Patrick's Masters Recital

My son is nearing the end of his 6 and a half year musical education journey that has taken him through Nashville, Tennessee’s Belmont University to Westminster Choir College in Princeton, New Jersey. This weekend was the culmination of all of that high-brow training. As a composition student, his Master’s Thesis consisted of 45 minutes of his own works performed in concert under his direction. Pam, Kaitlin, Nana and I were on the third row. We had actually been on the front row for a time, but five minutes before the concert began, a frantic, wild-eyed young man rushed out to inform us that we couldn’t possibly sit on the front row, because it would be much too close to the conductor and might possibly freak him out. This wild-eyed young man was our son!

We had met him for dinner earlier in the evening and had noticed how agitated he was. He was non-stop chatter and spoke of the cat-herding quality of getting 20 other highly talented musicians to understand the subtleties and textures of music that had sprouted to life in the fertile soil of his own imagination. They knew the notes, but could they come to feel and comprehend the music as he did? Patrick wasn’t interested in having a good concert; he wanted it to be rapturous.

Sitting there at dinner, I couldn’t help but think back to the day we dropped him off as a lowly freshman at Belmont. In my heart I was convinced that he wouldn’t make it to his sophomore year. Patrick was a gifted musical freak, yes. But he only graduated from high school because of his mother’s constant assistance. He has the attention span and organizational skills of an under-achieving fruit fly. If it hadn’t been for his mother’s vigilance, her frantic trips to Godwin to bring him something he had forgotten, her last minute runs to Walmart to buy something that he had known he needed for two months but had neglected to mention until the night before the drop dead date, he never would have made it. And now we were leaving him to his own scatterbrained devices, 600 miles from home. The over/under for his college survival stood at one semester as we watched him disappear in the rear view mirror that hot August afternoon, six and a half years ago.

Now, at dinner, he kept using the name Sarah-Mae, as in “Sarah-Mae will help you with the reception. Sarah-Mae will meet you outside of Bristol at 7:45 to tell you where to unload the food”..etc.. We soon met the Filipino fireball who was Sarah-Mae, and immediately realized that for the past three or four weeks it had been this charismatic young woman who had served as his organizational director. This adorable girl began telling stories of the days leading up to the concert and each of them rang true. She definitely knew our son and his idiosyncrasies, and assured us that the concert was going to be amazing simply because his music was amazing.

I won’t do a musical critique because I don’t feel musically qualified to do so, plus I am impossibly biased. Suffice it to see that I loved ALL of the choral pieces because of the harmonies and the powerful emotions that beautifully performed, expertly written music produces in me. I could take or leave the solo stuff. Meh.

What moved me the most had nothing to do with the inspiring music or the beautiful words of Carl Sandburg. After it was over everyone crammed into the student center for the reception. I was approached by at least a dozen strangers, some fellow graduate students, some of Patrick’s professors. The words that they spoke to me were the sort of thing that we parents never forget:

“Everyone knows how talented your son is, but the best thing about Patrick is the fact that he’s just a wonderful person…”

“Thank you so much for sending Patrick to us. We are so lucky to have him on this campus.

“Patrick brings a passion to music that few people have.”

“I have a feeling that your son just might change the world with his music.”

“As good a musician as he is, he’s an even better person.”

 

The business of being a parent is a brutal thing. From the minute they are born, we never have another stress-free moment. Anxiety becomes our hand maiden. How will they get along in the world? But, when you are afforded the privilege of watching your child doing what they truly love to do, what they were born to do, just for a fleeting moment, the thought enters your mind that everything is going to be alright.

   

This picture was taken at the end of the performance. Patrick had turned around to take his bows. He stood there for a second with his hands together looking out at the audience, an expression partly of relief, but mostly of joy at what he had just done.

Rapurous.

Wedding Planning: Part V

The spreadsheets were laid out neatly on the table, color-coded by category. I knew immediately that serious business was afoot. This matter could no longer be put off. Time was growing short and decisions had to be made. Yes, it was time…time to finalize the guest list.

Pam was succinct in her instructions, “There are 211 people on this list. Tonight, we must make the final cuts. None of us are leaving this room until this list only has 180 names.”

The names were grouped into various categories, Dunnevant family, Manchester family, Kaitlin’s friends, Jon’s friends, work friends, family friends, borderline acquaintances, and people who get invited to weddings because of tradition or guilt, and finally a group of people you invite out of courtesy knowing full well that they will never come because they live 1000 miles away.

“But suppose someone we think won’t come decides to make a road trip?” I warned. “Maybe we should add an insert to their invitations as insurance, something like…We would love for you to attend Kaitlin and Jon’s outdoor July wedding here in the south where we consider it bad form for gentlemen to remove their jackets even when it’s 95 degrees with 100% humidity. Can’t wait to see you!”

The delicate strategy of paring down a wedding guest list seemed to center around one central question, who is more likely to get their shorts in a knot if they don’t get invited? A secondary consideration was, did they invite us to their daughter’s wedding?

I glanced down the list. At $75 a head to feed these people and a “chair fee” for every soul over 100, extreme care must be taken. “Who the heck is Elaine Krazinski?” I blurt out. Kaitlin says, “She’s that really nice neighbor lady I met down in Winston-Salem during grad school. Don’t worry, I’m sure she won’t come.”

“Why are we inviting Bob and Sally Buttinski? Do we even like them?”

“Of course not, silly.” Pam explains. “But they are best friends with the Krunkshanks, and since we’ve invited them, we don’t want to make things awkward for Bill and Patty.”

After an hour of such machinations we had our 180 names. Then it happened. As I was cleaning up the supper dishes, I heard Pam say that the postage required to mail out the invitations and the save the date announcements was going to be somewhere around 80-100 bucks. That was when I said, “Finally, something that I can write off as a business expense!”

Pam turned to me with a puzzled expression, “Wait, what do you mean?”

“I’m running those invitations through my postage meter at work!”**

Pam then gave me that look that I have grown to recognize over the years. It’s a combination of, “Oh, aren’t you adorable” and “How can you be so clueless.” She then lowered the boom, “Honey, you are not going to run wedding invitations through a postage machine! We’re buying special heart and romance stamps.”

“What??!!” I pleaded, even though I knew it was no use. “I can’t use my postage machine? I have to buy what.. wait, romance stamps?”

Pam seemed genuinely shocked at my ignorance. “Sweetie, these are wedding invitations, not business correspondence. They are works of art, even and especially down to the type of stamps required.”

So, now the list of things I didn’t know about wedding protocol has reached 87.

 

** To the NSA/IRS blog scanner: this is known as dramatic license, a writing technique whereby the author exaggerates to better make a point. I would never actually attempt to claim a business deduction for wedding postage. Haha.

The Era of Austerity is Over?

 

President Obama released his proposed 2015 budget this week and in it he declared that the Era of Austerity was over. The accompanying chart begs the question, “what the hell is he talking about?”

2009 was the year of stimulus, Tarp and other emergency spending designed to prevent the end of the world. We were all told that this was a onetime fix and that once rescued, our spending would return to normal levels. These assurances weren’t what I would call lies necessarily, but merely grossly inaccurate promises made with no regard or understanding of how Washington works. Once spending programs get started, they never truly end…never.

So, as the chart illustrates, that temporary onetime increase in spending in 2009 quickly became the new normal baseline for all spending thereafter. Both spending AND revenue have been on a dizzying ascent ever since, belying the claim by some Democrats that we have a revenue rather than a spending problem. My question is a simple one. Can someone show me where this Era of Austerity is on this chart? Aren’t eras generally considered to be relatively long, protracted affairs? Perhaps there was an Era of Austerity that escaped our notice between Tuesday and Friday afternoon during the third week August of 2011? In the over 5 years of this President’s time in office, Federal spending has skyrocketed from 2.95 trillion a year to 3.7 trillion a year, while our total debt was climbing from 10 trillion to 17 trillion. If this is austerity, I wonder what abundance would look like?

Webster’s defines austerity thusly:

A situation in which there is not much money and it is spent only on things which are necessary.

Can anything that Washington has endured over the past 5 and a half years be accurately described as austerity?

Ellen DeGeneres

Ok, sorry for two posts in one day people, but it snowed here in Short Pump, which means that practically everything is shut down…even my gym. I did follow through on this morning’s post and drove into the office and actually got some stuff done. Then Pam emailed me a grocery list and that was that.

So, I did something last night that I seldom do. I actually sat down with my wife and watched 45 minutes or so of the Oscars. I don’t normally watch awards shows, too much self-congratulatory back-slapping for my taste. But, I must admit, every single time the camera was on Ellen DeGeneres, I was laughing. As usual, she was very funny. I missed her opening monologue so I watched it later on and thought it was hysterical. In my opinion, she is more of a throwback comedienne, one who has the ability to be funny without being crude. Everything about her opening monologue was perfect from subject matter to timing, impeccably done. The only line that was the slightest bit mean spirited was her crack about Liza Minnelli, but…look at her…Ellen was right!

So imagine my surprise this morning when I read some dude from the Hollywood press destroying her for her “endless string of tired and wince-inducing moments.” I guess there’s no accounting for taste. Comedy is, after all, subjective. What I think is hilarious (The Three Stooges) you might think is juvenile. What I think is a piercing rapier wit (P.J. O’Rourke) you might think is indecipherable blather. What I might consider whimsically intelligent social commentary (this blog) you might think is sophomoric nonsense. But, honestly, how could anyone say that Ellen’s work last night was “wince-inducing?” Considering that over the past few years viewers have been dragged through a gutter of filth by the likes of Ricky Gervais and Seth McFarlane, I found Ellen’s return to victimless humor a breath of fresh air.

And really…Liza Minnelli really did look like a man.

My Plans For the Day

Nineteen hours ago this very moment, Pam and I were walking across the parking lot after church basking in sunshine, a light breeze and the warmth of 73 glorious degrees. This morning I was awakened by the tingling of sleet against my bedroom window. By the time I climb into bed this evening, I’m told that there will be 6-8 inches of snow on the ground and the temperature will be in the single digits. It is March the 3^rd. If I were a Democratic Party politician I would be tempted to launch into an unhinged climate change diatribe. Although that Democratic politician and I have one thing in common, (neither of us knows the first thing about the science behind climate change), I will resist the urge to confuse causation with correlation and simply say, “Wow, this weather really sucks.”

I had two appointments scheduled this morning in my office which have both canceled. There will be nearly an inch of freezing rain and sleet on the roads by the time the temperature is expected to drop over 15 degrees in less than two hours around mid-morning, producing something called a flash-freeze on road services. This is meteorology-talk for “skating rink.” Then the snow is scheduled to begin.

I find myself on the horns of a dilemma. A reasonable man would look outside and hunker down with a cup of hot cocoa and call it a day. I am a famously unreasonable man. I look out of my window at these hideous conditions and think, “I’ve got to get out of here!” After 30 years of marriage, my wife knows better than to argue with me on this point. She just rolls her eyes and yells, “Well, will you at least run by the grocery store while you’re out, you crazy person!”

My condition is often referred to as cabin fever. But how can you have cabin fever when you’ve only been awake for thirty minutes? No, this isn’t cabin fever; it’s more like stubborn rebellion. Every time I hear officials warning everyone to stay off the roads, or don’t venture out unless you absolutely, positively have to, I think to myself, “Why are these people telling me what to do? Who do they think they are?? I am a free man, and if I want to venture outside, no pin-headed government geek is going to stop me. This is America, for crying out loud! Did Lewis & Clark stay inside when the weather got bad? Did Wilbur & Orville hunker down at the first sight of storm clouds? Did the Donner party let a bunch of weather busy-bodies at the NWS keep them at home..er, no wait.

Anyway, standing at my Palladian window watching the ice pellets sliding down the roof, filling up the gutters, I know what I have to do. At some point very soon, I will take a shower, eat breakfast, then come up with some lame excuse for having to go into the office. Luckily, it’s only 2 miles away. I will back Pam’s car out of the garage and disappear from the neighborhood, (even I’m not stupid enough to take my car!) A couple of hours later I will return from my adventures in vastly improved spirits, secure in the knowledge that I can venture out onto the roads any danged time I want to and nobody from the government is going to stop me.

‘Merica!

Ukraine and Us

The Ukrainian people throw out their authoritarian, Russian backed President in a popular uprising that people throughout the world have almost unanimously praised. Vladimir Putin responds by sending troops into Crimea. Now it appears that the popular revolution is in danger of being usurped by Russian tanks like Czechoslovakia, Hungary and Georgia before them. Of course the big difference between the Ukraine of 2014 and the Prague Spring of 1968 is…the internet. Now, the entire world is watching, in real time without ideologically friendly editors at the New York Times running interference.

Yesterday, President Obama strolled into the White House press room to make a statement. In it he warned Russia that “there will be costs” to any military adventure, that any violation of Ukraine’s territorial integrity (which had already taken place at the hour of his statement), would be “deeply destabilizing” and would represent a “profound interference” into the internal affairs of a sovereign state. As punishment, the President is said to be considering the cancellation of a planned trip to Russia this summer. At least he didn't use the words, "red line."

I’m certainly no diplomat, but if this is the sort of statement you’re going to make…don’t say anything at all. The only possible way our President could have appeared any weaker is if he had burst into tears. Pathetic.

However, for us it’s probably a good thing that our President is so weak. He clearly doesn’t have the stomach for confrontation and frankly we don’t have the money to back him up if he did! But Doug, but Doug, what about those brave protesters? What about them? The fact that they are protesting and demonstrating bravery is immaterial to our national interests. God bless them, but what’s going on in the Ukraine is no more our business than a massive Tea Party anti-government rally on the mall in DC would be any of Russia’s business. Besides, the words of Napoleon seem appropriate here, “Never interfere with your enemy when he is in the process of destroying himself.” How much of their national treasure and world reputation (which Putin just spent 51 billion dollars trying to improve in the winter Olympics) would be squandered over the next 5 years fighting a civil war on the Black Sea? My advice? Stay out of it.

I’m aware that a foreign policy that features non-intervention in other countries isn’t very sexy. I’m also aware that very smart and informed people will consider it isolationists and defeatist. They will accuse us of withdrawing from the world, of shirking our responsibility as the leader of the free world. I do have sympathy for these points. But, sometimes being a leader means minding your own business. Our experiences in Iraq and Afghanistan should have taught us the limits of intervention. The cost of military adventures about which Obama warned Putin is something we should know quite a lot about. Between these two misadventures, our nation has squandered 4 trillion dollars and lost over 6,700 men and women. And when we finally pull out the last battalion from each of these countries, they will still be ungovernable hell-holes.

That’s not leadership…that’s an epic tragedy.