Category Archives: All About Me

Adventures of a House-Husband: Christmas Edition

All About Me, Arts, Books and Literature, Home Life, Kids & Grandkids, Pets, Religion, Uncategorized, Wives

Merry Christmas everybody! Right now, I’m sitting here feeling sorry for anybody who isn’t me. Last night, in an effort to minimize the cooking over the next couple of days, I whipped up another huge batch of Slopbucket; arguably the greatest and deadliest meal known to man (the recipe is in another post entitled “Adventures of a House-Husband: Home Cooking Edition”). It was, in a word, AWESOME!!!!! That knocking you heard last night? That was the sound of my arteries (and possibly my colon as well: there’s a LOT of Velveeta in this stuff), slamming shut and reverberating around the world. That weird and ominous thundery yet kinda gurgly noise you heard this morning?  It was probably just weird and ominous gurgly thunder (but there are a LOT of peppers and chili seasoning in this stuff too).

Even more awesome is the fact that there’s enough left over for supper tonight, and it just gets better with age, like wine, whisky, and my wife, the lovely and gustatorily adventurous Jess (although she’s still just 27, as far as I’m concerned). I haven’t looked forward to supper this much since . . . well, last night, I guess. Still, I’m really looking forward to it. A lot. You might want to sleep with your earplugs in though. But enough about that.

I decided to try something different this year; cooking dessert stuff. Every year, my wife, the ever-more-awesome and eternally lovely Jess, makes Christmas candy, primarily Buckeyes, Peanut Clusters, and what she calls Moose Balls (don’t knock ’em ’til you try ’em). They’re basically Buckeyes, only instead of peanut butter, it’s cream cheese and crushed Oreo cookies rolled into balls and dipped in chocolate. They’re awesome, and I love ’em, but I got to thinking that she might enjoy something new. Plus people keep posting videos of how to make all this stuff on the Facebook, and it looks so simple. Seriously, watch the videos: it’s almost like the stuff makes itself.

Chocolate Lasagna

I mean it combines two of my favorite meals; Chocolate and Lasagna. What could go wrong?

And then there was this: Cinnamon Roll French Toast Bake. The sweet-toothed and just plain sweet Jess loves her some Cinnamon Rolls. I figured she’d enjoy this for breakfast Christmas morning (Sorry, I can’t figure out how to link the video, but here’s one to the recipe).

The Chocolate Lasagna looked to be the most complex, so this morning, I started with that. It went pretty well, although the first step was to mix some stuff up and set it aside. I did that, but then it was really kind of unclear as to what to do with it. I also learned that using a mixer is a skill. A skill I do not possess, apparently. Those little whirligigs can really fling the heavy whipping cream. You’d think that something like that would come with some kind of cover, or they’d make mixing bowls with deeper sides, or something.

Fortunately, I had Dude, Mattie, and Molly, a highly efficient and enthusiastic cleanup crew. They had my back. And my chest and legs, as well as the walls, countertops, etc (yeah, it got a little freaky in the ol’ kitchen this morning). Anyway, I got everything mixed up and ready. I put down the first layer of Graham crackers, and started smearing the cream cheese mixture over it. Now in the video, it smeared right along, with no problem at all. Not in my kitchen though. In my kitchen, it was like trying to get rid of snot. That stuff stuck to everything, and wouldn’t spread out at all. I ended up with the Graham crackers piling up and shattering into pieces which I then had to try to put back into something resembling a layer, like a frustrating (but delicious) jigsaw puzzle.

Finally, I referred to the recipe. Yep, I was doing just what it said. Oh wait . . . remember that bowl of stuff I’d mixed up and then set aside? Yeah, neither did I. There was a sentence in the middle of a paragraph that said to “fold” it into the cream cheese mixture. Now, I don’t have any idea how to fold a liquid, so I “dumped” it in, mixed it up, and everything went fine after that. It really makes me wonder about who wrote that recipe though. I mean, you just don’t stick something like that in the middle of a paragraph. There should have been a separate step in there. Were they pressed for space? Were they limited to a certain number of steps? Or, were they just expecting the people who used that recipe to know what they were doing? If that was the case, then they were wrong. Very, very wrong.

At any rate, I got that done and put in the fridge, and tackled the Cinnamon Roll French Toast Bake. Now that one really looked easy. Twenty minutes later, I was still trying to get that first can of cinnamon rolls open. Poppin’ fresh, my ass. They might be fresh, but there was very little poppin’ going on. I’ll admit, I was a little worried. The instructions warned me to make sure I pointed the ends of the can away from myself to prevent injury. Apparently those things are under a lot of pressure. I could not get that thing open to save my life. I even read the instructions. They said, “Push spoon against seam. Unroll tube.” I tried a spoon. No luck. I tried a butter knife. Still no luck. Finally, I resorted to a steak knife. That did the trick. Apparently (happily) the Pillsbury people are laboring under an extreme misunderstanding about how much pressure that cardboard tube contains. There was no pop, not even when I stabbed it with the steak knife. A little oozing maybe, but certainly not the explosive blast I was led to expect. I’ve got to say, I felt a little silly (and kind of disappointed, too).

Anyway, I got it done, and both dishes turned out great. Well, at least they look great. We have yet to try them. Still, I’m feeling pretty optimistic about it.

Of course, Christmas isn’t just about food. It’s also about presents.

Now I don’t know about you, but in my family, traditionally, it’s the grandparents who give the worst gifts. Don’t get me wrong, when I was a kid, I always looked forward to going to my grandparent’s houses for Christmas, but it was because I looked forward to seeing them and all my cousins (plus, my Dad’s folks lived in Florida, and Pa had a huge collection of Louis L’amour and Max Brand westerns). It was not for the gifts, which were normally underwear and socks, or their equivalent.

Note: If you are one of my grandkids, you should stop reading now, unless you’re just into preemptive disappointment. Seriously. Plus, what are you doing reading this blog? I’m pretty sure there’s some at least mildly inappropriate stuff on here. There’s certainly supposed to be. Go read something good for you!!!!!

Now my wife, the cool and generous Jess, and I have always tried to get the grandkids something pretty cool for Christmas, but this year, I decided it was time to go traditional. I do, of course, remember the expected disappointment of opening deceptively festively wrapped packages of underwear and socks, so I decided to go a different route. We got them books. Now, when I was a kid, I would have been thrilled to get books (yes, I was a weird kid), but I’m not sure my grandkids will be equally excited. Still, they’re good books, and they’re smart kids, so who knows?

I got the oldest boy Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. It’s a great book, and full of stuff that he’s almost certainly not going to learn about in school. Plus, he’s gone with me to the Rez a few times now, and I feel like to understand the present situation out there, you have to have some understanding of the history.

I got the oldest girl My Name is Malala, the story of an Afghan girl, Malala Yousafzai, who was shot in the head for insisting on going to school, survived that to face her attackers, and won the Nobel Peace Prize by the age of 16. I figure in a world full of Kardashians, Britney Spears’es (she’s still a thing, right?), Miley Ray Cyrus’es and various other assorted females who seem to be mostly famous to for their ability to vibrate their posteriors faster than the speed of sound, as well as the scarcity of their clothes, she could do worse than learn about a girl only slightly older than herself who stands for something good, does it fearlessly (or maybe in spite of fear), and is trying to make the world a better place. I also figure that if nothing else, it would be good for her to learn that not all Muslims are psychopathically religious headcases who want to kill her.

Jess got the younger boy The Indian in the Cupboard. Hopefully, it will induce a love of reading like Jess and I have. I don’t think it’s particularly heavy or inspirational, but we both started out reading fantastic adventures, and we figure it’s a good way to get him started.

At the very least, it should be less disappointing than socks and underwear.

Of course, gifts aren’t even what Christmas is really about, they’re just symbolic.

The Real Meaning of Christmas

If you really want to know what Christmas is all about, you’re looking in the wrong place. This is a silly place (mostly), for silly ramblings. The real meaning of Christmas is beautiful, and deadly serious. Look around you. All those people of different races, creeds, colors, lifestyles, etc.? They’re what Christmas is all about. They’re why He came. Well, them, and you, and me (that’s what I believe. You, of course, are welcome to believe what you believe as well). If you need more information than that, go to church tonight.

At any rate, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy Hanukkah, and Happy Kwanzaa to all.

 

 

A Simple Solution to Today’s Problems

All About Me, Culture, Politics, Politics & Culture, Religion

All day now, actually, for the last two days now, I’ve been trying to write a post on capitalism. Before you panic, I was neither condemning nor condoning it, just discussing it, with a couple of ideas/suggestions that I thought might make it work a little better. I had in my mind a very measured, reasonable, calm, even kind, kind of post; the sort of thing that might make folks on both sides of the fence at least think about both capitalism and socialism in a new light. I didn’t expect to change anybody’s mind, just wanted to throw a few things out there as part of a rational and reasonable discussion.

Sadly, I find myself unable to write that post: I offer instead what is neither a reasonable nor a rational solution to much of what ails our country.

Step One: Shut Up!

Okay, not just Shut Up!, but

SHUTUP!SHUTUP!SHUTUP!SHUTUP!SHUTUP!

SHUTUP!SHUTUP!SHUTUP!SHUTUP!SHUTUP!

SHUTUP!SHUTUP!

Seriously. Just shut up. Please. And this includes you meme-sharing drones who think that just because something sounds reasonably witty and agrees with your position that it’s right. And that goes for both sides of the fence. NO MORE MEMES! Whether you think I would agree with them or not! Just SHUT UP!

The other day, somebody shared a meme that was a close-up of a snarling lion’s face, with something about Jesus written over it, I can’t remember exactly what. I do remember that the context was to remind us all that Jesus wasn’t just about love and grace and forgiveness, that he’s coming back soon (apparently in the next couple of weeks), ready to rain down some righteous judgement and retribution. Basically, it was to make Jesus look like a badass. As if being GOD isn’t badass enough. As if forgiving the numbnuts who crucified him WHILE HE WAS HANGING ON THE CROSS wasn’t badass enough. As if CONQUERING DEATH ITSELF wasn’t badass enough.

Yeah, that stock picture of a lion’s gonna convince people.

The same goes for posting and forwarding videos of celebrities who are spouting stupid shit that you agree with. Just because they’re famous (more or less) doesn’t make them either smart or right. I just saw a video with Chuck Woolery – that’s right – Chuck Woolery, the Love Connection guy, in which he purports to prove why he needs an assault rifle. Seriously. Chuck F-‘in Woolery, the “I’ll see you in two and two” guy needs an assault rifle because . . . THE CONSTITUTION! Granted, there’s more to his argument than that, but I had to stop before my head exploded. Don’t get me wrong, Chuck seems like a nice guy, even when he’s fondling a rifle, but he’s just spouting the same tired old shitty arguments that are getting us nowhere. And I’m not saying that Chuck doesn’t need an assault rifle – I’m just saying that there’s room for discussion.

This goes for all you knuckleheads on the left, as well (I just couldn’t think of any memes or videos that annoyed me as much from you guys). Still, just knock it off. Give it a rest. It’s not helping.

Anyway, so that’s step one: Shut Up!

Step Two: Log Off!

Sign out, close your laptop, whatever it takes, but get off the internet!

This is an absolutely critical part of the plan, as the odds of people ceasing to post memes and videos and whatnot are pretty damn’ slim. So just turn it off. Get away from it. I’m not saying leave it forever. Just take a week off. A few days, anyway. Take a walk, get some air. Talk to someone. Have an actual conversation with someone who doesn’t agree with you. Listen to what they have to say, and say what you think without yelling it at them. Believe it or not, not all liberals are drooling, zombified sheep who are planning to take all your guns and freedoms and money away and give it to criminals. Not all conservatives are mouth-breathing, moronic fascists who want to stuff all brown people into cages and shoot everyone who doesn’t look or think like them.

So, let’s review:

Step One: Shut Up!

Step Two: Log Off!

Step Three: Repeat As Necessary!

When you come back to the internet (because you know you’re going to. I know I will; how else am I going to waste time that I should be spending writing?), don’t fall into the same trap we’re in now. Refuse to share memes (unless they have cute, non-partisan cats or dogs, like the “thiberian huthkie” one; That one cracks me and Jess up.). The same goes for videos: if it’s not critters doing something funny or adorable, or people falling down, just don’t share it. If you absolutely must share something, share something you wrote, or something that actually says something, something that is not just parroting back talking points. Actually, we should all probably stick to a blanket critters-and-people-falling-down sharing rule. I’d also like to point out that that whole, “When you point a finger at someone, you’ve got three pointing back at you,” thing totally applies in this case; I’m just as guilty as the rest of you, and I know it.

Sorry, I almost forgot the most important step. Let’s call it Step A.

Step A: Don’t Be An Asshole!

If you look back after taking a few days away from the internet and realize that, indeed, you may have been an asshole, then stop, and avoid the temptation to continue being an asshole. Also, when you see a meme and wonder, “What asshole shared that?” remember that it was probably shared by someone who is really an essentially decent, caring person, albeit one who doesn’t have the sense to follow Step One.

And there you go; problem solved! Well okay, not all of them, there’s still terrorism and mass shootings and abortion and racism and religious bigotry, etc., etc. However, I feel fairly confident that if we could all take a step back and talk to each other, then maybe the whole slash-and-burn-and-salt-the-earth-all-or-nothing-if you’re-not-with-us-you’re-against-us-not-only-that-but-you’re-going-to-hell-too-but-only-after-Jesus-lays-a-major-ass-whuppin’-on-you-personally-first attitude will seem at least a little bit extreme and counterproductive. Maybe then we can tackle some of that other stuff.

 

Cheer Up! It’s Really Not That Bad. Seriously. At Least Not For Most of Us.

All About Me, Arts, Home Life, Music, Wives

The fall semester is over, finally. I’ve been looking forward to this forever (at least that’s how it feels). So yesterday, I decided to tackle a job I’ve been putting off; building sideboards for my truck. I need them, not so much for myself, as for hauling a load of clothes and other donations out to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. I’ve gotta say, I haven’t been looking forward to it, either building the sideboards or the long, long drive to S. Dakota the week before Christmas. On the other hand, at least I’ve got the time to do it. So I bit the bullet and got stuck into it. First, I had to take the stainless steel rail things off of my truck in order to get to the pockets for the sideboards. I thought, you know, how bad can that be? Four bolts and four screws, right? No big deal, ten, fifteen minutes, and I’d be set. Hahahahahahahahahah. Rust is some pretty incredible stuff.

Two hours later, I finally got the last bolt loose. I strained what muscles I have left in my arms and shoulders getting them off, but I did it. Mission accomplished! I’m still a man who can do stuff! Then of course, it was time to go to Lowe’s to get the plywood and hardware. I was extremely careful to make sure I got everything I needed. You guys know what I mean. None of us have ever managed to complete a project with less than two, and usually at least three or four, trips to the store. Well this time was going to be different! I was going to achieve the holy grail of modern American masculinity: I was going to come home with everything I needed to build those sideboards in one trip. I went over and over the plan in my head (because lists are for sissies, right guys?). I even moseyed up and down the aisles, browsing, just in case I noticed something I might need. Finally, I realized I really did have everything. I was going to be the first guy to ever accomplish this. I was gonna be a legend! People were going to point me out on the street to their sons and say, in a hushed and reverent voice, “Look, it’s HIM! He’s the ONE!” They were going to go bed at night, praying that their sons would grow up to be as manly as me.

I got home and got started building. Everything was going great, even better than I expected. I had to cut down the 2×4’s to fit the pockets of the truck – my cuts were perfect. They fit like a glove. It was all going so well. Then I hit a snag; the eyebolts I had bought were just a little bit too short. Okay, disappointing, but at least I’d remembered to buy them. Not only that, but I’d made sure to buy them the same size as the carriage bolts I was using, so I could go ahead and finish building them, and just stop off at Lowe’s the next time I was in the neighborhood and pick up longer eyebolts and just switch them out. I mean stopping by Lowe’s is not the same as having to make a special trip, right? Okay, so there might be a little less awe and reverence in those guy’s voices as they point me out to their kids, maybe I wouldn’t make the cover of American Manly Man magazine, but what the heck, right? As far as I was concerned, it still counts.

Then, out of the blue, disaster struck: I’d been so careful to make sure I had the right number of bolts, fender washers, lock washers. How did I manage to forget nuts? That’s just stupid. Who forgets nuts? My delusions of grandeur came crashing down around my ears. I was just an ordinary guy after all (and don’t say I told you so; especially you guys. You know you think the same thing every time you go to Lowe’s when you start a project).

It was all downhill after that. I managed to scrounge enough nuts by raiding my brother-in-law’s garage (thanks Ron!) to get one sideboard built. Then came the final blow; I couldn’t get the sideboard off the truck. When I was a kid, we had heavier sideboards than these, and I could just pop them out by myself no problem. Well not anymore. I fought and fought, but couldn’t get them out. Too short, too out of shape, too weak, too pitiful. Guys were going to be pointing me out to their sons with snickers, “Look, it’s HIM, heheheheh. He’s the ONE, hahahaha.” I felt so ashamed.

I had to wait until my wife, the lovely and tall Jess, came home from work so she could help me. My humiliation was complete.

Today wasn’t shaping up to be much better. When I got up, I was in fairly excruciating pain. Apparently, I strained every muscle I have, trying to get that stupid sideboard out. Everything hurts. I’m moving even more stiffly and robotically than normal. I am a tower of pain (okay, more of a well-rounded mound of pain, but you get the picture). I wanted to do some writing for fun, so I came to the computer and started checking out the Facebook, looking for inspiration. Nothing. just the usual round of political rants from both sides of the fence. It was really bumming me out.

I wanted to write something funny, something to brighten at least my own day, but couldn’t think of a thing. Everywhere I looked, just the usual depressing stuff; Terrorists, greedy capitalists, free-loading socialists, abortion, gun control, mass shootings, religious rants, etc. You know, Wednesday. There was nothing funny in the world. Everything sucked. Everybody sucked. I sucked.

In the midst of all this suckage, I gave up. I decided that I’d get some housework done. I managed to brush my teeth and take a shower without too much pain or self-loathing. I started in on the kitchen. Now I won’t say it’s clean, but I did manage to get the dishes done and all of the current bio-hazards taken care of. I started to do the laundry, but it turned out we’re out of softener. It’s no big deal to me, but the civilized and sophisticated Jess clings to a higher standard than I, so I just gave up until I could get some.

That left me with the computer. I remembered that we English geeks are having a white elephant gift exchange at the writing center tomorrow, so I decided to burn some cd’s for it. I know that technically it’s copyright infringement, and I’m against it, but I also figure that none of them have ever heard of these bands, and if one of these discs persuades someone to buy an album, then I’ve done the band a favor. So I started working on it. I put one or two songs from each album on a disc, enough to give a taste of each band’s oeuvre, without getting too carried away.

As a result, I spent about two hours just listening to music. Not just music though. Great music. Lucero, Todd Snider, Jay Farrar, and many others. Before I knew it, I felt so much better. Not physically of course, it still hurts to move anything but my fingers, but spiritually. The music reminded me of how blessed I am. I’ve got a beautiful and fantastic wife, the lovely and loving Jess, and great friends and family. I’ve got what’s left of my health, and my brain still functions pretty well. I’ve got a warm house, dependable transportation, and plenty of food. I’m not wealthy (financially anyway), but I’m doing okay. I don’t want for anything (other than a pain- and diet-free way to lose weight). I’m a lucky, no – check that – blessed guy.

I think about all the people, both in this country and out of it, who can’t say the same. People who live in no-shit real poverty. People whose neighborhoods are war zones, literally. People who actually have to worry about freezing to death in the winter, every winter. People who can’t feed their children. People who look at me and those like me like we’re Donald Trump (wealthy, I mean, not assholes). I think about that, and I’m glad I’ve got the time to take coats and gloves and stuff to S. Dakota, that I’ve got friends who can donate that stuff. I’m glad I’ve got a dependable truck and funds to make that drive. I’m glad I live in a country that people still want to come to because they believe it’ll make their lives better to be Americans (and I do believe that’s why 99.9 percent of them come).

Sometimes I just need a minute and a good song to remind me that things really aren’t as bad as I think; at least not for me. The trick is to keep trying to take what I’ve been blessed with to make somebody else’s life better too.

On Loss

All About Me

It’s rare that I write something for school that applies to the real world. This did, especially today.

On Loss

Eighteen years ago today, I lost my big brother. No, that is a stupid thing to say; I didn’t lose him, he died. Six years before that, my father died. Three years ago, both my mother and my oldest sister died. My father’s death, and that of my brother (stroke and car accident, respectively) were sudden, unsuspected, and shocking. My mother’s and sister’s (Alzheimer’s and cancer), were slow, agonizing, and, if I’m being honest, longed-for, once they were beyond modern medicine’s capacity for help.

I miss them all, and not a single day has gone by since their deaths that I haven’t thought of each of them, sometimes with sadness, but more often with joy for having known them. I still live on the farm that we grew up on. My earliest memories revolve around my family working and playing in the same yard and fields that I walk every day. I never use the old driveway without thinking, “This is the spot where Dad died.”

When I look out my back window, I see my one remaining sister’s house, and the basement apartment where my mother spent her last days, the window of the bedroom where I sat with her body, weeping quietly.

The one thing that I have never felt though, is loss.

I often wonder at people who do seem to; the grave decorators, the people with loved one’s names and dates tattooed on them, the folks with the commemorative stickers decorating their cars, the ones who, years after a loved one’s death, insist on posting on Facebook constantly about how much they miss whoever it is that they miss.

It seems, to me anyway, very sad, and almost masturbatory. No, to be honest, it seems explicitly masturbatory, like if they are not constantly reminding themselves, and everyone they know, how much they miss their loved one, then that loved one will cease to exist, or ever have existed. They seem to need to keep that wound open, raw, and sore, or they will be in some way betraying their dead.

When something is lost, you don’t know where it is.

I suppose I am lucky, in that I live where I do. I don’t need tattoos or stickers to remind me. I just have to look out my window to see the land my dead shaped. The place where my sister used to put me on her horse and lead it around. The spot where my brother got my car stuck in the field. The hill where my dad beat my, and my little brother’s, asses for almost hitting my mom with a mudball when we were supposed to be working. It’s not that I don’t miss them, because I do, every day. For me though, they are not lost, they are still here, still walking these fields and hills with me.

I never visit the graveyard where they, along with my grandparents, aunts and uncles are buried, much less decorate their graves. For me, they are not there. They are somewhere else, waiting for me, and I am confident that I will see them again. Until then, I keep them right where they have always been, right here in my heart.

The one thing that I have never felt is loss. I feel sad for those who do.

American Exceptionalism: I’m Not Sure It Means What Everyone Thinks It Means

All About Me, Culture, Politics, Politics & Culture

Disclaimer!

This is not a particularly funny post, although I think there is some pretty funny stuff in it. It’s about politics, or at least political issues, so if you’ve had enough of that stuff for a while, do yourself a favor, and skip down to the “Death By Grippo’s” post. Also, there is some stuff in here that some might find offensive (I’m pretty sure the language is okay, but some of the ideas may be a little scary), so be warned. That said, I hope you get a laugh, and more importantly, a think out of it. Enjoy, and, as always, thanks for reading!

American Exceptionalism

American Exceptionalism is one of those terms that gets flung around a lot over the last few years, and with an election coming up, I’m pretty sure that we’re going to be hearing a lot more about it. It’s one of those things that politicians love to talk about in order to show how much they love America (as if the flag pins, flag bunting, images of flags-waving-above-fields-of-grain and fading in and out as backgrounds in campaign ads and Stars-and-Stripes-based logos weren’t enough). They shout about “American Exceptionalism” and “America is the greatest country in the world” and “Americans are the greatest people in the world”. They go on and on about how we do everything better than everybody else in the world. We’re innovators! We’re motivators! We’re tire rotators! (sorry, couldn’t help myself) We’re the Land of the Free, and the Home of the Brave. Yee Haw!

I guess that would be okay, if the people spouting it really seemed to believe it. All too often, however, they then go on to describe how we can’t do things that are already being done all over the world. They go on and on about how those things are going to destroy our country.

Gay Marriage!

Seriously? How can we be so mighty, so awesomely powerful, so incredibly wonderful, and yet letting two people who love each other publicly and legally bind their lives together will bring this great nation to its knees? The weird thing to me is that nobody seemed to care if they cohabitated before this (well, okay, they did, but I don’t recall anybody screaming for laws to prevent it). I also heard a lot of people saying that okay, they should be allowed to have civil unions (the 21st-century equivalent of jumping over a broom), just keep the M-word out of it.

A lot of people are screaming that it is a sign of the moral decay of our nation. But is it? Which is more immoral? To force others to live a life less free than yourself so you can pretend that it doesn’t exist, or to accept that, okay, not everyone believes as I do, but they are no less a person than I? That seems to be what it really comes down to, to me anyway.

I know that a lot of genuinely good people worry about the wrath of God coming down on us as a nation over this, but, as I’ve said before, compared with slavery, Jim Crow, 400+ years of genocide, and polluting the environment so badly that our rivers used to catch on fire, I’m pretty sure that gay marriage is just a fart in the windstorm of American morality. If we’re so exceptional, then shouldn’t equality be a given (since it is one of the founding principles of this country)? I feel fairly confident that the only straight people this whole gay marriage thing is going to significantly effect is straight lawyers who will be making a lot more money, because I’m guessing that gay Americans will prove to be just as inept as straight Americans at picking life-long partners to legally bind themselves to on the first try. On the other hand, maybe they’ll be exceptionally good at it. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the pants?

Keep moving people, nothing to see here.

Socialized Medicine!

If the gay marriage thing doesn’t get us, then socialized medicine will bring the country down for sure. In fact, a lot of people seem to think that Obamacare (which is a long way from real socialized medicine) is the worst thing that has ever happened to this country. It’s going to destroy our economy! Death panels! Blah, Blah, Blah! More Blah, Blah, Blah! We’re all going to die! Well, yeah, I’ll grant you, that last one is true, but it won’t be because of Obamacare. I’ll admit, I’m not a fan of Obamacare.  At worst, it’s selling more of the country to insurance companies. At best, I see it as a bad first step in the right direction.But that’s the thing; at least we’re moving in the right direction, which is viewing health-care as a right and a societal responsibility, not a privilege. Just about every other industrialized country on earth seems to see it that way, and it hasn’t destroyed any of them. Granted, it’s far from perfect in most of them, but it works. That’s where the American Exceptionalists should see an opportunity to prove how exceptional we really are. Innovate! Improve! Take what those other countries are doing right, and fix what they’re doing wrong! Now that would be exceptional.

Diplomacy!

As if the gay marriage and the socialized medicine weren’t bad enough, now we’re stooping to diplomacy. We’re doomed! We’re not a diplomacy people, we’re a kill ’em all and let God sort ’em out people. I’m talking, of course, about the Iran deal (dun, dun, dunnnnnn). I’ll grant you, I’m leery of it. I don’t know what’s in it. On the other hand, none of it’s detractors did either before they started trumpeting it as the other other worst thing that’s ever happened in the history of, well, history. What I do know is that England, France, China, and Russia all worked on it too, and none of them (or anyone else in the world) stands to benefit from the religious whackado’s in charge of Iran’s government getting nuclear weapons. I also know that none of our other recent wars in the middle east have exactly worked out the way we were told they would. I feel fairly confident that getting to the point where we can sit across the table from Iran and talk seems infinitely more promising than screaming threats at each other and vowing to destroy each other.

As a veteran, I am confident in the exceptionalism of our armed forces. I also think we’ve asked more than enough of them for the time being. We should use our military as a last resort, because we have to, not because, well, it’s fun to blow stuff up. I feel like maybe it’s time to give our diplomats a shot at being exceptional as well.

Renewable Energy!

If we somehow manage to stave off the complete and utter destruction brought on by gay marriage/socialized medicine/diplomacy, we’ll still be screwed by the push for renewable energy. Now I know that the chances of powering the entire country with wind and/or solar energy or whatever else they’re coming up with (I saw something about electricity-generating algae the other day) is pretty unlikely, even in a best case scenario. But it could help a whole lot of people. Out in S. Dakota, on Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, a place tailor-made for wind and solar power, there are hundreds of people who spend a large part of every year without electricity, because they can’t pay the bills (I’ve seen statistics that show median household income on Pine Ridge Reservation anywhere from $2,600 – $7,000/year). I’m thinking that putting up some windmills and solar farms out there could significantly improve the lives of the people there.

I know people say, “Oh, what about the jobs lost? All those coal miners and oil field workers put out of work?” They’re right. It would be a significant change, and a lot of miners and oil field workers might have to find new jobs. But that has always been the case with progress (when was the last time you needed a farrier?).

Anyway, I could go on and on, but I’ll spare you.

What They Seem To Think American Exceptionalism Means

What “They” (and by “they”, I mean pretty much every candidate running for office, republican or democrat) seem to think American Exceptionalism means is this: A handy catchphrase that I can throw out there to make all those people that I wouldn’t give the time of day to if I weren’t running for office feel good about themselves and think I’m the guy who has their best interests at heart.

What Everyone Else Seems To Think American Exceptionalism Means

What I’ve gathered from talking to people (and reading their posts on social media) on all sides of the political/religious/economic fences seem to think it means is this: Americans are exceptional, EXCEPT for everyone who isn’t just like me. We are incredibly good (exeptionally good, you might say) at vilifying and demonizing everyone who doesn’t immediately and wholly agree with us. We are exceptionally good at being offended by anything that presents us with a differing opinion, while at the same time being exceptionally amazed that anyone could possibly be offended by anything we ourselves say or do. This is how we manage to be offended by rainbow flags (which are at least ostensibly about freedom, even if it’s just the freedom to be yourself), and yet insist on our right as Americans to fly a Rebel Flag (a flag designed and flown in support of rebellion against the nation and white supremacy).

I take comfort in the fact that, despite what views they seem to subscribe to, their actions belie their words. Virtually all of the people who say and post the things that I am pretty much completely opposed to are, despite their different opinions, good-hearted, decent, generous, and kind people, who would go out of their way to help a stranger in need, regardless of that stranger’s any race, creed, color, sexual orientation, or position on any of the issues that politicians use to divide us.

What I Think American Exceptionalism Means

I would say that the previous two sentences pretty much sums up what I think it means, except for the fact that I’ve seen people all over the world, Christians, Jews, Muslims, Atheists, Gays, Straights, Conservatives, Liberals, and people of pretty much every type imagineable do exactly the same thing. What it really comes down to, for me anyway, is this: Thanks to being American, and the freedoms we all too often take for granted, we have more opportunities to BE exceptional. We are born with the chance to do really exceptional things. We have the opportunity to be exceptionally kind, exceptionally generous, exceptionally loving and caring. We have the opportunity to live up to, and to help others achieve, the American ideals of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness for all, not just those like “me”.

That, I think, would be truly exceptional.

Witless Wisdom From a Newly Minted Quinquagenarian

All About Me, Uncategorized

I turned 50 years old today, and, in keeping with the philosophy that you should never stop learning, I learned that there’s actually a word for it: Quinquagenarian. So I got that going for me. Which is nice.

Anyway, I felt that this would be an auspicious occasion to take a few moments to pass on a few priceless words of wisdom to you all. So I sat here and thought . . . and thought . . . and thought . . . and finally realized that I really don’t know squat. Now I know what you’re all thinking: “Wow, I never realized how much he had in common with Socrates,” and thank you. So kind of you to notice. Anyway, I thought about it, and realized that I wouldn’t really be telling most of you anything new (after all, you have the good taste and common sense to read this blog in the first place), so a post like that would really just be a waste of time and effort on all of our parts.

Next, I thought of writing a reflective post, contemplating the various triumphs I’ve experienced over the first half of my life (now that I’ve officially reached the half-way point), but my overwhelming humility rebelled at the thought. I just couldn’t bear the thought of the feelings of inadequacy that would surely overwhelm my beloved readership. I’m afraid such a post would just be bringing my throng of fans too close to the sun, so to speak (by the way, 32 1/2 is a throng isn’t it?). Also, since I was naked (calm down girls) for most of my greatest triumphs, telling you about them might be kind of uncomfortable.

Then, I realized that most of the important lessons I’ve learned in my life came, not from my dazzling array of deeply, deeply important, and monumental accomplishments, but rather, from the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” as the bard put it, or, as I myself have expressed it on numerous occasions, “the phenomenally stupid things I’ve done in my life”. Besides, who doesn’t like a good disaster story?

So here they are, a few tales of moronic adventure from various areas of my life, and the lessons learned therefrom:

Sports

Football:

In high school, I played football for Northeastern High School. My freshman year, I was 4′ 11″ and weighed 99 lbs. The coach was embarrassed that someone my size would try to play football, so he decided it was funny to put me in the tackling drills with the Seniors. I got the living crap beaten out of me, but I always got back up (not always quickly, but I always got up and got back in line). Every time I did, he just got angrier and angrier. This was the first inkling I had of my natural talent for infuriating and frustrating authority figures (a talent I refined during my 20 years in the Air Force). I also learned that I am not a quitter. Just think, if I had quit, I would never have risen to be Captain of the team my senior year (our third consecutive winless season).

Lessons learned: Any putz can be a winner. To keep being a loser and still go back year after year takes grit, determination, and character. Also, sports are over-rated.

Softball:

After my high school football experience and some unpleasant experiences with squadron softball leagues, I resolved never to participate in organized sports again, or even play a sport that I couldn’t play while drinking. This resolution led to a game of Beerball while deployed to Turkey. A bunch of us got a bunch of beer and had a softball game in a gravel field. Not being a beer drinker, I was playing 3rd base, and keeping the pitcher and myself supplied with Jack & Cokes. I smoothed a spot in the gravel just outside the base line for my drink, and after each pitch, would step out and have a sip. All was going well, until some smartass hit a line shot down the 3rd base line. This was several innings in, so my reaction time was a little slow, but I was still with it enough to realize my drink was in danger. Now, even in my heyday, I couldn’t have caught that ball, even Pete Rose couldn’t have caught it (at least not if he was in the condition I was in), but I felt it incumbent upon me to at least try to save my drink, so I leaned over that way a little bit. At that point, gravity kicked in, and I just kept going, sliding to a stop, facedown in the gravel. However, all’s well that ends well. Although my face took a pretty severe scraping, my drink was saved, and everyone was amazed that I dove for that ball. I saw no reason to disabuse them of that notion, and thus added another chapter to my legend.

Lesson learned: Sometimes bad stuff works out for the best. Also, gravity is not my friend, and the only safe place for a drink on a baseball diamond in inside you.

 

Romance

Shortly after my divorce, I was feeling kind of insecure and unsure of myself. I was spending my off-duty time delivering pizza, and there was a very nice, very pretty girl named Kelsey who worked there as a cook. I was pretty taken with her, but it took me weeks to get up the nerve to ask her out. Finally, my chance came. I was working in the prep area, chopping onions, and she walked in. We made small talk for a couple minutes, and I had finally screwed my courage to the sticking point. My next words were going to be “Hey, would you like to go out sometime?” (Okay, so I was not always the silver-tongued devil I am now), when she said, “Have you heard my news?”

“No,” I replied, “what news?”

“I can’t believe you haven’t heard.”

“Oh, you know, nobody ever tells me anything,” you know, playing it cool.

“I’m getting married!” She was practically bursting with excitement.

I, on the other hand, was standing there, with tears of frustration and disappointment streaming down my face as I stammered, “Congratulations!” I was so glad that I was cutting onions, so that at least I could play off the tears. She left, completely oblivious to my devastation.

Lesson learned: Onions are your friend in emotional situations. Also, don’t get too wound up about things.

While stationed in England, I became friends with a number of young, attractive female troops. We’d go out drinking and partying, and they knew that I could be trusted to keep the wolves off of them, walk them home, tuck them in, and leave. We always had a good time, but it did lead to a good friend asking me if I was gay, because I was running around with all these good-looking young girls, but wasn’t scoring with any of them. Lest anyone think that I was being virtuous or anything, it wasn’t that I wasn’t so inclined, but there’s something about a sweet, drunk, beautiful, young girl looking up at you with adoring eyes from the bed that you’ve just tucked her into, after puking her guts up into the trash can that you got for her, and hearing her say, “You’re the best guy, Moon. You remind me so much of my dad,” that tends to dampen any latent amorous intentions you might be harboring. Drunk girls can be so cruel. On the other hand, one evening, one of them brought the ultimate target of my affection (at least that’s what I’m calling it) up to meet me because I was so cool. That’s right. Thanks to my propensity for at least a minimum of decency, I met the love of my life, the lovely and in-all-ways-awesome Jess. You can bet that I made damn sure she didn’t compare me to her dad. I pursued her overtly, and unrelentingly until I wore her down enough to marry me.

Lesson learned: Decency can be disappointing in the short term, but always pays off in the end. Also, when you find a good thing, hang on tight.

Academics

When I graduated high school, I, like all kids, knew everything. So, when I took a couple of classes at the local college, I put about as much effort into it as I had put into high school. Until, of course, I remembered that I didn’t even have to go. I quit going to one class (English Comp), due to, much as it pains me to admit it, teenage arrogance and overconfidence. I stuck with American History, and, with the minimal effort, got a C. Flash forward 30 years. I go back to school, and, having realized years ago, that not only did I not know everything, I didn’t even know which questions to ask, I decided to apply myself. I’ve worked damned hard to do the best I can, and I’ve gotten nothing less than an A in every class (of course, I’m not too proud to admit that in some classes it’s more due to extra credit and a forgiving teacher), so far anyway. I’m pretty proud of it. The frustrating thing is that, thanks to screwing around in that history class, I’ll never manage to have a 4.0 GPA. Now, I know that seems like no big deal (and I realize that they don’t put GPA’s on the diploma), but still, it’s aggravating to work this hard and to know that if this were a race, I’ve basically shot my big toes off 30 years ago.

Lesson learned: Always do your best. Not doing your best will always bite you in the ass. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually, it will get it’s teeth into you. Also, it’s never too late to pull your head out of your ass.

Finally

To finish this off, I’ll cease regaling you with tales of my life, and just list a few things that I’ve come to believe are true:

Salad is not food. Salad is food for the food. Eating salad circumvents the food chain and screws up the circle of life.

Nobody ever quits smoking. They may stop doing it, but they never stop wanting it.

Don’t wait until you do something stupid to do something nice for your spouse. A preemptive floral or chocolate strike can lessen the impact of your next (inevitable) screw-up.

If you don’t feel at least a little bit dirty after having sex, you’re probably doing it wrong.

Finally Finally

I’ll let Randy Newman (one of my heroes) have the last word: I’m Different.

Okay, Really Finally

Thanks to all the friends and family who’ve loved/liked/tolerated me, or at the very least, not beat my ass when I had it coming over the years. Thanks to you for reading this. I hope it gave you a laugh. Most of all thanks to my wife, the long-suffering and much-beloved Jess.

World’s Worst Grandpa Tells All!

All About Me, Home Life, Kids & Grandkids

I may be the world’s worst Grandpa, and at this point, I’m okay with that.

So, for somewhere between the last two days and 300 years, I’ve been babysitting my two youngest grand-daughters, Charlotte, age five, and Sharon, age four. Two of the sweetest, most well-behaved little girls in the world, two of the brightest lights of my life . . . and I can’t wait for them to go home. I’m exhausted, and they’re exhausting. See, it’s VBS (Vacation Bible School) week at our church, and they both wanted to go. Since all their parents work nights, we figured it would just be easier if they stayed with us.

It was true, but I have to ask now, “Easier for who?” Certainly not me! I’ll admit it; I like the peace and quiet. I like not having to talk to anyone all day, and not having anyone talk to me all day. I like doing things at my own pace, when I want (usually in a last-minute fluff-and-stuff scramble just before Jess gets home from work so that she thinks I did more than stare at the Facebook and play Spider Solitaire all day). I’ve found that you can’t do that with little girls running around like Visigoths plundering the Coliseum (a more apt comparison than you might think. If you doubt me, ask any parents with small kids.).

Two of the sweetest little savages that ever completely wrecked a Grandpa.
Two of the sweetest little savages that ever completely wrecked a Grandpa.

No, no, no. You’ve got to do everything on THEIR schedule (you can forget about ever being one step ahead of them). Nope, from the time their giggling little voices giving orders to the dogs in the living room wakes you up, to the third time you tell them to GET BACK INTO BED, THERE’S NO WAY YOU CAN HAVE TO PEE AGAIN ALREADY!, you’re just scrambling to keep up. At this point, I’m just grateful that my wife, the wise and blissfully employed Jess, told them they have to stay in bed until it’s at least daylight out.

Now you know me, I like to get up around the crack of noon (I don’t get to do it as often as I’d like, but it is something I shoot for every day possible). This morning, the giggling and peeking in the door started at 6:45 a.m. I’d forgotten that God even turned the air on that early. So I get up, and stagger to the bathroom. I’m still on the can when it starts: “Grandpa, whatcha doin’? Grandpa, can we watch TV? Grandpa, are you pooping or peeing? Grandpa, what’s that smell? Grandpa, what are we doing today? Grandpa, where’s my pants?” I mean, I haven’t even found my own pants yet, I’m still trying to get my eyes to focus. I don’t need this kind of pressure this early in the morning. I’ve reached a point in my life where the pressure in my bladder first thing in the morning is almost more than I can handle. Also, it’s just unnerving to be sitting there on the can, face in your hands, drawers around your ankles, trying to brace yourself for the day, and suddenly hear an angelic pair of voices right in you ear saying “Grandpa, we brushed our teeth already,” and pry your bleary eyes open to see two little girls staring at you from about six inches away, their pajamas covered from neck to waist in sparkly kids toothpaste.

And then there’s the hurt look in their little faces when you tell them, “You need to get out of here. Grandpa doesn’t need any help.” Like they think they’re going to miss something. OOOOOH, Grandpa doesn’t love us! He won’t even let us watch him wipe his butt!!!” These kids really need to learn some things about the need for privacy and personal space. I suppose it could be that they’ve never had any themselves, but still.

Did I mention how much I love peace and quiet? Oh yeah, those are long gone. I had forgotten how incredibly loud little girls are. These kids don’t have indoors voices and outdoor voices. They have stranger voices and familiar voices. When they’re talking to strangers, like the VBS teachers, they’ve got these cute, adorable, and above all quiet, little-girl voices (often with a lithp that just puts them off the chart, adorably speaking) that make them sound just oh-so-darling. When they’re with Their people, they’ve got voices that can break glass, and everything they say is at full volume. IT’S LIKE THEY CAN ONLY SPEAK IN ALL CAPS OR SOMETHING! Unless, of course, they’re in trouble, like when they feed the dog their breakfast despite being told specifically not to, just 30 seconds before, in which their voice turns into an unintelligible mumble of denial. The adorable lisp turns into a four-star speech impediment. It makes asking them, “What did I tell you!?” just another source of frustration, because the standard reply sounds something like, “idinmeantodudetookitold’mnottos’notmyfault.” and usually ends with something that sounds remarkably like “bullshit” just after they turn their head away so you can’t see their lips.

Take my advice. Don’t fall for it. It’s a trap. You think you heard “bullshit”, so naturally, you respond, “WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME?” They, of course, look you right in the eye, and say perfectly clearly, “Nothing,” and all of a sudden, you’re the bad guy. Not only have you had a hand in raising this foul-mouthed little villain, you know there’s a better-than-even chance that they learned both the word, and the behavior from you (don’t believe me, take a step back and watch yourself next time you find yourself on the losing side of an argument with your spouse).

Then there’s the fact that they are only capable of movement if their operating at full volume. If they don’t have anything in particular to say, they’re happy with a simple, “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” Who knew such little lungs could have such high capacity?

OOOH, and let’s not forget the incessant singing. It doesn’t matter that they don’t know the words (or even the tune), they’ll sing it anyway. Everything they sing sounds like a drunk 50-year-old singing “Louie, Louie” at a Karaoke bar while refusing to read the screen because, “They don’t got the words right. I’ve been listening to this song all my life! I don’t need no stinking bouncing ball!”

Of course, if no song springs to their tiny, still-forming mind, they’re perfectly content to just sing whatever you just told them, which is how, this morning, I was trying to get all the kids and dogs inside for breakfast, and ended up with Sharon doing some kind of Mick Jagger-style strut singing tunelessly (and out of tune) “EHHHVAAA-BOTTTTTY, GET INNNN-SIIIIIIDE!” over and over again. Trust me, it did not help. I listen to a lot of Rolling Stones, The Kinks, The Beatles, Lucero, Tom Petty, Todd Snider, and Stone Coyotes, so our dogs know what good music sounds like, and they were not going anywhere near something that sounded like that. It was really quite painful, and there’s just no way to tell a four-year-old that she can’t carry a tune in a bucket without hurting her feelings (I’m a terrible Grandpa, but I’m not a jerk.)

A couple quick notes on the care and feeding of little girls. I know when I was a kid, any kid (boy or girl) who ate creamy peanut butter and insisted on having the crust cut off was immediately deemed a sissy,  and strongly suspected of severe Kootification. Now, apparently, it’s de rigueur. Apparently, so is the complete refusal to eat anything with any type of flavor, substance, or any of the things that make food worth eating. I kind of think that Charlotte would happily eat nothing but drywall, as long as I fixed it with creamy drywall mud.

And then of course there’s the whole trying to live up to the adult feminine expectations. As my wife, the reasonably-but-not-overly appearance conscious Jess, was hastily ripping a brush through the tangled hair of the fruit-of-my-loins-once-removed, she asked, “Did you brush their hair this morning?” Of course not. I didn’t brush mine either. That’s why I have a hat. I would have thought that she’d be happy that they weren’t still in their pj’s (as a result of that last minute fluff and stuff, of course).

Also, little girls need to be entertained. When I was a kid, an adult entertained children by telling them, “Go outside!”, and bang, their work was done. Not so much any more. Now it’s all, “Play a game with me, push me on the swing, pull me up the slide, catch me sliding down the pole.” There’s no freaking end to it. It’s like they’re little, easily-bored black holes of attention. And God help you if it looks like the other one might be getting more. They’re worse than IRS auditors, scrupulously making sure that each of them gets exactly the same number of swing pushes, slide pulls, pole catches, etc. and at exactly the same level of push-pull-catchitude.

Finally, I let them drive the golf cart. Since Sharon lives right next door and has lots of chances to drive it, she decided to let Charlotte do all the driving (I did mention that they were both very sweet, right?), and drive it, Charlotte did. Actually, she did very well for a five-year-old who’d never done it before. I was pretty proud of her. Fortunately, we have about 20 acres that are reasonably golf cart friendly, so we weren’t just driving in a circle (well, we were, but it was a really big circle). I also quickly figured out that Sharon wasn’t motivated purely by altruism. She cleverly realized that, with Charlotte doing all the hard part (like not driving into trees), she herself was free to stand on the back of the cart and shriek shrilly into my ear every time we hit a bump, which out here is approximately every three-and-a-half seconds, no matter where you’re at. It made for a phenomenally spine-jarring, ear-splitting few hours. They, of course, loved every bump, bounce, and screechalicious minute. We rode that thing for three days yesterday. Thank God the battery finally wound down today.

Now, I’ve been trying to keep them away from the TV as much as I can, but finally, today, I threw in the towel. We watched Penguins of Madagascar (which was actually pretty funny), and then I put on Sherman and Mr. Peabody (or something like that. Let’s face it, it could have been Pulp Fiction, as long as it kept them entertained), and came in here to write. Okay, full disclosure, I’m not writing so much as hiding at this point.

P.S. The movie ended a little bit ago, and the neighbor kid (another five-year-old girl) came over to kill time ’til we all go to VBS. They’re all in the spare bedroom playing dress-up. Either that or trying to break Pink Floyd’s decibel record. Possibly both.

Grandkids. I love ’em dearly, I’d do anything for ’em, and I’m sooooo glad they go home tonight.

I realize that some may think that, in light of recent events, this picture is in poor taste, but I felt that refusing to use it would be letting the big-game hunting dental douchebag from Minnesota win. Comedy Lives!
I realize that some may think that, in light of recent events, this picture is in poor taste, but I felt that refusing to use it would be letting the big-game hunting dental douchebag from Minnesota win. Comedy Lives!

 

Judge Smails Rides Again! And Nobody Realized It.

All About Me, Home Life, Kids & Grandkids, Wives

So I’ve been trying to write a new post for weeks now, without success. I’ve started I don’t know how many, and I just kept either getting angry, which is bad, or getting depressed, which is worse, about every one. Part of the problem was mostly, I was writing about politics. I’m having a hard time writing satirically about politics right now, mostly because the whole political system is already seeming like a “Spinal Tap”-style mockumentary.

But we just had a really good weekend here at Casa de Moon (see, those two semesters of college Spanish finally paid off), so I thought I’d just tell you about that instead. Like all weekends, it had its ups and downs, but for the most part, it was the best weekend I’ve had in quite a while.

It all started with my little brother David and his wife and kids coming up from Florida for his son, Jonathon’s wedding. They got here on Wednesday, and in honor of their visit, we had the whole family in (or at least all those who could make it) for Pizza King and cards. We had a great time, and a lot of laughs. It was totally worth all the housework I had to do to get ready. See that’s one of the problems with being a house-husband; my wife, the lovely and estimable Jess, still went into her pre-family gathering cleaning frenzy, but since she was working, I was the one who had to do the actual cleaning, and I’ll be honest, I’m not good at it. It all just seems so pointless. I look at it from a guy’s point of view; if company can visit without the fear of actually sticking to anything, then it’s clean enough (you guys know what I’m talking about). Jess, God bless ‘er, feels differently, so it turned into about a week of her leaving me a daily “honey-do” list, and me trying to figure out what she wanted done (define “dusting”, does she want a “guy” dusting, which is basically sweeping a hand across the front of the shelf, or does she want the full-on “Pledge and a dust-rag, take stuff off the shelf, instead of dusting around the stuff, even if it can’t be seen” kind? Guess which one she wanted. It only took me two tries to guess correctly.)

I felt she really got carried away with it. Every day, she’d put “put away dishes” on the list. Now I ask you, what’s the point of that? We used those plates last night, we’ll use them again tonight, and tomorrow night too, probably. It’s so much more convenient to just grab them out of the dish drainer than out of the cupboard. She even wanted me to vacuum the kitchen floor. Now what, I ask you, is the point of that? We have dogs (the poor man’s Roomba). But I digress.

So everybody got here, and we had a great time. Lots of laughs, everybody enjoyed themselves, and I almost won one game of “Up and Down the River”, our family game. It may be the bloodiest, most cut-throat non-gambling card games ever invented, and we play it every time we get more than 4 of us get together. One of these days, I’ll write up the rules for you, so that you too can enjoy the frustration and hilarity of having your throat cut by your 84 year old aunt.

Then came Friday, and the English geek bonfire. Another great time. Kind of a small showing, but a really good time. It was really good to have folks around who enjoy talking about books and writers and writing. It was, in some ways, an evening of discovery. For example, I discovered that I have regained my amateur standing as regards drinking. I was standing there, mumbling some inane story (my apologies to all those who were present), when it hit me; I’ve gotta pee. So I excused myself and wandered over to the trees to take care of business. While I stood there, leaning against the tree, talking to myself, it occurred to me, “I’m a lot drunker than I ought to be.” Then, as if to confirm the fact, it also occurred to me, “I think I need to puke.”

Some of the best English geeks ever!
Some of the best English geeks ever!

I was right. A couple of times. On the up side, I didn’t get any on me, or simultaneously soil myself in any other way, so I have not lost all my skills, but still, it was kind of disappointing. I haven’t drunk ’til I puked in years. Actually, I can’t remember the last time I did, so this came as a complete surprise. Shortly thereafter, the party broke up (it was pretty late, so I don’t think the two were necessarily related). At any rate, the painfully honest and beautiful but merciless Jess assured me that I was not being a jerk, so that was nice.

So we get back to the house and got ready for bed, and we realize that we’d forgotten to take our pills, so it’s back to the kitchen for that. Unfortunately, I missed my mouth with one of the pills. Naturally, it was one of the little, white ones, so even though we heard it hit the floor, it blended right in with the linoleum. Of course, that’s the problem with the poor man’s Roomba, they’ll eat anything, which is how we ended up crawling around on the floor, butt naked, at three o’clock in the morning, laughing like idiots. Especially when we figured out that we couldn’t find it because when I got down to look for it, it got stuck to my knee, and it was just moving around the floor with me.

So that was a pretty good night.

So Saturday morning, I wake up with a low-grade hangover (something else I haven’t had in years), and a wedding to go to. My nephew Jonathon, a great kid, was getting married to a very pretty and sweet girl named Jessica (which contributed to the Wednesday night hilarity greatly, trying to figure out how to differentiate between Jon’s Jess and my own lovely Jess. The first suggestion “new Jess and old Jess” was quickly shot down, as was “little Jess and big Jess”. I think we settled on “new Jess and classic Jess”), at the Indianapolis Yacht Club, which is hilarious in and of itself, kind of like the Florida Alpine Club.

As it happens though, David and I are also both fans of the comedy classic, Caddyshack. We grew up watching it over and over again. So it seemed a shame to miss the opportunity to pay homage to one of our primary formative influences. For the ceremony, itself, I went with the plain old suit and tie, out of respect, but for the reception, I ditched the tie for a Captain’s hat and cravat, going for the Judge Smails yacht-club boat christening look.

Alright, I'm no Ted Knight, but still, pretty darn spiffy, I think.
Alright, I’m no Ted Knight, but still, pretty darn spiffy, I think.

Apparently, Caddyshack is nowhere near as popular as it used to be. I was called Mr. Howell several times, as well as Skipper, and there were quite a few who apparently thought I was actually part of the Yacht Club, there to keep an eye on things. The funniest part was when they said that the table captain would be around to explain to each table the method of serving dinner, and everybody in the place looked at me. Still, a good time was had by all. It was a lovely ceremony, and everyone seemed to enjoy the reception a lot. I got to see some old friends that I haven’t seen outside of a funeral in years, which was nice. My granddaughter, little Sharon, really enjoyed line dancing with the bride, and I enjoyed watching.

Also, my oldest daughter Kim made it to the wedding, which was a surprise, as was her bright blue hair. When I was getting ready for the reception, she said, “Hey, I’ve got a captain’s hat in my car too!”

The nut didn't fall far from the tree here. Great diseased minds think alike! I've never been so proud.
The nut didn’t fall far from the tree here. Great diseased minds think alike! I’ve never been so proud.

It also helped that my nephew is also a Caddyshack fan, and his lovely bride Jess has a great sense of humor.

Jon and new Jess, and the family's designated weird, flaky uncle.
Jon and new Jess, and the family’s designated weird, flaky uncle.

All things considered, it was a great weekend, despite the fact that I had to keep explaining the whole Caddyshack thing. Looking back at the pictures from that evening, though, I can see how people might be inclined to think of the Skipper or Mr. Howell. What do you think?

Judge Smails, aka Ted Knight
Judge Smails, aka Ted Knight
The Skipper aka Alan Hale
The Skipper aka Alan Hale
Mr. Howell, aka Jim Backus
Mr. Howell, aka Jim Backus

 

Alright, I'm no Ted Knight, but still, pretty darn spiffy, I think.
Alright, I’m no Ted Knight, but still, pretty darn spiffy, I think.

 

At any rate, it’s an honor to be compared to any of these comedy giants!

So that’s pretty much it; a great weekend. My deep thanks (and apologies where necessary) to my family, friends, and fellow English geeks. I needed that.

Tips For Happy Living: Don’t Worry About A Thing

All About Me, Culture, Home Life, Politics, Politics & Culture, Religion, Wives

” ‘Cause every little thing

Gonna be all right”

That Bob Marley was a smart guy.

Happy living is an elusive bird. We all want it, but it seems like no one wants us to have it. It’s kind of aggravating.

Lately, I’ve been kind of worked up about things. It seems like the world is just spinning out of control. Confederate flags, gay marriage, dozens of people shot over the July 4th weekend in Chicago, violence of every sort run amok, churches burning, terrorists, conspiracy theorists screaming that Obama’s invading Texas, it’s just nuts. And everywhere you look, somebody’s got the answer: Take down that flag, leave it alone, give the gays equal rights, gay marriage will destroy traditional marriage, ban guns, make everyone carry a gun, stricter laws, we need better prisons, we need worse prisons, seal the borders, do what I say, I’m the one with all the right answers. It doesn’t matter where you look, FOX, MSNBC, CNN, NPR, the Facebook, Twitter. Everyone’s got the answer, or knows someone who does. Just watch this video . . .

It’s kept me stirred up for several weeks now. I’ve started several posts presenting powerful arguments capable of crushing all opposition to my viewpoints. Being predisposed toward irascibility and somewhat pugnacious in temperament, I just can’t seem to help myself. I seem lately to just be looking for things to make me angry. I read articles that I know are biased, and often blatantly false, and then, just in case I’m not angry enough, I read the comments too. Sometimes I think there is something very, very wrong with me (and those of you who know me will probably agree). Unfortunately, rage is the one emotional I am truly comfortable with. Also unfortunately, I’m not alone in this. Everyone seems to be angry about something, or several somethings, usually at least one or two from the list above, or something that someone else said about something from the list above.

In fact, anger is a growth industry right now. There’s gold in them thar internet flame wars. Frankly, that’s one of the things that makes me angry. Vast fortunes are being made by making people angry, and I can’t seem to get a piece of the action. My last post was, I thought, at least fairly controversial. I even went so far as to actively solicit responses. I did everything but beg people to comment. Now I’ll admit that my intentions were good, and I genuinely wanted to hear what people thought, but still, I thought I’d at least get some hot interweb troll action. I mean, if there’s one thing I’m usually pretty good at (besides telling fart stories), it’s pissing people off.

I have to say that the response was pretty disappointing, overall. First of all, there really weren’t many comments at all, and those that I did get were uniformly civil, well-thought out (even the ones that disagreed with me), and even loving. Even the woman I had offended (the basis of the post), messaged me on the Facebook, a very civil, kind, and generous response. It was really kind of disappointing (admittedly in a sick and twisted way).

On the other hand, it did confirm what I had always suspected; that the vast majority of people are generally kind, generous, and decent. Even those with whom I vehemently disagree. I hate to admit it, but I think Anne Frank was right: “Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart.”

It troubles me that I see and hear so many swearing that we are in the End Times. That God has abandoned us because we have abandoned Him. The sentiment that, because of gay marriage, “persecution” of WASPS by minorities, and the fact that, okay, maybe you should think about what that Rebel flag bumper sticker on your truck really stands for, the world just can’t get any worse. It’s just not true. The world can get worse. It has been much worse. Yes, there are still a lot of things that are wrong. There are still a lot of things that need to be fixed. But my feeling is (and I know I’m no kind of religious expert) that if God didn’t abandon us because of 400 years of genocide, 300 or 400 years of slavery, 150 years (give or take) of institutionalized racism (complete with lynchings, rape, and murder), along with a number of land grabs, imperialism, and war profiteering, all committed frequently in His name, or according to His will (or rather our interpretation of it), then letting a few gays get married is probably not going to put him off of us, either.

I see and hear a lot of Christians hollering, “Please Jesus, come back soon,” and I can understand the sentiment, but if I’m honest, I’m not really in that big a rush for it. When he does come back, we’ll have eternity, but for now, I’m not through with this life yet. There are way too many books I haven’t read, too many fart stories I haven’t written. I haven’t told my wife, the lovely and all-round best woman ever, Jess, how much I love her enough times yet. I haven’t lain awake at night listening to her snore enough. I haven’t hugged my grandkids enough. There are too many places I haven’t been, too many things I haven’t seen. I haven’t written enough, or worked enough, or played enough yet. Maybe I’m wrong for feeling this way, but God gave me this life for a reason. He gave us this world with all its wonders for a reason, and I don’t think it was to just mark time until he came back.

Anyway, I know that you probably only read this blog for the fart stories (don’t worry, I’ll get back to ’em), and I didn’t mean to get all heavy with my half-assed theology. Sorry. This is all just stuff that I needed to get off my chest. The thing about being angry all the time is, it’s exhausting. It saps your energy, your will to live. I don’t know about you, but it wears me out, and really makes it hard to write the fart stories, which are, frankly, much more fun.

So last night, I was in bed (calm down ladies), reading The Ball and the Cross, by G.K. Chesterton, and I read a passage that really brought it all home to me; “The whole peace of the world was pent up painfully in his heart. The new and childlike world which he had seen so suddenly, men had not seen at all. Here they were, still at their old bewildering, pardonable, useless quarrels, with so much to be said on both sides, and so little that need be said at all.” That seems like a pretty apt description of today, with the fear-mongering 24-hour news networks blaring out their prophecies of doom, and alleged “satire” news websites promulgating panic-inducing videos, and ourselves buying into it all, and joining in by smearing our fears and petty hatreds across the Facebook, insisting that “everyone needs to see this”. Well, guess what. We don’t. Neither do you. Give it a rest. Give yourself a break. And trust me, I know I’m just as guilty of this as you are, but I’m working on it.

I think that’s why I never finished any of those argumentative posts I wrote about earlier. Deep down, I knew it was pointless, and that it would just add to the problem. It would be a better world if everyone quit arguing, and spent some time actually thinking, because, believe it or not, not everyone who has a Rebel flag bumper sticker is a racist. Liberals who point at the south and jeer them as racist rednecks should listen to Randy Newman’s “Rednecks” (a word of caution, it contains offensive language, but it’s contextually necessary, not gratuitous. Also, you have to actually LISTEN to ALL THE LYRICS in order to get the point he’s getting at.). Also, if you are a proud displayer of the Rebel flag, you probably should spend some time thinking about what that flag really means, what it is telling people about you, and whether it’s true.

Christians, not every gay person wants to ruin our marriages (admit it, we were doing that just fine without any help from them). Gays, not every Christian belongs to Westboro Baptist Church. We don’t all hate you or want you to go to hell (Sorry, I don’t have a song for this one).

The point is; well, I guess the point is that we all have a point, and we’d be better off thinking carefully about them before taking our hats off and showing them to the world. Get off the Facebook, and read an actual book. Concentrate on the things you love more than the things you hate. In the words of Ray Wylie Hubbard, “the days when I keep my gratitude higher than my expectations . . . well I have really good days.”

Be grateful: Happy living tip #1.

World’s Biggest Hypocrite Seeks Answers: A Christian Conundrum

All About Me, Culture, Politics & Culture, Religion

So, I’m sitting here feeling like the world’s biggest hypocrite (of course, I realize that that may be self-aggrandizing. There are a lot of televangelists, politicians, and pundits out there). By the way, this post is probably not going to be very funny. Sorry.

Rich Mullins (with whom I am vaguely familiar) once said, “Christianity is not about building an absolutely secure little niche in the world where you can live with your perfect little wife and your perfect little children in your beautiful little house where you have no gays or minority groups anywhere near you. Christianity is about learning to love like Jesus loved and Jesus loved the poor and Jesus loved the broken.”

So here’s my problem: I am one of the leaders of a mission group that goes to an Indian Reservation every year. Recently, I was contacted by a woman, whom I am pretty sure is a homosexual, about her and her partner going with us. Now, to be clear, I realize that whether she is or isn’t gay is NONE OF MY FREAKIN’ BUSINESS, and, to be honest, I don’t really care, because, again, it’s NONE OF MY FREAKIN’ BUSINESS.

So I talked to some of the other leaders of the group about it, and we hem-hawed around like Christians always seem to do when reality meets our genuine desire to serve God. Well, we beat that horse pretty much to death, and it devolved (as these types of discussions always seem to), into a discussion of whether being gay is a sin or not.

At any rate, I, in my own inimitable idiom, decided that the most respectful approach was the head-on, blunt, bull-in-a-china-shop approach. Earlier, I sent her a message asking her whether she was gay and expressing my concerns and why they exist. I haven’t heard back from her. I’m really hoping that I haven’t offended her, because, as I said before, it’s REALLY NONE OF MY FREAKIN’ BUSINESS, and I hope that she doesn’t take this as a rejection, because it’s not.

WHAT I THINK:

Now, just in the interest of clarity, I’m going to let you know which side of that discussion I fall on: I think sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn’t. I think if you (not YOU in particular, but just a general you) decide/choose to be gay, because it’s becoming more popular/accepted, or to piss off your parents, or as some sort of “lifestyle” statement, then I think it is. But, I’ve known too many gay folks who never “chose” to be gay, it’s just something they are. In fact, I’m pretty sure that all of the gay folks I’ve known (and it’s quite a few of them) were born that way. Just like I was born with brown eyes. They didn’t ask for it, or choose it. It was chosen for them, by genetics, or DNA, or whatever. Regardless of the scientific or psychological, or sociological reason, if you believe, like I do, in God the Creator, then he created them that way, just like some of us were created with blonde hair, or green eyes. The point is, it’s what God chose for them to be. I believe that God is, as the Bible tells us, a loving God. I have a hard time reconciling that with the belief that God would intentionally create some of his children to be aberrations or abominations in his sight. I believe that, thanks to free will, we all have the choice to become abominations, but I don’t believe he makes any of us that way.

Now, I realize that that doesn’t exactly line up with the common views of the Church, or even of most Christians, but that’s okay. There are lots of times when I don’t necessarily like the Church (I have a deep-seated dislike and distrust of any kind of hierarchy. Ironic, huh?), or even a lot of Christians (can YOU think of a more by-and-large, self-important and self-righteous group? I, of course, include myself among them). Besides, I cheerfully and fully admit that I could be wrong. God knows it’s happened before (at least on a daily basis, if not hourly).

THE POINT:

The point however, isn’t whether being gay is a sin or not. I’m not trying to convince anyone that I’m right (see previous italics). That is a pointless effort. The odds of me, as feeble as my faith, theological, and philosophical abilities are, of convincing anyone to change their deeply-felt and long-held beliefs are, and should be, slim. Right now, I’m just telling you what I think, and why. Mostly because I hate ambiguity. It’s okay if you don’t like me, or what I say, but I want you to be crystal-clear on why.

The point is, should practicing (and that in itself is a stupid word. I don’t know why it would take any more practice than being straight) gays be welcomed into our merry band of do-gooders, and if not, then why? We have had openly gay people come on the trip before, but they were alone, and it never became an issue (of course they were also relatives of mine, which may have had some bearing on it). I’m pretty sure we’ve also had closeted gay people on the trip, and it never became an issue. We have recovering alcoholics who still take a drink now and then come on the trip. We have people who have been divorced and remarried multiple times come on the trip. I’m pretty sure we have adulterers, and liars, and gossips, and gluttons, slothers (slothites?), and sinners of every other stripe come on this trip every year. I mean, good grief, I’m one of the leaders of this group, and I have successfully resisted the siren call of sobriety for decades. When I was single, I tried to indulge in pretty much every straight sexual sin I could, as often as I could, and the only reason I didn’t succeed was that (believe it or not) I was not exactly an Ace with the ladies. I don’t know that I’ve gotten through a single day in the last 40 years without indulging my penchant for profanity, obscenity, and vulgarity. I’m petty, I’m greedy, I’m a gossip, and a glutton, I’m proud and vain, and I know that my faith is infinitesimally smaller than a mustard seed. I know that Paul claimed to be the worst of sinners, but I’m pretty sure that I’d give him a run for his money.

So, if that’s the case, then why am I worried about a gay couple coming on the trip? Because of what others on the trip might think. We’ve had a hard time keeping this thing going, and we’re afraid that folks might not come back if there’s a gay couple in our group. And I’m not pointing fingers. I understand that many of the folks who come with us (like youth ministers, etc.) bring kids that are not their own, and that, kids being kids, they go home and tell their folks all about the trip, and that could easily have a deleterious effect on their employment and/or relationships with those parents. If nothing else, it’s a matter of pragmatism.

There’s also the point of view that would see it as an endorsement of what many Christians call “a sinful lifestyle”. Okay, fair enough. People justifiably need to be concerned about what their children see, and how it could influence their developing brains. However, I have to ask those people, what effect would it really have on their kids? Could it really be any worse than the “Kill ‘em all” movies and video games that they watch? Okay, it might make them question what they’re taught at home and in Sunday School and Church, but would not the sight of people treating each other decently, the sight of “sinners” trying to do the Lord’s work and help people also reinforce the far more important things we’re supposed to learn, like about loving each other, not judging, etc.?

Let’s face it; I’m not advocating some kind of homosexual recruiting program, I’m saying that people who want to serve the Lord should be welcomed, and that their personal relationship with God is between them and God. I don’t believe that any gay folks who might come on the trip would be aardvarking in front of the group, any more than any of the alcoholics would be getting wasted in front of them. Even I, with all of my foibles and propensities for sin, try to practice restraint when with the group (not always successfully, I might add, as anyone who has witnessed me trying to get my Gravely mower up into the truck can attest.)

WHAT DO YOU THINK?

I guess the question is only partly, “Should gay couples be included in our trip?” A bigger question might be, “What kind of Christians are we when we need to be more worried about what other Christians think, than we are about doing, and helping other sinners to do, the Lord’s work of reaching people?”

Another question is, “What kind of Christians are we that we ask others to live a lie in order to associate with us without judgement?” It doesn’t really matter if homosexuality is a sin. If it’s not, then they should be welcome in our homes, churches, and lives, to join us in fellowship and worship of the Lord, and our own efforts to grow closer to him. If it is, then they should be welcome in our homes, churches, and lives, to join us in fellowship and worship of the Lord, and our own efforts to grow closer to him.

Anyway, I hope this long-winded and rambling blather makes some sense. I really do want to know what you think. Like all of us, I want to do what’s right and pleasing to the Lord. It’s just that in this case, I’m not sure what that is.

Please feel free to use the comment section to let me know what you think. Feel free to disagree with me (you can also agree with me if you want, it’s a free country). I just think that this is something that needs to be discussed, and rarely is.

As always, thanks for reading.