The Trees We Plant

As a married man, I have only lived in two houses, the one I’ve lived in for the past 21 years, and the first house Pam and I built 33 years ago. It was a starter home, only 1600 square feet. We brought both of our children home from the hospital to that house. But, eventually it got too small, so we had a second house built not much more than a mile from our old house. In an average week, I drive by the old place two or three times. I always glance at it with an odd sense of nostalgia.

Since we sold it, the place has had a string of short time owners. Most of them have neglected the yard, which always makes me sad. I spent so much time fussing with that yard, always had it looking great. When I drive by and see that the grass hasn’t been cut in a month I always let out a sigh. 

I bring this up because I’ve been thinking a lot about legacy lately. How would I like to be remembered? It’s strange how so much of what we do on a day to day basis is mundane and of no consequence in the grand scheme of life. Most days are indistinguishable from each other. We busy ourselves with things that seem important at the time, but ultimately matter very little. Earthly pursuits all eventually decay and wither, leaving not a trace of evidence that we were even here.

All of this was on my mind when I drove past the old house yesterday. I immediately noticed that the fence that I had built 33 years ago around the back yard had been torn down. New lumber was stacked neatly in rows. Memories flooded back of when my friend Al and I built that fence soon after we moved in. Had to have it because we had just bought our first Golden Retriever...Murphy. Once again, something I had built had vanished, leaving no evidence of my existence. Suddenly, I found myself turning the car around, driving back to take a closer look. I parked at the curb across the street. No one was home. I got out of the car and stood in the street, staring at the overgrown grass where my fence used to be. It didn’t take long for me to realize how profoundly stupid it was for me to be staring at a place I hadn’t lived in over 20 years. I abruptly turned to head back to the car when I noticed it...the huge maple tree in the front yard.

The first Spring we spent at the old house, I found a healthy, well-shaped maple sapling growing right out from the edge of the house over by the water hose. I almost just yanked it out of the ground and threw it away, but at the last minute the thought came to me...maybe I can dig this little tree up and replant it in the middle of our big, treeless front yard. So, just like that, I planted this little Charlie Brown looking thing in the front yard. It was only a little over two feet tall. It looked silly actually.

33 years later it looks like this...

So, as it turns out, we can leave a lasting legacy. I planted a tree when Ronald Reagan was in the White House. Nobody had a cell phone. Nobody had a flatscreen TV. The Washington Redskins were a good football team. Both of my parents were still alive. I hadn’t yet become a father. I didn’t even know what I was doing. I had never planted a tree before. But I planted it anyway.

Soon, I would have two children, despite the fact that I didn’t know what I was doing. I had never been a father before. But I became one anyway.

Our legacy is about the living. The trees we plant. The children we raise. The people we love.

 

Boycotts Are Dumb

In the last few years it seems as though I can’t make it through a single week without someone asking me to boycott something. Now that the personal has become political, if the CEO of the company that makes your dogfood is discovered to have made the wrong kind of political contribution...well, Fido is going to have to adjust to some new kibble.

Boycotts are the ultimate example of virtue signaling, where you proclaim your moral superiority over your neighbor by demonstrating solidarity, or some such thing, by being willing to sacrifice your dog’s favorite dinner for the greater good of...whatever. This is a bipartisan project. What follows are a few examples of some companies that the woke social justice crowd have targeted for boycotts:

Papa Johns...Hobby Lobby...Walmart...Chik-Fil-A...Amazon...In and Out Burgers

Not to be outdone, allegedly free market conservatives have painted a bullseye around:

Target...Nike...Disney...Kellogg’s...ESPN....the NFL

My view? Boycotts are nothing more than tribal manipulation, a test of your political zeal. The lyric to a Rolling Stones song comes to mind...He can’t be a man ‘cause he doesn’t smoke the same cigarettes as me...The truth is that if you dig deep enough into the bowels of any company that makes any product or provides any service, you will find something objectionable. Somebody in the boardroom will have made bigoted comments, been accused of inappropriate sexual conduct, or donated to a questionable candidate. If you make it your goal to politicize every commercial transaction of your life, at some point you will find yourself filthy, dressed in animal skins, freezing your ass off in a cave, rubbing two sticks together. 

I am a right of center, small government conservative/libertarian. My political neighborhood has recently called upon my tribe to boycott Nike because of their decision to pick Colin Kaepernick as their spokesman. So, yesterday I had to buy new running shoes. I went to Shoe Carnival. There must have been a thousand shoes to pick from. My views about Mr. Kaepernick were a thousand miles from my head as I made my decision, which was based on a combination of quality, aesthetics and price.

So, my opinion? Boycotts are for suckers. If you want to be a preening, virtue signaling moron, help yourself.

                                             

                                            Boycotts

                        Don’t Do It

Checklist

Pre-Trip Planning Checklist:

# Haircut

# Clean out, fumigate, and organize tackle box.( I can’t keep putting this off...)

# By whatever means possible, bring body weight down below critical 190 level, before the three week calorie-fest to come.

# Purchase new running shoes. The old ones now have over 1500 miles on them. Much running to do in Maine to keep body weight under the Mendoza line by the time I return to RVA. Have debate with myself over whether or not to buy Nike shoes. Should I boycott the Kaepernick thing, or contribute to Nike’s bottom line considering the not insignificant position of their stock in my retirement portfolio?

# Go to Hope Thrift to search for quirky novels from the book section.

# Spend inordinate amount of time showering Lucy with love and affection to assuage guilt of decision to leave her at home. She already can sense our betrayal...

# Craft clever and thoughtful away message for office phone, striking the perfect balance between contrition, embarrassment, and gratitude for having taken two three week vacations in one summer.

# Make sure that all life-sustaining prescriptions are filled.

# Finish up all outstanding paperwork at work, prepare assistant for inevitable mistakes I will have left behind, reminding her of proper protocol for fixing them while I’m away...you can call, but I can’t promise I’ll answer. Remember to buy her a bag full of Maine gifts to present to her upon my return since I’m pretty sure she’s gonna be pretty pissed at me by then.

What’s Next?

You never know how a year is going to turn out when it starts. You can plan all kinds of things, but then stuff happens. 2018 has been an out of nowhere type of year where it’s been one thing after another. So, if you can tolerate it, let me catalogue the weirdness for you...

January...dishwasher blows up, flooding our kitchen, resulting in a week and a half stay in a hotel while our entire downstairs got ripped up and replaced. $

February...hole in wall caused by furniture movers takes two weeks and two different contractors to repair. One of our dearest friends in all the world becomes horribly ill and nearly dies, spending most of the month in the hospital clinging to life. Washing machine dies. $

March...Pam’s sister and mother have back to back surgeries. Pam has her credit card info stolen and some dude tries to buy a computer with it while we are in Myrtle Beach trying to get away from all of the tumult. We learn that Patrick and Sarah’s wedding is going to be a lot more expensive than we thought. $$$

April... I turned 60 and, as if on cue, begin having age-related difficulties...which are not only troubling, but also...$$

May...preparations for son’s nuptials heats up. Stress and strain begins to build. $$$$

June...wedding a fabulous success. Relief palpable.

July...back in the fall of 2017, flush with cash and optimism, and before I knew what a dumpster fire 2018 would turn out to be, I made the decision to book TWO three week vacations in Maine. Deposits were made, reservations confirmed. The July trip was a triumph. The upcoming September-October Trip feels excessive in light of...

August...upon our return from three weeks in Maine, our upstairs air conditioning unit rudely expired, along with our water heater...$$$$$

Although the amount of money I have spent this year on both the unexpected and the excessive is staggering, the silver lining is that business has been brisk, and has...so far...kept up with the deluge.

Nonetheless, despite the foolishness of it, I have not cancelled my second Maine vacation. We leave in one week to once again escape the madness of 2018. This will be our home for another three weeks. We will entertain a few friends for part of that time, and for all three weeks I won’t be thinking about how much any of it cost. I will live in the moment at this place...

It won’t be until the drive home when I’ll start worrying about which appliance will blow up when we walk in the door.

Would The Last Person Leaving America Please Turn Out The Lights?

Thirty years ago, this guy and his sorry excuse for a beard showed up in front of the Senate Judiciary committee for his confirmation hearings to become a Supreme Court Judge. Before the hearings were over, his last name had officially become a...verb.

According to Webster’s, to BORK someone is to...“to attack or defeat (a nominee or candidate for public office) unfairly through an organized campaign of harsh public criticism or vilification.” Ever since then, Supreme Court confirmations have become high drama passion plays. If the nominee is from a Republican President, the Code Pink ladies can be counted on to show up for their fifteen minutes of theatrics, warning us all about the large scale slaughter of women about to befall the republic. If the nominee is from a Democrat president, we can count on the NRA to predict the wholesale seizure of guns from law abiding citizens which is just around the corner. Each senator on the committee tries to outdo the other with empassioned speeches, masquerading as questions. When the nominee is a conservative and the proceedings get out of control, Democrats call the chaotic dissent, the highest form of patriotism. When the nominee is a liberal, the chaos is nothing less than high treason! For someone like me who is so easily embarrassed by government, it is about as bad as it gets.

Well, yesterday I actually learned something new. I saw something I had never seen before. I was on a treadmill at the gym...you know, running in place, getting nowhere ( how deliciously ironic ). The hearings were on the screens in front of me with captions at the bottom. It was later in the afternoon, so I had missed the pink ladies and the temper tantrums from the morning sessions. I was watching The Senators making their opening statements. The camera would alternate between the preening Lindsey Graham and the solemn stone face of the nominee. After a while, it got really boring watching his blank expression so I started checking out the various people behind the nominee in the first row of the gallery. The only person of interest was a reasonably attractive woman just off the nominee’s left shoulder. I didn’t know who she was. She looked too young to be his wife and too old to be his daughter. And that was about all the thought I gave her...until this morning.

According to the left, I learn that this woman’s name is Zina Bash, and not only is she insufferably smug, but she spent the entirety of her time on camera signaling to America that Brett Kavanaugh is the approved candidate of White Nationalists. How do they know this? Because she was flashing what everyone in America knows is the white power hand sign.

I consider myself a reasonably informed citizen. I mean, I don’t watch C-Span 24 hours a day, but I read a lot more than the average bear and try to keep up with what’s going on in the world. Well, this was a new one on me. Apparently, the universal sign for A-Ok ...

..has somehow been transformed into some sort of secret handshake of the Neo-Nazi movement. Only, if you spend two minutes researching the thing, you discover that the Anti-Defamation League says it’s a hoax perpetrated by the notorious website 4chan. But, why let the facts get in the way of a great story? If you look carefully at this photograph, the position of her right hand as it rests on her left forearm looks awfully suspicious...

Ladies and gentlemen, it has come to this in my country. 

Here’s my interpretation of this new hand sign...

Actually, the reach of the white power movement might be so much worse than I thought...

Sunday Morning Puns

One day, the monks at the monastery decided they needed to raise money.

Friar Tuck decided to start a florist's shop. It was a success! All the villagers nearby loved to buy flowers from the men of God.

All except one, that is.

The local florist! He was getting run out of business by the monks. He went to the Friar and asked him to close their shop, but they refused.

A week later, he went back again, and begged the Friar to close down the shop - he was going bankrupt, and his family was hungry!

Again, they refused.

Another week still, the florists's mother went to the monastery and nagged them to close down to save her poor old son.

And yet again, they refused.

The local florist was fed up with the monks, and spent the last of his money to hire Hugh McTagart, the roughest thug in town, and well know for doing anything for money.

Hugh went to Friar Tuck, and told him that if he didn't close their florist shop, he'd have to 'persuade' them. Initially, Tuck refused-- but when McTagart began to smash up the shop and threaten the pacifist monks, he caved in and closed the shop.

Just goes to show you; Hugh, and only Hugh can prevent florist friars.

What kind of exercise do lazy people do?

....diddly-squats

I hear that Apple is working on building an electric car, but they’re having trouble...installing windows.

Newspaper headline about a tightrope walker who walked across the Han river in Korea...

Skywalker Crosses Han Solo 

Pragmatism. Are There Any Limits?

Pragmatism. It’s a word I hear a lot these days whenever the subject of Donald Trump comes up. It’s like a get-out-of-jail free card for my evangelical friends seeking cover for their support of a President who seems completely at odds with, well...Christianity. Webster’s defines a pragmatist as someone who is more concerned with the practical rather than the idealistic. In other words, pragmatism is centered around what works, what is utilitarian, not philosophical. In their telling, Trump was far superior to Hillary Clinton, and despite his clear character flaws, they are holding their noses while enjoying a booming economy and a more conservative Supreme Court.

Ok.

So, just so I’m clear...from now on in American politics, it no longer matters what kind of moral values politicians have, it doesn’t matter anymore how reprobate a politician’s private life has been...as long as they deliver the goods, meaning, they serve up your preferred governing philosophy, either conservative or liberal. All that matters now is...what works. Interesting.

Fidel Castro’s Cuba featured a drastic increase in the literacy rate for that island nation. In addition, everyone was given free health care. Are my evangelical/conservative friends ok with Castro? 

Mussolini, by all accounts, was the first and last Italian leader to make the trains run on time. We cool with Mussolini?

Adolf Hitler put the German people back to work, transforming the Weimar Republic’s moribund economy, and restored the pride of the German people. Are we to celebrate Hitler’s pragmatism?

Let me be clear...I am not suggesting that our President is on a par with these three tyrants. I am simply asking if there is a limit to pragmatism? Are we as Christians prepared to except any level of lying, any illegality, any sordid personal behavior, as long as we get a conservative Supreme Court judge? If the answer is yes, then, what happens when the lying, criminal, amoral President...is a Democrat? On what grounds will any conservative or any Christian be able to criticize him or her? 

Therapy Jokes

The results of yesterday’s blog are in and they remind me of the old advice given to first year law students...When interrogating a witness on the stand, never ask a question that you don’t already know the answer to.

Here I was thinking that I would use the power of this blog to sway public opinion in my favor in a private disagreement I was having with my wife. I would take advantage of my powers of persuasion, my reader’s natural affection for Lucy, and the overall wild popularity of dogs in general. When the overwhelming support of my position came pouring in via the comment section, I was planning on saying something like...Huh, wow...it seems like an awful lot of people think we should take Lucy to Maine...

Instead, my argument was unanimously rejected...not only online, but two guys at my office poked their heads in my office yesterday to say...Leave Lucy at home, moron. My defeat was so complete, so humiliating, that I spent much of last night searching the Internet for more horrible Dad Jokes to cheer myself up. If the reader is rolling their eyes right now, all I can say is...you should have thought of the possible consequences when you sided with Pam and threw me under the bus!!

Why can’t you take inventory in Afghanistan?

Because of the Tally Ban.

Why should you never trust a train?

Because they have loco motives.

Everyone should learn sign language.

It’s pretty handy.

What do you do with a dead chemist?

You barium.

Advertising slogan for an auto-body shop...

We come highly wreck-a-mended.

What do you call an owl who does magic tricks?

Hoooooodini.

Big Decision

This blog made a ghastly error recently by allowing National Dog Day to go by without comment. It was this past Sunday, August 26. What could I possibly have been thinking?

You all know of my love of dogs, in particular  Golden retrievers, and specifically...Miss Lucy...

   

You also know that of all of our Goldens, Lucy has been and remains the most...er, unique. She is a bundle of energy, athleticism, and beauty with more nervous ticks than a guy with Tourette’s after three cups of coffee. Therein lies a dilemma. Because she is so high maintenance and such a drama queen, my wife and I are at odds over whether or not to take her to Maine with us in two weeks. I am in favor of it. Pam is not. A decision must be made soon. Here are the entirely valid arguments Pam makes for her position:

1. When you have a dog with you for three weeks, it limits what kind of side trips you can take since you can’t leave Lucy in a strange house (or any house really) for longer than about five hours.

2. Although Lucy loves the lake and delights in swimming and retrieving all sorts of things, she cannot be trusted to not take off into the deep woods or a neighbor’s cabin on a whim...unleashed dogs being a huge no-no in our rental agreement. 

3. It’s one thing when Lucy gets freaked out during a thunder storm and pees on a rug here at home...another thing entirely when she does it in an expensive rental home.

4. Despite the fact that Lucy is an awesome traveler, more well behaved, in fact, than I am on long trips...traveling with her makes finding a hotel mid-trip much more difficult. There aren’t as many dog friendly hotels as you might think.

5. Leaving her alone in a strange house for even short trips into town makes Pam nervous. What if there’s a loud sound and she goes crazy? What if she starts barking and disturbing others?

All of these are valid arguments.

My counter arguments are mostly emotional.

1. I miss her too much if we are apart for three weeks.

2. SHE LOVES THE LAKE...

  

3. She’s a great snuggle buddy...

So, as you can see, my wife has the better argument. What shall we do? I welcome your input.

Just A Thought...

Here’s a thought for your consideration this morning.

Back in the days before the internet, if you were of a mind to attack someone’s character you had essentially two options...gossip or the U.S. Postal Service. I am speaking here of normal people trying to bring down a neighbor, not celebrities and politicians who have always had the media at their disposal. If you really had grown to despise Joe down the street, you could start talking him down behind his back with the well chosen phrase or half truth...gossip being as ancient a tool for this purpose as is known to man. But, if you wanted to step up your game you could type a poison pen letter and make copies of it, stuff them in envelopes, take them to the post office and send them to everyone in the neighborhood with no return address. Back in the day, someone actually did this to my Dad when he was the pastor of Winn’s Baptist Church. We never found out who sent them, but they did a lot of damage. But, each of these methods take time and planning. They take a certain meticulousness and premeditation.

Not so anymore.

Now, with one careless and casual click of the mouse, you can destroy a reputation. Facebook, Twitter, online chat rooms and the like offer everyone an anonymous microphone.

I don’t know about you, but I much prefer the days when character assassination was a retail business.

One Less Patriot

I don’t remember an awful lot about my high school years. But I do remember one assembly like it was yesterday. We had all gathered in the gym to hear a man speak. He was a navy pilot from Virginia who had been shot down in Vietnam and spent years in a POW camp being tortured by his barbaric captors. His name was Paul Galanti. I listened to him tell a sanitized version of what must have been a hellish nightmare. He spoke of what it means to devote yourself to something greater than comfort. As a seventeen year old kid, I’m not sure I understood it all. How could I? 

I thought of Paul Galanti when the news came yesterday of John McCain’s passing. Few of us are ever asked to make such a sacrifice for our country. Every man wonders whether or not he would hold up under similar pressures. Would I have the courage? Or, would I break and grovel for mercy? I am supremely grateful that I never had to find out.

I bought John McCain’s memoir, Faith of Our Father’s, practically the day it went on sale. It took me barely three days to finish it. It was horrible. It forced the reader to confront the absolute worst of human character, man’s inhumanity to man. Anyone who survived such an ordeal would be forgiven for becoming bitter and angry, for spending the rest of their lives in a mad rage at the world. But, John McCain spent the rest of his life serving his country in the best way he knew how. To listen to his colleagues from both sides of the aisle testify to his character is a rare and beautiful thing.

I was never a huge McCain fan politically. I found his maverick schtick a bit tiring at times. But the one thing about the Senator that I always respected was this...the man was hard wired to put his country first. I may have disagreed with some of his conclusions, but I never doubted that he came to those conclusions out of a sincere desire to do what was best for his country...not himself. And really...in politics, what more can we ask of our leaders? We are never going to agree on everything, but is it too much to ask that our political class endeavor to advance what is best for America rather than what is best for the Democrat or Republican Party? In other words, I’m looking for...patriots.

In 2018 it has come to this...I only want one thing from politicians...devotion to the country instead of themselves or their party. With the passing of John McCain, there is one less such politician.

My Life’s Work

Put a group of ten strangers in a room for thirty minutes and the most popular question that will be asked by practically everyone of them is...So, what do you do? I have always had a difficult time coming up with a satisfying answer to this question. I know what they want to know... what do you do for a living? Even that question is hard to answer directly. Financial planner? Investment advisor? Financial services provider? I could say something like...I work with people so they can retire without ending up on food stamps...or, even better...I make sure that if my clients get hit by a bus, their families won’t get thrown out onto the streets...or...i make sure that my clients don’t outlive their money. All true, but unsatisfying, primarily because I am much more than what I do for a living...and so are you.

Don’t get me wrong, our jobs, the source of our livelihood, is an important part of who we are. But it’s not the only part, or even the most important part of our lives. So, what is? Well, it might be different things for different people. But for me, the answer is simple...

     

This is my life’s work.

The problem with answering the question, What do you do? with your occupation is that it assumes that the best way to describe yourself is how you make money rather than why you make money. 

 Men and women have struggled to answer two big time questions since the dawn of time...Who am I...and..Why am I here? I don’t claim to have all the answers, but I at least have a clue. First, my faith suggests to me that I am to have a relationship with my creator. Further, because of my faith and it’s teachings, I have a pretty good idea of how I am to treat other people...with charity, compassion and grace. Slow to anger and quick to forgive. But secondly, when Pam and I were lucky enough to have children, my purpose on this earth became crystal clear to me. The clarity of that moment has never faded. My job was to raise my kids up to be the very best people they could possibly be, to be better, in fact, than I was. Of course, to accomplish this would take no small amount of...cash. So yes, hard work, putting in the hours was necessary. But, only up to a point. 

Please don’t misunderstand my point here. I am not claiming that I was a perfect father or even that my two kids are perfect kids. All of us have weaknesses and shortcomings. But, I would like to give some unsolicited advice to any young fathers out there who may be reading this. Don’t fall for the lie that making more money equals being a better parent, that providing for them is more important than being with them. If I could sum up what I know about parenting in one phrase it would be...don’t miss the play, be at the game, show up at the concert. Actually...that’s three phrases, but you get the point. Sure, you might give up a chance to make more money, but when your kids look up and see their Dad cheering them on...there isn’t enough money in the world, man. 

So, the next time you’re at a party and someone asks you, what do you do? Whip out your cellphone and show them a picture of your kids.

Here, say proudly, this is what I do.

A Proper Ending To Dad Joke Week

So, today brings to a close a week long homage to Dad Jokes and bad puns which I hope you have all found entertaining. Even if you haven’t, I’ve enjoyed them...and that’s the important thing. But, I’ve needed a proper sendoff, a joke that captures the spirit of this effort to distract us all from the dumpster fire that is 2018 America. I think I’ve found it...

A pirate walked into a bar and sat down for a drink.

The bartender asked, "Gee you look awful, are you feeling okay?"

"I feel fine, why do you ask?," said the pirate.

"Well your leg is half missing, you have a wooden peg leg!"

"Arrr that happened a few years back, cannonball came right through the ship and took out me leg."

The bartender looked down at the pirate's hand, "But your hand, it's a hook! How did that happen?"

"Arrr well I was in a sword fight and he got me left hand, but I feel okay now."

"Okay, but how about your eye? You have an eye patch on it!"

"Arrr well just a few days ago I was looking up and a seagull pooped right in me eye."

The bartender, slightly confused asked, "How did that put out your eye?"

The pirate raised his arm, "It was me first day with the hook..."

The Smell of Progress

I visited San Francisco once. Took the wife and kids. Beautiful city. My son spent the first week of his Honeymoon in the area. By all accounts, they had a great time.

But there’s something...rotten... in Frisco.

This beautiful city has benefitted greatly from its proximity to Silicon Valley. The coffers have swollen so much at City Hall, it’s annual operating budget is now over 11 billion dollars. And from the smell of things, it looks like they will need every dime of it.

San Francisco is perhaps the most progressive demographic in all of America. It’s government has enjoyed virtually unanimous one party as well as one ideology rule for most of my lifetime, and with such hegemony of thought comes the occasional overreach. Sometimes, the government there just lets it’s progressive freak flag fly...like a while back when the powers that be decided to de-criminalize public defecation.

Ivan P. Freely, Assistant to the Under-Secretary of Homeless Affairs, explained the new policy this way:

These are merely basic, ordinary bodily functions, no different than sneezing, or coughing. When we make it illegal for the homeless to urinate or defecate in public, we are guilty of elitism, of enforcing our homeowner-centric ethos on the dispossessed.

Unfortunately, the burgeoning homeless population of the city has taken San Francisco up on its new libertine attitude towards public sanitation. Now, the cost of cleaning up the mess has been, er...piling up.

That’s twenty pounds of fresh human waste, deposited on a public sidewalk, collected by some very brave volunteers. But, public minded volunteerism has its limits. So, the city government...flush...with cash, has decided to hire five elite sanitation engineers to deal with the growing public health implications of 7,000 people using public sidewalks as an open latrine. Here is an actual photograph of them in action. And no, I am NOT making this up...

Before you jump to the obvious conclusion that you have finally discovered the absolute worst job in America, you better sit down. The annual compensation for these public servants is...$184,000. It’s hard to begrudge these poop policemen their outrageous pay packages though. How much would you demand to be paid to literally shovel shit all day? But, that’s not all. San Francisco, being a city fully in the throws of the power of government spending to cure every ill, recently announced an even more ambitious plan to deal with the number one and number two problem...

• A $72.5 million-a-year street cleaning budget
• $12 million a year on what essentially have become housekeeping services for homeless encampments
• $2.8 million for a Hot Spots crew to wash down the camps and remove any biohazards
• $2.3 million for street steam cleaners
• $3.1 million for the Pit Stop portable toilets
• $364,000 for a four-member needle team
• An additional $700,000 set aside for a 10-member, needle cleanup squad, complete with it’s own minivan

Unless my math deceives me, that’s almost 100 million dollars. According to the city, San Francisco has roughly 7,000 homeless citizens. So, the city could write every homeless person a check for over $14,000 a year with the cash they are spending to....clean up after them.

Homelessness is no laughing matter. Neither is encephalitis and typhoid fever.  Far be it from me to advise a city as Progressive as the City By The Bay, but I’m thinking they better wipe out this problem sooner rather than later. The long suffering property tax-payers out there might eventually get tired of having this problem dumped on them.

But, on the other hand, at $184,000 a year to shovel crap...who says the government can’t create good paying jobs??

In a rare moment of candor, Assitant to the Under-Secretary of Homeless Affairs, I. P. Freely, did acknowledge the difficulties associated with being a self-described Mecca for the homeless...

Sure. Compassion isn’t easy. This sanitation problem is a tough one. We were offered several competing ideas of how to fix it but none of them is guaranteed to come out right in the end.. 

In other words...it’s a crapshoot.

What To Do?

Bad news is back...with a vengeance.

The horrific grand jury report out of Pennsylvania detailing over 1,000 sexually violated victims at the hands of over 300 Catholic priests is a gut punch to any person of faith. I am not a Catholic. But this news comes as a blow to all Christians. Indeed, it is a devastating indictment of organized religion, that men, ostensibly called out and set apart to serve God, would use their power in such a vile and despicable way. As I have read the various accounts of this story, it occurs to me that this is but one state. Nearly 10 percent of the priests in that state were involved in this abomination. To do the math of extrapolation is a sickening project.

It is easy to fall into despair at such news, especially when you understand that this story fits easily into the pattern of our day. We have been buffeted day after day with stories that have rocked our faith in the great institutions of our nation and civilization. A short list of those institutions that have taken a beating of late would include...

-the news media

-the FBI

-the NFL

-Congress

-the Presidency

-the constitution 

-truth

-men

-and now...#metoo women

The prudent and imminently logical approach would be to assume that everyone out there is a lying, cheating, self serving hypocrite. That way, you would no longer be disappointed by the next betrayal. But, prudence and logic can only get a person so far. 

Of course, some have become activists of some kind or another, choosing to fight this thing or that thing. Others have just become angry and cynical, turning inward, withdrawing from the mess. Neither of these options appeal to me. First, activism only seems to feed anger and resentment. Nobody is persuading anyone of anything. Activism merely places you in a tribe of like minded people where your anger and resentment can be fed and nurtured. Cynicism takes you out of the fight altogether, and moreover..is a horrible way to live. I read a great piece in the New York Times the other day that made the case that, at the end of the day, we love our political anger, because righteous indignation has always been a comfort in confusing times. So, what to do?

You will have noticed lately that both my blogs and my social media commentary have been riddled through with diabolically corny Dad Jokes. Yes, I confess and declare my guilt. But, when I look at the running back and forth on Twitter and Facebook, I’m thinking that a few cringe-worthy puns couldn’t possibly hurt, and may very well help to lower the temperature. The interesting thing I’ve noticed about your response to these pathetic attempts at humor is that people from a wide variety of political and religious views seem to agree that they are, in fact, pathetic. Bad jokes seem to unite people. Apparently, Republicans and Democrats both find themselves laughing at jokes which are so bad, they’re good. So, even if it’s for the briefest of moments, if by posting a few jokes I can bring the warring factions together for five minutes to share a reluctant laugh...I’ll take it.

Whistling past the graveyard? Rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic? Perhaps. But...we all have a job to do.

...What lies at the bottom of the ocean and twitches?

A nervous wreck.

...I am terrified of elevators.

I’m going to take steps to avoid them

...Have you heard of the band 1023MB?

They haven’t got a gig yet.

Miscellaneous...

I’m feeling quite miscellaneous this morning. Perhaps it’s collateral damage from transitioning from leisure to work. Or maybe it’s just the salmon I had last night. So, this post might not be as coherent as you’ve come to expect...admittedly a low bar.

So, you know how when people go on vacation and flood Facebook with idyllic pictures of all of their adventures? Yeah, well...guilty as charged. But, I was thinking maybe I should do an outtake blog, and show you some of the embarrassing pictures that didn’t make the cut. Isn’t that a more honest presentation of what really happened on vacation?

Here’s the view I had every time I looked down at the dock trying to find a fishing hook.

Although I did manage to catch one decent sized bass, this is what I caught 99% of the time...hand sized crappie. The embarrassing part of this was that I thought it worthy enough for a photograph.

This was supposed to be a picture of something else, but I had the camera view backwards.

Now, here’s an example of a photograph which the family will gaze upon years from now and ask...what the heck? Dad must have taken this.

Of course, this is a must-take photo that every vacationing family longs to capture...proof that we drove our car to Maine.

Here’s that picture you take for the sole purpose of hoping you capture your son falling into the water on his first ever attempt to stand up on a paddle board. 

Ok, that’s enough of that.

Now, a few great jokes I’ve come across lately...

Our Dad died because we couldn’t remember his blood type. As he died, he kept encouraging us to ‘be positive’ but honestly it’s hard without him.

I just burned 2000 calories. That’s the last time I leave brownies in the oven while taking a nap.

“Doctor, there’s a patient on line 1 who says he’s invisible.”

“Well, tell him I can’t see him right now!”

I Need Help

Consider what a strange and mysterious thing is the human mind. 

This morning my eyes sprang open at 4:40 am. After a brief perambulation to the bathroom, I got back in bed with the Tony Orlando and Dawn song...Knock Three Times...firmly ensconced in my head. I can assure the reader that I haven’t listened to that insipid tune for at least 30 years now, but there it was playing over and over inside my head. Not only is this sort of thing annoying, it is also inexplicable. But, there are many such inexplicable things that happen in our brains. Take puns, for instance.

Ok, a friend of mine posted this awesome picture on Facebook yesterday, with the following problematic comment:

Those of you who get our Christmas card/letter know that I consistently brag about my wife’s tremendous legs. Well, here’s a photo from our wedding—now you understand why I’m so proud.

Immediately, his friends started making comments about how far into the doghouse he was going to be if his wife sees the picture, etc...all in good fun. But, the minute I saw this picture, I reminded myself that I had just returned from three weeks in Maine. I hadn’t done anything productive in almost a month. I had work to do. I could not let myself get distracted by this golden punning opportunity. But, there it was...staring me in the face. Damn Facebook!!

See, here’s the thing. Puns are like a bag of Doritos. You’re sitting there at the table with an open bag. You know that the only way you’re not going to slam the entire bag is to never reach for that first Dorito. Because, once you’ve had the first one, you’ve got no chance.

My first offer was weak, not fully formed. Basic. Entry level stuff:

Dont expect me to ...pony up...your bail money if she sees this.

I told myself that I was done, that I could walk away. And for a while I actually did. I made a few calls, set a couple of appointments, studied several account statements. An hour or so later I could feel one coming together somewhere in the primordial soup of the brain, gestating, coalescing in the strange way that all puns do. Suddenly, I was typing:

If you had asked my advice before posting this, I would have said, “Ney”

I quickly busied myself with some fund research, some due diligence work, trying to convince myself that I was done with this Facebook foolishness. But now I had the bright red Doritos bag firmly in both hands, and my hands looked like I had spent half a day finger painting traffic cones. Then, my friend made the terrible mistake of complimenting me...which, of course, had an effect similar to waving a bag of donuts at a fat kid...

Thanks! The last thing I want to do is...stirrup...trouble.

It was at this point where I knew I was too far gone to fight it. The bag of Doritos was lifted high above my head and I sat there with my mouth wide open, like a four day old robin, trying to catch that last corner of crumbs, not even caring that half of them were hitting me in the face...

As one husband to another, I can say that posting this picture is a classic symptom of hoof in mouth disease.

But, in your defense, at least you haven’t gone out and had an affair with your Secretariet.

Just trying to keep things light here. With the climate we are in today, posting this sort of picture might make people think you’re an insensitive husband...and nobody wants to be...saddled...with that.

It was a shameful performance. I had lost all control, done in by a nameless, mysterious and ultimately toxic force...the pun. So, in full repentance mode, I opened the Bible for comfort and it fell open to James 1:26...

If anyone thinks he is religious and does not...bridle...his tongue, this person’s religion is worthless.

Sigh....

A Relic From My Immature Past

So, yesterday I made the adjustment back to the real world in the most direct way...by getting started on paying this month’s bills for Richmond Financial Associates. In so doing I found myself going through an often neglected filing cabinet looking for an old receipt, when I stumbled upon a relic from my past, one that served to remind me of just how far I’ve come, how far I have progressed in my personal and professional development...

 Behold the Vimeo Strafer2000, still in mint condition. Yes, there once was a time when I wasn’t beyond this type of asshattery. This device used to be a fixture on my credenza...back when I was far less mature. I still remember stumbling upon it on a pranks website run by a company out in California which specializes in this sort of thing and with which I once did considerable business. Back in the day, this was something that I simply couldn’t resist. Thankfully, I have moved beyond this sort of juvenile hijinkery...mostly. But, just in case you’re interested, I suppose I should let you know how the Vimeo Strafer2000 worked.

First, you had to plug it in to your computer. The device was equipped with a camera on the front just above the four rotating nerf rockets. Once deployed, the view from said camera would appear in a pop up box in the lower left hand corner of your computer screen so as not to be noticed by anyone other than the user. Using the arrow keys you could adjust the rotating guns and aim them precisely at whatever target you desired. So, I could be sitting at my credenza with my back to my office door, and say..Doug Greenwood walked in my office. With a few taps of the arrow keys, I could bring Doug’s big bulbous head into the target circle, then by simply pressing the space bar, unleash all four nerf missiles at him without even turning around to acknowledge his presence! I’m telling you, this was cutting edge pranking technology at the time. And while I once thought it was awesome and took great delight in blasting my coworkers with it, as you might imagine, they weren’t entirely thrilled. Eventually pressure was brought to bear on me to retire the Vimeo Strafer2000, which I did. I put it in the filing cabinet and never gave it another thought...until yesterday. Yes...it still works. But, I have moved on from such childishness...mostly. I now realize how inappropriate it is for someone entrusted with millions upon millions of people’s life savings to carry on in so unprofessional a manner...I think.

So, while I no longer deploy the Vimeo Strafer2000, if you or someone you know has not yet evolved to my level of maturity...I am entertaining bids for her sale. 

Back To Work

Back to work.

As is my custom, after unpacking the car yesterday afternoon, I headed into the office to sort through three weeks of mail and messages and reintroduce myself to my profession. Things were pretty much how I left them, thanks to my Uber-Assistant who makes these sabbaticals possible. The transition back into reality should be smooth this morning. 

The 815 mile drive home was uneventful, making it the only such uneventful trip in recent memory. No torrential downpours, no traffic backups, no accidents, and no car trouble. Lots of country music, Cheese-Its and mentos. No news..also in keeping with my vacation custom.

Going three weeks without listening to or even reading any news is a unique experience. The only journalism I consumed since July 22nd was the Lincoln County News’s August 2nd edition. Since it was a local weekly, there were no recognizable bylines and no word of Trump. However, I did learn perhaps a bit more than I needed to know about the new K-5 program director at the Lincoln County YMCA, and the amazing leniency of  Lincoln County’s finest, who gave out four warnings for every actual ticket issued for speeding and other moving violations. However, this prosecutorial discretion seems to have had the desired effect on the locals since they all drive 5 mph slower than the posted speed limit. At first this is a source of great frustration, but after a week or so, it’s like...what’s the rush?

The weather for this vacation was a 7 on a scale of 10. The first week was cloudy and rainy, unfortunate for Patrick and Sarah. But after that, largely dry and sunny. It was warmer than normal, with a couple of days actually topping out at 90 degrees. There was humidity, an unwelcomed imposition, but not Richmond style humidity. Our last two days were more in keeping with our past Maine experiences...high temperature of 72, and not a cloud in the bright blue sky.

We ate too much. I haven’t stepped on a scale yet, but I expect the news won’t be good. Frankly, I don’t care. Whatever weight I have gained over the last three weeks represents the tribute that vice pays to virtue, everyone wants to eat right and lose weight, but when restraints are cast aside on vacation, we all return to our natural state. What we all really want is delicious food and lots of it! So, I will shed the extra pounds over the next 30 Days, and then reaquire them happily when next I go to Maine...from September 14 - October 6. If two three weeks vacations in Maine seem excessive to the reader I should admit that you are right...it is excessive. I’ve never done it before. The money spent on this indulgence more appropriately could have been enlisted into building up my retirement accounts, or financing Pam’s new kitchen, or any number of other more worthy and cost effective projects.

But...I am 60 years old. As of this moment, neither of my children have presented me with a grandchild to spoil rotten. I don’t want or need a bigger house. I’m not a car guy. The house will be paid off soon, leaving me officially debt free. So, I can either shovel money into savings for that rainy day I have been warned about since I was 5...or I can spend six weeks on a lake in Maine with people I love,  putting on temporary weight in exchange for permanent memories.

Easy decision.

The Last Day of Vacation

The last day of vacation is always a bummer. No matter what you tell yourself, instead of relaxing and being fully in the moment, in the back of your mind you’re already packing. For the first time in three weeks you find yourself concerned about what time it is. The day takes on a manic check list feel...like you’re trying to cram in too many things into too short a period of time. The key to a successful LDOV( last day of vacation ) is to prioritize. For example, here is a list of the things I would like to do today:

Catch a 5 pound bass.

Kayak.

Go for a 3 mile run before breakfast.

Have blueberry pancakes at the Camden Deli.

Have breakfast at Crissy’s.

Have ice cream at River Ducks.

Play a third round of golf at Rockland Golf Club.

Take a nap while bobbing up and down on the lake in a float.

Go swimming.

Have toasted tuna rolls for lunch served on the dock.

Have a fried clam lunch at Marriner’s in Camden.

Figure out a way to get that guy across the lake to take me for a ride in his pontoon ultra light plane.

Even better, talk him in to teaching me how to fly it!

Read the local newspaper while sitting in the window seat of the Camden Library.

Have a picnic lunch of lobster rolls on the lawn at the Camden Hills State Park.

Go shopping for the perfect hat and coffee mug one last time at The Smiling Cow.

Have a beer at Cuzzy’s.

Sit on a bench beside the harbor master’s house in Camden and watch the schooners come and go for an hour.

Have a cup of coffee and a whoppie pie in a booth at Moody’s while reading the latest edition of the Lincoln County News.

Listen to the loons.

Catch a glimpse of the Pemaquid bald eagle one more time.

Grill a steak for dinner.

Grill some shrimp for dinner.

Have a large bowl of seafood chowder at the Newcastle Public House for dinner.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a lot to do today and I better get to it...