My Trials and Tribulations

My Dad took this picture of me last night. He does this a lot, takes pictures of me for no reason. I haven't felt well lately. My shoulder hurts. I went to the very scary Vet last week and she said I hurt it chasing the frisbee. So now Dad won't throw it to me anymore. Plus, every time we go outside, I have to stay on the leash, even in my backyard! It's terrible. The worst part is, they have blocked off the stairs. That means I have to sleep downstairs by myself. I don't understand why I can't go upstairs. It's not fair! Oh, and Kaitlin came home yesterday and because of this new stair rule, I can't even wake her up by jumping on her bed and scaring the crap out of her like I love to do. No wonder I look sad in this picture!

Well, last night was the last straw. There I was sleeping in the library where they have banished me...when suddenly I felt it. There was a thunderstorm coming! My humans are the bravest people ever. They sit there watching television or reading even in the middle of the most horrifying downpours you've ever seen! Even when the yellow flashes come, they hardly look up from whatever it is they are doing. I've never seen such valor. But just because they aren't concerned about the instant death that these storms bring doesn't mean I have to go along with their madness. No sir! At the first hint of trouble, I head for Mom's walk-in closet. It's nice and dark and not nearly so noisy. I stay there shaking until the terror is over, then come out to find my humans acting like nothing ever happened. I worry about them sometimes.

Anyway, last night this terrible storm came through and I instinctively headed upstairs to save myself when I realized that there was a piano bench blocking my escape route. I have to admit, I panicked a little. I thought about peeing for a minute but thankfully got ahold of myself. I tried whining, but they couldn't hear me. My Mom could seriously sleep through anything. So I knew it was either me or that piano bench. Even though my humans have both told me a thousand times this past week not to jump or run, I knew it was my only hope. Besides, they were both fast asleep and couldn't see me. First I thought about grabbing the bench by one of its legs and dragging it out of the way, but thought better of it. My humans have this thing about chewing on the furniture. I know, they're weird that way. I knew that my only solution was going to be jumping over the bench and somehow landing on the stairs beyond without jamming up my shoulder even worse than it already is. So, I went for it. I landed it like a boss, I must say!

Soon, I was shaking safely in my storm closet and eventually the killer storm passed. Dodged an enormous bullet, I did. But I have a feeling that my horror isn't over. I keep picking up dark rumors of a long trip in my future...something about a lake, and a place called Maine. It sounds sketchy. 

The King is Dead

Muhammad Ali died last night. I'm sure that all of social media will soon be awash in testimonials, and most of them will be over the top with high praise. I don't intend to fall into that trap. While Ali was perhaps the greatest athlete I have ever seen in my life and without question the greatest fighter, that's pretty much where the accolades should end.

Ali was a contemporary of Martin Luther King and the two were a universe apart from each other. The day that Cassius Clay embraced the Nation of Islam and its maniacally racist leader, Elijah Muhammad, Ali chose segregation over integration...King's words, not mine. Ali's relentless narcissistic chanting of "I'm the greatest of all time!!"...flew in the face of what most Americans wanted in their heroes. No one wanted their own children to develope such levels of self regard. When he decided that his "religious convictions" prevented him from fighting for his country, while allowing him to fight for money, well, most people didn't buy it. 

Still, I was a seven year old kid living in New Orleans when he stood scowling and defiant over a fallen Sonny Liston in this iconic photograph. Over the next three years I watched most of his fights on our old RCA Victor black and white television in our cramped apartment. We always cheered for his opponents...Floyd Patterson, George Chuvalo, Zora Folley, Jerry Quarry. It was like watching a man fighting little boys. Ali was a thing of beauty, graceful, perfectly built, with lightening fast hands. They didn't stand a chance. After the fights there was no salute to the fallen, only semi-poetic gloating.

So, I was no fan of Ali the man and will not engage in the revisionist history that will rise up over the next few days about him. But, I was amazed at Ali the fighter who actually was the greatest of all time. So that is how I will choose to remember him, a great and iconic boxer...and nothing more.

On a happier note, my sweet daughter finished her third year of teaching yesterday and this morning is headed to Short Pump to attend the baby shower of one of her best friends...which means that she will be staying here for the next two days. I fully intend to spoil her rotten.

Trump and the Press

Part of me really doesn't want to write this. Regular readers are aware of my views on Donald Trump. Generally speaking, I find him to be an embarrassment. Despite what follows here, I still have no intention of voting for the man...but... I have to say that I do enjoy watching him with the press.

For as long as I can remember, I have loathed members of the fourth estate. I understand their importance in a healthy democracy and have zero interest in silencing them. But, I still hate them for several reasons. First of all, I know basically what their world view is, and it isn't mine. The vast majority of the White House press corp voted for Obama and would never even consider voting for a conservative anything. They all insist that their near unanimous liberal voting record in no way effects their reporting. I don't believe them. Well, I believe that they believe that, but I don't because it's impossible. My political beliefs certainly have an impact on what I think about politicians, and so do yours. But reporters expect us to believe that the fact that practically all of their colleagues believe the same thing about politics doesn't in any way affect the way they report the news, the type of questions they ask, and the questions they don't ask. It's a ridiculous notion.

Most of the presidential candidates I have supported over the years have been eviserated by the press at every opportunity, and with very few exceptions my guys have mostly just taken it as a given. Now comes Donald Trump. Practically every member of the national press has made it clear that they despise him...and with good reason. But instead of meekly submitting to their hatred, he has decided to dish it right back at them. Gone are the polite non-responses. Gone is the false pretense of friendship. It's like Trump is thinking, "Ok, you want to destroy me? Not if I destroy you first!"

Couple of days ago he called one reporter a sleeze, another a real beauty. One breathless reporter asked him if he had a problem with scrutiny and if he becomes President will his dismissive treatment of the press continue. Trump shot back..."I love scrutiny, what I don't like is lies. I find that political journalist are the most dishonest people in the world, and if I become President, yes I will continue to dismiss you guys"...or words to that effect.

Now, set aside for a moment the irony of Donald Trump lecturing anyone about honesty, when I watch him interacting with the pampered elitist national press corps this way, something in my heart thinks..."damn right!!!...and finally, somebody has the guts to call out these biased hacks!"

Of course in Trump's case, he also threatens to try to pass laws that would make it easier to sue the press, which is a horrible idea, not to mention unconstitutional. I don't want the press censored in any way. The fact that most of them are Democratic Party water carriers is just the way things are and will probably always be...and I'm ok with that. But it is refreshing to listen to a Presidential candidate treat them accordingly.

A Great Cartoon

Had a great debate with my son today about the minimum wage. He is in the Bernie camp, advocating for a $15 an hour wage. I argued that if the dude who takes out the trash at McDonalds was worth $15, I would be glad to pay him, but since he is not, I resent some Labor Department functionary telling me what I have to pay my employees. It was back and forth all day, first through email, then texting and included some gems. While ripping central planning types for their lack of real world experience in the business world, I suggested that they "couldn't sell hacksaws in a prison!" Then a bit later Patrick shot back at me with, "a conservative's idea of an adequate health plan is a bottle of Castor Oil." Great stuff!!

In the old days they used to say, never get into an argument with a guy who buys ink by the barrel. Well, today it should be, never get into an argument with a millenial with video gamer thumbs. Patrick can be in mid-sentence, then Google up a term paper full of stats in like two seconds to bolster his argument. By the time I think about using Google, it's already next week. I have to rely almost solely on whatever is stored in my head, and is retrievable after 58 years of wear and tear. But, I hold my own. Towards the end of our back and forth, Patrick sent me this:

Now, this is an awesome cartoon, especially if you want a $15 minimum wage. It's practically perfect. There's the poor, lowly, innocent worker with his meager little sign and a buck and change on the ground behind him, while the big, bad, mean spirited businessman is atop his stash of billions lecturing the little guy about GREED! It was meant to be a final blow to our debate, an unanswerable gauntlet thrown down at my feet. The only problem is that I see something else when I look at this cartoon. I see it, but most don't. Very few Millenials can even imagine what I see. But anyone who has ever owned a business will see the same thing I see.

I look at the man on the top of that mountain of cash and I think...I wonder how high that mountain was before the government swooped in for their fair share? I think this way because I'm a businessman and as such have to pay all of the hands thrust my way by federal, state, and local governments with money from my own accounts. There is no such thing as "withholding" in my world. There also isn't any such thing as employer-paid FICA taxes, or for that matter...employer paid anything. I suppose I should be grateful that I don't live in California since if I did, by the time I paid both halves of my FICA tax, my federal estimated income tax, my California State taxes, real estate and personal property taxes and a thousand other transaction fees for the privilege of doing business there, nearly 60% of my mountain would have been taken by government. Since I'm a Virginian, it's only around 42%. 

But notice who never gets called greedy in this cartoon? Government is never accused of being greedy, even though their appetite for our money is unquenchable. It's always that tight-fisted business owner at the top of a mountain of cash with the GREED tag. Because the cartoon always gets drawn after the hand of government has been filled and safely out of the picture. 

But, it's no use asking anyone to think of the government as greedy. In much the same way that we are told that African-Americans cannot be racist, I suppose that government simply cannot be greedy either. Besides, they are here to help us and they know what's best for us, even when...especially when, we don't. The fact that the men and women who have comprised that government over the past fifty years have managed to wrack up nearly 20 trillion dollars of debt just means that they are working really, really hard to help us. And if we knew what was good for us, we would be grateful.

What a Month!

The long slog of May is over. Birthdays have been celebrated, anniversaries marked, weddings attended, awards collected, and new apartments occupied. Three thousand miles have been added to the odometer of the Pacifica. Eating so much restaurant food has resulted in an addition five pounds to deal with. Now comes June and its looming deadline.

This month will be devoted almost exclusively to work. It will be a grind. I need to finish many things, wrap things up in as tidy a bow as is possible. This is what happens every year the week or so before our summer vacation. But this year will be different. We will be trying something new and possibly life changing. We will be spending the entire month of July in Maine. That will require a new level of getting ready. 

Buying Local Blues

Our first night in Nashville involved a restaurant incident that illustrates perfectly the down side to "buying local." Whenever we are out of town we like to eat at places indigenous to the city we are in, you know...sampling the local talent, so to speak. So last night, Pam gets on some app she has looking for a place close to our hotel where we could meet the kids for dinner. We found the perfect place...Murff's Craft Brews and Burgers. The owner was a decorated Vietnam vet with a local reputation for some sort of secret ingredient that had been celebrated on Nashville television. It's website looked amazing. We made a date.

We pull up into the parking lot and there were cars everywhere, a good sign. The place looked like a greasy spoon, but in a charming kind of way. I was psyched. Then things took a turn...

The front door of Murff's displayed a homemade, hand printed sign taped to the inside of the glass door just above the door handle, impossible to miss. It warned potential customers of the deadly dangers of consuming meat that isn't properly cooked. Needless to say, this isn't exactly the greeting one is looking for when entering a low grade eating establishment with burgers in its name. Then it got worse...much worse. Upon entering Murff's we were simultaneously greeted by two body blows. First, an elderly man( maybe Murff himself?), actually cleaning glasses with a towel from behind the bar greeted us, "Good to see you folks. Sit anywhere you want." Then it hit us...the smell. How to explain? The place reeked of strong, industrial strength disinfectant, like someone had just steam cleaned the place with Lysol ten minutes after they had exterminated the place with one of those lethal foggers. The other patrons seemed oblivious to the smell. None of us could imagine being able to eat anything inside a place that smelled like a DuPont plant might smell after consuming a tractor trailer full of rotten sardines. No, no...Pam laid down the law...no!

The app was once again put to work. This time we found a Firebirds only half a mile away. Pam says, "See, this is why people like chain restaurants. Quality control. You always know what you're going to get. It's comforting..."

Yes. Yes it is. My steak was wonderful. Afterwards it was ice cream at Coldstone Creamery. Today, after church we will try another local BBQ joint. Hopefully we will have better luck.

Is She Hurt, or Is She Scamming Us?

Displaying her instinctive knack for horrible timing, Miss Lucy has come up lame a mere 24 hours before we are to depart for Nashville. She has developed a rather severe limp, her right front paw suddenly hardly touching the floor when she walks. When we inspect her leg she doesn't wince or recoil from our touch. Nothing seems amiss, no swelling of any kind. But she is favoring that leg to an extreme degree.

So, her bed is now in my library and a gate has been placed at the stairs to keep her from using them. Maybe she pulled a muscle in one of her daily frisbee catching workouts. She loves to launch herself into the air and catch the frisbee at its highest possible point, which looks beautifully athletic and graceful, but sometimes she comes back down to earth at awkward angles. Or, maybe she can tell that we are heading out for the long weekend and this is all a stunt to change our minds. This "injury" sure looks serious when she limps around, but it doesn't stop her from her manic gyrations and general goofiness whenever we enter the room. Last night when Ryan and Ron came over, she was in full whirling dervish mode, albeit with a pronounced hitch in her gettiup. 

This morning, after the guy from Gurkin comes to fix the upstairs air conditioner( a story for another time), I will take her to the Vet. 

Poor girl...