Moving My Boy To New Jersey

Next week is going to be a beauty. My son will be moving from Nashville, Tennessee to Princeton, New Jersey to attend grad school. Here's how the itinerary looks on paper.

# Pam and I leave Richmond at 8 AM Monday morning headed for Nashville. It's 600 miles and will take 9 hours. Somewhere around Knoxville we gain an hour, crossing into the central time zone.

# Monday evening, we will attend Patrick's final choral concert in Nashville. This time it's a choir he created from scratch at the beginning of the summer. They have been rehearsing for nearly 3 months just for this one and only performance. It would seem that my son cannot go a single season without hatching some musical project, and spending a fortune on sheet music. ( BLAST you Sherri Matthews!!)

# Tuesday morning I pick up the Budget Rental truck and head over to Patrick's apartment. He is currently sleeping in the dining room of a place he has lived for only 2 months. The guy who is replacing him in this place decided to move in two weeks early, so all of Patrick's worldly possessions are stacked in what was once a dining room. He sleeps somewhere in the pile. When  he Skyped us the other night the only part of this chaos that looked even vaguely organized was the wall that contained his keyboard/computer combo. Oh..and the new guy has a puppy. So, here's hoping the mutt doesn't have flees. We will spend this day sorting through the mountains of stuff, organizing, discarding and boxing it all up. All the while we will be meeting Patrick's girlfriend of these past 4 months who we have heard about but never actually met..Caroline. Tuesday night we will all have dinner at Puckett's Boat House, Patrick's employer since graduation in December.

# Wednesday morning three vehicles will depart Nashville around 8 in the morning. I will be driving the truck, Pam will be driving our car, and Patrick will be driving his car with Caroline and his best friend Matt as passengers. We will all have walkie-talkies just in case Patrick's 14 year old VW Jetta dies on the way. On this leg of the journey, we lose that hour we gained on Monday, arriving back in Richmond hopefully around 7 o'clock in the evening.

# Thursday will be a day of Patrick showing his girlfriend the sights of his home town, while Pam frantically prepares for the last leg of the trip, and I go into the office and try to get some work done.

# Friday morning early, which for me would be 6 but will probably end up being 7:30, the same three vehicle convoy will depart Short Pump and make the most dangerous road trip in America...up 95 thru D.C., around Baltimore, across the Delaware bridge and onto the New Jersey turnpike. Mapquest says 5 and a half hours, but with the traffic, multiple accidents( hopefully not involving US) it could be 7 hours. Once we arrive in Princeton, we get to meet Patrick's new roommates who have already moved in. These are two kids he has never met, since he only knows them from Facebook.  Awesome.

# By mid afternoon Saturday, the move complete, and amidst much weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth from my wife we will drop off the rental truck in Lawrenceville, and make the death-drive back to Richmond, arriving sometime before midnight. Total miles driven since Monday...2000. Total cost of truck, gas, meals and hotels..$1800.


Why do we do this as parents? Our son is 23 years old. He works, pays his own bills, he is a fully functioning adult. If left to his own devices he could move himself from Nashville to Princeton. Why spend all this money, blow and entire week of production to oversee the event? He didn't ask us to help. So, why do we do it? Part of me thinks we shouldn't insert ourselves into this thing. But another huge part of me thinks.."What, are you NUTS????" He's our little boy. Sure, maybe 15 years have passed since he has actually been our little boy, but it's hard to see him as a grownup. When we moved Kaitlin into her rental house at Wake Forest when she was starting grad school, I remember thinking to myself.." How is she going to make it here by herself, since she is only 6 years old?" We parents are weird that way. Time may march on, but not in our imaginations. These smart, engaging, ambitious adults staring back at us can't possibly be our children...can they? What happened??

"When Did You Stop Beating Your Wife?"

My inbred, free born, suspicion of government comes as no shock to regular readers of this space. I'm sure it annoys those of you on the left who can't understand why I could possibly distrust something as wonderfully benevolent as our government since it is the guarantor of our freedoms. Many of you on the right I'm sure are equally annoyed that I lack sufficient enthusiasm for the Republican party's grand plans for constraining that government. Fair enough. But never before have my feelings of isolation and alienation from the political process been more powerful than they are today. A Presidential election campaign will do that to you. But it's more than that. Consider just this one example from last week.


The Senate Majority Leader, Harry Reid, goes on the floor of the senate and proclaims to the world that he had gotten a call from an unnamed former Bain Capital investor who claimed that Mitt Romney hadn't paid taxes in ten years. Reid then called on Romney to come forward and prove that this accusation was untrue by releasing his tax returns. Well, there you have it...the new evidentiary standard of our justice system...any anonymous accusation is the truth until you prove that it isn't. This giant step forward in our criminal justice system brought to you by the highest ranking Democrat in Congress, a political party who won 30 years worth of elections demonizing Joe McCarthy.

Lest you think that this "when did you stop beating your wife" style of accusation is strictly a democratic party affair, think again. President Obama has never released his academic records from his time at Columbia University. Right wing political web sites have been ablaze with accusations that this "proves" that his grades were awful and that he probably got in to Columbia via affirmative action,or even worse, because he entered as a foreign exchange student, buttressing the foreign born accusations of past years. "Come clean, Mr. President", these sites demand,"and prove that these accusations aren't true. Release your records!"

Make a charge, with the flimsiest of evidence, then demand that the candidate disprove a negative, and if he doesn't, that's ironclad evidence of his guilt.

You lovers of government, you devotees of the grandness of the political process, answer me this...why would anyone of superior intelligence, great accomplishment, demonstrated leadership skills, knowledge of history, and a patriotic desire to serve this Republic ever subject himself and his family to such an unholy degradation? This system of ours which was founded on the notion that after a long and fruitful life of great accomplishment, our best citizens would then feel compelled to serve the country as it's political leaders, has now morphed into a grubby, cess-pool of professional politicians, effete con-men and shakedown artists, who jockey for position and power at the public trough. How else to explain the likes of Harry Reid, Nancy Pelosi, and Eric Cantor trodding the ground once occupied by James Madison, Thomas Jefferson and Henry Clay?

Political Adds During The Olympics?

Every four years the Olympics invades my house, dominates my television and captivates my imagination. I find myself mesmerized by the sheer size of the thing, the spectacle. There I sit, night after night, totally consumed by breastless women and gangly men swimmers in their hideous techno head wraps, as they slice and dice through the water. They bob, they whirl, they flail and then they lunge for the wall, where some body's heart gets broken. Then there's the gymnastics, those, steel-spined dynamos with the garish makeup, and hands always encased in tape and flowered with chalk. They bounce across the floor, they swing from ridiculous bars, they fly through the air with murderous intent and stick the landings with their size two velcroed feet. All the while, you know that catastrophe is one slip away. These girls live one inch removed from failure. After a successful routine, they stick out their tiny torsos, thrust their arms wide in the air and a triumphant smile replaces what were the faces of cold-blooded killers. The athleticism, the gracefulness, the jaw-dropping brilliance of their practised skills executed in a crucible of pressure with video cameras capturing their every emotion is edge of your seat entertainment. Then, after being plunged and lifted from the agony to the ecstasy of this ultimate competition, NBC breaks for commercials, and all of America is forced to watch paid political propaganda from Obama and Romney.

Ordinarily, during Presidential campaigns, Americans of all political persuasions grow weary of having our intelligence insulted by these 30 second assaults, but we understand that it's an unavoidable fact of our democratic life. After a month or two we all tune them out, or hit mute, or mostly, we go to the bathroom. But during the Olympics, campaign commercials seem especially galling, especially obscene, and if it were possible, even more shameful. On the one hand the Games show us how high and lofty our aspirations can be, politics shows us how low and despicable. If Olympians were like politicians, they wouldn't be showing us what hard work and dedication can do when applied to sports, they would be giving interviews explaining why they needed to win simply because their opponent was an idiot.....

BOB COSTAS: So, Michael Phelps, you're about to compete in the 200 IM final against your long time foe Ryan Lochte. What are your feelings about the race?

MICHAEL PHELPS: Well Bob, I don't know if you know this, but, Ryan is a real jerk. Not only is he a  notorious womanizer, I have irrefutable evidence that he hasn't paid taxes in five years. Is America really ready for a 200 IM gold medal winner who is a womanizing tax cheat?


Both political parties should do themselves and the rest of us a HUGE favor by agreeing to not run adds during the Olympics. The juxtaposition is just too stark, too embarrassing for them..and us.

Cheating At Badminton? Say It Ain't So.

Just about the time I'm really starting to enjoy the Olympics, a cheating scandal rocks the games. No, I'm not referring to the 16 year old Chinese swimmer, Ye Shiwen, who has raised more than a few eyebrows with her man-beating times in the pool. And, no, I'm not talking about some roided up weightlifter from Kyrgyzstan. No, this cheating scandal  is disturbing on an even more visceral level. I, for one, will always remember where I was when I got the news that eight Olympians were kicked out of London for cheating at....Badminton.

Yes, that lovely game we all grew up playing at picnics in the summer has now arrived at the place where people care enough to cheat at it. And the people doing the cheating aren't your Uncle Ted, with a racket in one hand and an Old Milwaukee in the other. No, these cheaters are the best of the best, and in every article I could find about this story, they are described as "athletes". Apparently, the desire to reach the pinnacle of the Badminton universe so corrupted eight "athletes" from China, South Korea, and Indonesia, that they conspired to throw their matches in order to obtain a more favorable opponent in the elimination rounds to come. As you can imagine, this lackluster effort did not go over well with the thousands who had paid good bribes to get their hands on tickets to see first rate badminton. Kang Young Joong, current President of something called the Badminton World Federation, wasn't happy. "Not giving one's best effort in a match does not reflect well on our sport." So, the eight offending Asians are now ex-Olympians, but clearly, the damage has been done. So what is an Olympics fan to do? What am I to think when I watch the long anticipated Croquet finals between Great Britain and Liechtenstein next week? Will I have to wonder whether that handsome man with the silky mallet is doping? And what about the Horse-Shoe Pitching finals this weekend? Are those guys playing with magnetized shoes?

Now, I'm aware that what I'm about to say isn't politically correct, however, I can't help but notice the preponderance of Asian athletes involved in nefarious conduct at these games. What's the deal with the Chicoms anyway? In the 1990's over 60 athletes from all sports tested positive for banned substances. Of that total, 28 just happened to be Chinese...swimmers. So, pardon me for being just a bit suspicious of Ye Shiwen. And when I see any North Korean athlete winning anything, a red flag ( pardon the pun ) starts to fly in my head. Although I guess I shouldn't be surprised by amazing athletic feats by North Koreans, since their supreme leader carded a 38, including an amazing 11 hole in ones in his very first attempt at golf. Since this otherworldly accomplishment was reported by the Official News Service of the North Korean Communist Party, it had to be true. Even though there is presently no evidence of cheating, I will still keep a sharp eye out for any irregularities in what I'm sure will be an all-Chicom ping pong final later this week.

One Month Ago Today

One month ago today, my Mom passed away. In some ways, the time has flown by, but in other ways it seems like an eternity. The frantic atmosphere of the first few days has been replaced by a less emotional, more practical phase. We have made some adjustments, had time to process things. We are calmer now. Plans for Dad's care have progressed and seem less daunting. Still, there are hours in the day, days in the week, when the pain of the loss is still fresh. There are times when the thought enters your mind that you should call her to ask about some such thing, or to tell her about something that happened with the kids. Then, you catch yourself, the realization that she isn't here to take that call brings a brief wave of incredible sadness. But then you shake it off and get about your day, taking comfort in the hope of eternal life.

People have stopped bringing food, the cards have slowed to a trickle, and I am glad. Each card serves to freshen up my grief. I would rather not be constantly reminded. But oddly, the late arriving cards have been the most eloquent. Most have been hand-written and have benefited from the passage of time, and the power of reflection. Therein lies a lesson for the future. When a dear friend suffers a loss, I will wait a while before writing a note.

So, today, on the first month anniversary of her passing, I will be teaching in Rush Hour. My topic?...The Seven Deadly Sins...envy, gluttony, greed, lust, pride, sloth,  and wrath...none of which applied to my Mom. Well.. except maybe wrath.... that time she told me never to stick my tongue out at her again, and I went into the bathroom , found a long comb and defiantly stuck it in my mouth and angrily pointed it in her direction. As I recall, she put on a wrath clinic, with the aid of a fly-swatter, on my bare legs. I never have used a comb since, clearly scarred for life.

The Olympic Games...Enemy Of The Future

There are just so many things wrong with this picture...if you're President Obama. Four years ago, Michael Phelps made Olympic history by winning, count 'em, EIGHT gold medals. For Progressives of all stripes, this has to be an abomination, and the prospect that he might add to this obscene total in the 2012 games set to begin tonight will only add insult to injury. I know what you're thinking.."Dunnevant, this time you've gone off your rocker. What in God's name are you talking about??" Bear with me.

This photograph is a perfect encapsulation of the unfairness of competition. Michael Phelps is the poster boy for the 1% of sport. Thousands of American boys with nothing but a Speedo and a dream trained day after grueling day, in pools great and small, for the chance to step up on that medal stand and hear the National Anthem. They all worked just as hard as Phelps, most of them were every bit as smart as Phelps. Hell, most of them had better teeth than Phelps. But in the end it didn't matter. Michael Phelps won every event and ended up posing for this insulting picture celebrating his individual accomplishments, rubbing it in the face of all the other competitors.

Micheal Phelps was born aquatically gifted. It wasn't hard work and dedication. Just look at that body, those gangly arms, the almost concave chest, the lithe, sloped shoulders, with not an ounce of body fat.Those are genetic gifts, not the product of training and desire. When I was in high school, I was always annoyed by the 6'5", 210 pound guys who ran the 40 in 4.7 seconds and a had a 30 inch vertical leap, who thought they were more athletic than me. The nerve of those guys! It's the same with Phelps. You put an inner city kid in THAT body and he would win a chest full of medals too.

Besides, is it really fair that he had to win EVERY event? Wouldn't so many more people have benefited had those medals been spread around more equitably? And speaking of medals, why is it that the guy ( or girl ) who finishes first is so exalted over the second and third place finishers? Even the medal stand reflects this winning-worship obsession. There is Phelps, head and shoulders above the poor silver medalist and towering over the pitiful bronze medalist, like some Greek God. Has anyone stopped to think of how this grotesque scene might impact the guy ( or girl ) who finished last? The dream of the progressives, and our only realistic future, is the equalization of outcomes for all, the subordination of the self for the betterment of the whole, the banishment of rugged individualism and it's replacement with collective cooperation. And yet...we still have not evolved beyond this outdated Olympian worship of excellence. Is it a coincidence that this orgy of conservatism occurs every four years, during our Presidential election? I think not.

The Three Stooges Movie...Oscar Committee, listen up!

A few nights ago I found myself in dire need of a mindless diversion. Losing your Mother and dealing with the demands of caring for your 87 year old Father and all of the decisions associated with it has the effect of casting a debilitating shadow over your life. You find yourself thinking constantly about very serious things. Do that long enough and you become serious. Which is fine, I suppose. But the other night I needed an escape. I turned on the TV and saw it "on demand"...The Three Stooges movie was finally available!! Jon was here at the time and we both were wildly enthusiastic. Pam rolled her eyes, but even she was up for a little sophomoric humor.

I grew up with the Stooges. Every Saturday morning at 7 am in glorious black and white, Larry, Curly and Moe would stumble and fumble their way through an hour's worth of rediculous situations, all the while slapping, poking, and torturing each other amid cries of "Nnnuck, Nnnuck" and "woop,woop,woop!!" Ok..granted, it wasn't Shakespeare, but to a 7 year old boy it was great fun. I was very skeptical of how the Boys would be treated by Hollywood in 2012. I was doubtful that their brand of physical humor would work in today's car-seated, helmet-wearing, peanut allergy world, where we can't even bring ourselves to keep score in T-Ball since somebody's feelings might get hurt.

The movie was AWESOME!!! The actors who played Larry, Curly, and Moe were spitting images of the originals and they had every pratfall down perfectly. The plot was ridiculous, something about an orphanage, being put out of business by high insurance claims brought on by the young stooges who had been dumped on the doorstep in a army duffel bag by a drive-by Ford Fairlane. One of the nuns looked suspiciously like a man and went by the ominous name of Sister Mary Mengele, and took an instant dislike to the three infants when she was greeted by a swift poke in the eye upon opening the duffel bag! It was all downhill from there. At first, Pam was watching the movie with that wide-eyed look that women get when watching something that they just don't get, shifting her eyes from the screen to me and back to the screen as if to say.."Who ARE you???" But before long, even she couldn't resist. In one particularly hilarious..and painful.. scene, Pam was doubled over laughing along with the rest of us. I mean, a person can resist only up to a point. How can you NOT laugh when the boys find themselves in the laundry room of a hospital trying to resuscitate a police officer who they themselves had knocked out somehow. When Moe tells Curly, "Give me the pads!!", of course, Curly gives him two hot steam irons ??

Anyway, for the first time in a month, I felt normal. I was laughing like a school boy at the antics of three of my childhood heroes. When the inevitable fart scene finally appeared near the end of the movie, I proclaimed it a complete victory, and instant classic. Then something very strange happened. Right after "The End" appeared on the screen but before the credits rolled, the two guys who co-wrote, produced, and directed the movie appeared alongside a table with many of the props from the movie. There was the sledge hammer that Moe had used to hit several people over the head. There was the huge church bell that had slid off the church roof directly into the face of Sister Mary Mengele, knocking "her" out cold. There was the needle-nose pliers used to remove Larry's
nose hairs. But there were Bobby and Peter Farrelly telling us all that , in fact, these were not REAL. Shockingly, they were all made of rubber. Nobody was actually hurt in the filming of this movie. Oh, and you kids at home shouldn't try to recreate the stunts of the movie because if you used a real chainsaw on your friend's head, it wouldn't wear out the blade like it did on Curly's head, it would actually slice his skull in two. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. In 2012 we have to run a disclaimer after a Three Stooges movie reminding the audience about the laws of physics. Whoa.