Dogs Are Ruthless

On this Saturday morning, February 13, in Short Pump, Virginia, the sun is shining brightly. But it's only 21 degrees. The high will only reach the upper 20's. Tonight it will drop to 10. For my friends unlucky enough to live up north, you're probably thinking, "Wow! For February that's downright balmy! Let's have a picnic!" To which I say...bless your hearts.

For my Deep South and California friends, the mere idea of 10 freaking degrees is unfathomable. You guys don't own enough clothing to survive such a day as this. So, weather is a very subjective experience. When I was younger, I wouldn't have hesitated to bundle up and head outside on a day like today. I remember once playing golf with my brother in a snow storm. I was 13 years old and very much the idiot. He was 23 and without excuse. 

Sometimes my wife complains about the fact that I still do foolish things more appropriate and understandable for a teenager than a 57 year old man. Fair enough. But there is one thing that has managed to chasten my tomfoolery, one part of my arrested development that prudence has restored. I hate cold weather. Gone are the days of 35 degree rounds of golf. Three mile runs on frigid mornings? Not a chance. I look out the windows of my awesome new library at the bright sunshine, watching it have zero effect on the frozen, crunchy grass of my front yard and I'm thinking, "No way I'm going outside today."

Lucy, on the other hand, has other ideas.

She has already had a frantic, exhilarating, madcap adventure in the backyard which featured gnawing on an azalea branch that just happened to somehow fall off one of the bushes, several high speed figure-eight laps, and one epic bowel movement. Now she has cast her eyes into the front yard. She stands there at the front door gazing out longingly. Then she sits, turns towards me with her pink tongue hanging out of the side of her mouth looking like a complete lunatic, "So, wanna take me for a walk??"

So, after ten minutes of this expert human shaming campaign, I give in. I'm about to bundle up and take this crazy dog for a walk. Dogs are ruthless.

A Food Review

Ok...I'm very tired of writing about politicians and politics. So, this morning a review of some truly awesome takeout I had last night.

When my wife left the house yesterday morning, she informed me that she was going to make sausage and lentil soup for dinner last night. I was thrilled. Any dinner which features sausage as a main ingredient gets my vote, but this particular soup is fabulous. All day long thoughts of the meal that awaited me once the day was through gave me hope that the gyrations of the stock market would all be forgotten once I sat down in front of a that steaming bowl of awesomeness.

But then, at 5:30 my wife walked into the house loaded down with a strange white plastic bag and declared, "I know that I promised you sausage and lentil soup, but I've had a long and crazy day, I'm exhausted and too tired to make it tonight, but...I picked up a treat at Q!!"

For the uninitiated, Q is short for Q Barbeque, a fast food style Barbeque place less than two minutes from our house. Despite the fact that it is clean, has no hubcaps hanging from the ceiling, and isn't really a uh...restaurant, it serves up some incredible food. Anyway, just recently we discovered a new menu item called beef brisket chili. I am here to tell you, it is very good. How good? Let me try to explain.

It's Texas style chili with chunks of brisket swimming around in the bowl. Actually, not really swimming since it's much too thick for that. Sliced green and red peppers are in there too. But there's some sort of sause or spice of some sort that makes the dish. At first you don't think it's particularly spicy...just delicious. The chunks of meat as delectable as anything you've ever put in your mouth. But about five spoonfuls in you begin to feel the heat. It starts at the corners of your mouth, then makes its way into your nose, which begins to run a little, delicately, like your wife's nose runs during the makeup scene in one of those Lifetime movies. Before long, your eyes start to water. You are forced to pour a second glass of tea, then a third. But there is simply no way you're not going to finish this bowl of chili because it's the most delicious thing you've had to eat in months. You take a break, eat a corn muffin, drink some more tea, then pound the last spoonful. It's the kind of chili that should be eaten while listening to some 70 year old blues guitarist. You glance at the clock. It's after six. You ask yourself, "Where did I put that bottle of Pepsid??"

February and F-Bombs

I am no stranger to the February Funk. A couple of years ago I wrote a piece about it entitled "The Curse of February." Every word of it was true and remains so today. But, this year feels different.

I suppose that when you endure February amidst the backdrop of a presidential campaign season, things feel worse. Even though elections are an essential part of living in a democracy, and for the most part a healthy exercise, there is a certain amount of silliness to them as well, and this year, a new level of vulgarity, a tawdry tinge to things not seen before. Most of it comes courtesy of Mr. Trump who recently has felt emboldened enough by his success to inject language into his speeches that heretofore had been considered toxic for serious politicians. Within days I'm sure we will all be treated to the first intentional F-Bomb drop by a Presidential candidate in U.S. History. If past is prologue, Trump's poll numbers will go up afterwards, especially among evangelicals!!

I don't know...maybe it's no big deal. Presidential candidates, I'm sure, use this sort of language in private all the time. If we say we want authenticity in our public servants, maybe a coarsening of their language is what we get. Listen, I'm no angel when it comes to the occasional salty word. Sometimes, when trying to express a difficult emotion, a well timed four letter one does quite nicely. But, I'm not running for President. I prefer a minimum standard of dignity from those aspiring to lead my country. I like to believe that the men and women running for the highest office in the land have the requisite vocabulary needed to communicate their thoughts to us without resorting to the lowest level of communication we share...the profane. But, now that pu**y and s**t are out of the bottle, something tells me they will never go back in. ( I use the asterisks here just in case my Mother might somehow be reading this in heaven...).

But, I digress. February is with us for another 17 cold and dreary days. There's Valentines Day to look forward to, and President's Day. But mostly, thin clouds, a small sky and a diminished sun, trying their best to simulate a real month. 

Thanks, New Hampshire.

It is now official. The folks over at Ripley's can go ahead and print it in their latest edition. Hillary Clinton is the worst Presidential candidate in history. Despite having more campaign cash than anybody, more name recognition than anybody, and the full throated support of most of the media, she just got...trounced, whipped, embarrassed, and dare I say, manhandled, by a 74 year old Socialist in New Hampshire. This after getting waxed in 2008 by a first term black senator with a thinner resume than Kim Khardashian. It would appear that Mrs. Clinton is the most overrated politician of this or any other age.

On the Republican side, it's becoming harder and harder to imagine a scenario that doesn't feature Donald Trump as the nominee. The only person who can beat him now is Ted Cruz, and I'm not sure even about that. Rubio, Bush and Kasich are finished. Although Kasich finished second, it was a very distant second in a state he had practically lived in for the past year. And now, he's broke. There is no reason whatsoever for Chris Christie, Carla Fiorina or Ben Carson to remain in the race. It will be a two man fight the rest of the way between two men who the Republican establishment truly despise.

So, the prospect of a fall election featuring dueling populists is starting to become more and more likely. Part of me thinks that if Hillary implodes, the big cheeses in the Democratic Party will step in and insist that Joe Biden get in the race. Despite the support of his enthusiastic supporters, Bernie Sanders isn't going to become the next President of the United States. Come one people. We aren't freaking Venezuela! Of course, in my lifetime the Democratic Party actually nominated Walter Mondale and Mike Dukakis, so anything is possible I suppose. 

But let's say for a minute that it winds up being Trump v. Sanders. We would have one candidate appealing to our fear, and another appealing to our greed. One guy promising to build a wall, and another guy promising to make health care and a college education a free entitlement. One guy who has never been elected to anything before, and another guy who has never had a real, private sector job in his entire life, surviving for over 50 years at the public trough. One guy who thinks a country can be governed by the sheer brilliance of his personality and another guy who thinks that the answer to every problem we face can only be found by expanding the power and reach of government. It will be Benito Mussolini v. Karl Marx redux. Instead of " It's morning in America', more like..."It's midnight in America. Do you know where your kids are?" Both of these men will be in their 70's if they get elected.

'Merica.

Good News and Bad News

I run a terrible risk in this space when I write about personal health issues. For one thing, my sister will get mad at me because if you even insinuate anything physically unpleasant around her, she gets the vapors. My wife might protest that I am offering too much information...that most of the people who regularly read this blog have their own health problems, so they don't need to hear about mine...an excellent point. So, instead of giving you a blow by blow account of the last 24 hours, I'll let Dave Berry do it for me.

A dear, sick, and twisted friend of mine sent me an email last week offering this observation: "As someone in the health field, I feel it to be my duty to let you know just what you're getting into with regards to your up-coming procedure. Let me know if this info changes your mind about going through with it."

Attached was a column written by one of my favorite satirists, Dave Barry. He too had endured a recent colonoscopy, and unlike me had no reservations about writing of his experiences. I won't produce the entire article, but the following paragraph is, believe me, right on the money!! It captures the essence of what it is like to drink the four liters of swill, and what follows. His stuff was called MoviPrep. Mine was Prep335.

"MoviPrep is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be too graphic here, but: Have you ever seen a space shuttle launch? This is pretty much the MoviPrep experience, with you as the shuttle. There are times when you wish the commode had a seat belt. You spend several hours pretty much confined to the bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything. And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink the second half of the MoviPrep, at which point, as far as I can tell, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not eaten yet!"

For me, this meant missing the entire half time show...from what I have read, this turned out to be a blessing. That's all I can say about the night without violating the admittedly lax internet decency laws. The actual procedure was a piece of cake. The last thing I heard was an exchange between my doctor and the anesthesiologist:

Doctor: Did you hear that they said that last night over 20 million chicken wings were consumed?

Anesthesiologist: Poor chickens...

The next thing I heard was an enthusiastic nurse asking me if I would like some ginger ale. Just like that, I was on my way home. Results to follow in a week or so, but so far, so good.

On a completely unrelated note...yesterday I received some bad news about a kid that I taught back in my youth group days. Every so often it happens. Kids lose their way sometimes. It's hard becoming an adult. Most of the news I get about the kids I taught is wonderful, someone got married, someone got a huge promotion, someone else is having a baby. But then, bad news comes, and it's devastating...still. I'm always surprised. No matter how troubled kids may have been, I suppose I always feel like they had enough potential to eventually figure it out. When the bad news comes, I think back to my encounters with him or her. I wonder why I couldn't get through to them, I ask myself whether I tried hard enough. Then regret sets in. But I remind myself that there's much more good than bad. 

And then, I want to hug my own kids a little closer.

So Pumped For My Fast

With the exception of the desk chair, the library is complete. Pretty cool. I will take great comfort from this room today as I subsist on jello, bottled water, black coffee, and the occasional Popsicle. It's 8:15am and I'm already starving. Might have had something to do with the stomach-expanding last supper I had last night at Glory Days...

Worth it though. That's one Chicago dog, six teriyaki wings, six onion rings, and three celery sticks slathered in blue cheese dressing. By the time I was finished, the only thing left was the sauce bespotted basket liner...and I had to fight the temptation to lick that clean. I believe it's called, "getting your money's worth." Alert readers will notice Pam's more balanced, nutritious meal in the background of this photograph. Yes, glazed grilled salmon and steamed vegetables are the perfect point, counter-point to my self-indulgent feast. However, it should be noted that she copped two onion rings off my plate...she's no culinary saint.

A friend on Facebook, when reminded of my predicament, asked this question..."Does this mean no Sunday lunch?" Not, "Oh dear Doug. I'm so sorry you have to endure this sort of thing on Super Bowl Sunday." Not even a, "Don't worry Doug, it will be over before you know it." No, my friend only wanted to know how my gastrointestinal troubles were going to inconvenience her after church plans! Well, I'm not going to name names here but, Leigh Ann Fort, don't worry. Pam and I will be going out to eat after church like always. I will drink my complimentary ice water while the rest of you pound that plate of nachos. I'm a big boy. I can take it.

Last night Pam and I Facetimed both of our kids. What an astounding age we live in. I touched one little button on my iPad, and twenty seconds later their bright, crystal clear faces appeared on the screen. We talked and laughed, and they got a guided tour of the new library. There were no glitches. It cost me absolutely nothing. It came to me courtesy of the boundless creativity and innovation of the private sector and free enterprise. If we weren't so jaded and entitled as a people we would be more appropriately amazed and grateful. I still remember what it was like communicating with Pam 35 years ago when we were dating and she was away at college. I had to wait until after 9 o'clock in the evening to call her...on my black dial up phone. If our conversation lasted more than fifteen minutes the would be hell to pay when the C&P telephone bill came in the mail at the end of the month. So, I seldom called. We wrote letters instead...love letters, some of them quite juicy as I recall. It's a lost art today, I think. Still, FaceTime technology is awesome.

In Praise of the First Amendment

The last piece of the library gets delivered today, a third bookcase. Then Pam and I will have a blast shopping at Hobby Lobby for all of the incumbent nicnackery required to give the room that finished look. I love that store. For not a whole lot of money, you can buy something that looks like it could have been salvaged from an antiques barn in Vermont, when in fact it was slapped together in some Taiwanese sweatshop two weeks ago. Nothing quite says  Early-Americana like a pair of wood grained plastic bald eagle bookends manufactured by Asian adolescents. But, such is the brave new world of global free trade.

Yesterday, I posted a couple of very irreverent photos/cartoons lampooning several Presidential candidates. I include them here for those of you who may not have seen them yesterday:

It's Paula Trump ya'll!!

Grandma, Grandpa...stop it!!

It occurs to me what a privilege it is to do this. How great is it that we live in a country where we are allowed to take cheap shots at those who presume to lead us? How wonderful is it to have First Amendment protections? How glorious a thing is free expression? Whenever I see something on Facebook ripping someone on my side over some hypocritical thing or another, I think to myself...that's actually pretty funny, and great. Of course the stuff ripping the other side seems even funnier and greater to me, but that's as it should be. The point is, for most of recorded history, Kings, princes and lesser petty tyrants took a very dim view of this sort of thing, and anyone caught making wisecracks about leaders met with a bloody and violent end. The Tower of London stands as the ultimate political oppression museum, a poignant reminder of what political life was like for 99% of human beings that have ever lived on this planet.

But not us. Thanks to an admittedly flawed collection of white men from the 18th century, we have the U.S. Constitution, and thanks to James Madison's bull-headed insistence on a Bill of Rights, I sit here at my desk spewing out opinionated venom at any politician who pisses me off.

God Bless America