The Saga Continues...

It occurs to me that I have failed to inform all of you about the final outcome of the great hole in the wall saga. In past dispatches I have shown you the damage...

I’ve also shown you the first pathetic attempt at a remedy, courtesy of the alleged workers from the Helen Keller Drywall Repair Company...

After an interminable delay, a new attempt was made to fix the hole which was only marginally better, forcing Pam to try her hand at spackling. Unfortunately, the finished product wasn’t even close to being acceptable. My library wall looks like it’s in it’s first trimester...

So now we find ourselves in the unenviable position of having to report our displeasure to the powers that be. The reason this is so difficult is because the two workers responsible for such pathetic work happened to be two of the nicest guys you would ever want to meet. The piano mover responsible for the hole to begin with could not possibly have been any nicer or more contrite. His buddy, who he recruited to do the actual drywall repair was also kind and earnest almost to a fault. Making matters worse, each evening when they showed up to work, the piano mover would bring along his two year old son, who he had just picked up from daycare, one of the most adorable little boys ever. So, what we have here are two hard working guys doing the best they can, and being extraordinarily kind in the process. Oh, and they were both African-American. That shouldn’t have anything to do with this, but it does. Why? It’s complicated. 

Here’s the thing. I don’t go in for all this collective white guilt claptrap. I am not responsible for the evils of slavery any more than Mexicans are responsible for the human sacrifice of the Aztecs. Past generations have done some horrible things throughout history, but we evolve and move on, hopefully getting better with each generation. But I do feel an obligation as a white American to go the extra mile when it comes to doing business with African Americans. Some of you are probably rolling your eyes at this point out of either frustration at my misplaced paternalism or my willingness to tolerate shoddy work because of someone’s race. That’s fair. I’m confused by it myself. I guess at the end of the day, you don’t do anyone any favors by letting them get by with poor workmanship. On the other hand, I hate to be the one who lowers the boom. It would have helped if they were both jerks.

So, now a full two weeks after the piano accident, we still have no resolution. Our contractor will have to now intercede and redo the work, delaying further that happy day when we will be free of workers traipsing through our house.

My Case Against The SOTU Show

Yesterday, in the lead up to the State of the Union Show, my sister was saddened to read all of the ridicule of the thing on her Facebook wall. She responded by essentially telling all of those who claimed that they would not be watching that they should be ashamed of themselves. A fresh debate arose from that suggestion. 

First, I feel obliged to defend my sister’s position, even though I disagree with it, on the grounds that I know from where her sentiments come. My sister is a patriot. She loves her country and has always been enthralled with it’s pagentry and the many totems that fill our capital city. (She has never lost a love of the British monarchy either!) No matter who occupies the White House, she can be depended upon to be glued to her television set to watch the State of the Union speech. She feels it is her patriotic duty, and holds a dim view of those who boycott. Fair enough. But here’s where we part company...

George Washington started this spectacle of a yearly address to Congress when he showed up to give his first speech. But, leave it to another great Virginian, Thomas Jefferson, to put an end to this silly monarchical pretense. Instead, Jefferson, ever vigilant against anything that smacked of the imperial yoke that we had fought a war to throw off, opted to send his address in writing to be read aloud in the chamber. It was thus so for over a hundred years, despite a civil war and several financial panics, the yearly Presidential address was read to Congress. Then, Woodrow Wilson (sadly another Virginian) perhaps the president with the most authoritarian instincts ever, decided to bring back the pomp and ceremony of the live appearance of the President in the house chamber. It was in keeping with Wilson’s exalted view of the Presidency and his desire to lift that office above the two other branches in both influence and power. Thus saw the birth of the modern imperial presidency. 

Now, a hundred years in to this debacle, the American people get treated to the most partisan spectacle that a Republican form of government could possibly produce...the president striding into the house like a modern day king to the uproarious adulation of his partisans, the opposition party, their arms folded petulantly across their chests like school children, ridiculously tedious standing ovations for even the most pedestrian proclamations, stone-faced disgust from the opposition in cut away shots to even the most positive news. If the United States government were to intentionally hatch a plot to make itself appear impotent and unserious, it couldn’t possibly come up with a better plan than this televised embarrassment. 

I’m not against a televised address by the President in the House Chamber, but I think that they should be reserved for truly momentous occasions, like a declaration of war, or the announcement of the end of such wars. But, this annual festival of partisanship needs to stop. How about this? How about somebody run for President who promises to end The Speech, and go back to the Jeffersonian example of the yearly letter? Maybe if we weren’t reminded every stinking January of how childish and silly our political leaders are, perhaps we would start holding them in higher regard.

Getting Ready for the Taylor Awards!!

I read an article this morning about the Grammy awards show and it’s abysmal ratings. It’s the latest in a long line of cratering ratings for awards shows in general. Everything from the CMA’s to the Oscars have seen a drop in viewership in recent years. The article didn’t offer an explanation for the across the board decline in interest...so I will attempt one.

Of course, the easiest explanation would be to blame it all on the politicization of the entertainment business. The vast majority of American entertainers are people of the left, and can never quite resist an opportunity to remind us. Every political movement of the day gets wall to wall air time during the awards show season, from Black Lives Matter to #MeToo, the American people can count on our most glamorous members to lecture us about all of our multiple failings, dressed in $20,000 gowns. On top of that, the glitterati themselves seem constantly out of sorts...with themselves, with #OscarsSoWhite and #GrammysSoMale offering plenty of self loathing.

But, I don’t think politics is the primary reason for the decline in ratings. I think that we’re just not using their products like we used to. In general, people aren’t going to the movies, or watching TV or buying music like they used to. In this regard, I can only speak for myself, so you’ll have to take my anecdotal evidence with a grain of salt. But, when I was younger, going to the movies was at the top of my entertainment hierarchy. I would comb through the green section of the News Leader every Friday morning to see what was playing and make my decisions for the upcoming weekend. Now, I check out what’s playing at Cinebistro every once in a while since if on the outside chance there’s a movie I want to see, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a regular movie theatre, what with the sticky floors and rude patrons. Television? With the exception of Andrew Frieden’s weather forecast, baseball games and an occasional network show like Parenthood or This Is Us, I’ve turned into a Netflix guy. And...I literally can’t remember the last time I purchased music. Why, when everything I want to hear is available for free on Pandora or Spotify? Sure, the commercials are annoying, but it’s hard to argue with...free. Now, I don’t know for sure if my story is being widely repeated out there in flyover country, but I also don’t think of myself as an outlier either. In 2018 America, we have about 10,000 more entertainment options available to us than we did back when these awards shows were in their monopolistic heyday. So, it shouldn’t surprise anyone that fewer people are watching.

People will always watch this guy. But we’re never going back to the days when Hollywood was king. Oh and by the way...expect this Oscar statue to get a remake soon...featuring a more androgynous physique. And the name Oscar will have to go, replaced with a more gender neutral name like...Taylor or Morgan.

I’m Feeling Very Old Testament-ish

Once upon a time in the land north of the James River, east of the mountains of the Blue Ridge, south of Ashland, there lived a humble servant who had just returned from a long journey to the northern kingdom of Maine, when behold, his dishwasher was afflicted with a discharge which visited great devastation on his household. In the course of time, the Lord of hosts, with the assistance of the insurance company, sent legions of workers to repair the damage to the humble servant’s house. Among the workers sent to repair the damage to the humble servant’s house were two men charged with the removal of the humble servant’s piano for safe keeping. 

Suddenly, there was a great earthquake which caused the piano to be shaken to its very foundation. Great was the shaking of it. So much so that it tilted heavily from it’s Dollie and ripped a hole in the wall of the house of the humble servant. The workers were sorely vexed at this calamity which had happened and immediately ripped their garments and covered themselves with sackcloth and ashes. Vowing that as God Lives they would repair this abomination and remove the blot from the humble servant’s library wall...

Verily, my Lord, we will return on the seventh day to repair this hole at the fifth hour.

On the seventh day, on the fifth hour, the workers appeared. But behold the hole was too big to be patched, for the workers had judged poorly the size of the hole and had not brought with them the required pieces of sheet rock to remove the blot from the humble servant’s wall. Much lamenting and ripping of garments ensued and once again the workers swore by their ancestors that this hole would be fixed the very next day at the fifth hour.

The humble servant was greatly troubled in his spirit at the continued existence of the hole, and began to despair at the unfaithfulness of the workers sent by the insurance company, but he held his tongue.

The next day, at the fifth hour, the workers arrived with sheet rock in hand to repair the hole. But behold, the piece of sheet rock brought was too thick and did not match the sheet rock of the existing wall, causing the repaired piece to jut out noticeably.

Why do you workers trouble me in this way? shouted the humble servant...Have you not vowed twice before me that you would remove this blight from the wall of my library and twice you have failed miserably to do so? What sin have I committed that you should deal with me with such incompetence?

The workers immediately prostrated themself on the floor before the humble servant, beseeching him to have mercy on them...We vow here this day to return tomorrow again at the fifth hour to repair this abomination of a hole. We beg your humble servant’s forebearance and ask you to have patience with us because we are weak of mind and our skill level embarrassingly low. But as God is our witness, the third time will be the charm. If not, let your humble servant deal with us ever so severely if we fail on our third attempt.

Then the humble servant went to his bed with a troubled spirit, having had all confidence ripped from him that his hole would ever be repaired. Then he prayed with a loud voice...Oh God of Abraham, Issac and Jacob, deliver me from workers who are weak of mind with embarrassingly low skill levels. 

“Stormy” Weather

For the past week or so, there has been a story circulating concerning a certain porn star and her past dalliance with the current occupant of the White House. This ten year old relationship ended as all such relationships end, in acrimony. A six figure settlement was reportedly paid to her by the President’s lawyer just months before the 2016 election in an unsuccessful attempt to silence her story. Despite this payment, the porn star is now all over the place with salacious details of her decade old romp with the future President.

There isn’t a single solitary detail of this story that surprises me. All of us knew what kind of man our President was when we elected him. He made no attempt to hide his sexual conquests, in fact, openly bragged about them. But, there are two things about this story that are interesting to me. First, that this story isn’t really a story. It’s nothing more than a TMZ segment on entertainment television. It doesn’t even qualify as a scandal in the new normal of 2018. What...the President was boinking a porn star while his wife was at home with his newborn son?? That’s a story?? Ppsshhtt!

The second interesting part of this episode for me has been the reaction of prominent evangelicals. News that a sitting President had paid hush money to a porn star with a stage name of Stormy Daniels, whose most famous film was something called Good Will Humping, has been met with a collective evangelical yawn. Tony Perkins, a big shot at the Family Research Council, declared that The President gets a mulligan in this case, partly because evangelicals understand the concepts of mercy and forgiveness.

Ok.

But, ask yourself a question. Suppose that this story was about Barack Obama. Suppose that it had been discovered that Obama had carried on with a porn star while Michelle was at home nursing Malia, and had then instructed his lawyer to fork over a six figure hush money payment to her a month before the 2008 election to keep the public from discovering the truth. Try to imagine the hue and cry that would have exploded out of the evangelical community over such behavior. Franklin Graham and Jerry Falwell Jr. would have been apoplectic with rage.William Bennett would have had a coronary at such deviance. There wouldn’t have been any of this, We aren’t electing a Pastor, business. There would have been no temporizing language about the distinction between private virtue and public policy. No, Obama would be the reincarnation of Caligula, and evangelicals would be called out to stand against this fresh outrage of decadence.

I didn’t vote for Obama. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged me to a polling place to vote for Hillary. But, the evangelical embrace of the  45th President of the United States has forever destroyed in my mind their credentials as a moral voice. When virtue gets trumped by pragmatism, then you become just another garden variety lobbying organization.

No thanks.

Absalom, Oh Absalom!!

Day 23 finds me in 2 Samuel where I am confronted once more with the sordid tale of Amnon, Tamar and Absalom. I will spare this audience the more graphic details of debauchery found in this narrative except to say that incest is involved. But, what I want to talk about is a verse that I have always missed in previous readings. First, let me set it up...

Ok, Amnon is Absalom’s brother, both are sons of King David. They have a sister, Tamar who is described as beautiful. Amnon commits premeditated rape against her. Absalom takes in his sister after the shameful assault. Then this from 2 Samuel 13:22...

...But Absalom spoke to Amnon neither good nor bad, for Absalom hated Amnon because he had violated his sister.

The very next verse descibes a plot that Absalom launches to kill Amnon...a full two years later.

I had never noticed this particular detail of the story before. Here, Absalom goes along for two long years quietly enduring family dinners, and other casual encounters with his rapist/brother, all the while burning with hatred, plotting his revenge. Two years is a long time to carry around such a heavy weight. No wonder Absalom eventually goes off the rails. Hatred, especially private hatred, is a deadly thing. Hatred, so meticulously groomed and nursed, can become perhaps the most lethal force in the universe. In Absalom’s case, the trajectory of his life was altered by his hatred to the point where it costs him his life and provoked the famous cry from his anguished father, Absalom, Oh Absalom!!

Reading the story this morning made me examine my own life. Is there anything or anyone that I hate as much as Absalom hated his brother? Thankfully, the answer is no. I’ve never had cause to hate anyone with anything approaching this sort of passion and intensity. There have been plenty of people who I haven’t cared for, people who I would prefer not to be around, people who get on my nerves. There are famous people who I don’t know personally who I truly can’t abide...mostly politicians and entertainers, but even those people don’t arouse Absalom level hatred. But, honestly, when I read through my Facebook feed some mornings, I wonder about the hatred I encounter there. How much of it is real and how much is just bandwagon jumping or virtue signaling? I remember some of the vile things I used to read about George W. Bush. I remember the endless stream of invective poured out towards Barack and Michelle Obama. And now, it’s Trump’s turn. 

I understand. I get it...politics can be intensely personal. People can get worked up and carried away. Political beliefs run deep, along with the passionate assurance of our own righteousness, our own exclusive possession of the truth. But, the story of Absalom’s burning hatred and it’s deadly result should serve as a wake up call to all of us. This is especially true considering the fact that Absalom had every right to be angry, after all, his brother had raped his sister! But, even when we are right about something, that doesn’t grant us a license to hate. Hatred ultimately leads to bitterness and resentment, and these two burdens can turn us into the very people we claim to stand against.

It’s Not Fair

Sweat is starting to slide down between my eyes as my legs pump furiously on the new elliptical machine at the gym, this one designed to simulate the strides of a speed skater. My thighs and calves are burning and I’m only fifteen minutes in. It is my 4th such workout of the week, the 13th of the year, and most likely the 5000th of my life. Why do I so consistently volunteer myself for such torture? It is a complicated question which has many answers, none of them satisfactory. It is a stress relief. It does prevent me from ballooning to 300 pounds. It is, by all accounts, good for my heart. But mostly I do it because it gives me some sense that I am at least making an attempt to fight off the ravages of time, the slow, inexorable decline of physical and mental dexterity that comes with age. I mean, you can’t just shrug your shoulders and accept the inevitable, right? That would be entirely too logical and pragmatic. I much more prefer the illusion of control, the doomed notion that I, by sheer force of will and commitment, can keep the reaper at bay.

The television screen on the wall above me was broadcasting a football game. The New England Patriots were in trouble at the beginning of the 4th quarter of the AFC title game against the Jacksonville Jaguars. They had been outplayed the entire game by the younger, more athletic looking Jaguars. The closed caption script across the bottom of the screen is telling the viewer what a hard place that Tom Brady has found himself in, down 10 points to the league’s number one pass defense, having lost his best receiver to a concussion. Despite the growing pain in my legs from this brutal machine, I manage a smile. I think to myself...Where have these announcers been for the past 18 years?? Hard place, they say? 

The sweat stream that started as a trickle was a full blown river by the time the 40 year old Brady hit Danny Amendola with a dart in the back of the end zone to win the game for the Patriots. The screen is then filled with the ridiculously handsome Brady surrounded by a bevy of cameras and reporters, all eager for a word from the man who will be making his 10th appearance in the Super Bowl. We have just watched him throw for 138 yards and two touchdowns in the 4th quarter of a championship game, saving his heroics until his back was against the wall for what seemed like the 1,000th time. My workout was over so I headed to the shower. I didn’t need to see the interview. I knew what he would say before he did...all the right things.

It is very easy to hate someone like Tom Brady, he of the matinee idol good looks, the super model wife, all the money in the world and a strangle hold on the title, Greatest of All Time. There’s plenty of nits to pick if you care to look. But, he has had a bullseye on his back in a violent sport for over nearly two decades now...and nobody has even come close to laying a glove on him. The fact that he is doing this at age 40, is perhaps the very easiest reason to hate the guy. 

I sit in the steam room alone with my aching muscles. Every week these workouts get harder. With each passing year, their power to keep my weight under control weakens, my recovery time gets longer. Meanwhile, Tom Brady keeps on playing football at the highest level. Yes, he’s 40 and I’m getting ready for my 60th birthday. But, he plays football...while the most physically demanding part of my occupation involves putting paper in the copier.

I’m no longer a big pro football fan. I prefer college football and, of course, baseball. But, I watch when the playoffs come around. That means that when I’m watching, Tom Brady is most likely playing. I watch him engineer comeback after comeback with a mixture of resentment and admiration...resentment at his hoarding of unrivaled success, and admiration for his tenacious and so far victorious battle against time.