One Dream-Free Night...that's all I ask

Big, crazy, jam-packed week ahead. I don’t have as many of them as I did twenty years ago, largely because I work a lot smarter now than I did then. But this week will be like the bad old days.

I’m not sleeping well lately. Those of you who know me well will recognize this complaint as it has been a lifelong problem. In the past it has been an inability to fall asleep. But now it’s just that I wake up several times during the night, and spend the rest of the time dreaming, not the good kind of dreams, but rather the exasperating ones. These are not nightmares. No one gets shot, there are no monsters. These are the kind of dreams where you’re trying to do the most mundane of tasks but can’t quite get it done. A few nights ago I dreamed that I had a tee-time with three other unrecognizable guys at Pebble Beach. They were standing on the 1^st tee and there I was in the parking lot trying my best to get my act together. First, I couldn’t get my clubs out of the trunk, then, I couldn’t find my shoes. Once I finally found them, I naturally broke a shoelace putting them on. All the while, my friends were yelling for me to hurry or we were going to lose our spot. This went on seemingly all night. When you wake up at 5:15 with this sort of frustration, you’re not going back to sleep!

So, last night I dreamed that one of my best clients was sitting in the reception area of the office waiting to meet me for his annual review. Meanwhile, I was making the interminably endless two and a half mile journey from my house to my office, facing one supernatural obstacle after another, while constantly glancing at the clock, knowing that with each new five car pileup, each new flooded road and each new Biblical plague, I was falling further and further behind schedule. When I finally pull into the parking lot, the dead locusts that had encrusted my car had jammed the door shut. I woke up feeling like I had run a marathon in army boots.

I’m sure that a Psychiatrist would have a field day with all of this. I don’t have a lot of confidence in dream analysis, I rather believe that dreams have chemical origins, not sub-conscious ones. All I want is a dream-free night.

"If men were angels..."

 

         “That government is best which governs least.”

                                                                     Thomas Jefferson

Like much of the wisdom of the Founders, the above quote sounds quaint, almost silly to 21^st century ears. At first reading, Jefferson’s notion seems self-evidently true. A well behaved citizenry would need little governing. As Jefferson’s neighbor and dear friend James Madison observed, “If men were angels, no government would be necessary.” But, men are not angels. We build prisons not for criminals, but for us.

In our time, it has been the great project of Progressives to perfect mankind. From Woodrow Wilson, and Theodore Roosevelt, up through FDR and Barack Obama, the American people have voted for men who promised to unleash the power of the government to attempt a reshaping of man’s character. This activist vision has produced a leviathan with almost limitless power, which has managed to make Jefferson’s 200 year old observation seem charmingly naive.

The conservative idea of government is essentially government by negation. Ronald Reagan promised to get government “out of the way and off your back.” His famous line on the campaign trail was that the scariest ten words in the English language were, “I’m from the government, and I’m here to help you.” The American people responded to his words with two broad landslides. But, that was thirty years ago and very much the exception to the rule.

We have as a nation accepted the Progressive model of government. We now expect our President to do great things, our government to develop bold programs to fix this and that. We look to Washington for answers not just to the big perplexing questions that have plagued civilization for millennia, but increasingly to even the small irritants of life, resulting in a Federal government empowered to remove Snickers bars from high school vending machines.

This is all very bad news for the Republican Party, even worse news for any Libertarian impulse. With nearly 50 million of us receiving food stamps, any candidate proposing a dismantling of big government is fighting a losing battle. The battle between aggressive and limited government has been won by the Progressives. The best that the Republicans can hope for is better management.

“If men were angels…” Madison was right, of course. But what happens when the men and women who run government aren’t angels either? When we gave them such power, we assumed, hoped and prayed that they would only exercise it for the public good. The corrupting tendencies of power have a long and storied history. A government granted so much of it might in the end be impossible to stop. When that day comes we will read Thomas Jefferson’s words and weep.

News Quiz for the Week of Sept. 15

The public humiliation and barbaric subjugation of women. The infliction of extreme violence on children. A ruthless hierarchy completely dominated by men.

The above statement best describes which organization?

A.   ISIS

B.   NFL

 

What are the criteria for inclusion in President Obama’s coalition to degrade and destroy ISIS?

A.   Commitment of ground troops

B.   Financial contributions

C.   Private, informal agreement NOT to shoot at our airplanes

 

What do the two choices on the Scottish Independence ballot actually mean?

A.   NO, I do not want to break away from the UK

B.   YES, I do want to remain part of the UK

C.   NO, I do not want Scotland to become an independent state

D.   YES, I do want the UK to stay together

Could the confusion over the ballot and the consumption of 25 metric tons of Scotch on election day have had any bearing on the outcome?

 

Who had a worse week?

A.   Roger Goodell

B.   John McCain

C.   The Tampa Bay Buccaneers

      D. The staff sergeant 30 days shy of retirement who got deployed to Liberia to  fight the Ebola virus

Superior Metabolism

Eleven years ago, I had emergency open heart surgery to repair the mitral valve in my heart which had rudely blown up due to a birth defect that had gone 45 years without detection. Thankfully, the repairs were done successfully and I have had no heart problems since. Besides the emotional upheaval that such a terrifying experience visits upon you, open heart surgery tends to focus the mind. Nothing makes you appreciate life more than the prospect of losing yours.

So, after the six weeks it took me to recover from having my chest opened, I joined American Family Fitness and quickly became a three days a week work out devotee. When I began, I was 199 pounds. Within a few months I dropped down to 187 and happily discovered that no matter what I ate, as long as I worked out three times a week, my weight stayed at 187. It was like magic.

The pre-surgery tests on my heart revealed wide opened arteries, no heart disease to be found. This despite a lifelong diet that consisted of food that would give your average dietician nightmares. Among my favorites are things like bacon, sausage, steak, pizza, ice cream, donuts, bread, butter, beer, pancakes, mashed potatoes and gravy, and anything else with tons of carbs and calories. My business associates would marvel at my diet. “Dunnevant, how come you don’t weigh 300 pounds? If I woofed down as much crap as you do they’d have to send me to a fat farm!”

“Superior metabolism,” I would reply with cocky flair.

Then I turned 56.

Suddenly, as if God had been distracted by the Middle East for the past 11 years and finally happened to notice me shoving two raspberry-filled donuts in my pie hole for breakfast, everything has changed. The scale in my bathroom has begun arguing with me. After a particularly delicious weekend a few months ago, the clearly defective scale declared that I was 194 pounds. What?? No worries, I thought. I’ll just increase the intensity of my workouts, go an extra 15 minutes on the treadmill. Still 194. Ok, well, I’ll just have to add an extra workout. Four days a week will do the trick. I enjoy working out anyway, it’s a great stress reliever.

Still…194.

Yesterday, I put myself through a wringer of a workout. Two miles on the treadmill, ten miles on the bike, an hour of cardio that left me dripping in sweat. I had burned 1100 calories. This morning? 194.

My buddies at the office are having a field day. “How’s that superior metabolism working out for ya there Porky?” In truth, I have been warned by friends for years that at some point in my future, my body furnace was going to change and I wouldn’t be able to get away with those double steak burritos with milkshake lunches. They all said that at some point, slathering butter over seven rolls at Bertucci’s before my entrée arrived wasn’t going to work anymore. Meanest of all, they would taunt me with, “Dunnevant, I see lite beer in your future.

Blast them! It’s all true.

But I made it to 56. It was a great run!

Regarding Christmas...VOTE NEEDED!

A mere three days ago, I stumbled upon an email with the foreboding tag line: “Regarding Christmas: VOTE NEEDED!” It was from my wife and had been sent to the 19 email addresses of the Dunnevant family. This particular email was in response to the prior week’s exchange of “Christmas emails” concerning the dreaded annual name draw controversy. That particular confab produced 14 “reply-all” communications to which my wife was now offering a plan of action.

She began thusly: “Here is the update on the Christmas name draw!” What followed were four bullet points summarizing the most popular ideas offered as to how Christmas should be handled this year. After explaining each idea, she ends her opening email with a new wrinkle…a vote. To facilitate this vote, Pam dropped THIS bombshell:

When you have given it some thought and decided what your own preference is, you can cast your anonymous vote by clicking here…www.surveymonkey.com.

Just so none of us had forgotten proper voting etiquette, she offered these tips:

Each person over 18 should vote independently, not as a couple or family.

Everyone is encouraged to vote, whether you are in the name draw or not.

Once you cast your vote, it cannot be changed, so vote thoughtfully!

If you have a comment you’d like to make before people start voting (if you would like to campaign for a certain option) do it soon.

 There probably exists nowhere on this planet a family that enjoys a spirited argument more than us, so encouraging us to actively campaign was like waving a red cape at a raging bull. At last count, there has been a 38 email barrage of campaigning, complete with exit-poll data provided by my wife:

 

With 55% of eligible voters having cast ballots, exit polls have revealed that only 1.36% of voters have actually purchased any gifts, while 0% have submitted the required Christmas lists.

 

Naturally, I actively campaigned for my choice (a dramatically scaled down, gift-free alternative), which was almost universally panned by my kinsman. The usual Scrooge accusations were thrown my way. What’s an election without mud-slinging?

It has occurred to me over the past three days just how superior this election is compared to the real ones our nation has every year.

1.     Each voter is completely up to speed with the specifics of the issues.

2.     We will have 100% of eligible voter participation.

3.     We get to rank the four options in the order of our reference, instead of deciding between the lesser of two evils.

4.     We don’t have to stand in line or get purple ink on our fingers.

5.     No annoying precinct workers.

6.     Absolutely zero tax-payer dollars were spent.

7.     If we’re not happy with the results, we don’t have to wait four years to correct our mistake.

Now, some of you who may not know us all that well might be thinking, “What kind of family spends this much time and effort agonizing over Christmas plans…in freaking September??!!” This is an entirely fair observation, the only satisfactory answer to which would be…an amazingly cool family, that’s who!

A Bad Week For the NFL and...Men

This past week has been full of stories about domestic violence and the NFL. There was the whole Ray Rice video and more recently, the arrest of Adrian Peterson on child abuse charges. My observations, for all they are worth, follow.

So, Ray Rice is seen on video several months ago dragging his unresponsive fiancée by her hair out of an Atlantic City elevator. The powerful hammer of NFL justice comes down on him, suspending him for two games…two. The resulting tsunami of outrage by women’s groups and society at large caused the NFL commissioner, Roger Goodell to have second thoughts, issue a mea culpa and pledge much tougher penalties in the future. Then a video leaks this week showing what happened inside the elevator, Ray Rice knocking the woman out with a vicious left hook. The graphic video, played over and over on ESPN prompts the NFL to suspend Mr. Rice “indefinitely.” Soon, the discussion became, “What did the NFL know and when did they know it?” Now, Goodell's job is in jeopardy. Lost in all of this public relations nightmare is an answer to my simple question…why isn’t Ray Rice in jail? It was my understanding that assault and battery is a crime punishable by serious jail time. Apparently there is a different justice system for professional athletes.

Now comes word that Adrian Peterson has been indicted for administering a “whooping” to his four year old son with a switch. The alleged punishment left the child with cuts and bruises on his legs, backside, and scrotum. Peterson has been fully cooperative with the police, seemingly unaware that he did anything wrong. Reaction to this incident has been all over the map from, “I got whippings when I was a kid, what’s the big deal ?” to “Adrian Peterson is a child molesting cave man who should be thrown under the jail.”

OK, yes, I received several “whippings” when I was an out of control knuckleheaded kid, and yes…on many occasions my Dad used tree branches to administer his justice. Although, I must say that back then Dad made me go to the woods and pick out the branch for him! Unlike Mr. Peterson, Dad never made me drop my pants and never struck me more than three times. Believe me…three was enough. Such punishments were rare for me, reserved for particularly grievous rebellions on my part. As such, they all stand out in my memory, which I suppose was the intent. I never doubted my Dad’s love for me, I always knew that he wanted the best for me, and each time I got a whipping, Dad would make his way to my room before I fell asleep to hug me and tell me he loved me.

When I became a parent, I did things differently than my Dad. Having two completely different kids forced Pam and I to devise different forms of discipline for each of them. Still, on very rare occasions we agreed that some form of corporal punishment was in order, always administered with our hands…no sticks.

I say all of this not to defend anything. It just is what it is…many people my age grew up with spankings and many of us turned out to be pretty decent people with a workable understanding of the difference between right and wrong, in no small part because of our parent’s example.

In Mr. Patterson’s case, he seems to be frankly, obsessed with corporal punishment. He has a “whoopin room” in his house, a collection of belts dedicated to the practice. In the incident in question, the man stuffed the leaves from the branch into his son’s mouth. In other words, Peterson is an unhinged idiot. The image of a 240 pound world class athlete flailing away at a four year old child conjures up all sorts of horrible emotions.

Generally speaking, I’m all for the State butting out of our business. The nanny state interfering at our every turn as parents is infuriating. Still, the State has an obligation to protect the most vulnerable among us. I would say a four year old qualifies.

A very bad week for the National Football League, and an even worse week for men.

Is Golf a Sport?

Golf is not so much a game as it is a mystery. Most of the time it winds up being a four hour mind game, punctuated by casual bird watching and an occasional cigar. To call a stroll through the countryside a “sport” seems a stretch. It much more resembles a recreational activity like hiking or hunting, since some of us spend quite a bit of time hiking in the woods hunting for our ball.

So, this afternoon I’m meeting my niece’s husband Ruaridh and his sister-in-law, Lauren for a round out at Royal New Kent. I’ve got a full slate of appointments beforehand so it’s going to be one of those close calls. I’ll have to run from the parking lot to the first tee. But as is so often the case with this maddening game, sometimes, running late is a good thing. Let me explain.

Ten years ago I spent a weekend with my buddy Ron Rechenbach down at his place in Nags Head for some golf and relaxation. I was late leaving Richmond and the traffic was horrible. Our first tee time was for 1:15 and I pulled up into the parking lot at 1:10 in a fine mist. Ron pulled the cart up to my car, loaded my clubs and we made a bee-line for the first tee. No loosening up on the driving range, no practicing my putting, nothing. I had been in the car for three and a half hours and was stiff as a board. I had never played the course before and I detest playing in the rain. In other words, all the ingredients were in place for a truly awful round of golf.

I shot a 79.

It was my second best score. Ever. In fact, in all of my golfing life I have only broken 80 four times, three 76’s and that 79. Oh, and it was also the last time I’ve broken 80, never having come close since. My average score is probably somewhere around 88-91. Stupidest recreational activity ever.

But, it will be fun playing with Lauren. She has recently taken the game up and I’m anxious to see how she’s getting along. Poor girl has no idea what she’s gotten herself into.