My Bracket

Yes. I filled out a bracket. Me and fifty million of my fellow Americans sat down for ten minutes and made 61 snap decisions based on nothing more than the unscientific urgings of instinct. This one cost me twenty bucks and is run by our office bookie, Bland Weaver. Three or four years ago, I won the thing. Most years I'm middle of the pack.

There once was a time when I followed college basketball. I would watch a dozen or so games during the regular season, and read up on the fortunes of my local teams (UR, UVA, VT and VCU). But, not so much anymore.

Ok, so let me explain my methodology. When you have actually watched not one single game in its entirety all season, and know virtually nothing about all but a handful of teams, how does one go about making picks? I always start with the 16-1 matchup and pick the number one seed, since an upset there has never happened. Then I look for all of the local teams and pick all of them except UVA. Why? Mostly because it is my firm belief that there exists nowhere in the universe a university as overrated as Mr. Jefferson's school. Besides, their coach, Tony Bennett is frankly entirely too handsome to be a basketball coach. It's just not right. Then I go on to the matchups where I have literally no information. Perfect example of this...Purdue vs. Vermont. Frankly, it would require at least three boilermakers to force me to watch this game. I picked Purdue because I had no idea that anyone in Vermont even played basketball. Or how about Oregon vs. Iona? Seriously? Iona? They named a college after my fourth grade teacher?

Here are a list of the major upsets that I picked:

UNC Wilmington over UVA
Florida Gulf Coast over Florida
Nevada over Iowa State
Rhode Island over Creighton

That's it. Four upsets. I guess I'm a front runner.

I did notice that this year's bracket sheet comes courtesy of Jiffy Lube, a perfectly legal business enterprise which happily attaches its name to what amounts to a criminal enterprise whereby businesses throughout the nation are transformed into illegal wagering parlors in clear violation of every gambling statute on the books. The cops would do something about this wanton law breaking, but they are all watching the games!

Worst. Job. Ever.

I stumbled across a story yesterday that I have never heard of happening, and immediately wondered how it could be possible for it to never have happened before. Ever get that feeling? Yeah, me neither. Until yesterday. What am I talking about? Well, I just may have uncovered the very worst job in America that nobody has ever heard of.

I read it in the Washington Post. Early in Monday's Senate session towards the end of Senator Mitch McConnell's opening remarks, it was revealed that the Senate stenographer had collapsed. The unidentified woman had just keeled over right there on the floor of the Senate not twenty feet from the man. Senator McConnell is said to have remarked, "Oh, my goodness." A brief recess was declared as the poor woman was revived and taken to the hospital for observation. The video from C-SPAN shows the woman slowly teetering to her right, then collapsing head first onto the Senatorial carpet accompanied by a loud thud. How can this possibly be the first time this has happened? I mean, what are the odds?

Imagine for a moment that your job is to preserve for posterity every word that proceeds from the mouths of 100 of the most pompous windbags in America. Think about that...every utterance from the likes of Mitch McConnell and Church Schumer, everytime one of them opens their pie holes, you have to be there, manning your front row seat, typing every word into a machine. You alone have to bear witness to the oratorical stylings of the first blonde-haired, blue-eyed Native American Senator, the self righteous musings of the wild-eyed Vermont Socialist, the nasal dronings of the curly haired windbag from Kentucky. Five days a week, eight hours a day you have to type out classic exchanges like this:

"If it pleases the chair, I would like to yield the floor and grant the remainder of my time to the distinguished gentleman from the great State of North Dakota."

"The gentlemen from North Dakota is recognized."

"I would like to thank the distinguished gentlemen from the great State of New Hampshire for yielding his time and will gladly yield back the floor for him to revise and extend his remarks shortly..."

You're damn right the poor woman collapsed!

We are constantly told about the thousands of jobs that Americans just won't do. We are told that some disagreeable work is beneath us. This is why we need cheap foreign labor. Well, I am here to tell you, the collapsed woman laying out cold, spread eagle in the well of the United States Senate should stand as a dramatic refutation of such nonsense. Here is a woman, an American woman, who stands for eight hours a day listening and recording the most inane, inconsequential men and women spout the most inane and inconsequential rhetoric known to be uttered anywhere in the civilized world. This is her job.

You think you got problems??

My Weirdness Cell

Every so often, I become detached from reality. Some of you are probably thinking, "Well, that explains a lot!" Luckily, these detachments don't last long, and require no therapy or chemical intercession to remedy. Eventually it goes away and all is back to normal. It has been this way for as long as I can remember. How to describe the sensation?

It's as if I separate from myself and float up to the ceiling, and watch my life being lived down below, trying to figure out which view is correct. Sounds more serious than it actually is. It's more like a short period of acute awareness of normally unseen or unnoticed things. Suddenly, it's as if each day to day thing that I never ordinarily notice becomes the singular focus of my attention. The squeaking door, the ticking clock, that troublesome tag hanging from the bottom of the recliner, the strange way that dead leaves gather in the narrow, bricked gap by the front steps. After several days of this hyper attentive focus, life blends back into clarity, as if nothing ever happened.

During these days, I always feel like writing, but I can never begin. Where to start? How to explain? Nothing can compete with it, this temporal, third person existence. It always eventually sends me scurrying for the great old writers. I dust off something by CS Lewis or GK Chesterton. It helps to read something deep and wise, the Proverbs, Shakespeare. Luckily for me and those who depend on me, these episodes are infrequent and of short, spasmodic duration and serve as nothing more than a fresh way to look at the world for a day or so. No harm, no foul.

I have often wondered what the trigger mechanism might be. Hearing a particular song? Eating Pam's incredibly delicious meatloaf? Or maybe there's a random weirdness cell flowing through my bloodstream that occasionally stalls on his route through my brain, and until he shakes free and flows through, my perception gets heightened. Whether or not such a thing is biologically possible is another story, of course, but it's as good an explanation as any at the moment.

Here's a great example of how it works. The other day I was driving in South Carolina and happened upon a freshly disked field covered by probably 500 seagulls. This field was at least 40 miles from the ocean, but there they all were busy pecking the muddy soil with their hooked beaks unaware how far they were from home. For the next hour I thought of nothing but their flapping wings and muddy talons. I couldn't shake the image of a field of seagulls until I was nearly at Fayetteville. You try thinking of nothing but seagulls for over an hour. It's not as easy as I make it sound!

Not to worry, this latest episode has passed and now another won't come for six months or so. I'm back to the relentless clarity of reality, the big picture firmly in front of me, all the minutia back where it belongs...in the background.

A Dead Thing

South Carolina highway 9 leaving Myrtle Beach is like withdrawing from something. It's a divided highway in every sense of the word. The cars and trucks loaded down with the accoutrements of vacation life flow into town with such eagerness and purpose, then limp out of town worn, spent, exhausted. After ten miles or so the vacation-kitschy shops and huts begin to thin out. Fewer t-shirt shops, vegetable stands and tacky gift huts.

Suddenly, I saw a dead thing. A golf course, abandoned, gone to seed. The white painted brick gate elegantly sloping away from the entrance in both directions like wings proclaiming with black letters...lack Bear, the giant cursive B probably stolen by college kids and adorning the wall behind the bar at a frat house somewhere. A memory comes to mind of playing a round here twenty years ago when it was new and bustling with cigar smoking men in loud pants. Now it was dead.

I wondered what could possibly have happened. It was so beautiful when it was new. It was pitched as a sure thing by some sharp man in an Armani suit around a conference room table. He spoke of the unique qualities of the design, the flawless team that had been assembled to oversee the project. The investors could hardly wait for him to finish so they could write their checks.

But now it looks like a moonscape, all browns and grays, tall billowy weeds of cat tails, ragweed mixed in with the purple traces of wild alfalfa. I saw a block of blue wood with an iron stake through it pointing at the tops of trees where once a tee box stood. Here there was a rusted ball washer. There a faded hole sign diagramming the contours of what used to be a finely trimmed fairway but now looked like a minefield.

I thought of a story my Dad told me about an obnoxious churchman who, admiring his neighbor's garden, commented, "what a fine garden the Lord has given you to tend..." The neighbor, hands gnarled and stained by toil replied, "think so? You should have seen this garden when the Lord had it by himself."

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. "There is a way which seems right to a man, but in the end leads to death." The golfing market became saturated. Too many options available, too many competitors. The flawless team never saw it coming. Now, 18 fiberglass poles with colorful flags were slowly decomposing in a landfill, 18 holes and 18 cups scattered throughout the property serving no purpose now except as a home for weeds.

Eventually, someone will come along with an idea. A new Armani suit will stand at the head of a polished table speaking of unique things. But this time, the hint of death will hover in the room, mental images of this barren landscape will enter the minds of investors. It will be a harder sell.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

A Two Dog Story

This afternoon, I spent some time on the beach. The place was largely deserted except for maybe a dozen college kids about fifty yards up the beach. Although it was clear and warm, it was also very windy and the wind swept down the beach from where the kids were, amplifying their voices. I heard a couple of loud female squeals(am I allowed to say this?),  and the word Wiggles. I glanced up the beach to see what was going on and saw an older woman with a little dog on a leash. The two of them had drawn a crowd. After a while they went on their way, headed towards me. When they got close, "Wiggles" made a beeline for me...

This is truly a horrible picture, since Miss Wiggles was far more adorable than this photograph. She was stunning, with one blue eye and one brown one and couldn't get enough of me. Her owner, a woman in her mid 60's told me that Wiggles can always tell when she meets a dog lover. She told me she didn't even have to ask me if I had a dog, because Wiggles doesn't care for people who don't have dogs! Without prompting, she told me the story. Her husband of 40 years had recently passed away unexpectedly. She was beside herself with grief. A friend suggested that she get a dog. Wiggles was a rescue, two days away from being put down. She's had her for nearly a year now and can't imagine what she would have done had they not found each other. As I watched the two of them disappear into the distance, they stopped at every child, every adult who wanted to meet her, and nearly everyone did. I thought to myself...who rescued whom?

Then, I found this on the internet...

Meet Air Force Sergeant Kyle Smith and his dog Bodza. They served four tours of duty together until 2014 when Bodza retired from the military to become Kyle's real life dog. Recently, Bodza, a German Shepherd, had been diagnosed with a degenerative disorder from which there would be no recovery. It was then that Kyle had to make the toughest decision of his life. When he had Bodza put down, he was sure to find an American flag to properly honor this noble animal. It is difficult to look at this picture without feeling the full measure of sorrow and grief, of how very difficult it must have been to say goodbye to such a friend, loyal and true.

The next time Lucy wakes us up in the middle of the night shaking on the bed because, I don't know, because a leaf fell from a tree too loudly, I'll remember Wiggles and Bodza...and squeeze her back extra tight.

A Day Off

By some touch of cosmic grace, I have two clients who live within 10 minutes of each other in Pawley's Island, South Carolina. Because of this happy fact, I get to schedule their annual reviews on the same day in March every year. This allows me the chance to spend a day or so down here afterwards at my partner's condo in Cherry Grove.

This is my view this morning. Lovely.

In past years, I have brought Pam with me. This year that didn't work out, so it's just me here today. Yesterday was a very long and stress-filled one. My first appointment was in my office in Richmond at 8:00am. I left the office at 9:10 and drove the five hours to the condo, ate some lunch, then got back in the car for the 45 minute drive to Pawleys. By the time the third appointment of the day was complete, it was 7:00pm, and I had another 45 minute drive back to the condo. I stopped at a grocery store, bought a frozen pizza and heated it up for dinner. It's been a while since I conducted three annual reviews and drove 410 miles in the same day.

So, today is a recovery day. There is nothing on the schedule except an hour of paperwork which I completed before breakfast. I plan on playing a round of golf, then taking an afternoon nap on the beach. Honestly, I can't imagine a better day.

Tomorrow morning, I'll head back home for my side hustle as a chauffeur. My wife bought her two sisters, her Mom, her daughter and her niece tickets to the Cinderella play for Christmas. It's a remake of the great Rodgers and Hammerstein version that ran on television way back in the day. Pam was smitten by this production as a girl and when she discovered that it was coming to town, she opened up her checkbook and began counting the days!! Well, since it will be six of them going, I had the bright idea that I would hire a limo to pick them all up and drive them up to the theatre in style. But when they gave me a quote of $475, I let go with a highly charged sarcasm-drenched rejoinder which I would prefer not repeating here. Plan B will involve yours truly getting dressed up and driving them to the show and picking them up afterwards. Not exactly a pumpkin carriage, but hopefully it will do.

Imagine a Day Without Women?

Being a leftist is hard work. It is nearly impossible to keep up with the list of causes that are constantly throwing them en masse into the streets. To the Progressive, America must seem like a gigantic Petri dish crawling with malignancies, all of which need to be exercised from the body politic...right now! From Black Lives Matter to white privilege, from ageism to homophobia, clear through to transphobia, from the rape culture, to saving the planet from global warming, to the evils of the patriarchy, it is the job of the modern leftist to raise our awareness or die trying. God bless their passion and relentless energy.

I try to imagine what would ever inspire an old Libertarian like me to take to the streets, and come up empty. When your number one political objective is being left the hell alone, the last thing you want to do is bring unwanted attention to yourself. But, this is America, which means everyone is free to get out there and demonstrate.

Yesterday was the International Day of the Woman, whereby the rest of us were asked to try and imagine a day without women. The purpose of the day, as best I can determine was to bring awareness to gender inequality in the workplace and elsewhere. Women were encouraged to stay home from work. Those who work at home were encouraged to refrain from doing the thousand things they normally do on a daily basis to keep households running smoothly. The rest of us, (men), were supposed to learn some deep, profound lesson from all of this. Facebook was filled with empowering encouragement. The media was saturated with stories of the day's events both here and throughout the world. Unfortunately, the nations most in need of some feminist education...Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan, et al, didn't participate in the day's activities, but...there's always next year.

Here's the thing. I can't even begin to imagine a world without women because such a place couldn't possibly exist. Well, maybe for about seventy years or so until all of the remaining men died off. What am I saying?? Without women, men would kill each other within five years, ten tops! But neither can I imagine a world without men. Such a concept is beyond my abilities. A world without both men and women is no world at all. Despite the 119 different genders that the sexual identity crowd have conjured up in their imaginations, everybody knows that there are only two with existential weight. Without any one of them, we are history. A world without women is a place that couldn't possibly exist and if it did, I would want no part of it.

I read somewhere that one of the issues behind the day was equal pay for equal work. In this, I am in complete accord with the organizers. How anyone could be against such a straight forward concept is beyond me. If my daughter, or my wife...or your daughter or wife applied for a job for which she was equally qualified, in a field in which she had equal experience, and proficiency, then she better damn sure be getting equally compensated with her male counterpart. Full stop. No excuses. Yet, time and time again we hear of organizations great and small which routinely pay women less than men....organizations like the Hillary Clinton campaign. It's complicated, I'm sure.

I was raised by a giant of a women, possessed of a brilliant mind, strong will and a highly refined sense of right and wrong, good and evil. I grew up with two older sisters who disabused me of any thoughts I might have nurtured about male superiority. My wife is my superior in almost every measurable human quality, equality being something to which I can only aspire. My daughter stands as a constant reminder to me of what the term professional excellence actually means. I have a family full of sharp, accomplished nieces who could mop the floor with most men I know. If it's true that equality starts at home, then I'm at least halfway there. But, I suppose it's the other half of me that insures the continued existence of things like...the International Day of the Woman

Ain't Nobody Repealing Nuthin'

There are probably an awful lot of Trump supporters out there who feel betrayed right about now. I'm talking about the ones who voted for him because he promised that he was going to repeal and replace Obamacare. With the unveiling of the Republican plan this morning, that fantasy has been put to rest. Ain't nobody repealing nuthin.To explain what happened, here's a quick tutorial:

1. The first law of thermodynamics states that energy can be transformed from one form to another, but cannot be created or destroyed.

2. The second law of thermodynamics states that there is a natural tendency of any isolated system to degenerate into a more disordered state.

Hardly anyone knows the 16th law of thermodynamics, but it is crucial to understanding what is happening or not happening to Obamacare. It states that...Whenever an entitlement program is enacted into law whereby a benefit is provided to X by confiscating money from Y, said entitlement program never dies. In other words...ain't nobody repealing nuthin.

People, it turns out, really like free stuff. People are fond of subsidies, even more so when someone proposes taking them away. Just listen to the caterwauling from people making a half million dollars a year whenever someone suggests doing away with the mortgage interest deduction. Do these people really need their fellow taxpayers to help them finance their McMansions? Once an entitlement, always an entitlement. You want to commit political suicide? Propose a serious social security reform that might actually save that actuarially doomed program, by suggesting that perhaps the payroll tax needs to be increased and maybe the benefits at some point might need to be means tested...then look for your obituary in the Washington Post. Ain't nobody repealing nuthin.

The very idea that Obamacare, once innacted could ever be taken away betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of both politics and human nature. Sure, it might get tinkered with around the edges, but once the concept of government subsidized anything takes root, good luck getting that genie back in the bottle.

Progress, and Beauty

Progress is great. It is the essence of what life is about. Improving. Getting better. I type this out on a thin, light weight miracle device unimaginable a generation ago. Soon, My wife will drive to work in an automobile with more computer power than the one that powered the first moon landing. Of course, not everything that marches under the banner of progress is, necessarily. But, for the most part, given a choice between a world of innovation and a world without it, I'm good with progress.

What got me to thinking about this was the oddest thing. A couple of days ago, I developed what has turned out to be a gigantic zit...on my middle finger, of all places. Stay with me now. Don't worry, there will be no pictures. This thing is huge and menacing, with the power to escalate the act of flipping someone the bird to the level of assault with a deadly weapon. I don't know what leprosy looks like, but it can't be any uglier than this baby. All of this has brought back memories of my acne-scarred youth...which got me to thinking about progress.

When I was growing up in the 60's, my parents didn't have much money. But we were no different than most of my friends. They didn't seem to have a lot either. As a result, there wasn't much money lying around for spending on stuff like orthodontia or dermatology. If you were born with crooked teeth or acne, well, that was just your lot in life. The recommended remedies were, "wash your face more", and "floss harder!"  The entire time I was growing up, I don't remember a single friend of mine getting braces. I had world class acne back in the day. It was brutal and left me with a pock marked face which my wife insists rendered me ruggedly handsome. But to those not blinded by love, a few have actually asked me why I don't have the scars worked on. Same goes with crooked teeth. "You know, they make these clear braces now...for adults!"

When my kids came along, at the first sign of acne or crooked teeth, an appointment was made with a wildly overpriced dermatologist, a session was scheduled with the orthodontist with the colorful mural in the gigantic waiting room. A second thought was not even entertained about the cost. Don't get me wrong, I don't regret doing this, and I'm sure my kids are grateful. But it leaves me with a few nagging questions.

Yesterday at church the pastor made a statement about how over the last fifty years or so people have become much less concerned about their souls than their bodies. It's hard to deny. Just look at the amount of money we spend on doing away with even the smallest flaw in our appearance. We spend billions annually on tummy tucks, face lifts, butt lifts, breast implants, hair implants, braces, eye jobs, nose jobs, gym memberships, steroid regimens, diets, makeovers of every description. We all are chasing that perfect look...for a body that is in the process of dying and ultimately will return to the dust. Is this progress? Does becoming prettier make us better? Well, if statistics are to be believed, it may make us more hireable, and more likely to advance at work, such is the shallowness to which we have descended. But, does it make us better people?

I don't begrudge anyone trying to be their best. But, I would rather live in a world with compassionate, generous, and big-hearted people who might be a bit overweight, acne-scarred, with a few extra lines on their faces, than a world with perfectly sculpted Barbee and Ken dolls constantly checking themselves out in the mirror.

The old saying goes...beauty is only skin deep. Discarding that truth isn't progress. 

Hacksaw Ridge and Fences...a two movie weekend

I generally try to watch the Oscar nominated movies every year. Not all of them, but most. Don't intend to see La La Land, for example and think I'll pass on Moonlight. But the past couple of nights I've seen Hacksaw Ridge and Fences.

Pam sat on the sofa next to me, prepared to read an e-book while Hacksaw Ridge played. She cannot abide blood and gore, especially the brutal variety that comes with war movies. Since Mel Gibson was directing, she was probably expecting a cross between Braveheart and Saving Private Ryan. But, to her great surprise, she found herself caught up in the story of Desmond Doss, the first conscientious objector to be awarded the Medal of Honor. Sure, she covered her eyes during the battle scenes with her blanket, but she was blown away by the other-worldly heroism, the transformative power of conviction and its ability to enfuse a man with supernatural endurance and bravery. What Desmond Doss accomplished at Okinawa, surviving the hellish landscape of total war savagery, without a weapon, while rescuing 75 men to safety is the sort of thing one still can't quite believe, even after watching him do it. While Gipson's obsession with exploding body parts and blood-squirting arteries was a little over the top, this film wasn't about patriotism, or the glory of war, or any of that. This story was about a conviction and courage that survived the worst that mankind is capable of.

I love Denzel Washington. Always have. I think he's probably the best American actor around today. I'm often disappointed in his choices, however. He's capable of so much more than Flight, The Equalizer, and the laughable Equalizer II. So when I heard all the buzz about Fences, I couldn't resist. Unfortunately, this was one of those pictures that had no business being a movie in the first place. It was written for the stage, and didn't transfer well. If you like nearly two and half hours of boisterous, shouted dialogue and lengthy speechifying, 80% of which takes place in the dump of a back yard of a row house in Pittsburg...then you're gonna LOVE this movie. Although Denzel and Viola Davis were fine in the lead roles, their performances seemed overwrought, overacted, over the top. Does everything have to be shouted? Do stories about the African-American experience contain no subtlety? Does every raw emotion have to be vomited up before us? Can nothing be suggested? As I watched this movie, I kept feeling like the playwrite was channeling Shakespeare, what with Troy's incessant conversations with death, and his King Lear-like estrangement from his children. But, in the end, I just couldn't conjure up any sympathy for Troy. He seemed nothing more than a bitter old tyrant. Maybe if I were African-American myself, it would have resonated more. Or maybe, Fences should have stayed a play...

Trump's State of the Union Speech

Although I mentioned the President's State of the Union speech in passing the other day when I broke my political silence, I didn't give an opinion on it. So, since it's the weekend and I am recovering from a persistent headache, I find myself in the perfect mood to do so.

Most people gave the President good marks for his speech. I was braced for boorish buffoonery, tortured logic and syntax, with a dash of demogoguery. So, when he actually gave a reasonably decent speech, I was relieved. The only line I can remember was the best line of the speech: "My job is not to represent the world, my job is to represent the United States of America." Its about dang time an American President had the stones to say this. Take your Globalist one-world government and stick it...in a safe place.

But, just because he gave a perfectly presidential speech doesn't mean I liked it on the substance. The primary takeaway for me was this simple truth...the Era of Limited Government (which hasn't actually been a thing in nearly a hundred years) is clearly over, and now with Trump, even lip service to it is over. This speech could have been given by any big-spending Democrat in America over the past fifty years. You want an infrastructure spending program? Check. You want your brand new entitlement program of child care? Check. You want a protectionist trade policy? Check.

Somebody once described the American Man as the European Man left alone. No longer true. We are now as completely ruled and regulated as any man from Finland to France. And it will only get worse. Especially now that the party of small government has been taken over by a world class Statist like Donald Trump. Yes, I'm aware of his promises to reduce the regulatory burdens in America, and I am aware that he promises a wave of tax cuts. But, it's very hard for me to believe that he can or even wants to deliver on either of these promises. My gut instinct is that for every regulation he dismantles, a new one will appear. I also fail to see how you can cut taxes while at the same time creating new entitlements and presiding over a trillion dollars of infrastructure spending. And yes, he did mention his desire to actually cut some government budgets, real cuts, not some voodoo baseline budgeting gimmickry sleight of hand. But, then he admits that the goal of these cuts is to free up 54 trillion for increased military spending. That's where he lost me...sigh....

I realize that I am a weirdo on this subject, and my views on government and it's proper function died out over a hundred years ago, but, if you're serious about debt and the financial health of this nation, everything needs to be cut, including the military. If you're the type of person who believes that spending  nearly $600 billion on the military in 2015 was woefully inadequate...then, there's nothing I can say to help you.

So, I watched the speech for a while at least. After thirty minutes it became boiler plate and I tuned out with a heavy sigh. Activist, intrusive, ever-expanding, liberty-encroaching, centralized planning, power-grabbing government is here to stay and more robust than ever. We all better get used to it.

The Sultan of Suck

The Dunnevant family in Short Pump has done its part to boost the economy, what with our recent  automobile purchase. Well, now we have added another big ticket item, and this one was for me!

Yes, sports fans, you are looking live at the brand new Dyson Ball Animal. This baby is the Lamborghini of vacuum cleaners, the cutting edge of floor cleaning technology, the Sultan of Suck. Our old Dyson finally bit the dust, so naturally, I had to have the best. This new model is over the top, billing itself as the "most powerful" sucking machine since the 1962 Mets. I've only used it in one room so far, just a quick test drive around the den. Good Lord Almighty!! What a machine!

Ok, I'm the official vacuumer around here, and truth be told...I've always kind of enjoyed it. It's hard to explain really. I just like the feel of it, the clean lines it makes on the carpet, the sound of the thing. When you've owned a Golden Retriever for nearly thirty years it's a big deal, vacuuming. It has to be done all the time. And, it turns out, I'm pretty good at it. In a house our size it's also a workout.

So today, after work I'm going to put this thing through it's paces, a whole house tour. Lucy has taken an intense dislike to The Animal, sensing menace. In fairness, she never was a big fan of our old Dyson, always retreating into another room whenever it was deployed. But, when I took this thing out of the box, she actually let out a small growl from her perch on the sofa in the next room. "What new , fresh terror is this monstrosity my human has brought into my home??" I could feel the animosity from thirty feet away. I reassured her..."Don't worry Lucy, it's just a vacuum cleaner. If you didn't shead so much we wouldn't need this beast!" Once again she sniffed the air and let out an aggrieved sigh..."Sure, blame the dog. Perfect!"

Winning the Lottery

Yesterday, a client of mine came to my office to review her accounts. In her hands, I noticed, she carried a very dog-eared copy of the book I wrote about my parents a few years back, Finishing Well.  She made no statement about it initially. We just went about the business of the day. But then, towards the end of the visit she placed the book on my desk in front of me and began talking.

"Do you remember two years ago when you gave me this book? When I was in your office, you had just gotten your first shipment of them and there were a bunch of them in a box. You gave me this one. Well, I need to tell you that not only have I read it, but I've given it to all the other women in my study group at church and they've all read it too! That's why it's so beat up. I just wanted to let you know that this book has been such an incouragement to me and all of us that there still are families out there who love each other and come together to take care of their parents when they get old and sick without it making all of them fight with each other."

Honestly, and this is a bit embarrassing, the very first thought that went through my head was, "See, this is why you can't make any money as a writer...you give away your product!"

But, thankfully, that inappropriate thought soon was replaced with a far nobler one...How cool is it that my parents are still being a blessing to strangers years after their deaths!

After she left, I picked up the book and flipped through it for a couple of minutes, the memories that inspired it still fresh and powerful in my mind. It's easily the best thing that has ever happened to me, having the family I have. I didn't choose them, I didn't get to pick my parents, nobody does. I didn't get to pick my brother and sisters. I simply won the lottery.

                                                                               

A TRUMP Post!!!

I made it. I managed to go the last 35 days without writing about politics and especially...Trump. It wasn't always easy, but a deal is a deal. Now that the self-imposed ban is over, I honestly don't have a lot to say. I mean, there was a speech last night and all, but I can't think of anything necessarily smart or even snarky to say about anything political. Maybe it's because, Donald Trump remains exactly who I thought he was, and so do his enemies.

In the first five or six weeks of his Presidency, he has done literally nothing that has changed my mind about him. He has been no worse and no better than I expected him to be. So far, everything he has done or attempted to do has been straight out of his campaign stump speeches. People who are acting all shocked by any of this were obviously not paying attention during the campaign. Sure, many of his cabinet choices were heavy on generals and billionaires, but what did you expect, professors from Yale and Harvard?  And yes, his first several weeks have been full of ill-conceived initiatives from which he has had to back track. Sort of what one would expect from someone who constantly reminded voters that he was "not a politician." Well, it turns out that if you're not a professional politician in DC, it shows.

Funny story. On the day of the Inauguration, I had a busy schedule at work. After two morning appointments I stopped by the house to have some soup for lunch. As I warmed the soup up on the stove I asked our new digital assistant, Alexa, to play WRVA. The very first words I heard were Trump saying, "So help me God." I had forgotten about the speech! So, I listened. By the time I finished my soup, it was over, a sixteen minute Inaugural speech with no poetry. But, around half way through, I ran into the library and found a piece of paper and wrote down four numbers...the Dow Jones Industrial average, last year's GDP growth rate, the inflation rate, and the unemployment rate. Then I dated it and stuffed it back into the top drawer of my desk.

Bill Clinton famously ran a campaign with the unofficial theme of "It's the economy, stupid." He was right and he won. While much of it was not his fault, the fact is that Barack Obama was the first president to serve eight years who never once presided over a nation with a GDP growth of at least 3%. As superficial and simplistic as this might sound, unfortunately, I believe it to be true...if his Orangeness can get this economy back to the 4-5% growth rates that we had become accustomed to for most of our history, he will be reelected in a real landslide as opposed to the one living rent free in Trump's brain. However, if he doesn't, the American people will soon tire of him and will drop him like a bad habit in 2020. One advantage(or disadvantage, depending on your politics) of such a short, direct, non-poetic inauguration speech is the fact that it will be easy to judge how well,(or poorly), he has done come 2020. When you don't cloud your objectives with soaring, flowered rhetoric, it's easy to find the promises. When 2020 rolls round, if we're still slumbering around with a growth rate of 1.9%  Trump will be history. If he succeeds, all the Hollywood preening, all the street demonstrations in the world won't be able to prevent his reelection.

But, honestly, hasn't it been an exhausting five weeks? It's the little things, really. When I saw the picture of Kelly Anne Conway sitting crosslegged on a sofa in the Oval Office, her heels digging in to the fabric, I thought, what fresh hell is this??  I wanted to slap her. I always hated seeing pictures of Obama with his feet all over the furniture like he was kicked back watching Caddy Shack or something, but this Conway dame takes the cake. There will be four years of this sort of thing. Four years of Trump's temperamental Tweets.

I'm getting tired just thinking about it.

Finally Got The Car

Finally pulled the trigger. By the time we got out of the dealership it was dark and we were hungry so we drove over to Q barbecue for dinner. This is the only picture I've got. I'm sure Pam will have more today. It's a 2017 Hyundai Sante Fe Sport demonstrator with 2100 miles on it along with that sweet depreciation discount. It's got every bell and whistle and her coveted third row seat. Met a really good guy along the way...Scott, our sales guy who went above and beyond for us.

And that's about all I want to say about this ever again.

La La Land....indeed.

I cannot tell you when last I had a more difficult weekend. Sure, spending the better part of two days car shopping was the obvious culprit, but coming in a close second was a weirdly amorphous cold/flu which kept changing symptoms almost as often as my wife changed her car preferences. This is a woeful combination...car shopping and the flu. Almost as bad as buttermilk and ginger ale.

I'm anxiously awaiting my wife's decision, so I can go about the grubby business of actually buying the thing. Watching her agonize over this has been painful. She is so careful, so exhaustively comprehensive in her approach to decision making that she gives the phrase, "on the other hand" almost nuclear power. When I think about what must be going on in that head of hers, I imagine some guy spinning plates, while riding a unicycle on a high wire strung over a pit filled with rattle snakes. I've devoted less thought to my core spiritual convictions than she has to the purchase of this car.

Then, the Oscars happened. Did I watch any of it? Of course not. What, are you nuts? I was sick enough without exposing myself to four hours of celebrity self-love. But, the reviews have been hard to miss this morning. Sure, sure everyone competed with each other to see who could best demonstrate their virtue, by bravely trashing the one who shall not be named on this blog (until March first), but at the end, at the pinnacle moment, with all eyes focused on those two fossils from my youth, Faye Dunnaway and Warren Beatty, the best picture award was awarded to LaLa Land...only it was actually supposed to go to Moonlight. Now, if that's not the perfect illustration of latent, institutional racism, I don't know what is!! Even when Hollywood finally gives a best picture award to an African-American film, they can't even bring themselves to avoid throwing shade in the process!! Shameful!! Somewhere, in his heart of hearts, Steve Harvey is highfive-ing himself.

Is this it for the awards shows for a while? It seems like this time of year there's one after another. People's Choice, Golden Globes, Oscars, Emmy's Tony's, Grammy's. Our celebrity class never tires of celebrating themselves, and lecturing the rest of us about all of our moral and political failings. It must be quite the intoxicating drug, this adulation.

Just before Pam headed off to work a minute ago, I asked her if she had made her decision. She answered in several disjointed, run-on sentences, by saying....actually, I'm not quite sure what she said. But I think she's still undecided.

Bless her heart.

Day Two of Car Buying Experience

Long day of car shopping.

All cars starting to look same...

Some too small...

Some too big...

None just right.

Feel like Goldilocks, only with temperament of hungry, pissed off bear...

Three test drives...

One annoying sales associate, one nice old guy...

Annoying one actually trotted out accursed line, but I cut him off mid-sentence with...NOTHING. Bright spot of day...

Third row seat option nixed...

But, then wife has bad dream about having only two seats in car with dozens trying to get in car...

Thought had narrowed down options to Cadillac or Enclave, but now Sante Fe back in picture...

Rumors flying of possible eleventh hour Mazda entry into sweepstakes...

Going to 9:30 service at church this morning to give us more shopping time for afternoon...

So excited....

Need to pick up new bottle of Tums...

Starting to see Joe Isuzu whenever eyes close...

Pam has fitful night, little sleep, looks overwhelmed...

So wish she drank....

All local car dealers on to us. Inbox overrun with hot deals on hot rides emails...

Will try to concentrate on sermon this morning, but most likely will spend sermon time imagining Pacifica blowing up when dealer take for test drive...

So exciting...

Car buying experience thing of beauty...

Buying a Car in America

I should admit up front that I do not like the car buying experience. I don't even like the expression "car buying experience" since it sounds like so much touchy-feely claptrap. Purchasing a car is not an "experience" anymore than cleaning out the gutters is an "experience" Its just something that has to be done once every ten years or so, that's all. Surviving Auschwitz would be an experience, climbing Everest, an experience. Buying an automobile is a chore. A confusing, disorienting chore.

Consequently, I don't do it very often. I normally drive cars until they no longer are able to cooperate. Sometimes they begin emitting grayish, blueish clouds in their wake, other times they start leaving oily pools of industrial discharge on the garage floor every night. Other times, they like, literally blow up,(my poor, dearly missed Sebring convertible...God rest her soul). This time, it's Pam's valiant Chrysler Pacifica which is moaning out dire warnings of its impending doom. She has been a wonderful car, but is not long for this world. So, for about a month now, we have been laying the groundwork for purchasing a replacement vehicle. In this we have been greatly aided and baffled by the internet. Since last we bought a car, my Cadillac CTS seven years ago, the buzzword in the car game has become...no hassle pricing, a concept which exchanges the hassle over haggling back and forth with somebody's manager about the price with the far greater hassle of literally everything else!

To start with, what in the name of Henry Ford has happened to car names?? My first four cars had the following names:  Beetle, Beetle, Scirocco, Cherokee. Now, everywhere you look it's initials and numbers. You want a Cadillac you say? Which one? There's the CTS, DTS, XLR, STS, SRX, ESV and how could anyone forget the classic EXT? Interested in a Lexus, you say? Well, I can certainly understand why with such a variety of models and styles to choose from...the LS, GS, ES, IS, SC, LX, GX, and RX. Even when you find a car which has an actual name like the Sante Fe, or the Enclave, there's the dizzying array of modifiers that go with the name...touring, sport, premier, limited. What ever happened to naming cars after animals or indeginous peoples? I can remember when the most popular cars were named...Mustang, Maverick, Charger, Cherokee. But, I digress.

In our case, this is Pam's car we're talking about so this will be her decision. Anyone who knows my wife knows that making decisions isn't her greatest talent. In fact, except for the notable exception of deciding to marry me, she's horrible at it. She has never made a snap decision in her life. There is no such thing as an impulse purchase in Pam's world. She's a spreadsheet sort of gal. I avoid even writing the word "spreadsheet." After a month or so of extensive, exhaustive Internet study, she has narrowed it down to vehicles that use regular gasoline. (Just kidding!!) Actually, she has it narrowed down to the Chrysler SRX, the Buick Enclave, the Sante Fe Sport, and something made by Mazda. The sticking point has been the third row seat question. Her present car has one and it comes in quite handy on the half a dozen times each year when we use it. Also, having a larger interior helps whenever we travel to Maine with Lucy for a month.

So, this morning comes phase two of the process. Yes, we will venture out into the bizarro car dealership world to test drive some candidates.

If anybody says to me, "What have I got to do to get you into this car today?" I will battle mightily the urge to punch him/her in the mouth. Maybe I will counter with, "Well, for starters you can promise me to never, ever say that to me again, Sparky" My combative, no nonsense car buying style causes Pam no end of angst. She is so sweet and kind and in her heart of heart...desires to be nice to everyone, while I, uh, strive to, er, uh...ok, I can be a bit rude when dealing with car salesmen. I open my mouth and some borderline hostile sentence comes out, and she dies a little bit inside. I know this, but am basically powerless to stop it. I view the salesman in front of me as a hostile power intent on swindling me. I realize that this is entirely unfair and unreasonable. We all gotta make a living and all...

So, I will do my best to be as nice as humanly possible this morning. I will be patient, even kind. I will endeavor to make the car buying experience as comfortable as possible for my wife.

Wait a minute...Endeavor...now that's a car name if ever I've heard one!

Having a cold with Lucy

So, I have a cold. Not the flu. Not some sort of bronchial disturbance. Not a sinus infection. A cold, that garden variety plague that has vexed mankind since the dawn of time and against which modern science and medicine have been powerless. As I write these words, I have industrial strength men's all cotton handkerchiefs at the ready, since the laughably inept tissues produced by Kleenex have proven completely worthless. Already, only one paragraph in, and I have availed myself of this handkerchief four times. It's been that sort of afternoon.

This day began with such promise. I actually slept reasonably well, and sneezed only once from 6 am until 8. I was breathing rather well, and all indications seemed to point to a productive day. All came a cropper around noon when my nasal passages became overrun by a host of microscopic organisms of unknown specie who gleefully began lashing the ends of my nose hairs with the tail feathers of the world's smallest bird. At each such lashing, which I felt from my cowlick all the way down to my in grown toenail, my body began its coiled response to the invader. I could feel the birth of each sneeze somewhere around my hip area, then the three or four seconds it took for it to climb up into my generously sized nose. The resultant recoil and noise from each sneeze was enough to awaken Lucy, who would lift her head with her ears pinned back in terror, until she realized it was just Dad sneezing for the 50th time since he got home.

Speaking of Lucy, our girl isn't what you would call a snuggler. Sure, she sleeps on the bed with us, and rests on the sofa with Pam, but usually at the opposite end. But, today when I got home for lunch, she took one look at me and knew that something was amiss. It may have been my red and irritated nose, or perhaps the fact that my voice had dropped three octaves, from Justin Beiber to James Earl Jones. Whatever, she knew that something was up and immediately began shadowing my every move. While I ate some warmed up lasagna, she laid on the floor at my side. When I then collapsed on the bed with my head tilted upward to stop the torrent of cascading post nasal drip...she jumped up on the bed and wedged herself as close to me as she possibly could, using my body as her pillow. This despite what became a deluge of sneezes, each more intense and violent than the next. She didn't budge until I finally, mercifully, dozed off to sleep. When I awoke, she was on the floor directly under my side of the bed, looking up at me as though she thought I was going to die.

For all of you who don't quite understand why some of us own dogs (and a few select cats), this is why. For all of their slobbering, butt-sniffing, idiosyncrasies they are so intuned to us. They notice when we are sick or sad. They know. Then they set about to do something to lift our spirits. They always succeed.

Nothing Else is Maine

Lucy wants to be here...

I want to be here...

Lucy is dreaming of this...

I am dreaming of this...

But, this is February and Maine is a full 28 weeks away, or 114 weeks in dog years. And I have come down with a cold. But February is a good time to pull out your Maine pictures and look at them while blowing your nose and coughing up yellowish mucus. There will be lots of fun stuff between now and  Maine. But, nothing else is Maine. 

This Is Us...a review

Pam and I really like This is Us, a new show on NBC. It is an extremely well written, well acted and well produced drama full of compelling characters and interesting story lines. The plot centers around three siblings, Kate, Kevin and Randall...Kate and Kevin part of a triplet pregnancy where the third child was still born. Fate then enters the picture as a third baby, Randall was delivered to the hospital after being left on the steps of a nearby firehouse. Parents Jack and Rebecca decide to adopt the newborn to complete the natural triplets they had been expecting. The entire show is done in flashback mode as each character lives in real time while struggling with the memories of their past. It is a fascinating plot device that works well where it could very easily become annoying. Like every fully realized human being, each of these characters bring a lot to like and even admire to the table, along with their fair share of failings. At the bottom of it all lies a family that truly loves each other.

This brings us to this past week's episode which I have noticed has produced a torrent of praise from many of my Christian friends on Facebook for its alleged poignant life lesson. To which I say, "What...are you people on drugs???"

Here's what happened. Randall is going though a sort of mental breakdown over the fact that his long lost birth father is dying. Kevin, on the other hand, is preparing for the opening night of a play in which he is starring and producing in which he seems convinced that he is going to fail miserably. Along the way of this ill fated production, he has managed to sleep with the original lead actress as well as the playwrite herself. Literally minutes before the curtain rises on opening night, he gets a disturbing phone call from Randall, who is clearly distraught to the point of tears. As the curtain rises and the lights go up, the lead actress walks out on stage and turns to deliver the opening line to Kevin, only Kevin isn't there. He is seen running through the streets of New York to his brother's office where he finds him crying on the floor. In an admittedly heart warming scene, Kevin comes along side Randall on the floor and holds him while he cries. For this, Kevin has become a hero...for reasons that escape me.

Let's get this straight, a narcissistic Lothario walks out on his coworkers, abandoning them in the literal hour of their greatest need, and is celebrated for it? But Doug, but Doug, don't you see? He had had that talk with his step dad earlier and had been told to do what his Dad would have done! He was just following the example of family first devotion personified be his deceased and noble father, Jack!

Uh...no.

I'm pretty sure that Jack wouldn't have walked out on his commitment to his employer with no explanation, leaving them to deal with a public relations disaster, and the ridicule of all of their time and efforts. I'm thinking that perhaps Jack maybe would have called Randall's wife, sister, or mother to notify them of his distress and promise to go to him the minute the show was over.

I'm thinking that Kevin was terrified of failure, horrified at the prospect of bombing in his first live theatre performance and the withering reviews he would surely get from the New York Times reviewer in the audience. When presented with his crying brother he jumped at the chance to escape his pending failure. When it came down to fleeing or fighting, Kevin bolted, leaving the rest of the cast and crew to deal with being abandoned.

Don't get me wrong, Kevin is a quite charming figure on this show. He possesses a fine sense of humor and an ability at self-depreciation that the rest of his family could surely use. But, calm down people. If Kevin's actions described above are to be interpreted as some sort of Christian virtue, then the bar has been lowered to deathcom 5.

Greatest. Scientific. Study. Ever.

I have it on very good authority that the scientists at the University of Edinburgh are really smart. Seriously. But sometimes smart isn't the same thing as wise. Apparently, 63 years ago, the thought entered somebody's head at this fine school to do a multi-decade research project on the effects that aging might have on human personality. To the surprise of absolutely no one alive or dead, then or now, the scientists discovered that personality at age 77 is quite different than it is at age 14. Speaking as someone who used to be 14, I could have saved them a lot of time and trouble, by answering the question this way..."duh!!"

1. When I was 14, I thought that the finest movie ever made was Billy Jack.
2. When I was 14, I thought that a realistic career goal was to become a shortstop in the big leagues.
3. When I was 14, my number one obsession in life was the tantalizing prospect of getting laid.
4. When I was 14, I practiced the guitar until my fingers bled, not for the love of music, but because I thought it might help me accomplish number 3.

So, yeah. . .life at age 58 bares little resemblance to life at 14. But, it's nice to know that a group of scientists have wasted the past 60 years proving what any sentient human being could have told them if they had merely asked. The experiences of one's life do, in fact, change a person. In a perfect world, these changes improve us, burning away the haughty arrogance and pride of youth with the wisdom that comes with humility. But, sometimes the opposite occurs, where the innocence of youth gets exchanged for the cold-hearted cynicism of bitterness. For example...

1. When I was 14, I laughed a lot more than I do now.
2. When I was 14, I didn't categorize my fellow man into political factions.
3. When I was 14, I played the guitar a lot more.
4. When I was 14, I didn't even know what bitterness was.

So, it's a mixed bag. With age has come some good things, and some bad. In many ways I am better at 58, but in some ways not so much.

Hardest. Job. Ever.

Yesterday, for the fourth time in my life, I toured Monticello. Each time I learn something new, each time I come away astonished by such a life. Although he can be included on a very short list of indispensable men to the establishment and success of this country, and his contributions can never be undervalued, at his grave site, the obelisk that marks his final resting place includes only three of those contributions:

Author of the Declaration of Independence
Author of Statute of Virginia for Religious Freedom
Father of the University of Virginia

Seeing it has gotten me thinking about what I would want as my epithet. What thing have I done or accomplished that I would want to be remembered for? It is a singularly clarifying exercise to think of such things. Unlike Mr. Jefferson, I don't have a ten volume book full of things to pick from. Still, it's hard to narrow it down to the most essential.

I would want to be remembered as a good son, a good friend, a good brother, uncle, and cousin because these things would suggest that I loved and cherished family. I would want to be remembered as a good husband because that would suggest that I was faithful to the most important commitment I ever made.

I suppose I would want some mention to be made of my thirty plus years of a moderately successful business career. But having just written that sentence and reading back over it, it sounds so out of place, so inconsequential. Sure, it provided the financial means to do many of the other things, but in and of itself doesn't rise to the level of "good son."

But, after much reflection, I've come to the conclusion that I would want to be remembered the most for being a good...father. The reason is simple; It is the single most difficult thing I've ever done and carries with it the greatest potential for a lasting legacy. If I raise and unleash horrible people into the world, they will continue to pollute it long after I'm gone. But, if I can gift a couple of caring, loving, compassionate and gifted people into the world, my efforts will help make the world better for the rest of eternity. Right?

But, it's so hard. You want to teach them to care about other people, but you don't want them to be taken advantage of too easily. You warn them about the dangers of loving money, but you also want them to be good stewards and know their way around a bank statement. You teach them about God, but you don't want them to wind up so heavenly minded that they're no earthly good. You want them to love and adhere to truth but also live a life full of grace towards those who disagree. You teach them to be compassionate, but not a sucker. You teach them that there is no replacement for hard work, but also compel them to stop and smell the roses. You try to teach them how to think instead of what to think, then spend the rest of your life hoping they don't start thinking stupid things. You want them to become self sufficient, but spoil them rotten every chance you get. You play the parental version of tug-of-war between pampering and pestering, too much of either and all might be lost. Hardest. Job. Ever.

So, here's the epithet for my tombstone:

Good Father.
Good Husband.
Passable Writer.
Baseball Fan.

Notice which one got top billing...

Me and George

When I wrote yesterday's post about the card, I left out some things for the sake of time. But today, I thought I would add them to give you a fuller picture of what it's actually like for a large group of men to shop for V Day cards. The following conversation may or may not have happened, with a young man who may or may not have been named George...

Like I said yesterday, there were maybe a dozen of us on the red/pink aisle, all slump-shouldered, slack-jawed in various stages of exasperation, when I noticed this one particular younger looking guy who seemed more befuddled than the rest of us. I moved over next to him, absentmindedly picked up a Peantuts card with Snoopy and Woodstock sitting on top of the dog house sharing a box of chocolates, and started talking...

Me: So, how long you been here?

George: Little over an hour.

Me: Just getting started, eh?

George: Why are these cards so horrible? How is a guy supposed to buy a card when this is all there is??

Me: Married?

George: Four years. You?

Me: Thirty-four years.

George: Whoa!!  You're like a Zen Master of V Day cards then. Can you give me some pointers?

Me: Sure. ( I showed him the Peanuts card I was holding ) First of all, never, ever buy a card with a cartoon character on the front. She'll think you're not "serious" about the relationship.

George: Yeah, but, some of the cartoon ones are pretty funny man.

Me: The last thing you're going for is funny, bro. V Day is deadly serious business. ( I then picked up another card ) But, on the other hand, this one here is also out of the question...
         
                      You're my last noble thought at dusk
                            My first wish at break of day...

Me: First of all, not true.  Usually the last thought in my head right before I drift off to sleep is something like, How come nobody makes bacon jerky?? Right??

George: No kidding! Ha! And the first thing I think when I wake up is like, Man, I've got to pee like a Russian race horse!

Me: So, poetry cards send out the wrong message too. It's like, you're trying too hard. She knows you too well, dude. She knows that your favorite work of art is that awesome Dogs Playing Poker painting that's hanging in the garage. She's not gonna buy a poetic card from you. She'll think somebody else bought it.

George: ....how did you know about my Dogs Playing Poker painting?????

Me: Lucky guess.

George: Well, if poetry doesn't work, and I can't buy a cartoon one, how am I ever going to get out of this store?!

Me: Settle down brother. Answer this question...do you really love this woman?

George: (heavy sigh)...more than anything actually.

Me: Good. That's half the battle right there. That means that there is a card here somewhere that will speak to you. You've just got to find it.

George: Hey man, thanks! So, no cartoons, no poetry.

Me: You got it.

George: Limericks. What about limericks?

Me: ( sideways glance with upraised eyebrow )

George: No limericks. Got it!

The Card.

Pam and I will soon celebrate our 34th wedding anniversary. Including our dating years, that means that we have also celebrated 37 Valentine's Days. That's an awful lot of chocolate, flowers, and cards.

Last night was a modest affair. She had had a difficult, stressful day, so I decided that I would make dinner instead of going out somewhere and dropping a hundred bucks on some microwaved meal. There wouldn't actually be a lot of real cooking involved, just in case you've begun measuring me for a halo...steaks on the grill, fresh green beans and Bob Evans mashed potatoes. Although, my biggest coup of the night was the Duck Donuts I picked up on my way home from work! The road to my girl's heart is always paved with doughnuts.

The meal turned out perfectly. The steaks were delicious, I did an outstanding job on the fresh green beans(my first attempt), and Bob outdid himself on the potatoes. We ate this Valentines dinner while watching that romantic classic, Blue Bloods, the episode from season six where the obnoxious reporter gets thrown off the six story building and does a nosedive into the Corolla. I don't know about you, but nothing quite sets the romantic mood better than seeing a reporter get what's coming to him!

After dinner, it was time to exchange cards. I have a long a storied history with Valentine's Day cards. Basically, I despise them. If you're a man, you know the drill. You walk into a Hallmark along with a dozen or so of your brethren, head down and focused on the red and pink aisle. The display says, For the Wife. First, there are the super sappy ones that feature elaborate, three dimensional floral displays, some with glitter and soft material for touching, like the Pat the Bunny books you used to read the kids when they were toddlers. The verses in these usually contain the word soulmate. Then you get to the cartoon cards. Usually these are several pages long and feature variations on this theme...sometimes, my wife is funny, sometimes my wife is busy, each "sometimes" has its own drawing featuring the wife acting out the emotion. Sometimes my wife is happy, sometimes my wife is sad...( like she will be if you ever buy her this lame card). Then there are the pretentious ones, with some ironic black and white image on the front, and a one word verse inside...bliss, or...forever. Please.

So every year, the hunt for the perfect card gets more frustrating than the year before. I would just write my own on my business stationary, but then you run the risk of her thinking, "Oh, I get it. You either forgot to buy me a card, or you're so cheep you couldn't cough up a lousy five bucks for a real one. Of course, she would never, ever say this, but it would be inferred by body language or a well chosen, passive-aggressive phrase like, "Oh, this is different."

So, this year I went to Hallmark. I was maybe fifteen minutes in and I found a card that wasn't at all lame, at least it was the least lame one I had seen. I actually liked it. It wasn't Shakespeare, by any means, but it wasn't bad. Pam bought mine while at Kroger. She said it was actually the very first one she picked up. When we opened them, this is what we found....

Pam began to giggle. Then she couldn't stop giggling. What are the odds? How is such a thing even possible? Two different stores, probably a thousand possible cards, and we pick the exact same one.

They say that familiarity breeds contempt. That may be true with regards to politicians and your boss, but in a good marriage, it breeds something else...comfort. I know this woman, and she knows me. Although I will never fully understand her, women being exquisitely, beguilingly unknowable, I understand enough to know that she loves me, in a thousand small ways, I know.

My Adult Children

My son and his girlfriend are coming to see us this weekend. They both have Monday off, so they will make the nine hour drive from Nashville to spend just a couple of days with us...for no apparent reason. It's not a holiday. They don't need money. Neither of them are sick. They just said that they wanted to spend a weekend with us for the pure heck of it! How cool is that?

The weather appears to be cooperating, since a road trip planned for the month of February is normally fraught with peril. Three days in the 70's will do quite nicely. Sarah, being sheltered from the great refinements of the Old Dominion as a child has only made one other visit here, a whirlwind Thanksgiving trip this past November, so is thrilled to get the chance to actually spend some time doing touristy things. We plan on taking them for a tour of Monticello, then lunch at Michie Tavern. If they behave themselves, and time permitting, we may make a quick drive to Williamsburg.

Meanwhile, Kaitlin and Jon have asked us when we are planning on coming down to Columbia next. It's been a few months since our last visit. Apparently, Jackson misses Lucy.

It's a wonderful thing to have grown, adult children, but even more wonderful when they actually want to spend time with you. This is how Pam and I organize our schedule now. . .around trips to and from Nashville and Columbia, and we are happy to do it. However, would it kill either one of them to move back to Virginia? In Nashville, a decent two bedroom apartment costs upwards of $1700 a stinking month for goodness sakes! Sure they don't have a State income tax, but when you're paying that much to put a roof over your head, our taxes start sounding like a bargain. And what about Jon? You trying to tell me that there aren't an abundance of National Parks in Virginia?? Instead of toiling away in a swamp which features something called a Mosquito-meter, he could be giving guided tours in the beautiful Shanendoah, or the sacred ground at Chancellorsville. Plus, such a move would bring them closer to happy and willing dog-sitters, not to mention future baby sitters...

But, enough with the whining. I should be grateful that they are all doing so well where they are and that they still want to come home every chance they get.

Book of Mormon...a review

Last night, Pam and I attended a Broadway show written by the same crew that gives us South Park. So, when you read what follows, it is entirely fair for you to make the observation, "So, what did you expect, Rogers and Hammerstein??" 

Before launching into my review of Book of Mormon, I should say that I'm the sort of guy who gives comedians and satirists a wide berth in the pursuit of their craft. After all, I'm a huge fan of Mel Brooks, and as such am accustomed to foul language, heeping portions of crudeness, sexual innuendo and irreverent humor. And further more, as a Christian, I am used to Hollywood types vilifying my faith. So, why did I find Book of Mormon so disturbing? That's another fair question.

First of all, I should say that I did enjoy parts of the show. In places, the writing was clever and witty. The music was good and the singing was nice too. Some of the dance numbers were beautifully done. The plot centers around a couple of fresh from the missionary training center 19 year old elders who have just been given their two year mission assignment...to Uganda. Of course, they are ill-prepared for such an undertaking, since the star elder wanted Orlando instead! We are treated to a funny summary of Mormon theology, and introduced to the obligatory latent gay elder all in the first ten minutes. So far, so good. Then our heros land in their Ugandan village, and it's time for the writers to shock us with a rousing number which features the repeated phrase, "F**K you, God!!", complete with the locals giving the Almighty the finger.

Ok, I believe it safe to say that this is essentially the textbook definition of blasphemy, so as a Christian, it placed me in an uncomfortable position. All in good fun, I'm sure, but several thoughts began swimming around in my head. One of them was, ummm, why am I here? But then I scolded myself, "lighten up dude...it's Hollywood."

From there it only got worse. The sacrament of Baptism was sent up as a sex act, to very nervous laughter from the crowd. By the time the natives put on their summary of Mormon theology, complete with giant Phallic symbols and simulated sex acts, all put to a snappy tune, it had gotten sort of ridiculous.

Along the way, my Lord and Savior made a couple appearances, and although he was dressed in a super cool electric robe, whenever he opened his mouth to speak, he did so with a sissified lisp. Injury? Meet insult. I remember thinking how I will probably never live to see the day when the Prophet Muhammad gets this sort of blasphemous treatment. Hollywood types do this to Christians because they know that the most grief they will catch is a tepid review from some insignificant blogger like me, while some angered Muslims might respond with a wellplaced suicide bomb.

So, back to the excellent question of Why was I there? Well, Pam got a Groupon with a sweet discount, for one thing. Secondly, we love shows! It's Valentines Day week. We thought it would be different...fun. My son had seen it and thought  it was hilarious and well done, although he warned me that it was highly offensive in places. I saw pictures of friends on Facebook who had just seen it and had proclaimed it funny but crude etc...

Here's the thing. If I was forced to use just one word to describe this show it would be...vulgar. Since that word isn't used much anymore, let me offer the Webster definition..."making explicit and offensive references to sex or bodily functions; coarse and rude; characteristic of the masses." While I'm at it, perhaps a quick refresher on the word blasphemy is in order..."the act or offense of speaking sacrilegiously about God or sacred things; profane talk."

Christianity is a religion that doesn't require a lot from its practitioners, with all that grace and forgiveness business. But, I'm old fashioned enough to believe that there are some things I shouldn't do. I probably shouldn't be a drug dealer for example, probably shouldn't make my living running guns or selling women into the sex trade, or become a Yankees fan. And maybe, just maybe, I probably shouldn't pay money to see shows like Book of Mormon. As I sat there in my cramped seat, with six other human beings within two feet of my face, I couldn't help think about the many missionaries I know and love. I thought about the sacrifices they all made to attempt to enrich the lives of people in Africa, Asia, and South America. They didn't just go there to notch converts on their belt, but to help bring clean drinking water to communities who had none, to provide medical care to people hundreds of miles from a doctor. They worked for decades in brutal conditions without complaint because of a calling to serve the least of these. To see their life's work denigrated for cheap laughs was a bit painful. But so was the essential message of Book of Mormon which was, religion is merely a collection of metaphors that offers nothing of value to hurting people, and what's wrong with making stuff up as long as it makes people feel good about themselves?

So, my opinion of Book of Mormon is this...if you are not a person of faith, you will probably enjoy it. If you are, I'm not sure how it is possible that you could.