Angry Bird

This is the sort of thing that always happens a day or so before we're planning on going out of town. Here we are all excited about spending 3 days at some swanky resort in San Diego,  when a critter decides to take up residence in our attic.

My wife missed her calling.  She should have been one of the Super Friends. Pam has super-sonic powers of hearing. The two of us will be sitting in the family room with the television blaring when she will turn to me and say,  "Are you going to get that?" I look at her, bewildered, knowing that her turbo-ears have picked up some faint sound. I turn my ears upward hoping against hope that I will hear it too, but after a while I answer,  "Get what?"  She looks at me like I am some pitiful creature with a profound disability.  "You can't hear that??!! The kids toilet is running!! Geeze!"  Then she storms upstairs to jiggle the handle. Sometimes we will be in bed and she will say.." Listen to that squirrel."  I will perk my ears up and conjure up all of my powers of concentration to no avail. "What squirrel?"  She will look over at me and incredulously answer, "The one in Lilly's back yard with the heart murmur! You can't hear that??"

Well, for the past two or three days Pam has been pestering me to do something about the critter in the attic, which until this morning had gone totally undetected by my merely human powers of hearing. But at 7:30 I heard something shuffling around up there, so I grabbed my trusty Daisy Powerline 35 pump-action, duel ammo BB gun purchased a while back to rid us of the great squirrel infestation of 2010, and carefully opened the door to the attic and made my way silently up the stairs. The lighting up there isn't great and it was quite cold, but my blood was running hot with the thrill of the hunt. At the top of the stairs I heard a flutter in the back left corner and thought I saw movement. This squirrel was going down!! I tip-toed closer and saw that whatever it was was actually in the overhanging eave. I sent a slug towards the offending sound and suddenly a loud flutter came roaring out of the darkness, black and angry, flying way too close to my head. My heart began beating the doors off of my chest as I spun around to follow the flight. It was some sort of black bird and he was mightily pissed.  He flew in disoriented circles from one end of the space to the other. Since I had already fired a shot, I couldn't fire another until I had re-pumped the gun 20 times, a major design flaw I might add, so I ran back down the stairs to close the door so this angry bird couldn't fly into the house. After pumping like a wild man, I was ready for the kill if only the bird would light somewhere. Providentially, he came to rest on a rafter about 10 feet above my head. I fired and  knocked him off of his perch. In a flurry of feathers he fell down to the floor out of sight and as I gave chase I could hear him flapping and squawking wildly. By the time I reached the landing at the top of the stairs he was nowhere to be found, which meant that now I had a dying bird hidden somewhere in my attic. After an exhausting search failed to locate the now silent menace, I shut the door securely and headed to work. Now on my lunch hour, I went back up to try again. This time I hear the bird in the eave all the way on the opposite side of the attic from whence he came, clearly in duress and unable to fly. I can't see him but every couple of minutes I hear his wounded shuffle. Who knows how long its going to take before he finally goes to that big bird-feeder in the sky? But at least now he's in the eave that overhangs Patrick's room. Maybe if I shut the door to his room and line the door frame with blankets and pillows, Pam won't be able to hear the death throws.  Who am I kidding? She can probably hear me typing this all the way from her room at Rivers Edge. Stupid bird!

For All of You who have ever crashed at MisterD's house

Its Saturday morning. I feel it my duty to inform you all that the furniture has been purchased.  Yes, after years of false starts, indecision, trauma and tears, it is finished....and that was all over deciding what outfit to wear WHILE shopping for furniture. No, seriously, Pam has made her choice and we have bought a bunch of furniture from Bassett. I must say that it gives me great satisfaction to know that I bought furniture manufactured entirely in the state of Virginia, USA. This company is the oldest such firm in the state, having survived for over 102 years. I could have saved some money by going with furniture made in Asia, where 69% of all furniture purchased here comes from, but I chose Bassett. As a free-trader, I am agnostic about the fact that Americans buy so much stuff from China. I want as many options as possible when I spend money, and I particularly love the ability to make my own decisions rather than having my decisions made for me by a government who restricts my access to foreign goods. In this case I chose not only an American product, but a Virginia product. Good for me!



This post goes out to all of the hundreds of teenagers who over the past 13 years have done their part to make this purchase necessary. You all know who you are. Patrick's friends.  Kaitlin's friends. Strange kids who would wander in who we didn't know. Youth group kids over for bible studies. Then, hordes of college kids who would come for the weekend.  Belmont kids. Cedarville kids. Liberty kids. All would bring their insatiable appetites for popcorn and freezie-pops and chocolate. There they would gather, flopped down in a mass of arms, legs and feet all over the sofa, love seat and chair, sprawled out wildly on the floor, Molly sniffing around for dropped treats. After they would leave we would go into damage control in the early years when the furniture was young.  But after a while we just let it go, realizing the utter futility trying to protect furniture from swarms of barbarians. There were memorable offenders. Giles Fort overflowing the toilet upstairs. Matt Watson and Tyler Pegues wrestling with Molly and knocking knick-knacks off of end tables. The new years eve party that featured Mr.'s Watson, Pegues, Burton, and Edworthy actually shifting the foundation of the house by jumping up and down in tandem as the clock struck twelve. But, lest you think that all the offenders were male, think again. Most of the food stains were female in origin. From the freezie pop drippings of Amanda Carter and Lauren Pegues, to the chocolate stains courtesy of Arika Aker and Meghan Kees, the girls did their part. Well, in a couple of weeks all the old stuff will be hauled off and replaced with new, and a small part of me...actually a very small part of me will be a bit sad to see it go. The fact is that Pam and I wouldn't trade anything for the times we spent overrun with teenagers. Sure, they cost us a small fortune in groceries alone, and they were a colossal mess at times, but they brought something with them to our home.... fun. The energy and promise of a house full of kids on a Friday night is an amazing gift. To see so many of them all grown up and accomplishing great things is one of the most rewarding thrills of my life.  I saw a picture on facebook the other day that stopped me in my tracks. There were three of my all time favorite "kids" sitting on somebody elses' sofa each holding a toddler in their laps...THEIR toddler. All grown up. What a blessing to see that they didn't end up in jail.


Truth be told, we miss the mess. We miss the drama, the angst of raging testosterone, the honor of comforting a crying kid. But life comes at us in waves, one washes over us and then is gone. So we get rid of the old furniture and get ready for the new and wonder what the next wave will bring.

The Power of Music

I didn't sleep well last night, tossed and turned, woke up several times, a stormy night of dreams.  At 6 or so I finally gave up.  The coffee brewed as I stared at the heavy, wet snow clinging to the branches of every tree in my back yard. Snow at 53 isn't the stuff of playful imagination. Snow is wet, cold and messy, a nuisance. As I trudged up the stairs to my office a darkness began to enter into my day. It was Monday, the snow had thrown a white, lifeless pall over what had begun to resemble spring. Something new and young had overnight become tired and bleak. I turned on my computer and read through my normal business lineup.  The Wall Street Journal proclaimed the latest contradiction in monetary policy out of Washington. Drudge reliably chronichled the contined cultural decline that is my country in 2012. I closed my eyes and took a sip of coffee. I reached for my iPhone and switched on Pandora.


There was a blues tune playing, something by B.B. King. His woman had left him and he was terribly distraut. His crying, mournful riff did nothing at all to raise my spirits.  When you're trying to snap out of a funk, clear the fog from around your thinking, trying to raise your mood, the blues are not your friend. I stared out of the window and waited for B.B.to finish. It would have been rude and disrespectful to click to the next song, no matter how tired I may have been of hearing about this unfaithful winch of a woman. So I waited, mourning along with him and watching little clumps of snow slide off the curved front of my gas grill.

Then suddenly, there was George Gershwin and his Rhapsody in Blue. There was a piano, then an orchestra. I sat down slowly and took another sip of coffee, holding the mug tightly in both hands to keep them warm.  I closed the laptop and listened. The sounds coming from my cell phone transported me to another place. I felt as if I was in the concert hall.  Where was it? Who was it? I grabbed the phone and scrolled through and saw that it was the New York Philharmonic conducted by Leonard Berstein. The pianist was anonymous and should not have been for he was masterful. The soaring beauty of the melody and the playfulness of the jazz theme began to sweep away the dross. I became aware of the beating of my heart. A tightness came to my throat, an emotion from some hidden place. All of my life it has been this way. Music is one of the few things that has consistently had the power to stir in me powerful emotions that come from some strange place, I know not where. But there I was listening,in my pajamas, spellbound, to this beautiful work, with a lump in my throat. Whenever I try to explain this phenominon to other people, they take a small step back, turn their head to one side and smile nervously. The only people who have ever really understood what I was talking about have been my brother Donnie, my son Patrick and Patrick's high school choral director, Sherrie Matthews. Each of these three are all music people, each supremely talented, and each had a flicker of recognition on their faces when I tried to explain the otherworldly power of music to transform the mind. None of them could explain it either, but each knew it to be true. Towards the end of the piece there is this particularly powerful, soaring melody that brought to mind a United Airlines commercial from years ago. When I first though of it, I felt a bit disgusted that anyone would use such a work to sell anything, let alone airline tickets.  But then I thought, why not? It transformed my day from dreary to something lighter than neutral,  no small feat. A lot cheaper than therapy. Rhapsody in Blue makes you want to do something good, to be good. I wonder how many men were inspired to get on a plane and reunite with their wives after hearing it? How many long lost friends were reunited after someone heard the soaring notes, got inspired and flew across the country to reconnect?


And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why we insist on teaching music in school. Someone may hear the notes and be transported to a better place.  Someone may hear the melody and be stirred in a magical way and realize that there is something better, something higher to aspire to. Today, for me, it simply jump-started my day. For some kid somewhere, it just might save their life.

Jeremy Lin, Tiger Woods, and Shopping for Furniture

What a crazy week. Business is brisk and a bit chaotic, as it always is this time of year for me, so I have to wait until Saturday to access the damage. Many things to comment upon. Here goes…

Our fearless Treasury Secretary, Tim Geithner was testifying on capitol hill the other day, and when I say fearless, I’m not kidding. If you had to defend the budget that Obama just sent to Congress, you’d better be fearless. There was an incredible exchange with Paul Ryan of Wisconsin. Ryan had just put up on a screen a graph found on page 58 of said budget where the administration shows deficits and debt skyrocketing exponentially for as far as the eye can see into the future. Ryan then asks Geithner why his boss is offering no plan to correct this dangerous trend line. After a few minutes of economic jargon and back and forth nit-picking, the Secretary admits that the future economic condition of the Republic is in peril unless the trend is corrected, but then cut loose with the most honest words to ever come out of his mouth….” We don’t have a solution, but we don’t like yours.” Now, THAT, my friends, is pure unadulterated leadership. We are in charge of the government, I am the Treasury Secretary and I am admitting that the country is headed over an economic cliff, and I’m also admitting that I have come to you with NO PLAN TO FIX ANY OF THIS!!! But your plan sucks. So there. Epic!!!

Over the last 15 years or so I’ve spent maybe an hour of my life thinking about the NBA. I mean, after Michael Jordan, Larry Bird and Magic Johnson retired, why bother? I freely admit that I haven’t watched an NBA game probably since the 90’s. I only see snippets of the NBA on “shots of the day” segments on ESPN while I’m waiting for spring training news. But in the last two weeks I’ve actually been paying attention to one basketball story, Jeremy Lin. I’ve only seen highlights and read stories about the kid. But, without question, he’s the best thing to happen to basketball since the shot clock. What an amazing story. Player of the year in California and can’t get a D-1 offer?? Goes to Harvard and gets them to the tournament? Shuffles around with several teams but never gets a chance to play, then because of injuries gets thrown into a game almost as an afterthought. Then, all he does is ignite a 7 game win streak in which he scores more points than anyone in NBA history over their first 7 games in the league. The kid is an amazing talent who until two weeks ago nobody knew existed. Then I find out he’s an outspoken born again Christian? This story just keeps getting better. He’s got faith, brains, and game. He keeps this up, I may actually tune in. Maybe one day he will agree to be Treasury Secretary.

Poor Tiger Woods. Watching him get schooled by Phil last weekend was a guilty pleasure. Tiger still has the physical brilliance, but his mental toughness is gone. He no longer has the power of intimidation. And when Phil walked off the 18th at Pebble into the arms of his beautiful wife, the contrast with Tiger slinking away, shoulders slumped, and head down could not have been more stark. He had it all, and now he seems lost. There was Phil, with his breast cancer surviving wife in a knowing embrace that testified to the joy that comes when a tough road is travelled together. Tiger slipped away, probably to the driving range and then, into the arms of the bimbo-du-jour. Painful to watch, or it should be at least. There is a bad place in me that takes comfort in justice even when its application is painful. I need to work on that.

Pam is in full home decoration mode. Basset furniture is coming here this morning to case out the joint. Our kids are grown and all of the furniture that they and their multitudinous friends destroyed has become a source of irritation. We need new stuff, but what kind, color and style? Is it time for real grown up furniture? Are we allowed to buy something without scotchguard? How do we know if we’ll like it 5 years from now? Will it be suitable once grandkids arrive bringing the second plague of locusts upon our house? Will Molly’s paws scratch leather? To recline or not to recline, THAT is the question. And what about paint color and rugs and what used to be called “curtains” but now are referred to as “window treatments”? How will the new stuff look with Christmas decorations? If the sofa only has two seat cushions instead of three will the crack in the middle make people hesitant to sit?( no kidding). I’m with Tim Geithner on this one…”We have no plan, but yours sucks.”

Whitney Houston, Pandora, and Valentines Day

# Whitney Houston dead at 48. Sad. It had been a question of when rather than if. Her steady descent into narcissism had been difficult to watch, the wasted talent, almost a cliché. All I know about her was that when that adorable girl bounced behind the microphone to sing the National Anthem at the Super Bowl in 1991, nobody had ever performed it better before or since. The joy and abandon on her face, the graceful ease with which she glided through the song, the radiance, the beauty, the art…it was all too much. I’ve never forgotten it, and it is always the way I will recall her memory.

# I have recently discovered Pandora radio. Very cool. I have established four “stations”. I suppose the four say a lot about me. It tags me as to age, gender, and level of hipness. So I present them here and welcome your judgment:
#1 Beatles Radio
#2 Frank Sinatra Radio
#3 Blues Rock Radio
#4 Classical Radio

I’m sure that at some point I will add others, but right now, these about cover it. Every mood I might happen upon, there are songs in this universe to cover it. As I write these words I’m listening to Sergey Rachmaninov’s piano concerto No. 2 with the London Symphony Orchestra and I might add that if you can’t write to such music, you simply cannot write. But, what a remarkable thing is this Pandora?

# This Tuesday I celebrate Valentines Day number 30 with Pam. After so many years it becomes harder and harder to come up with fresh material. How many unique ways are there to say “I Love You”? We’ve done everything from overnight stays at fancy hotels, to laying on blankets at the patio doors with the lights off watching the snow fall. I’ve done roses, chocolates, pajamas, and lingerie. We’ve had Italian food, Chinese, steaks, chicken and fish. I’ve gone Hallmark, and homemade. This year I’ve got a new idea. It might be a hit but also has a chance to be an epic fail. I will let you know how it turns out.

A Proud Parent

I do my fair share of bragging about my kids. Over the past year there have been numerous entries testifying to their many triumphs. This is, after all, my blog and I can write whatever I wish. I have, however, tried to not pile it on too thick. They both have significant flaws, most of which clearly inherited from their distant relatives. Parents who lavishly praise the most benign accomplishments of their children as if they had just discovered cold fusion have always irritated me. I actually saw a bumper sticker the other day that proudly proclaimed, “ My Kid Got A Hole-in-One At Putt-Putt Golf! “ Really? By all means, let’s immortalize dumb, blind, luck on the back of our automobiles. What’s next?...”Proud Parent of a Potty-Trained Toddler”. Nevertheless, it’s time for another tribute to the development of my children into adults, no small feat when everywhere I look I see twenty-somethings living out their interminable adolescence.

Kaitlin is in grad school at Wake Forest. She is surrounded by students and faculty who daily mock not only religion, but the religious. It would seem that the famously tolerant Ivory Tower set can’t quite bring themselves to tolerate the Christian faith that created the very institution that grants them tenured protection and the freedom to openly ridicule their benefactors. In the midst of this hostility, my daughter is quietly gaining a reputation as the rarest of scholars, one who has the ability to communicate complex ideas in a clear and understandable way. She has made several oral presentations in her time at Wake and each of them have been praised by fellow students as well as professors. Many of these students and professors know that she is a believing Christian and therefore treat her with bemused fascination, much as how an anthropologist might observe a newly discovered race in New Guinea. But through it all, she has gained the respect of her fellow students who see something special in her intelligence and grace. They see what her parents have always seen, a powerfully inquisitive mind combined with a tender heart that abounds with sensitivity to the needs of others over her own. She has overcome initial doubts about her intellectual fitness for such a program, and now is excelling and winning admirers along the way, fulfilling the charge of the Apostle Paul to ..” become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe.”

Patrick graduated from college two months ago. Instead of coming home, getting a job and saving some money for grad school to come in 9 months time,(my advice), he asked if he could stay in Nashville. I was skeptical. It seemed a foolish waste of time and money. I warned him that my financial support of his college career ended with receipt of his diploma. My hopes for him finding dependable gainful employment were not high. But he informed me the other day that he in fact had gotten a job as a waiter in a high end burger joint/ coffee bar and bakery. “ Huh?”, I said. To my amazement, he is learning the waiter thing on the fly and doing quite well with tips, to the point that he established a savings account for himself. The kid is working a lot of hours and paying his own way in the world. In the meantime he is also thriving in the city that he loves, surrounded by tons of friends and creative people that make him a better musician. As I write this he is stuffed in a car with a bunch of friends driving to Atlanta where the a cappella group that he founded three years ago , the Belmont Beltones, hopes to win a regional competition. Even though he isn’t in the group any longer, there he will be, cheering them on like a proud parent. I know many of the kids in that group, and if one can be judged by the company one keeps, then Patrick has become a wonderful young man. He’s where he wants to be, working on his music, and busting his hump to pay the bills by doing honest work day and night. Awesome.

Too bad I can’t fit any of this on a bumper sticker.

War Stories From an AmFam Veteran

I’ve been a member of American Family Fitness for almost 8 years now, ever since my surprise open- heart surgery in 2003, amazing how getting cut open focuses the mind on fitness. On the whole, AmFam and I have gotten along well. I have a flexible work schedule that allows me to work out in the mid afternoon so I never have to fight the crowds. The Short Pump gym is a brand new facility and has everything I need with the added bonus of being minutes from my house. However, after 8 years of any relationship, there inevitably arise…how shall I say??...challenges.

At AmFam there is a policy against cell phone usage. There are charming little signs posted throughout spelling out the prohibition in all areas except the lobby. In addition, a public service announcement randomly runs on the ubiquitous television screens that loom about the place reminding us all of the reasons for the rule, to wit, courtesy towards other members and a concern for personal safety. I must admit to an appalling lack of Christian charity in this business of personal safety, since it would be awesome to see some self-absorbed, hot-shot walk face first into the fist of some guy doing a chest fly because he just HAD to talk to his BFF in the middle of a workout! OMG that would be worth three months of dues right there. Courtesy, on the other hand, is a different matter. The kind of people who can’t go an hour without being connected to their cell phones, constitute the lowest of the low of human development. These guys and girls are the type whose lives are of such grand importance, whose existence so complex and fragile, that they simply cannot run the risk of being off the grid for even thirty minutes. Just yesterday, I was running my 3.5 miles on the treadmill when I was joined by a portly young woman three machines down. In the 35 minutes that followed, this unfortunate woman spent 30 of them engaged in trivial conversation with what seemed to be three different people. Since she came equipped with Bose headphones and a hands-free Blackberry, she couldn’t hear any of my suggestions that she was in clear violation of the Gym cell phone policy. Which brings me to my first complaint, in 8 years, I have suffered through an endless stream of cell phone knuckleheads but not once have I ever seen any member of management ask anyone to stop using their cell phone. I guess it’s going to take a tragic accident before management gets serious about enforcement. A tragic accident maybe like some annoying woman in the midst of a crucial discussion with her BFF about something of earth shattering importance tripping over a barbell and then getting impaled by the bench press bar, the ultimate dropped call!

Complaint number two. There’s this guy at my gym who I have never actually seen working out. But I do know that he is an ex-marine. I know this because of his military haircut, and the loads of ex-marine gear he wears, cap, jacket etc.. The problem with this guy is that he spends 90% of his time at AmFam standing buck naked in front of the sink in the men’s locker room removing his nose hairs with tweezers. Now, when I say ex-marine I mean that in every possible way. This gentleman is very large and in an advanced stage of physical decrepitude. So when he bends over to inspect his nose at close range his back-side poses a real and present danger to any small children that might wander by. They could get lost and never be found again. So…Marine guy, your uh,.. rear echelon needs some covering fire in the worst way man. Semper Fi.

Complaint number three. Whenever I chose to run on the indoor track instead of the treadmill, I invariably run into the group of women who take up all four lanes talking about Paula Deen recipes walking along at the brisk pace of 1 mph. So each lap I have to yell out ..”coming through”, which takes them forever to do causing me to slow down. It’s like the feeling men get when they realize that the tee-time just ahead of them at the golf course consists of four silver-haired women all dressed in pastels, two of whom turn out to be left handed. Ughhhh….

What follows are not complaints, simply observations that one encounters at AmFam on any given day:

@ the skinny- armed guy who wears the biggest, baddest leather support belt known to exist in the free world. He also carries his drinking water in a gallon jug. Hardcore!

@ the mid-twenties guy with perfect hair who works out in extremely tight spandex and literally can’t take a step without checking himself in the mirror.

@ the New Years Resolution crowd that always annoys everyone else for a few weeks in Janurary then disappears.

@ the alarming number of people on staff at AmFam who could stand to back away from the dessert bar every once in awhile themselves!

The Canvas Bag....the conclusion

Some kind of light seemed to be coming from the bottom of the box. Bernie checked on David again, and his condition seemed worse than just a few minutes before. Bernie realized that he was dying. Something in this room was killing him. He returned to the box and began emptying it of its books. At the bottom he saw the money, green and neatly arranged in tidy rows.

David felt raindrops hitting his face. He opened his eyes slowly and saw hundreds of droplets of icy water clinging to the ceiling of his room. Drops were falling casually like rain off the leaves of the ficus tree at the park after an afternoon shower. He turned his head slowly towards the kitchen and saw Bernie kneeling down at the fireplace. David wanted to speak but couldn’t make his mouth form the words, so he laid there helplessly watching Bernie burning each pack of one hundred dollar bills, one by one at first but then all at once. The flames rose higher and higher and soon Bernie backed away from the heat.

Bernie watched the flames rise and wondered if he had been a fool. It was more money than he had ever seen before, more than he or David would ever see again, and there it was going up in smoke. First a fire had taken away David’s family and now it was destroying his fortune. Bernie had decided the whole business in a flash, in response to an unspoken assurance in his soul that it was this money that was killing his friend. He had grabbed the matches and lit the fire in a flurry without giving himself the chance to second guess himself, and now it was too late. He couldn’t take his eyes away from the flames.

David began to feel the warmth, then the feeling in his arms and legs returning, and then the strength of his voice. He threw back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. By the time he stood to his feet, he had lost the anger. Bernie turned to him and didn’t seem surprised at his transformation. “It was killing you Davey. The money was killing you. I’m sorry”, Bernie slumped back into the kitchen chair.
David watched the last of the money curl up and disappear. “ But what will I do now? I have nothing.”

“Nothing? You’re alive, and you have the rest of your life.” Bernie reached into his jacket and removed the small cardboard box and tossed it on the table. “And you’ve got this. It’s the only part of that money that was redeemed because you gave it away. Well, now I’m giving it back to you. I don’t need it, but it might help you start over.”

A couple of weeks later Bernie drove David to the bus station. David headed back east to start fresh. Bernie would never see David again. Fifty miles into the trip, David removed his jacket to use it as a pillow against the cold window. A note fell out of his pocket. It was written in Calligraphy…Isaiah 42:16. David smiled and removed the white canvas bag of books in the overhead compartment and found his bible.

“ ..and I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight. “

David laid his head against his jacket and closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly, gentle and soft.

The Canvas Bag....part seven

“ Yes, I have.” Bernie had gotten his voice back. He backed away from the table and stood erect. “ How could I not ? Look at yourself. You hardly work anymore, you’re putting on weight, your eyes look like you haven’t had a nights’ sleep in months. You’ve treated yourself like a murderer for nearly five years now Davey, and it’s starting to show. I’ve been waiting for the day that you would finally forgive yourself for all of it, but you’re getting worse, not better. So, lately I’ve resorted to the word of God. So yes…I’m the one responsible for the notes!”

“ You really think that guy was with the mob? This isn’t New York or Chicago Bernie. Why would the mob bother showing up in Fresno? “

“ You always change the subject when we actually talk about something that matters! You always want to talk about the little things, not the thing that is killing you.”

“ I think the mob is pretty big.”

Bernie dropped the subject and sat back down. A long moment of chilly silence passed between them. The longer it went on the heavier the air became. David knew that Bernie was right. He had never allowed himself an ounce of grace, not a single moment of forgiveness since the fire. Now, the money had only made it worse. Why had he of all people stumbled upon such a fortune? It was unfair beyond description, so unfair it bordered on the comical.

“Listen Bernie, I don’t know anything about any money in the park, so you can stop worrying. “

“ Who said it was money? “

David looked away and said nothing. Bernie asked no more questions. When he reached the door on his way out, Dave put his hand on Bernie’s shoulder and said, “ Leave it be Bernie. “ Three weeks passed. The man in the black suit never came back, and David had seemingly vanished. Bernie began to ask around and discovered that David hadn’t been on the corner in over two weeks. He worked up the nerve to pay him a visit at the boarding house. No one answered the door. Bernie reached for the knob and despite the clammy heat in the hallway, it was ice cold to the touch. He turned it and heard a click. David had left his door unlocked.
David’s room seemed to have its own atmosphere, everything seemed heavier inside than it had out in the hall. Bernie’s coat pressed down harder against his shoulders, his clothes seemed suddenly made of iron. The room seemed oppressive and sinister, like something not altogether of this world. The walls and ceiling were oddly pale blue and shimmering with streaks of silver that diminished as they got closer to the kitchen and fireplace. Bernie was shocked to find David in bed, shivering under icy covers, his face hot and streaked with sweat, and his eyes red-rimmed and vacant. He tried to revive him, calling out his name, but David was silent and burning with a fever. Bernie ran to the sink to run water on a rag. When he looked back at David he noticed what seemed to be an ice-encrusted box, blue and glowing , under the bed. Bernie had to wrap the dish towels around his hands to get a grip. It finally broke free and slid out from under the bed. Bernie could make out only books through the clear ice. But whatever on earth was wrong with this room was coming from this glowing blue box. He began to search the kitchen for something that he could use to break the ice. He needed a hammer and a screw driver but could find nothing, except a hard edged metal dust pan in the closet. Bernie knelt down beside the box and began to chisel through the ice. It was a slow and painful progress. David lay as still as the dead, making no sound and responding to none of the flying ice chips and scraping noises. Bernie’s hands had begun to bleed, dripping down onto the icy surfice and blurring it red. Suddenly the ice let out a loud crack and cleft into two big blocks, crashing to the floor and sliding away leaving a trail of blood and water. Bernie saw only books, amazingly dry books.

The Canvas Bag.....part six

Bernie’s was closed. A sign hung crooked on the door. Bernie’s was never closed at eight o’clock at night. David took the bus to Bernie’s neighborhood. He had eaten dinner there many nights after the fire. He would have to choose his words carefully. Bernie was a good man, but enough was enough. The door opened only a few inches and Bernie’s face looked past David as he let him in. Something was wrong. Bernie looked scared.

“Hey Davey. What brings you all the way out here?”

“Why is your place closed? I dropped in to have dinner and there was a closed sign on the door. You never close. And while I’m at it, I’ve about had it with these bible notes you keep leaving at my room.”


David felt ashamed as soon as he had said it. They might not even be Bernie’s notes and even if they were, Bernie was probably his only friend in the world. Bernie made no defense. He motioned for David to follow him into the kitchen. He turned off the light in the foyer and briefly walked down a short hall in total darkness, then flipped on a light switch as they entered the kitchen. David noticed that every window shade was drawn.

“I think I might be in trouble Davey.” Bernie’s voice was timid and shaky, hushed in an exaggerated way. “ I received a visit a few days ago at the diner from a large man in a black suit who spoke with some kind of accent. I had never seen him around before. Anyway, he was asking questions about the park, that since I was the guy who knew everything about the neighborhood, I should know everything about everyone who used the park. He said that he worked for a man who had lost something very valuable in the park. He wanted to know who I knew that used the park. Of course you immediately came to mind, you’re practically the only one I know who uses that park what with all of your reading and such. Of course I didn’t tell HIM that. But he was very insistent, said that it was very important to his boss that this thing was returned to him. I think he’s with the mob Davey. Before he left he said that if I helped him I would be handsomely rewarded.” Bernie was breathing heavier now, his eyes wider, fear palpable on his face. Then he got up and walked over to the pantry door, walked in and then returned with the cardboard box that David had miled to him.
“ I had almost forgotten about the whole thing when I got this in the mail yesterday…ten thousand dollars Davey! There was no note, no nothing. Just ten thousand dollars!! It had to be from the mob man. Who else do I know who would send me ten thousand bucks, even if they could?”

“ First of all, you need to calm down. Maybe it’s just a debt of gratitude from an old customer who you gave free meals to years ago who went on to strike it rich someplace and didn’t forget about you. There are probably fifty people or so who might fit that description. Maybe it’s Flannigan, overcome with guilt for not tipping you for twenty years. Who knows?”

“ Davey, tell me the truth. You’re in that park all the time. Do you know anything about this?”

David looked into Bernie’s eyes and wavered. Why did he have to be so earnest, so decent? All we like sheep have gone astray? Not Bernie. If he was ever going to unburden himself about the money it would have to be here and now. “You tell ME the truth…Have you been leaving bible verses in my mail slot?”

The Canvas Bag...part five

A week passed, then another. David managed to spend enough time in the fields so as not to arouse any suspicion, but he noticed that he wasn’t getting picked as often. The effort wasn’t there, and stronger, more desperate backs were always available. David was starting to feel more comfortable. He had been very careful. He had gone out one rainy day to Sunnyside and bought a radio. He placed it on his kitchen table and listened to baseball games from the Midwest. The Cardinals would come in on clear nights. Bernie had surprised him one night. It had rained three days straight and there was no work. Bernie stopped by to check on him. He had seen the radio but hadn’t said anything. He had been sure that it had been Bernie who had left the bible verse, but he had never mentioned it. Bernie was religious, but in a good way, out of some soft spot in his heart, not out of judgment. The day after his visit, there was an envelope in his mail slot with four dollars. David made the decision there and then to make a gift to Bernie. He took the bus across town to a post office in Clovis where he bought a small carboard box and a book of stamps. It had probably been dangerous to carry a ten thousand dollar bundle of cash in his jacket pocket on a public bus, but precautions had to be taken. He couldn’t allow the package to be traced back to him. The money fit perfectly snug in the box. He thought about writing a note but decided against it. David would be sure to be in Bernie’s for breakfast every morning for a while. But if Bernie was ten thousand dollars richer, nobody would ever have known by any change in his demeanor. Same old Bernie. Still, it had given David a feeling, something approaching joy, when he imagined Bernie’s face opening the box.

As the days passed, David began to notice the changes. He had put on a few pounds. He had become lethargic. Although the level of physical exertion in his life had been greatly reduced, he lacked energy and late in the day had to fight to stay awake. But no matter how tired he was, peaceful sleep was illusive. He longed for one good night of sleep, just one night without the dreams. No matter how many adjustments he made in his nightly routine, the dreams would roar to life as soon as he drifted off. They weren’t nightmares, just unsettling little scenes and always in color. Anna was in most of them. David had thought it would be different after the money, thought his spirit would begin to heal. It was better. There was better food, just no healing. The note in his mail slot this night said, “ Proverbs 16:25”….”There is a way that seemeth right to a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death.” David threw on his coat and headed to Bernie’s.

Canvas Bag...part four

The looming figure of Porfiry hovered in the sky like a Macy’s parade balloon looking down at Raskolnikov with knowing judgment in his eyes. There was no escape. The giant Porfiry moved overhead like a storm cloud blocking out the sun, shadowing Raskolnikovs’ every movement. His presence became leaden, suffocating. Finally he spoke…”All we like sheep, my dear Raskolnikov. All we like sheep.”

David awoke with a start, covered in sweat. His first thought was of the money. Was it still there or had it too been a dream? He jumped to his feet and dragged the heavy box from under the bed, madly digging through the titles until he glimpsed the neat rows of cash at the bottom. What time was it? He grabbed his watch from the nightstand. 5:20. Plenty of time to be on the corner in time. He got to his feet and sat on the edge of the bed, breathing easier now. Would he really work today? It would be terribly hot, maybe the hottest day of the year he had heard someone say. There was a new reality, new facts on the ground, a swift reversal of the story of his life. There was no driving hunger. There was no force compelling him to fight for his survival. He had money now. He didn’t have to go without a decent meal, no more days of bread and water. He could now direct the course of his day from the commanding heights of plenty. It felt very good. But he couldn’t go crazy, mustn’t attract too much attention. He must be careful, never stop thinking.

It occurred to David that he could now pay bus fare. There was no need to walk clear across town. He would spend the morning in Sunnyside on the other side of town where he could eat wherever he chose and maybe buy some new clothes. He sure could use a decent pair of shoes. He grabbed a couple of fresh bills and folded them tightly. It was Christmas morning.

He ate pancakes and sausage at a place called the Sunnyside Café. Delicious. He bought two pairs of work pants, a new pair of boots and wool socks from department store. Then he saw the YMCA. He took the longest, hottest shower in history. Fresh and clean, he put on his new clothes and gathered up the old ones and stuffed them in the hamper with the dirty towels. Across from the YMCA was a movie theatre playing the new Hitchcock picture. He settled in the blood red chair with his buttered popcorn and delighted in Kim Novak. She was beautiful, alluring, although her character proved to be tragically devious. Nothing was ever as it seemed with her. Scotty never had a chance. For dinner, David found a steak place called Sherman’s. His porterhouse was cooked to perfection. He was careful not to take the bus back until it had gotten dark. It had been a wonderful day and when he arrived back at the boarding house, he removed a couple of letters from his mail slot and walked up the stairs to his room. He would sleep with a full stomach, and clean clothes to wear in the morning. He switched on the light on the nightstand and glanced at the letters. One was an advertisement and the other had no address of any kind, just his name...David in all capitol letters. Inside was a single slip of yellow paper. In ornate calligraphy were the words, “Isaiah 53:6”. Puzzled, David pulled one of the boxes from under his bed and found his old bible, the one his mother had given him when he was baptized. He found Isaiah in the table of contents. “ All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.”

The Canvas Bag.....part three

Low profile or not , he was terribly hungry. Now he had enough money to buy a porterhouse steak but all he really wanted was a cup of coffee and some scrambled eggs and maybe some biscuits. But how was he going to pay for it with a one hundred dollar bill without attracting attention? He once again scurried through the box of books, jammed his hand down to the packs and slid out one bill. Once outside, the sun had finally burned through the low clouds and the fog was long gone. It was dripping wet hot, and David began to sweat through his t-shirt. He decided that he would walk across town and buy a bag of groceries at a store where nobody knew him. Then he would take the change back to Bernie’s and buy breakfast. It was a good plan. It was sensible. But it was awfully hot, and even though he had worked for ten hours in fields a lot hotter than this, for some reason, the bag of groceries got too heavy halfway back. Now that he had change, he could always buy groceries right down the street like he always did once he got back to his side of town. Besides, if he left this bag in an alley somewhere some hungry guy might stumble upon it and make a meal. It was another one of those mysterious ways that God was famous for. David smiled for the first time in months.

Bernie worked behind the counter of his own place and made it his business to give every regular a nickname. If a William came in he would become Billy, a Robert would be Bobby and David would always be Davey. This day Davey had Bernie’s complete attention.

“What..wait, you ordering eggs AND biscuits? You win the Lottery Davey? Hey everybody!! Davey won the lottery!”

David felt blood rushing to his face and hoped desperately that no one would notice. Luckily there were only a few customers in the place and he gathered his composure up tight within him and offered a reply.

“No, I most certainly did not win the lottery. You know me Bernie, I don’t even have enough money to play the numbers. Just spending my last dime on a good meal, that’s all.”

“Didn’t get picked today I suppose.”

“Actually I overslept”, David replied. For some reason Bernie always brought the truth out of him.

“Overslept? That’s not like you Davey. You feeling alright?”

I’m fine. Just slept right through, that’s all. It happens to everyone at some point.”


David hurried through the rest of his meal, anxious to leave Bernie before he blurted out the days’ events in complete detail. Bernie had missed his calling, should have been a detective. He had the kind of face that people didn’t want to disappoint. It didn’t seem right to lie to a man like Bernie Mann. After all, in David’s darkest hours after the fire, it was Bernie who came around to listen. It was Bernie who offered no advice but brought stew and bread and looked in on him every night. It was Bernie who had found him the room at the boarding house. Whenever it rained all week and there wasn’t any work, mysterious envelopes of small bills would turn up in David’s mail slot. Often it was only two or three dollars. David had no proof and needed none. It was Bernie, couldn’t have been anyone else.

That night David lay in the darkness listening for sounds in the street, sounds of squealing tires and violence but heard only the buzz of the street lamps. Maybe he should make a secret gift of ten thousand to Bernie. He surely was the only person he knew who deserved a windfall. He could think it through, make a plan of just how to get the money to him without giving himself away. David had started to feel the weight of the treasure at the bottom of his box of books after only one day. Maybe the money was meant to have been stumbled upon by someone else, someone more deserving, someone who hadn’t killed their family by being too lazy and too broke to spend twenty five dollars at the hardware store to repair a few faulty wires. David stared at the ceiling for hours until sleep finally came. He dreamt about Raskolnikov.

The Canvas Bag......part two

He looked up from the bag and down the street in both directions and saw nothing. The street lights had turned off and the mist had gotten lighter. In another couple of hours the sky would be pale blue and the heat would come. Glancing back down at the bag he noticed that the top was held together by a thin rope pulled tight through two black grommets and tied in a knot. He reached down to pick it up and the thing was lighter than he had expected and dry to the touch, so It hadn’t been laying there in the high grass for long. Maybe it flew out from one of the cars involved in the accident. Before opening it, David stepped back from the street into the protection of the trees. The knot was stiff and unforgiving . As he pulled and tugged at the rope he noticed how scratched and dirty his hands had become. They looked like they belonged to a much older man. Finally the knot began to loosen. He pulled back on the fabric and saw the soft green rectangles of money held together in one inch stacks by thin bands the color of grocery bags. There must have been 20 or so packets of money all with the portrait of Benjamin Franklin. David suddenly became aware of the beating of his heart. He quickly stuffed the bag inside of his sweatshirt along with Crime and Punishment and began to walk back to his room trying hard not to rush.

Back in his room, David locked the door with the dead bolt, the chain lock and then wedged his kitchen table chair under the knob. Then he tore off his sweatshirt, suddenly feeling hot and sweaty. His book tumbled onto the floor and as he stepped towards the bed he kicked it underneath without noticing. He turned the bag upside down and watched the money pour out and clump together on his unmade bed. For a minute or two he could only stare in amazement. He had never seen this much money in one place at one time in his entire life. He probably wouldn’t earn this much money for the remainder of his life if he lived to be a hundred. Before daring to touch it he closed the window and pulled down the yellow and cracked shade, cutting off his room from the outside world. He hovered over the money once again for a moment, then walked over to the sink ran himself a glass of water. Although it was warm, he drank it dry and was immediately thirsty again. Back at his bedside he picked up one of the packs of money, peeled back the edges and began to count. One hundred, one hundred dollar bills in each tight pack, ten thousand dollars. A years’ wages. He would have to spend day after day for an entire year bent over in the hot sun yanking cantaloupe off their vines to make this much money. Each pack was the same. Ten thousand dollar bundles of joy spread out all over his bed. Twenty five packs. Two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and not one nickel of it was his. This money belonged to someone. His gut told him that it was connected to the squealing tires and angry voices, and if it was, they would come for it. David raked it all back up into a pile and then shoved it back into the bag. He reached under his bed and slid one of the heavy boxes of books out and emptied them onto the floor. Fighting off a rising tide of panic, David then grabbed each pack of bills back out of the bag and began lining the bottom of the box with ten thousand dollar rectangles. Then he stacked the books back in the box on top of this, his long awaited miracle. He then balled up the canvas bag and placed it on the grate of his small fireplace. He then stuffed an old newspaper underneath it and set the bag on fire. As the flames began to rise the heat in the little room became intolerable. But David just watched the flames. Sweat began to drip off the end of his nose. He thought to himself that the money most likely was ill-gotten, probably belonged to some mafia types who had no business with it in the first place. Maybe this was God’s way of balancing the scales, taking from thieves and giving to a guy who desperately needed a break. After all, he had always heard that God worked in mysterious ways. As long as he was smart about it and didn’t draw any attention to himself by going out and buying fancy clothes and buying everyone drinks, he would be ok. He needed to keep a low profile.

The Canvas Bag.......a short story part one.

The day began in a milky shroud of fog. The humid air was heavy with mist and the street lights looked like distant moons. David sat on the edge of his bed feeling as thick and still as the elements. It was 6 o’clock and past time for him to be up if he had any hope of being chosen from among the pack for a day of labor. His life had become a daily test of fate, hanging on the delicate whim of the fat man with the clipboard. Some days he was chosen and would spend 10 hours picking watermelons or cantaloupe. Other days he would be passed over and spend his time trying to become invisible. He would wander around the city, keeping to back streets, waiting for a break, some sort of miracle that would deliver him. 6 o’clock. He wouldn’t make it in time, so today he would wander.

The only thing that had survived the fire was his car and the collection of books that he had strewn all over the back seat. A few years ago he had sold the car to a junkyard. Now all he had were the books. They were stored in boxes under his bed, all that remained of his old life. On the days that he didn’t get picked he would grab one and take it with him as he walked the streets. After getting dressed and eating the last bagel in the pantry, he picked up Crime and Punishment and left the boarding house, turning right at the intersection directly beneath his second story window. It was miserably humid and by the time he reached the park the mist had soaked him through. Dostoyevsky was safe inside his sweatshirt. David always guarded this last vestige of his old life with great care. At the park he found a bench sheltered from the mist by a thick Ficus tree. He sat down and opened the book. He needed a cup of coffee and something to eat more substantial than a bagel, but he had only 38 cents in his pocket. One bagel would have to do.

David read of poor Raskolnikov for perhaps the fifth time. It was one of his favorites. The guilt spoke to him. As he read, he fought with his memories, the only clear one that remained from before the fire. His wife and young boy were sitting at the kitchen table while David tended to dinner on the stove. Anna had never liked the old house. The plumbing was faulty, the roof leaked, and the wiring was a mess. If she plugged in any three things at once the breaker would trip, and they would be plunged into darkness. On this night in the kitchen David had promised to have an electrician come by and look into the wiring. He had gotten busy and forgotten. Eight days later the house had burnt to the ground while he was working the night shift. Four and a half years had passed and the only mental image that remained of his wife and child was their faces at the kitchen table while he prepared jambalaya in a heavy iron skillet

David heard what sounded like a backfire from a truck and then the angry screech of tires on the slick street behind the park. Another backfire. He turned toward the noise and could see nothing through the trees. Now several loud voices and the breaking of glass and the mangling of metal. David stood and walked briskly through the dense stand of trees that formed the southern boundary of the park. As he got close he heard an even harsher screech of tires and then silence. When he reached the street he saw broken glass, and the swirling skid marks on the wet street. Hidden in some high grass three feet from where he stood, he found the canvas bag.

A Very Lucky Man

My weekend might be considered rather dull by some, pedestrian, even boring by others. We stayed in town. Both kids were away in Nashville and Winston-Salem, their new homes. There was nothing on the calendar and no plans of any kind. Now it’s Sunday evening and I write to celebrate.

After a very long and demanding week, Friday night would be date night with Pam and my sister and her husband. We went to see The Descendants which I reviewed on this blog and which was dreadful beyond imagination but at least provided lively dinner conversation. We went to T.J.I. Fridays and had a nice meal. Saturday morning, I went to the gym for a workout. As is my custom on Saturdays, I then gave Molly a bath. After lunch at Big Al’s I went over to Office Max and purchased a new chair for my office. I lugged it from the store to the car and then to my office with much exertion and gnashing of teeth, then assembled it and put it in place.

Pam then tried a new recipe involving chicken, sweet potatoes, Cajun spices and lime juice. It was the sort of dish that sounds much better in writing than it does in fact. After looking at the result on the stove top we sampled it and came to the unanimous conclusion that we suddenly had a taste for Leonardo’s Pizza.

Mixed in throughout the weekend we played many brutally competitive games of “Words With Friends”. She beat me several games and I prevailed in several others. She plays on her iPad, I on my iPhone. This gives her a distinct advantage that she refuses to admit. Regardless, we are very evenly matched. Twice over the weekend we have snuggled together on the sofa to watch episodes of Downton Abbey, the fabulous PBS Masterpiece Theatre production. We have spent time in long discussions of home decorating ideas for this year. We have talked about our kids and their futures. We have taken naps. We have gone to church, and then to lunch out afterwards with a dear friend.

Nothing I have written would make a good plot line for a movie. If I did not pause here to make a record of the weekend it would soon be forgotten. But it has been a time of great contentment for me because I spent it with the only person in the world who has the power to transform ordinary into memorable. Spending two quiet days and nights with her is a comfort. We have been married nearly 28 years and it hasn’t all been this quiet or comforting. Raising kids is a chaotic, arduous grind of a thing, but eventually it relents. Then there’s just the two of us, in this big old house playing words with friends, watching British television, and having the chance to celebrate having survived it all with our love intact.

Movie Review...The Descendants

Last night I went to see the Academy award nominated movie, The Descendants. There had been much buzz on the internet and elsewhere about the fine performance by George Clooney and so I agreed to go, since there were no competing movies featuring Nazis getting killed. ( I have very simple cinematic taste). I must here confess that going in to this film I already loathed Clooney, he of the over-inflated sense of his own brilliance, and super-charged Socialism, so I worked hard at separating the actor from the character he portrayed. Lucky for me, they were both equally despicable.

Clooney plays Matt King, a trust fund lawyer, father of two girls and husband to a woman recently sent into a mortal coma by a boating accident. The plot revolves around his relationship with his two girls as they deal with ultimately having to pull the plug on Mom. In a conversation with his oldest daughter King discovers that his dying wife had been cheating on him, thus complicating the grieving process for them all. Hovering around all of this dying and decay is the story of a huge parcel of land that the King family has owned in trust for 150 years that is about to dissolve. Matt, as sole trustee has to make the decision on behalf of a slew of cousins eager to profit handsomely from the impending sale. There is much hand-wringing about the proper relationship between land and indigenous Hawaiians etc. I assume that this plot twist was added by Clooney himself since what good is it to make a movie unless you get to lecture people about the evils of greed and the plight of the dispossessed… but I digress.

Clooney’s character is supposed to be sympathetic. We are supposed to feel sorry for him, what with his having to deal with watching his cheating wife decomposing and all. Then there is his estrangement from his daughters, his apparent lack of friends, and the pressure he feels from all of Hawaii who we are told await his land decision with much alarm. But, all I wanted to do is smack him in the face , then give both of his bratty girls the mother of all spankings. Matt King is to cinematic fathers what Hannibal Lecter was to cinematic psychopaths….the worst of the worst.

First of all, he clearly knows nothing whatsoever about his girls. The most honest moment in the entire movie comes when King in narrator voice admits that he…”is the understudy parent”. He cluelessly talks on the phone while his youngest throws furniture into the pool. When his girls incessantly drop F-bombs in conversation, he lamely and without the slightest conviction asks them to “watch your language”. At one point about 5 minutes after he himself has dropped an F-bomb, he incredibly asks his kids where they learned such raw language. His ten year old routinely shoots him the bird. His oldest daughter, to whom he seems to be a total stranger, openly belittles his every move. At one point this pathetically inept excuse for a father is reduced to seeking parenting advice from the 18 year old pothead boyfriend, the only character in the entire movie with an ounce of credibility. The fact that King was unaware of his wife’s infidelity comes as a shock to NO ONE who has paid any attention to the first 20 minutes of this interminable film. One starts to wonder what exactly this idiot has been doing with his life for the last 20 years. He was detached and distant from his wife, his oldest daughter has been sent off to a $35000 a year boarding school, and he is barely on speaking terms with his 10 year old. He spends his days in shorts and Hawaiian shirts at his law office doing God knows what. This is the type of character that Hollywood adores, a father with no conviction, stumbling through life, completely powerless against the arbitrary slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. In 2012 there will be no taking charge, no determined effort to redeem himself, no heroic attempts to reform his wayward children, no renewed desire to be a real father. We have to settle for the three of them eating ice cream on the sofa staring forlornly into the unseen TV screen. Three emotionless couch potatoes with blank faces as the credits roll.

I paid $21 for the two tickets, then $16 for burnt popcorn that wasn’t salty enough. That’s one hour and fifty five minutes of my life that I will never get back. Sigh….

Trying To Prevent My Head From EXPLODING!!!

I am not a Mitt Romney fan. He is a wooden Ken-doll country club Republican who is slightly creepy. However, when I hear liberal politicians, the news media and especially Republican presidential candidates attack him for paying “only” 15% federal taxes on his 22 million dollar income…I feel as though my head will explode. So, after hearing about as much of this economic illiteracy as I can stand, I offer the following primer.

The people in this country who know the very least about economics are politicians. But even they have generally held the consistent view that it was in the best interest of the Republic not to have its citizens putting their cash in Mason jars and burying it in their back yards. So for at least 70 years or so we have agreed that money placed at risk in the market would be taxed more favorably than earned income through labor. This is because money so invested funds risk-taking, job-creating enterprises some of which fail, but others of which become Apple computer. We have in the past and certainly will in the future disagree on exactly how much this incentive should be, but that there should be an incentive seems to be one of the few things our political parties have agreed on. Current law taxes long term capital gains at a maximum of 15%, while taxes on ordinary income are progressive and max out for those earning more than $388,000 at 35%. Now to Mr. Romney. When he worked at Bain Capital, he chose to take a relatively small guaranteed salary. He decided to bet on his ability to succeed at his job as a venture capitalist. Had he been a bust, he would have only earned that salary. Fortunately for the Romneys, Mitt did very well and even though some of his projects bombed, others were spectacular successes that ended up rewarding him to the tune of roughly $22,000,000. Since these earnings took several years to come through, they were paid to him in the form of capital gains, thus the lower rate of 15% was paid on that income. For this outcome he is being characterized as some sort of villain for betting on himself and winning.

Although it made me feel like a scumbag, since it’s none of my business what’s on Mr. Romney’s tax return, I did go to the trouble to sift through the document. I discovered that in addition to the roughly 15% income tax that he paid, he also donated nearly 25% of his income to charity, most going to his church but lots of other donations going to a wide range of charitable causes. By contrast some of the biggest complainers about Mr. Romneys’ wealth are the very people who gave nearly NOTHING to charity, church or otherwise. Our President has given 1% to charity, former President Clinton what with his 70 million dollar income over the past few years has given an equally embarrassing amount. Even though between taxes and charitable giving, Mr. Romney parts with over 40% of his income, it’s Mitt Romney who is taken to task for not paying his fair share. Really?

By all means, argue about fairness. But why demonize success? Romney placed a bet on himself instead of taking a guaranteed outcome. That’s the American way and he was handsomely rewarded. He also filed a perfectly legal tax return and paid the full amount of taxes due, on time, under the law. If it’s the line of work he was in (private equity ) that troubles you, then consider this. Without private equity firms and venture capital, practically nothing that you are reading this blog on would be in existence. People are willing to take chances in the capital markets on unknown companies with new ideas because of the promise of great return, and I for one am glad they do. All of us are beneficiaries of somebody investing a lot of money at great risk of losing it in order to underwrite some geek in a garage somewhere with a great idea. That’s why capital is taxed more favorably than labor. Those who do should be praised, not pilloried.

The Confusion and Bounty of Capitalism

I needed some shampoo, body wash, and toothpaste. Since the CVS was close to my office I would go there. It was a 2 and a half minute drive from my garage. The front door was motion sensitive and opened when I got close. Once inside I found the shampoo aisle which was parallel to the body wash aisle. As far as the eye could see there were shelves packed neatly with every major brand and even some I had never heard of. It took me a while to find the kind I use, but it was there, right where it was the last time I was in. Just before I reached for the body wash I stepped back and looked up and down the aisle marveling at the choices that confronted me. There were over thirty competitors for this $3.45 purchase. It was shampoo and body wash, a rather pedestrian purchase requiring very little planning and forethought, and yet here were hundreds of possibilities. I wondered where they all came from, and how did they all get here? I was glad for the abundance, since there was no telling what it would have cost me had there been only one brand. Visions of old Soviet- era state stores with empty shelves came to mind. But, a nagging thought came also to mind as I paid by sliding my debit card through a little machine at the front counter. I took my receipt from the clerk and then took one last look down the shampoo aisle. Why does any market need thirty different shampoo manufacturers? Obviously there IS a market in this country large enough to support thirty different brands of shampoo or they wouldn’t all be crowded together on the shelves. But, is that the best allocation of resources available? Why so many shampoo options but so few razor options? I’ve been shaving for more or less 40 years and there have always been basically two choices…Gillette and Schick. If I misuse shampoo I might get nasty split-ends but if I get a hold of a bad blade I cut my neck all to pieces, and yet I have thirty kinds of shampoo but only two razor companies?

After leaving CVS I stopped by Uppy’s to fill my tank with premium unleaded gas. I was running on fumes so to fill my 16 gallon tank cost me over fifty bucks. The price per gallon was something like $3.40. I remember when gas used to cost half as much not so very long ago. But when I think of where this gas came from and what it had to go through to get to this pump, it’s breathtaking. It was pumped out of the ground as crude oil somewhere either in the middle east or off shore out in the ocean in very dangerous conditions. Then it was hauled at great expense to a refinery somewhere in Texas probably and sent through a highly complex, expensive and dangerous procedure before it was in a form that could then be hauled across country by tanker trucks to distribution centers and then to the shiny clean station right down the street from my safe and clean subdivision. On the other hand, the six bucks I had to part with to buy the gallon of 2% milk at Martins after I left Uppy’s came from a cow somewhere probably no further than 100 miles away. It required very little geo-political risk to produce, virtually no risk to refine, and didn’t have to travel halfway around the world and back to land in the dairy case at my grocery store. And yet, it cost me nearly twice as much as the gallon of gas I just pumped into my car. Why don’t the Occupiers start raising hell about “BIG DAIRY” like they do “BIG OIL”? I suppose it’s because oil pollutes the environment, while cows don’…er , wait a minute.

Although Capitalism can be very confusing, it should be noted that this particular shopping trip took me a total of 17 minutes to complete, an efficiency of time largely unknown in the undeveloped world. Because it didn’t take me two days and hundreds of dollars in bribes to complete this simple shopping trip, I had plenty of time to further enlarge my carbon footprint, by writing my thoughts on this blog. I am told that as a responsible citizen of the world I should feel some level of remorse for this my good fortune. I do not. Tomorrow, I will step out of my bathroom with shiny hair, a pleasant body odor, and clean teeth. After eating my bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and 2% milk, I will drive to my office with the confidence that comes from a full tank of gas. For all of this I am exceedingly grateful. Zero remorse.

My Very Bad Day and the number "3"

There has always been an unsolved mystery concerning my life. I have no explanation about this phenomenon that satisfies. The mystery of which I speak involves the number “3” and the 24 hour day, to wit, how bad things always seem to happen in threes and all in one day. I often go months between such days, enduring nothing more than minor irritations or temporary setbacks. And then, out of the cosmic blue comes a day of epic reversals worthy of a Greek tragedy….Thursday, for example.

NUMBER ONE

My day was heavy with client appointments so I had set my clock for 5:45. When my eyes opened I saw the blurry outline of 6:46 pulsing in digital blue-green. Although this was not one of the “3”, it did usher number one onto the scene. It took ten seconds or so for me to grasp the gravity of the situation…that my alarm clock had refused to alarm. Once fully engaged with the days’ first reality, I lurched upward awkwardly in a startled spasm of movement. It was then that I realized that I had an horrendous crick in my neck. Apparently I had spent too much time sleeping in poor posture while dreaming about a rabid feral cat who had hidden under the downstairs sofas and would launch himself at my ankles whenever I walked by, which in my dream was every 30 seconds. Terrifying! After a long and very hot shower and three advil, the neck was no better, so the rest of the day would be spent with my head tilted forward weirdly, like a deaf old man straining to hear his wife tell him to stand up straight.

NUMBER TWO

Once at work, there were 9 voicemails waiting since I had been out of the office the previous day. Whenever I see the voicemail box that full, I always fight back a brief wave of nausea. Who knows what bad tidings await behind that sinister blinking light of indefinable color? It’s never as bad as I first imagine, in fact, sometimes the news is good. This batch was fairly benign. There were a couple of administrative foul-ups, a couple of clients returning my calls, and my pharmacy reminding me to pick up my blood pressure medicine, a subtle yet annoying reminder of my mortality. Then it was time for the first order of business. I needed to call several of my clients to set up times for their annual review appointments. The first would be one of my biggest clients, a man and his wife who had been with me for more than eleven years and with whom I had a good relationship. In fact, of all my book of business, I considered this guy to be one of my top 5 success stories. In the financial business sometimes timing works against you. Someone becomes a client at the top of the market and by that quirk of fate his time with you doesn’t go so well for a couple of years. For others, they come to you at the perfect time and for the first few years of your relationship they are convinced that you are a genius. With this man, I had done truly remarkable work. My advice had resulted in many happy returns. In addition, I had talked him out of many of his own ill-conceived ideas that would have led to disaster. So when he calmly informed me that he had made the decision to give all of his assets to another advisor with family connections, I was stunned to silence. I finally managed a, “Are you serious? Wow…”. After several minutes of trying to talk sense to him I resigned myself to the injustice and stupidity of it all.


NUMBER THREE


Literally 10 minutes after hanging up with my disloyal, cowardly, and ungrateful now former client, I get a phone call from my sister telling me that my brother had just been rushed to the hospital in Bethesda, Maryland for emergency stomach surgery. With my neck now in full throb, I proceeded to track down the latest information on his condition. Seems that he had been having stomach pain for a week or so and had gone to the doctor on this, his day off, to find out what the problem might be. A cat scan was done and the results revealed a bleeding ulcer that had recently become a full-fledged hole and so he was rushed to the hospital and had been placed on an operating table at 1:30. My only brother at age 63 was getting cut open, and I wasn’t able to be with him, couldn’t even talk to him.

So, my day was complete. My head was propped up at a painful angle on my cricked neck, I had lost a large and profitable client undeservedly, and my brother was undergoing emergency surgery, all in one mysterious 24 hour day. It is famously said that into every life a little rain must fall. In my life it always comes one day at a time in blinding sheets, high winds, and flash flooding.

Restaurant review and cultural confession

My children delight in pointing out the many flaws in my “nativist, xenophobic” attitude towards other countries. Whenever I refer to Germans as “Kr****ts” or Japanese as “N**s”( usually while watching WWII movies) they both roll their eyes and exchange knowing glances. Poor Dad is hopelessly racist, and needs to get with the “we are the world” program. Nowhere is this more obvious than in the area of cuisine. Whenever the family has suggested going to a new Indian restaurant, for example, I have always let out an exaggerated moan and turned up my nose. This has always been followed by the usual accusations of provincialism or, “ Dad, you’re SOO meat and potatoes” or some such internationalist nonsense that their heads have been filled with by the university education that I paid for. Never mind the fact that I adore German beer, eat prodigious amounts of Mexican food, and am a regular at Yen Ching. The fact that I have drawn a line in the sand at the Curry Palace somehow makes me a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal.

Well, in a moment of weakness last Sunday, I consented to have lunch at Anokha with the family and the Forts. This is an Indian restaurant that my wife loves. Since Leigh Ann and the girls were coming, I would have to overcome my fears. Since the Forts spent many years as missionaries in Zimbabwe eating grubs and raw turnips, I would have to suck it up and do my best not to look like Barney Fife trying to choke down a plate of tofu. Now I will have to endure a lifetime of “ I told you so”. The food was ridiculously delicious.

I was expecting to walk into a dimly lit dump that reeked of curry, where everyone sat on dusty throw pillows, drinking chicory coffee from tiny porcelain cups. Some old guy with a white goatee a foot long would be over in the corner smoking a hookah pipe, and I would have to ask the waiter to repeat everything three times. Wrong on all counts. The inside of Anokha was beautifully decorated, and expertly lit. The only goatees to be had were found on the middle management Dad with the three blond kids in the corner. On its website Anokha represents itself as “a groundbreaking restaurant across from the hip Short Pump Town Center serving signature Nouveau Indian Cuisine”. Although I wouldn’t classify the mall as “hip”, whatever Nouveau Indian Cuisine is…count me in. I ordered the Tandoori shrimp and chicken Malai Kebabs from a waiter, who with impeccable grammar asked me to repeat myself several times. I finally pointed to the menu whereupon he smiled..”Yes. Number 9. Good choice.”

My first bite of the chicken dipped in the beautiful burnt yellow sauce was like being assaulted by all twelve bottles from the spice rack at home. Although I had requested the “mild” version, very soon my mouth was on full simmer and my eyes had begun to water ever so slightly. It was an absolutely perfect level of kick and I was thankful that I hadn’t ordered the medium. The shrimp was a triumph and my only regret was that there were only three of them. Once all the meat was gone I began to sop up the generous sauces and rice that remained with warm naan, which is this heavenly yeasty flat bread that’s salty and moist, and looks like it was baked in a frying pan. Just like homemade rolls at my Mom’s table, I could have made a meal of them all by themselves. I was charged an insanely cheap $11 for this feast. Five days later I was back for dinner. The Tandoori chicken Tikka I had was over the top fabulous, and the chunk I took home tasted even better heated up in the microwave for lunch the next day. My multi-cultural dining experience was a raging success.

So, now I must endure the eternal internationalist condescension of my two smarty-pants children who will never let me forget that I once turned my nose up at Indian food, blinded as I was by my nativist upbringing. Kaitlin herself told me this not an hour ago, as she loaded up her belongings in the Honda Civic that her Japanese-slurring father bought her. When Patrick reads this he will no doubt laugh uproariously, and then drive over to his friends’ house in the Volkswagon Jetta that his jingoistic German-slurring father bought him.

Actually, there does not exist on this planet a father more proud of his kids than I. In many ways they are far smarter than I was at their age. Their views on many things are in fact more enlightened than my own. I guess we will have to agree to disagree on what constitutes xenophobia. A healthy suspicion of our rather recent historical geo-political enemies is in my view no vice. Not being willing to overcome Hollywood stereotypes to try Indian food was pretty lame in retrospect. They were right, I was wrong.

There. I said it. Happy now??

Saturday observations on Tebow, and other stuff

It’s Saturday morning and time for a few random observations of the world around me. The headline of the day is the Friday night massacre visited upon several European nations by the ratings firm of Standard and Poor’s who stripped the Triple AAA ratings from France and Austria, lowered Italy and Spain a notch and declared Portugal and Cyprus to be no better than junk. Now we will have to endure dire predictions of market meltdowns come Monday morning by all the talking heads on Sunday morning television. What an exquisite way to spend one’s weekend.

Tim Tebow is about to do what no football player has ever done. He has inspired my wife to actually want to watch a game. Along with perhaps 40 million others, she will be tuned in tonight to witness the game between Tebow’s Broncos and the New England Patriots. If the predictions hold up, it will be the most watched playoff game of all time. To say that Tebow has transcended the sport is to damn him with faint praise. He has become the most captivating and polarizing figure in all of America. Those who denigrate his football skills miss the entire point. Tebow is proving that football is on some level a game of emotion and sometimes the best player doesn’t turn out to be the most highly skilled. There is something mysterious about the guy, no, not his faith, but rather the mystery of the connection between charisma, leadership, and will on the one hand , and technical and athletic proficiency on the other. We all know that you can’t succeed at the highest level in professional sports without elite physical gifts. But Tebow is reminding us all that intangibles also play a roll. The know-it-all talk show hosts arrogant enough to think that all you need to know can be learned at the NFL combine have been reduced to blithering idiot status. And for me, that’s been half the fun.

Now that the SEC has won its sixth straight National Football Championship, those who still claim that it’s all because of media hype are irredeemably lost in a parallel universe. “Oklahoma State scores touchdowns, not field goals..”…was one of the greatest comments ever the day after the LSU v. Alabama game, by an SEC hater. OK, here’s a news flash for football fans who have grown up playing Madden….great football is played on BOTH SIDES of the ball. It is possible for a teams best athletes to be on the defensive side of the line of scrimmage. And when that happens, teams don’t march up and down the field like its parade day at West Point. In the National Championship game practically every player who will end up in the NFL played defense, not offense. Trent Richardson and maybe a couple of offensive lineman might make it, but NFL scouts were salivating over the amazing athletes in the secondary of both teams. What makes those defenses even more amazing was the fact that they performed at that level despite playing in an era where rule changes have given every advantage to the offense. Another beauty I read was…”LSU and Alabama don’t play great defense,, they just suck on offense!!” Yes. Which explains why LSU averaged 40 points a game against every other team on their difficult schedule NOT named Alabama. Get over it SEC-haters. Six in a row isn’t hype.

If the Washington Nationals sign Prince Fielder to a break the bank contract, they will live to regret it and doom their franchise to continued mediocrity. The Nationals are young and talented with a terrific farm system and great young pitching. Don’t weigh down the ship with a high priced slugger who can’t pitch!

Sick, and on a Dayquil bender.

I’m on a Dayquil/Nyquil bender. I’ve been swallowing those hard plastic pills now for two days every six hours like clockwork. In the day time it’s the rusty orange ones. At night it’s the Christmas green ones. The box says it’s for “multi-symptom relief of cold and flu”. All I know is that about the time the six hours are up, I start to feel as if I’ve been run over by a very large vehicle travelling at a high rate of speed, driven by Satan himself. Then I fight the child protection packaging that this miracle drug comes in for about five minutes. The pills come bubble wrapped and then plastered with some sort of demonic epoxy to a hard plastic and foil backing. There’s a little mark in the middle of the package that suggests that perhaps it holds the key to entry. My spastic fingers, aching from the hit and run, Lucifer-driven semi, struggle mightily to rip the thing open. One might ask why I don’t just pick up a pair of scissors and cut the thing open. In such a weakened condition, I do not trust myself with sharp objects, THAT’S why. I notice on the top lid of the box there’s a PARENT WARNING. It suggests that I visit a website called “StopMedicinAbuse.org” to help me stop teen medicine abuse. Hmmm…

Once the pills are freed I hold them in my hands for a minute and stare at them with fiendish expectation. For an instant, I feel a great kinship with drug-addicts the world over. I know that once I choke these babies down sweet relief will be on its way in approximately 25 minutes. I use the word “relief” very broadly here, since even fully medicated, I feel like a common expression for barnyard manure. But with the help of my “Quil-Fix”, at least my eyes aren’t swollen shut from non-stop sneezing, at least the steady stream of fluid that was draining directly out of my nose unto the carpet has stopped it’s flow, and at least I can no longer feel every muscle in my body twitching in unison. However, like with all wonder drugs, there are side effects….

The Dayquil box says “non-drowsy” in the corner. What it should say is..”non-coherent”. After I popped my most recent dose, I headed into the office to quickly retrieve my laptop and a few files so I could work from home today and not infect my partners. Once there I was overwhelmed with confusion as to why the heck I had come in to the office. Something about a computer, or maybe I should use the bathroom while I’m there or maybe I needed a cup of coffee. I sat down at my desk and looked at my calendar and was disturbed to see no appointments scheduled all day long!! What the heck kind of lazy slob had I turned into anyway? Then I remembered that I had rescheduled them all since I was sick and had planned to stay home today and sleep it off. Well, if that’s true, what the heck was I doing at work? What an idiot?!

Back at home, I sit at my desk and stare blankly at a list of 8 clients with whom I need to to schedule annual reviews. Do I trust myself to complete this task without incident? Thanks to my Dayquil cloud, there’s a chance I might say something inappropriate:

Client: Hello?

Me: Hello Bob, this is Doug. It’s that time of year again, time for your annual review.

Client: Wow, time sure flies. How did we do this year?

Me: Honestly, it was another disappointing year and if things don’t turn around soon, you’re screwed. Oh, and about those plans of yours to retire at 62?..ain’t happenin’.


Maybe I’ll make those calls tomorrow. Tonight I will sleep well thanks to a little help from Nyquil. These shiny, jolly- green miracle workers do everything that their burnt-orange cousins from the day do, with the added bonus of knocking me out until morning. Yes, there are a couple of side effects. The first is that when I do wake up, there’s not a single drop of fluid left in my body. The inside of my nose is like a lunar landscape. My eyelids are glued shut and my lips are shrunk to half their size. But that’s a small price to pay for a nights’ sleep. The second side effect? I can't remember.

So, here’s to you, Vicks, a subsidiary of Procter and Gamble, and your manufacturing facility in Canada, for getting me through these past two days, er.,, eh??

Ignorant and Helpless. Yep, I got a new cell phone!!

My wife and I gave each other the iphone 4S for Christmas. I have spent the past couple of weeks fiddling with this remarkable device. This is not a plug for Apple. I’m sure some of its competitors have equally amazing products. But as incredible as this thing is, it has left me feeling strangely ignorant and helpless.

The first mobile phone I ever saw was the size of a bread box and set heavily between driver and passenger in my friend Al Thomason’s truck back in the early 80’s. The receiver was tethered to the black box by a thick and very short cord. I remember thinking how cool it was that Al could make and receive calls without having to spend 10 cents at a pay-phone. Thirty years later a machine no larger than a playing card and no thicker than a slice of Wonder bread allows me to not only make and receive calls to anywhere on the planet, but also reminds me to pick up a loaf of bread at Martins on my way home from work, and if needed, it will guide me to Martin’s with turn by turn directions spoken by a silken-voiced digital-diva named Siri. I can have a conversation with my son in Nashville in “facetime” and his face pops up on the screen. I remind him that by the looks of it, he needs to clean his room. I check the balances of my bank and investment accounts while standing in line at “will call” to pick up the concert tickets that Siri purchased for me two hours ago. Suddenly a picture of my wife flashes on the screen modeling a snappy dress she’s thinking about buying. From the dressing room at Macy’s she asks me if the dress makes her look fat. I quickly and deftly inquire from Siri how I should respond to such a provocative and dangerous question. Siri pleads ignorance.

My new phone does more than the first desktop computer I bought 25 years ago. It has more technical capabilities than anything I’ve ever owned. I can do everything required in my job as a financial advisor with this phone from a beach in the Caymans. How much did it cost me? Because of the” new every two” promotion with Verizon, a little over $200, or roughly 15% of what I paid for my first computer. Thank you Steve Jobs, and thank you capitalism.

So, why do I feel so ignorant and helpless with all of this liberating technology pulsing in my hand? It’s simple. I have no earthly idea how any of this magic takes place, and within 30 minutes of turning this thing on, I realized that I could never be without it. I will forever be at the mercy of the techno-geeks who dream up these gadgets, forever dependant on the unseen wizards who fix them when they break, and constantly awaiting the next innovation that will make my current model obsolete. In the meantime, I no longer need my sense of direction, I have mapquest. I no longer have to go to the bank and interact with those annoying tellers, there’s an app for that. Go to the library? Are you kidding, Google does all my research for me. Buy a book at a bookstore? Duh..KINDLE! Carry my Bible to church? Too bulky, besides, its right there on my phone, in 16 different versions. I have access to the accumulated wisdom of the world in a machine that slips neatly into my pants pocket and politely vibrates when I remember to put it on silent.
It occurs to me that in the digital age, no one really needs to know how to do anything anymore. All we need to know is how to press play. If suddenly a solar storm were to wipe out all of the electrical underpinnings of our technological colossus, the western world would be transported instantly back to the middle ages. We would all be huddled around fires in tattered clothing within a year because nobody would know how to sew, build a house, grow a garden, fashion weapons suitable for hunting game, or harness the power of water. We would all be bent over gazing into the dark empty screens of our “smart” phones wondering where Siri went.

Attention all Hokie Fans!! Read this before the big game tonight!!

Tonight, Virginia Tech once again plays in a nationally televised bowl game with a huge pay day against a famous football program, this time, Michigan. Those of us who live in Virginia but have not partaken of the Blacksburg Kool-Aid wonder why Tech keeps getting invited to play in these type games. The 2011 edition of the Hokies was no different than any of the others of recent years. They play a cupcake schedule in a cripple conference, beating up on Division 1-A teams and perennial losers like Duke and East Carolina. The only tough team on their schedule clobbers them by a combined score of 62-13 over two games …and yet…here they are about to cash a 15 million dollar check.

Frank Beamer is nothing if not a marketer of his program, so my hats’ off to his powers of persuasion, or his stash of incriminating photos that he’s been using to blackmail the NCAA all these years. Even the most unapologetic Tech fan is aware of his almost statistically impossible record of futility against top 5 teams. But few know just how ugly the losses have been. Here’s a random sample of some of the “squeakers” that Tech has endured:

40-7 loss against Clemson in 1988
41-14 loss against Florida State in 1988
43-23 loss against Miami in 1992
21-2 loss against Miami in 1993
46-29 loss against Florida State in 2000
27-7 loss against Miami in 2005
48-7 loss against LSU in 2007
40-12 loss against Stanford in 2011

In Beamer’s defense, Tech had been losing consistently against top 5 teams long before he showed up. Beamer’s record is only 1-19, but throw in his predecessors and it jumps to 1-27 or some such thing. Which begs the colossal question…why do Tech fans believe that they are an elite program? There is no answer. Tech fans will go on for hours about how they “own” Virginia football and the ACC. Which, is kind of like saying you’re the sexiest girl at the leper colony. I bring all this up simply to say this….
The Hokies sure better win this game tonight!! Everyone in America knows that you guys don’t deserve to even be in this game when Boise State had to settle for a 2 million dollar loser bowl somewhere in Idaho. And yes, Boise State plays a cupcake schedule too, but when they get their chances on the big stage ( Oklahoma, Georgia, and er..Virginia Tech ) they actually win! So, you guys better win tonight. This is Michigan, not some top 5 powerhouse. We aren’t talking Alabama or LSU or even Stanford. This is Michigan, from the Big Ten, a conference nearly as pathetic as the ACC. You HAVE to beat Michigan Hokie nation, if for no other reason than to be able to show your faces in polite company through the spring and summer until the big game against Austin Peay next fall.

2012 Predictions!!!

January 1, 2012. Time for my all-knowing, all-seeing, stone cold, lead pipe cinch predictions for the new year. Back in August I wrote a prediction piece that didn’t fare too well. The Redsox and the Phillies didn’t , in fact, play in the World Series, and John Boehner was not actually killed in a tragic tanning bed accident. But I was right about the Kardashian wedding going belly-up less than 4 months in, so I have THAT going for me. This is the real deal. I’m ready. I feel especially clairvoyant. Who does predictions in August anyway? So enjoy and take full advantage of the heads up. Come back a year from now and tell me how right I was. Oh, and bring me a check for 10%.

1. 2012 will end without peace in the Middle East.

2. Kim Kardashian will become a born again Christian on live television, in an emotional display of repentance and contrition at Joel Osteen’s church. Four months later she will announce that she is renouncing her Christian faith to become a Transcendental Prophetess.

3. In a gesture of political goodwill, President Obama will present a brand new Chevy Volt to Speaker John Boehner. Two days later the car will spontaneously burst into flames inside Boehner’s garage in Georgetown. At the funeral Obama will praise Boehner’s commitment to the environment.

4. The New Orleans Saints will win their second Super Bowl title in the past three years by beating the Baltimore Ravens. Drew Brees will win the MVP and promise to do something about that hideous birthmark on his face.

5. The Miami Heat will win the NBA title after Lebron James comes down with a mysterious case of trench foot. In James’ absence, Dwayne Wade averages 39 points per game throughout the playoffs.

6. Gloria Cain will begin divorce proceedings against her husband Herman, citing his inappropriate relationship with Siri from his I-phone as “ the last straw”.

7. Despite much sound and fury to the contrary, the United States government will spend more money in 2012 than it did in 2011.

8. Mitt Romney will win the Republican party nomination, becoming the first Mormon to be so honored. He names Wisconsin congressman Paul Ryan as his running mate. In a bold move designed to prove that he does, in fact, have a sense of humor, they arrive at the Republican convention center in Tampa riding two bicycles, wearing white shirts with skinny black ties.

9. President Obama dumps Joe Biden from the ticket for 2012 replacing him with Hillary Clinton. This political power couple runs for reelection under the slogan…” It Could Have Been Worse”.

10. After losing the Republican nomination battle, Ron Paul runs as a Libertarian independent. In a move designed to appeal to blue collar workers, he names Mike Smith, a mechanic from Buffalo, as his running mate, saying, ”If Joe Biden can be Vice-President, how hard can it be?”

11. President Obama loses his bid for re-election to Mitt Romney. After analyzing the exit poll data, liberal political commentators are unanimous in their conclusion that he lost because he was black. Michelle Obama goes back to being ashamed of her country.

12. Charlie Sheen will get his own realty television show. It will be aired from 2am to 3am on Thursdays. It will be called “Occupy Winning” and will receive 11 Emmy nominations, despite getting cancelled after only 7 shows.

13. The Dow Jones industrial average finishes 2012 up nearly 15% at 14000, surprising practically every financial analyst on every financial show on television. Jim Cramer files for chapter 11 bankruptcy protection.

14."Occupy Wall Street…the movie”, starring Sean Penn, Alec Baldwin , Whoopi Goldberg, and a thousand extras from homeless shelters all over the country, opens to critical acclaim and empty theatres. Despite its dismal failure at the box office it receives an Academy record 17 Oscar nominations