Myrtle Beach Vacation.....Part II

Today was the very definition of what a vacation is supposed to be. The weather was glorious, clear and bright, low 80's. I woke up early, made myself some coffee and drank it out on the balcony overlooking the beach that was inhabited only by a few osprey. After getting dressed, I left my sleeping family, drove to one of the 16,000 golf courses in the area, Possum Trot, where I was delighted to discover a nearly empty parking lot. "Absolutely, darlin'," the girl behind the counter answered when I asked if she could fit in a single. Five minutes later I had been introduced to two other men with the same idea, Jim from Kentucky and Steve from California. So, having had no opportunity to hit any balls at the driving range, or gauge the speed of the greens on the practice green, I proceeded to belt my drive right down the middle, crush a 4 iron, then spin a 52 degree wedge within 5 feet of the cup. After sinking the putt for a birdie, I realized that I was in the strange golf universe that exists only when you are away from home and playing with complete strangers. I know what a horrible hack job I'm capable of when swinging golf clubs...but Steve and Jim only know that I just made a birdie on the first hole and made it look easy doing it. To them, I might as well be Tiger Woods. So, I decided to make the most of it. I continued my awesome impersonation of a serious golfer for the entire front nine, shooting a scorching 37, and thoroughly enjoyed being "the man".

After the turn, as sure as night follows day, I returned to form, placing a couple of drives in the woods, snap-hooking an approach shot or two, and generally playing like the 15 handicapper that I am. Still, an 83 in front of two strangers is always a delightful way to start a day. The entire round took 3 hours and 45 minutes to complete, a wonderful bonus. Somewhere on the back nine, after my poorer play made me more approachable, I got into a conversation with Jim, and discovered that his middle daughter, Courtney, 28, has Hodgkin's Lymphoma, and the prognosis isn't good. He described the two bone marrow procedures that she has endured, the heartbreak of learning that after the second time, the cancer returned. He had flown his wife to Myrtle Beach this week just to get her away from the pain and sadness for a while. I promised him that me and my family would be praying for Courtney tonight at dinner.

After a quick lunch back at the condo, I went down to the beach and spent the afternoon talking and laughing with my kids, and throwing the football back and forth like I've done every year for the past twenty. Tonight we will eat dinner out on the balcony, then head out for a severely contested game of team putt-putt. Patrick and I will dominate Kaitlin and Pam, but will show mercy and try to at least keep it close. The losing team will treat the winning team to soft serve. I prefer chocolate-dipped...in case either of you are reading this.

Myrtle Beach Vacation....Part I

Day three of the Myrtle Beach vacation '12 finally has brought rain. Listening to all of the breathless weathermen down here for the past several days, we half expected to see an ark floating down the street with downed power lines,cows flying by and martial law having to be declared. But alas, tropical storm/depression/really annoying storm Beryl was mostly a nighttime event that featured brisk winds  and some heavy downpours. Now that the sun is up, the rain has stopped, the wind is dying down and I think I see some blue sky south and west of here. In other words we have lost approximately ..um, er..zero hours of beach time. Oh wait, there were horrible RIP-TIDES. How could I forget the "potentially deadly" rip-tides? Meteorologists are great...weather geeks who get paid to bloviate hysterically every time an upper level disturbance hints at being formed.

So far we're having a blast. The weather has been great, the condo is perfect, and since it's still the month of May, Myrtle Beach is not yet crowded. We can actually drive down King's highway in the middle lane at 40 mph! Last night we pretended that it was Patrick's birthday since we missed his actual birthday a few days ago. Pam fixed him his favorite meal. The main course consisted of a colorful frying pan full of onions, yellow, orange and red bell peppers, stir-fried to the perfect tenderness, mixed with sliced and fried polska kielbasa and some other kind of smoked sausage. Along with this heavenly concoction, there were baked cinnamon apples, and home-made macaroni and cheese. To wash all of this down, Patrick had taken it upon himself to buy a ridiculously priced bottle of some Italian red wine he had discovered on his trip there last year. We all agreed that red wine tastes  like cough medicine no matter what country it's from, but he insisted that we all try it. He even served it totally by the book...only slightly chilled, waiting 15 full minutes after opening the bottle before it's poured etc..etc..I felt like those sherry-sipping Crane boys, Niles and Frazier! But, I must admit, it was excellent. Once again, I've had my sights raised by one of my supremely refined and educated children.

Today the plan is to head out to the Golden Griddle for breakfast. There will be no wine glasses anywhere to be found at GG. The only thing you'll have to wait 15 minutes for is a table. An ample-bossomed middle-age woman named Gladys will wait on us. She will refer to me as either "Honey" or "Darlin'", and we will be served three pancakes slathered in butter and maple syrup. The bacon will be the thick, smokey kind that one imagines was served on cattle-drives out west in the 1880's. The coffee will be thick and strong. There will be no  granola -yogurt- parfait- fruit cup nonsense going on here. Gladys will see to it that we don't leave hungry, and she will hand out coupons as we leave for "25% off your first by-pass operation".

After this late breakfast, despite meteorological guarantees that the entire day would be a washout, the sun will probably be shining. We will head down to what seems like our private beach to work off this 1,000 calorie meal by sitting in beach chairs for several hours. Then it will be back to the condo for showers and then out to dinner then we have front row balcony seats for the variety show at the Alabama Theatre. There are worse ways to spend a day.

My Animal House Office and the Nature of Friendship

For some reason I've been thinking a lot about the nature of friendship lately. I'm not even sure why.  Maybe it's because the older I get the more important it is to me. Maybe it's because I'm becoming aware of how rare it is. I am 54 years old and I know a lot of people, I have a boatload of acquaintances, but fewer friends, and even fewer close friends. Why is that?

Part of it is time, or more precisely, the lack of time. It takes time to build solid friendships. My best friend is a guy I grew up with. We were inseparable from roughly age 15 until 25. Then we got busy with our lives which started to travel on different paths so we don't spend a lot of time with each other now. But he's still my best friend. So, time isn't the only thing.

When I think about it, my wife is clearly my real best friend. But she doesn't count because she sorta HAS to like me. It's all a part of the "love and cherish" thing. The biggest reason that Pam and I are such good friends is because of the wealth of shared experiences. You have children with someone, raise them together, spend literally days in a car with someone for 28 years, then you either end up violent enemies or the best of friends. Luckily for me, after all of that, we're still pals.

Three of my best friends are the guys I work with. We're business partners. We see each other every day and have for the better part of 25 years. Our office is like a laboratory for human dysfunction. It's the Cooperstown of verbal invective, the place where mutual respect and decorum go to die. When strangers come and experience the glee with which we constantly toss around insults and put downs, they try their best not to look shocked. From snarky remarks about each others' personal appearance, to open ridicule of each others' intelligence, no subject is off limits. Make an honest mistake 17 years ago at a company meeting in Vancouver B.C., and you can be certain that it will be thrown in your face at any time at the slightest provocation. Miss a short putt on the 18th green to cost your team the match, well you might as well turn in your man card for six months. The trash-talking, non-stop smack down zone that is our office is the middle-aged version of being smacked on the ass by a wet towel in the locker room in high school. If you make a huge sale, you're the luckiest, most over-paid hack in the history of commerce. If you fall into a slump it's because you're a lazy, whining, soft democrat welfare queen looking for a handout. There exists nowhere on this planet a work environment with less concern for positive affirmation and self-esteem than my office. To many of you reading this I'm sure it sounds positively brutish. Some of you might even be tempted to notify OSHA to report this horrifying behavior. And, what does this have to do with friendship anyway?

Here's the thing. It's the not the job of friends to be rubber stamps for every stupid idea that comes into your head. Friendship is about having the freedom and standing to tell each other the truth. For all of the abuse we heap on each other, I know in my heart that everyone of the guys at my office have my back. Who do I want in my fox hole, who do I want in my corner in a fight? The smiley-faced back slapper who is constantly telling me how great I am...or the guy who knows every mistake I've ever made and can and will recite them back to me at a moments' notice and despite that, would run through a wall for me? No, if there's a crisis at 2 o'clock in the morning, I'm not calling Mr. happy face..I'm calling Doug Greenwood, Bland Weaver, or Lynwood Atkinson.

Oh, and by the way...on the off chance that either of you guys actually read this blog...you're still a bunch of pathetic morons.

Vacation Dilemma

Ever notice how worthless you become at work the last few days before vacation? Even though there's lots to do to prepare for being gone for 11 days, I'm finding it difficult to summon the necessary enthusiasm needed. Every item on my "to-do" list becomes an occasion for a raging debate inside my head that goes something like this..."Is it really critical that I take care of this now? I mean, will the world cease spinning on it's axis if I wait until I get back to do this?"

I could either be setting up annual review appointments with clients for the week I return, OR, I could be on the interwebs checking out where I'm going to be playing golf next Wednesday. Talk about your tough decisions, devising a strategy for dealing with a Greek exit from the Euro, or deciding which shows to see..Le Grand Cirque, the Legends Concert, or The Blue Man Group? I could either finish up this life insurance paperwork on my desk, or work out the details of which type of meat I'll grill for dinner the first night. Everyone knows how absolutely crucial it is to set the proper tone for a fun and frolicking vacation by nailing the first night's dinner. Seriously, is it even possible to over think dinner number one? I think not!

Since I'm in the trusted Financial Advisor business, every year at vacation time the most difficult decision is this...what kind of message to leave on my answering machine. For one thing, there are very specific rules for phone messages in my line of work. You can't just say any old thing. For example, you must always remind clients that they cannot leave trade instructions on the machine since they cannot be honored in that fashion etc, etc.. You also can't do any advertising in your message. You can't say something like..."Thanks for calling, and remember to ask me about the hot new Detroit Municipal Bonds paying a very high octane 18%"...or ..."Thanks for calling, and remember, only uncivilized people buy gold." But what about the all important message that informs clients that you will not be in the office until Wednesday the 6th of June? What happens if news breaks that Mitt Romney is dropping out of the Presidential race to pursue a relationship with Ralph Nadar, the love of his life? The stock market is down 500 points on the blockbuster news and my panicked clients call and hear....what, exactly?? " Hello, today is Saturday, May the 26th and I will be in Myrtle Beach with the wife and kids until Wednesday morning the 6th of June. In addition, I will NOT be checking this phone for any messages since the primary purpose of being on vacation is to get as far away from my office as possible. Matter of fact, as we speak, I'm most likely doing some body surfing or hitting the golf ball, and you guys are the furthest thing from my mind, so leave me a message and I will call you back when I get back in town, and not one minute sooner."

No, that message won't work. But, the thing is, I really want to be away when I'm away. My life is forever tethered to the global stock markets in all of their insane volatility. My vacation weeks are not immune from some catastrophic event that might cause them to gyrate in frightening ways. I remember one week when I was in Maine and couldn't have made a call to Richmond even if I had wanted to. The markets were down big every single day of my vacation, or so I was informed by the intrepid newspaper of record in those parts, the Rumford Falls Times. When I got back in town, I dreaded the deluge of phone messages I was sure were waiting for me.  There was only one, a client had called to inform me that I had left my pen on her kitchen table. Sweetheart was going to put it in the mail. It was laying there with my other mail. It was then that I decided that I wasn't going to spend any more vacation time worrying about stuff I had no control over anyway. I will leave a tidy message, optimistic and energetic, but reminding the world that I will not be checking the machine every 5 minutes. I'll be on vacation. It's about relaxation...you can look it up.

Blazing Saddles..cutting edge social commentary

The other night I was channel surfing and ran across arguably one of the most intense and penetrating examinations of the human condition ever filmed. I am referring, of course, to the 1974 Mel Brooks classic...Blazing Saddles. It had it all, a veritable Sociological and Psychological feast, leaving no stone of our existence unturned. The films plot illustrates the breathtaking sweep of 20th century pathologies...a corrupt political boss and an incompetent and degenerate governor, seeking to destroy the town of Rock Ridge to make way for a railroad, conspire together to send the town a black sheriff, counting on the natural racism of the town's citizens and hoping that the resulting race riots will do the destroying for them. Sherrif Bart, befriended by Jim, a washed-up gun-slinger, confounds the devious strategy by winning the town's respect and uniting them with the exploited railroad workers and against the evil Hedley LaMarr. Along the way we are treated to countless memorable scenes, from farting cowboys to a German barroom singer, Lili Von Shtupp, who with a hilarious lisp says, "Oh, a wose...a wed wose. How womantic!"

The trouble with Blazing Saddles is that it could never in a million years be made today. It offends...practically everyone. It lampoons every demographic imaginable from rednecks, to gays. It uses the "n" word prodigiously with stunning effect.

http://youtu.be/upvZdVK913I

Let's see, in that one scene Brooks manages to desecrate the Holy Bible, play up the classic fear of black sexuality, and illustrate the ignorance of country people, all in 3 and a half minutes! For my generation, the line, "Excuse me while I whip this out" became a staple of locker room humor for at least ten years. Other tag lines from this film that lived long and productive lives were, "Where the white women at?" and " Badges? We don't need no stinkin' badges!"

Even Mel Brooks seemed to know he was over-doing it with the slurs. Once Hedley Lamars' plan to poison Rock Ridge with a black sheriff begins to fail he turns to plan B which is to recruit a notorious band of outlaws and turn them loose on the poor town to pillage it into submission. Lamar's speech is a thing of beauty, and the last group of bad guys is simply perfect:

"I want rustlers, cut-throats, murderers, bounty hunters, desperadoes, mugs, pugs, thugs, nitwits, halfwits,dimwits, vipers, snipers, Indian agents, Mexican bandits,muggers, buggerers, bushwhackers, hornswogglers, horse thieves, bull dykes, train robbers, bank robbers, ass-kickers, shit-kickers....and Methodists."

Later in that speech, Brooks even manages to rip himself when he has Hedley say, "Men, you are about to embark on a great crusade to stamp out runaway decency in the world. Now, you men will only be risking your lives, whilst I will be risking an almost certain Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actor."

Great stuff.

To Run Or Not To Run

It's Saturday morning, and the wind is calm, the sky is clear, with not even a suggestion of humidity. In short, I can find no reliable excuse not to go for a run. In addition, the fact that I have failed to go for a run all week despite similarly perfect conditions, makes it all the more imperative that I get this done. Yet I sit here drinking coffee, in my pajamas, staring at the beautiful morning struggling vainly to summon sufficient resolve. I do battle with my conscience thusly...

Why do I have to run? Exercise is actually quite dangerous. How many times have I read stories about some runner collapsing from a heart attack or being hit by a car? And what exactly is to be gained by the sweat and pain of a three mile run? What, will it add 7 days to my lifespan? I'm sure I'll be thrilled with another week of Leave It To Beaver reruns at the nursing home in 2048. Yeah, but it IS good for me in the here and now what with the release of endorphins and what-not. It does relieve stress, I guess. But it's just ....running. When I was two, running was the most awesome thing in the world. In fact I would bolt off in chaotic spasms of glee at the slightest provocation, often resulting in hilarious face-plants, to the delight of all...or so I'm told. When I was a teenager running was great competition. I would challenge anyone, anywhere to a sprint. Who was fastest, THAT was the question. Running was about the race, and back then, who didn't love a race?? Now, running is a dreary business. It is a chore, a tacit admission that one "needs exercise". I run to mitigate the ill-effects of ominous sounding ailments...hyper-tension, heart disease. But the very act of running opens me up to all manner of disastrous possibilities. I could turn an ankle, become distracted and run into a light-pole, be run down from behind by some intoxicated teenager behind the wheel of his Dad's SUV, become disoriented by all those endorphins and get lost, winding up in a bad section of Wyndham. The more I think about it, this running business opens up the Dunnevant brand up to a sizable and disturbing level of risk that I'm not sure is appropriate, given how many people are counting on me. I have to think about THEM, this exercise thing can't be all about me!

But, if I don't run...I will start to put on weight. The middle will get soft, and soon it will start looking like the lower-middle. Before long, I'll have a double-chin, then when people who I haven't seen in a while run in to me they will whisper to their friends after I leave..."Wow, Dunnevant really let himself go. What a shame." Finally. I've finally stumbled upon an emotion strong enough to get my sorry ass motivated...vanity!

The Last Concert . . . A Tribute to Sherri Matthews

Tonight I will attend the last chorus concert at Godwin High School directed by Sherri Matthews. After a long and historically successful tenure as Choral Director, Sherri is stepping down at the end of the school year to pursue yet another high stress, cut-throat job... in church music.  So tonight will be her last concert, and I will be there with Pam and my two kids, both of whom were her former students. My nephew Ryan will be singing in a couple of the choirs. There's a picture of the empty auditorium on Facebook that shows over half the seats with saved markers on them. Four of them better be mine.

My exposure to Godwin Chorus and Sherri only goes back to Kaitlin's freshman year, 2001.  Before then, I thought all high school chorus programs consisted of 25 or so kids looking for an easy "A," half of whom were tone deaf.  My image of chorus teachers conjured up a cross between Mr. Whipple and Aunt Bea.  But soon, I began to hear stories about this crazy Diet Dr.Pepper-swilling woman at Godwin who made music fun, demanded excellence from her students, and was a little scary.  All Kaitlin would say was that, "Ms. Matthews is really demanding, Dad . . . but we really sound good!"  The winter concert that year, my first of many, was beyond description.  Instead of 25 kids, there were hundreds . . . and six different choirs. There were barber shop and beauty shop groups, all-girl choirs, mixed choirs, a show choir, and a kind of "all-star" group called "Madrigals."  I sat there in my cramped, uncomfortable seat in a standing room only auditorium, amazed at the talent, poise and passion of the students and the commanding presence of their director.  She WAS a little scary, and she meant business brother.  The kids knew it and so did everyone in the house. The richness of the music that came out of those kids was astonishing. The best part was that they were having fun and brimming with confidence as they sang.  Real confidence, the kind that can only come from real accomplishment.  Sherri wasn't running a feel-good program where everyone gets a trophy for  showing up.  She was educating a large group of young people about the beauty of music that deserved one's best effort, the proper expression of which took hard work.  I was hooked.

Soon it began, the six years of Pam's work with Choral Boosters (the fund-raising juggernaut of Short Pump), my years wielding the clip-board at concerts explaining to angry parents and grandparents why, "No, you can't sit there, because that seat is reserved for our Platinum Club members!"  There were state and regional competitions, most of which we rocked, and spring trips all over the east coast from Orlando to New York. There were a series of unflattering choir dresses, ill-fitting tuxedos and six end of the year awards dinners.  But mostly . . . there was the music.  I would sit there in the darkness, oddly fighting back tears as I listened.

Tonight I will listen again.  Kaitlin will be there.  When she went off to college she eagerly joined  the Cedarville woman's choir that was led by a very talented and wonderful woman.  After one year Kaitlin dropped out.  When I asked why she said, "Dad, the director was very nice and we sounded good, but just about the time we got close to getting a song  right, she would stop and say, "Good enough."  Ms. M NEVER said, "Good enough."  Patrick will also be there. He is on the road as I write this, making the 9 hour drive from Nashville to be here. It was Sherri who provided the leadership and example that encouraged Patrick to pursue a life in music.  Tonight, Madrigals will perform one of his arrangements. The chances of me having a huge knot in my throat are approximately 100%.

So thank you, Sherri, for being the type of educator who nobody forgets.  Thanks for introducing the beauty of music to an entire generation of Henrico county students.  Thanks for being tough, demanding, and yes . . . scary.  Thanks for ruining Kaitlin's college choir experience.  Oh, and see ya at church Sunday!