymn books, no hymn racks, no pews, just metal framed chairs hooked together. There aren’t pleas, emotional or otherwise. The preaching is conversational, no yelling.

Some of these changes have been difficult for me, others I’ve welcomed. But, despite it all, I have come to love my new church. I have adjusted. I have chosen to make peace with some of the new stuff that I don’t prefer, and embrace the new things that I like. Like everything else in this life, it has been a work in progress.

Parenting. Completely different than it looked and felt like twenty five years ago. Back then, we were in charge. They depended on us for everything. We dominated their lives. Now, there’s the empty nest. While some parts of empty nest-ism has been wonderfully freeing, being separated from their lives by hundreds of miles is quite different from what it would be like if they were merely across town. We are no longer in charge, they no longer depend on us, and while this is mostly a huge relief, it is also strangely jarring. 

Pam and I have made the adjustments to our new rolls in their lives, but not without some struggle. We have learned to cope with the distances that separate us. We have learned to make the most of the few days a year when we get to be with them. It is the new reality, and we are learning to make the most of it.

Work. Building a business is a very different animal than maintaining one. I spent the first five years of my career trying to survive. Then I spent the next fifteen years establishing a working formula for success, the next ten years consolidating that success, and now trying to figure out how to maintain it all. Each of these things requires a different skill set, which has forced me to learn new things, change some habits, establish new ones. Drifting doesn’t seem an option.

Health. I was asked the other day by a doctor a series of stupid questions which were...Can you run as fast today as you could when you were twenty five? Can you lift as much weight now as you could when you were thirty? Are you as sharp and quick on your feet mentally as you were when you were thirty five? If not...welcome to the Age of Adjustments.

So that is pretty much what life is like now. It’s the Age of Adjustments. I can’t eat the same things I’ve always eaten. I can’t do the same things I’ve always done in exactly the same way and expect the same results anymore. This older dog must learn new tricks.

But, what’s the alternative? I can become a stubborn old dude, stuck in the past, refusing to adapt to the facts on the ground all around me...or I can adapt, make some mid-course corrections. I can complain about the sloppy dress around me at church, bemoan the musical style that doesn’t suit me, rail against Nashville and Columbia, become embittered by the ageing process. Or, I can learn a new way and cope with my changing world with a mixture of grace, humor and flexibility. There are but two choices.

I choose grace.

But it won’t be easy. Life never is.

What Ever Happened to...Manners??

If a nation’s sporting events are simply a reflection of it’s underlying societal evolution, yesterday wasn’t a very good look for the United States of America.

This morning’s sports pages are dominated by three big stories:

The Dodger win over the Brewers, the melee which occurred on the field during warmups of the Michigan v. Michigan State game, and this:

At this point I should keep in mind that if I’m not careful, this blog could quickly turn in to one of those...Get off my lawn!!...old gent rants. Maybe it already has, and if so...sorry/not sorry.

First, baseball. Ok, I’m not a purist on the subject of displaying emotion after a big hit or a big strike out in a pressure packed moment. In the old days, this was strictly forbidden, one of the maddening number of baseball’s unwritten rules. You hit a home run? Run quickly around the bases and get back into the dugout. Don’t stand and stare at your work or flip your bat. But, like everything else in this world, this slice of sportsmanship and decorum is being discarded in favor of a whatever floats your boat attitude. Indeed, MLB has been relentlessly promoting this new freak flag-flying showboating in their ads during this postseason. Enough talk, let the kids play, intones Ken Griffey Jr. in one particularly annoying ad which is always followed by some hip hop act asking us...Is you ready?? So, when I say I’m not a purist what I mean is, I’m ok with a relaxing of some of these old school ways. Baseball is, after all, a joyful game, and I see nothing wrong with a fist pump or an eruption of emotion from players. But, last night, the Los Angeles Dodgers got caught up in an outbreak of hysteria, their collective ids running rampant all over the place. Some guy, I forget who, got a single and looked back into his dugout and made the suck it gesture to his gleeful teammates. Another, after homering, pointed to his biceps while trotting around the bases. By the time Yasiel Puig hit his three run bomb late to seal the victory, I have no idea what they were doing...lewd gestures, wild, unhinged gesticulations, a full fledged dance party broke out in front of the dugout. Sorry...too much, too soon. It’s like professional baseball players have suddenly lost all impulse control. I mean, I tune in to watch a baseball game, and a political protest broke out!!

The Michigan v. Michigan State thing was just more of what has become routine...college football players putting on sportsmanship clinics, as in...Here’s an example of horrible sportsmanship. One team marches, lock-armed across a field that is occupied by members of the opposing team. A game of chicken breaks out. Which team is going to stop first? When neither team does, somebody gets too close to somebody else and before you know it, some player who isn’t even in uniform because of an injury goes full bats**t crazy and starts tearing up the Logo at the 50 yard line. At least these guys have the excuse that they are kids, not fully grown adults. (Think of how stupid you were in college).

Finally, we have the basketball brawl at the Staples Center. This was LeBron James’ home debut with his new team, the Lakers. We are told that the NBA is the most progressive of the major sports in America. We are told that basketball is the sport with the cultural power, and LeBron James is everywhere worshipped as some sort of Demi-god. Well, last night at his latest coronation, someone allegedly spit on someone else prompting a melee of wild punches and scrums...in game two of the regular season of a sport which has the most meaningless regular season in the history of organized sports. But, isn’t this just a reflection of...us? Any provocation, real or imagined is cause for a fight, right? Wait...is that a politician I don’t like eating dinner with his wife over there? That cannot stand!!! Wait...is that politician a left of center Democrat? Obviously she wants to turn us into the next Venezuela!! To the barricades!!!!

Here’s what I think when I watch sports...this is what happens when you come to believe that simple manners are a bourgeois straightjacket meant to stifle your individuality. Treating others with simple grace and dignity has morphed into a sign of weakness. 

And now...even baseball isn’t exempt.

Found a Great Restaurant

So, last night, I walk up to Pam and say...I feel like Italian. I can’t explain why really. I just had a hankering. If you live in Short Pump, the World headquarters for chain restaurants, there are lots of options...Carrabba’s, Olive Garden, all the usual suspects. However, I don’t know about you, but as I’ve gotten older I’ve started to resent National chains. Not resent, really...that’s too strong a term for it. It’s more like that when I see a chain restaurant I know that ultimately the profits from that chain go someplace else. Yes, I know they supply jobs to local people, etc.. but chains are a local manifestation of some far flung enterprise that benefits it’s corporate owners who wouldn’t know a Short Pump from a long one. Maybe when I see what a hash our government in Washington is making of the country, something in me feels the need to withdraw from that faraway place, to more closely identify with our state...our town...our Italian restaurant. So, what did I do? I did what every red blooded American does...I googled....Italian joints near me.

This is Vinny’s, less than a mile from my front door off of Lauderdale. If this place looks familiar it’s because it probably reminds you of another famous Italian restaurant in the Bronx where Michael Corleone killed the two dirty cops...

But, I digress.

So, we walk into the place and are greeted by a grandmotherly woman with a thick Italian accent. Nice. Pam notices that there is a special on the chalkboard beside the front door...something-something with pancetta and Asiago cream sauce. There’s a nice crowd, mostly families, not so loud that you have to shout, but not so quiet that you have to whisper. Our waitress greets us with a cheerful smile. She is young, pretty, with an even thicker Italian accent. Even nicer. I ask her for her professional opinion...What’s the most delicious entree on this menu? She doesn’t hesitate. The name of the dish rolls off her tongue with beautiful flair. She points to it and I see the word sausage in the description and I’m all in. 

Our waitress, who we have discovered has just moved from Sicily eight months ago with her husband, and who’s mother was the one who greeted us when we arrived and is just here for a visit but didn’t want to spend a minute apart from her daughter so volunteered to be the hostess, brings me a frozen glass mug for my beer, then seems thrilled when Pam orders the special and I take her advice on the sausage thing. Soon, a basket of garlic bread appears, and fresh, cold salads.

Ok, my dish was amazing. The delicious sounding name for it is Tortellini Campagnola. It looked like this...only with a lot more sausage!!

Pam’s dish was the special, and as such there was no picture on the menu. However, I am here to bare witness to the fact that it was the finest thing I have placed in my mouth inside of any restaurant in years. The tortellini was homemade, the pancetta was exquisite and the Asiago cream sauce tasted like some sort of diabolical plot cooked up by a cabal of Mafiosos determined to turn me into a 300 pound couch potato. The minute that sauce splashes over the tastebuds, you realize that you are powerless to resist it. Maybe if the choice was...eat more of this or save your children...you might be able to put down the fork, but beyond that, it would be hopeless. It was just that good. Pam couldn’t finish it, so there’s a styrofoam container in our refrigerator with the remains. I am currently plotting a way to trick Pam into letting me eat it for breakfast.

So, we are thrilled to have found Vinny’s Italian Grill. It’s local, run by real Italians, and is five minutes from my house.

Go ye, and do likewise.

 

Good News, Bad News

Good news...New York City just enjoyed its first shooting-free weekend in over 25 years.

Bad news...According to the iron clad law of averages, this coming weekend promises to be a bloodbath.

Good news...The Federal Government has collected a record amount of income taxes in 2018.

Bad news... The budget deficit has ballooned to its highest point in 6 years.

Good news...China has informed the world that it’s extensive series of Muslim internment camps are actually free vocational training centers.

Bad news...The most popular vocational class seems to involve learning to chant slogans like...Thank the Party! Thank the Motherland!..while on a strict diet of bread and water.

Good news... Donald Trump has already raised over 100 million dollars for his 2020 re-election campaign.

Bad news... Donald Trump has already raised over 100 million dollars for his 2020 re-election campaign.

More Bad news...100 million won’t be nearly enough...

Something Worth Conserving

As someone who considers himself a conservative, I generally am of the conviction that there exist things worth conserving. Accordingly, I reject the idea that everything that is proclaimed as progress...is, in fact, an improvement over what it replaced. Take the game of baseball, for example. Regular readers of this blog are fully aware of my abiding love and devotion to the game, and many of you have endured more than one of my love songs to the game that used to be our national pastime. But, after watching the first four games of the League Championship Series, I am here to tell you that something is dreadfully wrong with the game that I love. If this constitutes progress, I demand a refund.

Baseball finds itself in the grasp of an army of sabermetrics nerds, who believe that by applying high tech computerized statistical analysis, they can come up with match up strategies that can predict outcomes better than the gut instincts of grizzled old baseball managers. Apparently, there’s an algorithm for that. The result of all of this statistical analysis is as follows:

In the four games played in the latest round of the post season, there have been 47 pitchers used. The average length of the four games has been 3 hours and 52 minutes. Many times, a pitcher is brought in to face one batter, then another pitcher is employed. Each pitching change takes a while. There are other reasons for the marathon length of these games...replays, and the ridiculous amount of times batters step out of the box to adjust their batting gloves...but mostly, it’s all these pitching changes. A couple of nights ago, after a painfully long half inning, I found myself doing a little research. This is not how I remember baseball being played in my youth. Turns out, I was right.

I randomly picked the World Series games from 1965, 1975, 1985 and 1995. I wanted to know how long the games were, how many pitchers were used in those games..etc. what I found was amazing.

1965 was a seven game series between the Los Angeles Dodgers and the Minnesota Twins. In the seven game series, a total of 31 pitchers were used. There were 7 complete games pitched. Most astonishing was the average time of the seven games...2 hours and 20 minutes.

1975 was also a seven game series ( Boston Red Sox vs. the Cincinnati Reds). 42 pitchers used, 2 complete games thrown, with an average game time of 2 hours and 30 minutes.

1985...7 game series, 38 pitchers used, 4 complete games, with a game time of 2 hours and 48 minutes.

1995...5 games, 33 pitchers, 1 complete game, average time...2 hours and 48 minutes.

So far this year through only 4 games...47 pitchers, no complete games, average game time...3 hours and 52 minutes.

This isn’t even close to progress. This is more like information overload, analytical constipation, competition-interuptus on a grand scale. If Bob Gibson or Don Drysdale were on the mound and some batter stepped out and pranced around adjusting his batting gloves for two minutes after taking a pitch, the next pitch would be a 95 mph heater right in his ear hole...and that would be that. 

So, no...everything that is new and labeled progressive or cutting edge, is an improvement.

...unless you actually enjoy watching relief pitchers warming up in the bullpen.

How Did This Happen??

I suppose if you attend enough weddings eventual it will happen, but nothing can prepare you for it. There we were, having a perfectly delightful time, when we found ourselves summoned to the dance floor for the obligatory married couples dance...

DJ: Ok, I need all of you married couples and only married couples on the dance floor now!!

(Actually, in today’s social and moral climate, such bourgeois distinctions seem quaint.)

After a nice slow dance to some Lionel Richie song, the DJ revealed what game was afoot...

DJ: All couples who have been married less than a year, please exit the dance floor!!

Ahh, yes. It was the famous last couple standing game, whereby the couple who has been married the longest receives tepid applause and is then asked to impart words of wisdom to the doe-eyed groom and blushing bride. This is a staple of the American nuptial experience, and usually results in a picture worthy image of some elegant grandparently blue-hairs advising the newlyweds to remember to pray together, or eat breakfast together, and always include bran flakes in the diet.

I look around the dance floor and picked out the likely winners, an adorable elderly pair across the way. Now it was Frank Sinatra smoothly complimenting my wife on the way you look tonight, as the DJ says, thirty years...all couples married less than thirty years, sit down!!

To my shock and horror, there we were, swaying sweetly to Frank’s tender version of this Jerome Kern and Dorothy Fields classic, alongside the adorable old couple! A sinking feeling instantly overtook me. There’s no way we are going to win this thing, I reasoned. I mean...look at them! 

DJ: Look at this, everyone! It’s down to two couples! Who’s it gonna be??

Then, out of nowhere, my competitive instinct takes over. Bizarrely, I’m suddenly all in on winning this thing, no matter the existential ramifications. 

DJ: Thirty five years??!!

Both of us begin to walk off the floor...

The DJ then stops us, turns to the obvious winners and asked them how many years they had survived matrimony. The timid answer tumbled forth from the old man’s lips...Thirty two years..I let loose a mental fistpump right before the tragic news hit me...Pam and I had been married longer (34 years) than anyone in the building.

The next thing I know, there’s a microphone in our faces along with flashing cameras. I hear Pam saying something about how it’s the differences between us that ultimately become our strengths. It was so intelligently stated, so well phrased, it was as if she instinctively knew we were going to be in this position and had planned accordingly. I also felt that maybe it was one of those backhanded compliments...that’s right folks, I’m the exact opposite of this big lug, thank God! Then it was my turn...Never speak ill of your wife in public.  The DJ seemed impressed...Wow. That is such wise advice!

No kidding, pal!

So, there you have it. Pam and I have won our first Longest Married Couple Dance-Off. 

How, in the name of all that is holy, did this happen? It just can’t possibly be true. It feels like just last month, we were playing house in our cute little two bedroom apartment, where it took 45 minutes to clean the entire place on Saturday mornings, after which we would have brunch while exchanging kisses across the little kitchen table by the balcony. Then Pam would clip coupons out of the Richmond News Leader’s Weekend Edition, while I flipped through the sports page looking for the box scores.

...and now we are dispensing marriage advice in the middle of a dance floor at the Dominion Club.

Wow.

A Little Help?

I seldom do this sort of thing. I’ve always been turned off by the entire concept of GoFundMe, which has always seemed like high tech panhandling. 

Hey! We can’t afford the down payment on this great new 3,000 square foot house, so whatever you could spare would be greatly appreciated!! 

When we got back from our two week Carribean cruise we discovered that our house had flooded, badly damaging our movie room surround sound system. Please consider a donation to help us cover our insurance deductible!

But, every once in a while, something happens that justifies the effort...

This is part of what remains of Mexico Beach, Florida after hurricane Michael roared through yesterday.

Just outside of Panama City is Tyndall Air Force base, which now looks like this.

We happen to know two young people who lived on that base, an Air Force Officer, his wife and their two little boys...

Meet Chris and Katie Plume. Chris was my son in law’s best man. Katie was my daughter’s college roommate and most valuable bridesmaid in her wedding. The two of them are responsible for introducing Kaitlin and Jon, a matchmaking operation for which our entire family is eternally grateful. Now, they have been rendered homeless. They were ordered to evacuate the base and have been told that may not be able to return for at least a month. All of their belongings were most likely destroyed.

When something like this happens it is always a tragedy, but when it happens to someone who has devoted his life to serving our country, it seems even more unfair for some reason. While many of their contemporaries are now on their second house and third new car, Chris and Katie are living in military base housing, and now that’s been destroyed. Yes...the military will ultimately take care of them. But in the meantime, while the bureaucratic wheels grind slowly, they will need clothes to wear and other life essentials.

So, if you are able, please consider visiting the GoFundMe page my daughter has set up for this purpose. I have included a link to it on my Facebook page. Any money raised will go to the Plumes immediately. It is our hope that the money will not only help with the real world practicalities of this situation, but will also let Chris and Katie know that they are loved, thought of, and that their service to the country is appreciated.

Thanks for your consideration.

A Glorious New Day

This morning, the air feels cleaner, the birds sing sweeter, the sunrise ushers in a day of serendipitous possibilities...all because last night, just before midnight, Gotham was vanquished.

The Boston Red Sox followed up their ecstatic game three 16-1 thrashing of the forces of evil, with a 4-3 victory to win the series. The fact that this two game ass-kicking took place in Yankee Stadium, that hideous concrete and steel knockoff moneygrab ie..The House That Greed Built...makes it even sweeter. Watching 49,000 entitled, pompously obnoxious Yankee fans slouching out, crestfallen, back into the five boroughs from which they had crawled, was a moment of delicious schadenfreude. I can only hope that George Steinbrenner’s hot corner suite in hell has a TV. Wouldn’t have wanted for him to miss it.

As soon as the Houston Astros won the World Series last year, the baseball press began the drumbeat about how dominate the Yankees were going to be in 2018. Once Giancarlo Stanton was signed, ESPN began their drooling, fawning coverage of these new, kinder, gentler Baby Bombers. Why, between Stanton and Judge, they might combine for 150 homeruns!! Instead, Stanton stuck out over 200 times, and had Judge not missed 50 games with an injury, he would have struck out even more than Stanton. Something went awry on the way to the coronation. So now, ESPN’s dreams lie in ashes, the Steinbrenner spawn have been sent back to the drawing board, and John Sterling is left trying to figure out a new insipid homerun call for Giancarlo that doesn’t rhyme with choke.

For me, the remainder of the baseball post season will be a delight, now that the evil empire has been defeated. I can sit back and watch the games, marveling at the masterful pitching, the clutch hitting and brilliant defense that will be on display. I will be rooting for the Sox, naturally, but even if they lose, I will still rejoice until the final out of the year, no matter who wins. Because the Yankees are gone, a rapturous feeling has returned to October baseball, not unlike the palpable relief that fills the house when a baby’s fever breaks, or the joy that comes after grandma miraculously recovers from a long illness. Watching the transmission of the Yankee team bus fall onto the interstate has to be close to how the beleaguered pioneers out west felt when they saw the cavalry come over the hill rescuing them from marauding Sioux warriors. The Bastards of Bastone couldn’t possibly have felt a greater sense of relief upon hearing the first roar of Patton’s tanks than I felt last night when the umpires gave the out call after their ridiculous review of the last play of the game. Now. Finally. At long last...our children can once again play in the streets. Life is sweet again. The specter of death has been removed from the land. We have stared into the eyes of darkness and seen a new light!!

While reading this, some of you might think that this is a little over the top, a touch melodramatic, and maybe a bit overblown. If so, now you know exactly how I feel when I read your political posts on Facebook.

Foolishness

At the risk of alienating those of you who are sick and tired of my Maine posts, I have one more...although this will be my final one of 2018. It has been a magical six weeks. 

The first three weeks on Pemaquid Lake was our summer vacation. The second three weeks on Quantabacook was an impulse purchase, booked on a whim in late October of 2017, after returning from our first trip to Loon Landing. What I didn’t know at the time of this impulse was the path of destruction that life was about to cut through my finances. With each new surprise expense, I weighed my options. Should I cancel? Take the hit from the rental company? Each time, I talked my self out of it. When the bills from the wedding started pouring in, when the air conditioner had to be replaced, then the water heater, then the deluge of medical bills...I stubbornly held on to my Loon Landing reservation. It made no financial sense. It was foolish.

But sometimes, the very best experiences of life are birthed in foolishness.

As I looked through the hundreds of pictures we took, these are the ones that will stay with me:

A Walden-esk scene from our hike beside the Georges River.  

One of the 45 bass I caught on the same lure during five visits to my fishing hole at the south end of the lake.

A note I left for Pam one morning when she was out kayaking somewhere. This would never happen in Short Pump, and if it did, it would be a text.

Even in a driving rain, my wife contemplates heading out in the kayak anyway.

A schooner glides past the point of the Rockland Breakwater lighthouse.

Maybe the finest reading spot in the entire universe...the bench seat at the Camden Library.

Pam, chasing another sunset on her paddle board.

Me, returning from a fishing adventure.

Ridiculous beauty...

Our Loon buddies.

Every morning, filled with possibilities...

Every evening, comfy cozy.

So...there you have it, three weeks on Quantabacook. Now, it’s time to pay the piper. I have not only foolishly spent money I shouldn’t have, I have foolishly forfeited three money making weeks relaxing in Maine. The eight ball now casts its shadow over me. My troubles are self inflicted. But, you know what? I don’t care. My checkbook will recover. It always does, eventually. 

Foolishness is in the eye of the beholder.

Today Is The Day

The sign told us that we were entering the Gibson Preserve of the St. George River. It was open to the public, free of charge. The guide described it correctly as an easy to moderate hike of less than two miles. It was a delightful walk featuring a winding river, a Christmas tree forest, and a canopy of gorgeous fall colors. About half way in, we discovered a huge, thick, and ruggedly built bench covered with red leaves...

Take a closer look. Time has faded the message. We didn’t notice it right away, but along the top plank of the back board were carved the words...This is the day. As an added flourish, the carver took the time to make the T a medieval drop cap.

For the past three weeks, this has been our unofficial theme. This is the day...not yesterday, that’s already gone and nothing we can do will bring it back...not tomorrow, that hasn’t come yet, no sense borrowing trouble and making too many plans for a day we might never see. Today...that’s what we have, and it deserves our undivided attention. If today brings perfect weather we will have ourselves a marvelous time doing the things that perfect weather was made for. If it’s gloomy, overcast, raining and cold, we will find other ways to enjoy the day, with the understanding that even gloomy days can be redeemed by staying in the moment.

This is our last day here. The weather isn’t great. Tonight we will scurry around the place packing up so we can hit the road in the morning. If I think too much about leaving I will miss what this day has in store...and that would be a big miss.

Today is the day....

Toxic Masculinity

“There are certain things every man must know. They are, in no particular order—how to change a flat tire, do a chin-up, make scrambled eggs, do laundry, throw a punch, get down on your knees and pray, fasten the clasp of a woman’s necklace, handle a horse, change a diaper, split wood, and earn the love of a dog.”

Elizabeth Kelly, from The Miracle on Monhegen Island

When people ask me why I read so much, this is what I tell them...because, every once in a while you run across something quite beautiful, a phrase or sentence that sticks with you for a while. The fact that these sentences above were written by a woman is instructive of something, but I’m not sure what.

I’ve been hearing the term toxic masculinity a lot lately. It’s become a buzz word, a catch phrase of the media and academia. As best as I can figure out it’s meaning, toxic masculinity is short hand for everything bad about men, our tendency towards violence, brute strength and manners, but mostly our tendency for sexual aggression. It’s hard to read the news lately and not admit that there does seem to be something dreadfully wrong with us. Nevertheless, I am conflicted by this term.

When I was a boy, I learned about what being a man was from my Dad. There were no, or more accurately...few, sit down lectures on the subject. Mostly, I learned by observation, watching the way he did things. I noticed the way he spoke to my mother, always in a different voice register, with what I can only describe as tenderness. I noticed how he spoke about my mother, with respect and admiration. Even when they argued...and they did argue...my Dad always seemed restrained by some unseen thing. Mom did most of the arguing, Dad would offer only the occasional halfhearted rebuttal. It was as if he was overly aware of us kids...that we were listening. My father was a man of a different generation, and no doubt, some of his views about the proper roll of men and women in the church and the world would seem old fashioned and out of touch to modern ears. But, there was absolutely nothing toxic about him.

I was in awe of my father’s knowledge of the real world. The man literally knew how to do everything. He may have earned two advanced degrees in his time on this earth, but he never forgot the skills he learned growing up as a sharecropper’s son. Today, we call them life hacks. All I know is, if the transmission of the old Studebaker was on the fritz, Dad could fix it. He could plow a straight row in the garden with a blindfold on. He could fix a leaky faucet, perform rough and fine carpentry, do electrical repair, install drywall, drop a crow menacing his tomato plants from a hundred yards with a .22 rifle, build window fans from scratch, yet...hold the trembling hands of a grieving widow, comfort a young couple through the excruciating loss of a child, and fight back tears while holding each of his new born grandchildren. He was a product of his experiences, of back breaking manual labor as a child, of serving his country in the jungles of the South Pacific as nothing more than a teenager, and of his abiding and transformative faith.

As uncomfortable as I am with the term, toxic masculinity, it brings a ring of truth with it. When I hear the phrase, I become instantly defensive. This is not me...this is not who my brother is or who my Dad was...I know hundreds of men about whom this term would be a scandalous slur!!

But, I’m not blind. I see the news. I read the reports. I know the statistics. They cannot be denied. For a large slice of this world, men are toxic. Too many of us have confused masculinity with a twisted, brutish knockoff version, fueled by arrogant entitlement, and distorted by pornography. 

Elizabeth Kelly’s list of man-skills took me back in time. I counted off the ones I could do and smiled...(can’t handle a horse and my laundry skills leave a lot to be desired). Then I thought of my Dad. He could do them all and a whole lot more, and all without any strutting bravado. Dad’s was a silent strength. In one of his one sentence lessons to me about manhood, he would often quote scripture...Let another man praise you, and not your own mouth; a stranger and not your own lips. He assumed I would understand and expected me to learn.

Who is teaching today’s young men?

My Girl

   

 

 

This is my girl. She is adventurous, fearless, and relentless in her two-fisted pursuit of this lake.

Two minutes ago, she stood at the door gazing at the raindrops falling on the water and asked...I wonder what it would be like kayaking in the rain? 

She is crazy.

But, when she is here, she is the best version of herself. 

I can hardly keep up.