My Weirdness Cell

Every so often, I become detached from reality. Some of you are probably thinking, "Well, that explains a lot!" Luckily, these detachments don't last long, and require no therapy or chemical intercession to remedy. Eventually it goes away and all is back to normal. It has been this way for as long as I can remember. How to describe the sensation?

It's as if I separate from myself and float up to the ceiling, and watch my life being lived down below, trying to figure out which view is correct. Sounds more serious than it actually is. It's more like a short period of acute awareness of normally unseen or unnoticed things. Suddenly, it's as if each day to day thing that I never ordinarily notice becomes the singular focus of my attention. The squeaking door, the ticking clock, that troublesome tag hanging from the bottom of the recliner, the strange way that dead leaves gather in the narrow, bricked gap by the front steps. After several days of this hyper attentive focus, life blends back into clarity, as if nothing ever happened.

During these days, I always feel like writing, but I can never begin. Where to start? How to explain? Nothing can compete with it, this temporal, third person existence. It always eventually sends me scurrying for the great old writers. I dust off something by CS Lewis or GK Chesterton. It helps to read something deep and wise, the Proverbs, Shakespeare. Luckily for me and those who depend on me, these episodes are infrequent and of short, spasmodic duration and serve as nothing more than a fresh way to look at the world for a day or so. No harm, no foul.

I have often wondered what the trigger mechanism might be. Hearing a particular song? Eating Pam's incredibly delicious meatloaf? Or maybe there's a random weirdness cell flowing through my bloodstream that occasionally stalls on his route through my brain, and until he shakes free and flows through, my perception gets heightened. Whether or not such a thing is biologically possible is another story, of course, but it's as good an explanation as any at the moment.

Here's a great example of how it works. The other day I was driving in South Carolina and happened upon a freshly disked field covered by probably 500 seagulls. This field was at least 40 miles from the ocean, but there they all were busy pecking the muddy soil with their hooked beaks unaware how far they were from home. For the next hour I thought of nothing but their flapping wings and muddy talons. I couldn't shake the image of a field of seagulls until I was nearly at Fayetteville. You try thinking of nothing but seagulls for over an hour. It's not as easy as I make it sound!

Not to worry, this latest episode has passed and now another won't come for six months or so. I'm back to the relentless clarity of reality, the big picture firmly in front of me, all the minutia back where it belongs...in the background.

A Dead Thing

South Carolina highway 9 leaving Myrtle Beach is like withdrawing from something. It's a divided highway in every sense of the word. The cars and trucks loaded down with the accoutrements of vacation life flow into town with such eagerness and purpose, then limp out of town worn, spent, exhausted. After ten miles or so the vacation-kitschy shops and huts begin to thin out. Fewer t-shirt shops, vegetable stands and tacky gift huts.

Suddenly, I saw a dead thing. A golf course, abandoned, gone to seed. The white painted brick gate elegantly sloping away from the entrance in both directions like wings proclaiming with black letters...lack Bear, the giant cursive B probably stolen by college kids and adorning the wall behind the bar at a frat house somewhere. A memory comes to mind of playing a round here twenty years ago when it was new and bustling with cigar smoking men in loud pants. Now it was dead.

I wondered what could possibly have happened. It was so beautiful when it was new. It was pitched as a sure thing by some sharp man in an Armani suit around a conference room table. He spoke of the unique qualities of the design, the flawless team that had been assembled to oversee the project. The investors could hardly wait for him to finish so they could write their checks.

But now it looks like a moonscape, all browns and grays, tall billowy weeds of cat tails, ragweed mixed in with the purple traces of wild alfalfa. I saw a block of blue wood with an iron stake through it pointing at the tops of trees where once a tee box stood. Here there was a rusted ball washer. There a faded hole sign diagramming the contours of what used to be a finely trimmed fairway but now looked like a minefield.

I thought of a story my Dad told me about an obnoxious churchman who, admiring his neighbor's garden, commented, "what a fine garden the Lord has given you to tend..." The neighbor, hands gnarled and stained by toil replied, "think so? You should have seen this garden when the Lord had it by himself."

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. "There is a way which seems right to a man, but in the end leads to death." The golfing market became saturated. Too many options available, too many competitors. The flawless team never saw it coming. Now, 18 fiberglass poles with colorful flags were slowly decomposing in a landfill, 18 holes and 18 cups scattered throughout the property serving no purpose now except as a home for weeds.

Eventually, someone will come along with an idea. A new Armani suit will stand at the head of a polished table speaking of unique things. But this time, the hint of death will hover in the room, mental images of this barren landscape will enter the minds of investors. It will be a harder sell.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

A Two Dog Story

This afternoon, I spent some time on the beach. The place was largely deserted except for maybe a dozen college kids about fifty yards up the beach. Although it was clear and warm, it was also very windy and the wind swept down the beach from where the kids were, amplifying their voices. I heard a couple of loud female squeals(am I allowed to say this?),  and the word Wiggles. I glanced up the beach to see what was going on and saw an older woman with a little dog on a leash. The two of them had drawn a crowd. After a while they went on their way, headed towards me. When they got close, "Wiggles" made a beeline for me...

This is truly a horrible picture, since Miss Wiggles was far more adorable than this photograph. She was stunning, with one blue eye and one brown one and couldn't get enough of me. Her owner, a woman in her mid 60's told me that Wiggles can always tell when she meets a dog lover. She told me she didn't even have to ask me if I had a dog, because Wiggles doesn't care for people who don't have dogs! Without prompting, she told me the story. Her husband of 40 years had recently passed away unexpectedly. She was beside herself with grief. A friend suggested that she get a dog. Wiggles was a rescue, two days away from being put down. She's had her for nearly a year now and can't imagine what she would have done had they not found each other. As I watched the two of them disappear into the distance, they stopped at every child, every adult who wanted to meet her, and nearly everyone did. I thought to myself...who rescued whom?

Then, I found this on the internet...

Meet Air Force Sergeant Kyle Smith and his dog Bodza. They served four tours of duty together until 2014 when Bodza retired from the military to become Kyle's real life dog. Recently, Bodza, a German Shepherd, had been diagnosed with a degenerative disorder from which there would be no recovery. It was then that Kyle had to make the toughest decision of his life. When he had Bodza put down, he was sure to find an American flag to properly honor this noble animal. It is difficult to look at this picture without feeling the full measure of sorrow and grief, of how very difficult it must have been to say goodbye to such a friend, loyal and true.

The next time Lucy wakes us up in the middle of the night shaking on the bed because, I don't know, because a leaf fell from a tree too loudly, I'll remember Wiggles and Bodza...and squeeze her back extra tight.

A Day Off

By some touch of cosmic grace, I have two clients who live within 10 minutes of each other in Pawley's Island, South Carolina. Because of this happy fact, I get to schedule their annual reviews on the same day in March every year. This allows me the chance to spend a day or so down here afterwards at my partner's condo in Cherry Grove.

This is my view this morning. Lovely.

In past years, I have brought Pam with me. This year that didn't work out, so it's just me here today. Yesterday was a very long and stress-filled one. My first appointment was in my office in Richmond at 8:00am. I left the office at 9:10 and drove the five hours to the condo, ate some lunch, then got back in the car for the 45 minute drive to Pawleys. By the time the third appointment of the day was complete, it was 7:00pm, and I had another 45 minute drive back to the condo. I stopped at a grocery store, bought a frozen pizza and heated it up for dinner. It's been a while since I conducted three annual reviews and drove 410 miles in the same day.

So, today is a recovery day. There is nothing on the schedule except an hour of paperwork which I completed before breakfast. I plan on playing a round of golf, then taking an afternoon nap on the beach. Honestly, I can't imagine a better day.

Tomorrow morning, I'll head back home for my side hustle as a chauffeur. My wife bought her two sisters, her Mom, her daughter and her niece tickets to the Cinderella play for Christmas. It's a remake of the great Rodgers and Hammerstein version that ran on television way back in the day. Pam was smitten by this production as a girl and when she discovered that it was coming to town, she opened up her checkbook and began counting the days!! Well, since it will be six of them going, I had the bright idea that I would hire a limo to pick them all up and drive them up to the theatre in style. But when they gave me a quote of $475, I let go with a highly charged sarcasm-drenched rejoinder which I would prefer not repeating here. Plan B will involve yours truly getting dressed up and driving them to the show and picking them up afterwards. Not exactly a pumpkin carriage, but hopefully it will do.

Imagine a Day Without Women?

Being a leftist is hard work. It is nearly impossible to keep up with the list of causes that are constantly throwing them en masse into the streets. To the Progressive, America must seem like a gigantic Petri dish crawling with malignancies, all of which need to be exercised from the body politic...right now! From Black Lives Matter to white privilege, from ageism to homophobia, clear through to transphobia, from the rape culture, to saving the planet from global warming, to the evils of the patriarchy, it is the job of the modern leftist to raise our awareness or die trying. God bless their passion and relentless energy.

I try to imagine what would ever inspire an old Libertarian like me to take to the streets, and come up empty. When your number one political objective is being left the hell alone, the last thing you want to do is bring unwanted attention to yourself. But, this is America, which means everyone is free to get out there and demonstrate.

Yesterday was the International Day of the Woman, whereby the rest of us were asked to try and imagine a day without women. The purpose of the day, as best I can determine was to bring awareness to gender inequality in the workplace and elsewhere. Women were encouraged to stay home from work. Those who work at home were encouraged to refrain from doing the thousand things they normally do on a daily basis to keep households running smoothly. The rest of us, (men), were supposed to learn some deep, profound lesson from all of this. Facebook was filled with empowering encouragement. The media was saturated with stories of the day's events both here and throughout the world. Unfortunately, the nations most in need of some feminist education...Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan, et al, didn't participate in the day's activities, but...there's always next year.

Here's the thing. I can't even begin to imagine a world without women because such a place couldn't possibly exist. Well, maybe for about seventy years or so until all of the remaining men died off. What am I saying?? Without women, men would kill each other within five years, ten tops! But neither can I imagine a world without men. Such a concept is beyond my abilities. A world without both men and women is no world at all. Despite the 119 different genders that the sexual identity crowd have conjured up in their imaginations, everybody knows that there are only two with existential weight. Without any one of them, we are history. A world without women is a place that couldn't possibly exist and if it did, I would want no part of it.

I read somewhere that one of the issues behind the day was equal pay for equal work. In this, I am in complete accord with the organizers. How anyone could be against such a straight forward concept is beyond me. If my daughter, or my wife...or your daughter or wife applied for a job for which she was equally qualified, in a field in which she had equal experience, and proficiency, then she better damn sure be getting equally compensated with her male counterpart. Full stop. No excuses. Yet, time and time again we hear of organizations great and small which routinely pay women less than men....organizations like the Hillary Clinton campaign. It's complicated, I'm sure.

I was raised by a giant of a women, possessed of a brilliant mind, strong will and a highly refined sense of right and wrong, good and evil. I grew up with two older sisters who disabused me of any thoughts I might have nurtured about male superiority. My wife is my superior in almost every measurable human quality, equality being something to which I can only aspire. My daughter stands as a constant reminder to me of what the term professional excellence actually means. I have a family full of sharp, accomplished nieces who could mop the floor with most men I know. If it's true that equality starts at home, then I'm at least halfway there. But, I suppose it's the other half of me that insures the continued existence of things like...the International Day of the Woman

Ain't Nobody Repealing Nuthin'

There are probably an awful lot of Trump supporters out there who feel betrayed right about now. I'm talking about the ones who voted for him because he promised that he was going to repeal and replace Obamacare. With the unveiling of the Republican plan this morning, that fantasy has been put to rest. Ain't nobody repealing nuthin.To explain what happened, here's a quick tutorial:

1. The first law of thermodynamics states that energy can be transformed from one form to another, but cannot be created or destroyed.

2. The second law of thermodynamics states that there is a natural tendency of any isolated system to degenerate into a more disordered state.

Hardly anyone knows the 16th law of thermodynamics, but it is crucial to understanding what is happening or not happening to Obamacare. It states that...Whenever an entitlement program is enacted into law whereby a benefit is provided to X by confiscating money from Y, said entitlement program never dies. In other words...ain't nobody repealing nuthin.

People, it turns out, really like free stuff. People are fond of subsidies, even more so when someone proposes taking them away. Just listen to the caterwauling from people making a half million dollars a year whenever someone suggests doing away with the mortgage interest deduction. Do these people really need their fellow taxpayers to help them finance their McMansions? Once an entitlement, always an entitlement. You want to commit political suicide? Propose a serious social security reform that might actually save that actuarially doomed program, by suggesting that perhaps the payroll tax needs to be increased and maybe the benefits at some point might need to be means tested...then look for your obituary in the Washington Post. Ain't nobody repealing nuthin.

The very idea that Obamacare, once innacted could ever be taken away betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of both politics and human nature. Sure, it might get tinkered with around the edges, but once the concept of government subsidized anything takes root, good luck getting that genie back in the bottle.

Progress, and Beauty

Progress is great. It is the essence of what life is about. Improving. Getting better. I type this out on a thin, light weight miracle device unimaginable a generation ago. Soon, My wife will drive to work in an automobile with more computer power than the one that powered the first moon landing. Of course, not everything that marches under the banner of progress is, necessarily. But, for the most part, given a choice between a world of innovation and a world without it, I'm good with progress.

What got me to thinking about this was the oddest thing. A couple of days ago, I developed what has turned out to be a gigantic zit...on my middle finger, of all places. Stay with me now. Don't worry, there will be no pictures. This thing is huge and menacing, with the power to escalate the act of flipping someone the bird to the level of assault with a deadly weapon. I don't know what leprosy looks like, but it can't be any uglier than this baby. All of this has brought back memories of my acne-scarred youth...which got me to thinking about progress.

When I was growing up in the 60's, my parents didn't have much money. But we were no different than most of my friends. They didn't seem to have a lot either. As a result, there wasn't much money lying around for spending on stuff like orthodontia or dermatology. If you were born with crooked teeth or acne, well, that was just your lot in life. The recommended remedies were, "wash your face more", and "floss harder!"  The entire time I was growing up, I don't remember a single friend of mine getting braces. I had world class acne back in the day. It was brutal and left me with a pock marked face which my wife insists rendered me ruggedly handsome. But to those not blinded by love, a few have actually asked me why I don't have the scars worked on. Same goes with crooked teeth. "You know, they make these clear braces now...for adults!"

When my kids came along, at the first sign of acne or crooked teeth, an appointment was made with a wildly overpriced dermatologist, a session was scheduled with the orthodontist with the colorful mural in the gigantic waiting room. A second thought was not even entertained about the cost. Don't get me wrong, I don't regret doing this, and I'm sure my kids are grateful. But it leaves me with a few nagging questions.

Yesterday at church the pastor made a statement about how over the last fifty years or so people have become much less concerned about their souls than their bodies. It's hard to deny. Just look at the amount of money we spend on doing away with even the smallest flaw in our appearance. We spend billions annually on tummy tucks, face lifts, butt lifts, breast implants, hair implants, braces, eye jobs, nose jobs, gym memberships, steroid regimens, diets, makeovers of every description. We all are chasing that perfect look...for a body that is in the process of dying and ultimately will return to the dust. Is this progress? Does becoming prettier make us better? Well, if statistics are to be believed, it may make us more hireable, and more likely to advance at work, such is the shallowness to which we have descended. But, does it make us better people?

I don't begrudge anyone trying to be their best. But, I would rather live in a world with compassionate, generous, and big-hearted people who might be a bit overweight, acne-scarred, with a few extra lines on their faces, than a world with perfectly sculpted Barbee and Ken dolls constantly checking themselves out in the mirror.

The old saying goes...beauty is only skin deep. Discarding that truth isn't progress.