Lovin’ a Road Trip

The lovely Gwynneth and I just rolled in from a wonderful weekend road trip. We took a leisurely ride up old Hwy. 59 to visit one of Gwynneth’s favorite shopping grounds, the famous Marshall Pottery. Not only do they sell some pretty cool pottery, but they make a good bit of it right there on the site, with windows for you to watch the potters work through. And they’ve only been doing it since 1895! Gwynneth said it wasn’t as big as she remembered it being, but there was still enough there to spend an easy couple of hours browsing their wares. Cool stuff!
From there, we traveled a short 15 minutes north to one of my favorite tourist haunts, the immortal Jefferson, Texas. Folks will say that half the little town is haunted, and maybe it is, but the plethora of specialty and antique shops will render your fear of ghosts totally impotent! As Gwynneth had never experienced Jefferson before, it was especially fun for me to escort her to as many of the local sites as we could fit in. We didn’t get see them all, so we’ll definitely be going back. Besides, the Big Cypress Bayou was so high they could operate the boat tours that I wanted to take in… after all, who doesn’t love a boat ride (other than E.J. Smith), right? Gwynneth was quite taken with the Jefferson General Store, which is filled with just about anything you can imagine and absolutely blankets you in blissful nostalgia. More cool stuff!
All in all, this was the best weekend I’ve had in quite some time. And while I do indeed love a good road trip, I’ve got to say that it’s good to be home.
Peace and prayers.

“I promise, buttermilk pie does NOT taste like buttermilk!” – Jeff Jeter

“I love rhubarb. It’s like tart celery, only bigger!” – Lady Gwynneth

Even in a Crowded Life

There are so many things I’ve done in my life. Many of them I remember with joy, while many only pass across my brain cells with shame. And sometimes, they can be both. Today has brought me a nagging feeling that I’ve let life slip through my fingers. I’ve traded adventure for security and found that singularity most often equates to fewer responsibilities. Don’t get me wrong… I’ve lived as I wanted to live, most of the time anyway. Yet, as the grains fall quietly through the hourglass, I fear that Sidney was right all along. I was too stubbornly convinced in my own immortality to ever pay attention.
I wish I had lived more and worried less. That I had worked to live, rather than lived to work. And as my golden years seem to be approaching with blinding speed, I find that even in a crowded life, I can still feel so very alone. Not unhappy. Just unfinished.
Not for commentary, but merely for consideration.
Peace and prayers.

“Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.” – Sidney J. Harris

“Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one’s mistakes.” – Oscar Wilde

Waiting for the Moment

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.”
- Paul McCartney

I’ve always heard that the song from which I quoted above was about freedom… sort of a response to the civil rights movement of the 1960’s from the band that seemed to rule the later part of that decade. Of course, I’ve also heard that it is based in Egyptian mythology’s battle between Horus and Set. And then, lest I forget, I have heard that it is purely satanic in origin, and relative only to Lucifer himself. For the record, Paul McCartney always said it was about civil rights. But what does he know. He just wrote the stuff, right?
As I was going through some photographs taken earlier this year, this one caught my eye. And after pondering it for a minute or two, the song started playing in my head. And after the song started playing, I fit myself and my photograph into McCartney’s lyric, seemingly having waited all my life for that moment to arise only then to see the warning that the blackbird sits atop, the contradiction of the lyric with the sign’s warning slowly turning the rusted cogs of my brain. It seems that we (or perhaps just I) spend a great deal of life waiting. I know… I’ve written of waiting before, but it persists.
Every day for the past few months, I started my day by looking at my wall calendar and counting the months, weeks and days until I can retire. When I moved to my new office last week, I shredded my calendar. I found that it was no more than a monument to my own infinite impatience. After all, once I get past those months, weeks and days, what will I do then?
I don’t know. To borrow a statement from the William Feather Magazine,

“Too many of us wait to do the perfect thing, with the result we do nothing. The way to get ahead is to start now. While many of us are waiting until conditions are “just right” before we go ahead, others are stumbling along, fortunately ignorant of the dangers that beset them. By the time we are, in our superior wisdom, decided to make a start, we discover that those who have gone fearlessly on before, have, in their blundering way, traveled a considerable distance. If you start now, you will know a lot next year that you don’t know now, and that you will not know next year, if you wait.”

Most of the time, I just think that I think too much. A perfect example of why brains should all come with an ‘off’ switch.
Or maybe it’s just me.

Peace and prayers.

“I live now on borrowed time, waiting in the anteroom for the summons that will inevitably come. And then – I go on to the next thing, whatever it is. One doesn’t luckily have to bother about that.” – Agatha Christie

“We must be willing to get rid of the life we’ve planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” – Joseph Campbell

“As of today, I have 14 months, two weeks and four days to go. But I’m not counting.” – Jeff Jeter

Hangin’ With Mikey

Last night I got to be reminded of how great babies can be. The lovely Gwynneth and I got to hang with big Mikey for a few hours while the rest of the family went to see his big brother play baseball. It was really nice, and Mikey is a really calm baby! While I was there when he was born, and actually had the privilege of taking his first photographs, last night was the first time I’ve ever gotten to hold him. And if he appears to be a bit, let’s say “chunky,” in the photos, that’s because he is! Mikey will be 7 weeks old tomorrow, and he’s already pushin’ that 20 lb. mark! (Those of you who follow me on Twitter will remember that Mikey was 9+ lbs. when he was born!) Let’s just say that sometimes it does an old, fat man some good to nestle a sweet little one in his arms. Thanks, Mikey… I needed that.

In the first picture, Mikey is punching me in the mouth because he’s hungry and I’ve forgotten how to speak newborn! In the second picture, my dear Gwynneth happened to capture my sheer excitement in not being hit in the mouth again! And, hey, I didn’t even get spit up on! Sweeeeet!

Life is good… well, away from work anyway! Peace and prayers!

“That’s the miracle of babies, their ability to lay bare the tender, beating hearts of raging assholes.” – Heather Armstrong

“Anyone who uses the phrase ‘easy as taking candy from a baby’ has never tried taking candy from a baby.” – Anonymous

“Gwynneth… I think Mikey has a present for you. I’ll grab the diaper bag.” – Jeff Jeter

P.S. – This post marks the milestone of our 18,000th visitor! I know it’s because Mikey is so cute (or ubercute, as Aafke would say), but I am sincerely thankful to all you nonetheless! As long as you keep reading it, I’ll keep writing it! Peace and prayers!

Lowest Common Denominator

Yessir, that’s what we all are. The lowest common denominator. At least, that’s the role that is thrust upon us as a result of paranoia, political correctness, fear of litigation, and complete and purely home-grown stupidity. Allow me to elaborate.
First, that is not me in the photograph. I’m not Jimbo, and I don’t have a posse. Although, some days, I wish I did. Jimbo used to write a blog out in Los Alamos, NM, but has since left it to the buzzards, no doubt as totally disgusted with the reality we live in as I have become. To me, Jimbo is one of the few people who actually “get it.” He actually comprehends the psychology of the “lowest common denominator” mentality. And understands that it is being shoved up our collective asses, whether rightfully earned or not. But I digress, forgive me.
I returned from lunch today, just like any other. My offices are being relocated, so I was finishing up my packing, when I was told that security staff were in the building and we were all to be “shook down.” (For those unfamiliar with prison slang, being shook down equates to being searched.) Soon, the crisply dressed captain was standing in the office, politely demanding that I empty my pockets, remove my belt and my shoes, and submit to a search of my person. How desperately he wished me to have had any type of contraband in my possession – you know, like fingernail clippers or a can of soda. But, alas, I was clean. After a brief perusal of the contents of my pockets, which were hastily piled on my desktop, the captain carefully moved on to my shoes.
Foot odor is a malady that runs in my family. Sort of a genetic predisposition to podiatric funk. And those of you who know me personally, are likely to be aware of the fact I wear hiking boots on a daily basis. (What can I say… they’re comfortable, and keep my toes warm and moist.) Suffice it to say, the captain didn’t linger too long on my footwear. He briskly tapped the heel of each shoe on the desktop, quickly peering intently into them to make certain that there were no firearms or cell phones living in harmony with my socks – which he never asked me to remove. Oh, how many SIM cards could’ve been hiding there, I wonder? Hmmm…
After confirming that my pocketed possessions were in order, and that I wasn’t carrying in excess of the $25 allowed in cash, I was instructed to turn away and hold my arms out from my sides. My compliance lead quickly to the captain’s skillful hands rubbing carefully over my body. Across and under each arm. Around my torso, and down my back. From ankle to groin on both legs. I thought this massage might actually come with a “happy ending,” but it seems the captain showed enough constraint to avoid any direct contact with my genital area. Oh, how many SIM cards could’ve been hiding there, I wonder? Hmmm…
I was then instructed to turn and face the captain, arms still extended, which I did. I was then subjected to the pinnacle of state-owned technology – the low bid, hand-held metal detector. As my pockets had been emptied, and shoes removed, this should have been the easy part. Oh, no. Not today. It seems the metal detector indicated that I have had some extensive knee replacement surgery, rendering a very distinct (yet annoying) whining beep, that grew louder and softer as the captain frantically waved it over my left knee.
“Have you had knee surgery?” he asked.
“Why, no. I haven’t.”
“Are you wearing some sort of knee brace?” he asked, as he continuously waved the wand over my knee again and again.
I had to hold my tongue. After all, this genius had just finished searching me and had to realize I wasn’t wearing any type of brace on my leg. While I so wanted to smart off, I decided to simply play along and see where he went with it.
“Why, no. I’m not wearing any kind of brace at all. Why do you think it’s going off like that?”
He didn’t answer. It was as if he was lost in the daze of sound being emitted from the metal detector, as he seemed almost locked into the motion of waving it over the offending appendage. With a look of disdain, he put the metal detector down and roughly ran his hands down my leg again. Feeling nothing – again – he looked away and said,

“If you’ve got something in that knee, you can keep it.”

With that stunning acquiescence, my “shake down” was ended. And, unless I was actually as stupid as we are apparently believed to be, it accomplished nothing more than to disrupt the work day, annoy the staff, and allow the administration to document that we had been “shook down.”
I quietly sat down and put my shoes back on, stuffed my things back into my pockets, and thought about what Jimbo had said so many months ago.

“Here’s to the Lowest Common Denominator, the ones who drag us down, the millstones that hang painfully around the neck of society! May they get what they deserve!”

You see, my agency has decided to implement the philosophy of the lowest common denominator. Manage every employee as if they were the absolute dregs from the bottom of the human resource pool. After all, if they treat us all like the worst among us, soon we can all become as complacent and apathetic as they assume that we are.
Wow, what a wonderful day that will be. I can hardly wait.

For retirement.

If you have time, check out Jimbo’s full final article. It is written from a much broader prospective than the idiocy of one Texas state agency. But, man, is it ever applicable. So, here’s to the lowest common denominator! May they truly get what they deserve! Peace and prayers.

“Their appetites are wide, but their vision is narrow. And their philosophies are spreading. Like noxious weeds, the Lowest Common Denominator continues to spread, choking out the light and nutrients for the flowers. They are the foundation of an emerging desert, of the spreading tide of mediocrity.” – Jimbo

“Say, as long as you’re down there… hit those shoes again for the Senator, will ya?” – Jeff Jeter

“Thank you for your cooperation.” – The Captain

It’s Here… Again…

Sometimes, in Texas, Monday comes on Tuesday… try to have a tolerable one! Peace and prayers!

An Apple a Day…

…doesn’t necessarily do a damn thing about doctors. Yes, today was my third installment of my quadriannual check-ups, and let me tell you, it was quite exhilarating. Believe it or not, I have a multitude of medical issues. I know – that’s probably hard to believe, but trust me, it’s true. So, once a quarter I get to go visit my favorite doctor, David. Now, David is not just my doctor, he is also my friend. As such, our conversations are not limited to the standard doctor/patient dribble.
He tells me I need to cut back on fried foods. I tell him, “Fat chance, college boy.”
He tells me I need to get more exercise. I tell him, “As soon as it gets cool outside, I’ll consider it.”
He tells me I need to not stress so much about stupid things. I tell him I work for the State of Texas. He tells me, “I’m sorry.” I tell him, “Me, too.”
He tells me that I’m probably going to die sooner rather than later because I’m a hard-headed man. I tell him, “Clue me into something I don’t already know, Einstein.”
He tells me to watch the name calling or I’ll get another prostate exam. I tell him, “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again, sir, I promise!”
After all the poking, prodding and bloodletting has been completed, I’m released to return to the world of fast food and fried chicken, wherein I quickly consume a package of marshmallow cookies… sort of a personal retribution against… me?
God bless good doctors like David. There aren’t many who would put up with bad patients like me. If I tried as hard to take better care of me as he does (and Gwynneth does), I might actually live an extra two weeks. Who knows… if I live long enough to retire from the insane asylum, I’ll consider that, too.
Peace and prayers.

“If you believe the doctors, nothing is wholesome; if you believe the theologians, nothing is innocent; if you believe the military, nothing is safe.” – Lord Salisbury

“A doctor saves lives – It’s up to people to create lives that are worth saving.” – Philip Gold

“Sometimes the mind, for reasons we don’t necessarily understand, just decides to go to the store for a quart of milk.” – Diane Frolov