Lucy's New Thing

Now that all remnants of Christmas have been returned to the attic, Lucy seems back to normal. By normal I mean her regular skittishness as opposed to the manic, projectile-pooping mess of a dog she was once the trees went up. With each new day she is more confident, playful and adventurous. Hopefully by next Christmas she will have grown out of all her neurosis.

Now we only have one major Lucy related problem. Although she is our third Golden Retreiver, she is the first to ever manifest this particular tendency. At least we think so since neither one of us remember Murphy or Molly...shedding. Lucy is a shedding machine! We only allow her to get up on one piece of furniture in the house, our sofa downstairs. Accordingly, we drape a blanket over it each and every morning. By the end of the day the thing is covered, plastered in short, blond hairs. But it's not just the blanket. Every piece of clothing that we own proudly proclaims evidence of her existence. The inside of our dryer is covered with the stuff.

Since getting Lucy was my idea, I feel a special guilt when it comes to any added hassle or work that she visits upon us. So, I'm the one who is in charge of it. I take her to the vet, I bathe her, I feed her, take her for walks and now...I give her her daily brushing. My Dyson vacuum is going to explode one of these Saturday's from exhaustion.

I keep thinking that maybe it's a puppy thing. Maybe when she gets older and stops growing the shedding will stop or at least lessen. Maybe she sheds because of her skittishness and once she chills out a little it will stop. And maybe President Obama will become a raging conservative. It could happen, right?

Grove Avenue Baptist Vs. Bedside Baptist

This Sunday morning features low skies, steady rain and 41 degrees. The pews of Bedside Baptist are destined to be packed on a Lord's day like this. I must make a decision soon. The clock is ticking.

"Do not forsake the assembly," the old prophets said. A more modern version of this truth would be the adage that one raindrop can prevent a thousand Baptists from attending church. My Dad used to say that the crowd on bad weather Sundays amounted to the mysterious "faithful few." I'm sure there is some truth to that, but I always thought as a kid that the people who showed up literally every single time the church doors were opened were a little weird. I always felt like..."Dude, get a life!" It was like they were keeping score somehow and wanted to win eternity's perfect attendance award. Such were the sacrilegious thoughts that would ramble through a preacher's kids 12 year old brain as he stared out the church windows in a blinding snow storm. Whenever I would ask Dad about my ideas he would launch into a theology-heavy lecture about grace vs. works when all I wanted to do was go sledding.

But now, I am an adult, so I get to make my own church attendance decisions. Today, I really would rather stay here in my pajamas. I have no burning desire to go sit for an hour in a pew. There's all the standing and sitting, all of the group dynamics putting terrible pressure on you to sit and stand at the "correct" times, whether or not you are so moved to do either. There's the music, the interview( a new addition to our weird liturgy), and then the sermon. Today there will be a baptism and I think a baby dedication.

I suppose if the parents of a new born can drag themselves out of the rack and get to church, then I better get my lazy backside in a pew. Besides, seeing a baptism is about the very best thing that ever happens at my church. It never fails to inspire. It's evidence that somewhere, somehow, somebody is doing something right.

American Sniper. A Review.

Chris Kyle was a complicated guy. Reading the book about his four tours of duty in Iraq was fascinating and horrifying. While I can be thankful that there exist men with the combination of courage and brutality that Kyle possessed, he's not exactly the sort of guy you invite to a barbecue. Still, the book was so intriguing, I read it twice.

I was anxious to see how Hollywood would portray the man. Would they turn him into a psychotic, trigger happy, brainless patriot? Would they turn him into a super hero? To my considerable relief Clint Eastwood presented as faithful a portrayal as I could have hoped for. The Chris Kyle of American Sniper was a man of flesh and blood with feet of clay, who was torn between his obligations to his family and the prodigious martial gifts that made him the most lethal fighting man in Navy Seal history. Bradley Cooper's performance was astonishing, worthy of an Oscar. The depictions of urban battle weren't  staged and neat, but rather, chaotic and confusing, lending an authentic madness to the film. When a sandstorm overwhelms a battle towards the end you can practically feel the grit in your teeth.

Eastwood did clean Kyle's character up a bit. In the heat of battle, he was known to have described the enemy in several pithy, colorful and racist ways. In this characteristic he was not unlike past generations of warriors. To the American GI in WWII, the Japanese and the Germans were called every degrading term imaginable. Part of this can be attributed to the necessity in war of demonizing the enemy. Killing someone doesn't come natural to most, even in wartime. If thinking that the guys on the other side who are trying to kill you are less than human makes it easier for you to pull the
trigger...well that's just part of what makes war hell.

In the weeks leading up to the release of the movie I happened upon several message boards that featured people in great distress over what they perceived to be the glorification of war and warriors that American Sniper represented. Many were horrified that there were men like Chris Kyle in the world. To them he was a sadistic, cold-blooded killer whose primary motivation was racism. In truth, there was a cold bloodedness to him, in that he was remorseless, convinced in the justice of his cause. He had little time for doubt, for in his mind doubt is what got people killed. But, there was no sadism
in him, no blood lust. Asking your most lethal fighting men to be deep-thinking, conflicted metro-sexuals is asking an awful lot! You don't have to love the Chris Kyles of this world to be thankful and appreciative that they exist.

By all accounts Chris Kyle was a brave and courageous man with a bit of a savior complex and a servants heart, who in the course of four tours of duty in one of the most dangerous places on earth managed to kill over 160 people who were attempting to kill American soldiers. For this he has my admiration and gratitude. 

The Great Beach House Search of '15

It's January of an odd year, and that can only mean one thing. It's time for the great Dunnevant family beach house search! It will come as no surprise to regular readers of this space that our search features a family-only search website called, "Beach Central" administered by my wife. All of the research leg work has been done by Pam and my niece Jenny. They then post the finalists onto the website, where the rest of us are encouraged to make comments as to our preferences. From all of this input, a decision will be made no later than this coming Sunday. Then some unlucky sucker will be chosen to be this year's banker, send in the deposit and collect everyone's rent over the next six months.

Whenever I hear politicians moan and groan about how difficult it is to obtain consensus in Congress over some issue or another I always think, "Psshhtt! Try getting 14 adults in MY family to reach consensus on a beach house!" First there's picking a week that fits everyone's calenders. Then there's the price range, finding a house nice enough aesthetically but not so beautiful that it winds up costing a fortune. The battle then becomes location, location, location. Do we want to be right on the beach or across the road, Nags Head or Hatteras, ocean front, ocean view, or simply ocean scent?

But despite this stunning array of variables, each and every year we manage to come to agreement, unlike the mental midgets in Washington, and with rare exceptions we wind up deliriously happy with our choice, once again, unlike DC. We do this without going over budget, no bribes change hands,(not that I KNOW of anyway), and without vicious ad hominem attacks...although this year there was a snide comment about one particular house being about as exciting as Hillary Clinton on her wedding night. The point is, if the Dunnevants can do it, then surely our elected officials can.

Fightin' Joe Morrissey!

Perhaps it’s not so bad. Maybe the voters of eastern Henrico are more sensible than we are giving them credit for. Sure, they just re-elected Joe Morrissey, he of the long and diverse rap sheet, the same Joe Morrissey now serving a sentence for taking indecent liberties with a 17 year old. They re-elected…him.

But, consider this. How many times have you sat around thinking about politicians and the idea comes into your head, “that scum-bag ought to be in jail!” Well, in Joe’s case, his constituents don’t have to worry about him because he’s already in jail. There won’t be any long legal battles the next time he punches somebody’s lights out outside of some bar in The Fan. The next time he swindles a little old lady out of her life savings, there won’t be any costly trial or prolonged, embarrassing drama-fest. They’ll just add it on to his existing sentence. So, when you think about it, re-electing Morrissey is quite efficient.

To my out of state readers, I would like to offer my sincerest apologies for the tawdry freak show that Virginia politics has become. We Virginians used to pride ourselves on our historical legacy. We are after all the Mother of Presidents. Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, James Madison, James Monroe, John Marshall, Patrick Henry, George Wythe, Robert E. Lee, all hailed from the Old Dominion. But in two short weeks we have sent a Governor to prison, elected a State Delegate who is already in prison, and are close to naming a street after a former Delegate who served nine years in prison for being a drug dealer. Our cultural and political evolution has taken a disturbing detour from the sublime to the ridiculous. Our current Governor’s resume lists his most shining pre-election accomplishment as being President Clinton’s greatest fund raiser. I mean, sure…George Washington may have commanded a rag tag insurgent army to victory against the world’s greatest military power, and granted, Thomas Jefferson may have written the Declaration of Independence and all, but can they really compare with a man who figured out a way to turn the Lincoln bedroom into the most profitable bed and breakfast in America?

Yes, things have certainly changed here in the Commonwealth. While we may have once been called the Mother of Presidents, now we’re more like the Shady Uncle of Presidents.

My Expert Analysis on the Big Game

8:27 National Anthem performed by Lady Antebellum. Meh...

8:30 Teams come out for coin toss and it is revealed that in case you happen to be watching the game on a black and white set, you won't need to worry since Oregon's uniforms have zero color.

8:36 Oregon tries desperately to fumble the ball away but it keeps bouncing back into their arms! Refs blow first call of the night. Booth review bails them out only after forcing official to look ridiculous staring off into the distance waiting..

8:42 Oregon touchdown. Mariota looking like a Heisman winner...quick, athletic, and very Hawaiian. Now the team in color gets the ball.

8:50 Ohio State has to punt after third string QB can't seem to figure out coverage...perhaps because he " ain't come here to play no school!"

8:52 Nearly choke when the very last chip in the bag temporarily lodges in windpipe. Embarrassing.

9:00 Knuckleheaded Ohio State QB starts completing passes.

9:05 Ohio State touchdown after a 4th down conversion. Good game.  Referee is a dead ringer for Bob Newhart and when his microphone goes out he REALLY looks like him!

9:13 Oregon receiver drops a potential huge gainer. All the momentum shifting towards the Buckeyes. Oregon AD rethinking the colorless uniforms.

9:17 Ohio State touchdown. Kaitlin dials CVS hotline to see if they can deliver a sedative to her husband.

9:25 Oregon looking sloppy as the quarter ends. Sloppy and colorless.

9:30 Buckeye fumble. Ducks receivers start catching passes. Go for it on 4th down at the goal line and come up short. Bob Newhart calls personal foul on Ohio State resulting in a four inch penalty mark off.  My first second guess of a call happens when coach does not call Heisman winners number on 4th down.

9:42 Buckeyes looking like the better team just about the time they fumble the ball after a big gain, proving that anyone who bets money on 20 year olds playing games is a certifiable idiot.

9:54 Buckeye Touchdown. Starting to look like another over-hyped Pac-12 team folding like a cheap card table in the big game, plus Ohio State looks very good.

10:05 Oregon settles for field goal after horrible pass by Mariota. this guy won the Heisman? Nearly 600 yards of total offense in the first half. What the heck has happened to defense anymore?

And that's where my expert analysis ends. I have an early appointment in the morning so the idiots who schedule these big sporting events to begin after 8:30 at night on the east coast are losing me for the second half. Now, if this was the World Series, I would be up for the bitter end and blurry-eyed in the morning. But it's college football with no SEC team playing, so...

Lucy in the Rain

I wake up to the sound of rain. I glance at the clock and notice that I have overslept by an hour. It is 36 degrees outside. My backyard is a muddy, soupie quagmire by now and soon Lucy will need to go out for her morning constitutional. It is January the 12th, 67 days until Spring. It is a Monday. Beautiful.

Four million Frenchmen gathered in the streets over the weekend for a giant show of solidarity against terrorism. Among the throngs were many prominent heads of State. The Obama administration is being roundly criticized this morning for failing to send anyone other than the Ambassador to France to attend the rally. I disagree for a variety of reasons.

First, I don't recall world leaders all showing up in New York City for a Kumbaya parade after 9/11. I have nothing against these types of demonstrations, but frankly, they just aren't my style. Emotional gatherings featuring mass-produced "Je Suis Charlie" signs might make the people of France feel better and that's good, but as a matter of policy, it accomplishes absolutely nothing. France is still teeming with angry, radicalized Muslims and the next violent, nonsensical attack on innocents is coming sooner rather than later. Secondly, Obama was in a classic catch 22 here. If he hops on a plane and flies over to Paris and appears in the front of the line of world leaders he would get criticized for grandstanding, for attempting to make it all about him, of simply trying to create a grand optic. If he sent Joe Biden instead, he would have run the risk that old Joe would have said something stupid..."Hey Angela, what does a guy gotta do to get a croissant around here?" So, the President decided to keep everyone home and he gets hammered for it. That's fine with me. Being President is all about being damned if you do and damned if you don't. I suppose he could have sent John Kerry, our very French-looking Secretary of State, but no telling what old Lurch might have done or said. No, I support the President on this one.

Lucy is laying on the rug by the back door staring at me. It's as if she knows that she needs to go do her business but she knows how gross it is outside. She's got that look that says, "I wonder how long I can hold it?" I better not let her find out. So I will put on my raincoat, get the leash and a fresh poop bag and walk out into the front yard in the pouring rain watching Lucy go through her elaborate voyage of discovery, searching for the ideal, perfectly positioned six inch square of real estate worthy of her prodigious morning bowel movement. She will not be rushed by the elements. If anything, it takes her even longer in the rain. Of course, probably 99% of dog owners would be using an umbrella in times like these. Not me. My oversized black and white Titleist umbrella is far too horrifying for my Lucy. She couldn't possibly be expected to relax enough to perform her morning toilette with so menacing an object over my head. So, when finally she is done, both of us will be soaked.

Despite it all, I so completely love this dog. I love every eccentric, jumpy, neurotic, adorable inch of her. Crazy dog!