Tough Week To Be a Virginian

One of my mother’s most frequent and reliable warnings to us kids was...Be sure your sins will find you out. We all knew exactly what she meant...that no matter how airtight your alibi, no matter how slick and calculated your story, no matter how completely you may have covered your tracks...the truth had a way of muscling itself into the light of day eventually. In Mom’s telling, this was a result of the hand of God. She took seriously the words of the Apostle Paul...God is not mocked, for whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap. 

It’s been a tough week to be a Virginian. Our governor has been splashed all over television and computer screens across the fruited plain, first for his cavalier endorsement of infantacide followed quickly by his racist medical school yearbook photos. In just a few short days, Ralph Northam went from an obscure southern governor who nobody had ever heard of to the most notorious politician in the country...and when that country includes Donald Trump in the Oval Office...thats saying something.

Of course, in politics often the coverup is worse than the crime. With Northam, his tortured response to the photos has been a disaster. First, he apologized but couldn’t or wouldn’t reveal which racist character he was dressed as, the guy in blackface or the dude in the Klan getup. Then, upon further review and no doubt on the advice of his PR team, he denied either one was him with the ludicrous formulation...I vividly don’t remember. At this hour, he still clings to power, hoping that the infinitesimally short attention span of the American people will wipe this whole kerfuffle from everyone’s consciousness by the middle of next week at the latest.

Let me attempt a defense of our embattled liberal democrat governor.

First, with regard to the now distant memory of his infantacide radio interview. In its immediate aftermath, my Facebook wall exploded with outraged pro-life memes. Several people tried to make the case that the governor supported delivering completely healthy babies onto a table, then allowing the mother one last chance to back out of motherhood via a three minute discussion, after which the healthy infant would be murdered in cold blood. This wasn’t at all what he was saying. If, like me, you cling to the notion that all life is sacred, even disabled life, his actual comments were objectionable enough without this unfair twisting of his words.

With regards to the yearbook pictures...This is a full stop horrible thing. To discover that the man who hurled accusations of racism at his opponent just over a year ago would be caught dead as either one of these men in the sickening photograph is a grave disappointment, not to mention an example of staggering hypocrisy. Yes, it was a long time ago. But, I went to college a long time ago too, and I saw my share of bad things at parties. Although I was no choir boy then or now, my parents did a good enough job of filling my head with the idea that racism was an indefensible evil, that the sight of anyone in a Klan robe or blackface would have been an automatic order to leave said party, let alone participate in such a thing.

But...do I think that Ralph Northam is a racist? That’s an entirely different question. Looking at the evidence of his life over the past thirty years, I would say, no. Is it fair then to punish him with exile from his duly elected position in government because of such an old transgression? I would hate to be judged by practically anything I did and said 40 years ago. On many subjects, 21 year old Doug Dunnevant was an intemperate moron. But, Doug Dunnevant isn’t governor of the Commonmwealth of Virginia. If you live by identity politics, if your political rise was helped along by being a merchant of the grievance industry, eventually you die by identity politics. I don’t believe that Ralph Northam is the same man he was in 1984. I believe that like all of us, he has progressed in his thinking and in his character since then. But honestly, his humiliating performance since this yearbook story broke has damaged him more than his yearbook decisions from 35 years ago. His stubborn attempt to cling to power, his willingness to demean himself and his office with these ridiculous and tortured explanations of the unexplainable have revealed him to be the personification of everything we all hate about politicians, their inability to just tell the freaking truth. 

...on second thought

I sat out this morning to write a blog post about how our political discourse has become dominated with bad faith arguments. I was going to suggest that this technique is designed to enrage us rather than advance an argument. One side takes the most extreme position of the other side, then presents it as representative of main stream thought, insuring that both sides will end up at each other’s throats and more divided than ever. In the heat of the moment, I’ve done it a time or two myself. But, half way through my thought process on the subject, I realized that it was futile. In the world we live in, my chances of changing anyone’s mind about anything involving politics is less than zero. So, screw it.

On a much brighter note, we have all survived January. Our new year is now fully up to speed. We are one month closer to better things, more moderate temperatures, and the beginning of spring training. My health is good. Business is prosperous. I love my church, and I just made down payments on two summer vacations. My wife has been on a culinary roll all month with a series of new recipes she has found. I’ve dropped a few pounds. My grown children are both happily married and contributing to their communities. I’m writing a very cool story in my spare time, and although I haven’t given any money away so far this week, the search for the right person has been fun. This week ends this afternoon with a cigar date with good buddies at Mona’s...which is much better than a sharp stick in the eye. 

Carry on...

A Harbinger of Things to Come

Despite the fact that my calendar clearly says that it is January 31, 2019...for some demonic reason, a multitude of Presidential hopefuls from the Democratic Party have started making way too much noise, way too early. It has been a sobering reminder of what life will soon look like in these United States...

First it was Elizabeth Warren, offering herself as a candidate with the aw-shucks, I’m just a regular Jane who is gonna go get me a beer video, which no doubt gave her Ivory League colleagues the vapors, but certainly convinced me that she is authentic! Then, Michael Bloomberg, former mayor of New York and full time billionaire started making noise. Kamala Harris, the African American female senator from California became the automatic front runner when she threw her hat into the ring. Being both female and black is basically the Holy Grail of democrat politics these days, easily trumping Warren’s Native American schtick. If Ms. Harris would only declare herself transgendered, she could wrap up the nomination before the kickoff to the Super Bowl! Of course, then word came that Howard Schultz, he of the Starbucks fortune, would be a candidate of the Independant Party. Democratic Party big wigs are having a fit at the prospect of an untested Jewish billionaire gumming up the 2020 works, imagining the possibility of Schultz dividing the progressive vote to the point that Trump could win a second term. If that were to happen, Starbucks would become the first major corporation to be hated by both republicans and democrats.

From what I have been able to gather, at least among the declared candidates so far, the 2020 contest will be to see which candidate proposes the most free stuff. So far, I’ve heard about free college for all, a guaranteed minimum income for all, Medicare for all, and free ice cream on Friday night. All of these new freebies will be financed by some sort of income tax hike or a wealth tax on billionaires. But it won’t cost regular people like us a dime...however, the working definition of regular people remains nebulous, at best.

The Republican Party has been quiet. The presumptive nominee is the current occupant of the White House.

As I begin contemplating what the 2020 campaign is going to be like, I die a little bit inside. A a voter, I begin the contest completely opposed to Donald Trump’s re-election. And yet, my ability to support his competition is at present 0%. So, once again, I trudge along in the political wilderness, resigning myself to a two year, scorched earth campaign which will produce a disappointing result. Somewhere, somehow, I need to get my hands on this bumper sticker...

Kicking and Screaming

What I am about to tell you is a confession of sorts, and I will have to work hard not to bore you to tears while telling it, since it involves the single most boring subject in all of the universe...computers. More precisely it’s a story about modern office technology vs. tried and true old-school methods of organization. You can probably guess which side I’m on. But, yesterday, my efficiently tactless assistant put her foot down...and now I am launched into the modern technological age kicking and screaming. Here’s how it happened.

Many years ago, back before cell phones were invented, my assistant was my wife. When I hired her, she was instantly traumatized by the haphazard condition of my files. You know...random things filed under K for ...kids, that sort of thing. She determined to tear the whole confused mess down and start from scratch. It took her six months before she was satisfied with her work. I couldn’t believe how much easier it was to find stuff once Pam’s organizational zeal had been unleashed. The linchpin of her system was this chart she had designed and stapled on the inside cover of each hanging file, containing every single fact you could ever want to know about the specific client in question. It was a beautiful thing that transformed my business life. Eventually, Pam tired of her Uber-frustrating boss and quit. Her last words were something along the lines of...Well, I’ve done all I can do, dear.

A series of assistants would follow with varying degrees of success. Then, six years ago, I hired Kristin. The thing that makes her unique is the fact that I never have to wonder what she’s thinking, and she can talk smack every bit as well as I can...no small feat.

So, yesterday, I had the idea that I needed to update Pam’s summary sheet thing. It had been abandoned at some point after her exit and replaced by a Rube Goldberg system of post-it notes, and scraps of paper stuffed into overstuffed files, yours truly being the only human being on Earth capable of understanding where anything was. I broach the subject with Kristin, suggesting that she design a new summary sheet to staple to the inside cover of each hanging file. She nodded her head that she would make an attempt, then disappeared into her office. Thirty minutes later she was back in my office with that expression she gets when she’s about to call me an idiot, but is struggling to find words that aren’t too harsh. As I recall, it went something like this...

Ok, this thing you have asked me to do is...dumb. I will do it if you insist, but its stupid. It’s pre-historic thinking. You do realize that almost everyone else on the planet, including everybody in this office is using computerized client management systems, right? There’s 
this thing called RedTail which can do everything you want and tons more automatically. So, sure, I can do this very dumb thing you’ve asked me to do, or you can bring your business into the 21st century. Your call.

At this point, I put up a reasonably spirited defense of my system, pointing out that it had served me quite well over the past 36 years, and that I had already heard the RedTail pitch years earlier and considered it an overpriced and far too geeked out and complex for my style. Each argument was met with an eye roll and a snappy rejoinder. Finally she threw out this line...This system would make it infinitely easier for you to spend more time in Maine. Before the end of the day, she had my credit card and had signed me up.

I will hate every minute of the transition. My eyes will glaze over at every confusing glitch of the implementation. But, I suppose I will eventually wonder how I ever got along without it. That’s how the technology game works. You fight and claw against it’s encroachment, you vow to never let it’s tentacles ensnare you. Then one day you wake up and hear your wife asking Alexa to put coffee on her grocery list and realize that you have lost not only the battle but the entire war. Kicking and screaming, indeed.

A Challenge to my Readers

Sometimes its easy when observing the world to come to the conclusion that we are doomed. Reading the news is an invitation to nihilism. The reason this is so is because the news is almost always bad. Good news doesn’t attract eyeballs, so only the worst examples of human behavior make the cut. This isn’t anything new, of course. It has always been so. Human beings have, since the dawn of time been drawn to bad news like moths to flame. Still, we all know of good decent people. They are everywhere, all around us. Each of us could rattle off a list of a dozen people we personally know who are beautiful, generous, caring people. Hardly any of us actually know a rapist, murderer, or thief. But, when we are constantly informed of their exploits, they seem omnipresent, lurking behind every bush. We become fearful and guarded, withdrawing a bit from our fellow man. How can we fight this withdrawing? Is it possible to reclaim optimism?

Yes. Here’s how...

This is something I started doing many years ago at the urging of my Mom. I don’t do it every day certainly, but whenever I start feeling a bit too big for my britches,(one of my mother’s frequent accusations about her youngest child) it always comes back to me. It starts with the basic understanding that we humans are essentially selfish at our core. On the subject of total depravity, my mother was Calvinist to the core! To overcome our innate selfishness, we had to develop strategies to fight it. Her’s was simple...give money away. At first, I thought she was crazy. She had no business giving money away, I reasoned, since she never had enough of it to start with. But, Mom would always counter with...if generosity depended on wealth, only rich people could do it. Why let them have all the fun!?

So, here’s how it works. You go to the bank and withdraw an amount of money to give away. The amount isn’t as important as actually withdrawing it. It will vary widely from person to person. To some, giving $10 away would be a sacrifice, to others, $100 would be chump change. I always pick a number that at least makes me careful about just who I decide to give it to. Anyway, for argument’s sake, let’s say you withdraw a $100 bill. Now, the task before you comes with a deadline...you have a week or maybe two to find someone who needs a break, someone who you encounter in the normal course of your life for whom your $100 might make an enormous impact. But, who? That’s the most difficult part of this exercise. 

We human beings, even the best of us, have a tendency to plod through life with blinders on, head down, resolutely striving from one task to the next. Now with our cell phones, we are even less aware of those around us. The hard part of this is looking up...paying better attention to the people around us. In the past I’ve given this money to a harried mom in line at the grocery store, a hunched over elderly man in line at the pharmacy. Other people I know who have done this have paid for people’s meals at fast food restaurants. One guy paid for the next 25 cars in line behind him at a toll booth! There’s no right way or wrong way to do this...although I prefer not giving money to the professional pan handlers on Broad Street!

Here’s the payoff. It’s not only the recipient who benefits. It’s...you. When you let loose just a little to your grip on what’s yours, you discover the joy of generosity. You become more grateful for what you’ve been blessed with, and you discover the thrill of being a blessing to others. There’s no feeling in the world like knowing that you just might have made someone’s day by being their answer to prayer. 

Pro Tip....bonus points if you can manage doing your giving anonymously.

So, to anyone reading this, I make the challenge to you...give some money away this week. Keep your heart and your eyes open for someone who needs a blessing. Then come back here...anonymously...and share your story with the rest of us. That will be good news worth reading.

Dad Jokes III

For the third time in less than...oh, who’s counting? That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, once again I am prepared to publish the very latest, up to the minute collection of the world’s greatest Dad Jokes. Just so we are all aware of the rules...a Dad Joke only qualifies as such when it is super cheesy, while at the same time being...kinda, sorta funny. That’s harder to do than I make it look. Anyway, in no particular order, here they are. I will try my best to refrain from editorial comment:

1. Why was the blond staring so intently at the can of frozen orange juice?

    Because it said...concentrate.

2. Did you hear about the Dad who decided to give away all of his old batteries...free of charge?

3. Son: What’s the leading cause of dry skin?

    Dad: Towels

4. Wife: Honey, can you put the cat out?

     Dad: Sure...But, I didn’t even know he was on fire.

5. Son: Dad, can you put on my shoes?

    Dad: I can try, but I don’t think they will fit me.

6. Have you tried eating a clock?

    It’s time-consuming.

*7. What did one snowman say to the other snowman?

     Do you smell carrots?

8. Son: Dad, do you know where I left my sunglasses?

    Dad: No. Do you know where I left my dad glasses?

9. I would tell a Chemistry joke...but I’m afraid of the reaction.

* Sorry, but this one is really funny.

A Morning Not Fit For Man Nor Beast

I’m not sure if in the entire history of civilization dogs have ever been more popular than they are at this moment. They are celebrated everywhere, from Twitter to Hollywood to the newly ubiquitous dog parks which have sprouted up all across the fruited plane. I could not be happier. With the notable exception that many newly married millennials are much more interested in purchasing a dog than they are in presenting grandchildren to their impatient parents, I believe this new love of dogs is a beautiful thing.

Except on mornings like this...

Yeah, Short Pump has been inundated with record amounts of rain over the past 12 months, to the point where our fenced in back yard is an oozing, sodden, quagmire. With the recent sub-freezing temperatures, we have finally been able to let her back there for her morning constitutional. She has loved the cold and stays out there forever, doing her business, but also running around manically and sniffing all of the new smells she has been missing of late. Then, when she comes back in her paws are merely cold, with not a drop of moisture or mud to be found. It is a glorious.

Of course, this being Short Pump, Virginia...suddenly its 60 degrees outside and pouring rain. So, the back yard is out. At 6:15, Lucy plods down the stairs and stares me down as I sit on the sofa getting ready to take my first, magical sip of coffee. I cannot win a stare down with Lucy. Nobody can. She focuses those gigantic brown eyes at you and within minutes you are putty in her paws...Do you need to go pee, girl?... I ask, a ridiculous question, since we both know the answer. She immediately runs over to the back door, turns around and answers YES with those eyes. It is then that I inform her that we will not be going into the back yard today. No no...we will be trudging out into the front yard, in the driving rain and darkness for her first bathroom trip of the day. I put on my Columbo overcoat, grab a poop bag and launch out into the storm.

This is the part of dog ownership which makes you question your blind devotion. Lucy is fascinated by the rain. It must release a treasure trove of new smells, because when its pouring down outside she becomes obsessed with sniffing. Sometimes she even stands perfectly still and sniffs the same inch of ground for over a minute...which seems like an hour in dog years. I can plead all I want for her to get a move on. I can say, While we’re young, Lucy...while we’re young until I’m blue in the face, but it will not hurry her. She will simply not be rushed. By the time she finally squats, she is soaking sopping wet, her paws drenched. I look like an extra in On The Waterfront, and both of us smell like wet dog.

Once we’re back in the house, the five minute drying off process beings, towels strewn everywhere. I begin to sweat, I can feel my heart beating. When I finally return to the sofa, my coffee is cold. As annoyed and flustered as I am after all of this, I know that my frustration will have a very short shelf life. Within minutes, she will jump up besides me, flash me a goofy smile, then curl up next to me and let out one of those deep and peaceful sighs. All will be forgiven. I will forgive her for taking forever. She will forgive me my impatience.

See, that’s the thing about dogs. They are incapable of judgement, they don’t know how to hold a grudge. They don’t even know what a grudge is. They never get mad at you, let alone stay mad. Why would they ever get mad at you? You’re the greatest person in the history of the world! How do I know this? The eyes. It’s right there in their eyes.

Referees...Enemies of the People!

I’m not really a big fan of professional football. There isn’t a team that I root for or against. The NFL is basically the thing I fall asleep to on Sunday afternoon. College football is much more fun and enjoyable to watch. But neither the college game or the pros rouse anything approaching the passion in me that baseball does. This, I am fully aware, makes me an outlier, my baseball obsession being the source of many an eye roll from family and friends. That’s ok. It’s a semi-free country.

Despite my lukewarm embrace of the NFL, I do usually watch the playoffs. The games are more intense, and the outcomes more immediate. I watched parts of the second half of the Rams v Saints game. Then, I watched the first and last quarter of the Chiefs v Patriots contest. There were loads of truly awful referee behavior in both games. The infamous no-call on a blatant pass interference against the Rams essentially cost the Saints a trip to the Super Bowl. And, that forearm that flashed by the helmet of Tom Brady might have been the worst roughing the passer call of all time. If that’s roughing the passer, then I suppose bad breath should be roughing the passer as well.

But, as I was watching the ending of both games, it occurred to me that bad calls and missed calls are actually the best ending a game in 2019 could ever have. It fits so nicely into the overwhelming desire we all have now to be outraged. What better way to end an important and consequential game than with an accusation of referee misconduct, better yet...bias. The no call against the Saints wasn’t just a bad call, it was Fake Officiating!! The phantom roughing the passer call wasn’t just the bad judgement of a referee who had a bad angle on the play, but nothing less than a conspiracy to promote the Patriots!! Don’t believe me? Well, there’s a website some where which will spill all the details of the running 19 year plot to promote the false narrative of Tom Brady and Bill Belichick’s alleged greatness. The Patriots wouldn’t have won a single championship without this gigantic and intricate conspiracy, which has involved not just the officials, but hundreds of players over nearly two decades. The amount of bribes paid out to pull of this great scam must run into the billions! I mean, seriously...how else could New England win with so many white guys on offense??

So, now my Facebook feed is lit up with people who claim they won’t be watching the Super Bowl because they are sick of Brady and the Patriots. Another group claims that they are now Rams fans by default. Anyone but the Patriots!!

Fair enough. The Rams are a terrific team, with many outstanding players. In fact, they have better players top to bottom than the Patriots do. So, by all means, become Rams fans for the day and cheer them on. But, whatever you do...don’t wager a dime against Tom Brady.

Score One For the Internet

Like millions of other people, I play this game. It’s essentially an on-line digital version of Scrabble. I’m decent at it, although I lose more often than some of the people I play. Nevertheless, I find it a pleasant enough diversion and a passable mental calisthenic. But, the best part of the game is the opportunity it affords to meet people from all over the world. Take Natalia, for example.

She was suggested as a suitable opponent by the slightly creepy Words With Friends algorithm several months ago. I was assured that she possessed a similar skill level as mine. So, I took them up on their recommendation , something I rarely do. I prefer playing old friends...like Pam Lawrence...who, incidentally, is a beast!

I won our first game rather handily. During our second game, I decided to strike up a conversation using the chat feature. She had a very Russian-sounding last name, so I took a chance and asked her where she was from. I discovered that she was born, raised, and still resides in Moscow. Over the time we have been friends, it has been fascinating to discover things about her life in the old Soviet Union. She has been equally curious about what it is like to live in America. We talk mostly about our dogs and the brutal Russian weather. We have now played almost 30 games. I’ve won 18...Words With Friends keeps a running tally of our competition. But, yesterday a thought occurred to me. She has gotten better and better with each game and now I struggle mightily to beat her...and English is her second language!!! Suddenly, I felt intellectually inadequate. I shared this revelation with her and her reply was classic Natalia...It’s ok, I try to improve skills by playing game!

But, here’s another thought that has occurred to me. Although it is fashionable these days to decry the societal damage being inflicted upon us by the internet, and some of the charges are no doubt true, Words With Friends is an example of something that connects people from all over the world in positive ways. Anyone can play. It doesn’t matter what your politics are or your religious beliefs. There is no violence, virtual or otherwise, no blood and gore. Just two people trying to find a way to use the letter Z on a triple word score tile. While doing so, sometimes conversations develope that bring people closer together by highlighted the many things that we all have in common, our universally held desires for good health, happy family life, a good dog, and better weather.

Score one for the internet.

My Weird Hobby

I have a strange hobby. In my spare time, I enjoy writing stories. It’s terrific fun to create a universe of characters, then propel them along a path of your own design. It’s very much like being God, if you think about it, a heady experience. Sometimes, these stories evolve into full length novels...https://doug-thetempest.blogspot.com/2015/09/momentum.html. But, that’s where it always ends. A Life of Dreams sleeps in the bottom drawer of my night stand, neatly typed, unknown and unread.

About a year ago, while sitting at the end of the dock at Loon Landing, the idea for a strange story came into my head, Maine lakes being famous breeding grounds for strange stories...see: Stephen King. I didn’t write a word down until I got back to Short Pump, but once I started, the story came pouring out of my head faster than I could write it down. In no time at all, 25,000 words had brought a dozen characters to life, complete with a gruesome murder. Then, as quickly as the story had come to me, it abruptly left. Whatever reservoir of creativity it had come from suddenly dried up. I haven’t written a word since...over six months now...nothing.

So, I took a chance and sent it to a buddy of mine who writes a little himself and who I trust would have the guts to tell me the truth, asking for his opinion. Is this even worth trying to finish? Is it nonsensical? Are there plot holes big enough to drive a truck through? I must admit that his response surprised me...he loved the thing, unequivocally loved it. Now I want to finish it. I’ve read it through a couple of times trying to get swept up in the narrative and find the loose thread of thought that I lost six months ago. Hopefully I will find it and be able to bring it back to life.

The question is...why? When and if it gets finished, it will move in next to A life of Dreams in my nightstand. I lack the connections and determination required to become anything but a self published writer. Part of the reason for this is that I’m not starving. I run a successful business. I write for fun, not because I need money. But the other part is...the only part of writing I enjoy is...the actual writing. All of the business of publishing bores me to tears. So, as soon as the writing is over, my interest level drops to zero. Maybe one day when I’m retired I’ll become interested in pursuing that part. But for now, I’ll stick to writing. Maybe I’ll publish this current project like a serial on my blog...a new chapter every Monday. That might be fun. I should probably figure out a way to charge readers like 25 cents per chapter, put a pay portal on the blog or something like that. Can that even be done? Ha!

Here’s chapter one...free of charge!!  https://doug-thetempest.blogspot.com/2018/07/chapter-one.html

My Companion

4:47 AM and my eyes spring wide open at maximum consciousness. This is seldom a good thing. Sleep is a mysterious thing. I find that when I am the busiest and most exhausted at bed time, that’s when I sleep poorly. On lazy days, I sleep like the dead. So, I  come downstairs, do my morning chores, then sit down with my mug of coffee while it’s still blackest night outside. 

Then, this knucklehead, who normally prefers to lounge at the foot of our bed all morning long until I have to virtually drag her downstairs for her morning constitutional, perambulates down the stairs, and presents herself on the sofa all bright eyed and bushy tailed as if to say...what’s up, dad? I need to pee. I oblige her dutifully. I throw on my coat, grab a poop bag and head out into the culdesac to collect her latest bowel movement. Five minutes later, we are back inside. She takes a drink of water, then plants herself next to me on the sofa...out like a light.

What a life this one has. She sleeps like it’s her job. She probably logs at least 18 hours of shuteye per day. The other 6 hours is divided between eating, sniffing, grooming herself in unseemly ways, playing with me, and being vigilant against a whole host of invisible phantoms that conspire against her sanity. Just because we cant actually see these monsters doesn’t mean they aren’t out there ready to destroy us all if it wasn’t for her diligence. Just to remind us that she is always at work, sometime she will rouse herself from a snoozle nap, lift her eyes towards the ceiling and some unseen thing and let out a soft growl and an inside bark or two. Then, her mission complete, she will settle back again into her nap. Sometimes I wonder what color the sky is in the world where Lucy lives...

Ancient and Strange Memories

A photograph was shared on my Facebook page today from the Friends of James River State Park group. This is the beautiful State park that occupies the piece of land that used to belong to my mother's family, the Dixons. The old house that my great grandfather built and where my grandparents used to live is shown in a grainy black and white photograph, taken from the cow pasture that used to run along the side of the property where the family graveyard was...and still is. Greenhill was the spooky house at the end of a long dusty dirt road.

My first memories of this place were when I was five or six. Other family members reading this might dispute what follows, but after 55 years, its the best I can do. On that little back porch there was some sort of refrigerator which contained small 8 oz. glass bottles of Dr. Pepper, my grandmother's favorite drink. Legend had it that she drank one at 10:00, 2:00 and 4:00, just like the bottle instructed. Whenever we came for a visit, she would give me one. She always wore an apron. Never saw her without one, and whenever she would wrap me in her arms for a hug, I would always breathe in the smell of the last meal she had prepared. The long picnic style table which was in the kitchen, right across from the wood stove would always be crammed with people whether it was meal time or not. Whenever I watched  my grandfather eat a meal it was the most awe inspiring thing in the world for a little boy. Here was this strong bull of a man devouring whatever was placed in front of him like his life depended on it. It was as if he was worried that someone might take it from him before he was done. Never saw any man before or since eat that quickly!! After breakfast he would take me to watch him milk the cows and throw slop into a trough for the pigs. Every once in a while he would let me sit behind the wheel of his Desoto parked in one of the barns. I remember it had a push button transmission. I thought that my grandfather was the greatest man in the world. 

For a little boy, Greenhill was a wonderland. There were animals everywhere. There was fishing to do down by the river. Every second was spent outside, partly because what five year old wouldn't want to be outside?? But part of the reason I spent all my time outside was because I was afraid of the inside of the house. The bedroom where we kids stayed whenever we visited had a single free hanging light bulb which splashed strange shadows all across the dark red walls. Was it dark red or dark green? It's a little hazy, but whichever color it was, it was dark and foreboding. Consequently, I always woke up before daybreak and escaped down the stairs where no matter the hour, I would always find my grandmother, apron in place, busy with something. She would talk to me and pat me on the head. I remember it being so comforting...

This is a picture from the river side of the house way back at the turn of the 19th into the 20th century. The man leaning back in the chair is John A. Dixon, who I believe was my great grandfather. To look at this picture is a strange experience. What would it be like to travel back in time just for one day at that very spot and have a conversation with my ancestors? How amazing would that be?

I'm confident that many of my more family-history aware relatives from the Dixon clan will correct any factual errors in my recollections. But, its been fun today to be reminded from where I came... 

The SOTU Show Has Been Cancelled

So, apparently this year’s State of the Union show is the latest casualty of the government shutdown, proving that old adage that behind every dark cloud there’s a silver lining. Don’t get me wrong, the fact that our government has been partially shutdown now for over three weeks remains a colossal failure of our democracy, and an embarrassment to anyone who claims devotion to self-government. Nevertheless, the cancellation of this year’s SOTU is a giant step forward for the country. Let me count the ways...

When this nation broke free from the British monarchy, it threw off the presumptions of authoritarianism along with it. The Founding Fathers, with the exception of John Adams and the now universally lionized Alexander Hamilton, constructed a form of government that divided power three ways with the intention that anyone’s attempt to seize and concentrate power would be met with institutional and constitutional opposition. Stalwarts of liberty like Thomas Jefferson and James Madison--Virginians-- were contemptuous of anything that smacked of monarchy and resisted mightily the concept of titles and both would have been appalled at what the modern imperial presidency has become. When George Washington chose retirement over the continuance of his power, he set the gold standard of presidential leadership consistent with liberty.

Ever since FDR chose his continued power over retirement, the Presidency has been exalted over the other branches of government. Calvin Coolidge wouldn’t recognize the office were he alive to witness the ridiculous pomp and partisan caterwauling that define the modern SOTU spectacle. 

For the first 137 years of this Republic, the speech was written by the President and sent to Congress to be read aloud. Leave it to this nation’s first truly progressive and authoritarian president...Woodrow Wilson--alas, also a Virginian-- to muck it all up. Wilson was of the belief that he knew best what the country needed and felt unduly constrained in his intention to transform it in his progressive vision by the notorious straight jacket known as our pesky constitution. Endowed with an exalted view of his powers of persuasion, Wilson thought it would be a grand idea to give the speech himself, thinking that the power of his presence might be enough to sway opinion. Thus was born the modern SOTU speech, which has devolved into an embarrassing partisan pep rally. Democrats sit on one side, Republicans on the other. The Vice President and the Speaker of the House sit behind the podium looking like two dour bookends, framing the President as he gives his platitudinous address, roused from their stupor every two minutes by undeserved standing ovations. Tight shots of congressional leaders looking grave and concerned fill our television screens making all of us wonder how any of these lightweights ever were elevated to such lofty heights. Ordinary citizens sit next to the First Lady up in the gallery, serving as props for some point the President wishes to make. Each bland resuscitation of political talking points is met with thunderous applause by the President’s party as if he had just revealed the secret to immortality. 

So, Nancy Pelosi’s decision to cancel the 2019 edition of this debacle will go down as her second greatest contribution to American Democracy, just below her eventual decision, at age 100, to finally retire. Let Mr. Trump write his speech, hire James Earl Jones to read it, and broadcast it over the radio. Not having to watch 535 preening politicians jockeying for face time will probably add a half a point to the country’s GDP!

Beach Week 2019

2019 is the year of the Dunnevant family Beach Week vacation. It’s a biennial event. Nineteen people, renting an 8 bedroom, 8 full bath house somewhere on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, is not for sissies. Finding a house which is large enough, close enough to the beach, suitably endowed with a proper kitchen, a pool and hot tub, a massive enough living area to accommodate 19 people for a sit down dinner, one that doesn’t cost a small fortune, and one which is available during the one week that 19 people can all agree on is no small task. So, to that end, the search begins the first week of January and is greatly assisted by my wife and her dazzling array of Google docs, spreadsheets and organizational life hacks.

The first family email went out a few days ago with the aforementioned Google doc attached. It has prompted a flurry of responses. Already, huge obstacles have appeared, not the least of which is something called the...Great Beach Refurbishing Project of ‘19...whereby, the storm ravaged beach between milepost 11 and 21 will endure a re-sanding project over a 5 month period which happens to include the entire summer. The department, bureau, or agency in charge of this project has declined to provide any information on when exactly it will begin or specifically where it will begin. So, if you rent a house anywhere between milepost 11 and 21, you run an incalculable risk that during your chosen week the beach in front of your house might be closed, or worse...inhabited by scores of illegal immigrants doing the dirty, hard jobs that Americans just won’t do, right at your doorstep! The burning question now is...do we roll the dice and take a chance on renting a house in this trouble zone?? What are the odds that our vacation will be ruined? 

To establish those odds...if I understand how Vegas works...you first have to calculate the amount of beach mileage affected, and then divide that by the number of days in the five month window. Then, since the work is being done by an agency of government, you have to factor in delays, impact studies, public hearings, work stoppages because somebody saw an endangered species crawl into the dunes somewhere, grandstanding press conferences by local politicians trying to either claim credit for the work or blame somebody else for the debacle that it has become, and finally... the potential of a government shutdown. What is a vacation planning family of 19 to do?

Despite all of these obstacles...we will figure it out. That’s just what we do. We air all of our concerns, we balance competing preferences, we all make the required concessions and compromises necessary to accommodate what is best for the majority of us, consistent with our objective of a happy and fun family vacation.

If the Dunnevant family, a tribe known far and wide for our raging opinions and contentiousness, can figure this out...how come the people in Washington DC cant?

Winter in RVA

This is essentially every snowstorm forecast for the City of Richmond over the last 2000 years. There’s this thing called the rain/snow line and it lives here in the winter. Therefore, depending on where it decides to sit can be the difference between making our local weather folks look like geniuses or making them look like clueless buffoons. It’s also why the best weather people in RVA are the ones with the most humility and good humor...in other words, Andrew Freiden...in a rout.

I live where the little white dot is on the map. Which means, while I might only have 2 inches of slush on my deck at the moment with sleet and rain falling, I can get in my car and drive 4 miles up to the Rockville exit on 64 and watch 6-10 inches of snow falling. Or maybe, by 4 o’clock this afternoon this fickle R/S line will have changed its mind and drifted south. 

Godspeed, Andrew. You have the toughest meteorologist gig in the country.

My Son-in-Law and the Government Shutdown

This Saturday morning finds us preparing for the second big snow storm of the season here in Short Pump. Back in early December we were visited by 13 inches of the stuff. Today, our crack team of local meteorologists have gone out on a limb to predict the possible damage with their usual confident precision...2-10 inches. While we wait, Pam and I will be working at my church’s thrift store this afternoon.

Meanwhile, my daughter and her husband are busy enduring the government shutdown, which has deprived them of my son in law’s income since he is a park ranger at Congeree National Park, and as such, an employee of the Department of the Interior and furloughed for three weeks now. I inquired of them last night how they were doing, and my daughter’s response was so typical of my oldest child. She calmly assured me that so far they have been able to get by due to extreme frugality and putting off necessary car repairs, etc. She considers themselves fortunate since they have the benefit of her income and a savings account to fall back upon if it drags on into February. She pointed out to me that they know others who are far worse off because of the shutdown. Her biggest concern was the impact this all was having on her husband, who absolutely loves his job and feels very disrespected at the suggestion that he is non-essential. Who wouldn’t be? His concern is for the health of the park and the visitors that he cannot serve while sitting at home waiting for Washington to come to its senses. While he ponders getting a side hustle as an UBER driver, the incompetent boobs in DC stage photo op news conferences to revel in their pettiness. The fact that Congress voted to guarantee all furloughed workers back pay once this is all over, while reassuring, only underlines their incompetence since it essentially is saying that the federal government is fully on board for paying 800,000 employees to stay at home and do nothing. Brilliant. All of this over 230 feet of wall on a 1900 hundred mile border. All of this over a 6 billion dollar appropriation out of a 4.4 Trillion dollar budget.

I’ve heard all the arguments on both sides of this issue, both the sane and the insane ones. None of them on either side are convincing. This conflict is about politics and politics only. It’s posturing. It’s gamesmanship. It’s each side trying to win an unwinnable argument. Trump cares very little about the border, he cares much more about appearing to keep a campaign promise and owning the libs. The Democrats sense a winning hand and have dug in their heels due more to a visceral hatred of this President than any real concern about border security. Meanwhile, 800,000 puppets sit at home trying to figure out how they are going to pay the rent and put groceries on the table.

Who is at fault? Well, if the President’s actual words can be trusted...eye-roll...then he is. He is on record as being proud of his position and has vowed to keep the government shut down indefinitely. He seems intent on declaring a national emergency and building the wall without approval or the required appropriations. If he does many on the right will cheer. But for those of you who cheer the loudest, I wonder how you will feel when some future Democratic president decides to declare a national emergency with regards to say...gun violence? Live by national emergencies, die by national emergencies.

Friday Stress

As we all know, Friday’s can be the most stressful day of the week. Deadlines often fall on Friday. Important meetings fall on this day for some reason. Many of the worst sell-offs in stock market history have occurred on Fridays. To that end, as a public service, I have gone to my friends at The Far Side for some handy tips for dealing with the added stress associated with this final day of the work week...

As usual, they never disappoint.

An Old Man Pet Peeve

It has been quite some time since I have written a blog about a pet peeve. Now that we find ourselves firmly in the dreadful grasp of winter, I figure that now is as good a time as any. This particular pet peeve runs the risk of making me sound like an old man screaming at the clouds, but, when has that ever stopped me in the past?

Here’s the thing...when I hear people arguing about politics, especially the roll of government, tax policy etc..I get the distinct impression that most people who argue such things on the internet, and doubly especially—younger people, have come by their opinions solely by parroting their favorite pundits, or their ability to perform Google searches faster than their competition. Their thoughts always seem to boil down to cut and paste hot takes from someone on National Review, The Daily Kos or Vox. Honestly, if I came of age in the internet era, perhaps I would do the exact same thing. But, I didn’t. I attended college during the heyday of libraries and the dreaded card catalogue, where finding a hot take took you all night. As a consequence, if I wanted to figure out what I believed about such weighty matters as economics or political theory, I was reduced to reading source material...and believe me, source material on these topics is dreadfully dull reading. For example...

During my four years at the University of Richmond I read the following works about economics and politics:

Das Kapital

The Wealth of Nations

The Road to Serfdom

The General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money

The Federalist Papers

Capitalism and Freedom

The Gulag Archipelago

The Communist Manefesto

Witness

The Prince

Leviathan 

Back then I must admit that I didn’t fully understand every word I read, but I picked up enough to develope a world view on matters of geo-politics and economics. When Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged was all the rage, I picked up a paperback copy and labored through the thing. Although there were parts of it that I liked, I quickly rejected her ideas because I didn’t believe them to be consistent with my Christian faith, and that was that. Over the years, some of my views from all this reading have changed, modified by changes in the world. But, the point is, before I could have enough confidence to develope a reliable opinion, I felt the need to at least attempt to understand the source material upon which all the debating was about...not someone’s review or critique of the material, but the material itself. Maybe I’m wrong, but my trick knee tells me that the most self assured keyboard warriors on these topics haven’t spent ten minutes in any of these books and never will. Their views on politics and economics are forged on websites that reinforce what they already think about such matters. This parroting of hot takes is a bipartisan practice. People today tend to form their opinions about politics base upon how they feel about what makes sense to them, then find pundits and websites which agree with them and presto...instant infallibility.

I am an unrepentant reader. I will forever be a consumer of ideas. They fascinate me. It makes no particular difference to me whether or not I agree with an idea, I just want to know about it. When my daughter came back from three months of teaching in China a few years back, as a joke she brought me a little red book of the sayings of Mao, the butcher of Communist China...tiny little thing about the size of a pocket New Testament, which she said were on sale practically everywhere in Beijing. Guess what? I read it! Total authoritarian bullshit...but I couldn’t resist.

I’m not saying that people who have never read any of these books don’t have honest and heartfelt opinions on these things, and I’m not naive enough to think that very many people care at all about what John Maynard Keynes had to say about macroeconomics, or what exactly Frederick Hayek’s fears were about the power of the state. But I sure would feel better if more people would take the time to avail themselves of something more substantial than a Google search of hot takes before deciding what they think about our complicated world.

The Promise of New

A couple of days have gone by now since I sat in a folding chair on the aisle at Hope Church and heard David Dwight deliver a message entitled The Promise of New. I’ve wanted to write about it but haven’t known where to start. I’ve listened to a recording of it on the church website twice, taking notes, each time...not wanting to miss anything. As the son of a minister and someone who because of this accident of birth has been in church since he was born, I sometimes feel as if I have heard every sermon topic at least a dozen times. I’ve listened to all types of preachers, heard every style imaginable. Some have been inspiring, others not so much. Some have insulted my intelligence with moronic formulations and non-sequiturs. Others have sounded like scolds who could hardly stand to look at the horrible sinners before them. Still others gave off the clear impression that they had figured it all out, every anguishing cruelty of life, every cosmic contradiction, every confusing disappointment was simply a matter of too little faith which could be remedied with simplistic sloganeering. 

But the message I heard Sunday was perhaps the best thirty minutes I have spent inside a church in a very long time. What follows is an attempt to explain why nearly three days later it still dominates my thoughts. I doubt very much that I will do the thing justice, but I must make the attempt, if for no other reason than to provide myself with a reasonable record for future reference.

It may seem odd that after such a glowing introduction I should begin with a criticism...but I do have one nit to pick. David began with a request for a show of hands...How many of you have made Resolutions? When he got very few responses, he changed his question to...How many of you have set goals? Then he laughed and made a suggestion that there was little difference between the two. WRONG. In fact, there is a world of difference between a resolution and a goal...goals being things that are quantifiable, while resolutions are nothing more that worthless, airy abstractions. I resolve to lose weight, is a resolution. I intend to lose ten pounds by June 30, is a goal. Goals are actionable and failure to reach them represent a glaring failure of discipline. Resolutions are wishes, and nobody cares! But, enough of quibbling. 

David then proceeded to a verse of Scripture from Matthew where Jesus prefaces a remark about the future with the throwaway line...At the renewal of all things. He then went to great length to explain the import of the idea that Jesus intends to ultimately make all things new and what that concept actually means for us in the here and now. The first part of this making things new business is the redemptive power of Christ to transform the human heart, the evidence for which is all around us in the personal testimony of millions. If we accept this power as true, it gives us every reason to live a life full of hope rather than despair and gloom. Here’s where his words got very personal for me. When he points out how we have every reason for optimism over despair, and hope over gloom, he is essentially calling into question my default point of view about life. I must here confess to being a natural cynic. I have spent a lot of time throughout my life assuming the worst out of most people, especially people who hold great power or wealth. My reasoning is based on the quantitatively sound principle that no one has ever gone broke undervaluing the corruption and duplicity of the human heart. But as practical as this clear-eyed view of human beings might be, it is a terrible way to...live. To buttress his point, he put a quote up on the screen by someone named Eugene Patterson, a man who he often quotes, and after Sunday...someone I have determined to get to know...

It is far easier to languish in despair than to live in hope. For when we live in despair we don’t have to do anything or risk anything. We can live lazily and shiftlessly with an untarnished reputation for practicality. It is fashionable to espouse the latest cynicism. If we live in hope, we go against the stream. All acts of hope expose themselves to ridicule because they seem impractical, failing to conform to visible reality...Hope commits us to actions that connect us with God’s promises.”

I could have gone all year without hearing this. This Patterson guy was essentially talking to me, calling me out.

Then, as he always seems to do, David boiled the truth of the matter down to an illustration that I could grasp. After asking the rhetorical question, When you read the news today, do you find reasons for gloom?...to which this packed house of wealthy Presbyterians merely nodded. (It occurred to me that if I had been in a Pentecostal church, this hanging curveball would have been greeted with shouts and hand clapping...in a black church, the crowd would have wailed, Lawd, YES!!! In unison.) He then continued by pointing out that embracing hope did not mean becoming pollyanish simpletons and ignoring the messes of the world. But, it did mean not being overcome by the mess. He put it this way:

I have found in my life that gloom and discouragement grow all by themselves just like weeds in my lawn. I don’t have to do a thing to make weeds grow. They just do it all on their own. But, Ive been told that if you really want to get rid of weeds in your yard, you shouldn’t waste all your energy on the weeds. Rather, you should concentrate on growing the large yard full of green grass. When you do so, eventually the healthy green grass will overwhelm the weeds to the point where you hardly notice them anymore. In other words...don’t live in the weeds, don’t live in despair and gloom, rather cultivate hope.

He began to wrap up with the observation that a good indicator of whether or not your life is guided by hope rather than despair is how you would answer this question...What are you excited about? It’s a hopeful question since it suggests the expectation of something wonderful in the future. I have asked myself this question for the past couple of days and have decided to do a better job of pursuing the answers.

David then closed with a discussion of how to fight the inevitable post Christmas letdown by quoting a poem from a black pastor from the 1960’s who I had never heard of, Howard Thurmond...paying especially close attention to the very last line...

When the song of the angels is stilled

When the star in the sky is gone

When the kings and princes are home

When the shepherds are back with their flocks...

The work of Christmas begins

To find the lost

To heal the broken

To feed the hungry

To release the prisoner

To rebuild the nations

To bring peace to the nations

To make music in our hearts

Reading back over this, I see what a woeful job I’ve done of recreating the power of the moment. David did it so much better. I can only hope that the truth of the moment remains and that maybe, just maybe, someone reading this might be encouraged to try to cultivate a little more hope in 2019.

Closing the Book on Christmas

Christmas is never fully over until everyone uploads their photos to the shared album in the cloud...is probably the most 2019 sentence I will ever write. Imagine what someone from the 1970’s or even 1980’s would make of such a sentence? Be that as it may, it is a fact that pictures serve as prima facie evidence that something actually happened nowadays. As we all know, if it’s not posted on social media...it probably didn’t really happen. So, over the last couple of days my wife has prompted all six members of my family to upload any and all relevant Christmas pictures into the Dunnevant Christmas 2018 shared album. There are 122 of them. I have gone to the trouble of selecting the few which I believe tell the best story, the photographs that capture the moments that I want to recall in my dotage years. I hope you enjoy them.

My wife will be mad at me for including this picture of the tree in the library with a strand of lights burnt out at the bottom...but for me this is emblematic of the electrical problems which plagued us this year. Not only were there random strings of dark lights, but our high dollar programmable window candles seemed possessed by evil spirits. Although each of them were programmed to turn on at 4:00 every afternoon and turn off at 11:00...each window seemed to have a mind of its own. Some would cut on in the middle of the day, others not at all, still others seemed convinced that the optimum time to deploy was at 2 in the morning. Made in China, indeed!

Most of the time this space on our hallway wall features a piece of iron work that spells out the word Welcome in sweeping cursive. Over Christmas, it becomes festooned with every Christmas card we receive from friends and family. It’s one of my favorites parts of the holiday. Most people send picture cards today, a great development. (As a side note, I have made a resolution to use the word, festoon, in a sentence at least once a day in 2019. You should too!)

These are the crazy people who make up the Dunnevant side of our family, me and my siblings seated in the middle together where Mom and Dad used to be. It is a particularly wonderful picture this year, I think. The little ones on the front row arent so little any more, but at some point they will be supplanted by new little ones—-from this page to God’s ears. The only thing that keeps this photograph from being perfect is the absence of Lauren and Catherine, the California contingent of the clan. Hopefully, they will make it when we take this shot again in 2020.

Here I am about to give Lucy and Jackson the treats that will ultimately be responsible for raging diarrhea in both. And, that is all I wish to say on the subject.

Both beasts competing for my attention and affection, while being careful not to make eye contact with each other...and ongoing theme.

When the White’s came over to unwrap presents, unplanned singing broke out in the library. Christmas carols were in the air, accompanied by myself on the guitar, my son on his new melodica, and Isaac on his ukulele. The latter came in quite handy when for reasons that escape me, Pam and her sisters decided to perform a rousing rendition of Mele Kalikimaka. The expression on my mother in law’s face captures the magic of that particular moment.

This dog...

Happy kids...

Happy kids...

Even more happy kids...

Beautiful and happy wife...

Family date night in Ashland...

One of the approximately 50 cups of hot chocolate consumed during the 48 hours that we had them all in our house.

My two dog loving boys...

Ok, that it. Officially done with all things Christmas until next December.

Dog Wars

Off to a sluggish start in 2019. The week of Christmas celebrating at the Dunnevant house was a delight, but also exhausting. I feel like I haven’t quite fully recovered from a house full of humans and two large, ponderous dogs. Speaking of which...

So, the combination of Lucy and Jackson is a witch’s brew of psychological dysfunction. Neither of these wonderful animals swim in the deep end of the intelligence pool. Lucy labors under the weight of nervous agitation, while Jackson rumbles and stumbles through life with the befuddled male swagger of a clumsy adolescent. Put the two of them in the same house for a week, and they both change, and before long both become passive aggressive, territorial beasts. Jackson insisted upon warning us about every single dog, person or leaf that happened to pass in front of our house...to the point that Pam actually taped sheets of paper up on the windows on either side of the front door to block his view! Neither of them could abide any of us showing undue affection to the other. This was particularly hard on Lucy, not to mention hypocritical, since normally she isn’t big on snuggling. Jackson, on the other hand, is a snuggle machine...

Luckily for us, the first thing on 2019’s home improvement agenda was to be replacing the upstairs carpet...so the four bathroom accidents which occurred last week were inconsequential events. But, in my opinion, none of them were accidents. They were all territory-marking, tit for tat demonstrations of dominance. What?...so you think you got more scratches then me today??...well, get a load of this!!!

Unfortunately for Jackson, by the time he left yesterday, the poor boy had the runs, done in by all the competition and excitement. Not to be outdone, Lucy wakes me up at 3 o’clock in the morning today whining at our bedroom door..which she never does. I sleepwalk her downstairs, put on a coat and take her outside only to discover that a cold steady rain is falling and Lucy is walking at an unusually brisk pace. To make a long story short, Lucy now has sympathy runs. But, this too shall pass.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to crank up the necessary energy level to face a new business year, my 37th trip around the calendar in the investment business. Here’s hoping there are no bathroom accidents at the office!

Be Better

As we stand on the threshold of a new year, the human mind naturally inclines itself towards schemes of self improvement. To that end, that hardy perennial, New Years Resolutions, rears its head. I am not immune from this annual excursion into wishful thinking.

Some of us have elevated the politely bemused, cynical retort to an art form of sorts, but that’s a subject for another day. With regards to the resolutions thing, I have never been able to improve on something I wrote on this day in 2012. Whenever I read it I am reminded of just how very flawed I am. But I am also encouraged by the fact I have made some progress since this was written. My project of self improvement moves slowly but it does move. I share it below in the hope that it might be an encouragement to someone, and as another memo to myself entitled...Be Better...

I could use less cynicism. It might be nice to look on the bright side every once in a while. It might help to be less critical, more empathetic, less of a smart-ass. My contentment level would probably rise if I was less obsessed with the future and more invested in the present. I should attempt to be a better listener, offer my opinions less frequently, and not hold those opinions in such high regard. I should pursue friendships with more vigor, hold grudges less tightly. I should spend more time in prayer. I should read the Bible more and the Drudge Report less. I should recommit myself to my hobbies, more golf and fishing, fewer excuses. Greater enthusiasm for my profession, more thankfulness, less fatalism. I need to escape the treadmill of politics since it only breeds frustration and resentment, and give the guys on the other side of the aisle the gift of my indifference