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Better Off Dad

I am a stay at home dad. That’s pretty much all I am. I used to be other things before I started staying home with my kids. But now I’m just a stay at home dad, or SAHD for short. I know that’s what I am because that’s how people introduce me. “This is Marcus, he stays home with the kids (can you believe it?)” Or if they’re over the age of 55, I usually get the “He’s a Mr. Mom.” It’s said in a positive way, sort of like the way people say “between jobs” when they mean “fired for being an incompetent loser.”
  • Oscar Roundup

     

    Well, I assume you saw the Oscars Sunday night.  I certainly did.  I stayed up till midnight and somehow (I swear this is true, although I don’t know how) I threw my back out watching it.  Now I know that seems impossible, but it’s true.  I woke up the next morning with an aching back and vague memories of Ben Stiller in blue face (very offensive).

     

    But it occurred to me that there may be some poor souls out there who did not get a chance to watch the telecast.  Or worse, some people who DID watch the telecast but didn’t have anyone to critique it for them (can you imagine?)

     

    So it is for you poor souls that I dedicate this blog.

     

    Let’s begin with the opening.  As you know (or heck, maybe you didn’t).  The broadcast was being hosted this year by Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin.

     

    This was a fine idea, but they needed a big musical number to kick things off so they called on Neil Patrick Harris because….. well, somehow, he has become the go to guy for this kind of thing.  Sort of hard to say why that is exactly, but there you are.

     

    Anyway, Neil did a big show starting number about how “No One likes to do it alone.”  Yes, it was really an exploration of that metaphysical need we all have for someone or something.  For instance, it included lyrics such as:  

     

    You can’t take Julia Child from her Pies

    Or James Cameron from his CGI

    You have to share billing, you have to share fame

    At least there’s someone to share the blame!

     

    Yes, very clever.

     

    Here it all is if you’re curious.

     

     

    I mean, honestly, the lyrics are fine.  Nothing wrong with that, but don’t you think they could have been at least a little funnier?  I do.

     

    Now, I’m not one to toot my own horn, but I think I could really help in this area.  Here are some lyrics I just jotted down in the last few minutes.

     

    There’s no Mel Gibson without his Rants 

    Or Matt McConoughey with his Pants

    You won’t find Amy Winehouse without her Gin

    Or Rush Limbaugh without his second chin

     

    You won’t see Will Smith without a film in June

    Or Miley Cyrus without her auto tune.

    Just like Bono needs to save the earth 

    And John Edwards needs a videographer

     

    No one likes to do it alone!

     

     

    That’s just off the top of my head.  Just think what I could accomplish with a little extra time?  (Honestly, rhymes for Zoe Saldana don’t just roll off the tongue: “Throw me a sauna?”  “Grow me marijuana?”  “Bro!  She’s a mama!”)

     

    Anyway, let’s take a moment to talk about Oscar Fashion.

     

    For my money, you couldn’t really beat Penelope Cruz’s beautiful crimson dress that looked sculpted on to her body.  But let’s be honest, no one really wants to talk about the dresses that looked great.  Let’s spend a few moments talking about those dresses that seem to have come from a deep sense of self loathing and momentary blindness.  

     

    First let’s talk about Charlize Theron’s lamentable lilac laceration of all things lovely.

     

    Ok, so, obviously there seems to be a little gentle, subliminal nudging for you to look at certain areas of the dress.  It most reminded me of the Herb Albert “Whipped Cream and other Delights” album cover (if you don’t know what I’m talking about….. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whipped_Cream_&_Other_Delights)

     

    The thing that bothered me about this dress, is that she HAD to realize what she was doing.  It’s not like she would put this on, stare at herself in the mirror and not think that it looked like someone took all the extra material for the dress and wadded it up and glued it to her boobies.  

     

    No, she had to see herself in the mirror, think, “Hmm, it appears that I have a dollop of purple sour cream on my ta-tas.  Yes, I think that looks good.”

     

     

    Our next matter for concern is poor Miley Cyrus.  Aside from it not being entirely clear why she should even be at the academy awards, she seems to be conflicted about herself.

     

    Now you read a lot in entertainment magazines and psych journals about how difficult it can be for a child actor or singer to transition to adult hood.  Well poor lil’ Miley seems to be having a worse time than most.

     

    It’s as if she went and found a dress desgined for a 34 year old and then had it cut down to fit an 8 year old and then tried to squeeze her 20 year old self into it.

    It’s truly a bizarre effect.

     

    Her torso appears to be about 8 inches long and attached to a giant skirt.  How does that waist even hold the rest of her up?  Is she single handedly bringing back the corset?  And for crying out loud, can someone tell her to stand up straight and hold her shoulders back.  She looks like she’s auditioning for Quasimodo

     

    There are other dresses I have concerns about, such as Vera Farmiga’s which looks like it was  unraveling as she walked, or Jennifer Lopez that had a very beautiful dress that seemed to be giving birth to another beautiful dress out of J. Lo’s hip.  

     

    But it’s time to move on.

     

    In general, I thought Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin did pretty well. I thought the humor seemed a little old and slapsticky (I kept listening for the rimshot) but, to be fair, Steve Martin is a little old and slapsticky and I have to admit to laughing out loud a fair amount (Meryl Streep’s Hitler memorabilia!  Hoo boy!  Gets me every time)

     

    And, of course, there was the odd political moment when the people who did a documentary about saving Dolphins from slaughter and were awarded primarily because it was a documentary about saving dolphins from slaughter had the audacity to ask people to sign up to receive text messages about saving dolphin’s from slaughter.  

     

    “Look here, Missy, we might award you for your politically correct film, but don’t try to accomplish anything on our dime!”  (Yes, holding up a sign that said “text dolphin” to some number was tacky, but not nearly as tacky as Charlize Theron’s dress which probably caused a lot more internet activity that evening than the dolphin sign)

     

    There was also the crazy lady who ran up on stage during someone else’s documentary film to yell about something that no one understood.

     

    Here’s my question, how did she get on stage?  Wasn’t there a guard somewhere to stop crazy people from getting up on stage?  I mean, we have all of our national treasures up there… our stars!  George Clooney!  Meryl Streep!  Nicole Richie!  Why that woman could have snapped Nicole Richie in half with her bare hands.  What would we have done then?

     

    Then of course, there was the absolutely bizarre dance routine to the Oscar nominated soundtracks.  Now, the dancers were clearly talented, but it seemed an awful lot like someone had choreographed all of the dances before they found out which songs were nominated.  This would explain why there were people doing the robot during the soundtrack to Up and people spinning on their head for several minutes without stopping during the Hurt Locker theme.  It was very impressive, but….. wha..?

     

    There were other moments that were nice.  I liked the John Hughes tribute although I didn’t understand why Molly Ringwald was so large, and appeared to have stolen her dress and hairstyle from a cross dressing community theater version of Cleopatra.  The whole thing was very sweet, but I couldn’t understand why all those actors look so old, when I still look so young and handsome.

     

    The Oscar death montage with James Taylor was nice and well done, but it seemed like sort of a mean trick.  I kept looking at James Taylor who seemed oddly gaunt with his crazy old man eyebrows and giant forehead and I couldn’t help but think… “You’re next Jimmy boy.”

     

    I thought the personal tributes to all of the best actor and actress candidates was very nice if not a little awkward.  It felt like we were at the wedding reception of some bizarre episode of Big Love.  And boy it kind of went on forever.  Of course nothing felt as awkward or like it went on forever as Jeff Bridges acceptance speech.  I don’t know if Jeff was high or of the rest of us just needed to be, but I’ve never heard the word “dude” muttered so much while someone was wearing a tuxedo. 

     

    But here’s the bottom line to the Oscars.  It’s too long and it contains too much stuff that no one cares about.  You know, the week before the Oscars they have a separate ceremony with all of the really really boring stuff in it.  It’s called the technical awards ceremony (or something like that, no one really cares) and that’s where we need to stick all of the really boring awards that somehow snuck their way onto the Oscar telecast.

     

    Well, I know there is some sound editor out there somewhere who is likely to cry when I say this, but no one cares about sound editing.  We just don’t.  We don’t care about you or your award.  None of you, not sound mixing or sound editing or film editing or cinematograohy and… I know, all of you are really important and without you there would be no movies or whatever, …

     

    BUT NO ONE CARES!

     

    We just don’t.  I’m so sorry.  We also don’t care about best foreign film, or anything with the word documentary in it.

     

    I know.

     

    We’re terrible people.  It’s true.  We’re shallow and insensitive and self absorbed, but we just don’t care about you.  Basically, we care about Best Picture, the acting awards and Best Animated Picture (because we love cartoons).  The atsty fartsy among us can work up a little bit of interest in the writing awards and maybe costume design.  The super artsy, super fartsy can bother to care about the best short film categories.

     

    But that’s it.  Absolutely no one cares about any of the others.  Most of the audience sitting there in the Kodak theater doesn’t care either.  I am so sorry, but it’s true.  We’d rather have a category for best dress worn to the Oscars, than an award for best documentary short.  We’re very shallow that way.

     

    You want to have a short pleasant Oscar telecast?  Axe all the boring stuff and ship it down to the tech awards.  I don’t mind if you award people, I just don’t want to see it.  That’s a solution that everyone could get behind except, the sad little sound mixers, but lets be honest.  Don’t you think we could take them in a fight if we had to?

     

    So, there you go.  That’s everything you need to know about the Oscars and everything you need to know to make them better.  

     

    If only they gave an Oscar for telling people what to do, I’d be a shoo in.

     

    Of course, they’d probably give that out at the technical awards.

     

     

  • Oscarama Drama

     

     

    So, as many of you are aware, the Oscars are coming up this Sunday. 

     

    For those of you who were not aware, or who don’t like the Oscars, or who think I’m talking about a rock band made up of Oscar Hammerstein, Oscar Wilde, Oscar De La Renta and Oscar the Grouch (on drums), I would encourage you to keep reading anyway.  I think you may enjoy this, even if you are fantastically out of touch with modern pop culture.

     

    Now, most of the hoopla about the Oscars is all centered around Best Picture.  Will “The Hurt Locker” win, even though a producer broke the campaigning rules and they have been accused of ripping off someone’s life story?  Or will “Avatar” win, even though everyone in the country who saw that movie thought it was “pretty good….. not great, but, you know….”

     

    But the truth is that Best Picture is not the interesting category in this year’s Oscar race.

     

    Nor is Best Actress (we all know that Meryl Streep and Sandra Bullock are both going to tie and give each other hickies to celebrate) or Best Actor (Jeff Bridges,) or Supporting Actress (Mo’nique).  Now, nobody knows who’s going to win Best Supporting Actor, but the truth is no one cares either.  Can you name a single person nominated for best supporting actor this year?  I can’t, and I just read through the list less than five minutes ago.  (Maybe that dog from Up.  He was pretty funny) 

     

    No, the big competition this year isn’t in any of those big awards.  The competition this year, where film will fight against film for dominance, is in Best Animated Short Film.

     

    Hoo boy.  It’s like a blood bath down there.  With no clear front runner and not a single one of the films starring Meryl Streep or that kid with the hair from the Twilight movie, no one has any idea who will win.  And out of that confusion one can find the drama and intrigue and backstabbing that you would expect from a category where anvils being dropped on heads is de rigueur. 

     

    I don’t think it is too much to suggest that the focus of the entire Oscar telecast will fall directly on the nervous sweaty nominees for this category.  I have already learned that George Clooney is going to have to sit in a folding chair out in the lobby just so the cameras can have an unobstructed view of Fabrice O. Joubert (nominee for the short film “French Roast”) throughout the telecast.

     

    But now you’re thinking, “crap!  I don’t know anything about the animated short film category.  How the heck am I going to impress my friends with arcane knowledge and be successful in our office Oscar poll if I don’t know anything about this all important event?

     

    Well fear not my friend.  Because of your loyal readership of this blog and through the magic of questionably uploaded YouTube videos, you will leave here knowing everything you need to know to be prepared for Sunday Night (8 o’clock, 9 central!)

     

    The first candidate in this exciting category is this mild comic amuse bouche offered by some French guy.  It’s called French Roast and involves rich snooty people, nuns, homeless people, obese cops and music ripped off from a Pink Panther cartoon.  Yes, it’s in French, but nobody says anything important, because, well, I did mention it was French didn’t I?

     

     

     

    Our next treat for you is a lovely little family cartoon about end of life care and the importance of a living will.  This appears to be a Spanish cartoon that was partly funded by the Spanish government, because they are basically socialists over there and they were sure this would allow them to push through their death panel agenda to kill off all the olds.  My understanding is that if it wins, Obama will make it required watching for all school children and will force Zac Efron and Kei$ha to dub over all the Spanish voices as a way to brainwash our impressionable youth…… or something.

     

     

     

    This next one is a favorite to win, but it won’t, because the stupid Brits have used their “copyright” laws to keep us from being able to see it.  You would think that if they wanted to win an Oscar they would allow people to see their little movie for free, but no.

    So, all I can give you is a minute long trailer.  So, I don’t know if it’s any good or not.  But considering the last dozen Wallace and Gromit films have been absolutely delightful it probably is great.  Not that we’ll ever know.  (stupid international treaties)

     

     

     

    Now, you may be thinking to yourself, well what about the Americans?  Why, we pretty much invented animation.  Without us there would be Snow White, or Scooby Doo, or talking piece of poo from South Park.  How dare these European copy cats come along and try to take what is rightfully ours. 

     

    Well, don’t you worry, the good Ol’ US of A is definitely represented.  We have a film that is all about America!  It is about a world that is made up of only marketing logos - so Mr Pringle drives a delivery van and the Stop and Shop sign is used for all of the traffic lights.  Clever, right?  And then the Michelin Man is a cop who goes all Bruce Willis in Die Hard on Ronald McDonald who is an evil serial killer bent on destroying the world and….. you probably think I’m making this up don’t you?  Are you kidding me?  This is what America does best!  Advertisements, corporate schilling, violence, destruction!  It makes me proud.  Unfortunately this film is made by some Argentinean.  That’s right.  This guy comes into our country and takes everything that makes us great and puts it into his cartoon!

     

    Drives me nuts.  Anyway, this morning the whole 20 minutes film was available on YouTube.  But now, this afternoon, it has been yanked for more copyright infringement nonsense (honestly, if I had just made a film that used 2500 corporate logos and depicted them killing each other… I might not get so uptight about the whole copyright infringement thing).  So, all I’ve got for you is another stupid trailer and I have to say this trailer IN NO WAY represnts the movie.  The trailer makes it look like some hunky dory trip through the Magic Kingdom whereas the actual 20 minute movie has more violence and profanity than the last 5 Quentin Tarantino movies put together.  I have never seen the Michelin Man cuss so much in my life!  Well, this preview is completely safe for work, but if you are able to watch the full film, make sure your children, neighbors, parents, bosses, and overly sensitive pets are far far away, because this is one filthy cartoon.

     

     

     

    Finally, we have my favorite of the bunch.  This lovely charmer is by a couple of animators in (sigh) Ireland.  Honestly, don’t you think that between Disney and Pixar we could come up with a 6 minute film better than Ronald McDonald emptying his glock into the Pillsbury Dough Boy?  Apparently not.  I heard that they were going to try to enter Avatar is in this category.  It qualified under the “animated” aspect.  But since the movie takes approximately 4 days to watch, they decided the “short” label just wouldn’t stick


    Well, despite that this is not done by an American, and therefore vastly inferior and not patriotic, it’s still a great little flick.  It’s about a grandmother from the old country.  Now I’m not sure which old country, but it’s definitely very old.  Well, anyway she decides to tell her granddaughter a lovely bedtime story to help her have a good night’s sleep.  However, granny has some difficulty separating her own opinions from that of the story and so Sleeping Beauty ends up having a very unique interpretetive, er, spin on it.

     

     

     

    So, there you are!  These are the five socialist candidates to win the American Oscar for best short animated film.  I told you it was a bloodbath.

     

    I mean, who is going to win this thing? 

     

    Well, one things for sure.

     

    It won’t be us.

     

  • Dancing Queen, Young and Sweet, Only Seven….

     

     

    We all have dreams for our children –talents that we hope they will develop, qualities that we believe will help them in life.

     

    For some parents, they might hope that their children gain the mental acuity to become doctors, or perhaps the athletic prowess to win a gold medal.

     

    I have many dreams and hopes for my children as well.  And I can say, with great confidence, that if one of the dreams for my children was that they would learn how to throw an instantaneous and enthusiastic dance party, then I can just sit back and rest on my laurels right now.

     

    This is the scene from last week.  We had just been enjoying a family movie night.  We had eaten pizza and watched Monsters Vs. Aliens.  I was about to announce that everyone should go upstairs and get ready for bed, when the credits started to roll.  Playing over the credits was an innocuous pop song that was forgettable at best, but within seconds all three of my children had leapt to their feet and begun to dance.

     

    Now, if you watched that full video, I am sure you can share with me in the odd mixture of pride, shame and concern that I feel when watching my children dance.

     

    I feel pride in their energy, their joy of music and their lack of inhibitions.  I feel shame in the fact that a sense of rhythm, and the ability to shake one’s hips without looking like a geriatric mental patient seem to have alluded them.  I feel concern thinking about their first middle school dance, where my three beautiful children, who are each convinced that they are the greatest dancer ever, will come to terms with the possibility that they may be incorrect.

     

    Let’s break it down a bit.

     

    First there’s Audra, my daughter.  She is a bit of a ham, which is why she makes every effort to remain front and center in the video, at times actively trying to exclude her siblings from the shot.  Also note how she instantly seeks out her rhinestone baseball cap to bring a little street cred to her moves.  She seems to have cobbled her dance style together almost exclusively from  Hannah Montana, Saturday Night Fever the animated series and the dance scene in The Great Muppet Caper.  She is full of attitude and moxie and possibly hip dysplasia.

     

    My middle son, Asher, has taken dancing cues from no one.  He merely moves his body however he sees fit.  He spins around, he jumps on the ottoman, he points his hands awkwardly  and sticks them in and out as if he were the learning to dance from Johnny Five in the Short Circuit movies.  He dances to please no one but himself and truly succeeds.

     

    My youngest son, Micah, dances as if he were practicing to be the world’s first two foot tall white rapper.  He extends his arms out a lot and moves awkwardly around the room ina fixed pose.  He seems to be channeling Jay-Z, several moves from Thriller and possibly Jimminy Cricket (also known as  J-Crick in rapping circles.)

     

    To give you one more chance to enjoy the fine moves my children have developed, here’s one more clip for your Tuesday afternoon.  Last night, while I was cooking dinner Audra begged to have a dance party.  She requested that I play the Blackeyed Peas hit song, “Boom Boom Pow” which she refers to as “Gotta Get Gat.”  Eventually she got so hot (all 35 pounds of her) that she insisted that she change clothes, which is why she is wearing the tied off T-shirt and green short shorts number which she apparently stole from a Miami pool boy.  

     

    The children have worked the trampoline into their routine, to good effect.  They have also perfected some of their signature moves, such as “the spin,” “the bounce,”  “the fall,” “the kick” and “the wiggle.”  

     

    For those of you who are curious, although this video appears to have been taken in our basement, that room is in fact the home’s formal living room which we use as a playroom and, yes, that is a full length mirror along the wall.  

     

    I hope watching this makes your day as much as it does mine.  And if it doesn’t well, just click off now, because, to paraphrase our nations’ unofficial poet laureate:

     

    Any way you want it, That is the way you need it.

     

    Whatever that means.

  • Monday Morning Mini Music Break

     

     OK, I know it's not Monday (well depending on when you're reading this).  But I sort of needed a music break Monday Morning, and besides, Thursday Afternoon Mini Music Break just sounds lame.

     

    Now, I don’t know how your week is going, but mine seems overly difficult.  Partly this has to do with the fact that I’m still suffering from the after effects of this lingering cold / flu / herpes simplex thing that I seemed to have contracted. 

     

    Also, my youngest son has turned into a crazy man this week.  He screamed at the top of his lungs for 30 minutes in the grocery store because I didn’t want to get the bright green bananas.  Oh, I bought bananas.  I just didn’t buy the bright green ones. 

     

    This is apparently the worst thing that has ever happened to him in his entire life. 

     

    Well…. it was the worst thing, until about two hours later when I gave him the wrong cup to drink his juice out of.

     

    So, anyway, this week has been in need of a little break - a brief moment or two where you can forget your worries (or your children) and just focus on something more pleasant.

     

    For me, this often comes in the shape of a little bit of music.  Yes, a quick song to sing or groove to goes a long way toward recapturing a bit of my sanity. 

     

    Just a bit.


    So I thought I’d share with you some of the songs that I’m particularly enjoying right now.  These aren’t necessarily new songs, they’re just songs that for whatever reason happen to be running through my mind lately.  They’re the songs that when they come up on the Ipod, I immediately turn it up.

     

    I’ve decided to share these songs via youtube clips, which is great, because you should be able to click and here the song instantly, but at the same time, sometime the videos are not quite as awesome as the songs themselves.  So, if you’re a purist, feel free to listen to the songs with your eyes closed.  And if you’re a mindless child of the MTV generation who doesn’t even know how to listen to a song without being told what images to associate with it, then by all means open up your eyes and let your brain continue on its permanent vacation.

     

    We’re going to start with (as I’m typing this, Micah started screaming because Asher Dared to touch his Elmo cup) a song that I first heard as nothing more than a music filler between a couple of NPR segments.  I immediately said, “What is that wacky, awesome little ditty?” and then I whipped out my iphone and opened the Shazam app.


    For those of you not in the know, Shazam is this crazy application that will listen to 20 seconds of a song and then tell you what it is, who sang it and then let you download it. 

     

    Here is my best understanding of how it works.

     

    The app analyzes the millions of unique tones and intervals in the song and then sends them wirelessly to a computer which takes that information and shows it to a tiny demon that uses dark magic from the underworld to figure out what song it is, and then sends the information back to your phone in exchange for part of your soul.

     

    Normally, I wouldn’t say that this kind of thing would be worth it, but for this particulat song, I think it was. 

     

    It’s called “Whole Wide World” and it was written by some old British punk folk singer named Wreckless Eric back in the 70s.  

     

    It’s a love song.  And did I mention that it was written by someone named Wreckless Eric?  I mean, what else could you ask for?

     

     

     

    The next song is an old Tracy Chapman song that I absolutely love, “Talking about a Revolution.”  You know, it’s one of those good ol’ communist liberal songs about how the proletariat are going to rise up one night and attack the ruling class with machetes and stuff.


    Anyway, I got a chance to see Tracy Chapman for the first time a couple of months ago and she was just as wonderful as I thought she would be although even after twenty years of performing she still has the stage presence of a 4 year old girl at the school Christmas pageant who can’t remember her lines.  She’s painfully shy, but as long as she doesn’t make eye contact with the audience, she can sing like nobody’s business. 

     

    But this is not Tracy Chapman (I know!  A pretty big lead in just for a bait and switch, huh?)  Anyway.  An album came out recently that was even more communist liberal than Tracy Chapman.  It was called “Playing for Change” and whoever it was who put the album together traveled around the world finding different people and groups to sing songs and then wove all of their voices together on to an album.  It’s a wonderful album and one of my favorite tracks is “Talking about a Revolution.”

     

    I don’t know who’s singing it, or what country they are in, or anything.  I just know that they’ve taken Tracy’s song and made it even more beautiful and rhythmic and powerful.

     

     

     

    Now we’re going to do a 180 and check out this totally awesome British pop singer guy.  His name is James Morrison (you can tell the difference between him and Jim Morrison, because he goes by James and he’s not dead).

     

    A friend of mine got free tickets to see him at a mini lunch concert one day last year.  So we both tagged along to check this guy out.  He’s a little tiny guy who dresses like he’s been sleeping in Trafalgar Square for most of the last week, but he’s got a great voice and some awesome songs.  He’s huge in Europe but is still trying to break into the American music scene.  Part of the reason he’s having trouble is because when he sang at our mini concert, he sang about three songs, and then just walked off.  It was the weirdest damn thing I’d ever seen.  I’d hardly gotten settled in my seat and he was packing up his guitar. 

     

    Anyway, despite my getting cheated out of my free concert I’ve really taken a liking to this guy’s music.  He’s one of those rare artists where his entire album is actually worth listening too and not just the first two songs. 

     

    I guess my fave off the album has to be this little soaring pop ballad.  It’s called Broken Strings, and Nelly Furtado guests on it.   Now be warned, James Morrison isn’t much to look at unless you’re in to little scruffy dudes, but he’s got a great voice. 


    The video’s a bit odd as well.  It starts with him sitting in a hotel room and singing to himself while Nelly Furtado’s ghost hangs out on the other side of his sliding glass doors.  Then he tries to reach out to her sort of like Kirk and Spock in that movie where Spock died or whatever.  Then at some point his passionate singing makes the room explode and then catch on fire and then magically heal itself.  I’m sure this all means something. 

     

    I think it mainly means he needs to become a bigger star so that he can afford better videos.

     

     

     

    The next song is by one of my favorite little bands: Stephen Kellogg and the Sixers.  They have a great folk rock sound and put on an awesome live show.  The first time I ever saw them, they were opening for another one of my favorite bands, Eddie From Ohio, at Wolf Trap.  Their pianist / accordion / tuba player is especially known for his antics and during one of the songs ran a lap around the entire amphitheater and then ran back on stage and did the worm.

     

    This song is called “Shady Esperanto.”  I don’t know why it’s called Shady Esperanto.  I don’t do a very good job paying attention to lyrics so I never really know what songs are about.  I rather frequently will be bouncing around the kitchen listening to a song, only to discover that it’s a horribly depressing song about dead kittens or something.

     

    One of my favorite songs of all time is “Long Ride Home” by Patty Griffin.  It’s a peppy little number that turns out to be about a funeral.  Another song by Tracy Chapman that always can get me grooving is called “America.”  Here are some sample lyrics:

     

    “You found bodies to serve
    Submit and degrade
    While you were conquering America…..

    Your hands are at my throat
    My back's against the wall
    Because you're still conquering America”

     

    Holy crap!  I mean, how can I possibly dance around with a spatula in my hand humming along to that?

     

    I don’t know.  But somehow I do.  Again, it helps that I pay no attention to the lyrics.  Which, again, is why I have no idea what Shady Esperanto means or is about.  And probably I don’t want to know, especially if it’s about dead kittens.  So if you DO listen to the lyrics and figure it out, I’d just assume you don’t tell me.

     

    Their video is very cute, though.  It was made by themselves on a budget that makes James Morrison look like he was shooting Avatar.  If you can believe it, I think they even choreographed it themselves.  I also can not explain why Stephen Kellogg has chosen to don a scruffy beard that makes him look like that guy who always did too many drugs in the theater department. 

     

     

     

    Our final song for the day is by far the best.  It is from the TV show Phineas and Ferb.  For those of you without Elementary aged children, Phineas and Ferb is an extremely funny, extremely clever cartoon.  It is this generation’s Animaniacs. 

     

    Anyway, the cartoon has lots of songs in it and most of them are parodies of different genres.  For instance, there is an old Tom Jones / James Bond number about Perry the Platypus who is a secret agent.  (Yes you read that correctly.)  There’s an Abba-esque number called “Disco Miniature Golfing Queen” and this lovely ethnic piece called “Mexican Jewish Cultural Festival” which is essentially what would happen if the Fiddler on the Roof was up there drinking margaritas.


    Anyway, the show is my newest obsession and we recently bought the soundtrack which has one of my favorite songs of all time on it.  I am not normally into hardcore Rap but this song is called Squirrels in My Pants.  And I am always into hardcore Rap when it involves a topic like rodents in a pair of Wranglers.

     

    Here are some sample lyrics:

    S to the I to the M to the P!

    Who you got back home, watering your plants?

    S-I-M-P, Squirrels in my Pants!

    How can I qualify for government grants?

    S-I-M-P, Squirrels in my Pants!”

     

    It’s like Shakespeare and Oscar Hammerstein had a love child, isn’t it?

     

     

    Now, you might ask, how exactly did these squirrels come to reside in said pants?  Well, the truth is, I haven’t seen this episode, so I don’t really know.  I can certainly make a few suppositions, but in the end, does it really matter?  (get it?  In the end?)

     

     

     

      

    So, there you go.   A little something for everyone.  And honestly, if you can’t find something within this collection of songs to put a smile on your face and a bump in your rump, then there’s really not much I can do to help you. 

     

    Well, not much that doesn’t involve rodents and Wranglers.

     

  • If This is the ER, Where’s Dr. McDreamy?

    I finally became a real father this past weekend.

     

    Sure, there are lots of milestones that you pass through on your journey to complete parentdom.  There are the sweet ones like the first time your child calls you “Da-Da” or the first time they kiss you on the cheek unsolicited.

     

    Then there are the less sweet, but just as significant moments, such as when your son pees on you while you’re changing his diaper, or the first time you’re wiping up vomit off of the bedroom floor at 3 am.

     

    Ah, good times.

     

    Yes, all of these moments make up a complete parenting resume, and with three kids under my belt, I have checked off  just about all of these little boxes, save one:  the late night trip to the emergency room.

     

    I can’t say I was worried by the absence of this critical piece of the parenting puzzle, but at the same time I knew it was coming and was kind of ready to get it over with. 

     

    Thank goodness for Thursday night.

     

    It was at the end of a fairly long week.  My wife had worked late every night and so parenting had been a one man job for a while.  So, I had taken the kids out for dinner (kids eat free with adult entrée at California Tortilla!) and they were all running around for a few minutes before bed.  I was upstairs putting some laundry away when my daughter comes running upstairs to tell me that Asher had fallen off the playset and hurt himself.

     

    Again?  Really?

     

    We have this large, ugly plastic playset that I picked up on the side of the road a few  years ago.  It’s in what used to be the formal living room before we bought the house and is now a huge tacky playroom for the munchkins.  Our children have all become climbing masters.  They scale this thing and swing on it and cavort around it like a squabbling band of chimpanzees and of course, every once in a while, somebody falls off of it on to the plush carpet that once used to host wine tasting parties and now hosts leftover cheerios and polly pocket shoes.

     

    About 6 months ago, Asher fell for the 400th time and banged his head on the corner of a bookshelf.  This was deemed serious enough that we took him to the nighttime pediatrics location and they glued his head back together. 

     

    No, literally. 

     

    They used glue and “stickers” to hold the gash together.  They said the bandages would fall off by themselves, and sure enough, almost 4 months later when we were playing at an indoor playset at the mall, I looked up and the grey, scraggly bandage that had been stuck to my son’s forehead for 100 days or so was missing, presumably now on the bottom of someone’s shoe, or in the mouth of an overly curious infant.

     

    Anyway.

     

    We moved the bookshelf, repositioned the playset and the kids had once again been playing happily and safely.  Of course, they still fell occasionally, but that’s all part of the game, isn’t it?

     

    So, Audra comes yelling that Asher fell and hurt himself.


    Again?  Really?


    So I go downstairs.

     

    There’s Asher lying on the floor crying, but it’s not his “Oh my gosh!  The pain is killing me!” cry.  It was more of his “Wah wah, this hurts, but mainly I just want to cry and be dramatic and get some attention cry.”

     

    Well, not in this house!

     

    I pick him up and tell him that I’m sorry he’s hurt.  I check his head and don’t see any bruises or bumps.  I stroke his head and kiss it better.

     

    But he’s still crying.

     

    Come on…

     

    So, I tell him, “Well, if it hurts this bad, you must need to go straight to bed.”

     

    He’s still crying.

     

    I take him to his room and lay him down in his bed and say, Tthe rest of the family is going to go downstairs and watch the Olympics, but if you need to cry, you can stay up in your room and go to sleep.”

     

    He immediately rolls over.

     

    …….um….. that’s not normal.

     

    I turn the lights off and go downstairs.  As the minutes pass by and he doesn’t appear in the living room ready to admit that he’s lost this battle of wills, my mind starts to race.


    Ohmigosh!  Ohmigosh!  I bet he bumped his head and had one of those sub dermal hematoma things just like in the John Grisham book I read.  He’s going to go into a coma right now as we speak and have brain damage and have to eat strained peas through a straw for the rest of his life while watching the View.

     

    I cant’ let that happen!

     

    I go back upstairs and Asher is asleep…. At 8:00 at night!

     

    Holy crap!  It’s more serious than I thought!  I take the small frog flashlight that Asher sleeps with and used it to do a thorough examination.   I know I’m supposed to wave the light in front of his eyeballs, but what the hell am I looking for?  Am I just supposed to make sure that the eyeballs are still there, or are they supposed to do something?

     

    Asher startles awake, crying again.  I am relieved that he woke up and that he won’t have to spend his entire life as a vegetable.  I ask him if he wants to watch TV and he says yes.  So I take him downstairs and he instantly falls asleep on my lap.

     

    This is exactly what happened in that Grisham book!  And I already know that I’m going to lose the lawsuit against the evil insurance company!

     

    A few minutes later my wife walks in and I tell her what happened; omitting most of the part about how I thought Asher was fake crying.


    We make a few calls and decide that we need to take him to the emergency room.

     

    And here we are.

     

    So I load up my sleeping son and take him to the hospital where I stand around in this hallway with a living example of everything that’s wrong with our health care system.  There’s the lady with a toothache, the old man who looks lost, and the weird young guy in a wheel chair who keeps coughing as loudly as possible while all of the nurses ignore him and roll their eyes.  I don’t know what the heck’s wrong with that guy, but it aint normal.

     

    Then they check Asher’s temperature, weight and vitals, all of which he sleeps through.  Then I take him and put him on my shoulder while we sit and wait to be called.  We only have to wait a mercifully short time before a surly young nurse who looked like her boyfriend just texted to say he was leaving her for a stripper named Bubbles called us to follow her.

     

    She never said hello or introduced herself.  She just led us to a room, sulked in the corner and asked us a few questions before leaving.  I laid Asher down on the bed, covered him with a blanket and pulled out a book.  It was going to be a long night.

     

    While I’m reading these, two really loud nurses are chatting in the hallway.  One’s talking about how she’s applying for other jobs and this head hunter is sending her application around to other places.  The conversation went something like this:

     

    “So the guy calls and says he’s got something out in Western Kentucky, and I’m like ah man, what the heck is in Western Kentucky?  Just some redneck hicks?  So I called my boyfriend and he’s like, ‘man it must be like Podunk, Kentucky or something like that.’  And  then I get a call back from this head hunter guy and he says this city’s name is like “pah-dook” or something like that and we just laughed and laughed cause it sounded just like Podunk, but we couldn’t find it on a map or anything!  Can you imagine!”

     

    Because my son was lying in the hospital with a possible brain injury direct from a legal thriller I decided not to go up to this woman and tell her that, actually, the name of the town was Paducah and that my father happens to be the City Manager and that it is home to the National Quilt Museum that my mother happens to be the director of and that it is actually a very cute little town with a thriving arts district.

     

    Honestly, I think Paducah dodged a bullet on that one.

     

    Anyway, a few minutes later a very nice man came into the room and introduced himself as the Physician’s assistant.  He had a distinguished beard and a long pony tail in a braid.  He listened to what had happened, examined Asher, was able to locate a small bump on the back of his head and told me that he was sure there was nothing wrong, but that since Asher was not acting normally, that a cat scan was worth doing.


    So, a few minutes later someone took me down the hallway to a fancy pants MRI machine that looked like a giant donut.  It was just like one of those GE commercials where they’re showing you all of their fancy equipment and telling you that now GE has the technology to show your internal organs in color and stuff like that.

     

    Well, Asher is still asleep, we put him on the little tray, cover him with a lead blanket and then the magic machine starts moving around silently taking little picture of his little brain.  A few minutes later the not particularly friendly technician dismisses us and we head back to our room.  I put Asher back in the bed, cover him and turn off the lights.  In a few minutes we’re both asleep until our pony tailed savior returns to announce that the Cat scan was clear and that our little boy is 100% ok.

     

    And so, relieved, I pick him up, take him home and put him in bed.

     

    The next morning Asher woke up a little groggy, but fine.  He came down stairs and pointed to the little hospital bracelet on his wrist and said, “what’s this?”


    He had slept through the whole ordeal and had no recollection of even going to the hospital. 

     

    So, all in all, our first parental trip to the emergency was a flying success.  We escaped with merely a plastic bracelet and some vague memories.  Well…. and a little something else.


    Saturday morning I woke with some weird, sinus coughing disease that I still haven’t quite shaken three days later.

     

    If I end up in a wheel chair hacking my lungs out while the nurses all shake their heads dismissively I’ll know I’m in real trouble, because I’ve read that Grisham book too and I don’t win a million dollar settlement in that one either.

  • Blind Sided

     

    Sarah and I finally got around to seeing “The Blind Side” a few weeks ago.

     

    You know, that movie with Sandra Bullock where she brings this poor black teenager to live in her home and he ends up becoming a professional athlete?

     

    Well, I had wanted to see it.  It’s apparently the feel good movie of the year after all.  But I was a little hesitant.

     

    You see, we brought a couple of poor black teenagers to live in our home and one of them desperately wants to become a professional athlete.

     

    Funny that.

     

    This 18 year old young man, lets call him Antonio, used to be a student of mine when I taught in Mississippi 13 years ago.   He was always wiry and active and as he grew up he was blessed with height and some athletic abilities.  At 6’ 2” he was a star on the local high school basketball team.  And when he ran on to the court, he heard hundreds of people cheering for him. 

     

    When he walked the streets of the small town he grew up in, he heard friends and neighbors tell him every day how amazing he was and how he was going to be a big star in the NBA.

     

    Antonio was sure of this. 

     

    The fact that he wasn’t necessarily the best player on his team didn’t deter him, nor did the fact that his high school team had a pretty weak season that year.  He was sure it was still going to happen.  After all, you heard how Michael Jordan got cut from his high school team, right?  It was still early.

     

    Antonio’s grades were not great and his SAT scores were abysmal.  I helped him apply to a few colleges, but in the end, a mediocre athletic background and substandard academic performance were not enough to open any doors.

     

    So he moved in with us.

     

    Our idea was that he would attend the local community college, earn an associates degree and then transfer to a four year school.  I thought maybe he could get a teaching degree and become a gym teacher.  He could play basketball at the community college and hopefully that would provide enough incentive for him to stick with school and do the hard work it would take to achieve these goals.

     

    I thought Antonio was on board with this plan.  He nodded at all the right times and expressed the right amount of interest.  But this was not his plan.

     

    He didn’t need to worry about the classes, because all he needed to do was play ball well enough and a scout would see him and he would get scooped up by a Division 1 school and then it was just a matter of time until that fat NBA contract appeared in his lap.

     

    Unfortunately, neither of our plans turned out to be very successful. 

     

     I tried to help Antonio with his school work.  I sat up late with him helping him with work.  I showed him how to do research on the computer.  I made an appointment for him at the office that provided free tutors.  But Antonio didn’t do well.  He passed some of his classes but had to drop out of others.  During second semester we signed him up for the easiest classes we could find just to give him a head start, but he had little success.  The classes required hard work to make up for his previously inadequate academic preparation, but Antonio didn’t like the work and was convinced he could get by with doing less.  His grades ended up being ok, but we were running out of easy classes.  Things would only get harder.

     

    Unfortunately his basketball dreams weren’t going much better.  Antonio had some natural ability, but the laziness that infected his academic work seeped into his playing as well.  He attended every practice but rarely spent time practicing outside of school.  Even though we had a basketball goal in the driveway he spent most of his time watching basketball on ESPN instead of spending it practicing free throws.  He never spent time exercising or lifting weights.  He was sure his natural ability was enough.

     

    He was the best player on his team and was voted MVP, but he was a star only amongst much less talented teammates.  His team lost all but two games that year – a ridiculously bad record that attracted no scouts to his poorly attended games.

     

    That summer, I tried to talk him into staying with us and taking some summer classes, maybe getting Biology or History out of the way.  There was also a summer basketball camp that the community college wanted to hire him to work at.  I thought it would be a great way to earn a little money and to get a taste for what being a gym teacher might be like, but Antonio was ready to go home.

     

    He left for Mississippi and told us about his plans to get a summer job, but no one really believed him.  He spent the summer doing just what we all knew he would do - hanging out with his friends and playing pick up basketball in the street.  He had a narrow escape from some guy who jumped him with a gun and was around when his best friend went to jail for selling drugs and shooting at a passing car.

     

    When he came back at the end of the summer he seemed changed, as if the reek of the summer’s laziness and bad habits couldn’t wash off him.

     

    The next year went by with one miserable decision following another.  He signed up for classes but found them too difficult and just stopped going for a couple of weeks.   I still drove him to the campus every day, thinking I was dropping him off for classes that he never attended.  He eventually decided that he had made a mistake, but the damage was done.  He tried to fix it on his own.  He signed up for half semester classes and tried to withdraw from the others, but there was no way to catch up.  His GPA took a dive and he discovered, too late, that to play basketball you have to pass a certain number of courses a semester.

     

    He was dropped from the team.  Unfortunately, this happened right as the team was finally experiencing some success.  They had gotten a couple of new players and the team was on a winning streak.  They ended up making it to the regional finals, but Antonio just had to watch from the sidelines.

     

    To make matters worse, the NCAA rules prohibited him from playing basketball for more than two years in community college.  His community college career was over and it seemed less and less likely that he would ever make it to a four year schoo.  But he didn’t seem to realize it.  He had been in college for a year and a half, but had hardly completed more than a semester’s worth of credits.  He couldn’t play ball, and no scouts were calling for a kid who had taken algebra three times without passing.

     

    I hoped that this would convince Antonio to double down on his studies without the distraction of basketball, but instead he withdrew even more.  He signed up for online courses so he wouldn’t have to go back to the college campus and revisit his failures.  The classes didn’t go well.  He eventually failed so many that he became ineligible for financial aid.

     

     I tried to talk to Antonio about options, explaining that even though it didn’t look like the NBA was going to work out, that maybe having a teaching degree would allow him to stay active in the game.  Maybe he could take become a High School coach and possibly even work up the ranks from there..

     

    He shot back angrily, “This is too much work if all I’m going to get out of it is a teaching job.”

     

    Antonio had planned out his whole life based on being an NBA star.  He was going to play a game for a living.  He was going to make millions of dollars.  He knew what kind of car he was going to buy and what team he was going to play for.  He was going to live in a big house, but he wasn’t going to be greedy like those other players.  He knew what it was like to be poor.  He was going to give money back to his hometown and be a hero. 

     

    How could he do any of that on a salary of $35,000?

     

    That summer he returned home again to the Delta.  He was arrested within a week of getting back after a fight with his girlfriend.  He returned to us owing the state of Mississippi $900 in fines. 

     

    I realized that basketball was the only dream he had.  I tried to work out scenarios where he could maybe get into a four year college and play basketball for another year or two, but the windows of opportunity were shutting quickly.  You only had so many years of eligibility and he had to have a minimum GPA to play.  I told him what he needed to do to make all that happen.  But he never seemed to really believe me. 

     

    We lent him buy a car and helped him get a part time job at UPS so he could keep paying for classes.  But he didn’t like working at the warehouse.  He had to get up early and the work was hard.  This was not the life he had planned on.  He had secretly resigned himself to the fact that his path to the NBA was not going to be easy any longer.  He knew now, that he would almost certainly have to go play in the European leagues first.

     

    His false dreams in hand, he floundered through another semester.  He only had one course on campus.  Everything else was at home.  He never got a tutor, never asked for help and started hiding his assignments from us.  He cheated brazenly, copying and pasting material from the internet that no teacher could have thought came from him.

     

    He had to drop most of his classes and ended up still being ineligible for financial aid or to play basketball.  Along the way he wrecked our car.  We helped him buy another one so he could continue to go to work.

     

    I tried to convince him to forget about school and seek out a career.  Another former student staying with us had done that and was crafting a solid career as a plumber in the local union. 

     

    But Antonio wasn’t interested.  He didn’t like the hard work and those NBA dreams still burned even more improbably.  He came up with a new plan.  He would return to Mississippi where he had been a star and get a job there and to go to one of the local colleges.

     

    He texted me with this decision one day.  I came home and tried to explain its limits.  I told him that in an economy as bad as ours, leaving one of the top states for job opportunities and education and going to, perhaps, the very poorest area of the very poorest state, was not a good plan.  I further reminded him that most of his friends couldn’t find jobs and spent their time hanging out and getting into trouble and that he was likely to fall into that trap as well.

     

    But I think he had decided that the problems were not with him, but rather with geography.  That NBA career was still out there, he just needed to go back to the place where people believed in him. 

     

    He waited till we were out of town one day and then, without telling us, got into his car and drove to Mississippi, leaving behind two and a half years of work and effort with little to show for it.

     

    So, as my wife and I watched The Blind Side, it wasn’t easy.  As Sandra Bullock stomped around the screen demanding the best for the son she had taken in and reveling in his success as a high school, college and NFL star, I was filled with an odd mixture of anger, jealousy and frustration.

     

    I was jealous that this couldn’t have been Antonio’s story – that his talents and work ethic weren’t great enough to propel him toward his dream.  I was angry that the movie made is seem so easy, further feeding the dreams of marginally talented children around the country.  I was frustrated that my own abilities weren’t enough to bring any success to Antonio’s story.


    The reality is that there is a reason that only one of these stories is a movie.

     

    We make movies of the exceptional, of the extraordinary, of the 1 in a million achievement.

     

    The realities of life are lived by the rest of us. 

     

    In the past few years, I have had four different former students of mine come stay with us, all in an effort to escape the miserable poverty of their Mississippi Delta lives.  So, far, three of them have given up and returned home.  Antonio has been here longer than anyone.  He arrived a month after my youngest son was born and in many ways has been as much a part of our life as our son was.  And then he left, escaping in silence without a goodbye.

     

    My friends try to cheer me up.  They tell me that this is not a waste, that things can be different for Antonio now because of what he has done up here.


    And that’s true.  They can be different.  But they won’t be.

     

    Antonio is returning to one of the poorest areas in the country.  The only factory in town recently closed and jobs are few and far between.  He’s no longer eligible for financial aid because of his grades and without a job there will be no more classes.

     

    The reality is that soon he will fall into the same habits of most of his peers.  He will sleep late, watch TV, hang out on the corner, and when the need for money starts to outweigh his better judgment, he’s likely to join his friends selling drugs.  From there, jail and a further descent into failure are a short step away.

     

    No, this isn’t a given.  There are many ways this story could play out.  Unfortunately, this is simply the most likely.

     

    Sure, there’s still a chance that he did learn something from his time up here.  There’s a chance that he will put away his shiny dreams of riches and fame and realize that very few things in life are achieved without hard work.  Maybe he’ll get one of those few jobs that are available and start up at one of the local colleges.  Maybe he’ll decide to take advantage of the tutors and help that is available to him.  Maybe he’ll end up with a college degree and get a decent job. Maybe he’ll even be able to play a little basketball on the side.

     

    Maybe, he’ll be able to rise above the reality of life and the false allure of gilded dreams.  Maybe he’ll be able to be successful in his adequacy.  Maybe hard work and a comfortable, if ordinary, existence will become his new dream.

     

    Maybe.

     

    Now that’s a movie I’d like to see.

  • Budget Schmudget

     

    There is a phrase floating around Washington nowadays that kind of bugs me.

     

    It’s not a new phrase, but it seems to be in the midst of a revival.  It first popped up during the President’s State of the Union Address and since then I have heard it bandied about by Democrats and Republicans alike.

     

    The phrase is:  “Non Defense Related Discretionary Spending.”

     

    Ok.

     

    So, what does that mean exactly?


    Well, basically, it’s talking about our massive Federal budget and how we keep spending more each year than we are taking in. 

     

    This is a problem.  

     

    It’s actually a really really big problem.

     

    You see, we’ve been spending more money than we’ve been taking in for years now and it’s kind of turned into a financial disaster.


    Let’s think of it this way.  Let’s think about our national budget as an American family:  The Joneses.  And to make it simple, we’re going to use easy math.  Let’s say that the Joneses make a total of $100,000 dollars a year.

     

    Not bad, huh?

     

    That’s the husband and the wife both working and little Timmy earning some money from his paper route.   Altogether:  100K.

     

    Ok, you know how you read about how the average American has a ton of credit card debt?  Some estimates say that the average family has $10,000 in credit card debt.


    That’s bad.  That’s really bad, because with interest and whatnot, they’re going to be paying for years and the interest alone adds up to a significant chunk of that family’s budget.

     

    So the average family has $10K in credit card debt.  That’s 10% of their total income for the year.

     

    If the Joneses, our American government family had debts that were 10% of their annual income, that would be bad…. But manageable.


    The Joneses do not.

     

    They have a debt slightly higher than that.

     

    The Joneses take in $100,000 a year, but they have a credit card debt of $500,000!

     

    That’s 500% of their annual salary.  Think about that!  Think about what it would mean if you had a mastercard that was carrying a balance that was 5 times what you make each year.

     

    Scary, huh?


    Each year, our government takes in 2.5 trillion dollars, but we have a debt of almost 12.5 trillion.

     

    And what makes matters worse.  Even though the Joneses have a debt that is five times their annual income, they keep spending more and more every single year.  So even though they only make $100,000 they spend $120,000 every year!

     

    You see, the Joneses aren’t off by just a little, they are off by a ton – 20% to be exact.

     

    So next year, they will have a debt of $520,000 and the year after that $540,000.  And it keeps going up.  In fact, in the last 40 years, there have only been 4 years where the Joneses didn’t spend more than they made (late 90s, under Bill Clinton).  And whenever the debt gets higher, the Joneses have to pay more money just to cover the interest, which means they have less money to do all the other things they were doing, which means they have to charge more to the credit card each year just to maintain their lifestyle.

     

    Now, I think we can all agree, that the Joneses are horrible horrible and incredibly stupid people.

     

    I mean how do you get that far in debt and think that it’s going to be ok?

    These people need Suze Orman like nobody’s business.

     

    Ok. So how can we help these idiotic Joneses?  How do you get out of a hole where you owe 5 times as much as you earn and each year you STILL spend too much?

     

    Well, the first thing to do (and I’m no economist here) is to stop spending so damn money!

     

    Of course, that’s easier said than done and here’s where that whole “Non Defense Related Discretionary Spending” thing comes in.

     

    You see, there are certain expenditures that the Joneses HAVE to pay each year.  They don’t have a choice.

     

    The government has certain costs that are locked in by law.  One is payment on the debt.  If we don’t keep paying the interest on the debt, China will come over and repossess California.  (I know, I know, it doesn’t seem like such a bad thing, but I’ve got family who live there and besides, I don’t think eating lunch at “China Pizza Kitchen” sounds as tasty.)

     

    In addition to the debt, most of what is called “entitlement’ spending is locked in.  This is stuff like Medicare and Social Security and all that other good stuff.  There is a federal law that congress must pay for that each year.  So we can’t touch that.  Now we could do things like raise the retirement age so that less people were on Social Security, or we could cut the kinds of benefits that they received, but then the old people would march on Washington brandishing canes and bags of Werther’s Originals and disembowel all of our congressman, and we wouldn’t want that…… Ok, there are times when you think you want that, but, come on, you don’t really….. do you?

     

    Ok, so we have to pay the interest, we have to make sure the old people can get Viagra and watch Family Feud.  And there’s other legally mandated spending such as salaries for government employees and food stamps and stuff like that. 

     

    So, all of those things are non-discretionary spending.  We don’t have any discretion over whether we spend it or not. We have to.  Think of it as stuff like the mortgage and the car payment and taxes.

     

    Those are locked in costs.  You have to pay them, or you end up living in a box.

     

    For the Joneses (our metaphorical government family) these locked in costs total about 62% of their budget.


    Almost 2/3 of the Joneses budget is going toward stuff they can’t change (at least not easily and without really causing some problems)

     

    That’s about $75,000 (because remember, the Joneses aren’t operating on a budget of the 100K they take in, they are operating on a budget of the 120K they spend each year.) 

     

    This leaves $25,000 dollars of discretionary spending that they have money for.  Of course, remember, they are actually spending $120,000 a year, so there is actually $45,000 of discretionary spending and they need to cut it by 45% just to break even, if they actually want to start paying off that monster debt, they need to cut it by even more than that, let’s say by at least 50%. 

     

    So, we need to cut $22,500 out of the Joneses crazy budget. 

     

    Alright.  I know that this seems like a lot, but I’ve got faith in us, let’s give it a whirl.

     

    What makes this hard though, is that all of that discretionary spending isn’t just going to lottery tickets and Haagen Dazs, it’s going to good stuff, like food and school supplies and gasoline.

     

    You see, that “discretionary spending” includes everything else that the government does, such as building roads, funding education, researching cancer, maintaining Yosemite National Park, jobs programs, college loans and funding the military.

     

    Sure, there’s some things that can be cut.  And sure, every year, some idiot congressman gets some kind of stupid pet project built in his home state, but the reality is that this petty stupid stuff is pennies of that $45,000 and that each of those stupid pet projects, no matter how asinine is giving someone a job.


    Now, there is no question that there is waste in the federal government, but every single cut, even the wasteful ones  is going to hurt someone.  Some person will lose a job, or some family will lose the ability to pay for college.  Even the stupid expenditures are helping someone.

     

    So these cuts are not going to be easy.

     

    And remember, we’ve got to cut $22,500.

     

    Holy crap!

     

    Ok, remember how I started all of this out talking about the phrase “Non Defense Related Discretionary Spending?”

     

    Ok, well what the Obama was saying was that he can only cut “discretionary spending” (none of that Medicare / Social Security stuff).  Ok, but discretionary spending includes “defense related spending” (the army, homeland security, B2 bombers etc.)  Now, since we all support our troops, the president is saying that we can’t cut any “defense related” discretionary spending either.

     

    Ok, I kind of get that.

     

    And so does everyone else, apparently, because on all of the talk shows and political venues everyone is talking about the need to cut “non defense related discretionary spending.”

     

    Ok, here’s the problem.  We’ve got to cut $22,500 out of $45,000.

     

    Our defense related spending is $27,600.

     

    Anyone see any problems here?


    Even if we cut every single non defense related program in this country.  That means if we sent no more money to schools, we close NASA, we don’t give a dime to other countries, we cancel college loans, we stop paving roads and travel on dirt, we don’t fund any medical research, we shutter the Center for Disease Control, we close all of our national parks, give Big bird the axe, close down the FBI and run lawless.  Even if we do all of that.  Even if we eliminate everything in America that makes us great, save for taking care of the old people, fully funding our military and paying the interest on our debt, we still run over budget by $5,000.

     

    And you know there is no way in hell we will ever eliminate all of that other stuff.  Because as much as everyone likes to bitch and moan about the government we all really like roads and education and museums and parks and cheap food and not dying of lead poisoning and having someone making sure that China isn’t selling us poisoned baby formula.

     

    We actually love what our government does for us and many people, literally, could not live without it.


    So, let me ask you this?  With a budget and a debt this screwed up, why is the military a sacred cow?

     

    I understand terrorism and I DO remember 9/11, but do you honestly believe that the way the military spends its three quarters of a trillion dollars each year is being spent without any waste?

     

    Is there no room for cuts?

     

    Is it not possible to shave off the extraordinary amount of money we are spending on planes and missiles and sending troops overseas?

     

    I don’t want to rehash the questionable decisions that got us into Iraq, or the questionable decisions that keep us in Afghanistan, even though the military believes that there are less than 100 al Qaeda in Afghanistan.

     

    http://abcnews.go.com/Blotter/president-obamas-secret-100-al-qaeda-now-afghanistan/story?id=9227861

     

    I don’t know enough about Terrorist machinations to personally re-direct our military.  I dare say none of us do (possibly including the military) but I do know that we have spent almost a trillion or so dollars in Iraq where no al Qaeda existed and are now spending another fair penny in Afghanistan to take out a few dozen.

     

    Now, I believe that we need a strong defense.  We need a mighty military.  We need a well funded and vigilant homeland security, but we also need roads and schools and food for the hungry.

     

    I am not saying we should stop funding the military nor that I want the air force to hold that apocryphal bake sale to buy their bombers, but I do believe this whole heartedly: 

     

    There is waste and bloated expenditures in the military in the same way there is waste and bloated expenditures in every other area of government and I suspect it is even worse in the military because they have been given a blank check to do what they pleased.

     

    In fact, in the last several budgets, congress has decided, as a matter of political posturing, to give the military MORE money than they asked for in their budget.

     

    Think about that.  The military, who knows, they will pretty much get whatever they ask for, asks for a quarter of the US budget and then the congress, says, “oh sure,” take all that, oh, and here’s a little extra just in case.”

     

    The military has become the spoiled teenager of the Jones family.  Sure, we need to take care of Timmy.  We need to give him new shoes and a computer and maybe even one of those Wii games, but does he need to drive a Ferrari to high school?  Wouldn’t a Ford Focus be plenty?

     

    Ok, I’m sure I’ve just pissed a lot of people off, but here’s the bottom line.  Our country is screwed and we have to fix it. 

     

    We must get our spending under control.  And if anyone was willing to be honest, they would have to admit that the only solution will be from a combination of increased taxes and reduced services.  We have been living in excess for too long and it is time to be responsible.

     

    And it will be hard, but in this difficult situation, there should be no sacred cows.  The military has more room to cut than many other departments and I think they should participate.

     

    Let’s cut discretionary spending.  Let’s do something to fix our runaway entitlement spending, but don’t take Defense spending off the table.

     

    When there is a family crisis of this proportion, we all need to participate.


    And yes, the military cuts will hurt.  Bases will be closed, jobs will be lost, factories will be shuttered, but this is true with every cut in the government budget and there is not a doubt in my mind that the military can make those cuts without even coming close to sacrificing our safety.  The cuts must be made wisely, but I am confident that the military is wise enough to know what is fat and what is muscle and where the trimming needs to be done.

     

    I think the pain of budget cuts should be shared across the board of all discretionary spending.  And I think Congress needs to put on its big girl panties and figure out how to cut our non-discretionary spending as well.

     

    It will be hard.  It will be painful.  But it is necessary and we can not wait much longer.

     

    Because judging by history, the only way to get our budget under control, create a surplus and start paying down the debt is for Mrs. Jones to divorce Mr. Jones and to marry Bill Clinton.

     

    And I don’t think anyone really wants that.

     

    Well, except, maybe Hillary.

  • Protests and Anti-tests

     

     

    Oh boy folks.  I have a doozy of a story for you this morning.  It’s just wonderful.  It will make you smile all day long.

     

    But to truly appreciate it, first I have to make you a little sad.

     

    You probably know who the Westboro Baptist Church is, even if you don’t know them by name.  They are the total nutjobs who travel around the country holding protests with signs that say things like “God Hates Fags,”  “God Hates America,”  “Thank God for IED’s”  “Thank God for 9/11”  etc. etc.

     

    Basically, they kind of hate everyone, but they really really hate gay people.

     

    This Kansas church is famous for their in your face, offensive protests.  They regularly go to the funerals of homosexuals and soldiers and famous people to wave their signs outside the funeral home. 

     

    They protested at Matthew Shepherd’s funeral as well as that of Heath Ledger, Michael Jackson, Mr. Rogers, and Coretta Scott King. 

     

    They try to attend the funerals of any prominent homosexual or Aids related death as well and that of a number of fallen soldiers and college students.

     

    Wikipedia has an excellent synopsis of their wacky history:   http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Westboro_Baptist_Church

     

    Basically, they really really hate Gays, so much so, that they hate everything that has to do with gays or anyone who has ever supported gays or any place where a gay has ever been.  So they hate the military because there are gays in it and they hate Catholics because of the Priest thing and they hate Episcopalians and Presbyterians and Methodists (I’m so proud!) because they haven’t condemned homosexuality adequately.

     

    Oh yeah, they hate Jews too, but mainly just because the Jews like the gays.


    They also have a number of websites promoting their hate, such as GodHatesAustralia.com, PriestsRapeBoys.com and GodHatesIreland.com

     

    Now come on!  God SO does not hate Ireland.  Ireland is where God goes to drink after a long day!

     

    They also protested a local appliance store because it sold Swedish vacuum cleaners and the Swedes like the gays too much.  (good logic)

     

    They have even recorded a version of “We are the World” called “God Hates the World.”  If you’re in the right mood, it can be very funny - to listen to these sweetly singing voices proclaiming hatred, but at its core it is deeply disturbing.  If you’re in the right mood, here’s a link:

     

    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p0enY6pf6L0

     

    So, obviously, they are slightly deranged, but also rather wily.  Their goal is to gain publicity and attract attention (although I’m not sure to what end) and they are masters at this.  They go where the cameras are and come out with the most outrageous proclamations they can all designed to draw media attention.

     

    When you show up at the funeral of someone who was murdered because he was gay and you hold signs that say “God Hates Fags” you know it’s going to be on the nightly news.

     

    They approach society at its most vulnerable, at its most emotionally fractious and they stoke the flames of anger, hoping for a response. 

     

    And they usually get one. 

     

    People get angry, people yell at them.  The TV cameras flock to cover their vitriol.  And most of the time they are given precisely the attention they desire, all wrapped up in the safety blanket of our first amendment.


    This makes dealing with this group extremely difficult.  Over the years, different people have tried a number of methods to stop them, all with little success. 

     

    Initially cops were called, but the group always has a protest permit for their performances and they have clearly figured out precisely how vulgar they can be without crossing outside of the grey area protected by the freedom of speech.

     

    Then groups started planning counter protests, but these usually just turned ugly.  Shouting ensued, and people holding signs saying “Love not Hate,” usually ended up in tears or with balled fists, ready to strike.  Regardless, the shouting of the voices of hate usually dominates over the calm suggestion of peace and love.

     

    People have showed up to turn their backs symbolically on the group or to encircle them to shield the community from the church, but these are largely symbolic and not actually effective at blocking the signs or voices.

     

    At one funeral a group held up white sheets to block the signs, but they couldn’t block the shouting of the people holding those signs. 

     

    The Westboro Church is persistent and they don’t care what you think.  There is nothing you can say that will change their mind or force them to back down.

     

    The only example I could find of them being run off was at a funeral for three college students who died in a fire in Wisconsin.  The church showed up to protest at the funeral because they said that the students deaths were from a “Fire sent by God” because their parents taught them to be “whores and bastards.”  Well, over 1,000 students from the local community showed up and literally drove the protestors off.

     

    This is however one incident of success out of an estimated 41,000 protests the church has conducted over the last two decades.

     

    In general, all of the peaceful protests and counter protests and singing of songs has been largely ineffectual.  The Westboro church has stayed, the signs remained visible and the hatred continued to spew and to hurt.  No one left these events happy.  Any passerby left them angry, or sad, or both.

     

    Until now.

     

    Someone, (God bless ‘em) has come up with the perfect response to the absurdity and ridiculousness of the protests of the Westboro Baptist Church:

     

    Absurdity and Ridiculousness.

     

    Last week the nut cases showed up to protest outside the headquarters of Twitter in San Francisco, presumably because Twitter (sigh) likes gays.  (It really does get old after a while).

     

    Well, some brilliant individual realized that there was no point in trying to fight insanity with logic, the only solution was to fight it with even more insanity.  So the counter protest group made up its own signs.  Signs that carried equally logical and damning statements, such as:

     

    God Hates Kittens!

     

    Build Prisons on the Moon!

     

    Where’s Waldo?

     

    God Hates Ponies!

     

    ME!

     

    God Hates Retweets!

     

    I Was Promised Donuts!

     

    God Hates Signs!

     

    God Never Gonna Give You Up!


    God Never Gonna Let You Down!

     

    God Never Gonna Turn You Round And Desert You!

     

    (and my personal favorite)

     

    God Hates Sporks!

     

     

     

    Please, please, please take 51 seconds and watch this video.  Just sit back and enjoy it.  Rewind it, listen to the laughter and the constant requests for donuts.  It is delightful.

     

     

     

     

    You see, the beauty is that this worked.  Look at the passersby in the video.  No one is angry.  No one is crying.  They are laughing.  They are pointing.  And no one is looking at the signs being held by the crazy people, they’re looking at the signs being held by the sane crazy people.

     

    It’s brilliant.  It accomplishes what no other counter protest had managed.  It completely robs the Westboro church of their potency.  They are now nothing more than a bunch of flaccid protestors trying to keep their signs up.

     

    And where the hell are those donuts?

     

    Furthermore, the church was scheduled to protest at a production of Fiddler on the Roof later that evening because…….oh, hell, I don’t know, I guess because it’s about Jews and Jews like gays and, oh, whatever.

     

    Anyway, the church decided not to show up.

     

    Think about it.

     

    The crazies had traveled from Kansas to San Francisco and then didn’t bother to go out for their evening protest because they knew there would be no point.  No one would care about their signs, because they had been robbed of their potential to hurt.  Once onlookers were given permission to laugh at the insanity instead of be hurt by it, all of that anger and evil dissolved in a puddle of nonsense.

     

    I would absolutely give whoever came up with this idea the Nobel Peace Prize and I am 100% serious about that.

     

    And I’d sure as heck give them a donut.

     

  • Kayaks, Fox 5 News and Gay Marriage

     

     

    My brother is a bit of a wild man.

     

    He lives down in Asheville, NC and is one of those outdoorsy types who takes vacations to go rock climbing in Utah and likes to eat tofu that he has shot and killed himself. 

     

    Anyway, every once in a while he’ll forward on some tale of a recent adventure of a raft journey into the Costa Rican rainforest or climbing up the side of Devils Tower or creating a robot out of an old carbeurator and tongue depressors.

     

    Well, a couple of days ago he sent me a video of him kayaking down a hill in the snow.

     

    Yes, you read that correctly.

     

    I think the logic went, “Why spend $10 on a sled when I already have a kayak.  Besides, the maneuverability is much better.”

     

    So, he took some video and spliced it together to some music and waited for it to go viral (boy, now that it’s made my blog, I’m sure it’s just a matter of time!)  Anyway, the virality never came (It’s awful when someone questions your virality, isn’t it?) but he did make the local news.  He sent me a quick link and I dutifully clicked on it to check out his primetime debut.

     

    Well, I never found his news segment.  I’m sure it was on their somewhere, but as you probably know, local news websites all appear to be cobbled together by monkeys living in a meth lab.  It’s all just a series of lights and ads and blinking boxes - and absolutely no logical format whatsoever. 

     

    I searched around without much success, but the thing I truly couldn’t get over was the horrible horrible news happening in this little town.

     

    Now, my brother sent me a link from the Greenville, SC Fox news station, (not Asheville) and let me tell you there was nothing about the news there that makes me want to drive within 100 miles of that den of misery much less move there.

     

    http://www.foxcarolina.com/index.html

     

    I don’t know what’s on the website now, probably new horrible horrible things, but this is an exact reprint of the top dozen stories there as I write this:

     

    Cherrydale Girl Run Over By Grandmother's SUV, Killed

     

    Campobello Man Killed When He Slips On Ice

     

    Advocates: Bauer Off-Base With 'Strays' Remark

     

    Man Killed In Gray Court House Fire

     

    Cleanup From Winter Storm Continues

     

    Teen Pleads Guilty To Burying Stillborn Baby

     

    Slow, Steady Recovery Expected For SC Travel

     

    Gas Leak Prompts Evacuation Of Middle School

     

    Greenville Man Accused Of Molesting Children

     

    Expectant Mother Killed In Travelers Rest Crash

     

    Suspect Identified In Haiti Donations Jar Theft

     

    Anderson County Woman Shot In Face

     

     

    Holy Crap!  People burying babies!  People running over their grandmothers!  Child molestations!  Haiti donation thefts!  People getting shot in the face! 


    Damn!  The happiest thing that happened in that hellhole yesterday was the gas leak in the middle school.

     

    Now, I know that these crappy little local news stations go out of their way to find the very most wretched things that have happened in their town and then they pretend that those events are news, but still… this is just ridiculous.

     

    I decided that I should check out the local DC news just as a comparison.  I mean, DC has a couple of hundred murders a year and we’ve always got some politician doing something naughty.  Is our news this bad as well?

     

    Here are the headlines from our local Fox station:

     

     http://www.myfoxdc.com/

     

    Weather Closings and Delays on myfoxdc

     

    2 Men Struck, Killed After Car Accident

     

    Car Slides Into Chinese Restaurant Kitchen

     

    Teen Rescued After Fall in Steep, Snowy Ravine    

     

    Frederick Soldier Killed in Afghanistan

     

    Arenas Writes Op-Ed for Washington Post

     

    Alexandria Officials Don't Want Terror Trials

     

    Md. Scientist Turned Artist Leaves Mark

     

    Md. Sex Offender Advisory Board Grows

     

    Wintry Mix, Light Snow for Tuesday PM

     

    Biologist Protects Aircrafts From Birds

     

     

    Ok, so we’ve got some bad stuff too.  I mean some idiot drove into a Chinese Restaurant and there was a bad car accident, and another soldier’s been killed, but come on!  Most of the stories are about the weather and we’ve even got tales of a teen being rescued from a ravine and artists doing artsty things and biologists trying to save us from some Hitchcockian aeronautical demise.

     

    That’s good stuff!  I mean we even have a story about how a basketball player wrote a letter!  Now that’s news!

     

    So in short, Greenville SC is a wretched, horrible, miserable place to live….. or at least to watch the news.

     

    However, I do have to complain that neither of these stations carried my favorite news story of the day. 

     

    Thank God for MSNBC. 

     

    The headline is:

     

    “Lovers Told to Pay Fine In Buffaloes, Pigs”

     

    http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/35164774/ns/world_news-weird_news/

     

    Ok.  So apparently a couple in Malaysia was having an affair.  This is illegal, so the court ordered them to make restitution to the community in the only form of currency they had….. pigs and buffaloes.

     

    My favorite part of the article was this quote right here:

     

    The man's wife filed a complaint last year after finding her husband in shorts and her colleague in a sarong at the man's second home. The court rejected their claim that they were just "best friends."

     

    Oh, I think we’ve all heard that one before haven’t we?  You’re having a great day and then you walk in and find your spouse in a sarong and your friend there in shorts.  And they’re claiming that they’re just “best friends.”

     

    Uh huh. 

     

    Best friends who are now short a buffalo and a couple of pigs.

     

    The only thing that was weird about this story (Ok, maybe not the only thing) was that the infidelitators had to make restitution to the community.  Why the community?  Why not the wronged wife who had to come home to the sight of her husband in shorts with another woman?

     

    I think it’s the same logic as to why we can’t allow gay marriage, because it will damage the community……. somehow.

    So, here’s my solution, we can let the gays marry and parade around in their…… well, shorts and sarongs, ….. but we will require them to pay something to the community as restitution – something as valuable as pigs and buffaloes. 

     

    Perhaps gym memberships and Liza Minnelli posters for the men and Home Depot gift cards and clogs for the women.

     

    (If there was a line there that I just crossed, I apologize…. but not much.)

     

    So, I think we’ve all learned a valuable lesson from our Malaysian neighbors… primarily about shorts…. but also about other things.

     

    And I hope our local news stations have also learned a valuable lesson – that this is the kind of news that people are interested in!  Something that stirs the soul and makes you view the world differently, not one more story about a dead baby or a kitten being eaten by a meth addict or whatever. 

     

    Or at least that’s the kind of story that I’m interested in.  Of course, I never never watch the local news because it is so unbelievably bad.

     

    And for all of you who have stuck with this blog entry this long wondering if I had some kind of point buried in here somewhere, well the answer is: no, I don’t.  But I do have a little gift for you.

     

    A video of my brother kayaking in the snow.

     

    Enjoy.

     

     

  • To Do or Not to Do

     

    I’m a doer.

     

    That’s who I am.  I get a little uncomfortable sitting around doing nothing, or worse, having nothing to do.  Luckily, as the father of three, with a family of seven to feed and clean up after, I rarely am at a loss for activities. 

     

    But beyond the obligations of life (dishes, laundry, vacuuming) I like to be out experiencing the world.  This world, and more specifically, this DC area I live in has so much to offer.  There is always a new museum, exhibit, concert, play, festival, or something going on.  And I have no intention of sitting on the sidelines while all that passes by.  (I’m already planning on taking in the Portrait gallery’s Elvis exhibit and the Corcoran’s Cezanne)

     

    One of my biggest criticisms of my fellow DC metro neighbors is that they don’t take advantage of all that this wonderful city has to offer.  If you’re not getting out and doing some of the things that this city has going on than you’re really just paying too much on your mortgage.  If you want to live somewhere that doesn’t have anything to do, you can move out to the middle of nowheresville and have a much easier commute, lower house payment and milk probably won’t cost you $4.00 either.

     

    But we take advantage of this wonderful little corner of the world.  Pretty much every weekend, we are off doing something. 

     

    But not this weekend.

     

    Somehow, our January got a little crazy.  We had birthday parties, guests from out of town, work trips, a trip to Disney….. It was all wonderful, but also a little intense.  There was hardly any time to breathe, and I have always been a big fan of breathing.

     

    So, this weekend, we sat down and stared at something that I haven’t seen in several months -  a weekend with nothing written on the calendar.

     

    We weren’t traveling to visit relatives, we didn’t have any birthday parties, no one had a soccer game, there wasn’t even a church meeting slipped in.  We were completely free!

     

    Completely free to do whatever we wanted.  Or, as it turned out, absolutely nothing at all. 

     

    We made the bold (for us) decision not to do anything this past weekend.

     

    Ok, when I say we didn’t do anything, I don’t really mean that we really didn’t do anything.  I took the kids to a movie, Sarah did some shopping, we did the taxes and we went out for ice cream.

     

    But for us, that’s hardly anything.  Any weekend where we put less than 200 miles on the odometer was a nothing weekend.  So, yes, we did get out of the house a couple of times, but for the most part we just sat around. 

     

    We watched a movie with the kids, we played a couple of card games, we had a roaring fire going for almost the entire day and we caught up on a lot of our backlogged DVR and Netflix viewing (very important.  I had been suffering from severe Netflix guilt)

     

    I got to spend (like most red blooded American males) a couple of hours on Saturday afternoon doing nothing but sitting by the fire, drinking a beer, watching Jack Bauer torture some people on 24…. and knitting  (I’m pretty sure that’s what Bret Favre was doing on Saturday).

     

    It was really quite wonderful.  I don’t know why we don’t do this more often.  Of course, it was coming to a speedy end.  We had church the next morning.  But then, we were given the added bonus of church being cancelled (there was almost 6 inches of snow on the ground after all) and so Sunday morning we sat around and ate pancakes and watched the kids play by the fire and read the paper.  Then we played in the snow and took baths and watched more TV and…

    And then, somewhere around Sunday afternoon the children started to lose it.  Their peaceful playing somehow morphed into constant arguments about someone touching someone else or about who’s toy belonged to whom.

    All of a sudden our peaceful Sunday afternoon didn’t seem so peaceful.  These kids were crazy.  We had to get them the heck out of the house, ASAP.

    So we packed up and bustled them out the door for ice cream and sanity.  Then we came home and for naps and dinner, bedtime and a little more sitting around watching TV by the fireplace. 

    And I have to tell you, it was all pretty nice.  I enjoyed the emptiness of the days.  I enjoyed mentally checking out and casting all of my obligations out the window for a while and just sitting around and doing a whole lot of nothing.

    I doubt we will get another weekend like this, probably not for the rest of the year, and I don’t even think I would want too many more.  If I had a series of weekends of sitting around the house, I think I would get as stir crazy and nutty as the children and start yelling at my wife to “stop touching me!”….. Ok, that’s probably not real likely, but I can definitely get a little stir crazy. 

    But not to worry, next weekend we’ve got a friend’s birthday party, the superbowl (we don’t watch the game that carefully, but the snacks are very important) and probably a few other things squeezed in. 

    Yes, the days of sitting by the fireplace and reading or watching TV are probably already gone for 2010, but they were nice while they lasted…. (well, for a little while.  Sunday afternoon was rough)

    And now Monday is here and as soon as we get past this 2 hour snow delay, (I mean, honestly?  My two teens from Mississippi had no trouble navigating the “icy roads”) it will be back to the whirlwind of drop offs, pick ups, cooking and cleaning.

    The Doing will begin once again.  But that’s ok.  I’m a Doer.

    It’s just that sometimes, it’s nice to be a Don’t.

  • Doing Disney

     

     

    Our family escaped to Disney World this past weekend. 

     

    Our school system has this wacky middle of January break.  First, school gets out early every day for a week, and then they cancel school on the following Monday and Tuesday.  They’re practically daring you to take a vacation.

     

    We had been talking for a while about going to Disney, “sometime.”  We were going to go last year when my wife had a conference there, but at the last minute they decided she could just tele-conference.  So, instead of spending three days in the sunshine with Mickey Mouse, my wife stared at a computer while I watched the children play in the gray.

     

    So, when we received a coupon in the mail for 40% off, we decided to take the plunge. 

     

    Hey, I’m a sucker for a coupon. 

     

    So, just in case, there are any other parents out there who are considering that classic Americana trip to Disney, here are a few tips I have picked up along the way that I will gladly share with you.

     

    1)         Never go in the summer…. Or Spring Break….. Or Christmas

     

    I grew up in South Florida and have enough memories of the miserable Florida heat and the long lines for rides that I decided long ago that I would never, never go there during the summer.  It’s just not that fun of a trip to wait for over an hour to ride a 2 minute ride in 104 degree heat with a bunch of other sweaty people.  And that’s not fun for a teenager, you have no idea how much not fun that is for a toddler.

     

    So, go in the off season.  Go anytime between September and Christmas (excepting Thanksgiving), or January and May (excepting the couple of weeks around Easter) and don’t think you’re being clever by going at Christmas.  “Oh, I know!  We’ll go at Christmas!  I bet no one else will think of that!”

     

    Oh, you were so smug with your Christmas idea!  It turns out that Christmas is their busiest time of the year.  Our bus driver told us that at Christmas it took an hour and a half……. JUST TO DRIVE TO THE TOLL BOOTH AND PAY FOR PARKING!  (That’s before you even get into the park.  Sheesh!)

     

    We walked on to most rides and only waited more than 10 minutes about three times.  So find that weird aberration in your school’s calendar that gives you an extra day off here or there.  (You know, one of those days where the teachers are “planning”) and go then.  It will make you so much happier.

     

     

    2)  If you’re rich spring for two rooms.  If you’re not, spring for a tent shaped like an elephant

     

    The most difficult thing about staying in a small hotel room with a child is that you are in a small hotel room with a child.

     

    This is never a pleasant experience.  It means that you have to turn off the lights when they need to sleep and go to bed at 8:30 when you’d rather stay up and watch Matlock reruns.  So obviously, if you’ve got piles of cash lying around the house, just reserve a second room and throw all the kids in there.  If you are not so flush with extra cash, then follow our method.


    We got a small child’s play tent (shaped like an elephant) set it up on one side of the room and threw the kid in that.  At bed time, you zip it up turn the lights down and then read, turn the tv on, or whatever.

     

    “But…” you ask, “What if I have more than one kid?”

     

    No problem.  We have three kids, a 7 year old, 4 year old, and 2 year old.  The four year old went in the elephant tent, the 7 year old went in a fish tent, and the two year old went in a pack n’ play in the bathroom.

     

    What?  You’ve never put your kid to sleep in the bathroom?  We do it all the time!  You slide the pack n’ play in there, turn the exhaust fan on and it’s sweet dreams for kiddo!  You can also use large closets depending on where you’re staying.

     

    Sure, the whole things a little, well, odd, and if you do have any late night emergencies, you may find yourself trotting down the hall to the lobby bathroom, but isn’t that a small price to pay for each child to have their own space, with no kicking under the covers and nobody whining about so and so keeping them awake?  (It’s also great for naps!)

     

     

    3)  If you want to see some white princesses, then Disney is the place for you!

     

    Who doesn’t love white princesses?  Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Ariel…. But what if you have a hankering to see one of Disney’s, um, less melanin challenged princesses?


    Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you.

     

    We were able to find Jasmine without too much trouble.  She showed up with Aladdin and the Genie once and she was at this princess dinner, but boy if you wanted to see Mulan, you are flat out of luck.  That didn’t surprise me too much, let’s be honest, the movie wasn’t that good.  But I thought for sure we’d find Princess Tiana no problem….. you know….. Tiana…… the Princess from Princess and the Frog?


    I thought, we’d have no trouble finding her.  I mean, she’s in the newest movie right?  I figured that they’d be hawking her like “Hot Doughnuts Now.”

     

    But alas, they were not.  We searched and searched, and then finally on the last day I started asking people where in the world Princess Tiana was.

     

    Nobody knew.

     

    I asked four different people and they all had to call and ask someone else.  Well, it turns out that this is because poor Tiana wasn’t exactly in the most prominent location.

     

    I was told to go to the Christmas Shoppe in Liberty Square, then go down an alley behind it.  And there, in an area that used to be a smoking zone, was poor, sad, Princess Tiana, entertaining the handful of little girls who had managed to track her down.

     

    Now I’m not saying that Disney stuck Tiana back in this corner because she is….. well, ……. from New Orleans.  But it does make you wonder.

     

     

    4)  Lower your expectations for your kids and yourself


    We all come to an event like this with our own baggage.  You want the kids to like the same things you liked as a kid, but it doesn’t always work out that way.  I thought my kids would love the Dumbo ride, and they couldn’t figure out why I was so excited by going around in circles in a fat little elephant.

     

    I also thought Asher would love getting to meet all the characters, but he didn’t seem to really care.  He would run up and hug them, but refused to have his picture taken with them, as if being photographed next to a giant chipmunk might affect his future political career.

     

    That being said, the kids had a great time.  They loved Disney and all of the rides and the parades and the fireworks and seeing all the characters.  They just didn’t necessarily like all the parts that I had decided that they were going to like. 

     

    Stupid kids.

     

    The other part of this is that if you’re thinking, “Oh, some day we should go do Disney,” don’t wait to long.  Your kids will have fun at Disney no matter what age they are.  Indeed, there a number of rides that we weren’t able to go on because our kids were too young or too small, but there is an age where the magic of Disney is real to your kids and an age where they realize that it’s all just a show.

     

    When we went to Disney several years ago, my daughter was 4 and the whole trip was a wonder to her.  She truly believed that she was meeting the princesses.  She truly believed that we had lunch in Cinderella’s castle.  She truly believed that the Mad Hatter had stolen her nose.

     

    But, now at seven, she still had a great time, but it wasn’t quite the same.  She loved meeting all the characters, but this time it was more to collect autographs than it was to “meet” them.  She liked eating at Cinderella’s castle, but she knew that it was just a painted tower of concrete and fiberglass.  And she knew that the Mad Hatter had not truly purloined her proboscis.   

     

    I don’t feel bad about this transition, but I am grateful that we were able to come when the magic was still real – when the pirates were frightening and Tigger was silly and Mickey Mouse really seemed like your best friend.

     

     

    5) Prepare yourself for Re-entry

     

    I don’t know if Disney World is or isn’t the happiest place on earth.  But I’ll tell you one thing, it’s a heck of a lot happier than your house.

     

    The magic of Disney for adults is that they take care of everything. 

     

    They pick you up at the airport, they carry your luggage.  They make your bed and bring you food.  They answer all your questions and always smile and say hello.  Yes, it’s all a big show, but it’s a really nice show.  And for a stay-at-home parent, it’s one of the few times where people are doing things for you instead of the other way around.

     

    This is wonderful…... but don’t get used to it!

     

    Because soon enough, you’ll be back in your own house which you probably left a complete mess and you’ll have a ton of luggage to unpack and laundry to do.  And the two idiot teenagers who were supposed to be watching your dog did a ridiculously poor job and now the dog is completely neurotic and has peed all over the house because no one let her out and there are still dishes in the sink from a week ago and there’s not a single damn fairy or singing bird anywhere that is going to lift one finger to help you make a bed or fold the laundry or scrub the carpet.

     

    Disney has 4 theme parks, a cruise ship, a time share system, and a series of international tour guides, but what I want is a Disney home service.

     

    I want someone to greet me at the door and say, “Hello, Mr. Zumwalt.  Can I get all of the groceries out of your car for you while you settle down in the living room?  The house has been cleaned and dinner is ready when you are.  We’re having steak with mashed potatoes shaped like Mickey’s head.  Can I bring you something to drink while Chip and Dale take the children on a backyard safari?”

     

    But we didn’t get that package.  I think it was extra.

     

    So prepare yourself on that flight home.  Tinkerbell is still back at the Magic Kingdom waving her little wand for other families now and you’re back home trying to wipe oatmeal off your sweater. 

     

    Life returns quickly and with a touch of vengeance.  So be prepared, because there’s no monorail sitting outside your house and the only thing in the shape of Mickey’s head is that weird stain on the carpet.  But that’s ok, because you have memories and lots of photographs and a bunch of tripe that you picked up along the way all to remind you of the wonderful time you had.  And to help remind you how nice it was and how soon you wish you could go back.

     

     

  • If Ignorance is Bliss, Does that Mean Intellect is Misery?

     

    I recently came across an article that ranked every state based on happiness.

     

    I love that kind of thing. 

     

    Partly I love it because ranking a location by happiness is about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of.  For one thing, happiness is physically unmeasurable by any scientific gauge and secondly, everywhere I’ve ever lived (including places that made me very happy and places that made me very sad) was full of both sad and happy people.

     

    But it’s such an attractive idea isn’t it?  The idea that somewhere, perhaps in Nebraska, lies a community of people walking around with moronic smiles plastered across their faces, eating sponge cake  and practically peeing themselves with excitement over the upcoming season of Extreme Makeover.

     

    I also enjoy this sort of article because I sort of have a running joke with one of my best friends.  You see, about 6 years ago, I moved into a house about 4 blocks away from them here in Maryland and then two weeks later they moved away…… to Ohio. So I am always on the lookout for articles that scientifically prove that Ohio is a stupid place to live and that, therefore, I am smarter….. and better looking.

     

    So, I was pleased as punch to see this article which ranks Maryland #6 for happiness and Ohio #47, just above Mississippi, Kentucky and West Virginia (ouch!)

     

    http://channels.isp.netscape.com/homerealestate/package.jsp?name=fte/happinessbystate/happinessbystate&floc=NI-ntk1

     

    Now to be fair, this survey didn’t really make any sense.  It didn’t actually measure happiness, instead is measured things that are supposed to make you happy such as income, good schools, a healthy populace and the presence of gay people (I don’t know why gay people are supposed to make you happy…. it’s in the article.  Gay people happen to make me happy, but I’m not sure they really are the best happiness barometer.  But what do I know?  I’m not a scientist.)

     

    So anyway, I emailed off the article along with a note about how bad I felt for my friend to have to live in a state that was only slightly less miserable than a state where only about half the people over 60 have any teeth (true fact, look it up)

     

    He responded with a defensive note about how this article was a load of crap and how he was sick of people picking on Ohio and he was tired of being dragged down by loser cities like Cleveland.  (His words, not mine.  I think you Clevelandites are awesome!)

     

    Anyway, I chuckled and moved on, keeping an eye out for the next survey that would rank states based on obesity or inability to clear snow off the roads.

     

    But, lo and behold, I came across another scientific ranking of states based on happiness.

     

    Delightful.  There’s nothing like adding a little salt to a Cincinnatian’s wounds.

     

    However, this survey didn’t work out so well for me.  In fact, it looked a lot like the last survey, but turned upside down. 

     

    In this one, Mississippi was 6th, but Maryland was (gulp!) 40th!  (although still ahead of poor sad Ohio at 44th).

     

    http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2009/12/091217141314.htm

     

    As I began to look at these rankings a little more carefully, I began to notice some really peculiar differences.  Many of the states that had been in the top 10 of the first survey – Maryland, California, Massachusetts – Were in the bottom 10 of the second survey.  And many of the states that were in the bottom 10 of the first survey (Mississippi, Louisiana) were in the top 10 of the second.  Mississippi alone went from 48th to 6th (#6 was Maryland’s rank dammit!)

     

    What is that about?

     

    Well, it’s a little hard to tell and I suspect the most likely answer is that researchers are kind of stupid, but the main difference that I was able to discern is that in the first survey researchers looked at objective data that is supposed to lead to happiness (income, good schools, long lives) and ranked states accordingly and on the second survey they just asked people, “are you happy?”

     

    So, basically people who live in places where they should be miserable, i.e places that are poor, have bad educational systems and everyone’s fat and dies early are every happy.  And people who live in places with a high quality of living and lots of smart people who exercise regularly are sad.

     

    Great.

     

    There’s a very large part of me that finds me highly highly depressing. 

     

    Of course there are places where people live in lovely, educated, healthy places and are very happy (Hawaii)  and people who live in backward, poor, unhealthy states and are very sad (like, say, Ohio) but for the most part the people who are supposed to be happy aren’t and the people who should be miserable aren’t either.


    What’s going on?

     

    Well, I have a theory, a sad little theory. 

     

    If you compare these charts to a third chart, you’ll see a further correlation.  This chart is a list of states by number of people who have received a bachelor degree.

     

    http://www.census.gov/acs/www/Products/Ranking/2003/R02T040.htm

     

    In this survey, 9 of the highest educated states are also in the bottom 15 of the happiness chart.  And 8 of the least educated states are at the top 15 of the happiness chart.

     

    So, is ignorance bliss?  Does being smart make you sad.

     

    In one, quick word:

     

    Yes.

     

    I know that this is a terrible truth to have to come to terms with, but I think that the answer is an unqualified: Absodoobalutley!

    Now, it’s not surprising that the least educated are happy.  They usually don’t travel much or spend much time contemplating life outside of their community.  They tend to have a straightforward belief system of clear cut rights and wrongs.  They are often surrounded by people who are similar to them and believe many of the same things as they do.

     

    They also never had to read James Joyce.

     

    These are all recipes for sweet joyful happiness.


    On the other hand, the more educated you are, the less the world makes sense.  The less things are clear cut.  These college educated folk from Hah-vud have travelled more and seen disparity in the world.  They recognize that the truths that they grew up with may not be as straightforward as they once believed.  They understand that there are no easy answers and a study of history will reveal that we, as people, probably get it wrong more often than we get it right. 

     

    Plus educated people read depressing things like the New Yorker and the Stock Market report….. and James Joyce. 

     

    I believe that there is comfort and joy in a simple life, and not just a simplicity of possessions or activities, but a simplicity in how you view the world.  Children tend to be happy because there are a clear cut series of rights and wrongs, love is something given not earned, and being good and doing the right thing rarely encompasses more than eating all your peas and cleaning up your room once a week.

     

    Whereas the older you get and the more educated you become and the more of the world you see, the more you come to realize that life is rarely lived in black and white, but instead in a muted complex arena of grey. 

     

    The things we were told by our parents and the television would make us happy (getting A’s on our report car, buying a new car, owning a KIMBALL Piano!) rarely do.

     

    The simplicity of right and wrong in our small homes in our small home towns, doesn’t always translate to the confusing wrongs we see if we travel to the inner cities, or to other nations, or even read the newspaper where those who cheat often seem to succeed and those who try to make the world a better place are often met with roadblocks.

     

    Right after college I spent several years teaching in some of the poorest corners of our nation – Mississippi, Detroit, Newark, Washington, DC.  I saw people living in what were little more than shacks.  I saw 15 year olds having babies and leaving them to all but raise themselves.  I saw young girls being taken advantage of by the men in their lives.  And I saw a society where even the bright and hardworking were limited by the failures of those around them. 

     

    Spending that time has forever changed my life.  I see the world differently now and I see it far differently than if I had never gone to college or never left the small Tennessee town I grew up in.

     

    My wife and I were talking recently and we had the revelation that we would have probably been happier people had we never spent those years living in those various places.  We would have known less of the horrors of the world and it would have been easier to pigeon hole people and circumstances into boxes of right or wrong and the world would have made more sense and been a little less sad.

     

    That doesn’t mean that I regret those years, nor does it mean that I wouldn’t do it all over again, but there is a sense of mourning for the simplicity and ignorant joyfulness that came before hand.

     

    So, ignorance really can be bliss and knowledge really can be a burden.

     

    So should we all yank our kids out of school and move to a commune where we all live a life of blissful simplicity concerned only with those around us and never having to worry about complicated things like poverty or algebra? 

     

    Probably not.

     

    And, of course, I’m not suggesting that all people without a bachelor degree are ignorant or unaware of the pain in the world.   But I am suggesting that, often, learning more creates more questions than it does answers and that it can make the world more foreign instead of more understandable and that this complexity can rob us of some of that sureness and joyful clarity that came with youth.

     

    Ok, it’s pretty clear I’ve drawn some pretty broad sweeping conclusions without much convincing data.  Which is, to say, that I am now a scientist and should publish my observations in an academic journal.

     

    You see, that’s what those pointy headed academics are trying to do.  The more they learn, the more disorder they see in the world…. and it makes them sad.  So they try to clarify it.  They try to create order where there is none.  They try to rank states based on happiness.  They try to quantify the unquantifiable.  To draw order from the chaos.

     

    It makes them happy.

     

    Unfortunately, I’m afraid this blog hasn’t made anyone happy.  After yesterdays’ turgid soul wrenching diatribe, I had really hoped to write something happier today.  I’m not quite sure how I ended up here.  I was sure that writing about stupid happiness rankings and making fun of various states would be funny.

     

    It turns out it is not.

     

    Which I guess is why I should be #6 for happiness, but am, instead, #40.

     

    But, hey, at least I don’t live in Ohio.

  • Thoughts on God, Haiti and Prayer

     

    When I was a child we lived in south Florida.  At the time there was a crude joke making its way around the playground.  It went something like this:

     

    “Hey, do you have HBO?  Yeah?  That’s gross!  You have Haitian Body Odor!”

     

    Even at age 7 I knew that this was more than just a little wrong.

     

    At the time, Haitians were in the news a lot in south Florida.  Their country was the poorest nation on our side of the planet (it still is) and every other day there were reports about a group of Haitians who washed up on shore in some ragtag home made raft – starving, bedraggled, barely alive, but thrilled to have made it the 700 miles to the U.S. of A.  

     

    The refugees would have harrowing tales of the boat capsizing, of people falling into the water and drowning, of sharks circling.  Just as often there were reports of boatloads of Haitians being discovered and turned back by the coast guard, or simply of bodies washing on shore, bloated and decayed.

     

    It was a huge problem for the area and depending on where you fell on the humanitarian / political spectrum there were all kinds of different proposed solutions, none of which ever worked, because when someone is living in the poorest most devastated country around, there is no penalty you can impose that will stop them from trying to achieve a better life for their families.  When our jails are nicer than their homes, there is not much disincentive we can create.

     

    More or less, that’s where my knowledge of Haiti stopped.  Sure, I’ve read the occasional article about the country over the years and know a little bit about its twisted political history and our country’s involvement in and occasional occupation of its land.  My father in law has visited Haiti several times on mission trips in the past few years and, each time, comes back with stories of unbelievable poverty and need.

     

    But in general I haven’t thought much about Haiti over the years.  I’ve mainly just mentally filed it away as one more wretched and abandoned corner of our complicated planet.

     

    Until last week.

     

    When the first reports of the earthquake came in, I didn’t think much of it.  Our 24 hour news seems happy to report whatever potential tragedy pops up with equal ferocity, so I always find it near impossible to know how significant something is when it first crawls across my computer screen.  The week before, there had been a significant earthquake in California but it was hardly anything more than a curiosity the next day.   Last night the local news had a 5 minute segment about a horse that had fallen into a sink hole and the 30 firemen who came to rescue it.

    So, initially, I didn’t think much about this natural disaster.  But it soon became clear that the earthquake in Haiti was more than just another tectonic aberration.  It became horribly apparent that this was one of those disasters that does more than inconvenience people by losing electricity, but rather one that devastates an entire nation for decades to come.

     

    As I listened to the radio, I heard about thousands of people who were left homeless, about adoptive parents who didn’t know whether their child was alive or dead, about husbands searching warehouses full of corpses in desperate hopes of finding their wife so that she wouldn’t become just another nameless body bulldozed over with thousands of others in unmarked pits.

     

    It was horrifying.

     

    I heard about the chaos of people digging through the rubble of buildings by hand in order to rescue a trapped infant and the anger of Haitians who were piling up their dead in human roadblocks as a protest at their sense of abandonment by the world.

     

    But of course, the world did come to help….. 

     

    Now.

     

    Now, that there was horror and devastation.  But not last month when the horror and devastation was more commonplace - merely the starvation and poverty of a nation where life expectancy tops out at 44.

     

    I watched as facebook and email began to light up with people calling for prayers for Haiti.  I listened to Christian radio and church sermons asking for offerings of prayer for hope and I heard rambling comments from those who were compassionate (and those who were not) trying to justify how God could be real and  loving and yet could allow this to happen.  

     

    And all I could think was…. Haiti?

     

    It had to be Haiti?

     

    Of all of the God forsaken areas on this wretched planet for an earthquake to hit, it seems so ludicrously unfair for it to hit a country that was devastated before the devastation arrived.

     

    For the last couple of months I have been struggling with some of the same theological questions that have plagued people for millennia.

     

    If God is all loving, why does he let horrible things happen?

     

    If God is all powerful why does he not stop mass murders and ravaging floods and diseases that steal loved ones away from us?

     

    How am I supposed to believe that praying for a dying family member will do any good while the lady in the hospital room next door’s prayers go unanswered?

     

    These are not unique questions.  I think everyone, even people who don’t believe in God must spend some time considering such things, but for me, the holocaust of Haiti managed to land right in the midst of my own spiritual crisis.

     

    For several days last week, I was driving around in my “nicely equipped” minivan running from store to store making purchase after purchase in preparation for a surprise party for my wife.  I spent time choosing between a $10 pack of disposable plates and a $15 dollar pack – trying to decide which item would look the nicest for the 20 minutes it was used before it wound up in the garbage.

     

    All the while I am driving around listening to the radio describe the destruction of millions of lives that will never be the same.  And then I would hop out of the van again, run into a store and decide whether $25 was too much to spend on a rack to display appetizers.

     

    What kind of world did I live in?  A world of petty decadence for myself and of unending misery and heartache for others.  And I couldn’t get past the fact that there was nothing I could do about it.

     

    Of course, my wife and I sent money, a fair amount of it.  But in the end, that costs so little – a quick click of the mouse, perhaps a small delay in a future purchase.

     

    But what else could I do?  People kept telling me to pray.  People in church and on facebook and on twitter and on the radio kept saying, “we need to pray for the people of Haiti.”

     

    I know this sounds blasphemous.  And clearly it is, but…..  all I could think when asked to pray was:  Why should I?

     

    What good, exactly, are our distant, safe, middle class prayers likely to enact on the suffering masses of Haiti?

     

    Are we so arrogant as to think that our appeal to God will move him to action when he was so clearly blind to action last week as the crust of the earth was shifting, causing tens of thousands to die a horrifying death?

     

    Let me be clear.  I do believe in God.  I believe in a loving, gracious God who cares deeply about the lives of the people on this planet.

     

    I pray daily and ask God to guide my decisions and to give me wisdom in the choices I make, and joy and peace in the actions I take toward my children and family.

     

    I believe God hears me, and I believe he answers me.  I believe he cares for me and I believe he forgives me.

     

    But let me tell you, I was pissed at him last week.

     

    I cursed his apathy and his negligence.  I cursed his willingness to always let natural disasters strike the poorest in this world - the Asian Tsunami that killed hundreds of thousands, Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans and now this.

     

    It seems like these horrors of nature never seem to hit the French Riviera or wipe out Orange County.

     

    Of course, I understand why this is.  World economics play into it far more than any kind of unlucky geographic coincidence.  In New Orleans, housing prices are cheaper in the flood zone and those who had money could afford to get out of the city in advance of the crushing waters.  In Haiti, there is no money to build structures up to earthquake resistant code in the same way they do in California.  Someone told me that if the same earthquake had hit Los Angeles, the fatalities would have been in the dozens, because the buildings are built to withstand such horrors.  It is only in Haiti, where there is hardly money to build any structure at all, much less build it to earthquake standards, where a disaster like this could cause so many tens of thousands to die.

     

    So, in the end, I can be angry at God all I want, but the truth is that God has abandoned Haiti no less than the rest of us.  We all knew of its poverty and horrible standard of living and yet we chose to ignore it, so that we can drive merrily around tending to our own parties and stuff-filled lives.

     

    I mean, what else can we do, here, so far away in America?

     

    Well, I suppose we can always pray.

     

    I don’t claim to have all this figured out.  And I don’t doubt that most of my guesses are completely wrong, but let me tell you what I do know.  What I do see with my own eyes.  What I do feel with my own heart.

     

    I’m not so sure God answers prayer.  Well, not in the way we think.

     

    I don’t know that God sits around waiting for us to come before him and appeal for “a swift recovery to this ravaging cancer,” or a “safe journey on this trip home,” or a “comforting hand on the people of Haiti.”

     

    I know this seems horrible to even suggest.  But I just don’t see it.  I don’t see why God would choose, randomly, to spare one person from cancer but not another.  Both prayers were earnest.  Both were heartfelt.

     

    We casually offer up prayers for safe travel and thanks for a safe arrival.  But what of that horrible tractor trailer accident that killed an entire family?  Were their prayers not good enough?

     

    And what of Haiti?  What of Haiti?

     

    How many prayers are shooting toward Haiti right this second?  And yet I see very little peace and very little comfort there.

     

    So, what does this mean?  Is God impotent instead of omnipotent?  Is praying merely an exercise in futility?  Is His loving grace capricious in its choice of who to bless?

     

    I don’t know, but I do know this.  When I pray to God, I don’t ask him to change others.  I ask him to change me.  And I know, without question, that he has.  

     

    The Bible says that we are the hands and the feet of God.  And while I don’t believe that God chooses which people to heal from cancer, I do believe that he has endowed man with the brain to research cures and has endowed physicians with the knowledge and skills to operate.

     

    And while I don’t think God caused the earthquake in Haiti and I’m not so sure that our prayers will erase it’s devastation; I do know that He has given each of us talents and more importantly a desire to help our Haitian brothers and sisters.  

     

    This may be blasphemous to suggest, but I don’t believe that relief in Haiti will come through magical prayer of followers sitting in their living rooms.  But I do believe that relief will come through the prayers of thousands who said, “Lord, what can I do to help?” and heard, in response, that they should send money, or board a plane, or send troops, or start a fund raiser, or gather needed supplies.  

     

    We, you and I, are the hands and feet of God.  We’re all he’s got.  We, simple, flawed, sinful people are what God has to offer to a world corrupt with inequality and suffering.

     

    We are the answers that so many prayers are calling for.

     

    So what does that mean?  What do we do?

     

    I don’t know exactly.  As I said, I haven’t gotten this all figured out.

     

    It is a mighty responsibility being the hands and feet of God.  It is an overwhelming burden at times to be the answers to our own prayers.  

     

    But it is a responsibility we must take up nonetheless.  

     

    Prayers sent to God can sometimes be a crutch.  If you believe that your responsibilities in this world start and end with asking God to take care of things, then you are letting yourself off to easy.  If you look at the television screen and see the human suffering in Haiti and believe that your prayers are all that are required, plus maybe a few bucks sent from your cellphone, then I fear that much of that suffering in the streets of Port-au-Prince will not change.

     

    I do not know what God is asking of others.  I hardly ever know what God is asking of me.  But I do know that in this past week of driving around, pursuing my own selfish goals, crying while listening to the radio and yelling at God and the church in my head – I know that I have spent more time in dialogue with God than in any recent period I can remember.

     

    In my anger at God, I have ended up becoming closer to Him.

     

    I don’t know what my responsibility to Haiti is, maybe nothing more than writing that check, but I DO know that I HAVE responsibilities.  

     

    And while I may or may not be the answer to the prayers of those in Haiti, perhaps I am called to be the answer to some other prayer.   Maybe it is the prayer of someone who needs extra help in a soup kitchen.  Maybe it is the prayer of a homeless man who needs somewhere to sleep.  Maybe it is the prayer of an unloved child who needs someone to adopt her.

     

    I don’t know yet, what I am supposed to be doing.

     

    But I do know that God DOES answer prayers.  He answers them not through some cosmic magic, but through the real actions and efforts of those people who seek to make this world a better place and who call to God, asking how they can help make that happen.

     

    I don’t understand the nature of God.  I don’t understand why things happen or why the world is the way it is.  All I know is that, for some reason, I am one of the fortunate ones.  I have a home and a family and more money than most people in this world could dream of.  

     

    We all do.  

     

    Our obligations do not stop with praying for someone.  

     

    They begin in praying for ourselves to be an answer to the prayer of others.

     

    I want to be an answer to prayer.  

     

    I want to be the hands and feet of God.

     

    I fail every day.  And I get angry and bitter.  And I am often resentful of this holy burden.  

     

    But I try, to continue to try:

     

    To be the miracle that someone is praying for.

     

  • Melancholy Milestones

     

     

    Yesterday my wife sent me an email noting that it was our youngest son, Micah’s, two and a half year birthday.

     

    She also attached a photo of the time he fell asleep in his car seat while eating a chicken nugget.

     

    I sighed.  I smiled.  But I also cringed a bit.

     

    Birthdays are a joyous time – even half birthdays.  But for Micah they are also a reminder that not everything is ok.

     

    Micah has some speech delays.  They are not overly significant, in fact, I expect that in another few months the county will officially declare that he doesn’t warrant receiving services anymore, but still they are there.  He says lots of words, but they are garbled and mumbled and because of that, he rarely strings more than a couple of words together at a time.  He has the speech abilities of a precocious 18 month old.

     

    The problem, as I mentioned, is that he’s (officially) 2 and a half now.  And that’s what makes these markings of a birthday a little difficult.

     

    Before Micah turned two, it was easy to pretend that there was not much wrong.  I mean, he was only one for crying out loud.  One is this hugely divergent age.  You have one year olds that can’t walk or say a single word.  And you have one year olds that can communicate in complete sentences.  

     

    As long as he was one, it was easy to blow it off when people asked how old he was. 

     

    “Oh, he’s just one.”

     

    And, secretly, I kept hoping that he would turn a corner and catch up.  I was convinced that he just needed to jumpstart his verbal motor skills and he would be off and running.  He would be one of those kids that nervous parents always talk about.

     

    “Well, my cousin’s daughter didn’t say a single word until she was three and then she started talking in complete sentences!”

     

    This mythological friend of a friend’s child was the dream scenario that all of us parents of late talkers cling to, but it didn’t work out that way…. or at least not yet.  Micah continues to gain new words and to pronounce old words clearer and clearer, but it is a slow process. 

     

    I’m not actually worried about his long term development.  He has made a ton of progress in the last year.  He has gone from saying almost nothing to a vocabulary of a hundred or so garbled words.  I am not worried that he will catch up and learn to talk. 

    And he seems plenty smart in other ways.  Not much gets past his eagle vision.  He knows when you’re trying to pull a fast one with a chocolate chip cookie, or when you’ve short changed him from watching the final few seconds of his beloved Scooby Doo (pronounced: Doop Doo!)  There’s not an electronic device he can’t figure out and there are very few things that his older siblings do that he’s not willing to try himself.  He can climb like a monkey and may end up learning to ride a bike before his 7 year old sister if she doesn’t get moving. 

     

    So, I’m not really worried about him catching up.

     

    I’m just worried about how long it will take.  And what that will mean for him in the coming months and years.  We’ve already decided that he probably won’t go to preschool next fall even though he will be old enough.  We’re just not sure the teacher would be able to understand him. 

     

    And every time one of these milestones rolls around, it forces me to remember that at this age his overly verbal sister was saying things like, “Actually, I think I’ll have some more potatoes, please” whereas Micah just shoves his bowl at us and says “Mo pees.”

     

    It’s at these formalized landmarks in time, that it is hard to ignore how far he is behind his siblings and most other children.

     

    When we’re at the playground and another parent tells me their perfectly verbal child is three, it’s easy not to worry, until I start to realize how close to three my child is becoming.

     

    The progression to age three has become a dreaded sort of countdown for me.  Kids all develop at different ages and levels and that can buy you some time, but there’s no faking age three.  At three, all kids are talking.  Some may have a lisp, and some may or may not be using 4 syllable words, but they are all talking like little kids.  And I expect that Micah won’t be.

     

    And, again, I’m honestly not worried about it in the long term.  I know what progress he has made already and I am confident he will be just fine.  But the problem is that I’m neurotic enough not to at least worry in the short term.

     

    Did I do anything to cause this delay?  Did we not read to him enough as a baby?  Was it because he was in the car so much as an infant being driven around trying to get our live-in teenagers to work and school?  Could I have done more to head this off early on?  Should I be doing more now?  Should we have taken that chicken nugget out of his mouth?

     

    The logical part of me knows that the answers to all of these questions is almost certainly no.  His babyhood was not very different from his older brother’s, but still it’s hard not to fret.

     

    Micah is a wonderful, joyous, deviously ingenious, funny little boy.  He’s my baby.  And he blossoms with all of the dreams I carry for each of my children. 

     

    But it’s hard knowing that everything isn’t “normal.”

     

    And so, when we cross one of these little milestones it causes me to think a little less about all the progress he has made and a little more about how far he still has to go. 

     

    But I don’t doubt that he will make it.  He’s far too stubborn not to make it.

     

    He’s my little two and a half year old now.  My baby.  My chicken nugget munching fool.

     

    And I know he’s going to be just fine.  Sometimes, it’s just hard to remember.

     

  • They Said that I Should Go to Rehab… and I Met this Really Great Guy

     

     

    So, this morning I was perusing the digital news, as usual, and came across something delightful in its absurdity – an article titled

     

    “Amy Winehouse to Remarry Ex-Husband”

     

    http://wonderwall.msn.com/movies/winehouse-to-remarry-ex-husband-at-caribbean-hideaway-1532867.story?GT1=28135

     

    For those of you who have remained blissfully unaware of all things Winehouse, let me give you a brief synopsis.

     

    Amy Winehouse is an incredibly talented singer who came out with an album of old school R&B songs that was critically and commercially acclaimed.

     

    She is also an absolute whack job / drug attic / alcoholic, who is unlikely to make it into her 30s.  And in the year’s most ironic bit of celebrity foreshadowing wrote a hit song about how she didn’t need to go to rehab and then spent the entire year that she should have been enjoying her success, proving over and over again that she really really needed to go into rehab.

     

    She was also married to a charming gent who got put in jail for attacking a pub owner.  This prompted Winehouse to interrupt several of her concert performances to deliver drunken ramblings about how much she loved her alcoholic, jailbird husband.

     

    Here’s a good example of that…. I think.  I can’t really understand her.

     

    Then, (and you’ll find this shocking)  Amy ended up in rehab.  And while she was there had an affair with some people who were not in jail.  Then her husband found out and divorced her.

     

    And now, inevitably, because what else would a classic Bogart / Bergman romance like this lead to?  The golden couple is getting back together.

     

    My favorite line from the article is:

     

    "Everything feels right with Blake now. As soon as he's cleared to leave the country and his drug rehab is done it will happen."

     

    Yes, because a wedding where the only pre-requisites are completing drug rehab and getting your parole officer’s permission to leave the country just CAN NOT FAIL!….. again.

     

    Anyway, as I was musing over Ms. Winehouse and her unending ride on the crazy train, I somehow started thinking about the TV show “Big Love.”  (I know…. this is what happens when you’re brain multi tasks on you early in the morning).

     

    Big Love is an HBO show about a polygamist family and all of the difficulties that come along with having three wives who are very different from one another.   One of the premises of “Big Love,” is that the husband spends one night with each wife on a rotating basis.  And jealousies, petty feuds and infighting ensue.

     

    And then I had an idea for the greatest Reality TV Show EVER!

     

    Let’s call it “Celebrity Polygamy!”

     

    Here’s what we do.  We take one genial but flawed man and give him three wildly different and wacky wives and, baby, just let the tapes roll.

     

    Of course, Amy Winehouse would make a perfect sister wife on which to build a series upon.  She’s crazy, unpredictable, talented, makes people uncomfortable and is good in a bar fight.

     

    But who do you balance someone like Amy with?  Who is the feminine ying to her feminine yang?

     

    Now, I am sure there are lots of possibilities, but my initial thought was:

     

    Sarah Palin. 

     

    Wow, I would pay money to see that.

     

    But now what you need is someone with a sharp comic tongue who can turn to the camera and verbally express what everyone in America is thinking while Sarah Palin and Amy Winehouse roll around on the floor slapping each other and trying to reach for the nearest firearm.

     

    I’m thinking Wanda Sykes.

     

    The fact that she’s gay, really only adds another delightful layer of fun to the show.

     

    So, the next question is who you bring in as the guy to help deal with all of this chaos?   You want someone who is relatable, and somewhat attractive, but also someone who maybe America would like to see suffer a little bit.


    Charlie Sheen comes to mind.

     

    So, there you go.  Season 1 of Celebrity Polygamy would have Charlie Sheen playing husband to Amy Winehouse, Sarah Palin and Wanda Sykes.

     

    You CAN NOT tell me that you wouldn’t want to watch that show.

     

    Ok, let me rephrase that.  You WOULD tell me that you would never watch the show, but in reality, you would secretly DVR it and watch it late at night while eating Cheetos and Mallomars. 

     

    There is no question that it would be a huge hit.  Which would, of course lead to the need to cast season 2.

     

    I’m thinking:

     

    Jon Gosslein

    Courtney Love

    Martha Stewart

    RuPaul

     

    And of course at this point, the series will be such a hit that it will spawn a spin-off:

     

    Celebrity Polygamy – Ladies Time!

     

    Starring:

     

    Winona Ryder

    John Malcovich

    R Kelly

    Lou Dobbs

     

    Man, I can already taste the royalty checks.

     

    But who am I missing?  I would really like to have seasons 3-5 already planned out.  Please suggest some other pairings for Celebrity Polygamy that I may have missed.  I anxiously await your suggestions.  This can be the new parlor game for 2010.  What is the perfect celebrity polygamy match up?

     

    I’m sure this will be the greatest Reality show ever.  I’m sure MTV and Lifetime are fighting over the rights as we speak. 

     

    All we need now is a host.

     

    I hear Conan O’Brien is available

     

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