On Becoming Presbyterian...

Quite the eventful weekend. Spent some time with both my kids. Had a successful suit shopping experience. Became a Presbyterian.

But first...an observation. If the Babylon Bee didn’t already exist, I would have to create it. These guys have performed a crucial public service for me these past couple of years as they adroitly and hilariously rip to shreds the blatant hypocrisy and double standards of modern Christianity for me so I don’t have to...so much. Yes, I am quite often jealous of them, sometimes disturbingly so, and I am always envious of their wit, but a few second tier sins seem a small price to pay for such an uproarious good time. Consider the following headlines, a short list of my personal favorites...

Joel Osteen Googles “What is a Trinity?”

Treasure in Heaven Revealed To Be Bitcoin

Holy Spirit Empowers Man To Make It Through Christian Movie

Calvinist Dog Corrects Owner: “No One Is A Good Boy”

Nation’s Evangelicals Warn They’ll Only Give Trump 1 or 2 Hundred More Mulligans

Evil Christians Oppress Secular New Yorkers With Delicious Chicken Sandwiches 

Hershey’s Replaces “Kisses” With More Pure “Sidehugs” For Christian Market

Elevation Church Debuts Water Slide Baptismal

So, on their second anniversary as a thing..kudos!!

Yeah, so the kids made it here safe and sound for the weekend. The wedding shower was a smashing success, by all accounts, and lots of those disgusting tea party sandwiches were consumed. Everyone in attendance raved about how yummy the cucumber and dill things were, along with all the crudités and Earl Grey...when what they all secretly wanted were bacon cheese burgers and milkshakes.

But, the real victory of The Weekend was the successful purchase of the mystical perfect blue suit for Patrick and his groomsmen. Up until this point, the exact color that Patrick was looking for seemed unattainable on planet Earth. If the color was spotted somewhere, invariably the cut of the suit was all wrong...not slim enough; or if it was the right cut, the price tag was out of the question. When we walked out of Express For Men after a mere two hours in possession of four perfectly blue, sufficiently slim wedding suits, it felt like winning the lottery.

Once all the kids had left for their homes in South Carolina and Tennessee late Sunday afternoon, it was time for Pam and me to head over to Hope for their 5:00 service where we, along with twenty or so others, were presented as new members. Ironically, on the same day that our old church celebrated their 150th year of existence, we ended our combined 96 years of being...Baptists. Although our new church doesn’t make a big deal of the fact that they are, in fact, Presbyterian, the fact that they are is still...a thing, I suppose. A lot of people have asked me if I have noticed any theological differences between Baptists and Presbyterians, and I always answer vaguely. That’s because, aside from the infant baptism thing, there don’t seem to be very many differences. What is different is the points of emphasis, and the style of preaching...and the fact that this particular Presbyterian Church has a ton of money and isn’t afraid to spend it. But, nobody can accuse them of building gigantic, vain cathedrals. Their building looks like it was designed for an upscale office park for startups. It could easily house a distribution center for sustainable dog toys, or perhaps a micro brewery. But, there are differences though. I hear things from this pulpit which I would never hear from a Baptist one...I’m putting myself through Divinity school by tending bar...But, Pam and I are so very grateful to have found this amazing fellowship of believers. At this time in our lives it has been something close to a miracle. Every Sunday we wake up thinking...We get to go to church today!!...a wonderful thing.

Changing Roles

My kids come home today. Both of them. One from Nashville with his fiancée, and the other from Columbia without her husband, who has to work. They will all sleep under my roof this weekend. It is a glorious thing.

The occasion for their visit is a wedding shower, thrown by my sisters, for Sarah. On June the 30th, she will marry my son in a ceremony in Nashville. The logistics involved in this affair have caused considerable angst in my household. It’s no easy task coordinating an event from 600 miles away. If it wasn’t for the internet, it would be impossible. With the internet, it’s often a frustrating exercise. But, the future bride and groom have been diligent and persistent, and things are falling into place. Now, this weekend, something fun.

My feelings about all of this have been a mixed bag. Although I am thrilled by my son’s choice of a wife, and delighted at the prospect of gaining a daughter, there has been an odd and surprising melancholy associated with it all. It’s the sense that with this marriage, my days as a true parent are over. Sure, I know that I will always be their father, but once your kids get married, the dynamic changes and along with it, my roll in their lives. Once the vows are exchanged down in Nashville, I will feel as though Pam and I have finished something. We spent nearly 30 years obsessed with the care and feeding of these two incredible people, in the hope that they would grow into fully mature human beings, ready to make their mark on the world and hopefully, leave it better than they found it. And now, it’s done. What do we do now?

Maybe, like a great athlete, who after his playing days are over takes a job in the front office, we will now become something like...life consultants. At some point down the road we will become grand parents, a clearly defined roll, and all will be well! Or maybe I am making too big a deal about this roll-changing business. Maybe it’s all in my head. Any Dads out there reading this who have already gone through these waters, feel free to share with me your wisdom.

So, today will be a nerve wracking ordeal, like it is every time my kids are on the road. I will fret and fuss all day until they roll up in front of the house. Tomorrow, while Sarah is being celebrated by all the Dunnevant/ Schwartz women, I will be taking Patrick and two of his groomsmen shopping for suits, then to Hardywood for a pint or two, father of the groom duties that I hope not to screw up.

Let the fun begin!

RVA Makes Yet Another List

This is a fascinating bit of research put out by the Asthma and Allergy Foundation of America, whereby cities throughout America are ranked by how horrible the pollen gets in the Spring. A perfect score is 100. I am proud to report that my hometown...Richmond, Virginia is on this list, finishing a respectable 16th in this year’s ranking, with a score of 68.52. That means there are 15 other cities with worse pollen than us. Actually, there is some good news here...we don’t suck quite as bad as we did back in 2016, when we came in 14th.

The timing of this chart’s release could not have been more fortuitous, since the last couple of days has brought us the annual oak tree pollen string plague. In less than 36 hours time, a river of the stuff has fallen in my yard. Lucky for me, I have been fortifying my system with a daily dose of both Flonase and Claritin since the first day of February. This expensive cocktail has worked like a charm for the past two years, and I highly recommend it.

Getting back to this chart...upon closer inspection there are a couple of strange anomalies. Check out Wichita, Kansas. What the heck happened to Wichita? You guys dropped from number 6 in 2016 all the way to 22rd this year? That’s embarrassing underperformance right there. You guys need to tighten up or before you know what happened you’ll be off this list! And, how about Miami, Florida?? You guys were 75th a couple years ago and now suddenly you land in the top 30? Sounds like to me you guys are importing more than Cubans down there. 

I also can’t help but notice the preponderance of Southern cities on this list. Sure, there are a few from up north, but the top twenty is dominated by cities from the old Confederacy, with Tennessee alone placing four cities on the list. Perhaps, the ongoing judgement of God for slavery? On the other hand, New York has three cities on the list. Perhaps the ongoing judgement of God for rude arrogance? Who knows? But, one thing I do know...if you suffer from allergies, go West, young man, go West!

We Are All Snowflakes

One of my least favorite political traditions has always been the annual White House Correspondent’s Dinner. In the old days, it would be Bob Hope cracking wise about what a bad golfer Dwight Eisenhower was, or Buddy Hacket making fun of some cabinet secretary’s comb-over. More recently, of course, it’s become more raunchy, but so has everything else in the world. The reason I’ve never liked it is because, I’ve always felt there was something inappropriate, and mildly incestuous about the press and politicians getting all glamoured up in the same room...even for just one night. I prefer antagonism and tension between the two, permanent and unrelenting...but that’s just me. A few years back when suddenly Hollywood stars started showing up, the thing really jumped the shark. 

So, the most recent iteration of this event featured a comedian I had never heard of, and no President. The next morning everyone online was talking about her act, so I found it on YouTube. Here’s my take...

Her jokes could be categorized as follows:

Some were pretty funny.

Some were mean.

Some were profoundly unfunny.

Some were raunchy.

There was lots of talk of pu**y and orgasms, with the obligatory edgy F-bomb. Try as I might, I couldn’t imagine this type of language coming out of Bob Hope’s mouth, but I guess times change. 

What amazes me about all of this is the reaction of Trump supporters. They were shocked and infuriated by it all, particularly one of her unfunny lines about Press Secretary, Sarah Huckabee’s eye-makeup. Apparently, this comedian had crossed some kind of civility line by attacking a woman’s appearance. In addition, there was great wailing, weeping and gnashing of teeth about the level of language employed, having dropped into the gutter. Ok...time out.

I’m thinking that if Trump is your guy, you probably should sit this one out. The current occupant of the White House has made a living mocking the appearance of women, the language he has employed both as a candidate and so far as President has been unprecedentedly raunchy. For his supporters now to get the vapors when a comedian attempts to out-Trump Trump, is frankly hilarious. No, if you made excuses for him when he made fun of a disabled reporter, if you tolerated his putdowns of Megyn Kelly and Mika Brzezinski with those famous blood jokes, your pie-hole should remain closed at this point. As the judges like to say...You have no standing.

As someone who is not a liberal Democrat, I understand why so many loathe the press in this country. You could throw a net over a random 100 people anywhere in this country, even the bluest of blue states, and not find 95% support for liberal Democrats. It’s just a statistical impossibility...except for the ballroom at the White House Correspondent’s Dinner. So, it stands to reason that a crowd of Democrats would take great delight in ripping in to any Republican President. But...so what? It’s their gig. However, for this particular Republican President, and his supporters, to decry the lack of civility is the ultimate example of hutzpah. While, this particular comedian was raunchier and meaner than most, and even many Democrats objected to her performance, Trump people should let others do the complaining. 

It’s official...we are all now... snowflakes.

The Devil Is In The Details

Finally gotten around to reading one of my Christmas presents, the new biography of Ulysses S. Grant by Ron Chernow. I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with Chernow. Although he is, at times, a brilliant writer and historian, his style can be irritating...never failing to employ a thousand words to say something he could have said with twenty. This thousand page doorstop will be a chore to get through, but so far it is fascinating.

What are the first thoughts that pop into my head when it comes to Grant? There are several, and none of them good...drunkard, scandal ridden, plodding, heartless meat-grinder of men and materials who, on a level playing field couldn’t have generalled his way through a wet paper bag when compared with Lee, Longstreet, or Jackson. It seems that Mr. Chernow is determined to raise my estimation of our 18th President. So far, 100 pages in, its still 1854, and a picture is emerging of an entirely unrecognizable figure. In Chernow’s hands, Grant is merely an occasional binge drinker, an easy mark for con men, and a deeply compassionate soldier with a quartermaster’s grasp of logistical detail. Hmmm....

In other news...

This coming weekend, my son and his fiancé will drive up from Nashville for the last time before the wedding. The occasion is a shower for the bride-to-be thrown by the Dunnevant/Schwartz women. Now that Pam’s school year is over, she has taken up the full time position of wedding planner/coordinator/trouble-shooter/organizer/plotter/schemer/travel agent/technical advisor/logistics maven/purchasing agent/tailor/tinker/soldier/spy. The old saying is, The Devil is in the details, and I can personally attest that right now, Lucifer has the upper hand! While the ladies are enjoying the shower, my son and I, hopefully along with a couple local groomsmen, will search for wedding suits of the slim cut variety. Of course, I gave up slim cut anything quite some time ago, but I understand they are all the rage among the flat-bellied set. Then, I hope to have time to make a pit stop at a local brewery for a couple of Richmond’s newly famous craft beers. By the end of the weekend much progress will have been made, sending Beelzebub into a headlong retreat.

Tom’s Defense

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And Now...Tom Brokaw

The Today Show. NBC Nightly News. Author of The Greatest Generation. 

Those are the three things I think about when I think about Tom Brokaw. Now, this morning, if fresh allegations from 25 years ago can be believed, a fourth thing will enter my mind...sexual misconduct.

On the same day that Bill Cosby gets convicted of rape by a jury of his peers, one of the few remaining members of the national news media who can safely be described as beloved, is dealing with allegations from two woman who claim that back in the 1990’s, Tom Brokaw acted inappropriately towards them. So far, there are no claims of rape, but rather, claims by veteran reporter Linda Vester that he “physically tried to force her to kiss him on two separate occasions, groped her in a NBC conference room and showed up at her hotel room uninvited.”

Ok...what the heck?

I suppose there are two ways to look at this story. If you are inclined to defend Brokaw, you would question the time line and point out that what Vester is describing might be boorish behavior, but doesn’t rise to the level of criminal sexual misconduct. You might accuse her of wanting to jump on the MeToo bandwagon and take her place among the honorable celebrity victims for her fifteen minutes of fame. So, he “tickles you around the waist with others in the room looking on, you wait 25 years, then call it groping???” He tried to kiss you a couple of times, showed up at your hotel room once uninvited, you rebuffed him, he took “no” for an answer, you suffered no career demotions as a result....where’s the fire??

On the other hand, you could read this story and ask yourself, what the hell is wrong with men?! Tom Brokaw was then and remains a  married man...to one Meredith Lynn Auld since 1962. If you’re keeping score at home, that’s 56 years. Mrs. Tom Brokaw was a former Miss South Dakota, and by every account is described glowingly as an amazingly strong woman and devoted wife and mother of five children...

But, apparently, she wasn’t enough for Tom? If these allegations are true, Brokaw was making advances to a 28 year old co-worker while this woman was at home raising his children. How does this even work? How would you go home after making passes at another woman, and look your wife in the eye and ask, So, how was your day? I am at a loss at how to explain this sort of thing. If he was able and willing to comfortably lie to his wife, how much easier would it be to lie to the rest of us in his role as a journalist?

I hope these allegations are false. I like Tom Brokaw. I’ve always liked him. But, my gut instinct is to believe Linda Vester. I don’t see what possible incentive she has for bringing all of this up now. Sure, she might be celebrated in some corners, but she will be vilified in others. And it’s not like this sort of behavior is new to NBC news, for heavens sake. It’s been one thing after another at 30 Rock.

Still, this is a sad state of affairs we find ourselves in, is it not?

Trump’s First State Dinner

I was reminded yesterday, while reading a news story about the upcoming State dinner at the White House for the President of France, that Donald Trump is a teetotaler. That’s right, our President doesn’t touch a drop of alcohol...which means that he behaves the way he does...stone cold sober. Ponder that one over your morning oatmeal.

There seems to be an odd bromance going on between Trump and Macron. They seem weirdly attracted to each other, what with the uncomfortable touching and prolonged and entangled hand shakes and what not. Trump was caught on camera dusting dandruff off the French leader’s shoulder before a photo was about to be taken so “he would be perfect.” It’s all quite unsettling. 

I wonder what was on the menu at the big soirée last night? If it had been up to The Donald, I’m sure that the Macron’s would have been appalled at the huge pile of McNuggets and french fries on their plates. But, I’m told that Melania was in charge of the menu, so I’m sure it was appropriately eclectic, featuring several Croatian delicacies like..uh...wait, is she from Croatia or Slovenia, I can never remember? Regardless, I’m comfortable with the fact that Donald will pick at his meal and wait until everyone leaves to have his Big Mac in the privacy of the family quarters. I don’t begrudge the man his pedestrian palate...especially if Melania chose the squid ink risotto for the main entree...

Doctor’s Office Magazines

I experienced the best and the worst of the American healthcare system this morning during my 8:45 appointment with my family doctor. This was a six month check up from the unpleasantness of last August, when...they tell me...I suffered a mild stroke. My cholesterol levels had to be checked, along with my blood pressure. There were no lines, no waiting, and very little red tape involved in the process. In fact, within ten minutes of my arrival, I had been processed and found myself secure in my doctor’s examination room awaiting his arrival. That’s the best of American healthcare. Very quickly on the heels of this victory came the crushing defeat of examination room magazines...

There was a stack of them neatly placed on the end table beside my chair. I combed through them, only after withdrawing two tissues from the box on the table across the way and a squirt of anti-bacterial gel. Nothing quite says, raging petri dish of potential ecoli like a stack of doctor’s office magazines. But, I digress. The real problem I have here is the horrible selection. I would think that doctor’s would want their potentially sick patients to read upbeat, motivational fare. I wouldn’t think that they would lay out the latest literature on end of life care, for example. Probably wouldn’t want to include the hospice trade association newsletter either. 

Of the ten offerings in my doctor’s room, the only one which was even vaguely interesting happened to be a year old, and featured a fascinating account of...well, see for yourself...

Somebody named Mama June lost a staggering 300 pounds. That’s the equivalent of an offensive lineman! Of course, the sad fact that this magazine was from 2017 leaves the burning question of...”But, did she keep it off?” entirely unanswered. Then, there’s the riveting blockbuster of Barry Manilow’s UNTOLD STORY. We are promised that the aged pop star will, for the first time, open up about being gay. As I flipped through the pages, I thought that this had to be the worst kept secret in the history of Hollywood. Barry Manilow is gay??? What!!??

Luckily, right before I was about to be informed all about Nicole Kidman’s twin sister, my doctor burst in, iPad at the ready, stethoscope hanging from his neck, looking embarrassed by his own pitiful magazine collection...

Doctor: How old is that one?

Me: April, 2017.

Doctor: Hey, hey!! That’s not bad, right?

Me: So, did this Mama June woman keep the weight off?

Doctor: I’ll have to get back to you on that...

Old School Friends

I remember reading a very boring book once in college that tried to make the case that life was like drifting down a river. It was a clumsy metaphor, but the author stuck to it, suggesting that whenever the current was lazy and meandering, that was akin to dull, uneventful years that slip by with little notice, but whenever rapids came along, they represented the years of upheaval and chaos, etc..It was the sort of book that I hated having to read, the sort that were presented to me as deep and profound, but I found dull and pretentious. But, oddly enough, this weekend, although I can’t for the life of me remember the name of the book or it’s author, the metaphor has come to mind.

This weekend has been about old friends. We attended a wedding in Charlotte of a young woman who we were first introduced to when she was a teenager. Her parents attended our church. I was a volunteer with the youth ministry at the church. As such, I got to know a whole host of teenagers over about a ten year run. I was always much closer to the kids than I was to any of their parents, which is a hazard of youth work, I suppose. Over my time in youth work, I probably got to know four or five hundred kids. Although I wasn’t crazy about all of them, I can honestly say that I loved most of them despite, and sometimes because of, their difficulties. No matter what knuckleheaded thing they would do, I couldn’t help myself, I loved them anyway. The reason for this was primarily because when I was a teenager, I was a hot mess...the quintessential knucklehead, so...who was I to judge?

Anyway, every once in a while a kid would come along who would grab a little piece of my heart. The young woman who got married this weekend was one such kid. She was piece of work, this one...smart, driven, opinionated, with a high octane motor, oozing with personality. But, she also had that rarest of qualities in the teenager species...a tender heart.  Most teenagers are all arms, legs and raging hormones, so obsessed with themselves, and their perceived status. But, this spitfire had a heart the size of Texas. There was this one sixth grader, a newly minted middle schooler, who was eligible for the youth department, but terrified by all the big kids, and full of anxiety. But, this sharp, cool, and very with-it big kid would call her and invite her to come to things, even offering to save her a seat right in the middle of the cool kids’ row. That sixth grader was my daughter. And that cool kid with the big heart walked an aisle with a dashing young man on her arm last night.

I don’t see much of her anymore. Life has taken her to Charlotte. We don’t run in the same circles anymore. My time with her was during a season of rapids several bends down the river. But, at the wedding I saw others from those years. I saw a handsome young man with his beautiful wife. He used to be one of my boys. Back then he was a bit of a rakish rogue, smart, quick on his feet, and a bit of a charmer. But, I always knew he would do well for himself, as long as he found the right wife. He did, and he has. I listened to him tell me about his life, as a strange feeling of well being swept over me.

There was another boy from the old days there, he too all grown up and accomplished. Sharp, articulate, married to a beautiful doctor, carrying around an adorable eight month old boy. This young man has landed in the Midwest, as an architect. I watched them playing with their beautiful little boy, and I started to feel a bit better about the world. 

I ran into several couples from the old days at the wedding. All have stories to tell. Some have been blessed beyond measure, others have endured their share of darkness. We have all drifted apart, having been separated by the currents over the years. But, coming together to celebrate a wedding helps us to remember just how fortunate we all were to have known each other.

On the way home today, we stopped in to have lunch with some dear friends who recently retired and moved away from Richmond. These were friends who have been on the same river passage with us for nearly 30 years. These kind of ties cannot be broken by mere distance. So we saw their new house, shared a meal, and talked about upcoming big doings...another wedding and the arrival of their first grandchild. More twisting turns, swirling eddys to navigate, but navigate them we will.

Zack vs. The Megaphone

This. This is most definitely US in 2018.

Check out Zack. Dude is zoned in with the blankest stare in the universe. But, what’s he thinking with those horizontal stripes? Is this what came out of their racial bias training day?...Step one...never make eye contact!

Check out megaphone guy. Is this the guy who showed up demanding a free grande latte as reparations? Or, is he just super into coffee...I want coffee!! Give me a C!! Give me an O....

So many questions...

But, make no mistake, this is how we roll now in the United States, standing three feet apart from one another with a megaphone, and still not hearing.

Giving In to Golf Peer Pressure

I played in my friend’s charity golf tournament Monday, a cold, wet, and windy day. Aside from the miserable conditions, it was a lot of fun. The foursome I put together for this event featured two people I had never met and three people with whom I had never played a round of golf. We shot a 63 which was quite respectable. I shared a cart with a 67 year old gentleman who was a scratch golfer. For those of you who don’t know what scratch golfer means, it’s the term we mere mortals use to describe golfers who actually know how to play the game, and when they do, they almost always shoot even par. These are also the men and women who the rest of us grumble about under our breath, since they make an extraordinary difficult game look so freaking easy. But, this particular scratch golfer had the added bonus of being a terrific guy, so I had a blast watching the delightful arc of each of his near perfect shots cutting through the sky directly towards the intended target. Great stuff.

After the round, he says to me. I’m only going to give you one piece of advice about your golf game...

Ok, at this point, I’m bracing for anything. I didn’t play particularly well so I deserved any negative evaluation he had in mind. Being a gentleman, he started out by throwing me a few bones...

You have a very athletic swing, you generate a lot of swing speed which is extraordinary for someone who just turned 60. Also, you make very solid contact...

The word but was about to make its presence felt.

But...if you ever hope to improve your scores and start enjoying the game...you’re simply going to have to get some better equipment!!

By giving this bit of advice, my new friend joined a long list of probably 50-75 people who have made the same claim, especially the friend whose tournament we had just played in...Doug Greenwood. Some background...

Nearly thirty years ago, a golf pro friend of mine gave me a set of irons which at that point were probably two or three years old...Titleist DCI’s. They are still in my bag. My putter is over twenty five years old. The newest club I own is my driver which was purchased sometime around the late 90’s. This collection of relics has been a constant source of irritation to Mr. Greenwood, who has never passed on a chance to rag me about them every time we tee it up. He speaks of the profound embarrassment he has to endure every time he is seen playing golf with someone using such inferior and decrepit equipment. My comeback has always been that my out of date clubs haven’t hindered me from whipping him at least half the time! But, the real reason I have never bothered to upgrade is that although I enjoy playing golf...I don’t love playing. Golf clubs are insanely expensive, and the prospect of spending over a thousand bucks on new clubs just seems ridiculous. However, the real reason I have never upgraded is because I know that when I do it will take me a year to adjust to the new technology. The 67 year old scratch golfer intimated as much when he observed that my irons felt like swinging a sledge hammer. Whenever I hold one of these new clubs in my hand they feel like badminton racquets, light as a feather. Horrible.

But my new friend seemed convinced that I would benefit greatly from a set of clubs manufactured in this century. He pressed me on the matter, offering to sell me a set of irons he used last year, just three years old, for a couple hundred bucks! Perhaps this is charity, perhaps he just couldn’t bear the sight of someone playing with golf clubs from back when Reagan was in the White House! Nevertheless, I have finally bowed to the pressure. I am taking him up on his offer. Of course, I’ll have to find a driver and some sort of hybrid fairway metal...and this would probably be a good time to find a replacement for the sand wedge I lost three years ago.

So...everyone gets what they want. Greenwood will no longer be embarrassed, and everyone else I play with will be able to delight in watching me spray golf balls all over the place trying to figure out the new equipment. Instead of shooting in the mid to upper 80’s, I’ll be the guy with the shiny new clubs trying to break a hundred!

A Nation Unto Ourselves

For the past few days I’ve been reading about a dark time, and a nation that lived through a series of events which had convinced most of them that the thousand year history of their great island nation was at its end. They endured a continuous parade of horrible news, defeats, and national humiliations. They were each day subjected to deprivations of every kind, and each night were pounded mercilessly with bombs. Throughout this long nightmare of calamity, their leader had to stand before the House of Commons and listen to his policies being castigated by rival politicians, then defend them against the very same people who had placed their country in such grave peril in the first place. These debates would last for...days. At the end of each, the government would survive a no confidence vote and earn the right to oversee more defeats. Reading about it all 80 years later, it seems so very impossible. How could they have survived without tearing each other apart? It’s one thing to debate the price of bread, or how much unemployment compensation is right and just...but another thing entirely to grapple with your impending national annihilation.

So, this morning I took a few moments to glance through the headlines, since a summation of the nation’s news serves as a sort of snapshot of our times. Here’s what I find...

Sleazy lawyers, porn stars du jour, special prosecutors, ex-FBI directors on book tours, controversial coffee shop videos, two French speaking world leaders having a bromance, bombs falling on Syria, stories of urinating prostitutes, dossiers, alleged Russian collusion, sanctuary cities, tanning beds and goggles....

Meanwhile, unemployment is down, the stock market marches on, and most of us go on our merry way, secure in our private universe of family, friends and fortune. No bombs rain down on us. Most of us aren’t deprived of anything, and despite the daily humiliations which belch forth from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, we get along with our lives. This is either a mark of progress, or a kind of tyranny. The fact that we can prosper in such a void of serious, responsible leadership is either a welcome indicator of the power of the individual to forge his or her own way even in the complexity of this 21st century world...or we have become so insular, so detached from each other, we have all become a nation unto ourselves. But if so, this detachment can only survive when the challenges we face remain petty and inconsequential. This tribalism will fall apart into pieces if ever bombs start to fall...on us.

The Power of Moral Conviction

I find myself suddenly surrounded by brilliant Englishmen...

In the first place, I have recently replaced my morning routine of reading through the Bible in 90 Days with my third reading of Mere Christianity, by the indispensable C.S Lewis. This idea was planted in my head by a friend in my small group who brought up the subject of this transformational work, causing me to pull the volume from my bookcase once again. I seldom read literary works more than once, but there’s something about Lewis that feels fresh and new with each reading. The novelist, John Updike once said, “I read Lewis for comfort and pleasure many years ago, and a glance into this book revives my old admiration.” Does it ever!

In the second place, my son and his fiancée sent me a birthday package a couple of days ago which contained the book on the left, Churchill and Orwell, The Fight For Freedom, by the Pulitzer Prize winning reporter Thomas Ricks. I’m halfway through and depressed to be so since that means it’s halfway over. The flyleaf contains this statement...In the end, Churchill and Orwell proved to be their age’s necessary men. Taken together in Thomas Ricks’s masterful hands, their lives are a beautiful testament to the power of moral conviction, and to the courage it can take to stay true to it, through thick and thin. Reading through this wonderful book, I’ve found that half the time there’s a lump in my throat. I am overcome with admiration and gratitude that these two men existed, Churchill, a man of the right, Orwell a man of the left, who both understood that the real enemy was the totalitarian impulse, no matter it’s origin. When each man began speaking out, both became outcasts, both rejected by their natural allies, and both, oddly enough, nearly killed in the 1930’s. But, they both survived and every man, woman and child alive today is in their debt.

It has caused me to think of my own age...who are our necessary men? Are there any? Who are the indispensable men (and women) who will make the difference? Who will stand against the tide of evil and terror, brave enough to tell us the unvarnished truth about our world, even if it means rejection and repudiation? Depending on your politics, you might have someone in mind. You might even be able to rattle off several names. I see no such man or woman at the moment. Doesn’t mean that he or she doesn’t exist, but as of this writing they remain hidden from me.

Millennials and Minimalism

Much has been made of late about a lifestyle choice popular among millennials called, minimalism. It’s basically the polar opposite of conspicuous consumption, a repudiation of the consumer culture that has grown up in the West over the past 75 years or so. It’s a rejection of the collecting of things for the greater goal of experiences. Instead of buying a traditional house and a nice car, why not live in a tiny house and take the bus, or better yet, ride a bike into work? Then, unencumbered with debt service, you can make that two week trip to Tahiti this summer, or run with the bulls in Pamplona. 

Of course, the decision to go minimalist might not be the morally superior choice of a new enlightened generation. It might be the de facto choice thrust on a generation drowning in college debt, and ill equipped to deal with that economic straight jacket. Be that as it may, when I read stories about how the economic choices being made by millennials are “destroying industries” I laugh out loud at the economic stupidity of such a claim. The choices that each generation makes are just that...choices, and if an industry can’t survive those choices, it will die off. It has always and forever been so. Millennials didn’t invent this. If they aren’t in to buying paper napkins, so what? The big shots in the paper napkin game better figure it out or they will go the way of the horse drawn carriage. Grow a pair!

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah...minimalism. Ok,  I’m not sure these millennials have thought the tiny house thing through. I mean, what happens when they have kids? Suppose their parents want to visit? What does the wife do when her husband visits the bathroom after a night of jambalaya and beans? The practical effects of living in such a small, compact space can have a profound impact on human relationships. The western notion of personal space took centuries to develop, and can’t be so whimsically discarded without consequences. However, it’s my considered opinion that a tiny house is more morally defensible than a McMansion. What’s the deal with the people of my generation and their obsession of building three, four, sometimes five houses in one lifetime, often, building the biggest one after the kids have grown up and moved out?

Pam and I have been married for nearly 34 years. In all of that time we have lived in only three different places. The first year of our marriage we rented a two bedroom apartment. Year two, we moved in to a starter home, a three bedroom house which we occupied for twelve years and into which we introduced our two children. Finally, 21 years ago, we had our present house built, a mere mile up the road from our old one. It has five bedrooms, and a garage, and was a thousand square feet bigger than our old house. That’s it. Three addresses in 34 years. Why haven’t we built something bigger? Why haven’t we moved out into the countryside and thrown up a large estate type place? For that matter, how come my car is ten years old? Why don’t I buy a new one every two or three years like many of my buddies? The honest answer is...I have no idea. I guess it boils down to a simple answer...I like my old house....and...my old car runs great. Or maybe I’m cheap.

My point is, although I don’t buy all of the minimalist shtick, I don’t reject it out of hand either. I think these kids have something to teach the rest of us about priorities, and what exactly makes up the essence of a good life. Maybe a looser grasp on material possessions is an ingredient of that good life?

My Take on the Zuckerberg Show

I was asked yesterday what I thought about the Mark Zuckerberg testimony, specifically what my preferred outcome would be for it all. I had no answer, primarily because I didn’t think I had enough information about so complex a subject to even know what a preferred outcome would be. Since I was able to watch an hour of his testimony while on a treadmill at the gym, I am now an expert and can answer without hesitation. Here’s my takeaway...

1. It was pretty darned funny watching a bunch of 70-80 year olds asking Mark Zuckerberg about the Facebook. How many of them have ever spent two seconds on Facebook? Zero.

2. Ironically, the people who are making the most fun of the senator’s ignorance about social media are the same folks who want these same senators to craft regulations of social media. What could possibly go wrong?

3. As I watched each senator take their turn with the Z-man I couldn’t help but think...every single Democrat Senator on this committee has received large campaign contributions from either Zuckerman himself or Facebook...and every single Republican Senator on this committee probably owns Facebook stock!

4. I’m told that Zuckerberg spent hours and hours prepping for his appearance before the senators. He needn’t have bothered. In the hour that I was watching, I never heard a single tough question, and rarely an intelligent one. Nobody laid a glove on him. Maybe it will be different on day two, but I doubt it. See #3 above.

5. While I am open to some sort of reasonable regulation, I am also aware that one of the reasons that the internet has so exploded as a medium is precisely because of the lack of the sort of stifling regulations that most other industries are burdened with...the type of regulation that results in the pages and pages of disclaimers and weasel language found in most terms of service agreements. It was hilarious yesterday when Lindsey Graham held up the ridiculously long printout of Facebook’s terms of service while calling for government regulation of Facebook. What, in God’s name does senator Graham think produced that long printout?? Ha!

6. The biggest factor that has contributed to Facebook’s troubles is the fact that they have a virtual monopoly. They bought what was shaping up to be their biggest competitor (Instagram). Like many insanely rich and unchallenged Masters of the Universe types, the naked pursuit of riches has dwarfed all other concerns for Mr. Zuckerberg and others like him.

7. Color me cynical, but my trick knee tells me if the clever manipulation and exploitation of Facebook and other social media had resulted in the election of Hillary Clinton instead of Donald Trump, I’m pretty sure that Mark Zuckerberg would have spent yesterday bumming around the office in Menlo Park in his jeans and T-shirt.

So, what would be my desired outcome in this mess? One thing that leaps to mind would be a more concise, readable and understandable terms of service agreement for Facebook users, along with a requirement to opt in to allow companies access to personal info instead of having to opt out. Other than that, I’m not sure what else wouldn’t be worse than the disease. Allowing the government to become censor of content sounds like a horrible idea to me, not to mention vaguely Chinese.

That’s about the extent of my knowledge of and interest in the travails of social media titans.

My Most Embarassing Moment. Ever.

Several months ago, in this space, I posted a picture of my office chair and asked the question...Is it my imagination, or is this chair leaning to the left? In the months since, it’s port side tilt has become even more pronounced, to the point where the question no longer has to be asked. My office chair most definitely has...much like Silicon Valley...a left-leaning problem. Well, yesterday morning, which was my first day back in the office after a week at the beach, my issues with the chair became the source of perhaps the single most embarrassing moment in my 36 year in business.

Luckily, one of my cooler clients, who has a better than average sense of humor, was on the other side of the desk from me when it happened. I can think of a couple dozen clients who would have been horrified by what unfolded at approximately 9:15 am Monday morning, April 9th, in the year of our Lord, 2018. One minute I was sitting securely at my desk in my formerly reliable, if poorly aligned chair, busily filling out some paperwork. Suddenly, I needed something that was sitting on the credenza behind me and to my left. As I have done at least a thousand times before, in one graceful and practiced move, I swiveled to my left and attempted to scoot myself, along with my chair, on it’s spinning wheels towards the stack of papers that required my attention. Only, something went very, very wrong.

What follows seemed to happen in slow motion, just like in the movies. There was an instant of clear recognition where I was acutely aware of what was about to befall me, yet, there wasn’t one single solitary thing I could do about it. At that point I was in the inescapable grip of gravity. There was nothing left to do but brace for impact, and the damage which might be done to my body, but would most definitely be done to my ego. For, somewhere underneath me, a wheel of my accursed chair got hung up on something, impeding forward progress below. Unfortunately, above...momentum had already worked its magic, and since I was leaning in the same direction as the aforementioned tilt, the results were predictable. I could feel myself reaching the point of no return. I remember thinking...I think I’m going to flip over in this chair...

In what seemed like thirty seconds, but only probably took a fraction of that, I found myself flat on my backside, legs pointed skyward, my chair freakishly sprawled out in an unnatural configuration. The kind expression for this condition is head over heels. Me being me, I prefer the less elegant, but much more descriptive phrase...ass over teakettle. My client rose to his feet, asking, Are you Ok?? I bounced up quickly, trying vainly to pretend nothing had happened. My client then made the sterling observation of the hour...Doug, I think you probably ought to replace that chair.

As of this hour, a brand new Serta executive chair has been purchased. When I told my assistant this story, instead of tender concern for my well being, all I got was a burst of hysterical laughter. Later, when I shared my story with my wife, I got stifled giggles, complete with uncontrollable body shaking. In other words, no sympathy, no kind-hearted empathetic understanding of my profound embarrassment...just belly laughs. Not that I can blame them. Although it was no fun as a participant, I imagine it must have been quite hilarious to witness from a safe distance.

So, I thought I might as well share my humiliation with the world...

Watching The Masters

Although my enthusiasm level for the game of golf has waned quite a bit over the past two decades, one thing has been constant...I still watch The Masters. Actually, there are still three golf tournaments that I care to watch on television, the British Open, the United States Open, and The Masters. But, if I were only allowed one of the three, it would always be...The Masters. The reasons for this are many, not the least of which being the fact that Augusta National is perhaps the most stunningly beautiful real estate in the entire world...

Secondly, I had the privilege to attend a Saturday round in 2004, the year of Phil Mickelson’s first victory. I arrived at 8:00 am and walked the entire course...twice, not leaving until dusk. It was possibly my happiest day as a human being on this earth. I drank beer from a green plastic cup. I ate several pimento cheese sandwiches wrapped in green paper. I spent a small fortune in the gift shop. I spent a glorious hour in the stands between the 15th green and the 16th tee box. I stood, three patrons from the ropes on the 18th green as Mickelson hit his chip to within two feet of the flagstick. I couldn’t have been more than 15 feet from the man. It was sublime.

I say all of this because of a minor kerfuffle which has sprung up overnight between the members of Augusta National and the manufacturers of Bud Lite. The old rich men who run the club are a famously unfunny bunch when it comes to golf etiquette and patron deportment. I recall vividly seeing the Bobby Jones rules of patron behavior close to the entrance back in 2004. The rules were specific and unyielding. There would be no running, no celebratory cheering for poor shots, and absolutely, positively no cell phones and cameras. Violators would be greeted by swift punishment which would include not only immediately dismissal from the property, but a lifetime ban from ever returning. If I ever doubted them, I didn’t after witnessing a poor slob pull out his cell phone to take a call as we walked across the 9th fairway. He hadn’t been on his phone thirty seconds before a yellow-jacketed official interrupted his conversation with a stern rebuke and an escort to the front gate!

So, apparently, the Masters rule makers had issued a warning that any patron heard yelling the newly ascendant Bud Lite catchphrase, Dilly Dilly...would be dealt with harshly. The marketing gurus at Bud Lite, sensing an opportunity, quickly issued this very funny reply...

Although I come down firmly on the side of the old rich dudes that run Augusta National on this one, I have to admit that the Bud Lite people earned major props for their hilarious response!!

I’m no absolutist when it comes to this sort of thing. I personally think that golfers can be a temperamental, sanctimonious bunch of whiners. Allowing fans to heckle them seems totally reasonable to me...most of the time. But people...this is The Masters we’re talking about. This is the tournament started by the venerable Bobby Freaking Jones. He won major championships wearing cuff-linked dress shirts and a bow tie, for crying out loud. That’s back when people had manners! If the Masters people want to attempt to inforce traditional 19th century manners on a crowd of 21st century barbarians, then I say, more power to them. So, at least this week, there will be no You da man, or Get in the hole screams from drunk fans. No one will be allowed to squeal with delight whenever Rory Mcllroy hooks his tee shot into the pines. There will be no chants of USA!! USA!! if Patrick Reed birdies the 12th. This is The Masters, where golfers and patrons alike will be expected to behave like its 1918 again.

Not such a bad thing, in my humble opinion.

A Relaxing Week

It’s a delightful 64 degrees here in Myrtle Beach at 7:30 in the morning. By the time we get on the road, it will be 70. Five hours later, when we pull into beautiful downtown Short Pump, I’m told to expect 40 degrees with a hard drizzle, to be followed by snow overnight. And just like that...our vacation is over.

No complaints from me though. I’ve had a wonderful week. We’ve had not one drop of rain, and although it’s been a bit windy and cooler than we would have preferred, there’s been abundant sunshine and the relentless sound of the surf...a marvelous combination. Here are some highlights from our week:

A FaceTime date with my son and his fiancée where the talk was all about wedding plans. The two of them seem to have things well in hand. There are a few complications to iron out, but by and large the kids are doing quite well. They seemed excited and expectant, not overwhelmed.

My birthday celebration was quite fun. My wife showered me with practically a brand new wardrobe. I believe the quote was something  like...Just because you’ve turned 60 doesn’t mean you have to look 60. So, I am now resplendent in several new outfits that I am assured make me look younger!

Got to spend a couple of days with my daughter. She gave me some presents and an incredibly moving birthday card/postcard which I have previously written about. It was nice to hear her laughter and listen to her voice for 48 hours.

I walked on at the closest golf course I could find...Possum Trot...and was immediately teamed with two flat-bellied 20 somethings who were waiting for me on the first tee without so much as a practice swing. I hadn’t swung a golf club in anger since the previous September in Maine. To my great surprise and satisfaction, I hit the ball very well, kept up with the kids with a respectable 85, despite putting like a blind epileptic. 

So, this turning 60 business hasn’t been as bad as advertised. I’ve still mostly got my wits about me, I feel good, and thanks to my fashionable wife...I now look good! 

If They Only Knew

I’m aware that it is presently fashionable to bitterly complain about Facebook, with it’s predatory trading of our privacy for profit and all that. But I would like to pause a minute to praise them for something. Through their platform, I have been able to keep up with scores of young men who otherwise would have drifted out of my life years ago. I am referring to the many boys I taught in Sunday school 10-15 years ago, boys who are now, magically, fully grown men. I see the pictures of them holding their new born infants. I see the pictures of little ones in Easter finery squinting into the bright morning sun, and remember how impossible it was to get those pictures right on those chaotic mornings in what seems now like a hundred years ago. I see pictures of them playing with their children in parks, at the beach, with the grandparents. I want to tell them how lucky they are, how they should savor every moment, not wish any of it away. The fact is that I’m so incredibly proud of them all. 

But in our new, idealized social media world, pictures can be deceiving, often this deception is actually the point. We all want to put only our best foot forward. But, every once in a while I will see a photograph that rings true, whether intentional or not. I see the forced smile of the dad, the exhaustion in his eyes, the worry lines starting to form. These are the pictures that I cherish, because they bring back the heavy weight of hard memory, the great season of self doubt that defines what being a father is all about. Look closely in the eyes of that dad with his little leaguer and you will see a man wondering how in God’s name he is ever going to be able to put his kids through college. The only human emotion more powerful than the love he feels for his children is the fear that he will end up failing them.

Yesterday, my daughter arrived here in Myrtle Beach to spend a couple of days with us. She brought me a couple of cool presents. Then she handed me this birthday card, which was actually a postcard. I flipped it over read her words and they astonished me...

I know this isn’t your typical birthday card, but when I saw the picture on the front, I thought to myself, “This is exactly how I’ve always imagined my dad!” ...strong, capable, heroic, someone who routinely saves the day. I saw you this way when I was a little girl, and I still see you this way (maybe even more so) now that I’m 30 and you’re 60...

Speaking of heroic, it took quite a heroic performance to get through a public reading of such a card without an embarrassing gush of tears. As I read it, I thought...if she only knew. If she only knew how terrifying it all was, how many times I felt like a complete failure. If she had any idea how racked with self doubt I was, how inadequate I felt, she would never have chosen a card with Atlas bearing the weight of the world, more appropriate would have been a card featuring the ancient King Sisyphus, pushing a giant boulder up a hill, only to have it roll back down again.

But then it hit me. The fact that my little girl viewed me as heroic was no small thing. Perhaps, it was half the battle. Maybe, the simple fact of projecting strength and competence was just as important as actually being strong and competent. Maybe that’s part of being a father, communicating to your children that you have things well in hand, even...and especially, when you don’t!

So, a word to all of you incredible young men out there raising your beautiful children, and you all know who you are...godspeed. You have a monumental task ahead of you, and your little ones are watching you. No matter how difficult the job gets, they are worth every sacrifice. I see you. I know the burdens. I remember the hardships. No matter what the smiling pictures say, I know what keeps you up at night. But, you too will prevail. One day, before you know what happened, that adorable little girl, that precocious little boy will hand you a birthday card that will bring it all back. And you will shake your head and think...if they only knew.

Advice From the Dog

You wake up on the 21,536th day of your life looking for reassurance from the roaring surf of the Atlantic Ocean at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Instead you gaze out from your balcony into a Dickensian fog bank so thick you can hardly find the end of the dunes. Is this the famous disorientation of old age that I have been warned about by friend and foe alike? I will leave this to the reader to decide.

My sister gave me something for my birthday that I truly love...

I have always believed in the wisdom of dogs, always considered their instincts more reliable than most humans. My dearly beloved second Golden Retreiver, Molly, possessed the most incorruptible spirit of any living thing I have ever known. She had a working vocabulary of more words than your average Congressman, and a heart as packed full of love and devotion as Mother Theresa’s. My present Golden, Lucy, isn’t nearly as linguistically fluent, and comes with more personality quirks and emotional scar tissue than Donald Trump’s therapist, but still has the power to warm my heart with a thousand daily graces that only dog lovers would understand.

So, this coffee mug seems like a perfect suggestion for the second 60 years of my life:

Ask for what you want—loudly if necessary.

Go after what you want.

Unleash your talents. 

Learn new tricks often.

But, the best “Advice From the Dog” found on this mug is on the back...

I plan on doing a lot of this...

Shutting Down The Tempest

After over seven years and 1600 posts, today I am shutting down The Tempest. Once you’ve written over a million words, at some point you’ve said about all you have to say.

April Fools!!!

But, since you’re here, I suppose I owe you something. Besides, it’s Easter Sunday, the day that our Lord and Savior rose from the dead. If I were a more devout Christian, I would write something spiritual...to go with all of the religious themed memes that have flowered on my Facebook feed. Instead, I will celebrate the empty tomb by sharing another batch of Dad Jokes. It is my sincere belief that the famous abundant life which Jesus died to provide for us includes heaping helpings of laughter, even if it comes with cringing...

If you see a robbery at an Apple store, does that make you an iWitness?

I’m reading a book about anti-gravity. It’s impossible to put down.

What time did the man go to the dentist? Tooth hurt-y.

Spring is here! I got so excited I wet my plants.

What’s Forest Gump’s password? 1forest1

How do you make a Kleenex dance? Put a little boogie in it.

I had a job at a calendar factory but I got fired because I took a couple of days off.

How do you make Holy Water? Boil the hell out of it.

What do call a dog who can do magic? A labracadabrador.

Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl go to the bathroom? Because the pee is silent.

You’re welcome.

The Pope Rips a Gaping Hole in the English Language

Earlier this week, the Pope sent shock waves through the spiritual world by declaring that hell doesn’t actually exist. Although the theological ramifications of such a declaration are profound enough, the impact on the English language will be equally severe. With one sentence in one interview in one Italian newspaper, the Pope has managed to render meaningless a thousand colorful phrases that make up the respectable corner of communication known as soft profanity. If hell, in fact, does not exist, then the following expressions are rendered meaningless, and we are poorer for it!

1. Hell bent for leather.

Granted, in the best of times I’ve never quite understood this one, but now that hell isnt a thing it makes even less sense.

2. Catching hell.

Since it’s impossible to catch something from nothing, this one has to go.

3. Going to hell in a handbasket.

Another strange formulation which will be put out of its misery by the Pontiff.

4. Until hell freezes over.

Not gonna happen. Ever. 

5. Come hell or high water.

I’d bet on the high water.

6. A snowball’s chance in hell.

Again...my money is on the snowball.

7. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

While it has always been difficult to describe the intensity of a wronged woman’s  vindictiveness, with this latest papal decree, one of the best descriptions ever cobbled together in the English language has lost its effectiveness. Back to the drawing board.

8. All hell breaks lose.

Not any more.

9. Raising hell.

Impossible.

10. There will be hell to pay.

No. There will not. Thanks to the Pope, we all have one less creditor to worry about.

Your Friday News Roundup

Friday, March 30, 2018

A roundup of the day’s news:

Laura Ingraham, in another inflammatory Tweet, has suggested that 17 year old anti-gun spokesman David Hogg forgot to do his math homework twice in one week during his troublesome junior year algebra II class.

In his Yankee debut, outfielder Giancarlo Stanton hit two titanic home runs, forever cementing his place among the most despised and reviled Yankees of all time, and casting a dark cloud over the future of the game of baseball in every city in America that’s not New York.

To the profound relief of hundreds of millions of sinners throughout the world, the Pope today proclaimed that there is no hell. Instead of eternal punishment after an unrepentant life of selfishness and debauchery, the formally damned masses can now look forward to the sweet bliss of simply disappearing. “It was all just a terrible misunderstanding,” the pontiff explained.

After hanging around since last freaking August, millions of shriveled, crunchy dead brown leaves have finally begun giving up their death grip on the area’s live oak trees. Warmer temperatures and yesterday’s gusty winds apparently convinced them of what everyone thought was painfully obvious long ago...that there really was no longer any point of pretending that they were actually living leaves. 

In the longest stretch of controversy-free days of the Trump Presidency, major news organizations marked “day four” with cautious optimism, as there have been no firings, no embarrassing Tweets, no new porn star allegations, and no creepy crypto-sexual references to daughter Ivanka since early Monday.