Four Simple Suggestions For Our World

Anyone alive today who hasn't been trapped in a sensory deprivation tank as part of some CIA experiment over the past five years knows that something is terribly wrong with our country. No, not necessarily our politics...but us. We human beings are a mess. We treat each other terribly. We have become mean, rude, impatient, hateful, inconsiderate, selfish, greedy, narcissistic animals. But anyone who suggests solutions to our behavioral problems using either politics or religion as the cure gets summarily dismissed as a partisan. The truth is that there is no simple solution at hand that will reverse a centuries old degradation of manners. What ails humanity is complex beyond understanding. However, the world's longest journey begins with a single step. Just because the simple things are...simple, that doesn't mean they are worthless.

What follows are a few such simple suggestions for my fellow Americans. I have given this a lot of thought and think that these are things that everyone of us are capable of doing. They require no changes to our political views, and no religious epiphany. The adoption of these suggestions will not transform our nation into paradise, but I believe the result of their adoption would be a life which would suck far less. Here goes...

Don't litter.

Seriously, how easy would it be to hang on to that receipt from CVS until you get to the car instead of flicking it unto the asphalt of the parking lot as soon as you leave the store? When you litter...when you use God's creation as your garbage can...you are essentially saying you don't care about anyone except yourself. It's the Olympic gold standard of selfishness. Not only should you never litter, how about picking up someone else's litter when you see it? You're hiking in the woods somewhere and out of nowhere you come upon an empty bag of Cheetos. It's not enough to mutter in disgust, "stupid idiot...what was he thinking??!!" Pick the thing up!!! Maybe we should all never leave the house without a trash bag for the car to have a place to put trash that we find on the street. Imagine how cleaner our world would be if we all picked up someone else's litter every day?

Pay more attention to old people.

They are everywhere. People are living longer. It's nothing anymore for people to live well into their nineties. As a result, old people are all around us. You see them at the grocery store with their electric carts. You see them shuffling along at the mall. You watch them struggle with the hose at the gas station. How about we all start honoring them by looking after them? Ask them if they need any help with anything. Offer to help them across the street. Look in on them more often than we do. Not just our own parents, but our elderly neighbors. A lot can be learned about a society by how they treat their seniors. By any standard, we don't measure up to the basic standard laid out 4000 years ago...honor they father and mother. So, how about we pay better attention to them. Bring them a meal every once in a while. Cut some flowers and drop them by. Offer to cut their grass when it gets terribly hot. Honor them.

Give single parents a break.

It's happened to all of us. We settle down in our seat on the plane, start flipping through the Sky Mall magazine, then our hearts sink when we see the harried, single mom board the plane with a crying infant and an obnoxious toddler in tow. Our hearts sink because we are pissed at how their presence on the flight will inconvenience us. The fact is that no one on the entire airplane is having a worse day than that single mom. Instead of slapping on head phones and hunkering down, would it kill any of us to gin up some empathy? Try to remember what it was like back in the day when you were the one traveling with your kids. Only you had your husband or wife with you! I saw a story the other day about a man on a plane somewhere who offered to walk a single mother's crying baby up and down the aisle of the plane to calm him so the mom could get some rest. He was a total stranger to this beleaguered mom but offered to help because he was a dad himself and knew what it was like to have a crying baby. Give that man the Nobel Peace Prize, I say. Any of us could have done that. Being a single parent has to be the hardest job in the world. Mostly it's single mothers, but there are single dads out there too. They deserve our love and care and sympathy. 

On race...listen more, talk less.

On matters of race in this country, everyone has an opinion. I do. When someone starts criticizing my opinions on race, my immediate reaction is to launch myself into debate mode. I write a blog...I love debate! So when the subject of Black Lives Matter, or reparations or police brutality come up, I begin formulating my response, and while I'm doing that, it's hard if not impossible...to listen. Nothing is more frustrating than the feeling that nobody is listening to you. All of us need to figure out a way to honestly, with sincere effort, actively listen to what the other side is saying. We need to hear each other out...completely. It may not change anyone's mind. But it will allow us to enter into a thorough exchange of views, which at least will give all of us the privilege of being heard. That has to be an improvement, right?

Each of these four simple things is doable. All of us have it within us to stop littering, to take a minute to take better care of our older neighbors, to be more sensitive to single parents and to shut up and listen to others. None of this is hard. Well, maybe the listening thing is hard. But it's still doable. Wouldn't our world...your world be better if we did?

Ugh......

We need some rain.

The Redskins still suck.

Baseball pennant races are on the home stretch.

Rick Perry is apparently on a dancing show.

Football players are kneeling during the national anthem.

Just booked a cabin in the Smoky Mountains for the first weekend in October.

Why haven't we hung the pictures in the dining room?

Why does Lucy foam at the mouth every time she gets around other dogs?

Why can I still taste dental antiseptic in my mouth a full four days after a root canal?

I really hate having to chew stuff on only one side of my mouth.

What kind of person camps out five days ahead of the release of the new iPhone?

Despite consistently working out four days a week, I am suddenly 200 pounds after spending most of my adult life in the 188-193 range.

The other day Pam made a bean soup that tasted exactly like the one Mom used to make.

These are a random sample of things that I want to write about more than I want to write about this monstrous election.

Punished by God

Everybody has seen the video by now. Hillary Clinton, leaning against a concrete pillar, waiting for her SUV to arrive, back to the camera. Then she tries to move forward into the van but stumbles badly, knees buckling, caught by secret service agents then whisked away. Her spin team declared it a case of overheating, only to be contradicted several hours later by her doctor who disclosed a pneumonia diagnosis, only to be contradicted an hour later by the candidate herself who emerged from her daughter's apartment declaring that she felt great! When it comes to the Clinton's, the first casualty is always the truth, so who knows what the real story is.

Just when you think that the 2016 election can't possibly get any worse, now we get this. I suppose we will soon have to endure a week of dueling medical records. Trump's will detail the superhuman strength and endurance of an 18 year old, while Hillary's will be heavily redacted to protect our national security interests from the harm that would surely come if it were revealed that the future president suffers from irritable bowel syndrome.

I have come to the conclusion that we are being punished by God. Although his patience and long suffering are legendary, apparently, he has had enough. This is what we get for taking prayer out of school, aborting a gazillion babies, rampant racism and reality television. God has sent us Trump vs. Clinton. There will be no end to the personal and national embarrassment of this election. By the time it's over we will all have been taken down ten notches on the pride scale. There won't be anymore USA, USA, USA chants coming out of us for a good long while. Sack cloth and ashes will make a comeback. Younger Americans will look up the meaning of the word repentance to see what that's all about. Older Americans will never again describe politics with the phrase, "You think it's bad now? You should have been around when..." because it will never again be true. 2016 will mark the new nadir of American history, the place and time when every single one of our institutions failed us.

On Friday, Janurary 20th, 2017, one of these two will be sworn in as President of the United States. Either Hillary Clinton will stumble up the steps to take the oath, or Donald Trump will stand at the podium, orange hair set ablaze by the cold winter sun. I plan on drinking heavily.

One more thing about the Hillary video. I hate watching it. I hate seeing any presidential candidate in such a state. It's disturbing. If she is seriously ill, I feel bad for her. It has nothing to do with politics. But as a human being, you should be able to empathize with her. My first reaction when I saw it was, "Good Lord...what's wrong with her? Is she going to be ok?" For better or worse, this woman has been front and center of our national life for thirty years now. How would I react if I discovered that she is dying of some horrible disease? Honestly, I would feel bad. If that makes me insuffiently partisan, so be it.

Separated at Birth, or Time Traveller?

What is Aleppo??

The Libertarian Presidential candidate, Gary Johnson was asked a question on a morning news show by noted plagiarist, Mike Barnicle..."What would you do if elected about Aleppo?"

Johnson: What is Aleppo?

With that three word reply, the beltway punditry crowd unanimously declared Johnson's long shot candidacy over. Any candidate for the highest office in the land who doesn't know that Aleppo is the third largest city in Syria and is ground zero of the refugee crisis now plaguing Southern Europe has been labeled unfit for office by all of the smart people in Washington. 

To which I say...bull****

What follows is not a defense of Gary Johnson. Although he and I agree on much more than we disagree on, he seems a bit too goofy for my taste. He's smart enough, and has executive experience as a governor and all, but when I look at him and hear him speak, he reminds me too much of Howdy Doody. Still, in the slim pickings of 2016, I would prefer goofy to insane and pathological. 

Johnson is a Libertarian, and as such is probably the least likely candidate to give a rat's a** about Aleppo. He would probably love to talk about the moronic foreign policy decisions that made Aleppo famous, but the finer points of middle eastern geography isn't high on his skill set, and I for one would like to see more of this. Maybe if our politicians cared more about the refugee crisis in our country, the destruction of our cities, we would be better off. Instead of wringing our hands about the innocent deaths in Aleppo, how about a plan to stop the innocent deaths in Chicago?

So, poor Gary Johnson has a brain fart about what Aleppo is ( he claims he thought it was an an acronym for something--I'll work on that! ), so that means he has disqualified himself for public office. That's good to know. Lack of proper knowledge of world geography is now more important than the proper handling of classified information. Poor geography skills is now more devastating than serial infidelities and publically lusting after your own daughter. Got it.

But, assuming that Johnson did know what Aleppo was, here's how he should have answered.

Johnson: What would I do about Aleppo? That's like asking Vladimir Putin what he plans to do  about Chicago. Aleppo is a city in the middle of a war zone in a country fighting a civil war. And while I can make a good case that so far our policies have made that civil war worse, not better...as President I plan on doing nothing about Aleppo. For better or worse, Syria will have to sort it out. Besides, I'm gonna have my hands full with Detroit, Baltimore, Chicago, Newark, Gary, Ferguson, etc....

Oh, and it turns out that Aleppo is an acronym...

A- Alliance of the

L- Loser

E- Elite

P- Pampered

P- Punditry

O- Oligharchs 

My Day At The Dentist

Today I was introduced to the concept of sedation dentistry...like regular dentistry but with better drugs. I was referred to Monroe Harris DMD by my regular dentist and regaled with glowing testimonials about his skill and reputation. I was assured that I wouldn't "feel a thing."

I arrived at the chamber of sadistic horrors at 9:45 this morning as per the instructions. His friendly staff walked me through the preliminaries with relative competence. Then I was ushered into the pre-surgery consultation room where I met Harris and a bevy of subordinates who tried to explain to me what was about to happen. I nodded my head dutifully, distracted by the 50 inch plasma TV hanging on the wall blaring out sports center. Then everyone disappeared, promising to return shortly with some additional paperwork, leaving me alone to contemplate the performance of the rookie Denver Bronco quarterback from last night's game....for 45 minutes.

I shouldn't complain. The television could just have easily been on some real estate flipping channel, or worse...MSNBC. But, having 45 minutes to think about your dental fate while you are A. Starving because of your fast, and B. You have the mother of all coffee-deprived headaches, is a bad combination. Finally, a perky assistant bounced through the door with an armful of disclaimers that required my signature. As an added pre-surgery benefit, she had gone to the trouble of calling my insurance company to confirm the sad fact that I have no dental coverage (Thanks, Obama!). She presented me with the bill for the day's services...before I had actually received them...$1450. Yes, nothing quite gets you in the mood for a root canal like a four figure bill payable immediately. I informed the nice lady that my wife had the credit card and would be more than happy to take care of this. Sure enough, five minutes later Pam appeared at the door, big happy smile on her face.

Pam: How cool is that? We earn points for this!!

The next step in the procedure was to move me to surgery room #2. There was no television in this more austere, all business room. However, on the wall directly in front of me there was a wide screen, panoramic full mouth X-ray of my teeth taken earlier in the morning. Seriously, this thing was at least four feet wide. It looked like a negative from some old Auschwitz photograph, my teeth like malnourished prisoners. During the additional twenty minutes spent staring at it, my mood began to go from apprehensive to disturbed. Finally, Harris walked in exuding brisk confidence, "Doug, I want to assure you that we are going to take great care of you. You have absolutely nothing to worry about."

Then I heard the music start. 1970's Motown began piping through the speaker system as they prepped me with an IV and hooked me up to several monitors. I heard him say, "This will be the last thing you feel until I'm through." 

Ok, I have been put under for three separate operations in my life. This was different. He was right. I didn't feel a thing. But, the anesthesia only killed the pain. It did nothing for my hearing. For the next thirty minutes, I heard everything. The high-pitched whiz of the drill, the metallic grinding of the tools, and the dulcet tones of Marvin Gaye moaning about sexual healing. I must say that Monroe Harris DMD has a very good voice, since he sang along on every song. On the ones I knew, I joined in. I heard everything, even the scattered laughter when I helped Diana Ross with...Baby, baby...where did our love go?"

After it was all over, I was informed that this particular root canal was to be a two part procedure, the second half to be scheduled in October...but not to worry, what I paid today covered both visits.

So, I must do this again.

The novocaine is finally wearing off. The pain is bearable. The taste in my mouth is positively medieval.

But Pam is busy making homemade banana pudding, soup and Apple sause for dinner. Harris was right. He did take good care of me!

Gone To The Dogs

Honestly people, between my throbbing tooth and the comic book quality of the news each day...mornings have become problematic. I understand that it is my duty as a citizen, as a businessman and as a human being to remain informed about the world. But a human being can take only so many headlines featuring the words, corrupt...e-mail...polls...safe spaces, without an overwhelming desire to chuck your iPad into the recycling.

Then, somebody sends you a link to any of a number of sites which feature pictures and videos of puppies frolicking. You click on it warily. You've been warned that these sites are as addictive as gambling or porn. Once you start, it's difficult to stop, they say.

.....too late.

There's Dog Per Day and Paw My Gosh and Cute Emergency. And they are all like crack. I mean, what would you rather do...read about the latest FBI document drop of Clinton e-mails, or watch this...

https://twitter.com/cuteemergency/status/772681940671553536

Would you rather get fully up to speed about the latest micro-aggressions raging unchecked throughout America's college campuses...or watch this in a loop for five minutes?

https://twitter.com/cuteemergency/status/772274245535662080

Would your day be made better by reading about Hillary Clinton's latest coughing fit, or looking at this?

https://twitter.com/cuteemergency/status/772999012433727488

Yes, my friends, with every passing day this seems increasingly like a sane decision...

Dentistry. The Evil Science.

I have a toothache. This is big news since I seldom have toothaches. It is also big news because the prospect of dental work is the sort of thing which plunges me into psychology darkness. It's a long, boring story that involves a horrifying dental experience at the hands of a quack dentist in New Orleans which I would much prefer not talking about. For me, here are my biggest fears:

1. Falling into a tree shredder.

2. Being lowered slowly into a cauldron of boiling tar.

3. Going to the dentist.

That's not to say that I never go to the dentist. I am, after all, an adult. I steel my resolve every so often to have my teeth cleaned. Despite generous application of laughing gas during the procedure, I usually have to change shirts when I get home. It's pathetic actually.

So after a six hour drive home yesterday, I unloaded the car then headed over to Dr. Talton's little shop of horrors for an examination of my ailing mouth. After a thorough cleaning, the man himself appeared and stared pensively at my X-rays, emitting several troubling "hmmms" along the way. The news was not good. The offending molar has a leaky filling. Apparently, something had gotten under the filling and was making contact with the root or nerves or some such horror. It was beyond his abilities to fix. He would need to send me to an oral surgeon, he said, somebody who would knock me out before the procedure. I was not happy about letting some new monster into my mouth. Dr. Talton was terrifying enough, but I have grown accustomed to his antics, and find him relatively charming...in a Son of Sam sort of way. The prospect of some new guy, especially one who specializes in oral surgery sounded terrible.

Me: Why can't you do this Doc?

Dr. Talton: There are not enough drugs in this entire building to keep you still enough for this procedure.

So, now I await....the call...from the surgeon's office to set a time for the procedure, which as far as I can tell will involve an exploratory root canal that will proceed to an extraction if the tooth cannot be saved. In the meantime, I'm popping Advil like Skittles, and trying desperately not to act like a baby in front of my wife. 

Too late.

Time to Man-Up...

This is pitiful. This cannot and will not stand. There comes a time in every man's life when he must say, "Enough is enough..." Today is that day for one Jon Manchester. Scripture clearly says, when I was a child I grilled like a child, but now that I am a man, I have put away childish things. This affront to my son-in-law's manhood has gone on long enough. Today, I take him to Lowe's and buy him a big boy grill. 

Today is Labor Day. Meat will be cooked. In order for all four of us to be able to eat at the same time, a grill needs to be large enough to cook more than one steak at a time. Since both Jon and myself aren't midgets, bending over this ridiculous excuse for a grill for an hour might do permanent damage to our backs. So, today this macro-aggression to manly pride will be banished from the property. 

It will be replaced with any of a number of possibilities, seeing as how we live in America, the land of consumer choice. Maybe this beauty...

Or, maybe this one...

For a few dollars more, and with an eye towards the future even this baby will have to be considered...

He tells me he's a charcoal man, no gas. Fine. I prefer a gas grill, but am not an evangelist on the subject. What really matters is that I will never, ever have to see THIS in his back yard ever again...

How Did This Happen??

My firstborn now lives in a real house. There's a yard that slopes down to a curb, a large back yard fully fenced where the dog can frolic. The house sits on a culdesac. There is a mailbox, tilted a bit forward, but a mailbox nonetheless. Inside, the place is roomy and inviting, decorated, color coordinated, organized and livable. All of this adult behavior was carried out on a budget, without any assistance from her parents. The kitchen sprawls out in shining splendor, the counter festooned with all the modern design conveniences...

The living room is artfully equipped...

How did all of this happen? Why does self-sufficient, responsible living surprise me so when I am confronted with it coming from my children? Isn't this how I raised them? Isn't this how I expected them to turn out? Well...yes! But still, it's startling to see the results. It is a bittersweet emotion to at once see proof of their independence, and evidence that they no longer need you. Sure, they still need their parents for moral support, occasional advice and spoiling, but they no longer require your financial backing, or your daily council. They are, in every way that matters...grown ups.

It's a beautiful thing. 

Dunnevant Road Trip

About a week ago Pam and I decided that we would drive down to Columbia to spend Labor Day weekend with Kaitlin and Jon. Immediately, in a bizarre cosmic confluence of fate and physics, hurricane Hermine began forming in the stew above the Gulf of Mexico.

This is the divine order of things whereby Dunnevant road trips = Torrential downpours of Noahesk proportions. We should consider renting ourselves out to drought-stricken regions around the world. Haven't seen rain in two years, you say? Hire the Dunnevants to drive across your parched land and instant relief can be yours! 

If current forecasts as of 6:30am this morning are to be believed, the worst of it will be on Saturday morning as we leave Richmond. The further to the southwest we travel, the better it will be, and by the time we arrive in Columbia and for all of the time we are there, the weather promises to be delightful. However, even though nothing is mentioned in the long range forecast, I'm absolutely certain that on Tuesday morning some violent rain/wind/hail/ pestilence event will materialize directly over the roof of our vehicle and accompany us all the way back to Richmond.

As a parent of kids who both live far away, there are times when you are overcome with a desire to spoil them. You hear about their troubles and struggles on the telephone. You get a text that is tinged with sadness or frustration. If they lived in Short Pump...or even say, Fredericksburg...you would bring them dinner. You would stop by unannounced, give them $50 and tell them to go out on a date while you watch after the dog. But they don't live down the street, they live in other states, far away. So, you travel. You make a weekend of it.

It's times like these when I marvel at what it must be like to be the parents of kids who live in other countries, or to be the parents of missionaries in some God-forsaken hell-hole somewhere where you can't even reach them on the phone. Unimaginable. It makes complaining about a rainy 6 hour drive seem ungrateful.

Hats off to all of my missionary friends everywhere. You know who you are...

Joe Freaking Morrissey

There are many people who read this blog who are not from around here, and for you guys I'm sure it seems odd that I never mention the fact that I live in Richmond, Virginia, preferring to use the quaint name of the suburb of Short Pump instead. It's an excellent question. Richmond is a city of historical significance, an abundance of southern charm, and enough beautiful scenery to attract thousands of visitors every year. But there's a reason I never mention being from here. It's because I'm embarrassed.

Over the past thirty years or so, this city has been governed by a series of bottom-feeding, pocket-lining ne'er-do-wells who make Donald Trump look elegant by comparison. First, there was Leonidas Young, a Baptist pastor who while mayor was convicted of influence peddling for, among other things, stealing money from one of his parishioners. 

Just before his death early this year, Young announced his candidacy for the House of Delegates seat vacated by THIS MAN...

This is Joe Morrissey...more about him later. Only in Richmond could something like this happen. In our city, public service and prison time seem inexorably linked. Back in the 90's, we had a rather flamboyant City Councilman named Chuck Richardson. While serving on council he was caught in a sting operation buying heroin from an undercover cop. Sentenced to ten years in prison with nine suspended, Richardson, paid his debt to society only to be arrested again for possession ten years later. But in Richmond politics, a prison record isn't a disqualifier for public service, it's more like a resume enhancement. Today, Chuck Richardson has a street named after him!

Our current mayor, Dwight Jones, yet another pastor, has been putting on a clinic of cronyism, enriching his church and its members at every conceivable opportunity. 

But, he looks awesome in a suit, so he's got THAT going for him. Which brings us back to Mr. Morrissey. In many ways, Joe Morrissey is a ground-breaker of sleeze for our city. What I'm about to describe for you will sound so fantastic, so unbelievable, you will be tempted to think that I am making it all up. Surely, no one this unfit could be a serious candidate for Mayor of a city as big as Richmond. Think again...

Joe "say it ain't so" Morrissey burst onto the scene back in 1989 as the 30 year old firebrand who got elected as Commonwealth Attorney for the city. During his 15 year law career, Joe was found in contempt of court no less than ten times, and arrested five times. When he was finally disbarred in 2001, the presiding judge summed up Morrissey quite nicely...

"... frequent episodes of unethical, contumacious, or outright inappropriate conduct...the evidence demonstrates Morrisseys 15 year history of contempt citations, fines, suspensions, and even 

incarceration arising from unprofessional conduct...mostly involving an uncontrollable temper and dishonesty."

But, it gets even better. In August of 2013 Joe was found by police in his home with a 17 year old girl who worked in his office. Let's just say...they weren't exactly discussing the finer points of the law. A year later Morrissey was indicted on felony charges of indecent liberties with a minor, possession and distribution of child pornography, and solicitation of a minor. Ok..you better sit down for this one...while serving his jail term for the above conviction, he ran for a seat in the General Assembly...and won in a landslide.

Even our slimy governor, Terry McAuliffe, who never met a felon he didn't like, was forced to disavow Morrissey and kick him out of the Democratic Party. Oh, did I mention the fact that every single member of this Rogue's gallery are Democrats? Anyway, Joe is finally out of prison and doing what all disgraced politicians in Richmond do...running for mayor. In a poll released early this week, he has a commanding lead.

But, maybe Joe is a new man. I mean, after fathering five children by four different women, none of whom ever married him, Joe finally tied the knot...with the 17 year old girl he was busted with. Like all couples who have their first child together, the Morrissey's decided to take a family portrait to introduce the child to the world. Joe Morrissey being Joe Morrissey, THIS is what they went with...

Yes, if you had been thrown in jail for having carnal relations with a 17 year old and produced a child, this is exactly how you would want to announce the new arrival to the world, right? Yeah, let's go with the antebellum look.

This man is likely to become the first popularly elected mayor of the City of Richmond in 12 years. 

To which I say...of course he will.

Duck Doughnuts vs. Klondike Bars

I have not been a good boy today.

My day began with a breakfast that consisted of two hot, fresh Duck Doughnuts, courtesy of my generous Assistant. Of course she didn't just drop by the place on a whim on her way in to work. I had sent her a text informing her that I might be a few minutes late and suggesting that she might want to consider using the extra time to go get me some doughnuts...so there's that. But, she made the Duck Doughnuts decision on her own, and what a fine decision it was. I had one lemon and raspberry glazed and one maple glaze covered with real bacon crumbles. Oh, baby!

To make matters worse, I have just topped off today's menu by gulping down a Klondike bar. But although the Klondike bar tasted alright, I was oddly annoyed by the experience. My annoyance stems from the fact somewhere down the line, the big shots at the Klondike factory have started making baby Klondike bars! I mean, seriously...have you seen how small these guys have gotten? What the heck? I remember when a Klondike bar was big enough to share with your wife. Now, it's like I take two decent bites and the thing is gone! I used to always eat them fast because if you dilly-dallied around with the thing it would end up a melting mess. Not anymore! I bet you we're paying more for these puny ones than we used to pay for the huge ones. And therein lies a life lesson.

What's the difference between Duck Doughnuts and a Klondike Bar? One of them is made by a local company, and one is slapped together by some multi-national conglomerate from God knows where. Actually God does know...they are made by Unilever, a company from the Netherlands. A bunch of Dutchmen make Klondike bars. The one I ate tonight could have been made months ago. It could have been stacked in a frozen warehouse somewhere outside of Amsterdam a year ago for all I know! But my Duck Doughnuts didn't even exist until 8:25 am this morning when the cheerful girl made them right in front of Kristin as she watched. They were still warm when we gobbled them down like fat kids on a piece of pie.

This is the difference between multinational conglomerates and a local business...you know exactly what you're getting when you buy local. And I don't have to worry that the next time I go in there they'll try to charge me twice as much for a doughnut half the size as the one I got last week!

Buy Local....and let the Dutch peddle their mini-bars somewhere else!

A Third Option

So, yesterday I discovered a new poll making the claim that 78% of white evangelical Christians supported Donald Trump for President. I posted the poll on my Facebook feed and asked the sincere question...Can someone explain this to me? The answer I got was a variation of the old adage, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I learned that none of my evangelical friends were enthusiastically supporting Trump, but rather felt forced to do so to save the country from another Clinton presidency.

I suppose I should feel relief. Somebody on Twitter yesterday made this statement..."I can understand reluctant Clinton and Trump supporters, I cannot for the life of me understand enthusiastic Clinton and Trump supporters."

But, what if both of these candidates are our enemies? Suppose both of them would be disastrous for our Republic...Trump because of his dangerous naïveté and volatile big mouth, and Hillary because of her irredeemable, hard-wired corruption? Suppose neither of them are fit to be President?

Someone on the thread made the statement that "not voting is not an option." Well, actually it is an option. In a free society, not voting is as much of a right as voting, always has been. If Hitler were running against Stalin, you bet I wouldn't vote! But, I understand how some people would think that not voting is a cop out. So, for those folks, third party candidates would be an option. Depending on who you talk to, voting for Gary Johnson would be a de facto vote for either Hillary or Trump. Odd how everyone always rails against the corruption of the two party system, but nobody ever votes for a third party candidate! Lucky for us...there's a third option.

I'm old fashioned enough to think that voting is one of my jobs as a free citizen. I'm not an absolutist on the subject...sitting out an election here and there is no sin...but generally speaking, a well-informed, engaged citizen should exercise the franchise when given the opportunity. So, how about this? Go to the polls on Election Day. Enter the voting booth and cast your ballot for all of the races presented to you...congressman, sheriff, assemblyman, local initiatives, etc. Then simply abstain from casting your presidential ballot. You will have fulfilled your duty as a citizen, while passing on being asked to make a choice between two disastrous presidential candidates. 

Here's the thing. One day, I will face my creator and will be asked to give an account of my life on earth. Even scarier, one day I will have to face my own as yet unborn grandchildren and answer the question, "Pops, did you vote for Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump back in 2016?" I am convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that I will not be able to intellectually or ethically defend either of those votes. However, this vote would be much easier to explain...

To Stand or Not To Stand

http://doug-thetempest.blogspot.com/2012/12/colin-kaepernicks-tattoos.html

Several years ago, I wrote the above blogpost about a young quarterback for the San Francisco Forty-Niners who had gotten himself into a bit of contoversy over his tattoos. I was sympathetic. Even though I generally hate tattoos, I came to his defense, taking the position that he shouldn't be judged solely on the amount of ink on his body, but rather by the overall quality of his character. Well, now he is once again in the news. During the playing of the national anthem before a recent pre-season game, Kaepernick refused to stand. After the game, he explained his decision to the press...

"I am not going to stand up to show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color. To me, this is bigger than football and it would be selfish on my part to look the other way. There are bodies in the street and people getting paid leave and getting away with murder. This is not something that I am going to run by anybody, I am not looking for approval. I have to stand up for people that are oppressed. ... If they take football away, my endorsements from me, I know that I stood up for what is right."

When Kaepernick first ran afoul of public opinion, he was a bright comet lighting up the NFL with his aggressive style of play and amazing athleticism. He took the Forty-Niners to the Super Bowl that year and seemed destined for greatness. But it's been a tough several years for the gifted quarterback since. In the NFL, defenses adjust to comets eventually, so the comet has to adjust accordingly. Kaepernick hasn't been able to do that and now finds himself in a pitched battle with the pedestrian Blaine Gabbert to be the backup quarterback for his team...quite a precipitous fall from stardom.

Reaction among other players has been mixed. Some applauded his decision, others disagreed but defended his right to protest, others objected, calling it disrespectful to all of the men and women who have given their lives to protect us and our freedom. More cynical voices accused him of being a malcontent who can't handle his reduced role, and is seeking attention. Still others chided him for spending too much time thinking about politics and not enough time studying the playbook. It's been a very mixed bag.

I fall into the mixed category. My view on the national anthem is that when it is played at public events, respect needs to be shown. I always remove my hat, face the flag, put my hand over my heart, and sing along. Doing so does not mean that I am thrilled to the gills with every single thing going on in the country at that particular time. Neither does it mean that I support every action taken by my government, now or in the past. For me, it's an acknowledgment of gratitude that I was born here. It's a tip of the hat to all of the men and women who have sacrificed everything for the preservation of this Republic. And yes, to a certain extent, it's about...love of country...despite its many sins...love.

But, this isn't the 1970's Soviet Union. Love of country isn't coerced by gunpoint. One of the truly great things about America is that we make room for dissent. No... we don't love dissent, we don't celebrate it, but we make room for unpopular opinions. If Colin Kaepernick feels that his country is oppressing blacks and doesn't feel that he in good conscience can stand with his teammates while the national anthem is played...so what? The only thing worse than no patriotism is forced patriotism. So, I say once more....give the guy a break.

A Dog Memory

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=3fLJ32uH4MA

Yesterday was National Dog Day. I ran across the above preview of a new movie called A Dog's Purpose, and made the mistake of clicking on the link. There's no way I could sit through this film. Yes, yes...it's terribly heartwarming and in spots potentially hilarious. But one scene was just too painful to endure. It's the one where the kid is laying on the floor at the vet where he has to put his faithful dog to sleep. There's a scene that shows the beautiful dog's sweet eyes beginning to shut. When I watched it, I was immediately transported back to that bitterly cold Christmas Eve 17 years ago when It was me laying on that floor staring into the dying eyes of my first Golden Retreiver...Murphy. 17 years, and I still remember it like it happened yesterday.

Murph was 14 years old and on his last legs, but when we returned from Granny Till's Christmas Eve dinner that night and opened the garage door, I knew something was wrong when she didn't rise up from her bed in the corner to greet us. Since I had two young children in the car, I shuttled them past her on the way inside to shield their eyes from her condition. Once they were safely inside, I rushed back out into the garage and found him, back legs paralyzed laying in a pool of urine, but eyes bright with delight at seeing me. I was heart broken at the sight of my once mighty dog reduced to such a state. To add insult to injury, we were in the midst of a sleet storm, and it was 9:00 at night...on Christmas Eve. I dialed up our vet hoping against hope that he would be opened at such an unlikely hour. He was. I bundled Murphy up in a blanket and soon was on the floor of Gayton Animal Hospital saying goodbye to my beautiful dog. I held him tight while the injection began it's work. It was an excruciating experience.

Once I recovered, a new problem presented itself. Murphy was cremated, but I was not looking forward to explaining that to my children on Christmas morning. It was going to be horrible enough breaking the news of his death to them. I realized that I was going to have to come up with an alternative narrative. So, there I was, driving out to my parent's house in Montpelier, in a sleet storm, to prepare a fake burial site. We would all be gathering at their place on Christmas Day, so I thought we could have a little funeral service. But first I had to dig a grave and clear off the sleet from the place so it would look legit. What a night!

One of the things I remember the most about that Christmas morning was taking the kids out into the garage to tell them that Murphy had passed away in the night. Neither one of them cried. They were just silent and still. Then suddenly, either Patrick or Kaitlin...I can't remember which...walked over to the the garage door, where the windows were frosted over and wrote with their fingers...goodbye, Murphy. We love you.

Yeah, so I will not be going to see A Dog's Purpose, because I already know what a dog's purpose is...they exist to make us better people. They teach us how to love each other with abandon and without reservation. And when they leave us they break our hearts.

Project Update #1

I have no idea what time she came to bed last night. She was in the midst of this...on a mission. Despite being stiff and sore, she did take a break from her labor to go to her normal Wednesday night yoga class. I provided Q barbecue takeout for dinner and made sure she got some onion rings. She will be back at it today while I'm at work.

My wife...doing the jobs that most Americans won't do.

Lucy is not amused. She seems particularly annoyed by the presence in the foyer of these two wing backed chairs which were formerly in the corners of our dining room...

Consequently, she spent most of yesterday upstairs, unwilling or unable to deal with the new, modernistic feng shui of the foyer. Lucy doesn't do well with avant guard decorating concepts. And don't even get her started on the gigantic plastic bag that's covering the bookcase!!

Tune in again tomorrow for the latest on....the project!

The Wondrous Example of Harry Truman

Here's a question for your consideration this morning...How do career politicians become insanely rich? 

In America, we don't pay our politicians a ton of money. A United States senator, for example earns $174,000 a year...not exactly slave wages, but compared to most CEOs, professional athletes and entertainers, it amounts to a rounding error. The Secretary of State earns $186,600. The President of the United States gets paid $400,000. Yes, I know that the benefits are quite nice what with an otherworldly pension plan etc... But still, compared to the private sector, the owner of a reasonably successful small business in this country can earn more than the President of the United States. This is as it should be. So, the question remains...how is it that a guy like Harry Reid comes to Congress in 1982 as a man of modest means, never earns more than $194,000 a year, but now is worth over 10 million dollars? Savvy investing, I guess. But let's not pick on Harry. He's got a lot of company on the rags to riches gravy train that is public service. Even short timers who come to Washington, serve a couple of terms as a Congressman, then land of job as a lobbyist with some consulting firm, end up as millionaires. I'm not talking about the guys and gals who were already rich before they went into the politics racket because there are plenty of them on both sides of the aisle. No, no...I'm asking about the relatively normal folks who go to Washington and suddenly develope the Midas touch when it comes to their personal fortunes. It's uncanny.

Leave it to our poorest President, Harry Truman, to explain this phenomenon. Old Harry entered the White House without two nickels to rub together and left it the same way. As an Ex-President, he received not one dime of pension except for his $112.56 monthly army pension. He was given no secretarial allowance, no expense money of any kind and was forced to move back into his not very elegant family home. He refused to cash in on his status as a former President in any way: 

"I could never lend myself to any transaction, however respectable," Truman later wrote, "that would commercialize on the prestige and dignity of the office of the presidency." 

Luxuriate over the simple, decent goodness of that statement for a minute, and notice how exotic it sounds to 21st century ears. 

" An honest public servant cannot become rich in politics."

...oh, but Harry, the dishonest ones sure can!

The Project Begins....

The stage is set here at the Dunnevant house. The wife has cleared out the paint store. Bed Bath and Beyond on Broad street threw a party for its employees after she cleaned them out. Now it's time for the work to begin. 

Upstairs, in the hallway in front of the Palladian window, there is a staging area where she has unloaded all of the painting gear. Downstairs, all of the decorating finery is piled on the dining room table, new curtain rods stacked in the corner. For the next couple of days my library will be off limits. I can't wait to see how Lucy reacts to all of this mayhem. Ordinarily she isn't keen on anything that disturbs the status quo. We'll see.

I will provide you with pictures of the progress she makes. Yes, I said she. I'm sure you have noticed that I have not used words like...us or we when describing this project. That's because for my wife, this sort of thing isn't something that she feels she can risk by offering me any significant roll. She subscribes to the theory that if you want something done right, you do it yourself. My painting skills fall into the category of a ....not worth it sort of risk. I remember once when she let me use the roller on the ceiling of some room she was painting, after her arms gave out. I'm absolutely positive that as soon as I left the room she went back and touched everything up. It's not that she's a diva when it comes to painting. Let's just say that for Pam there are two ways to paint properly...her way and the wrong way! The thing is...when she's finished and you see the place, you realize that she's right!

Winston Churchill and Donald Trump.

Jerry Falwell Jr., President of Liberty University has written an Op-Ed for the Washington Post that touts Donald Trump as the "Churchillian Leader that we need"....

"We are at a crossroads where our first priority must be saving our nation. We need a leader with qualities that resemble those of Winston Churchill, and I believe that leader is Donald Trump. As Churchill did, Trump possesses the resolve to put his country first and to never give up in a world that is increasingly hostile to our values."

Vs.

Stuff they have in common...

1. They both had five children. Although, I think it's fair to say that since Trump is only 70 and currently on only his third wife, chances are very good that he will pass Mr. Churchill in this department. Winston's marriage to Clementine lasted 57 years. Donald Trump's second marriage lasted almost 57 months.

2. They both had rich Dad's.

3. They were both best selling authors. Winston Churchill won the Nobel Prize for literature for the first volume of his history of World War II, The Gathering Storm. The Nobel letter states that he won the prize not only for his seminal history, but also for "brilliant oratory in defending exalted human values." Donald Trump hired a ghost writer to write The Art of the Deal, for which somehow he failed to win the Nobel Prize for Economics.

Stuff they kind of have in common...

1. Winston Churchill served in the military from 1895-1924, serving in places as far flung as India, Cuba and South Africa. Once, while serving as a war correspondent for the South Africa Morning Post, he was captured by the enemy. He somehow managed to escape their custody, return to London as a hero and write a best selling book about his experiences.

Donald Trump attended high school at New York Military Academy where he got to get his picture taken in this cool uniform...

Unfortunately for the country, a chronic case of shin splints prohibited him from fighting in Vietnam.

2. Winston Churchill was first elected to the House of Commons at age 26, serving in that body continuously for 64 years. In his time as a public servant he held numerous Ministerial positions, including but not limited to the following...

President of the Board of Trade

Home Secretary

First Lord of the Admiralty

Secretary of State for War

Chancellor of the Exchequer 

First Lord of the Treasury

Prime Minister 1940-1945, 1951-1955

Donald Trump built this...

Donald Trump has his own cologne...

And his own collection of neckwear...

In Churchill's spare time, he was an accomplished painter...

Donald Trump starred in a reality television show.

So, as you can see, Winston Churchill and Donald Trump are indeed a lot alike. They are practically brothers. 

My First Seven Jobs

Remember a couple of months ago when this social media meme started going around where people were listing their first seven jobs? Yeah...me neither. That's not entirely true. I do remember seeing a few of them, but I didn't give it much thought...like those insipid things that pop up that say...If you love your sister, cut and paste this onto your wall. If you don't a hundred people in Kenya will die. Well, this morning, out of nowhere some woman on my Twitter feed yelled at the world..."Stop posting your first seven jobs! It just serves to illustrate your privilege!!"

Ok, this is where the social justice warriors lose me. What in the Sam Hill is she talking about? Is employment a privilege? Is the fact that someone may have actually had seven jobs evidence of their whiteness? Would she rather we were all on the public dole? Well, because it so upsets social justice warriors...I think it's time that I published my first seven jobs.

1. 1973. Age 15. I got my first summer job working for A.A. Walsh, a residential construction company which built single family homes in Hanover County. My job was to pick up trash on the job site and carry armfuls of lumber to the carpenters. I made the minimum wage of 1973...$1.60 an hour. The first paycheck I ever earned in my life was like $58. I felt like Thurston Howell III.

2. 1974. Age 16. With the help of my brother-in-law Bill Schwartz, (family privilege), I got a summer job with the State Fair of Virginia. Amoung other things, my job was to clean out horse stalls. Since the removal of dump truck loads of horse crap by the shovelfull was a more refined skill, my pay jumped to $2.75 an hour. I was well on my way to being part of the oppressor class!

3. 1975. Age 17. I can't for the life of me remember the name of the company, but I worked the summer as a construction laborer building the Southern States store on Broad Street just down from Parham Road. That was the summer where we had like five days in a row of temperatures above 100 degrees. Two of my buddies passed out from the heat while digging a footer. Good times.

4. 1976 Age 18. I got my first post-high school job as a warehouseman at Lowe's hardware on Broad Street, downtown Richmond. I worked every overtime hour they would give me and saved every dime so I could finance a cross country back-packing trip with my best friend, Al Thomason. I can't remember what the pay was...probably $3.00 an hour...$4.50 for overtime.

5. 1977-1981. All of my college years were made possible by the job I got with a material handling company at the Hanover Industrial Airpark called Trefz and Steenburgh. I worked 30 hours a week in the warehouse, mostly building wooden pallets and installing shelving and pallet racks. I started at the minimum wage and by the time I graduated, they were paying me a salary of $18,000 to be a territory salesman for them. Couldn't have made it through University of Richmond without that job. After graduating from college I learned my first lesson in the downside risks inherent in capitalism. T&S declared bankruptcy, leaving me jobless and out $5000 in unpaid commission that I never recovered.

6. 1981- 2000. I went to work for Life of Virginia in life insurance sales. I took a cut in pay to $16,000, and only took the job in desperation after the humiliation of having to collect my first and last unemployment check of $358. I figured I would work for Life of Virginia while I looked for something else. To my astonishment, I found that I actually liked the work, despite the fact that after three years, my $16000 salary went away and I was totally on my own. Don't produce? Don't eat.

7. 2001- present. Got tired of working for someone else. I determined to work for myself and see if I could make it on my own. Most terrifying decision I've ever made...but one of the best, although honestly, my boss can sometimes be a real jerk. How much do I make now? None of your business.

So, it turns out that I've had exactly seven jobs. How about that? Was I privileged to have those seven jobs? You bet I was. Any job is a privilege. Did the fact that I got those jobs as opposed to some equally deserving minority mean that I should feel guilty about my life's work? You're kidding me, right? My job history is certainly nothing to shout from the rooftops...kinda hard to feel superior to anybody while shoveling horse manure in 95 degree heat...but neither is it something to be ashamed of.