Father's Day

I think its okay for dads to be 'tough'.

Now, don't go lighting torches and start complaining about your dads being over the top, or your neighbor's dad, or the guy on TV arrested... 'look at what he did'.... I hear ya. Track with me here for a few minutes and see what you think.

Today, probably more than any other time in the history of the world, dads are taking on multiple roles at work and at home. My dad went to work, cut the lawn, and burned steaks on the grill. I mean burned them. It wasn't worth eating unless there was a decent amount of carbon on it. Oh, and he cooked Sunday breakfast, but that was it. He was a good dad. We all lived happily ever after, the three kids and mom and dad-a complete family of fun and frolic.

Except for....

I look at a lot of our 'young' parents now and I got to say I am really proud of both father and mother. Yes, I know about the 50% divorce rate, delinquent dads, and crack babies, etc. In a prior life, I was in law enforcement and now I'm in education. Failure of the parent in their role is dripping from the rafters. However, there are parents, a lot of parents, doing it right. What makes it right? 

They love their kids.

To raise a child in this world, the optimum number of adults to do so is not two-its a village. But two is a good start. I know, from the stats above, 50% of all marriages end in divorce and almost all the kids wind up with the mum. Many are successfully raised by single parents. Many of those dads think they got a free ride and move on. But, we also have to admit, many of those dads stick around and help with their share of the responsibility, making sure that child has a fighting chance as an adult. Being a parent is the hardest thing to do on the planet. Being a single parent is, well, just ask a single parent.

Dads, today is a day we celebrate the title knighted to you for being in the game, staying, fighting for every inch of ground for your kid. But understand something dads, just because you get your kid to eighteen, it doesn't mean your done; just because you get your kid 'married off', it doesn't mean you're done; just because you had your first grandchild; it doesn't mean you're done. Here is the simple truth, dads or those who want to become dads-you are NEVER done. 

A real dad has signed up for a permanent position in history. There is such a thing as a 'perfect father'; there is one and only one. You will never be perfect, but there is a model you can follow. A real dad is a messed up, frail, vulnerable guy who wears bad socks. But, he knows and owns his screw ups, apologizes, and loves what he has created. A kid needs to see their dad owning their screw ups and trying hard to not do them again. 

Kids are funny. They want their pops to be their hero and are willing to look way passed a boat-load of years of screw ups. If a dad wants to, he can still make that team of fathers known as 'dads', even after years of pain. If a kid sees their dad owning their issues, that gives the child the freedom to own theirs when they get older as well. Why should a child want to be different from the models in front of them? "Hey, my dad was drunk and slept around, why shouldn't I?" And the answer of "Because I said so, that's why" just doesn't cut the butter.

I got to tell you, its easy being a father and going off to war, going off to work, going off to hunt, going off to where ever. Anyone can 'go'. Not to be crass, but it takes balls to stay in the fight. Sure, we have to work, but what are we fighting for? The lives of the children we made, that's what. "Well, I gotta go to work, earn a living, put bread on the table." Hey, here's some news, we eat too much bread! Any man can fly a jet off the front of a carrier or work the swing shift, or dig a post hole, or be a brain surgeon. Any man can do that. There is glory in that, prestige, notoriety. Life-war is just that, war. It can be ugly and sad, depressing, lonely, all of the emotions associated with war. Dads, true dads, are fighting that battle. They love their children, modeled after the one Dad that got it right, it is said that love is perfect and also sacrificial. Dads love sacrificially. Yep, you are going to get it wrong a lot of the time, but when you get it right, oh baby-it is sweet!

So, today, we raise our glasses and toast to the dads, the tough ones, the ones with scars and wounds, bad knees, cheap glasses, and baby poo under their nails. They are here in this Room of Life. They are the ones with the sloped shoulders and the crows feet around their eyes. The hair in their ears, long since surrendered to 'I don't care if it's there' attitude. These are men of men. They have stayed in the trenches and fought like Trojan warriors for their kids and family, some even flew off the front of carriers. They clean the floors, change the diapers, mow the lawns, do the shopping, fix the squeaky hinge, love their wives, and fall asleep reading 'Good Night Moon' to their kids, all before they go to that second job to earn enough money to pay the power bill. These men are anchored with a servant's hearts. They stand at the fence of the little league game and watch the swing, making sure its level, hold the extra hair ribbons in their pockets for the small ballerinas, or carry the fear and quiet panic alone, shared with them by their child, now a man them self, who share the daily threat of battle  and death with their dad, so as to be unburdened and able to again function in that nightmare world of such things that go bump in the night. 

There is no greater job on this planet, no greater burden to carry, no greater honor to have than to be a Dad-father. If you do not have such a man in your life, find one you admire and tell them so. Ask them, today--make this decision today--to ask that man to be your father on Father's Day. I will tell you what he will say-"I would be honored to be your father today." You see, dads are never done being dads. Until the day they die, they have sworn an oath to the model of Dad-dom. They are centurions, knights of an order many thought was long since passed. But they stand and look up and down the line of battle, their crows-feet shrouded eyes wink and give a slight nod to other dads, standing in the same trench. Their silver hair and sloped shoulders, long since worn in battle, still willing to carry the load of hearts yet to find the love of a dad. Until their last breath they live by a motto most don't know, some have only heard in passing, many don't believe in, but these dads do. These few, these men, with their last breath will be a dad to you. With their last breath they will breath the words instilled in their hearts by their Father, words that have gotten them up every morning, and gently pushed them forward, stepping them into the fray.

"Send me, Lord."

Happy Fathers' Day

Memorial Day Remembered

It's early in the morning on Memorial Day and I am realizing just how close we were to having an intimate relationship with this day. It was close enough, causing the meaning of the holiday, to not have anything to do with discount sales of mattresses or DVD's.

A few years ago, Travis was in the Sand Box for the second tour. He lost some friends there, one of them he had trained and three weeks later, while on patrol, he was killed on the same route Travis' team had done dozens of times and would have still been doing if they stayed.

Three weeks, a hundred yards, a left turn instead of a right, a flat tire, a scout plane with a bad radio, a delay because of a phone call, a thousand other flukes that caused the seemingly random selection of men and women in harms way to be chosen to give up their lives-so the rest of us could live.

Some call it luck.

This day, as it starts on many accounts, all lead back to counting it as the start of summer. It is and always has been, one of the most holy days in the American way of life. I am very happy this day is not a more intimate day at our house. But it has to be something more than the start of summer or two for one sales. What should it look like? Do we want to walk with our heads lowered and stay inside and close the curtains? I asked my son if he wanted to go to the national cemetery, maybe finding his friends grave. He didn't even hesitate-'No,' he said.

I think its not because he didn't want to feel that pain, he didn't. Don't think anyone does, but there was an idea of these men and women who loved us so much, so purely, they might not have wanted us to hurt at their departure. When you love at that level these people have done, the idea focus of their lives is not one of pain, but joy. Pain was not the end, but the eradication of it.  That was their intent. They knew something when they stepped up. They wrote a big check. We need to honor that.

So, let me propose something. Today, Memorial Day 2014, we celebrate their lives. Each one, going back to those that lost it all in the Revolutionary War to Fallujah. We celebrate their love for us. We can still have and do all we want with family, on the beach, and grilling those brats, but stop and think, just for a moment. There is a National moment set aside at 3 in the afternoon where ever we are,  just for this, to remember those people that have loved us so much they gave up their lives. Call them by name, smile at their pictures, laugh at retelling of their bad jokes. That's what they want for us, they want us to celebrate with them. They want us to love, to learn to love sacrificially like they have learned and demonstrated. That's what this day's about-love.

The sweeping power of a love so strong, the world is changed by it.

Enjoy and pass this on.

Mother

So, today is Mother's Day. The day we honor our mother. That one day a year when we get her flowers, candy, a nice card-maybe one that plays the song Wind beneath My Wings, when you open it. Yep, mothers really deserve it.

Why?

Look, we owe them, we all do. There isn't one of us here that doesn't owe their spleen to their mom. We owe them our whole lives. And we can never pay them fully back. We just can't. So, the best we can do is to admit that and start chipping away- sometimes just a day at the time, to start chipping away at that big porcelain bowl  called "We owe you this thing Mom." Starting now. Lets start with the basics this weekend, let it bleed over into the week to follow, maybe the week beyond that. See how far you can take it, you know, chipping at that bowl.

Wash and vacuum your mom's floor. I mean wash it, with hot water and soap. get down on your hands and knees and get those corners under the cabinets, where that piece of chicken fell out of the pan four months ago, and the dog never got to it to clean it up. You thought the dog did, but two days later, while you were eating your cereal, you saw it there, just under the cabinet and you reminded yourself to get it after you brushed your teeth, and never did. You forgot.

Oh, and have the attitude of cleaning that floor like your your going to eat a big rib-eye steak off of it.

Move the chairs and stuff too. It doesn't do any good to vacuum or clean the floor if there is a farm of alfa-alfa growing under the couch.  Clean the crap under it. You probably put it there when you were a teen anyway. And make sure she gets all the change you find. I mean all of it, not just the nickles and dimes. I'm talking about the quarters too.

Speaking of chipping at the porcelain bowl, scrub the bath room and toilet. Figure it this way, if you wanted to clean something that made a difference in world peace, the toilet is the greatest place to start. It's so much worse than the gas grill out back. Mom doesn't mess with the grill anyway. She doesn't care about it. Frankly, the more crap on the grill, the better that rib-eye steak will taste.

And hey, break out that rusted shut wallet and take her to a nice brunch, and dinner too, maybe a dinner later in the week. Get her some flowers. Nice flowers. Big bunch.

Now, here is where most of us stop. 

There is one secret that moms don't tell you. They are waiting, actually waiting and hoping you do one thing on your own-one thing they really want for Mother's Day-any day actually.

Your time.

Moms have the incredible ability to be pleased with just about anything you do. That hand-traced turkey you did when you were seven, she still has it. What she really wants-is you. If you're too far away, and can't make it, sit down and write her a letter, the old fashioned way-with paper and pen. Moms LOVE letters from their kids---LOVE THEM. When they pass and you go in and finally clean out that dresser of hers you remember she had since you were a kid, you will find every one of those letters, cards, dried flowers, in her underwear drawer.

Everyone of them.

Make sure she gets it. 

Happy Mother's Day mom. 

The Art of Caring

As a beyond middle-aged man, I am finding myself becoming more and more tired, physically and mentally tired. So much so, I am becoming careful of how I step, how I bend over-WHY am I bending over, even asking do I need to bend over? My knees hurt, my left leg has been conducting a slow throb all day today, and I found myself pushing the cart at the hardware store while  my shoulders were up in my ears, like I had a permanent shrug cooking. Along with the shrug, as I sit here and type these words, my glasses sit on my face, slightly crooked-and I just don't care.

I guess that's part of the growing old thing. After a while, your desire to care, especially about hygiene, soaps, laundry, floor wax, or their associated relatives, kind of go to the back burner of life. I care about stuff-government, green house gases, my family, my retirement account, important stuff. The other stuff, not so much. 

Sure I can still run. I exercise every day, vigorously, well, maybe not on weekends. Weekends have their own activities, like mowing lawns, and trimming trees. My running days are over and replaced with a bike some time ago. I tried to bring running back in time to run with my son in the Pat Tillman run but I couldn't get it going. Just couldn't float that muskrat  down the Tuscaloosa, if you know what I'm saying.  

I still get up on the roof, climb trees to trim out their centers so they don't get too thick, sit Indian style to re-glue some sprinkler parts, or hold a spray rig over my head to paint the patio roof. I still, if I had too, move like an twenty-two year old. Only if I had too. There better be a damn good reason I am moving like a twenty-two year old and someone better have some ibuprofen when I get done.  But then we come back to the reason I am still sitting here with my glasses almost at a seventeen degree angle on my face and the fact that two paragraphs later I still haven't fixed them.

I just don't care. 

I find myself being more careful. I walked out this morning, actually, the last week or so, to get the paper. Myself and the woman next door still get the paper on our street. We're old school. Anyway, I stood over it for a moment, thinking about bending over and retrieving it. I did. I made sure I bent my knees and got a firm grip before I started to stand again. Going down was a lot easier then standing back up with it. This afternoon, I need to go hang up some shirts I pulled out of the dryer two days ago. They're in the same pile as the underwear and Swiffer mop heads. I figured if they were all the same color and you washed them on hot, the fading and the sterilization of everything works out. They might be a little wrinkled but if you tuck them into your pants tight enough, those wrinkles just buff right out.

I guess its a priority thing. As you get older, your priorities change a little. I find happiness if I wear a belt. I feel I've accomplished something if there is a belt AND its through all the loops, not missing one. That is a good day when you haven't missed a belt loop. Or you remember to shower sometime during Saturday. Sure, you can get up and get going. You NEVER shower before you cut the lawn. That is just a sign of being a pompous ass.  But you shouldn't forget to clean up before bed time. The world is just a nicer place if you shower by the end of the day and crawl into some cool, clean sheets. 


Maybe I sound a little negative. I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound negative. My older brothers are charging after life and making every day count-like a beef collar at a wolf convention. But sometimes, I think they too want to lie down and let the Big Wave of Nappy Time sweep them off to the the Memory Foam Solar System.


Maybe, someday, I'll get there-when its time. Apparently, I have to hang out on this rock for a while longer.


Maybe by then, I'll have a set of glasses that will stay lined up on my face.

Here We Go----Again

It is not possible to enjoy the spring that has fallen on us without thinking about the hellish summer that is rolling down the highway to our living rooms and activating evap coolers and ceiling fans everywhere, bringing another summer of such statements as HOLY MOTHER OF THE LIVING GOD- MY SKIN IS ON FIRE! SWEET BABY JESUS, MAKE IT STOP!! Or, how about this for an evening of fun--walking the indoor mall, all under the idea of getting out and doing something-fun. You lose track of the outside world because you are in someone else's bought air.

By all reports, Arizona is going to have another above average summer with regard to temperatures. You know, I can't remember one summer where the forecast WASN'T that prediction. Swimsuits are on the mannequins along with towels, lawn furniture, seed, fertilizer, all the things that you need to go outside and enjoy the world are on sale at the stores. Put away the jackets Mildred, Spring is here!

I know, I know, I've never lived in Buffalo, New York in the winter where the sun disappears and so do the streets, trees, sidewalks, cars, or anyone drunk enough to stumble out their front door on New Year's Eve and fall off the front porch during a lake effect snow storm where the poor bastard is not found until "The Thaw". Then the summer bugs pick you up and carry you off. I know and I should be thankful that even the bugs out here don't survive the summer heat, except for cockroaches of course. They survive everything.

Its just that it would be nice to have a 'wet' summer, a 'snowy' summer, an 'anything' but a scorching six months of "You Got to Be Kidding Me" summer. Since we have all this global warming and weather change stuff, we could have a weather change here, just once. A summer where it rained, actually rained. Even a few floods, that wouldn't be bad. Floods in Arizona are always kind of fun. On the news, there is always someone who tries to cross a creek when it was traditionally dry and they get swept down stream. That just makes for good television. Rescue comes and saves them then charges them for the rescue. That seems fair.

Its the way God thins out the herd. Right now, we have temperature swings of thirty degrees in a week. I don't think it's too much to ask, just once, to look down range for a few months and not dread the knowledge that I will sweat like a Turkish border guard during the night, even with my Hunter ceiling fan on high. Sure, it could be hormones, but we all know, everyone here in the southwest knows.


Yep, here we go.

Games

Its funny what men as boys think of as 'fun.' I remember as a kid, on those rare rainy days, usually in the summer, when the gutter pan filled with water out front in the street. It filled so deep you could float a 2x4 your own twelve-year-old hands built, adding small blocks of wood to the center of that three foot board and nailing them down with big 8 penny nails and floating it as an aircraft carrier down the gutter, all the while finding rocks to lob at it as pretend mortar rounds. If you could hit it hard enough and it tipped over, the twelve year old thought, you count it as a sinking. I never tipped one over, causing me to resort to getting handfuls of loose street gravel and strafing the ship or standing over it and dropping them while holding the rocks close to my face and looking straight down, like a bomb site. 

In high school, out by the handball courts, we played dodge ball with baseballs. We didn't play that a lot. 

'Smear the Queer' was the politically incorrect term for, geez-don't even know what to call what we were playing in fifth grade. Whoever had the ball got, well, speared, by the other twenty kids. Dale Denmen was the best, along with John Battersby. There was another kid who was the toughest at the game. I don't remember his name but he had one of those eyebrows that kind of stuck out, like a caveman and his eyes were kind of far apart. he had the unique ability to see around corners before he got to the corner. I think that was the 'queer' part meaning 'strange'. 'Smear the Strange Kid', yeah. I broke his nose while we played. I ducked my head and hit his nose. He bled like I hit an artery. It was pretty cool.

Speaking of, there was another kid my freshmen year who wanted to grow up and be a Yo-Yo demonstrator. He said they got paid to travel the world and demo Yo-Yo's. He would yo-yo to and from class and at lunch, demonstrated what he could do. 

How about NASCAR?  Had another friend in grade school who worked for his father at his garage and could tell you what any car was by the look of their brake lights on the back of the car. He could tell you the year and the make. On weekends, that's what he did-raced cars as a thirteen year old. You can't tell me any of us watch NASCAR or the Indy 500 and don't secretly wish for a real bad wreck? You know, one that has no injuries, everyone is fine, but the cars disintegrates and flips up into the audience, all of whom, of course, escape the falling, flaming vehicle because they had all gone to the snack bar at the same time.

This weekend is the Highland Games in Phoenix. My ancestors from Scotland, did this. I know they did. How do I know? Because they come from a country where the sponsor of the event is a scotch distillery. When they fought, they used clubs and sharpened iron. They lashed rocks to sticks and went to war. Their women fought with them because, well, frankly, have you seen any of those women? They can birth a child, cook dinner, and cut your face off and make a hat out of it before the day was through. Throwing pounds of iron for sport just seems right for us.

I think we coddle our kids. I do. We need to make sure we don't buy anything they can swallow, cut themselves on, cause any form of body fluid leakage. Look, slinging ten pounds of iron and seeing how far it goes is just what boys and some girls like to do. There is something in our brains that requires us to do just that. When we had the space program, it kind of filled that need-'lets see how if we can throw $1-billion worth of low bids to a far planet, moon, or star and see how close we can get. Throwing a rock is good for us.  It teaches fluid dynamics, some calculus, trajectory analysis, all the while you get to sling iron--not steal---not compressed zinc, but iron, a big piece of rusting metal from Mother Earth.

I'm not saying we go out and buy our kids guns. Heck, that's as bad as toys that talk. Anyone can get a gun and with a little practice, shoot an animal, like a lion on the Serengeti, and make a rug out it. Now, if one was to do that with, lets say, a dull butter knife, now you got some good TV. That would be like the number one show ever. Of course, each week, you would have to get a new contestant.

I'll stick with a 2x4 and some 8 pennies.

Spring Break Therapy!

The idea that teachers and the support staff in a school district have weeks off at a time is the point of many bad jokes. They are the focus of conversations around the barbeque when talk winds around to why Uncle Ned just had his hours increased during third shift and neither he nor his family have  had a family vacation since your cousin's sister got out of rehap. They know who you are and you work for a school and they ask, spitting it out as if talking about you voting independent, 'so, where are you and your family going this spring?' 

Little do they know you signed up for intensive therapy with a specialist in talking people down from ledges.

If people knew, actually knew, what went on in the educational community, they would look at it globally like the old RCA commercial where the dog is sitting in front of the Victrola with its head cocked to one side. "Errr?" And here's the funny part, almost none of it is decided at the school level, some at district, almost all of it at the state or Federal level.

I really like working at an inner city school. The school I work at use to be where the mover and the shaker kids would go. We still get some who send their kids there. It's a good school with great staff and good programs. We also get a lot of kids with numerous problems. Some, wearing ankle braclets, a tracking device put on by their probation officer to track their every move. They are usually the one's wearing their dead grandfather's jeans down passed their bottoms, like the original Marky-Mark (Mark Walberg started it when he was schlepping underwear).

I asked Lamont (of course its not his/her real name---or is it?) "So, Lamont, why the braclet? Whatchya do the Man had to brand you? Pull up your drawers." Actually, there isn't anything much funnier then a fifty-four year old man talking homie.

"Stealin.'"

"Whatchya steal? Burglary? Your pants, pull up your pants."

Lamont nodded the admission to the burglary then caught himself. "Oh, no, not for this. This is for stealing at Wal-Mart."

This, of course, led to the follow up question of what burglary did Lamont do that no one knows about.

Lamont couldn't actually remember. I guess they all kind of bleed together. I'm sure he got caught because he couldn't carry the TV and hold up his pants at the same time. Well, he could, but he just couldn't run very fast.

Then there are the Tonys. They're homeless. They sit quietly, almost in a catatonic state, wearing the same jacket covering up one of two shirts alternated every other day. These guys try to focus in class. They just have a few other things on their mind. They will eat two meals today, breakfast and lunch. They get them at school. After three, yeah, not sure what happens. The Tonys don't talk about that part.

The Angelinas are excited about their birthing class they started to attend with their aunts. They take a lot of bathroom breaks. They don't tell me why, but being a father of three I know its becuase their bladder is getting pressed on by the growing life inside.

"Lamont, your pants. I don't want to see your ass. Pull up your pants."

There are the endless lists of 'Jacks' and 'Jill's' and 'Logimitsu's' who are refugees or exchange students, none of them wanting to go back to China, or Tailand, or the Congo. We call them Jack and Jill because we can't pronounce their real names-there are no vowels in it. 'Xyhgmyywp,' what would you say that is? Hmm? So, its Jill.

Jill needs $6000 to stay for another year or in May she's going back to her village in Tailand. I've seen pictures of her village. You don't want Jill going back to her village.

"Lamont, for all that's holy, pull up your pants!"

Same with Alex. He is the cream of the crop from his town. He wants to stay here becuase, like we already knew, China of TV is not the real China. Logimitsu is fine, these people are refugees fleeing a civil war. He wants to go back after he becomes a doctor. He speaks five languages and runs cross country. His village was burned to the ground.

So, what am I doing on my Spring Break? Trying to recharge before I go back. There is more to teaching than teaching a subject, but it takes a graphic toll on a person. Walls are built up around emotion and guards are posted. I would be fired if I taught at an affluent school. I really would. Sure, those kids have problems, parents that don't care, aren't there, etc. But I am here, at this place. During my break, for whatever reason, I will find myself back at my desk in my classroom, doing something. Habits are hard to break.

"Lamont, I swear to God, if you don't pull up those pants I will set you on fire!!!"

The slide of time

On the edge of time, age 53 getting ready to scoot into 54, as I find my self getting older, I find myself not realizing birthdays coming up. I was cutting the lawn today, and even though we had talked about it, I actually had to stop and think there was a birthday coming up-mine. Then, and this was the hard part, to remember what year it actually was. Have you ever done that? Forgotten or at least temporarily misplacing your age, let alone your car keys, wallet, forgetting when you last bathed, you know, typical stuff? Being born in the last century didn't help. I had to use the new math to figure it out, subtracting the year I was born from the current year, which required borrowing and carrying ones.


There are a whole lot of changes I've gone through, probably you as well. If you're younger and walking down the age path like me, you're experiencing these things. You people who are older, you're already there. Sit back and smoke your pipe.


Look I'm not dead, not by a long shot. I just won a major battle with those invading little roof rat bastards. Slaughtered them and their children and cooked them with the morning bacon. I had climbed up into the attic, going toe to toe with things that go bump in the walls. Just got checked by the doctor and she said my blood pressure and labs should be the standard for all men 51-57. I still do at least 30 minutes of cardio a day. What I am finding is as I get older, I don't care about things I use to build a whole plan around.


Like showering on weekends
Like hurrying-I'm walking slower now
Like clothes with wrinkles, leaving them in the dryer until I darn well want to take them out-sometime this week
Like mold on cheese-trim it off and keep going
Like the Oscars-haven't seen any of the movies and won't until Netflix has them
Like putting my hands in stuff


I developed that hand thing when I was a father with three kids. You could only run to the Brawny so often, eventually finding yourself no where near a roll of paper towels and if you weren't quick, something was going to run off the table, toilet seat, sink, or dashboard, unless you used your hand, usually followed by your shirt/sleeve. When I climbed up into the attic, I was in dust undisturbed since the middle of the last century. No worries, that's was shirts are for.


Bathing, especially on weekends, I can still do that daily, many times twice. I just kind of forget to shave, soap, and well, use deodorant. You know, I figured what it came down to-I just don't care.


Really.


Those of you who are older, its true, isn't it? Years and years of doing the same thing, day in day out, days, weeks, months of caring, being on time, making sure you're shirt is buttoned up, pants zipped, socks matching or at least in the same color spectrum, why? Why do we need to wash the towel every week? If its dry, its good to go. You don't cycle it until it starts to smell a little-funny. Then you let it dry for a couple of days, like on a weekend, when you know you aren't going to touch it.


What's wrong with going to bed at 7:30 at night? And frankly, what' wrong with taking your clothes out of the dryer after three days? So what if they're a little wrinkled? There is a style to wrinkleness.


When you go to your 10 year high school reunion, everyone is sharing what they are 'doing'. When you go to your 30th, the conversation centers around who is still alive, had their cancer removed, or something else added.


Comfort is the name of the game. Comfortable shoes is the answer to many of life's problems.
A good book at bedtime is the answer to many more.
And a dog asleep on your foot while you blog, fits everything into a perspective involving peace. If that guy in Iran and the kid in North Korea did these three simple things, there would be flowers growing in their garden and someone would be inviting someone else to lunch.


I have been told that 54 is the new 42 or something like that. I don't want to go back to 42. I like where I'm at. I'm at an age where I can still do many of those things from my youth, just not as fast and if that's the case, ah-I was good in my youth. Breaking down doors, guns, fear, adrenaline, the good fight, aye-the good fight.


I still have fight. That's what's kind of cool about this age. No one expects the old man to have much fight. We hide it until we truly need it. Hoping we don't need it because we know, from experience, we're going to get some crap on our wrinkled shirt. We'll win-we'll have to cheat, but we WILL win. We'll just get crap on our shirts. Then we'll take our time to wash it. It will sit in the hamper until is forms a firm ball.


We'll just let people think we have no fight left. I help them with that image with a fine scotch and a good $4 cigar. I like peaceful music and dancing in the cereal isle. I could change my grand kids diaper with a couple of paperclips, a red Expo marker, and a clean sock, taking them to Home Depot with one-ONE diaper tucked in my back pocket. We dance in the fastener isle there.


Nope, I like where I'm at. So do my dogs. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need think if I've showered today.

Shock and Awe on the Roof Rat!!

Its before

dawn and I am typing this blog in gloves to soften the key strikes on the computer. I have wrapped my coffee cup in a sock so when I set it down, it makes no noise. I wrapped the dog's collars in duct tape and toilet tissue as well. They stand as sentries, well, they're sleeping right now, but they could stand as sentries if they really wanted to.  Stealth is my soul, Ginsu Knife is my moniker. I am at war. I didn't think it would take this long for them to arrive. But now, now they are here, the Al Queda of the vermin world-the infamous Roof Rat!

They migrated out of the Arcadia District, leaving the posh homes and the upscale gardens filled with fruit trees, being driven out of that section of town by women wearing Versace, shewing the animal with designer brooms. Sure, they're not as big as their New York cousins, nothing requiring collars and leashes, but evil just the same.  Most left laughing, if rats laugh, not wanting to deal with their hosts, they moved out into other neighborhoods. Unfortunately for them, they wandered onto our peaceful street. Poor choice.

I first heard their scratching in the walls. It took a bit to figure out what the noise might be. I was hoping a lizard, geckos. We have geckos. They are our friends. We live in harmony with our gecko brothers. They eat the crickets and we supply outside electric boxes for them to sleep in.

It wasn't geckos.

There is no negotiating with these guys. They have their own hostile religion where they think they can impart their forced societal beliefs on anyone by living and eating and crapping in food drawers. You don't talk sweet to these animals. You burn their villages, snipe their leaders, putting their heads on little pikes made out of toothpicks around their living spaces to be a sign to the others they might want to leave before they too, have their beating hearts cut out and cooked with the morning bacon.

Shock and awe baby.

We started with the neighborhood  ACE Hardware. I asked the salesman what he had for rodents such as these. He took me to an aisle, half of which was just for this animal. Traps, poisons, baits, sonic disturbance devices-I was a man standing at the temple of a weapons' factory. But I had to stick with the plan. If I showed my hand too quick, these little bastards would talk to each other and let the others know where the claymores were. First off-we give them the feeling they're welcome.We put out the recommended poison which has the taste of peanut butter! The salesman at the store told me "It won't kill them right away, so you have to be patient. They have to drink water to activate the poison. Then, they explode!"

I got a warm tingly feeling, like I just won $5 playing a $2 Powerball ticket. 'Explode'? What a great idea. They wander back to their little nest, thinking everything is okay at the end of the day, and WHAM! Rat juice all over their family. Psychological warfare. I even left a little tray of water right next to the bait so, you know, they didn't have to walk so far-poor things (insert evil laugh here). Within a day, some of the scratching was gone-it got loud and then--nothing, like death spasms.

Two days went by, more bait, signs of them still around. They were taking the bait. I refilled the water with good, bottle water. Take, drink, enjoy! Then, late at night, one came out in the open. There was an initial sound of controlled panic from the other end of the house. The dogs were asleep next to me and frankly, I don't blame them for our issue. Their dogs for crying out loud. They don't want to mess with these things unless I can throw them like a baseball for the dogs to chase and retrieve.

I went into the den where I found Joni standing on the couch pointing at the corner of the room. She said it was moving slow, in the open. Good! the poison, oh the sweet elixir of death has come, confusing them, like a cockroach coming into the light before they die, this varmint was doing the same, finding the solace behind the dryer on its way into the wall again. That was fine, there were mines there too. Luckily for the rat, we didn't go hand to hand. I was willing, just as soon as I could have found something to club it to death with. The first thing I reached for was a dog's water dish.

Insufficient.

The next day, Phase II kicked in. Standard, old fashioned traps were deployed around the bait. You have to understand something about the territory. We have a 60 year old house. There are gaps, the width of a little finger in small spaces these guys fold their bodies and push through, gnawing it a little bigger when they have time.  Like napalm in war, traps have a political incorrectness about them. So? its a rat that can crawl from your roof's sewer vents, out through the toilet, and if you happen to be using it at the time, will cause you years-YEARS of counseling and you will never sit and read the paper again-ever. 

I disposaled him/her. I didn't want to give the dead rat's friends some place they could go and build a shrine to martyr their buddy.

And the little pike stood, as first a red toothpick, designed to hold green olives at a cocktail party, finding now true honor, mounted in play dough in the pantry, holding the head of our enemy high so the others could see what happens when you stray into the wrong neighborhood.  

So, like I said, I'm typing you this message in measured silence. They always come out this time of day, early, dark, morning. My listening posts are up and the wire is strung, holding empty baked bean tin cans in case they try to come in. I hope they do. I still have Phase III in reserve--DE-CON, the same poison my dad used at our cabin fifty years ago, the hydrogen bomb of rat poison. But its quiet. Maybe they moved on or the last of them crawled back to their nest and scribed a note with  its last dying breath, pinning it on their fur for anyone to find, warning them of the crazy bastard down stairs.

They will be back. They always come back. But we will be ready. Always vigilant. Always stealthy. Always Ginsu-ish.

An Uncommon Thing

I got to witness something pretty rare. Last night, Sunday night, I stood in the back of a room where a couple hundred people gathered to honor a man for being-himself.

Here's the curious thing, most of you wouldn't know him. He is not a famous person outside of his work or friends. He's not on the national news, hasn't been in the movies-divorcing his wife and running off with a co-star twenty years his junior. He is a teacher. He is a father of three grown kids, has a wife of decades, grand kids. He is a musician.

Just a guy.

He was leaving a job for another, a change in his season of life. I got to travel with him for a while on this life and hope to walk miles more. What was so so wonderful was one person after an another got up and commented on this man, his impact on their lives, some significant roasting his good spirit and fun. People cried not because he was leaving, but because they had an opportunity to tell this guy what he meant to them. Many times-most of the time, actually, we don't get that opportunity. Like I said, it was an uncommon thing.

People like this walk among us. They really do. We don't see them a lot because they aren't on the cover of People Magazine or their mug is not on the news as just getting arrested for drunk driving from their Malibu beach house. This guy can and does represent us in a way that is so good, so comforting, so right  that we think something is really wrong. It isn't.

Randy Thompson is just a guy-a father, a husband, a grandfather, a believer and mirror of Grace. He has literally saved lives by allowing people to just be themselves around him. He stumbles and falls and says wrong things and and and-

He is loved and in turn, gets to love.

Yep, it was a rare thing.

2012-Anxiety

We are standing on the edge of 2012 and I got to say, there is a lot of anxiety about it. Anxiety is just fluff unless there is some meat to it, some reality to go with our anxiety, and it looks like there is some of that to support our worries. A lot, as a matter of fact, like a whole herd of it.

The economy is starting to crawl out of the mire, unless of course, the European market tanks, which it probably will, sending us back into an even deeper tail spin. There's some good news for people struggling to keep or even find a job.

How about another earthquake like the one in Japan that we all got to see whole towns get slowly washed away. Like it was some bad NFL film in slow-motion, only this one was real.

Lets not forget the election of a new president or keeping the old one. You get two people pointing their fingers in the exact opposite direction and BOTH are telling the truth, at least a part of it is true, and its up to the voting public to figure out what part. That just makes the elections in November kinda sporty.

Of course you have to add in those wacky Mayans and their calendar ending on December 21st, symbolically meaning the end of the world. Couldn't it also mean they may have just run out of paper? Hmm? I mean, how far should they have carried out their calendar? When is too many days enough days for everyone to get the idea?

Add to all this the polar caps are melting and polar bears may become extinct; well there ya go, enough worries for all of us. So, what do we do?

We just need to love each other.

Yep, love. I said the 'L' word. This from a guy who thinks the use of a 2x4 along some of our politicians heads would be really good about now. We link arms and love each other. Now, if you know me you would know I am talking about love like god kind of love but what about finding that president of Iran a good woman? Huh? Bat-crap crazies need love too. Or all those Ayatollahs-have them find a woman that will peel her scarf away from her face long enough to give that guy a wink and a smile and he will forget all about being friends with the Al Queda-guaranteed.

How about when we get stressed, we call a friend and say "Hey, its me. I'm stressed." How about if we share that? Then the friend comes over and they sit outside and drink some soda and talk about crap? Or we take a kid who's dad or mom is over seas, divorced, dead and we go to a ball game, a burger, or just to Costco and they ride on the cart while we push?

If we are at the top of the food chain financially, it isn't far or even hard to fall to the bottom. Those at the bottom or in the middle can attest to that. It doesn't take a lot to stumble and hit bottom. The difference between me and that guy holding the cardboard on the corner can sometimes be tracked to one bad choice-that led to a second, then a third.

So what else can we do? Well, actually, that could be enough, oh, wait. We need to do one more thing. We all need to send President Ahmadinajad the link to E-Harmony. Hey, it could work.

Windows

It's early Christmas day. I couldn't sleep. Actually, the two dogs woke me. Sometimes, they need to climb up on the bed and curl up on the corner. Of course each weigh about eighty pounds and they take up more than the corner. Somehow, we all wind up back asleep, at least for awhile. This time, however, they got me up, wide awake, walking the quiet halls and kitchen, looking out the window, overlooking the street and the front yard.

A year ago, there was a different tune-a different dance. We were all running this time last year with the thought of one of our own so far away and yet was able to come home. A new grandchild on the way. We had jobs an fairly free of illnesses. This year was so much better?

So, I stood there in the kitchen, looking out at an empty street with random decorative lights, frost on the lawn-quiet. It wasn't so different. The same lawn, the same random lights, maybe a different neighbor or two, and our own was home, but still pretty much the same.

I don't want it to be the same.

There is a line in the movie, Miracle on 34th Street  where Santa is talking to the store manager about whether he really exists. The manager, if you remember the movie, is a sad sort and wanted everyone to be as sad as she was. She had trust issues, like the rest of us. He told her he was symbolic for hope, peace, there's a chance of a better life in this rough time some of us live. Nice, but how do you tell someone who lost a child, a home, a job-"Hey, Santa says there is hope, peace, there is a chance a better way. Thanks for listening. Have a good day under that bridge with your mental illness."

Yeah, you don't. Unless--there is. Unless there is actual hope, peace, a chance at both. Funny thing, as I found myself getting older, both of those elements weigh heavily with me. We opened our presents last night and I got a package of socks. Not just any package, a dozen white socks!! Now, right now, if you are a man, particularly a middle-aged man and you heard that present, you are drooling a little out of the corner of your mouth. I sat in a chair in the back and watched the rest of the family, particularly the grand kids open some of their stuff. I watched their parents. I like watching people-no not from an alley with binoculars. I use to do that-not anymore.

What can we be content with? How about being known for who we are? With all our garbage and issues; with all our baggage and our cabinets full of lotions. What if we were accepted-just the way we are? How would that change the running for the brass ring?

The tile floor in the kitchen was cold. I like to turn down the heat at night so little icicles form on the ceiling. I got a drink of water and walked back to bed, trying not to stub my toes on anything. Have you ever gotten up at night, half asleep, trying to take care of business without waking fully, only to stub your food on a chair, bringing you way beyond awake? Well, thinking about doing it does the same thing. Anyway, I crawled back into bed, pushing one dog out of my spot where she found my body heat had warmed it to a nice temp. She grumbled and then moved back to the foot of the bed.

Sometime in the next day or so, go stand at a window before dawn and take a look outside. See if you see it. See if you want to see it.

Merry Christmas.

T'is the Season to be a Ninja!

There are few things I do right. There are even fewer things I do well. But when I have to go shopping and  its this time of year-shopping alone,  I'm like a ninja!

Yesterday, I was able to slide into the mall, access my predetermined target, and egress the zone, arriving back to my car and pulling out on the street in a total time of fourteen minutes! I was like a F-15 Strike Eagle, covertly arriving at a back, not well known parking lot, hitting the door and sliding inside. Sometimes, when I am walking, and truly in the zone, I am flying at low altitude, in and out of the racks of clothes, flying my mission well under the radar.

The ninja (yes, ninjas fly Strike Eagles-geez) slid passed the elderly couple as they approached the front door to the store, hitting one of the other doors while simultaneously, reaching into my pocket, finding some change-any change, and plopping into the red bucket operated by the only witness to my parking, the Salvation Army Bell Ringer. I bought his silence and his gratitude with whatever landed in the pot. He was now on my side.

I walked quickly, yet silently, my Asic-gels making me almost invisible to normal ears. Then, the first problem.

I had to pee.

Mentally, I had predetermined that was going to be an issue. Its always an issue. I'm fifty-three. It is just a precursor to my future in life.

I mentally suppressed it. Besides, the nearest restroom did not appear in my vision as I moved  like a panther through the men's section and the bushes just outside were, well, just outside.

That's what a ninja would do-use the bushes or mentally suppress it. I had a mission and I was going to complete it.

There is a fairly well known law of shopping for women. If you land close on the purchase, chances are, you will win. What I mean by that is, for example, if she wants jeans and you get her something close to what she wants, like in the same color spectrum, she'll be happy. Why? Because she gets to take it back and go shopping and get something she really wanted and it probably won't be jeans. You do it enough times, she will come home with a new bedroom set. That's when you know you went too far.

I'm not going to give you all the facts of the mission. There is some deeply classified stuff I can't share. I won't share. We shopping ninjas are a very closed mouth group. We pass down our lore from generation to generation. My son, for example, already pees behind bushes, not at his own home. For the rest of you, the best I could suggest, the only real help you have-

Shop on line.

As for the rest of the ninja warrior shopping crowd remember-

'Domo shitsu aragato wasabi'
I would like fries with that

The First Week of New Choices

After watching and actually participating in the melee that was Black Friday, I've noticed we all now have hit a lull in the frenzy. There is this time right after that experience, that settles for a moment all things, right before we swallow hard and strap on our backpacks and head out again.

Except we don't have to.

Something, over the years, has caused us to go bigger, better, faster, whatever. We want that thing or this thing , the green one or the red one. Then, after the heroine is in the mainstream, we lose our craving and our desire for those things we were beating our drums to get. Of course, we had to buy the drum first-the red one.

I know, I know, its easy talk for a middle-aged guy to say. I've had my run. Get out of the way old man and let us have our shot at that 32 inch on sale in the meat department at Walmart. There is something terribly wrong with that picture. Its kind of like making that heroine deal in the dirty restroom of a old neighborhood gas station, only the rump roast is on sale.

What if the kid gets only three presents instead of ten? What would happen? What if your partner gets you a bag of socks and underwear-something we, as men, always seem to need but never buy for ourselves. What if everyone comes over for a game of yard darts and cinnamon rolls and really good coffee? I got to tell you, I can't remember last year's presents. I do remember one of my three kids was in a war zone.  Priorities.

What if, for Christmas morning, we got up and went for a walk-a long walk, maybe in a park, early so the morning colors were the most vibrant? What if the family down the street, whose single mother just had her hours cut, wakes up with a fully decorated tree on her front porch and not only some well needed presents for her kids under it, but something for her?

What if that kid at school you teach at wanted to buy a gift for his dying grandma, but didn't have the money and he comes in the next day and you give him a wrapped gift, tellingl him someone must have overheard his conversation because you found this in your mailbox with a note on it to give it to him (high school kids are pretty gullible).

Look, I'm not saying we shouldn't get caught up in the wave of free enterprise; we're 'Mericans forcrissake! But with that said, no one knows the true cost of where we live like us. We take care of the world and who better to take care of our own other than us? And here is the fun thing-you feel like you just won the lottery.

I don't know, maybe not. Maybe its all just a stage and we're the players. Oh, but what a play!

Just a Quick Note about this Weekend

It is Sunday of Veteran’s Day weekend and I’m sad-despondent-a little angry-whatever the magic word is for the three day weekend coming to an end.

I understand that I should be grateful about having a job, being able to earn money, have insurance, all that stuff. That’s not what I’m talking about. Anyone working would probably be having the same thoughts to some degree. The weekend, a calm, soothing, rainy weekend in Phoenix (sunny warm day in London or Seattle) with some soft music playing and two dogs laying their heads on your feet, kind of gives you a good feeling that you don’t want to go away. But there was something else.

Last year, our son, brother to my daughters, newly married husband to our daughter-in-law was not here. He was about one third of his way through his second tour of the Sand Box. This time, he was an advisor in Iraq’s beautiful city of Basrah. There was a lump in our lives that was missing.

This Veteran’s Day, he was home.

And we all danced.

There is a guilt feeling to not be happy, to not express happiness when so many families have lost so much or have people away. I had to think about this letter before I posted it. The answer was clear.

That’s why they went, so we could-dance. Americans are happy, caring, loving, sacrificial people who will give up their lives so some people can experience what we have. That-is called love by the way. So, it would be wrong to do anything else, to honor those veterans, living or dead, with anything other than a good time feeling, a party, a celebration, a quiet morning with a good cup of coffee and two dogs asleep on your feet as long as in the back of our consciousness, we know who wrote the check. My son and those like him purchased this day for us. It’s not about politics or 20% off at Kohls, at least not with these people.

So from now until the day we leave this planet, when we find one of these guys, thank them for the day, whether it’s a good day or not, it’s our day to make what we want with it.

Time to Start Running

Okay, Halloween is over and t'is the Christmas Season. Actually, according to Walgreen's, Christmas started back in August. I can't write much here because, well, I have to start running. I won't stop until the day after Christmas. That's just the way it is, but, I have made some decisions. See if you don't agree.

• Our family adopted the idea, a few years ago, to go out on Black Friday. Sure, it was fun once, maybe even twice, but now its getting up at 0-butt-crack of pre-dawn to go observe the Free Enterprise system at its annual birth. The Occupy's would crap baby kittens if they saw this. I said I can't write much because my new thing is to read the Black Friday press 'leaks' about what is for sale. Supposedly a big secret. Yeah, right. Hey, if it saves me ANYTHING I'm all for it.

• We are having Thanksgiving back at our house. Seventy-five hundred people are coming over. I'm thinking name tags would be nice, just on the grand kids. I don't give a hoot about the others. As long as they put the toilet seat down and take home the crap they bring, we're good. I do need to learn to 'let it go' so to speak. My motto at work is be the kelp-you know, ebbing back and forth with the tide. Go with the flow. Toilet seat, that is goin' with the flowin', oh, and don't miss either. Its a big target--hit it!

• This year, like every year, we are in charge of the turkey, I am forced--FORCED to buy a free range, organic free turkey from the foo-foo market. They're like three dollars more a pound then Jennie-O's. As a matter of fact, those bad boys are on sale for fifty-five cents a pound this week!! Why, tell me why, am I not buying one of those--I am this year. Yep! I saved the hand woven crate those free rangers came in last year and I'm going to put the Jennie in that and sneak it in the house saying so all could hear "HEY, HERE I AM WITH OUR VERY EXPENSIVE ORGANICALLY MASSAGED UGLIESTBIRDONTHEWHOLEPLANET. LOOK, I CARE WHAT YOU EAT SO I SPENT ALL THIS MONEY ON A THING THAT WE WILL ONLY BE EATING FOR 12-17 MINUTES BUT TAKES US SIX DAYS TO PREPARE."  Yeah, I timed it over the last few years. Thanksgiving, actual eat time, is only that long. That didn't even include dessert. That is right before the two hour clean up.

• That leads me to my next item, clean up. Everything is throw away this year. I don't care what the environmentalist say, paper products smeared with turkey and gravy decompose faster in the landfill. I swear. I want clean up to be less than one hour and only one run of the dishwasher. AND if you brought it, you're taking it home. There are just two of us living here now and I don't want your rhubarb pie. I don't want your homemade pumpkin pie either. Those are never as good as a store bought anyway. When you figure in time to make and then the applied eat time as listed above, the return is crappy. If it was a mutual fund, there would be a sell order on it.

• This year we, like last year, picked names in our family for gift exchange. We also shrunk the amount to spend, with a grand kid  exemption. I am bringing back the gift coupon idea which is always labeled as cold or uncaring. No, its perfect! Because if you buy actual stuff, your amount includes tax. You always have to count the tax-what is the final bill when you buy that pair of socks? $9.99 listed is not the final price. It's $10.87. You short your gift exchanger out of $.87 cents worth of crap. Bad form I say. Give the Gift of Pureness. Besides, you can get them on line.

These are just a few of my main points. You might have your own. The bottom line is to make a bottom line. Have some standards. Draw the line in the sand so to speak. But, just make sure you are nowhere near the entrance to Walmart when they open the doors at 3:00am. You might get trampled.

Ohhhh, that would be worth getting up and seeing!!

This is what I want in our next President

We need to really sit down and decide what we want to see with regards to the upcoming election for our next tribal chief of this here United States. The next few months, the folks here and around the world are going to be buried with debates and news accounts of what those running for the top office want us to believe about them and why they should get the nod and the keys to the little black briefcase with all the codes.

None of that is important.

Look, we need to focus on the real meat and potatoes of the job and what we really want to see from the supreme leader. If you think about it, they will tell us what we want to hear then carry on with whatever they want to do. Sure, it might effect the world economy, jobs, national security, none of that is the crux of the matter. Below, are some of what I think are the real important aspects of our presidency that we have not seen in recent memory. We need a president who models a life like ours. Here are the character traits and modeling of the man or woman who I want in the White House. Go on, tell me I'm wrong.

I want a president who will eat off a paper plate. Not one of those Chinet paper plates that are reinforced and are so strong you can have soup on them and they won't break. I'm talking about one of those real flimsy ones that you can buy seven thousand of for a buck-those kind. And he or she is eating a chili dog, a really big, nasty, chili dog. As a matter of fact, they eat a lot of chili dogs. They really like chili dogs.

I want a president who will wear some other color than white for a dress shirt. Come on, mix it up. If its a woman president, step away from the business suit. You're not a man, you're a woman! Its okay to be a woman and look like a woman with your finger on the red button. Both need to be shopping at Target, maybe even something from those big tables at Costco.

I want the next president to have a barbecue grill on the grounds some where. Nothing fancy, there is just you and your spouse and maybe a kid or two. You don't need some big built in. Something on wheels like a Thermos or a nice Char-Broil, couple of burners and maybe that side burner for your beans. You wouldn't even have to chain it to a tree. If you have the family over, you set up a folding table with some folding chairs and eat outside if the weather is nice. And that Marine standing guard at the door, make sure he has something to eat too-oh, don't forget the guys on the roof.

While the grill is heating up, I want to see the president flip a Frisbee or a ball for his dog. Take her out on the south lawn and really let loose. But I don't want to see them using those ball throwers either. You've seen them; they're like a sling you put the ball in and fling it. That way, you don't get dog slobber on your hands-GET DOG SLOBBER ON YOUR HANDS! And I don't want to see any rare breed of dog, something no one in America would have or afford. I want them to go to the pound and pick one out. Get one with some meat and character to it. Maybe one with a half missing ear, or bull-legged. Then give it a real name, like Mitch or Buckethead if its a boy or Margret if its a girl. We, the people, don't need you naming your dog to make us feel good. We know all about political correctness and naming your dogs Liberty or Freedom. Those are dorky dog names. Don't do that.

I want to see the president, sitting in the oval office, sitting at the desk that so many presidents have sat at, with a cup of coffee. Have you ever noticed every time we see the president sitting there, there is nothing on the desk? Come on, a nice Sumatran black in a mug. This is where dorkiness is cool. Have the mug with your kid or grand kid's picture on it, like the ones you get at the fair. How about working through lunch, sitting right there at your desk, signing some bills, having your chili dog on a paper plate and a soda. Sure, you're eating on an antique. So, use a coaster.

I want to see a president that will drive himself somewhere. Put the Secret Service in the back and you take the wheel. I am sure we couldn't get away with not driving the big limo, but maybe sometime, take the '98 Buick Electra out for that meeting with the Jamaican Prime Minister. That would be cool-tossing the keys to the valet and telling him you'll only be a minute.

I want a president who will be the first one to respond to a national catastrophe, Like the hurricane in New Orleans or flooding in Vermont. We don't need some big Show and Tell thing where the governor is walking the president around showing what everone is doing. Everyone knows what is going on. We can see it on TV. I don't even want the governor to know the president is there. I just want the president to show up in boots and jeans, a t-shirt and a John Deere ball cap and start filling sandbags. Someone looks over at him and says "Damn, anyone ever tell you you look like that guy, what's his name?"

They smile and say "Nope, no one ever did." And they just keep filling bags. And you do it for hours, not for some photo op. You are there filling a need-and sand bags.

I want a president who isn't afraid to say out loud what they are thinking inside. Like when that Iranian nut job talks at the U.N.; wouldn't it be great if the president followed him and merely said while he points at the Iranian guy, "That guy right there is bat-shit crazy!" And then they sit down.

I would like to see a president stop his motorcade (if he's driving the Electra he can just pull over) at an ATM and use one-and only get like $20. That's all he really needs for the day. Its not like he's buying lunch for anyone other than himself. OH-WAIT- what if he goes through a drive through and pulls up, orders, then asks his driver, "Hey Pete, what do you want, come on, I'm buying." That would be cool.

While he's throwing the ball for the dog, the president is drinking their favorite beverage and using one of those cozies, you know, those foam things to keep your drink cool. It's old and beat up and from some trucking firm in the Midwest.

Maybe on a nice night, we see the President sitting on the second story balcony, in a lawn chair, with their feet up on the rail. We never see anyone on that second story balcony.

Yep, I would vote for a president who was like this. They are regular people. Like my neighbor only in a nicer and bigger house. The other stuff will take care of itself. At least we would know the guy or gal driving the wagon is one of us; flawed, tempered, human. They aren't some figment of someones imagination. They are just like us, trying to make life a little better for the rest of us. That's all.

Just a little better.

Band of Brothers with Moves Like Jagger

I like the music that's out now. I am a big country music fan. But there is music out now that is pretty good with actual lyrics you can hear-one, I never really pay attention to and two, with age, is increasingly hard unless I turn my head. We had a real dry spell with rap with artists who were swallowing their microphones and, unless you were fourteen, couldn't understand what they were saying.

My older brothers have moves like Jagger as the jaunty tune says. When the three of us go to weddings, we form a small herd, have a nice, aged, beverage, and wait for our song-Shout. Then, we are called to the dance floor like the aged left-handed pitcher of twenty years, being called out of the dugout to save the last inning of the World Series; like George Blanda driving the last five minutes of the Super Bowl, throwing the touchdown pass then taking his forty-seven year old leg and kicking the field goal.

We're like Stormin' Norman.

The crowd doesn't know we've been carbo loading for these events for the required forty-eight hours before and two of us are wearing knee braces. We've talked seriously about whether or not we should do Depends or just double up on our underwear. We come from the darkness and the crowd circles and we bless the wedding. No, really, marriages have the possibility of being a train wreck without us dancing to Shout. Shamans from all over the world write us and ask us to come. If only Arnold and Maria had us at their wedding, they'd still be married and opening a food kitchen somewhere.

But the Band is getting, well, old. I'm the youngest at fifty-three then you got the other two at sixty-two and sixty-five. The brother at sixty-five is in better shape then the other two. He is fighting age with hammers in both hands. We go to weddings and he never leaves the dance floor. Makes me tired just watching him. He doesn't listen to the lyrics either. None of the brothers do. We can't do that and concentrate on not getting hip-displasia. If we fall, we ain't getting up. Its a survival thing, but every once in a while, some words come through that are simple, concise, to the point, and sometimes will make us snort corn out our nose.

You got artists like Lady Gaga and Katie Perry leading the way. It's funny anyone can make a zillion dollars off the the various forms of the words yeah...yeah or hey, hey, hey the latter of which always has to be said in three's. The Band, if nothing, is hip, we're in the groove; in the know; we know what's shakin'.

We know that ...yeah tonight baby... means that something is going to happen tonight. Why can't it happen during the day, when we're awake? We're with you, we know-as long as it happens before nine. See, at nine, its bed time, sleepy time. Maybe that's what they mean. Oh man, bed with cold sheets and a good book, unconscious by nine-fifteen. Oh, yeah baby.

Then you got ...locked up like Lindsey Lohan...which is just a reminder to live a good life instead of one with the constant threat of DUI's and cavity searches. Frankly, when that song comes on the radio, you can't help but tap the dashboard of your Audi (when you're over fifty, you buy Audis).

Sometimes, just because its old doesn't mean its washed up. The great philosopher and money manager, M.C. Hammer with his classic, Can't Touch This causes the listener to ask 'touch what?'

What Katie or Lady should think about is maybe replacing such enigmatic word combos as ...fill me with your poison... with ...passion burns like never before.... Both seem to require a series of antibiotic booster shots. But we need to keep it real. Music listeners are smart people, we know what is true and what isn't, come on.

No twenty-five year old believes they are a tiger she wants to tame and if you are over forty-five, you are tamed. You just want to curl up with a good book or find a comfy chair with two fingers of Jack Daniels (black label of course) and an old John Wayne movie.

Lyrics like ...all night long...have no application to the older set unless we're flying high cover for a patrol in the Sandbox, waiting for our granddaughter to be born, or are having a serious discussion about the number of trips to the bathroom during our sleep cycle. And for the young, come on, who are you talking to? We use to be young once. Nothing has changed. When your talking about all night long, nothing goes past thirty minutes and then you're just like the rest of us, forming a drool pool on your pillow and developing that slight snore that is cute at twenty-four, but at fifty-four causes your spouse to leave you brochures to sleep clinics on the counter.

So, take heart my young friends. We're as good once as we've ever been. The old warrior stock, that is at least twenty years ahead of you, have your back. Just help us up off the dance floor if we go down and can't get up. Lend us a hand or maybe two, get us back to our chair, pat us on the back and thank us for coming out of the dugout, then check your watch. If its nine, call us a cab, will you?