Valentines Day

 For me the Super Bowl is an obstacle that must be overcome before spring training can begin. Each year of my life since Joe Namath guaranteed a win in Super Bowl III the game has become less and less interesting. Nevertheless I have never missed one. The Super Bowl feels like some sort of cultural obligation. It is a rare thing when over 125 million people are watching the same thing on television. You don’t want to miss the event.

Last night Pam and I watched it with eight other friends and two fantastic dogs. The advantage to doing so is that the chit chat drowns out the announcers. It also makes it almost impossible to even notice the commercials. Visually I didn’t see anything that captured my attention.

The only time our crowd got relatively quiet was to watch the Bad Bunny half time show. There was lots of dancing, some pretty cool sets and a series of mono-tonal songs sung in Spanish. It wasn’t the worst halftime show I’ve ever seen but not the best either. Somewhere in the middle. Our group felt like maybe next year the NFL should follow up this show with a halftime show featuring Bugs Bunny.

So now that Football is done our attention shifts to that other February staple—Valentines Day. Despite its bloody beginnings as a pagan fertility ritual in the 5th century, our modern celebration is basically Christmas morning for the greeting card business, florists, and chocolatiers. I’m here for them. Yes, Valentines Day feels a bit manipulative, at times forced and coercive. And yes, sometimes it can be devilishly difficult to reduce your most important human relationship to a few lines of bad poetry written by someone else. But there are far worse things than setting aside one day during the year to stop, notice and acknowledge the most wonderful and vital person in your life. I’ve got a week to come up with something.

Fashion Trends That Confuse Me

 Back in the 1990’s a new fashion trend emerged among young males which featured the wearing of pants sagged low around the behind, revealing one’s underwear of choice. To many of us this seemed preposterous, not to mention diabolically uncomfortable. Largely this particular trend has run its course, although you still see it occasionally. 

But then a couple days ago I ran across a photo of singer Billie Eilish giving her acceptance speech at the Grammy’s. The reason the photograph was so widespread was because of her now infamous “you can’t be illegal on stolen land” line. But that’s not what drew me to the picture. No, what I noticed was something I haven’t seen before. Ms. Eilish seemed to be wearing three belts—for no apparent reason whatsoever, since none of the three were secured to anything. They just were hanging there, flapping this way and that untethered from any conceivable function. I can only assume they were there for mere decoration . Maybe they were intending to make some sort of statement—that she had been freed from the shackles of the patriarchy? 

Maybe this is a one-off, it won’t become the female version of the sagging pants thing for young men in the 90’s. Or maybe this will become all the rage among the cool kids? Time will tell.

Bad Bunny and Me

 As a man of a certain age, I am quite aware that mine is not the preferred demographic of institutions like the NFL, or anything else for that matter, except pharmaceutical companies hawking cures for unheard of ailments. I am also keenly aware of the fact that much of popular culture has passed me by. It is a natural progression for older generations to lose contact with every new thing that comes along. I have bigger fish to fry than being in the know on the latest sensation of the moment. So several months ago when the National Football League announced that this year’s Super Bowl halftime show would be in the hands of Bad Bunny, I had no reaction whatsoever. I had never heard of him.

One of my young friends texted me yesterday about something he saw on the recent Grammy’s awards show. Since I hadn’t watched it I Googled the highlights. Lots of political speeches and awareness pins, that sort of thing. There was Bad Bunny winning a bunch of awards. Then the next day Roger Goodell gave a pre-Super Bowl press conference where he referred to Mr. Bunny as “one of the great artists in the world.” High praise indeed.

So this morning I decided to check out a few samples of his work. It wasn’t hard to find. He has been churning out hits for almost ten years now, each of them accompanied by a slickly produced video. I chose a couple from a list of his “top ten” hits. Both songs were in Spanish. The first featured Mr. Bunny washing a pickup truck across the street from two gorgeous women sunbathing. Nice beat. The second video was in an Italian restaurant and featured what looked like Al Pacino sitting at a nearby table admiring Mr. Bunny as he ate a variety of delicious Italian dishes. Again, a nice beat but with a slow dance vibe. I must here confess that I didn’t watch through to the conclusion of either video, not because I was offended or repulsed, but rather because I was bored. It didn’t help that I didn’t understand anything because I don’t speak Spanish. It’s just that artists like Bad Bunny don’t make music videos for guys like me. This is the way it should be.

So, what to make of the alternative halftime show being planned as an alternative to Bad Bunny?

I watch the Super Bowl out of some weird sense of American obligation. It has become more of a spectacle with each passing year. The food is the best part. The commercials are always interesting. The game itself is sometimes of interest to me but increasingly less so. I’m a baseball guy. As far as the halftime shows go I usually sit and stare open-mouthed trying to figure out what’s happening. The last one I remember enjoying was the one with Bruno Mars. I will probably watch at least for a while then roll my eyes. As far as the alternative show, I probably won’t bother, not because I object to any of the performers or anything. It’s just that it feels like one more thing that separates us. Blue States, Red States. I don’t feel like I need an alternative halftime show. Why? If I have some serious objection to the Bad Bunnies of the world I can just turn down the sound, take a prolonged bathroom break and refresh my supply of nachos and pigs in a blanket. I’m not about to let any halftime show ruin the one occasion every year where I allow myself multiple beers!

Of course, there’s the chance that I might regret writing this. Maybe the Bad Bunny halftime show turns out to be a “I hate America screed”—some sort of call for violent overthrow of American Imperialism. Maybe his dancers will all be pride-flag wearing, blue haired middle aged women blowing whistles or something. Who knows? 

But I’m not planning on losing any sleep over it. Are you?

The Bleak Mid-Winter

 Tomorrow February begins, the official kick-off of the bleak mid-winter. I have written many times of my disdain for the month of February, so I will not rehash all of that again. We have all been trapped in our ice-encrusted neighborhoods for a week now. How worse can it get? February just looked at March and said, “Hold my beer.”

At this point I have exhausted all of my errand runs. Yesterday I wore out a second vacuum cleaner. Then I spent two delightful hours on the telephone with the IRS. I am here to tell you that if you want something to distract yourself from the chaos and confusion of Minnesota, try having a tax payment you made in 2025 recoded from the third quarter to the fourth quarter. Poor Gloria, my tax-payer assistance professional, placed me on hold no less than six times with the rehearsed phrase, “I’m going to put you on hold for 5 to 7 minutes.” Each time she did not disappoint. 

Looks like we are set up for our second hilariously busted forecast in a row, the much hyped 8-10 inch snowfall having morphed into a possible dusting. Despite the introduction of cayenne pepper laced bird food into our fancy new Bird Buddy device, the local squirrels seem unfazed, three of whom have already been picked off by my trusty Daisy Powerline 35 for their impertinence, one of the very few highlights of the past week.

And now my little grandson has his first ear infection…typical pre-February treachery.

But I am reminded that no matter how dreadful or delightful life can sometimes be, change is always right around the corner. Actually, I wrote something about this dynamic years ago. Yes…here it is:

In the summer no one thinks about the snow. Sitting at a feast table no one recalls the famine. In the season of peace no one listens for the drums of war. No one except me. I am always moved on to the next thing. And the next thing is always different. It is tiresome to receive a gift of new shoes and only being able to imagine them with holes. But, my gift has benefits. A run of bad luck or ill health is always about to end. It's always on to the next thing. If life seems bright and grand, it's about to turn wicked and dark. But a sick child is about to recover, the long miserable winter is about to give way to spring, crushing grief is about to melt into tender memory. It's what happens next that matters. Always... what happens next.

Day Six of Cabin Fever

 

Day Six of Cabin Fever

Day 6 of cabin fever. The streets in my subdivision still glisten with solid ice, a rutted milky white mess. I walk across my lawn without leaving any evidence. Its currently 6 degrees. My office—the Cafe at Hope Church—has been closed all week. I have been denied my coffee, Asiago cheese bagel, and all of my amazing Cafe peeps for a fortnight. 

Pam is thriving under these barbaric conditions. She drinks her hot chocolate, texts her friends, performs productive work on her computer and creates beautiful cross-stitch/crochet things while the Hallmark channel plays in the background. She wears warm sweaters and makes homemade soup for supper, perfectly and completely content. I stare out the window and come up with excuses for venturing out to “run errands”.

One such errand was to go next door to thank them for shoveling my sidewalk and driveway. As a “thank-you” I brought them a can of some “special chips” I had bought in Columbia that were gluten free and super delicious that I was sure they would love. When their youngest, Sully, eagerly opened them a giant coiled snake shot out of the can and across the room. Sully burst out laughing but her Mom ran from the room screaming. Good times!! Later they sent me a couple of videos of other family members who opening the can with similarly hilarious results. So, I’ve got that going for me.

I did manage to pick up my whimpy friend Tom from his house so we could have breakfast at Waffle House a couple days ago. And yesterday I did run by CVS for reasons that now escape me. While I was there I picked up some toiletries that I will no doubt have need of at some point in the future. I managed to drop by my old office where I enjoyed harassing them for thirty minutes or so. The other day I dragged Pam with me to have lunch at Los Panchos. Today I’m thinking maybe the house could use a complete and proper vacuuming.

I have managed to do my exercises every morning. I’ve also logged 24 miles on the stationary bike. Despite this I have gained even more weight, bringing my 2026 total weight gain to four pounds.

All the while an ominous weather forecast has been looming. Each day I wake up to learn the latest predictions. A week ago there was talk of up to a foot of new snow coming this weekend. A couple of days ago it had morphed into barely a dusting. This morning, the pendulum has swung back to impending doom.

My buddy from Maine texted me yesterday morning. I had been bemoaning the horrible weather we have experienced. He responded with, “We had 18 inches yesterday and this morning its -16.” There’s nothing worse than having a smart ass friend from Maine.

So today is another day. I am trying to wrangle a clandestine visit to the Cafe for an Asiago Cheese bagel. I’m willing to sign a waiver holding Hope harmless if I should end up ass-over-tea kettles walking across the parking lot. Sacrifices have to be made in this life.

Outrage Fatigue

 I have developed a severe case of outrage fatigue. Am I the only one?

I open my computer and read the news, then scan through social media. There is a torrent of indignation pouring forth. ICE. Trump. Minnesota. Somalian daycare. Church invasions. The NFL is fixed. The Dodgers are destroying baseball. Pedophiles running amok in the halls of power. It is a dizzying menu of anger. But lately there has been a new wrinkle thrown into the mix. I’m not sure what to even call it but it’s there in plain view. It’s a strange new performative guilt-shaming aimed at people who aren’t sufficiently outraged. 

Suddenly, it’s not enough that people feel the need to daily broadcast their rage on social media. Now they feel compelled to disparage those of us who have remained “silent”. Our lack of daily memes castigating Trump or AOC is now taken as proof of something sinister. Perhaps we are closet Communists or mouth-breathing MAGA’s. If we aren’t out in the streets blocking traffic or boycotting this company or that we are clearly not down for the struggle. Our perceived apathy is not sufficiently equal to “the moment.”

I would like to offer a counter explanation for my lack of an acceptable level of zeal for this “moment”. I simply don’t have the emotional bandwidth required to be in a perpetual state of apoplectic, spittle-spewing rage 24/7. I just don’t. Psychologists claim that a human being is only capable of deep emotional connection with roughly 100-150 other human beings. This sounds right to me. But even if I could manage a huge reserve of empathy and indignation about say…2,000 people, my ability to do anything of substance for them is severely limited. So, what exactly does posting all day every day of social media actually do to move the needle? Nothing. That’s what. Actually, that’s not entirely true. It does accomplish one important thing. It makes the angry poster feel good, enhances their sense of moral superiority—and that is a powerful rush.

Although I can literally do absolutely nothing to change events a thousand miles away from me, I can do something about the Asian lady who got her car stuck in the snow at the entrance to her culdesac. I can take a friend to a doctor’s appointment because they don’t want to drive on the icy streets. I can remember to check up on the members of my family to make sure they are ok when the temperatures plunge into single digits. I can annoy my friends with texted dad jokes. In other words—for those who God has given me the motive and opportunity to be a blessing to, I need to act on those opportunities. I will keep informed on all the other lunatics running wild through our country. I will pray for peace. But I’ll leave the performative rage to others.

Minnesota and My Neighbors

 After a week of keeping up with a seven month old my back is a bit of a mess. Perfect timing right? There’s snow and sleet piling up outside, meanwhile I’m sitting here in my recliner with the heating pad set to STUN when I hear an odd scraping sound coming from outside. I get up and walk over to the window about the time that Lucy begins an all-dog alert by barking like a maniac. I look out and there they all are. My neighbors, Stu and Jamie, along with their kids shoveling my sidewalk and driveway.

I’ve spent much of this morning catching up on the news, which seems to be dominated by killings in Minnesota, the current epicenter of turmoil surrounding the roundup of illegal immigrants by ICE and the Department of Homeland Security. It seems to me that I’ve been writing about immigration ever since I started this blog 15 years ago. So, I actually searched the archives and sure enough I’ve written over twenty times in the space about this issue. Surprisingly, my views on this topic have been unusually consistent. I have found that over these fifteen years my thoughts on many hot-button issues have changed along the way, but on immigration they have remained steadfast and include the following:

I am very much PRO-LEGAL IMMIGRATION, and very much against illegal immigration.

I am not an open-borders guy. I believe it is reasonable for any country to control the integrity of its borders.

I have NEVER been in favor of any “solution” to the problem of illegal immigration that involves rounding up the 10-15 million people in the country here illegally and kicking them out. 

I have always been 100% in support of arresting and deporting people who have committed violent crimes while here illegally.

The President with the best record of deporting illegal immigrants was Barack Obama who averaged over 400,000 such deportations every year during his second term in office. He even awarded a medal to Thomas Homan, his ICE director at the time. Yep..that same guy that many now accuse of being the new Gestapo. Trump’s response to the unprecedented surge at out southern border under Biden has been to unleash a newly expanded ICE with new, seemingly unlimited powers that have in recent weeks resulted in the killing of United States citizens protesting their law enforcement operations. Regardless of the circumstances of each of these shootings, it is a disturbing and un-American look for law enforcement officers to be taking out their fellow citizens.

Here’s something I wrote in June of 2016:

What to do with the 10 million or so illegal immigrants already here? I have no idea actually. I wish there weren't 10 million illegal immigrants here. How they got here is a great shame to the rule of law and a black mark on the resumes of those who presume to lead us. But now they are here. The notion of rounding 10 million people up and herding them back to the border has a trail of tears quality to it that no decent human being wants to witness. They are human beings, not cattle. Any politician who says that this is what they want to do is an idiot and worse...a heartless idiot.

In other places I have written of various encounters I have had with immigrants over the years. In each case I was impressed even though I had no idea whether of not they were here illegally of not. After each such encounter I came away with the idea that we have to find a different way to speak about Immigration…a way that doesn’t make enemies of the “other.” Many of them are our neighbors. Probably the kind who would shovel your walk if your back was out. Being part of a community means taking care of your neighbors, looking out for them. If that’s what these protestors in Minnesota are doing, I understand completely. If they are instead protecting known criminals in their midst against deportations because they hate Trump, then that’s just misguided stupidity. 

Watching it all play out and the divided reaction to each killing that always falls neatly along party lines makes me think that we are watching our nation ripping itself apart. This is the exact opposite feeling to seeing your sweet neighbors caught red-handed in an act of kindness. 

Beautiful Symmetry

 Last night our sweet neighbor sent us an old photograph of her as a young mother holding her son in her arms. Now that little boy is almost as tall as his dad. She made the comment that she would do anything to be able to spend just 24 hours with any of her children when they were that age just one more time. I looked at the picture and felt the same emotions. Pam responded by sending her a picture from 39 years ago.

It is impossible to underestimate just how little we knew about how our world was about to be transformed by the arrival of that little girl. All we knew was that we were in love with her and fascinated by every little thing she did.

Now, that little girl has brought another child into the world, and Pam and I are in love with him and fascinated by every little thing he does.

There is a beautiful symmetry to this life if you live long enough to recognize it. 

Our New Consulting Job

 It’s been three weeks since we’ve seen our grandson. We both agree that’s long enough. So we asked Kaitlin and Jon if we could come down Monday and take care of him for a week, fix them dinner every night and then leave the following Sunday. They said, “Yes.” I mean, what’s the point of being retired if you can’t inject yourself into your grandson’s life at a moment’s notice?

Lest any of you think that we are going a bit overboard with the grand parenting, I should point out the fact that it’s not entirely our fault. When you are being bombarded with pictures like these practically every day, what would you do?

What would you have us do? Ignore all of this cuteness? I think not. Of course, there are practical reasons why we are making this particular trip. There were several Christmas presents that had to be left here at the house because they couldn’t fit everything in their car when they left three weeks ago. We can’t keep putting that off. Then there’s the other issue having to do with Aunt Bailey…

Not gonna lie…a little jealous that she gets to hang out with him more than us.

I like to think of this grand parent thing as sort of like our post-career consulting job. Pam and I go down for a week at a time to consult with the new parents where we discuss the latest best practices of child rearing—like scrapping crib naps for contacted naps, doing wheelies on walks with the stroller, and bringing cultural awareness to the boy with the use of ethnically diverse tickle monster voices. You know what they say—it takes a village idiot to raise a child—or something like that.

Calm Down…

 I know people, some of them friends, who can’t go 24 hours without posting about politics on social media, our present cauldron of troubles having overtaken their entire lives to the exclusion of practically everything else. They feel some deep and primal need to make sure that the entire world knows of their hatred for one side or the other…like anyone alive still might be unsure of their position. I mean, they’ve been telling us every day for years now. I think we get it.

However annoying they can be I must admit that I do envy them their certainty. These rabid partisans might be super cringy but they are totally convinced of the righteousness of their cause. My trouble with politics is that basically I don’t give a shit. Some of you are appalled at the level of my disinterest. Others will find it impossible to understand—“How can you be so nonchalant about the most dangerous moment of our lives?” Still others will write off my lack of interest as some kind of proof of privilege of one kind or another. Whatever.

I suppose what’s at the root of my apathy is the fact that I can’t trust the story tellers, the various media companies who report the news to me. Each of them have agendas. None of them are in the business of reporting facts, but rather the framing of facts to suit their preferred narratives. Consequently none of them can be trusted.

But it’s not just that. There’s also the undeniable truth that is irrefutable if you have been consuming news for the last 50 plus years and that is this—nothing, and I mean NOTHING is as bad as we are told it will be. I challenge each and everyone of you reading this post to read the reporting of practically every potential “crisis” reported on in this country and show me one that has ever been as bad or even worse than advertised. Good luck. There’s a simple explanation for this. Measured, serious reporting doesn’t attract eyeballs. Hyperbole does. The more dire the headline, the more people will read or watch. It’s terribly difficult to write a fundraising letter without first having a terrifying story to tell.

So yeah…a couple of weeks ago weeks ago we attacked Venezuela and the initial breathless reporting featured a lot of hand wringing about WORLD WAR III about to start. Now, that story is on page four. It’s quite possible that within the next 24 hours we are going to pull another nation-building/regime change stunt in Iran. Although I have no idea what we can do militarily to keep the Iranian government from killing protesters and am pretty sure whatever we do might very well make things worse, I’m not losing any sleep over this one either. Not a single thing I can do about it, for one thing, and for another, the world is a screwed up place. Bad things happen, and when they do people freak out. But seriously people, would any of you prefer to live 200 years ago? How about 100 years ago? How about this…would you rather it was 1976 instead of 2026?  

The answer is a resounding “No”. Be honest. Yes, the world is a dangerous place. But it has always been, and comparatively speaking, to 99% of our ancestors we’ve got it made.

Take a two week break from news consumption. You will be happier and no where near as boring.

How Good of a Deal is Owning Your Own Home?

 How good of a deal is owning your own home? Great right? It’s the American Dream. I’m certainly happy to have paid off my home, to own it free and clear. Only, I don’t. Not really. And while I have certainly benefitted from owning my home, the folks who have benefitted the most are the bank and Henrico County. Let me explain.

Pam and I purchased our home somewhere around 1998. It was new construction and we paid $258,000, $218,000 of which was in the form of a 30 year loan from our bank. It was the most expensive purchase of our lives and we were at once terrified and thrilled at the prospect.

Over the years we managed to never miss a payment. We also refinanced a couple times along the way. Of course, in the years since we moved in, lots of money has been spent on upkeep and repairs. Own anything for nearly 30 years and maintenance is a fact of life. Luckily, the place never caught on fire, it never got flooded by a hurricane, so we’ve been lucky.

Then, three years ago that magical day came when I made the very last payment to Wells Fargo bank after which I was presented with the deed of trust. The house was finally…mine!

After the celebrations died down, in a more reflective mood I began to ponder just how much interest I had paid to the bank over all the years. It took a while but I finally determined that the bank had earned $227,000 in interest. But that’s not the half of it. I also paid roughly $40000 in home owners insurance premiums. Had my house burned to the ground that would have come in handy, but so far my insurance company has done well. And although I don’t owe any more money to the bank, I will be paying for home owners insurance premiums until I have assumed room temperature. But…even THAT is not all. There’s the question of real estate property taxes. This is a tax owed to your local government if you own a house. It is a progressive tax since it is based on the assessed value of your home which—thankfully—goes up most years. As a consequence, my real estate tax bill has grown through the years. How much have I paid since 1998? Well, that took some time to find out but the answer is a hair under $90,000.

So, when you tally it all up it looks something like this:

Down payment        $40,000

Loan principle         $218,000

Interest                    $227,000

Real Estate Tax       $90,000

Home Owners         $40,000

Total                      $615,000

I’m told by people who claim to know these sort of things that if I sold my house today it would fetch something in the neighborhood of…..$625,000…not exactly Warren Buffet.

But here’s the sketchy part. Besides having to pay home owners premiums forever, there’s another continuing cost that will be due each and every year—my Henrico County real estate tax, which as fate would have it is currently higher than it has ever been—roughly $5,000 a year. So, lets say I live another twenty years in this house and for the sake of being charitable lets say that my real estate bill never again gets increased. Under these circumstances I will pay an additional $100,000 to Henrico County…for the privilege of owning my home. Oh…and one more thing. If I get senile and forget to pay my real estate taxes for a couple three years, the county can confiscate the home from me because they are always the paramount lien on all property in their jurisdiction. Lovely.

Here’s a suggestion. How about if someone manages against all odds to purchase a home, and pays a thirty year mortgage off in full and on time, never haven’t missed a tax payment for an entire generation—how’s about the County stop collecting taxes from that homeowner on that property? Doesn’t that sound fair and equitable? It’s not like the County will have to wait very long to start collecting again. Eventually I’ll kick the bucket and somebody else will buy the house and the gravy train to the County will start all over again. But, shouldn’t 30 years be enough per person?

Thanks for attending my TED Talk.

What Does it Mean to be a Man?

 I should probably warn the reader that what follows might be more of an essay than a blog post. This subject has been living rent free in my mind for quite some time now but I have never attempted to organize my thoughts into something coherent. The reader will have to decide whether or not I have succeeded.

If you spend any time scrolling through forums like Instagram, Facebook or any number of hugely popular podcasts you will encounter many loud voices selling one thing or another. Some of the most popular voices come from a corner of the web that has been dubbed the manoshere. These guys are usually jacked, loud, often quite funny, and always confident that they know exactly what a real man is. In their view civilization wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for “toxic masculinity”. All of western civilization’s problems are caused by the feminization of society, the wussification of our businesses, our government and our institutions—especially the church.

I don’t spend too much time listening to Joe Rogan or any of the thousand others. About five minutes is enough to get the gist of their argument and like all wildly popular opinions out there in the world there is a grain of truth to be found. When I hear the hysterical voices of some feminists out there declaring that society doesn’t need men anymore I roll my eyes and try to imagine a regiment of women storming the beaches of Normandy, building the Golden Gate Bridge or replacing my roof when its 100 degrees outside. Before you scold me for being misogynistic—Yes, I am aware that there might be individual women capable of all of these things—but generally it has been the male of our species which has shouldered the responsibilities of the most physically demanding and dangerous jobs throughout all of human history.

But aside from that silliness, much of what I hear from these alleged alpha males sounds off to me, or at the very least incomplete. Too often their masculinity seems heavy on brutishness, rudeness and aggression.

All of which has gotten me thinking a lot about what it is to be a man. If I’m not comfortable with how manhood is portrayed in these spaces, what is my alternative definition? Good question, and one I’m not totally sure I have all the answers to. I’m a flawed example, for one thing. But that hasn’t stopped me from thinking. To facilitate this discussion I will explore two men who could not be more different. 

When I was a boy I had my own father as an example. In this it could easily be said that I won the lottery. He was in many ways the best man I’ve ever known. But honestly, my Dad was long on leading by example and short on communication, much like most men of his generation, so he will not be one of the two men I will examine. From my early years the man I looked up to and admired the most wasn’t even real. It was this guy…

We didn’t get our first television until I was 5 or 6, I’m told. But one of my first memories was this towering yet quiet character—Sheriff Andy Taylor of Mayberry, North Carolina, single father of Opie, nephew of Aunt Bea and boss of Barney Fife, and the chief law enforcement officer of this early 1960’s town who never carried a gun. Luckily, Mayberry was not a hotbed of crime, violent or otherwise, but it had its share of conmen, hucksters and the occasional escaped convict, all of whom Andy was able to dispatch with a combination of his wisdom, intuition and the power of his presence and his unfailing character. Seldom did Sheriff Taylor escalate a situation. He nearly always was the master of deescalation. One scene still stands out in my mind. A charming drifter, played by Buddy Epson came through town and struck up a friendship with Opie who was mesmerized by his lifestyle with its romantic freedom and his willingness to “bend the law” on occasion, like stealing a chicken from a local farmer so the two of them could have a fine meal after an afternoon of fishing. Andy became alarmed at the influence the drifter was having on his son with his libertine obscuring of the line between right and wrong. So, Andy pays him a visit. The charming drifter says in effect, “Maybe your boy would chose my way of living if you let him decide for himself.” Andy looks at him and says words to this effect—“That’s not how it works. You can’t let a kid ‘decide for himself’ because he’s liable to choose the first shiny thing that comes along. By the time he finds out that its got a hook in it, its too late.” Andy the protector.

The first thing I think is required of us as men is the duty to protect. In Andy’s case it was protecting his young and inexperienced son against a false vision of life where rules are always for someone else. But Sheriff Taylor also brought his protection duties to his community. Even though he never carried a gun he had the power of a clear vision of right and wrong and an unwavering commitment to justice. More often than not it was this vision, rather than might which brought about justice.

In the formative years of our development as a species it was the “strong man” around which communities were organized. Might makes right. The most powerful alpha male got whatever he wanted in exchange for his protection of the village against other strong men. But the arc of history has curved towards the value and dignity of every man and woman, not just the most powerful. The Enlightenment and the rise of ideas like the universal rights of man elevated all humanity. Now our laws and culture generally agree that there are those among us that require protection. In this regard the teachings of Jesus represent a radical departure from the old way with his elevation of and benevolence towards the “poor, the widow and the orphan.” It seems to me then that one of the responsibilities of men, especially men of wealth and influence is to be one of the primary protectors of the weak among us. I hear very little of this responsibility in the manosphere. 

When I was a teenager there was a movie that came out that was a huge hit among teenage boys. It was called Billy Jack and it was filled with terrible dialogue and atrocious acting but the title character was a goofy looking half breed Indian who always showed up to defend the defenseless, first a group of wild stallions rounded up to be slaughtered for dog food and then a runaway girl. Each time he employed his Vietnam war Green Beret trained fighting skills to dispatch the bad guys we teenage boys cheered him on. But as I watched that movie at the Westhampton theatre I was struck by how reluctant Billy Jack was to use his lethal skill. He tried everything to avoid a fight, giving his victims lots of opportunities to back off before he lowered the boom. For me there was something admirable about his restraint. It was like he knew that if he was forced to use his lethal skills it represented a failure of some kind, a failure to work things out, to make reasonable accommodations, to compromise. With great privilege comes great responsibility. For me a real man is one who keeps a sharp eye out for the “least of these”, ready and willing to protect them from anyone who would do them harm.

The second person I would like to discuss is Elon Musk, perhaps the most polarizing figure in the entire world. On the one hand there can be no denying the fact of his genius. From electric cars to his Space X innovations, the man has been an entrepreneurial powerhouse unlike anyone else in history. He will shortly be worth an astounding 1 Trillion dollars. In some spaces Musk is revered as an icon. In other places he is reviled as a symbol of everything that is wrong with capitalism and the influence and worship of money and success. Some are appalled that one person could allow himself to amass so obscene an amount of personal wealth. Others are mesmerized by the very same accomplishment and suggest it as evidence of his superior intellect and audacity, even to the point of holding him up as an example for others to follow.

But what about Elon Musk as an…example for young men? I happen to hold the view that someone can admire the creativity and innovative genius of his mind while at the same time believing him to be perhaps the worst possible example of manhood to come along since…since, I don’t know since the Marquis de Sade!

As of this writing despite being only 54 years of age, Elon Musk has fathered 14 children that he admits to although accounts vary. He has been married either four or five times and now lives some kind of polyamorous existence with several women—one of whom is in the process of suing him for full custody of their child. He is also by all accounts a drug addict, a regular user of ketamine, LSD, cocaine and God knows what else. In most of the over 4000 years of recorded history, this sort of behavior would normally have been a harsh indictment, something which would have disqualified him as a respected member of society. In today’s more lenient environment most of those holding him up as someone to be emulated have chosen to ignore his private life. Not me. I have never been able to seperate anyone’s private character from their public performance when they are in a position of great power and influence. If my neighbor wants to have a harem that’s his business. But if a president or the wealthiest and most powerful private citizen perhaps of all time turns out to be morally bankrupt, that’s a deal breaker for me.

What of Mr. Musk’s duty to protect? How has he used his nearly incalculable wealth to protect the most vulnerable? His favorite charity is his own foundation, to which he makes quite large gifts of stock, which then invests the money in tech innovation projects which benefit…his companies. Yes, he has donated money and know-how through his Starlink enterprise to bring internet access to rural communities. But when a man is worth a trillion dollars, his total charitable giving amounts to a rounding error on his balance sheet. Of course, he is under no legal obligation to donate a dime of his wealth. None of us are. But we all have a moral obligation to do what we can to look after those who are less fortunate. It is a tenant of the Christian faith but also an accepted obligation of the non-religious as well. The duty to protect never leaves us. As men it is one of our highest callings.

Try to imagine a meeting between Elon Musk and Andy Taylor. Neither of them would have a clue of what to make of the other. But if I was going to pattern my life after one of them it would be an easy choice.

So, I suppose that what I have come up with is two defining characteristics each and every man should possess Every man needs to be a protector and someone who deescalates by the power of his presence and the honor of his character.

Maybe you can think of better qualities than these. Perhaps you disagree entirely with my conclusions, and that’s ok. But I believe that this topic is important enough to think hard about. We all can do better. Men must do better.

 

Sunday Observations

 In our 41 years of marriage my wife has never once cut the grass. In fact I feel confident in asserting that 95% of the hardest physical tasks associated with owning a home and raising children (outside of actually giving birth) have been done by me. That’s because I’m a man and I’m physically stronger than she is. Of course to suggest such a thing today might rain down on me condemnation from certain quarters, but sorry…its just true. However, physical strength and toughness are not the same thing. Case in point…

Last week, with a house full of kids, Pam came down with a cold. Each day, as colds often do, it got worse, sore throat, cough, exhaustion. Immediately she stopped holding Silas as the only reasonable precaution she could take under the circumstances. But other than that, she continued as full time host of the family, cooking meals etc..etc..The only outward indication that she was ill was the fact that she didn’t talk as much. Other than that she went about her business.

Two days ago I got a sore throat, which was her first symptom. Then all the other miserable symptoms followed making it clear that I inherited her cold. Yesterday was pretty rough. Last night we sat down to eat dinner and I looked at her and said, “I can’t believe that you managed to cook meals for us feeling this horrible.” She just shrugged and made no reply like it was no big deal. It was then that it occurred to me (not for the first time) that Pam is just tougher than me. This fact doesn’t damage my ego. It’s just a fact of life that I have observed in 67 years on the planet that women, particularly mothers are among the toughest people on earth. They show up for their people every day whether they feel like crap or not. While they’re at it they never talk about how crappy they feel. They just plow through. Amazing.

Day Two of this Venezuela business has brought more details about the operation. While I still remain skeptical about the efficacy of the policy, I must here pause to make a couple observations about the actual operation. Regardless of the politics of the thing you just have to tip the cap to the United States military. You give those people six months to plan and there is literally nothing they can’t do. Those Delta Force dudes are epic examples of lethal bad-assery. To run that complicated a mission with zero casualties is nothing short of miraculous. I am grateful that those monsters are on our side. I worry just a little less knowing that we possess so deadly and skilled a team of warriors. I pray for a world where we never feel the need to use them.

Finally, my daughter sent me this picture yesterday…

Try as I might, I just kind find words equal to the task of explaining how much love I have for this little boy.

Venezuela??

 I’ve got a cold. Pam got it last week right after Christmas. Now it’s my turn. It’s not horrible but for the past two nights sleep has been rough. This morning I woke up around 4:30, stumbled downstairs with a killer sore throat, then opened my computer to news that my country had attacked Venezuela and captured its leader. What the actual hell? 

I should point out that it is a terrible idea to read the news when you feel like crap. You need to be at the top of your game to tackle the news anymore. I probably should have waited until I had a good breakfast, took a shower and done my exercises…but that ship has sailed. Instead, I was confronted with this bizarre news after only one sip of coffee with a throat that felt like it was lined with cayenne pepper.

What do I even know about Venezuela? Let’s see…I know that it used to be one of the richest countries in Central and South America before they decided to try a Cuba-styled communist/authoriarian government under Hugo Chavez. To the surprise of absolutely no one who isn’t a tenured professor or a journalist, Venezuela is now a financial and human rights basket case despite the fact that they have the largest known oil reserves on the planet. That’s really really hard to do! The current dictator is Nicolas Maduro, a dude who somehow has managed to be even more incompetent and anti-democratic than Chavez. 

Also…Venezuela produces a ton of really great baseball players.

Like most other South American and Central American nations, Venezuela produces tons of drugs. The climate is perfect for it, I’m told. Most of the drugs are smuggled into and consumed by us…the United States of America, since we can’t seem to get enough drugs no matter where they come from.

So now we have apparently attacked the capital with aircraft and managed to snatch Maduro and his wife, who have been flown here to stand trial for a 2020 narco-terrorism charge filed in New York. Details on just how our military managed this remarkable feat remain hidden at this hour. What also remains unclear is what vital national interests of the United States is in play here which would justify a military intervention. I mean if its drugs…we could have done the same thing to Mexico, Columbia, Nicaragua etc etc…

But our President is Donald Trump. Trying to figure out his motivations is like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle in the dark. It might just be the baseball thing. Maybe Trump is fed up with the ever increasing number of Venezuelans in the big leagues? Or it could be another in a long line of wag the dog military operations that presidents with sagging approval numbers have engaged in for the past hundred years or so.

But…it’s early. As I type these words this particular adventure is mere hours old. By the time most of you read this there will have been several more social media posts from the President with more details. No matter what the reasoning proves to be—we are once again involving ourselves in what used to be called..war…with another country. This is almost always bad news for everyone.

The Battle Begins…

 

So, I got Pam the BirdBuddy for Christmas. We’ve had the same bird feeder on our deck for the past fifteen years or so and we love it because squirrels cannot get to the birdseed no matter how hard they try, often with hilarious results. This new fangled solar powered gizmo has the advantage of being connected to the internet and comes equipped with a camera and microphone which captures up close and personal photographs of the little guys. She hung this thing after dark last night and this morning we were notified by the device that we had our first customer who is pictured above. When he first landed he gave it many side eyes, making sure it wasn’t some sort of sadistic trap, but once satisfied of its benign intent, began engorging himself with not one but seven seeds before flying off.

But there’s a problem. I can see it plain as day. What I can’t believe is that the manufacturers of the BirdBuddy didn’t notice. This thing might as well have a giant sign hanging off it screaming—All Squirrels Welcomed Here!! It might as well have been named SquirrelBuddy.

I am now on the horns of a dilemma. Should I try to rig up some kind of anti-squirrel contraption to add to the thing ala Wiley Coyote? Or do I rely on my trusty BB gun to punish any tree rat who comes near? I mean thats all well and good but I can’t sit upstairs at the back window all day like that sniper in the church tower in Saving Private Ryan, quoting scripture while picking them off one by one. I’ve got a life to live. But the thought that a tribe of filthy squirrels will be feasting on the ill-designed BirdBuddy, robbing our beautiful birds of their rightful rewards infuriates me. 

I will keep you all posted on developements in what I’m sure will be the ongoing battle of 2026.

No Resolutions

 About this time of year you start to see people posting about everything they accomplished throughout the year and what their New Year’s Resolutions are. I suppose it’s natural and proper to do so. After all, it’s not every day when you go to bed in one year and wake up in another. It feels like a good a time as any to think about such things. My trouble is I hate the word resolution. It’s a name you give for something that most likely will never happen. Congress makes resolutions. The language of Washington is filled with proclamations that use some form of the word resolve, “Resolved, the 119th Congress of the United States does hereby declare that….followed by some lofty promise they have no intention of keeping. So, I never make resolutions. Instead I set goals. What’s the difference? Resolutions are basically positive thoughts. Goals are real and measurable. Here’s an example:

Resolution: I want to be a better listener in 2026.

Goal: Lose fifteen pounds…on January 1st 2025 I weighed 205 pounds. On December 31st 2025 I weighed 190. Killed it!!!

How’d you do with that “better listener” thing?

I’ve been setting goals since my freshman year at UofR. I’ve hit a bunch of them and missed a bunch too, but every goal I set had one thing in common—they were all getable. I never set ridiculous goals. I never write something down like—learn four foreign languages before the end of the year. First of all, I would have no chance and second of all, not something I really want to do in the first place. 

So, what were my goals for 2025? I won’t list them all here because most of them are none of anyone else’s business. Each year I have fitness goals, relationship goals, writing goals, project goals and giving goals. My biggest “get” from 2025 was that I hit my 12,000 pushups goal. Matter of fact I hit all my fitness goals except my weight goal which remains stubbornly unchanged despite all the fitness heroics. But, the point is every goal I set last year was measurable. I nailed two of my giving goals and missed on the third. I totally whiffed on one of my project goals, but hit the other three.

Why set goals at all? Why can’t you just take life as it comes, live life one day at a time, go with the flow? Because sometimes “the flow” drifts towards disaster. Most of the time the proper course in life is against the current. Without a plan, without great intentionality, virtually nothing of value gets done in this world. I would rather attempt great things and fail than drift through living an unexamined and unchallenged life.

Silas’ First Christmas

 Patrick and Sarah left this morning headed home to Nashville. Jon, Kaitlin and Silas will stay for a couple more days before heading back to Columbia. But, Christmas is over for this year. While the memories are fresh, a few observations…

The entire experience is different with a baby in the house, more hectic, more moving parts to deal with. But aside from the more strenuous logistics, having a six month old in the house brings back the magic. It helps that Silas is such a happy, contented and flexible child. He takes very short naps during the day which isn’t optimal…but sleeps 11 hours straight at night which amounts to a godsend for his parents. In the five days he has been here he has endured one 18 person gathering, another 25 person gathering, plus an evening with a babysitter (Bernadette). In each case the little boy was as good as gold. At Aunt Linda’s house we discovered that Silas loves trains! Uncle Bill’s annual train display was the subject of endless fascination.

Watching your grown children parenting like seasoned veterans is an amazing experience. Knowing that this child will always be surrounded by scores of uncles, aunts, and cousins who love him is an invaluable gift he has been given, one that we will never take for granted.

The six of us went to see A Christmas Carol at the Virginia Repertory theater. That timeless story was brought to life beautifully by that company and worth the trip. 

Ready for Christmas

 The week of Christmas is finally here and we are pretty much exhausted. Actually, a more accurate way of expressing this would be…I am tired…Pam is exhausted. 

Over the past two weeks our house has been transformed from one thing to entirely another. The Christmas decorations have gone up, for one thing, and for us that means seven Christmas trees, several garlands, twenty-five snow village houses/stores with all the people and animals who live there, plus scores of wrapped presents under three of the aforementioned seven Christmas trees. But that’s not the half of it…

This will be our grandson’s first Christmas at Lolli and Pops’ house. Accordingly, Pam decided that he would need one of the rooms upstairs converted to an exclusive nursery for him. In addition, his parents would need to be relocated to the bedroom next to this new nursery. In order to accommodate this, Patrick and Sarah’s old room would need to be moved to where my old den used to be, while my den would be relocated to where Kaitlin and Jon’s old room used to be. Somehow Pam had this whole thing pictured in her mind so there was no point in me objecting to any of it. 

The first thing to go was what used to be Pam’s craft room/office. In one afternoon we managed to move all the furniture from all these rooms, reshuffling the decks of what they have all been for the past 28 years. It should be mentioned here that we are both in our 60’s. We still haven’t fully recovered. But when my wife gets a vision in her head, it’s my job to make it happen. The finished product was well worth the effort. We think that everyone will be happy with their new digs. But there is one problem…

Lucy is not amused.

Like all dogs, Miss Lucy is a creature of entrenched habits. One of them is her preferred sleeping spot/hangout spot during the day—what was my old den, and her favorite sofa. Well…when she took the tour after all the changes and discovered that her old spot had been moved she absolutely refused to get on that sofa! She looked at me as if I was guilty of some grave betrayal.

Four days…yes, it took her four full days of sniffing it and lots of heavy sighing before she finally hopped up on her own initiative. Even then, her facial expression was, “Ok…but I’m ready to make a break for the rug at the slightest provocation!!”

RIP, Meathead

 Rob Reiner and his wife had their throats slashed by their son yesterday, at least that’s what the news report said when I saw it last night. To hear news like this fifty years ago would have been shocking—Desi Arnaz and wife Lucille Ball were found bludgeoned to death by their son, little Ricky. That headline would have stopped all of America in its tracks. Now we hardly raise our eyebrows. Now it’s just another dysfunctional Hollywood couple with a disturbed son who snapped in the most violent nation on the face of the earth, the United States of America.

For people of a certain age, Rob Reiner will forever be Meathead, the radical hippy son-in-law of Archie Bunker in All in the Family. But he was much more than that. He gave us A Few Good Men, When Harry Met Sally, and The Princess Bride. For these three films alone he has left a terrific legacy. But now he’s dead and will most likely be remembered more for how he died than how he lived.

I’m one of those people who basically can’t stand Hollywood and Hollywood people. The way I see it, Hollywood is populated by self-obsessed narcissistic weirdos. The only thing worse than a room full of actors and directors is being in a room full of the children produced by these people. These people have basically nothing in common with everybody outside of Hollywood, ie…their customers. In fact, they despise us. See, they are the only people on earth who believe the “right” things, and every time one of them wins an award (at one of their 63 different award shows they throw for themselves) they simply can’t resist lecturing us rubes in the heartland about all of our shortcomings. As far as Rob Reiner goes, much has been made of his politics in the last 24 hours. I simply take it as a fact that any lifelong show business dude will have the political views of a leftist. Who cares? When I think of Rob Reiner I think of those three movies I mentioned and…Meathead. I have nothing against the man. At this moment, after his violent and tragic death at the hands of his own son, the man’s politics is about as irrelevant as it gets.

Of course, because this is 2025 and Donald Trump is in the White House and simply can’t resist inserting his thoughts into everything, the President of the United States offered up this nugget:

I just can’t process what could possibly have been running through his mind when he not only wrote this…but pressed “send”. Can anyone reading this imagine any other President saying anything like this…ever? I mean…even if he truly loathed the guy, why in the name of everything that is holy would he try to make this tragedy all about him?

But, I ask questions that I already know the answers to. At the end of the day there isn’t a thing I can do about it besides being patient waiting for the day when there’s someone in the White House that has enough self awareness to know that not every thought that enters your mind needs a public airing.

Looking for Opportunities

 Last night Pam and I decorated our family Christmas tree. Like always it was a nostalgic journey. There are ornaments from every trip we’ve ever taken together, many from Maine, others that marked accomplishments of one kind or another. We still hang the occasional ornament that the kids made when they were little. Then there are the ones given to us by dear friends. It’s quite the magical experience and brings with it a profound thankfulness for the blessings of life.

Then I wake up this morning and read of a mass killing in Australia and another at Brown University in Rhode Island. The juxtaposition of the two is life as we know it in the 21st century. Honestly life has always been shot through with contradiction from the beginning, where good fortune is mixed with tragedy. It’s just that in 2025 we know about every horrible thing that takes place anywhere on earth minutes after it happens. For me, reading of some horror somewhere makes me at once more thankful for my life and more burdened for others.

At Christmas this burden seems deeper. It’s hard for me to stay in the moment of happiness and gratitude when I imagine what other families are enduring at this hour. Imagine receiving a phone call telling you that your son has been shot dead walking across campus, the pain and anguish you would be thrust into for the rest of your life.

But, that’s someone else’s burden this morning. Today as the snow falls around me I will go to church, enjoy lunch with friends, take a nap and start wrapping presents. But everywhere I go over these next couple of weeks I will pay close attention to those around me. I will look for opportunities to be a blessing to someone. I hope everyone who reads this will do the same.