Suppose the Shoe Was on the Other Foot?

 

 

There is a terrible movement of very violent and blood thirsty men in the Middle East.

The above sentence could have been written and would have been true in practically every era of recorded history, so I suppose I should be more specific. This particular flavor of barbarism goes by the name of ISIS, or the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria. They have come out of nowhere, multiplied like crabgrass, and now control large swaths of desert and cities formerly controlled by the two countries that now make up their name. Along the way, ISIS has demonstrated a blood thirst that rivals that of Sadam Hussein, a fondness for prepubescent girls that rivals Muammar Gaddafi, proving that old adage about being careful about what one wishes for. Perhaps before we decided to remove these two gentlemen from power, we should have had a clearer idea of who might replace them.

So now that ISIS has filled the leadership void in Iraq with 7^th century Islam, calls have come for the United States to “do something” to help the people fleeing the terror and destruction, some of whom are Christians. My Facebook wall has been filled with accusations of a Christian genocide, with the accompanying accusation that Obama is indifferent to Christian suffering. Over the weekend the President made the decision to drop humanitarian supplies and authorized “limited air-strikes” against the advancing hordes. Here we go again.

Once again it falls to America to police the world. It is somehow our job to enforce the rules of civilization on the uncivilized. For this we will be mocked, ridiculed and hated by virtually everyone.

I am aware of the arguments on all sides of the “America as world policeman” debate and I have great respect for those who disagree with my conclusions. But shouldn’t the question of getting involved in every dust-up on the planet at the very least come down to protecting American interests? Shouldn’t actual Americans have to be attacked before we charge in with fighter jets? Shouldn’t some American somewhere have to be in clear and present danger before we pull the trigger? The reason I ask this is because there is a conflict raging out of control this very minute that involves the deaths of scores of Americans. The bloodshed is unrelenting. Over the past 36 months, over 1,100 Americans have perished, over 130 of them children under the age of 16. The conflict shows no signs of letting up. Despite the tragic loss of life, the United States government has done nothing to stop the slaughter of its own people. No delegation has been sent to negotiate a cease fire. President Obama has authorized no intervention, not even economic sanctions. As far I can see, no effort has been made to stop the indiscriminate killing of American citizens. Instead, the City of Chicago has been left to fend for itself.

How would we feel if Russia was the world’s policeman? Vladimir Putin, after long discussions with his generals decides that he can no longer stand idly by and watch innocent people gunned down in the streets of a great American city. He authorizes a daring commando raid on the Southside of Chicago to restore order. Crack Russian troops begin patrolling Chicago communities hunting down the ruthlessly violent drug dealers who have long terrorized the windy city. Putin assures the American people that his country is not interested in territorial gains, and promises to leave the city as soon as the Chicago police force is purged of graft and properly trained.

Would we resent the Russians for such a humanitarian intervention? If I know the citizens of Chicago, their resentment would take the form of guerilla warfare against the invading army of a foreign country who had the nerve to stick their big fat Russian noses in our business.

Now you know how the Iraqis feel.

Playing Hooky

 

 

I will be spending several hours at the office today, Saturday. Why? Because of my wife.

She sends me a text Thursday afternoon with this out of nowhere request:

“How about we go to Bear Creek Lake tomorrow? We can pack a picnic lunch and go swimming and make a day of it. It’s supposed to be beautiful weather.”

Although I had a load of paperwork to complete on Friday, I immediately punted it into Saturday. So, there we were yesterday leaving the house at 9:30. I had inflated two of those pool lounge chairs, and thrown a couple of beach chairs in the back of the car. My wife had filled the cooler with sandwiches, chips, watermelon, cantaloupe, scotcharoos, water bottles, and because she is Pam, a tablecloth and summer-themed plastic plates.

Bear Creek Lake is a place from my childhood. My Uncle Jim and Aunt Sylvia used to take me there to camp and fish. The last time I was there was with Pam when we were dating. She wore a pink one-piece and had the undivided attention of every male on the beach that day. On this day, she wore a bikini with the same result.

We paid a total of $9 for the privilege of entry into the park and a day of swimming, and the use of shower facilities. The place was beautiful, and extremely well maintained proving that of all the things that government does, preserving and maintaining our National and State parks is one of the few things it does well.

Don’t get me wrong, Bear Creek Lake is no Megunticook. It is a tiny little thing. By Maine standards it doesn’t even qualify as a lake, more like a pond. The water is murky and filled with debris of the natural variety, sticks, grass, and various slimy things. But, on the positive side, the water doesn’t give you a heart attack when you get in and you can stay in for longer than ten minutes without losing a toe to frostbite.

We spent nearly six hours there, floating on the calm water, talking, remembering. There were lots of families, three generations, Grandpa in the water with giggling grandchildren while Mom and Dad relaxed on the beach, a comforting and encouraging sight.

When we were done, we drove home in a mere 50 minutes, thanks to the greatest road to hit Richmond in 50 years…288. While it certainly is true that Bear Creek Lake is no Megunticook, a 50 minute drive is no 13 hours either!

So, as a result of my wife’s great idea, I am now off to work…on a Saturday.

Soooo worth it.

Here's an Idea!

 

 

It requires an enormous amount of energy to move a 20,000 ton freight train from a dead stop, but comparatively little to keep it chugging along at 50 mph. This is the result of a fascinating concept called “momentum.”

The following analogy is not perfect, but it does seem at least partially true. Returning from a 10 day vacation as a business owner feels an awful lot like that train. Getting your enterprise up and running again requires an awful lot of energy. Starting from a dead stop isn’t easy, but after a week or two things will be chugging along as if I never left. My momentum will have been restored.

The question then becomes, was the ten days away worth it to have to endure the heavy lifting required to begin again? The answer is emphatically, “YES.”

Pondering all of this has given me an idea. Practically everyone I know, despite their economic condition, takes some form of a vacation. Everyone that is, except government. Wouldn’t it be great if we forced government at all levels to take a two week time-out every year? Now, obviously not every department of government can just shut down. There are Social Security checks that have to be mailed out, etc. But couldn’t the country find a way to muddle through for 14 days without the Commerce Department, the Department of Education, the EPA, the IRS, Housing and Urban Development, and the countless alphabet soup of agencies, bureaus and administrations that populate the Washington landscape? Two weeks. Just shut her down. No Small Business Administration, no Bureau of Land Management. 14 freaking days.

Since we spend 287 billion every month, my two week time-out idea could save us some money. But even if it didn’t, there might be another benefit. Imagine the amount of energy that would be required to get the train of state started again from such a dead stop? Maybe, just maybe the effort would prove too much for every member over the age of 65. Who knows? Perhaps that would account for what…60% of Congress? This idea might work better than term limits!

WARNING: Proceed With Caution!

I feel it only fair to issue a warning at the beginning of this post. If you have not eaten your breakfast, what follows may take away your appetite. If you are either currently eating your breakfast, or have just finished it, take all appropriate precautions before proceeding.

This morning my psyche was permanently scarred by three images published overnight of Dallas Cowboy owner Jerry Jones in various disgusting sexual poses with very young women. Yes, Jerry Jones, the 71 year old with the comically contorted face that stands as visceral warning to anyone contemplating cosmetic surgery, the self-proclaimed “family man” who has been married to the same woman for 51 years, has been revealed to the world as an ass-grabbing dirty old man by the Deadspin website.

One might reasonably ask why I chose to click on the article in the first place, an excellent question to which I have no satisfactory answer except to say that it is after all, curiosity that killed the cat. Perhaps there lies within us a desire to see the proud brought low, maybe we take vicarious pleasure in the misfortune, the public unraveling of famous big shots. I am not proud of this inclination, but there can be no debate about the fact that Jerry Jones is one of the biggest shots of this or any era.

I am not a Cowboy hater, or as my friend Al Coleman refers to them, I have no beef with the “Bovine Cartel.” I am not necessarily against bravado either. I generally love confident athletes, Joe Namath’s guarantee and Muhammad Ali’s  “I am the greatest” shtick worked only because they were able to make good on their brags. What always has bothered me about Jones is the inordinate attention he gets as the owner of such a woefully inept franchise. After early success as team owner, he has meddled and fumbled his way to staggering mediocrity, often while fielding rosters full of superior talent. Combine this with his eerie plastic surgery missteps, and now his exposure as a philandering hypocrite and…well, one takes a bit of pleasure in his comeuppance.

Still, I was not prepared for Jerry Jones’ glassy-eyed, toothy-grinned sneer, groping the breasts of what looked to be no more than a twenty year old girl. Imagine the horror facing that girl’s parents this morning as they witness their little girls’ public humiliation. What am I saying? This is 2014 America. This girl way well become a star. She may get interviewed by TMZ. Katie Couric and Oprah may soon come calling. Eventually she may hit the mother load of 21^st century riches and land her own reality show.

I have chronicled the epic bad behavior of famous men on this blog at great length, but it should be pointed out that every sexual failing of these prominent men has been made possible by willing young women, more than eager to prostitute themselves to degenerate and mostly ugly old men. Ladies, I am forced to ask…what the heck is wrong with you??

Newlyweds...psshhtt!!

So tonight my recently married daughter made one of those adorable newlywed comments on Facebook. “Even emptying the dishwasher is fun,” she cooed. Of course, replies came pouring in from her more tenured married friends offering more sober answers to her question, “ how long does this last?”  They can be summarized succinctly with, “not long.”

I couldn’t resist pointing out all of the hilarity she passed up while living under my roof. Back then, both of our kids viewed all of the loud electrical appliances like dishwashers and vacuum cleaners as monstrously complicated beasts that could only be trusted in the learned and capable hands of Mom and Dad.

Still, there is truth to her assertion that “playing house is fun.” Although she will soon learn that the more mundane chores like emptying the dishwasher do become routine, the truth is, it’s the chores of life, the daily work of making a house a home that bring comfort and provide a sense of purpose. It may sound silly, but I do actually enjoy the rhythm of domestic life. After thirty years I know what my jobs are. I take out the trash. I take care of the yard. I load the dishwasher and clean up the kitchen after dinner. Most of the time I vacuum and clean the bathrooms. Pam cooks dinner. She plans meals and buys the groceries. She cleans the hardwood floors. She does the laundry. We divide responsibilities in this manner not because the other is incapable, but because we have discovered that Pam is a fabulous cook and I can clean bathrooms much quicker and easier than she can. It has been a trial and error system that has produced a dependable and workable division of labor. But it’s more than that. It’s…comforting.

So, when I see my daughter suddenly, miraculously having fun emptying the dishwasher, it makes me happy. Because while I know that her and Jon are just newlyweds and consequently know nothing about anything, they are in the process of figuring it all out. It is a grand and noble adventure that they have just embarked upon. There will be challenges along the way. But having fun emptying the dishwasher is a fine start.

IM BACK!!....and looking for a puppy.

My Maine vacation is over. After a rough beginning, it ended well, two clear sunny days in the upper 60’s. I return to Short Pump with several ugly bruises, 4 pounds heavier, but much more relaxed.

I see from a sweep of my news sources that nothing has changed since I left. The Israelis and Palestinians are still at it in Gaza. Our Secretary of State is still an idiot. Nothing has been done about the southern border except Congress throwing some money at the thing. The stock market shed 400 points. A famous basketball player broke his leg rather gruesomely. A famous golfer left the PGA tour for treatment of a cocaine addiction. Apparently, there is an Ebola outbreak in Africa some place and (gasp!) an American doctor has contracted it and has been allowed to reenter the country, proving that we will literally allow anyone into America. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddles masses…your violently ill with communicable diseases, yearning to be free…and maybe score some free stuff. The New Colossus indeed!

So now my new life begins, the one with no children claimed as dependents on my tax return. Kaitlin is married and living in Columbia, SC. Patrick is graduated and eagerly awaiting permanent entry into the job market in Nashville, TN. Pam and I did all we could for them to give them what they needed to succeed in life. Now it’s up to them to make something of themselves. Meanwhile, Pam and I have to decide what we want to be now that we’re all grown up. I mean, besides getting a puppy.

In the thirty years of our marriage, we have owned two golden retrievers, Murphy for 14 years and Molly for 11 and a half. Molly has been gone for over a year now, the wedding madness is over. It’s time. A few weeks ago when I shared our desire for another golden on Facebook, we were bombarded with advice, (both kind and vaguely judgmental) to get a rescue dog and avoid evil breeders. This “get a rescue dog” business seems the latest trend in fashionable West End causes, right up there with “gluten-free,” “peanut allergies,” and “Monsanto is the Anti-Christ.” Listen, I get it, there are thousands of unwanted and abused dogs living on borrowed time in animal shelters all over the country. Many of them would make fine pets. But when Pam and I had our two children, there were millions of unwanted and abused children living on borrowed time in orphanages all over the country. Many of them would have made fine children.

But we wanted our own kids. It didn’t mean that we didn’t care about the kids in the orphanages, we just wanted our own kids. Well, we want a golden retriever puppy, about eight weeks old that we can bring home and train ourselves, just like we did with Murphy and Molly. It doesn’t make us heartless and indifferent to suffering dogs everywhere. It just means that we love the smell of puppy breath, and we want a new dog that we can be best buds with for the next 11-14 years of our lives.

But, fear not. We will make sure that he is fed gluten-free dog food, and we will have him tested for peanut allergies.

...And THIS kids, is why we can't have nice things!

Remember show and tell? Back when I was in elementary school we would have show and tell every Monday morning, whereby we might be called on to share with the class some interesting thing we had done over the weekend. We would always have a special vacation edition show and tell after spring break. “Johnnie, tell the class what you did over break!”

Well, I will spare all of you the “show” part since it would involve highly personal photographs of various parts of my body with giant gashes and bruises. Instead, I will attempt to describe yesterday’s events for you with as little anger and resentment as possible, trying my best to keep the whining to a minimum.

I started my day with disciplined intentions. Since I had spent two full days eating enough food for three people, I purposed to start my day with a brisk run. I began at a fine pace, feeling rather cocky since my four days a week workout regime over the past five years has left me extremely fit. I ran down Beaucain road as it curled around the lake and made the long uphill climb to the intersection with route 52 with barely a deep breath. I turned left and began the miles long trek up the east side of majestic Megunticook Lake.

1.     Then I pulled a hammy.

I wasn’t a severe pull, more like an annoying twinge. I slowed down, then walked for a while, starting up again a quarter mile later. Yep, I had pulled my left hamstring. No big deal though. Sure, it would hurt a little for a few days and be mildly irritating, but I was on vacation and a simple pulled muscle wasn’t going to get me down.

After breakfast of this gloriously beautiful day, we all decided that we would hike the Maiden’s Cliff trail up to the top of the huge 800 foot wall of rock across the lake from our house. Our handy trail guide described the trip as a 30 minute frolic over a gently sloping pebble lined footpath. After the torrential rains of Monday, it might be a little wet, but the views sounded fantastic.

Thirty minutes into this adventure we not only weren’t at the summit, we had yet to find any pebbles, or for that matter any footpath. What we had found was a jagged canyon with ginormous boulders scattered across a “trail” that had it not been for blue marks painted on trees and rocks every fifty feet, we would still be wandering around up there. Paula and Ron were gassed, and since both of them have metal rods in their recently surgically repaired ankles, decided wisely to turn back. Pam and I, rather smugly I must confess, decided to venture on to the top. We were rewarded with a fabulous panoramic view of mountains, lake and ocean. We picked and ate blackberries raspberries and blueberries that grew wild along the flat rocks. However, it must be said that despite the beautiful view, we were not at our advertised destination. No 800 foot cliffs, just a bunch of very confusing signs that pointed off in conflicting directions with arrows and mileage. “Mount Megunticook Trail…2.5 miles. Maidens Cliff trail 0.8 miles. Wait, the sign we passed 0.5 miles ago said it was only 0.3 miles! Pam and I decided to take a different trail back down the mountain, since neither of us could imagine going down the same way we came up. Five minutes into our descent I…

2.     …placed my right foot on some dead leaves on a giant boulder which sent my feet flying upward and slammed me down hard on my lower back and ass with a resounding thud.

By the time Pam had shimmied down the rock and gotten to me, I had recovered a little bit of composure, but I had an ugly gash/bruise on my lower back, a skinned up elbow and a marble-sized knot on my butt!

Back at the cabin everything was cleaned up, Neosporin was applied, ice applied in all of the appropriate places, and soon this too, was shrugged off.

They say that bad stuff happens in threes. Well, after a delicious lunch, and despite a very sore ass, launched out in the kayak over the still water having put the days’ mishaps behind me. After a relaxing thirty minutes of peaceful solitude, I pulled the kayak up onto our grassy yard and decided to join Pam out on our float. I began walking down the dock plank and just as I reached the place where the dock is attached to the float I…

3.     Heard a horrible snapping noise. Then, in super slow motion I watched the dock tear itself away from the float and crash into the water. I began to fall and the entire weight of the fall was absorbed by my right knee and shin as a jagged and rotting board gave way and my knee lodged into the edge of the float. Somehow, I avoided being thrown into the water, but the knee and shin were pretty badly bruised and skinned up.

So, now I have a limp to go along with an only partially functioning backside. Pictures to follow.