The Truth

Two Sundays ago I sat in my usual spot at church, on the aisle, ten or so rows back from the front. I listened to my absurdly gifted pastor, David Dwight, tell a story about the time he was asked to help his elderly and frail father take a shower. As he described the experience, I felt my throat tighten. Suddenly, the memories came pouring back and I became aware of the beating of my own heart. In David’s telling, the time caring for his Dad felt like something holy and precious. For me it was much more complicated.

When my mother died in her sleep nearly eight years ago, my dad found himself alone for the first time in his life. At the time he was 87 years old and in declining health. He would live two more years before passing away in 2014. For almost all of his last two years, his four children worked round the clock to keep him in his own home. Only his last 60 days would be spent in a nursing home. But with each passing month it became more and more difficult to take care of him. Towards the end, we started taking turns helping him in and out of the shower. My shift was Thursday nights.

The first time for me was neither holy or precious. It was awkward and uncomfortable. When it was over, I got in my car to drive home and for the first time since my mother passed I found my self crying. I actually had to pull over to the side of the road. But these were no tears of joy. These were angry, bitter tears. It was all so unfair. How could God have allowed such an incredible man to fall so far? How could God allow such a faithful servant to lose all of his dignity like this? Is this how God rewarded men and women who spent their entire lives serving him? In the parking lot of what used to be a beer joint, at the corner of 660 and Route 33, I fell apart in a rage of anger and bitterness.

As I listened to David, I realized that a part of me was still holding on to some of that bitterness. Not all of it, much of it had drained away with the passage of time and better experiences on subsequent Thursday nights. Several weeks later in fact Dad and I had an experience that was very much what David had described. After struggling to get Dad’s pajamas on after his shower and tucking him into bed, he reached for my hand just as I was leaving and whispered, “you’re a good son...” As I looked at him I felt overwhelmed with thankfulness that I was lucky enough to have this giant of a man as a father. I kissed him on the forehead and turned the light out. The drive home on that night felt very different, something approaching holiness, I suppose.

David made the observation that when we are confronted with tragedy and disappointment in life we come to a fork in the road. We have to choose either bitterness or beloved-ness. His message convicted me that I had some unfinished business back at that fork in the road. I had to backtrack, go back to that spot and ask forgiveness for the bitterness I was still unconsciously holding on to.

This is why I love my church. I don’t get finger wagging screeds. I don’t have to endure pointless theological dog and pony shows or a bunch of esoteric nonsense that has no relationship to the real world. Instead, I get told the truth about myself, drenched in so much love and compassion it’s almost impossible to take offense. 

Thanks. Hope Church.

12 Gems

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 Name this politician.....

1. “If the government were placed in charge of the Sahara desert, there would be a sand shortage within three years.”

2. “It’s true that hard work never killed anybody, but I figure, why take the chance?”

3. “I’m not worried about the deficit. It’s big enough to take care of itself.”

4. When responding to a reporter’s worry that he was known to take long naps in the afternoon, “I have left orders to be awakened at any time in case of national emergency…even if I’m in a cabinet meeting.”

5. “Politics is supposed to be the second oldest profession. But I have found that it bears a very close resemblance to the first.”

6. “The nine most terrifying words in the English language are, “I’m from the government and I’m here to help.”

7. When answering a reporter’s question about whether he was too old to run for President…”Thomas Jefferson once said, ‘We should never judge a President by his age, only by his works.’ And ever since he told me that I’ve stop worrying.”

8. First remarks at the beginning of a press conference, “Before I refuse to answer any of your questions, I have an opening statement.”

9. “One way to make sure crime doesn’t pay is to let the government run it.”

10. “I have wondered at time what the Ten Commandments would have looked like had Moses run them through Congress.”

11. “Government is like a baby. An alimentary canal with a big appetite at one end and no sense of responsibility at the other.”

12. Responding to criticism of his foreign policy by Ed Asner…”What does an actor know about politics?”

    
    

    
    

    
    

Oscars and the Coronavirus

It has been said that there are two things which can be counted on in this life...death and taxes. I would add a third, that the morning after the Oscars show, social media will lose its mind over left wing actors lecturing us about politics. I’m thinking that if something happens every single time you watch a show, you lose your right to bitch and moan about it if you continue to watch. Maybe at some level people enjoy being triggered. If nothing else, the Oscars serves as an excellent reminder that millennials aren’t the only snowflakes in America.

Why would anyone spend more than five seconds caring about anything that Joaquin Phoenix says? Don’t get me wrong, the man is a fine actor, but by any reasonable measure he is profoundly unstable and has been for most of us life. So, he’s a vegan and lectures us for stealing milk from cows? Who cares? 

So, Brad Pitt finally wins something besides a Razzie, and all anyone can talk about is his John Bolton blast. Look, somebody wrote him a really funny line. End of story.

You know what would really be hilarious though? If just once some A-List actor stood up to accept an award and said something like, “I would like to thank the Academy for this honor. Tonight I plan on celebrating by eating a 16 oz. Porterhouse, a giant genetically modified baked potato slathered with butter that I stole from a cow, a tall glass of iced tea sweetened with cane sugar which I will drink out of a styrofoam cup using yet another plastic straw. God Bless America!!”

But, listen folks. If you choose to watch the Academy Awards, then get all bent over politics, you only have yourself to blame.

I am told by all of the usual suspects that I should be very concerned about the Coronavirus. One source threw out the number of perhaps as many as 52 million dead before this thing runs its course. So, why am I not freaking out? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe its because in my lifetime I have been told I was about to die so many times I’ve lost count. Ebola was going to do me in. The Avian flu was going to put me in the ground. SARS would be the death of me. Rapidly spreading flesh-eating bacteria was the latest periclum back in the day. But, here I am, still alive and kicking with a deep distrust of authority, and an all consuming suspicion of experts. Do I plan on visiting China anytime soon? No. But am I planning on losing one minute of sleep over the latest pandemic apocalypse? Puhleeze.

Gym Smells

I’ve been a three workouts a week member of American Family Fitness for the better part of twenty five years now. As someone who is very well acquainted with the inside of a gym, I understand full well that odd smells are a part of the experience. Everywhere you turn there is one malodorous assault after another. After a while you get used to it. Your olfactory glands become accustomed to the rotten sneakers, the gym bag that smells like a dumpster, and that one guy who applies his favorite musk cologne by the handfuls. But yesterday I was introduced to something new. 

I am a creature of habit when it comes to my workout routine. After my workout I always do the same thing—I spend fifteen minutes in the steam room, then swim a couple of laps in the pool before my shower. Yesterday was no different. I walked into the sauna and was alone, a rarity. Ahh, the sauna. At AmFam the sauna is like a Petri dish of bizarre smells. One day you go in there and some guy has put drops of eucalyptus oil in the blower so the place smells like a cough drop with BO. The next day it’s back to normal...like morning at the beach on a day when a dead whale has washed up on shore.

So, I endure my fifteen minutes then head towards the pool. AmFam has a wonderful pool facility. There’s a lap pool, a separate pool for water classes, a third pool for kids and a huge whirlpool. Very nice. Usually when I open the door I am greeted with that acidic smell of chlorine with an inescapable dash of sweating men. But yesterday was different. Whoa!!! What the heck happened in here, I thought. Surely, there must have been an accident of some sort, perhaps someone had expired after some horrific gastrointestinal disaster. I looked around and saw only five other souls in the place, none of whom seemed terribly distressed. So, I went about my business, swam my laps then parked myself in a chair to rest before heading to the showers. But try as I might, I couldn’t get used to this smell. Truly horrible. So, I beat a hasty retreat, took my shower and headed home. Before I left I did something I very seldom do. I stopped by the front desk to get the story behind...the smell. One of the perky front desk peeps smiled at me and asked if he could help me with anything. I said, “Dude, what in the world is up with that terrible smell in the pool??”

Front Desk Guy: Excuse me? 

Me: The pool area smells horrible. What happened?

Front Desk Guy: Really? I haven’t heard any complaints. What kind of smell is it?

At this point, I hesitated. I could have used any number of words to describe what I had experienced, but I had to be careful. We have lots of members from all over the world at AmFam, and I didn’t want to run afoul of the sensitivity police. I know that we all put off different scents. I’ve heard that westerners smell funny to Asians because of how many dairy products we eat etc, etc. So, I had to tread carefully. But, as is so often the case with me...

Me: What kind of smell was it, you say? It’s like...someone went to the World’s Fair, walked into the International Cafe and tried every spicy dish on the Southern Hemisphere buffet, then had diarrhea.

Front Desk Guy: .....wait, what?

Me: It’s like one of the prisoners from Cool Hand Luke, after working all day tarring that road, walks into a Turkish bathhouse, eats a dozen tins of sardines, then lets out a fifteen second fart.

Front Desk Guy: (suddenly convulses with laughter) Well, Doug, I can assure you that I will personally go check this out, and I am sorry you had a bad experience.

Me: I didn’t have nearly as bad an experience as the poor dude responsible for that smell!

Actually, after reading back over this, I’m not sure I needed to write an entire blog about this, but, it’s Friday and what’s done is done.

Have a great weekend, everyone.

A Feature, Not a Bug

Some days are meant exclusively to serve as a bad example. These are the days that conspire to expose every single bad quality of your personality. Yesterday was one such day.

I knew when I woke up yesterday what I faced. I at least had the benefit of advanced warning. It was going to be a day which featured lots of interaction with paperwork problems. In my profession this means that I must speak on the telephone with anonymous functionaries in far off offices in other time zones. In those conversations I must explain myself to a series of 21-30 year olds with a scant understanding of what exactly it is that I do for a living. A day of such interaction has been known to produce the absolute worst in my character. To that end, my wise and faithful assistant, Kristin, gave me the following speech just before I entered the gauntlet:

“...Ok, please remember that it’s not their fault. They are just doing their jobs. Be nice. Stay calm. Don’t roll your eyes. Behave yourself.”

Ok, she said some of those words. The others she clearly implied!

So with the nervous Kristin listening in from down the hall, I began. I will sum up the gist of what these conversations were like below...

Kyle: Yes, Mr. Doonevant, thanks so much for calling. So, I have some questions about a few items on the case you submitted on Mister Goldblatt.

Me: Fire away.

Kyle: On page 6, section two of the VAD form you listed the client’s NIA at $1,050,000. By my calculations, it would seem that the actual number is closer to $1,100,000.

Me:..........

Kyle: So, which one of us is right?

Me: Depends on which one of us is better with a calculator.

Kyle: (hysterical laughter)

Me:.......

There were many times during the ensuing conversation with Kyle and the subsequent conversation with Graham—another beauty— where my patience was tested. But each time, I girded my loins and stifled my inner snark. Kristin was quite impressed and very proud of me.

But, here’s the thing. Whenever I stifle my natural gift for smart-ass repartee, whenever I swallow hard and play it straight...pressure begins to build in my head. I know that it is just a matter of time before something will trigger a full blown snark explosion. The longer it builds up, the worse the explosion will be. I am not proud of this particular character trait, but I’ve lived long enough to know that this isn’t a bug in my personality, it’s a feature. Sure enough, later on in the day...it happened.

I use a CPAP machine because I was diagnosed six years ago with sleep apnea. Occasionally, I must buy supplies for my machine like masks, replacement hoses, filters and whatnot. They aren’t terribly expensive but they are notoriously troublesome to purchase. It’s all done over the phone with some outfit in Texas or some such place. So, I ordered replacement parts in October of 2019. Right after Christmas, 9 weeks after my purchase, I received a call from the CPAP supply company informing me that my order could not be processed for some indecipherable reason. Then two weeks ago I received a second call asking for a sim card from my machine before they could process my order. When I replied that my machine had no such sin card, I was instructed to call back when I was at home with my machine so they could instruct me how to get the required data from the readout of the machine. Yesterday afternoon, I made the call. Of course, the information and instructions I was given before were no longer actionable. Once again...Tanya...informed me that they needed proof that I was actually using my machine before they could process my order through the insurance company. This last tidbit of information sent me over the edge...

Me: Tanya, is it?

Tanya: Yes.

Me: Tanya, let me ask you something. Why would I be ordering a new mask, new tubing and new filters from your company if I wasn’t using the machine?? Clearly, I am trying to buy your products because I have worn them out by...using them.

Tanya: Yes but...the insurance company requires proof and that means we need that SIM card readout.

Me: Why do they need proof, Tanya? These are not opioids we’re talking about. There is no chance I will become addicted to this CPAP machine and then run around trying to get my friends and neighbors hooked! All I want is a new mask!

Tanya: But the insurance...

Me: Tanya. Screw the insurance company. Why can’t I just buy these myself. I’ll give you my credit card number and we can just bypass the insurance company altogether. In fact I’ll double my order so we won’t have to go through this for a couple more years.

Tanya: Well, I suppose we might be able to do that...but you’ll have to call the factory direct. I’ll give you the number just in case we get separated.

Tanya then hooks me up with the factory where I get placed on hold for twenty two minutes when suddenly I heard an ominous click, and then the line went dead. My thirty seven minute experience with the CPAP supply company was now at an end.

And after all that you people expect me to watch the State of the Union Show? Not a chance.

Iowa

So, after a year of televised debates, press conferences, sound bites, and campaign rallies, the hearty Democrats of Iowa finally got their chance to caucus last night. I rolled out of bed and eagerly searched the internet to find out that the winner was........Donald Freaking Trump.

Seriously, Democrats?

1917. A Movie Review.

I must begin this movie review with the confession that I am not a movie buff. I like movies well enough but I’m not what anyone would call an aficionado of film. I know what I like and what I don’t like. Generally speaking, I prefer drama over comedies. I would much rather watch historical fiction than fantasy, a psychological thriller over a car chase scene. On the whole, the fewer explosions the better. But last night Pam and I went to see 1917 and frankly, I don’t even know what to say. I would love to write something deep and profound about our experience but all I can think to say is...holy crap.

1917 is a compilation of war stories told to Director Sam Mendez by his grandfather, an infantryman in the Great War. The plot is rather thin and extraordinarily simple. Two men are tasked with the nearly impossible mission of crossing nearly nine miles of no-man’s land to warn a company of 1,600 men to call off a dawn attack on the enemy. It’s a trap and they will all be massacred, including the brother of one of the men assigned this deadly mission, unless these two men succeed. For the next two hours we watch their mission unfold through the muck, mire, mud, dead men and animals which litter the landscape. What makes this war is hell theme work so astonishingly well is the fact that it unfolds in one continuous shot. Ok...technically this isn’t entirely true...there are two, maybe three barely discernible cuts, I’m told. But for the viewer it comes across as one uninterrupted scene. How Mr. Mendez and his cinematographer, let alone the exhausted looking actors managed this is something that I will ponder for the rest of my life. It was so dazzling, so intensely personal and immediate an experience, I felt as if I was running through the muck with them, dodging the sniper fire, feeling the intense heat of the biggest fire I have seen on film since Atlanta burned in Gone With The Wind. After the first thirty minutes or so, you get over your mouth ajar gawking at the technical brilliance of what you are watching and settle down into the drama of it all, the stunning bravery, the epic foolishness of World War I in particular and war in general.

The only misstep is a scene where in the midst of our hero’s mad, frantic, time sensitive dash to save 1,600 men, he takes the time to give away all his food to a woman with a baby hiding out in the remains of a shell ridden house, even to the point of reciting poetry to the infant. Even though the scene seemed totally out of place, it did serve to give the audience a breather from this high wire act of a movie. Perhaps it was required to give Lance Corporal William Schofield, played brilliantly by George MacKay, an actual physical breather. I haven’t seen an actor run harder or faster in a film since Chariots of Fire!

When Pam and I left Cinebistro, all we did was talk about it all the way home, something we rarely do after a movie. This one will hang around a while in our minds. Both of us think it should win every award it is possible to give to a film. Of course, it has a few things going against it. There are no social justice sermons, no preening lectures about income inequality, climate change, or gender bias. There is no mention of racism, no glorification of Hollywood’s past, no car chase scenes, no profanity, no sex or nudity, and nobody struggling with their sexual identity. And, considering that this was a war picture, surprisingly few explosions! But, if Oscars are handed out for brilliant film making and storytelling, 1917 is your winner.