Greatest. Scientific. Study. Ever.

I have it on very good authority that the scientists at the University of Edinburgh are really smart. Seriously. But sometimes smart isn't the same thing as wise. Apparently, 63 years ago, the thought entered somebody's head at this fine school to do a multi-decade research project on the effects that aging might have on human personality. To the surprise of absolutely no one alive or dead, then or now, the scientists discovered that personality at age 77 is quite different than it is at age 14. Speaking as someone who used to be 14, I could have saved them a lot of time and trouble, by answering the question this way..."duh!!"

1. When I was 14, I thought that the finest movie ever made was Billy Jack.
2. When I was 14, I thought that a realistic career goal was to become a shortstop in the big leagues.
3. When I was 14, my number one obsession in life was the tantalizing prospect of getting laid.
4. When I was 14, I practiced the guitar until my fingers bled, not for the love of music, but because I thought it might help me accomplish number 3.

So, yeah. . .life at age 58 bares little resemblance to life at 14. But, it's nice to know that a group of scientists have wasted the past 60 years proving what any sentient human being could have told them if they had merely asked. The experiences of one's life do, in fact, change a person. In a perfect world, these changes improve us, burning away the haughty arrogance and pride of youth with the wisdom that comes with humility. But, sometimes the opposite occurs, where the innocence of youth gets exchanged for the cold-hearted cynicism of bitterness. For example...

1. When I was 14, I laughed a lot more than I do now.
2. When I was 14, I didn't categorize my fellow man into political factions.
3. When I was 14, I played the guitar a lot more.
4. When I was 14, I didn't even know what bitterness was.

So, it's a mixed bag. With age has come some good things, and some bad. In many ways I am better at 58, but in some ways not so much.

Hardest. Job. Ever.

Yesterday, for the fourth time in my life, I toured Monticello. Each time I learn something new, each time I come away astonished by such a life. Although he can be included on a very short list of indispensable men to the establishment and success of this country, and his contributions can never be undervalued, at his grave site, the obelisk that marks his final resting place includes only three of those contributions:

Author of the Declaration of Independence
Author of Statute of Virginia for Religious Freedom
Father of the University of Virginia

Seeing it has gotten me thinking about what I would want as my epithet. What thing have I done or accomplished that I would want to be remembered for? It is a singularly clarifying exercise to think of such things. Unlike Mr. Jefferson, I don't have a ten volume book full of things to pick from. Still, it's hard to narrow it down to the most essential.

I would want to be remembered as a good son, a good friend, a good brother, uncle, and cousin because these things would suggest that I loved and cherished family. I would want to be remembered as a good husband because that would suggest that I was faithful to the most important commitment I ever made.

I suppose I would want some mention to be made of my thirty plus years of a moderately successful business career. But having just written that sentence and reading back over it, it sounds so out of place, so inconsequential. Sure, it provided the financial means to do many of the other things, but in and of itself doesn't rise to the level of "good son."

But, after much reflection, I've come to the conclusion that I would want to be remembered the most for being a good...father. The reason is simple; It is the single most difficult thing I've ever done and carries with it the greatest potential for a lasting legacy. If I raise and unleash horrible people into the world, they will continue to pollute it long after I'm gone. But, if I can gift a couple of caring, loving, compassionate and gifted people into the world, my efforts will help make the world better for the rest of eternity. Right?

But, it's so hard. You want to teach them to care about other people, but you don't want them to be taken advantage of too easily. You warn them about the dangers of loving money, but you also want them to be good stewards and know their way around a bank statement. You teach them about God, but you don't want them to wind up so heavenly minded that they're no earthly good. You want them to love and adhere to truth but also live a life full of grace towards those who disagree. You teach them to be compassionate, but not a sucker. You teach them that there is no replacement for hard work, but also compel them to stop and smell the roses. You try to teach them how to think instead of what to think, then spend the rest of your life hoping they don't start thinking stupid things. You want them to become self sufficient, but spoil them rotten every chance you get. You play the parental version of tug-of-war between pampering and pestering, too much of either and all might be lost. Hardest. Job. Ever.

So, here's the epithet for my tombstone:

Good Father.
Good Husband.
Passable Writer.
Baseball Fan.

Notice which one got top billing...

Me and George

When I wrote yesterday's post about the card, I left out some things for the sake of time. But today, I thought I would add them to give you a fuller picture of what it's actually like for a large group of men to shop for V Day cards. The following conversation may or may not have happened, with a young man who may or may not have been named George...

Like I said yesterday, there were maybe a dozen of us on the red/pink aisle, all slump-shouldered, slack-jawed in various stages of exasperation, when I noticed this one particular younger looking guy who seemed more befuddled than the rest of us. I moved over next to him, absentmindedly picked up a Peantuts card with Snoopy and Woodstock sitting on top of the dog house sharing a box of chocolates, and started talking...

Me: So, how long you been here?

George: Little over an hour.

Me: Just getting started, eh?

George: Why are these cards so horrible? How is a guy supposed to buy a card when this is all there is??

Me: Married?

George: Four years. You?

Me: Thirty-four years.

George: Whoa!!  You're like a Zen Master of V Day cards then. Can you give me some pointers?

Me: Sure. ( I showed him the Peanuts card I was holding ) First of all, never, ever buy a card with a cartoon character on the front. She'll think you're not "serious" about the relationship.

George: Yeah, but, some of the cartoon ones are pretty funny man.

Me: The last thing you're going for is funny, bro. V Day is deadly serious business. ( I then picked up another card ) But, on the other hand, this one here is also out of the question...
         
                      You're my last noble thought at dusk
                            My first wish at break of day...

Me: First of all, not true.  Usually the last thought in my head right before I drift off to sleep is something like, How come nobody makes bacon jerky?? Right??

George: No kidding! Ha! And the first thing I think when I wake up is like, Man, I've got to pee like a Russian race horse!

Me: So, poetry cards send out the wrong message too. It's like, you're trying too hard. She knows you too well, dude. She knows that your favorite work of art is that awesome Dogs Playing Poker painting that's hanging in the garage. She's not gonna buy a poetic card from you. She'll think somebody else bought it.

George: ....how did you know about my Dogs Playing Poker painting?????

Me: Lucky guess.

George: Well, if poetry doesn't work, and I can't buy a cartoon one, how am I ever going to get out of this store?!

Me: Settle down brother. Answer this question...do you really love this woman?

George: (heavy sigh)...more than anything actually.

Me: Good. That's half the battle right there. That means that there is a card here somewhere that will speak to you. You've just got to find it.

George: Hey man, thanks! So, no cartoons, no poetry.

Me: You got it.

George: Limericks. What about limericks?

Me: ( sideways glance with upraised eyebrow )

George: No limericks. Got it!

The Card.

Pam and I will soon celebrate our 34th wedding anniversary. Including our dating years, that means that we have also celebrated 37 Valentine's Days. That's an awful lot of chocolate, flowers, and cards.

Last night was a modest affair. She had had a difficult, stressful day, so I decided that I would make dinner instead of going out somewhere and dropping a hundred bucks on some microwaved meal. There wouldn't actually be a lot of real cooking involved, just in case you've begun measuring me for a halo...steaks on the grill, fresh green beans and Bob Evans mashed potatoes. Although, my biggest coup of the night was the Duck Donuts I picked up on my way home from work! The road to my girl's heart is always paved with doughnuts.

The meal turned out perfectly. The steaks were delicious, I did an outstanding job on the fresh green beans(my first attempt), and Bob outdid himself on the potatoes. We ate this Valentines dinner while watching that romantic classic, Blue Bloods, the episode from season six where the obnoxious reporter gets thrown off the six story building and does a nosedive into the Corolla. I don't know about you, but nothing quite sets the romantic mood better than seeing a reporter get what's coming to him!

After dinner, it was time to exchange cards. I have a long a storied history with Valentine's Day cards. Basically, I despise them. If you're a man, you know the drill. You walk into a Hallmark along with a dozen or so of your brethren, head down and focused on the red and pink aisle. The display says, For the Wife. First, there are the super sappy ones that feature elaborate, three dimensional floral displays, some with glitter and soft material for touching, like the Pat the Bunny books you used to read the kids when they were toddlers. The verses in these usually contain the word soulmate. Then you get to the cartoon cards. Usually these are several pages long and feature variations on this theme...sometimes, my wife is funny, sometimes my wife is busy, each "sometimes" has its own drawing featuring the wife acting out the emotion. Sometimes my wife is happy, sometimes my wife is sad...( like she will be if you ever buy her this lame card). Then there are the pretentious ones, with some ironic black and white image on the front, and a one word verse inside...bliss, or...forever. Please.

So every year, the hunt for the perfect card gets more frustrating than the year before. I would just write my own on my business stationary, but then you run the risk of her thinking, "Oh, I get it. You either forgot to buy me a card, or you're so cheep you couldn't cough up a lousy five bucks for a real one. Of course, she would never, ever say this, but it would be inferred by body language or a well chosen, passive-aggressive phrase like, "Oh, this is different."

So, this year I went to Hallmark. I was maybe fifteen minutes in and I found a card that wasn't at all lame, at least it was the least lame one I had seen. I actually liked it. It wasn't Shakespeare, by any means, but it wasn't bad. Pam bought mine while at Kroger. She said it was actually the very first one she picked up. When we opened them, this is what we found....

Pam began to giggle. Then she couldn't stop giggling. What are the odds? How is such a thing even possible? Two different stores, probably a thousand possible cards, and we pick the exact same one.

They say that familiarity breeds contempt. That may be true with regards to politicians and your boss, but in a good marriage, it breeds something else...comfort. I know this woman, and she knows me. Although I will never fully understand her, women being exquisitely, beguilingly unknowable, I understand enough to know that she loves me, in a thousand small ways, I know.

My Adult Children

My son and his girlfriend are coming to see us this weekend. They both have Monday off, so they will make the nine hour drive from Nashville to spend just a couple of days with us...for no apparent reason. It's not a holiday. They don't need money. Neither of them are sick. They just said that they wanted to spend a weekend with us for the pure heck of it! How cool is that?

The weather appears to be cooperating, since a road trip planned for the month of February is normally fraught with peril. Three days in the 70's will do quite nicely. Sarah, being sheltered from the great refinements of the Old Dominion as a child has only made one other visit here, a whirlwind Thanksgiving trip this past November, so is thrilled to get the chance to actually spend some time doing touristy things. We plan on taking them for a tour of Monticello, then lunch at Michie Tavern. If they behave themselves, and time permitting, we may make a quick drive to Williamsburg.

Meanwhile, Kaitlin and Jon have asked us when we are planning on coming down to Columbia next. It's been a few months since our last visit. Apparently, Jackson misses Lucy.

It's a wonderful thing to have grown, adult children, but even more wonderful when they actually want to spend time with you. This is how Pam and I organize our schedule now. . .around trips to and from Nashville and Columbia, and we are happy to do it. However, would it kill either one of them to move back to Virginia? In Nashville, a decent two bedroom apartment costs upwards of $1700 a stinking month for goodness sakes! Sure they don't have a State income tax, but when you're paying that much to put a roof over your head, our taxes start sounding like a bargain. And what about Jon? You trying to tell me that there aren't an abundance of National Parks in Virginia?? Instead of toiling away in a swamp which features something called a Mosquito-meter, he could be giving guided tours in the beautiful Shanendoah, or the sacred ground at Chancellorsville. Plus, such a move would bring them closer to happy and willing dog-sitters, not to mention future baby sitters...

But, enough with the whining. I should be grateful that they are all doing so well where they are and that they still want to come home every chance they get.

Book of Mormon...a review

Last night, Pam and I attended a Broadway show written by the same crew that gives us South Park. So, when you read what follows, it is entirely fair for you to make the observation, "So, what did you expect, Rogers and Hammerstein??" 

Before launching into my review of Book of Mormon, I should say that I'm the sort of guy who gives comedians and satirists a wide berth in the pursuit of their craft. After all, I'm a huge fan of Mel Brooks, and as such am accustomed to foul language, heeping portions of crudeness, sexual innuendo and irreverent humor. And further more, as a Christian, I am used to Hollywood types vilifying my faith. So, why did I find Book of Mormon so disturbing? That's another fair question.

First of all, I should say that I did enjoy parts of the show. In places, the writing was clever and witty. The music was good and the singing was nice too. Some of the dance numbers were beautifully done. The plot centers around a couple of fresh from the missionary training center 19 year old elders who have just been given their two year mission assignment...to Uganda. Of course, they are ill-prepared for such an undertaking, since the star elder wanted Orlando instead! We are treated to a funny summary of Mormon theology, and introduced to the obligatory latent gay elder all in the first ten minutes. So far, so good. Then our heros land in their Ugandan village, and it's time for the writers to shock us with a rousing number which features the repeated phrase, "F**K you, God!!", complete with the locals giving the Almighty the finger.

Ok, I believe it safe to say that this is essentially the textbook definition of blasphemy, so as a Christian, it placed me in an uncomfortable position. All in good fun, I'm sure, but several thoughts began swimming around in my head. One of them was, ummm, why am I here? But then I scolded myself, "lighten up dude...it's Hollywood."

From there it only got worse. The sacrament of Baptism was sent up as a sex act, to very nervous laughter from the crowd. By the time the natives put on their summary of Mormon theology, complete with giant Phallic symbols and simulated sex acts, all put to a snappy tune, it had gotten sort of ridiculous.

Along the way, my Lord and Savior made a couple appearances, and although he was dressed in a super cool electric robe, whenever he opened his mouth to speak, he did so with a sissified lisp. Injury? Meet insult. I remember thinking how I will probably never live to see the day when the Prophet Muhammad gets this sort of blasphemous treatment. Hollywood types do this to Christians because they know that the most grief they will catch is a tepid review from some insignificant blogger like me, while some angered Muslims might respond with a wellplaced suicide bomb.

So, back to the excellent question of Why was I there? Well, Pam got a Groupon with a sweet discount, for one thing. Secondly, we love shows! It's Valentines Day week. We thought it would be different...fun. My son had seen it and thought  it was hilarious and well done, although he warned me that it was highly offensive in places. I saw pictures of friends on Facebook who had just seen it and had proclaimed it funny but crude etc...

Here's the thing. If I was forced to use just one word to describe this show it would be...vulgar. Since that word isn't used much anymore, let me offer the Webster definition..."making explicit and offensive references to sex or bodily functions; coarse and rude; characteristic of the masses." While I'm at it, perhaps a quick refresher on the word blasphemy is in order..."the act or offense of speaking sacrilegiously about God or sacred things; profane talk."

Christianity is a religion that doesn't require a lot from its practitioners, with all that grace and forgiveness business. But, I'm old fashioned enough to believe that there are some things I shouldn't do. I probably shouldn't be a drug dealer for example, probably shouldn't make my living running guns or selling women into the sex trade, or become a Yankees fan. And maybe, just maybe, I probably shouldn't pay money to see shows like Book of Mormon. As I sat there in my cramped seat, with six other human beings within two feet of my face, I couldn't help think about the many missionaries I know and love. I thought about the sacrifices they all made to attempt to enrich the lives of people in Africa, Asia, and South America. They didn't just go there to notch converts on their belt, but to help bring clean drinking water to communities who had none, to provide medical care to people hundreds of miles from a doctor. They worked for decades in brutal conditions without complaint because of a calling to serve the least of these. To see their life's work denigrated for cheap laughs was a bit painful. But so was the essential message of Book of Mormon which was, religion is merely a collection of metaphors that offers nothing of value to hurting people, and what's wrong with making stuff up as long as it makes people feel good about themselves?

So, my opinion of Book of Mormon is this...if you are not a person of faith, you will probably enjoy it. If you are, I'm not sure how it is possible that you could.

Scumbag of the Day

                                                                            

Our world is populated with lots of terrible people. Examples of human debris are everywhere you look and span across all walks of life, races, genders and ethnicity. There are murderers, thieves, rapists and human traffickers. Although, I could continue adding to this list of horribles for the rest of the day, I could never exceed the list given to us by the great Headly Lamarr from Blazing Saddles:

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

"Methodists!!"...shudder.

But yesterday I was introduced by my son, Patrick, to a new breed of scumbag...Puppy thieves. The unspeakably adorable fur ball in the photograph above was apparently stolen from his/her owner down in Nashville, ostensibly for resale on the internet via E-Bay.

Ok, let that sink in for a minute.

Some degenerate cretin sees this puppy frolicking in the yard with some kid and decides that he could rip the pup away from the helpless kid and sell it on E-Bay for $1000. The perfect crime. Upon hearing about this new low in human depravity, my son flew into a murderous rage and immediately posted the picture on Facebook and mobilizing dog-lovers all over Nashville to track down this real world Cruella DeVille. If he succeeds, he will have accomplished something truly great...administering justice to a dirtbag.

Listen, I'm fully aware that there are far more terrible and even heinous things going on all over the world to human beings. I'm also not trying to make the moral equivalence argument here that dogs are as valuable in the sight of God than are people. However, there is something uniquely disturbing about the mistreatment of dogs, and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because they are so dependent on us for their survival. Maybe it's because they love us unconditionally, and ask so little in return. But when I see cruelty and malice at work aimed at them, it sends me into a righteous fury. Apparently, I have passed down this rage to my children. I make no apologies for it. I hope the social media army down in Nashville track this thug down and then I hope he feels the full force of the law when his punishment is meted out. Here's a sentencing suggestion...How about we put a collar around his neck, tie it around a pole on a bare patch of dirt somewhere and let him spend the rest of the winter out there covered in tics and fleas?

Grrrrrrr!