A Drone Of My Own

What part of "Private Drive" don't you understand?!!

I'm joining the NRA. Ever since yesterday's testimony before the Senate Judiciary Committee I am stoked. Yesterday NRA CEO Wayne LaPierre testified that his organization does not "believe the government should dictate what we can lawfully own and use to protect our families." Sign-me-up!

I have a circle drive in front of my house. It doesn't happen often but once every week or so some inconsiderate bastard will use it to make a u-turn. Rather than just pulling in, backing up and proceeding, some jerk thinks he needs to take the circle tour through my front yard, past my front door, exiting past the breakfast table. With the help of the NRA I can finally take appropriate action and defend my home and family from these trespassers, these rubbernecking goofballs who are probably snapping photographs and plotting a break-in.

I haven't decided yet what exactly I would most like to "lawfully own" to protect my family. Hard to decide when the buffet contains whatever I deem necessary to protect my family. An explosive device holds tons of appeal but carries the risk of damaging the concrete-- a phyrric victory at best. A spike board and small arms fire has a certain jazzy appeal as well. But then, too, there's the issue of removing the vehicle and disposing of the body of the threatening party. Obviously I haven't had the time to fully consider all my options. 

Once the government gets it through it's tree huggin' head to stop with the attempts to restrict my weapons ownership, I can admit to you I'm leaning toward a drone. A drone allows the intervention to occur after the offending party has removed his or her effen' vehicle from the property thus making clean-up the city's problem, not mine. And, too, Evan loves Space Invaders Angry Birds. Not much of a leap there.

Mr. LaPierre really understands me. Obviously he has a circle drive. I'm in!

E'ffen Immigrants

I don't have a Green Card. But I did bake these cookies!

There are over 500 members of the combined houses of the United States Congress. Now that they were finally able to peel a piece of gum off the bottom of their collective tennis shoe and temporarily patch the debt ceiling, they are turning their bipolar affective disorder to immigration legislation.

Does anyone else see the irony in this? A collection of over 500 individuals-- virtually none of whom can claim an indigenous heritage in this country, the vast majority of whom can trace their lineage across one of the two oceans that kiss our sparkling shores-- are wrestling over just how to control the number of "foreigners" who want to gain access to this sweet land of liberty.

I understand that undocumented immigrants turn up in our emergency rooms, maternity wards, restaurant kitchens, and baby nurseries. I know this adds unknown expense and hardship to our already overburdened  train wreck of a social welfare system. The thing that drives me crazy is the attitude of outrage over the number of people who want to "invade" our little corner of the planet. Invade it just like their parents, and grandparents, and great grandparents, all the way back to the Mayflower.

I'm guessing there is more than one nation of Native Americans that wishes they, too, had been a little less lenient when that little boat first hit the shores of Plymouth Rock.

Drunk Driving

I read a post on Facebook yesterday about a close relative of a friend who was very seriously injured after his car was plowed into by a drunk driver. Just the day before I saw a post with photos of a just-turned twenty-one year-old doing shots of tequila. And, if you have fb friends of college age you will routinely see photos and comments laced with beer and drinks and good times. Been there, done that, as the saying goes.

I don't know the guy who got pulverized by a grossly intoxicated driver. I do know a lot of the college age people I see on fb are responsible individuals with an eye to their future. I'm sure all of them have grown up with the "Don't drink and drive" manifesto drilled into their thirsty brains since, really, probably grade school. I'm very certain none of them-- or any of us-- ever thinks we could possibly be responsible for an alcohol related accident.

My own daughter will turn 21 this year and I'm not terribly worried. I think she's smart, well informed, conscientious. But her Dad certainly has been out driving after drinking on well over one occasion. And I knew better. And I had all the right information to tell me better. And still, I did. It is only by good grace and dumb luck that I was never stopped, never crashed, never killed or injured anybody.

The point is, we all know better. If you're literate, you know better. If you watch TV, you know better. And yet it continues.

I don't know what will ever stop it, if anything. I don't drink anymore so I won't be out there putting anyone at risk-- unless I can't fight the urge to check an e-mail en-route. But, for the time being, I am grateful every time someone posts these sad stories to social media. I have to think that, with every such post, at least one person will get the message, and maybe a couple more will share it, and maybe, just maybe, one accident will be avoided, one parent will make it home safely, and one dad will sleep better at night.

The Life of Luxury

I did something this morning I haven't done in almost a week.  I got up this morning (which is great in itself considering I spent  a half hour "on the slopes" with Evan yesterday, riding down a hill with nothing but an inch of fine powder snow and a eight inch of plastic between my skinny old ass and the frozen tundra) and climbed into my own hot shower. Since our pipes froze on Monday I haven't been able to get up, walk a few feet into our bathroom, a take a nice hot shower.

We are luckier than most folks, however, because we have 2 other showers available-- a couple more at the office if it ever got real serious. What I'm whining about here is the inconvenience of having to grab a towel and walk down the hall. The inconvenience I'm whining about here pertains to not being able to roll out of bed and into a hot shower. The inconvenience I'm whining about here is-- in a word-- petty.

I realized all this after climbing into that previously frozen shower and feeling such absolute pleasure and joy at having such luxury at my disposal.  As I thought about it I realized such luxury is not about what one deserves. It's certainly not about what one needs. It is, however, about what I want and what I can have and what I choose to consider important.

I know at the very same time I'm thinking about all this, the hot water and suds spiraling down the drain, there are millions and millions of people going without. There are children freezing in refugee camps. There are children in the U.S. without the means or the parental oversight to get them washed up, let alone a hot shower. There are elderly and disabled who are unable to bathe for lack of assistance.

Like the starving kids in China my Mother would reference when we didn't clean our plates and left food wasted, my enjoying a hot shower just a few short steps from my bed doesn't rob anyone else of their shower. But it should, and does, make me realize and appreciate what a luxurious life I enjoy. And that's something I should remember without freezing the pipes.

A Touch-Up

We are rapidly entering that time of the year commonly referred to as the winter doldrums. It's that time in the northern climates when it's more cold than beautiful. The Currier and Ives image of falling snow and horse drawn sleighs has long given way to trucks salting icy roads, heating and cooling companies out rescuing overworked furnaces, and plumbers on the move day and night with heaters and torches, thawing frozen pipes. People with the means are excitedly talking about their upcoming trip to Florida or Arizona. (People of real means left for those zip codes at least a month ago.) For little kids it's especially hard because there hasn't been enough snow to play in and it's been too dang cold to go outside even if there were. Until yesterday.

Around 4 o'clock yesterday it started snowing. A fog of fine flakes fell for several hours giving the whole landscape a nice new coat of paint. By the time dinner was over Ev had to be out there, junior size snow shovel in hand, racing around the patio, the driveway, the sidewalk. He'd stop just long enough to lob a shovel of powder at the dog who was also racing around and plowing through the powder.

The forecast for today indicates a high of 27, which may not sound like much to those of you to the far west and far south, but believe me, it's a significant improvement from 7. Hopefully, our new top coat will hold up to an hour or so of sledding today. (Hopefully my body will as well.) It's just the kind of touch up we need around here this time of year. A happy reminder of just how fun winter can be.

Then Florida next week.

How It's Supposed To Be

A night away from home. A couple times each year I volunteer to go visit another doc's practice, examine a sampling of his charts, and watch him do a couple of surgeries as part of the board certification process. It's an antiquated process still required by my Academy but it's one that does still have usefulness. If nothing else it helps keep me on my toes.

Almost always doing a board exam requires a night in a hotel and that can mean anything from a 4 star to a 1 star. As much as one might think how nice it is to call a time out mid-week, no dog, no interruptions, no obligations for one whole evening and one whole night, it sucks. Call it aging, call it domestic bliss, or call it co-dependence, but I have gotten to the point where I hate being on the road away from the family. Turns out I think I'd rather steer around them then be without them.

The dog? Okay. I don't miss taking the dog out at 6:30 AM in the 7 degree darkness, so much. But the rest of it I do better with than without. And I think, after all, that's exactly how it's supposed to be.

Let's Talk Cold

As I write this the weather source on my screen tells me it's 4 degrees here in my home town. 4. It's such a big number when you're two years old and such a very, very small number when you have to take a dog outside. Or if you have to stand out and wait for a school bus-- so much so it's safer just to close the schools.

Turns out 4 is also a very, very small number when you want water to run through pipes, like the ones running up the wall to my shower. Yesterday morning, after sleeping snug as a bug through an equally cold night, I woke up, stepped into the shower, turned the handle, and (cue crashing cymbal sound, please) nothing.  The plumber finally called at 5 o'clock last evening to say he wouldn't be able to make it over. He was too busy with frozen pipes. Really.

Now, I'm the first to admit I don't know squat about home maintenance. Hell, it took me three tries to spell it right. But Tam's dad knows about these things and, bless his heart, he was over here by 9PM and in the crawl space with heater's to start getting the shower thawed out. Two hours later there was a fairly constant dribble coming from the shower head, a dribble that could be adjusted to hot or cold, and so we felt pretty certain we were well on our way to resolution. "Leave it run" was the advice I heeded-- against my wife's doubt's.

At 4:30 I awoke to the sound of the water flowing much more freely-- but no more coming from the shower head. Quite a bit appeared to be coming from the floor or wall or somewhere; just not out of the head of the shower where one would like to see the water flowing in a bathroom. The only good news is that when I turned the shower off I did not hear water continuing to flow.

Fortunately for us we have a double shower and Tam's half is working. At least it was last night. My half may be facing some rather serious surgery. We'll see. In the meantime, I'll scrub down in the other half of that big cold marble shower and try to remind myself how lucky we are to enjoy four seasons and just how beautiful these clear cold Michigan winter days can be. At times. Especially after a nice hot shower.

A Matter of Life and Death

Here is your must read for today. If you're reading this blog to begin with, not bad. But here is a piece that really needs to be read.

This is a story that discusses, in crib note fashion, the evolution of the abortion debate in the United States. There are many points that need to be understood, but here's my take on a couple of items that cannot be overlooked

First, prior to Roe v. Wade, women were dying or being permanently injured owing to the circumstances surrounding their need to obtain an abortion and the miserable and unsafe conditions available prior to legalization. It was a dangerous and life threatening choice many women felt compelled to make and, not infrequently, with tragic results for the mother.

Second, the movement to make abortion legal, safe, and a decision reached through the council of doctor and patient was driven by (mostly male) doctors and lawyers-- an unlikely alliance in my mind but one that points to the overwhelming motive to make life better, safer, and more humane.

Third, the article states that a recent poll found only 44% of people under the age of 30 knew what Roe vs. Wade was about. Too many people today simply do not know what's at stake and why.

Not many people are around to remind of us of what it was like taking care of a woman injured or bleeding to death from a botched back room abortion. There are doctors and lawyers to tell us about human rights and quality of care-- opinions driven by science and a compassionate understanding of the human experience. And there is real emotion and "real religion" to argue why it's wrong. As with most everything in this life I go with science and humanity. I can't support giving a Social Security number to a fertilized egg.

Regardless of where you stand, give the article a read or you can hear it on NPR's Morning Edition. No matter which side of the debate you embrace, it's a matter of life and death.

MLK Day

Lincoln freed the slaves, as the saying goes. (I used that line on my Mom one Saturday morning as an oblique reference to her use of my child labor to do household chores. Let's just say it did not work!)
Lincoln freed the slaves, but Martin Luther King, Jr. made it relevant.  His stated purpose, his dream, now extends to every overlooked and underrepresented citizen of this country. It is really owing to the Reverend Doctor King that minorities have voice and opportunity, whether that minority is racial, gender, religious, age, or relates to sexual preference or physical or mental ability.  King's campaign has brought light and ammunition to the cause of all the overlooked and oppressed.

You would think that his stature in this nation, this sweet land of liberty, would be enough to mandate the closure of schools. We do it for President's Day. And in that we honor every president from Lincoln to Harding, from Jefferson to Nixon. We do it for Veterans. But we don't do it for the man who single handedly impacted the life and liberty of every man, woman, and child resident in these United States and lost his life in the process.

Most schools are closed in honor of that man, but not every. Not here in my overwhelmingly white county in Mid-Michigan. Corunna school district is open for business, and I'm guessing there are others. Whether it's intended or not, the message is wrong. And, frankly, it's hard to believe the message for the students, in those districts that choose to remain in session, is anything less than clear as intended. The struggle continues.

New School Imaging

Rembrandt 1657-- etching

                         

                                Edward Weston 1937-- 8X10 view camera

Anna Schmidt 2013-- cellphone

I have a couple of nieces who post photos to Facebook with some regularity. Not the usual Facebook variety of people or places one knows or visits, but rather, they post abstracts. They are frequently beautiful abstracts involving regular or irregular shapes, contrasts and color. Almost all of the images are of things that surround us and can be seen by anyone who knows how to look.

Driving down the road yesterday I saw and old oak that lay in a field, up rooted and broken, it was weathered like a piece of coastal driftwood. Seeing it made me think I should grab a photograph of the tree's multiple twists and its desiccated bark. But I didn't. But it also reminded me of those nieces of mine-- and of every artist and photographer over time.  I had to wonder what would be our aesthetic if photography were a medium present throughout history? And what would our catalogue contain if instant photography were our only medium?

I love the immediacy of digital imaging and the convenience of smartphone cameras that allow us to take a shot on a whim, and discard all the "mistakes." Instant imaging should make us think about what it is that draws us to images, to imaging, and how we see and interpret color, shape and the world around us.

Looking back, however, in the absence of technology we collected a thousand years of painted and drawn images, all done in an era when there was no alternate method of image capture. Similarly, in the absence of instant imaging, we have more than a hundred years of photographs that were painstakingly created; created without the luxury of preview or casual deletion. Photographs that required the photographer carry the unseen images home, process the film, and study the result as satisfactory or not.

I don't know if our current flurry of digital imaging really owes anything to that pre-digital, pre-photographic era, but I do think that this new era of creative image seems somewhat removed from most of what currently hangs in museums around the world. Not better, just different. And a whole new and exciting chapter in the way images are created and art is made.

Play Date

Ev's stoked this morning. His friend Cooper is coming over for a few hours to hang out and play.

I remember this quite well from my own childhood. And I'm remembering from probably age 5 or 6. The politics of that era were, "Mom, can I go over to Chris's house?" The answer would usually come without missing a beat, "Have you picked up your toys? Is your room cleaned up? Have you brushed your teeth?" After answering in the affirmative to all of the above the answer would come, "Okay. But I want you home for lunch." Or dinner, depending on the time of departure.

I was lucky because I had quite a few friends who lived within just a few blocks. That, and owing to the fact that child abduction was not foremost on the mind of a parent every time their child left the house, I was able to walk the 2, 3 , or 4 blocks to a friend's house.

Ev will probably do a lot of the same things I was doing back then. Playing with cars and trucks and airplanes-- with the exception that Ev's assembled volume of toys exceeds what I had by an exponential factor.

But Cooper's not not just coming over to Evan's house today. No. Today is a "play date." I may need to check here. Play date may actually be a proper noun by this point in history, as in Evan coming into the bedroom excited this morning and saying, "Today's my Play Date with Cooper!"

I don't know where "play date" comes from but it brings to mind a busy parent, dressed for the office, Franklin Planner in hand, responding to a child's simple question, "Can I go over to Billy's house?" Not a pretty image in my mind. Suddenly the kid's need to play becomes another commitment to be worked into an already too busy schedule.

I'm not fighting this battle. I'll choose not to use the phrase. If Evan wants to have another kid over to play I'll just pick up the phone and call. And hope Evan's request doesn't hit a conflict in the other child's schedule for soccer, basketball, karate, dance, weekend at their dad's house……

On second thought, maybe a play date has some merit. Perhaps I can get Ev's whole circle of friend's to share a common Google calendar.

Required Reading

My Mom used to make us read Shakespeare. We would hop in the car and drive south, 5 hours or so, to Ashland, Oregon where there was an annual summer Shakespeare festival. Mom felt was not only terra firma in a solid liberal arts education but also recognized that Shakespeare informed one about life. But we had to read the play before we could see it.

Recent events call to mind those lessons. Lance Armstrong's personal campaign of righteous indignation over claims he doped, annoying as it is, strikes me as just one more case in the current epidemic of personal corruption and deceit. And it's an epidemic that shows no sign of abating. Nobody's done anything wrong-- just ask 'em. And ask 'em, and ask 'em and ask 'em.

I will never forget reading Hamlet one of the first times and coming across the line, "The lady doth protest too much..." I remember full well the discussion that ensued about the suspicion one generates by being over passionate in their own defense. In short, I've never believed anyone who carries on about their innocence or what it is they didn't do. A few years back a friend of mine kept going on and on in a public conversation about how much he enjoyed using a friend's boat just to "spend the night, all by myself." About the third time he reiterated "all by myself" I had to interrupt and explain he was pretty much admitting to an affair. I fact it turned out he was. Just ask his ex-wife.

Having attempted to dodge infidelity in my own dark and dangerous past, I know this game. Know it and have played it. In the current stream of constant public denial I have to wonder if these people actually hear themselves. I know I did. It didn't stop me but I heard myself and it is such a bizarre experience, hearing oneself lie passionately.

I guess my Mom was right when she used to point us to Shakespeare as a source for enlightenment in the politics and perils of life. I can't say I learned all the lessons as well or as quickly as I should have-- but I certainly learned to recognize many of the signs and symptoms. It seems we're living in a time when rereading a whole host of lessons, from Hamlet, Macbeth, King Lear, Othello, might serve us well.

Bagel Time

Deli pre-school

I remember reading a few years ago a debate about bagels. I want to say it was in the New Yorker, perhaps Calvin Trillin. At any rate the discussion revolved around the legitimacy of bagels. The discussion included size, thickness, density, color.  The part I especially remember is the extension of the discussion to super market bagels-- and some source claiming Lender's as the top dog in the freezer deli. That point was obviously met with sharp dissent: Frozen bagels are not bagels in any sense bearing discussion beyond their exclusion from the discussion. (That sentence makes sense. Really.)

I can't get too involved in this anymore. I don't live in LA or New York, the two planets in my bagel universe. But before there were deli bagels in my life, there were Emerson bagels. Emerson bagels were the bagels served at our little food kiosks in the lunch area. We had a cafeteria but we also had these food service windows where a student could walk up and get a snack like a cookie, an apple, or a large slice of coffee cake. There were also bagels. All of which were available every morning during the first break of the school day-- a break called "Nutrition." And those were my training bagels, if you will. They were smallish, served warm, had nice crust, soft chew, and a buttery finish.

Living here, a thousand miles from the nearest legitimate deli I know, I made a happy discovery the other day. Our big Michigan based multi-store, Meijer-- think locally owned Wal-Mart-- makes bagels. They're a bit oversized in my book, they have a bit too much chew, but, by god, brush a little melted butter across its surface and, wow, it's 10:15 on a Tuesday morning at Emerson all over again. And for this boy, on a winter's day, 2000 miles from LA, that will just have to do.

I mention all this because today is the Short Jewish Gal's birthday. And if anyone has an opinion on bagels, it's the SJG. Happy Birthday Carol! Have a bagel for me.

Your Path To Health

There was a book sitting a few inches from me the other evening called "Wheat Belly." It's by William Davis, MD and is subtitled "Lose the Wheat, Lose the Weight, and Find Your Path Back to Health." Funny, I was just talking to my niece about this. Not wheat. And certainly not my belly. I was talking about the path to health.

My niece tells me she was recently talking with an acquaintance who is a majordomo for all things cardiac. He made the statement that cardio exercise is key-- not just to good health, but good mental health.

I'm not in a position to argue. But I do know several crazy people who are way into running, exercise, and sports. I can't say I know any fat people who are into running, at least not serious 40 to 50 miles a week variety of runner. But I know lots of overweight people who do exercise with some regularity. Hell, I'm one.

In all of this I still say the focus is wrong. More than what you eat, how much you weigh, or how much and what kind of exercise you perform, it's how you live your life. It's how you love. It's your passion, your creativity, your connection to others, it's how you embrace life and the world of opportunity. It's not how long you live as much as it's how well you live.

Living to the ripe old age of 92, a lonely, bored man holds no appeal whatsoever-- even if I could still touch my toes and walk on a treadmill for 30 minutes. Living to any age fully engaged in exploring, creating, and sharing is where I'd like to end up. I'm not really sure as to the appeal of longevity. Humans are designed to die. Doing so sooner rather that later is certainly not any course I'd recommend pursuing. But then, sometimes I get the feeling people become obsessed with living simply because they haven't lived well enough to die.

Obviously, I need to give this some more thought. In the meantime, I'll take a sesame bagel with cream cheese and strawberry jam. Make that lite cream cheese.

A Serious Drinking Problem

From the University of Rochester Green Dandelion: Plastic waste

I won't have a chance to listen-in this morning but I read a story to be aired later today. It's the story of the University of Vermont and its recent decision to ban bottled water.

Bottled water is one of those things that would have made my Mother scream in frustration. Paying for water when perfectly good tap water is available throughout most all of the U.S.? Using nonrenewable resources to make plastic bottles so that water can be contained and sold? As is stated in the article, this behavior truly reflects our cultural obsession with commodifying things. What else can explain our obsession with buying water in non-biodegradable plastic bottles, a petroleum based product, when sources of free, good quality tap water abound?

People like to hold up the flag of recycling as the salvation of bottled water. I'm willing to guess, however, there are more than just a few percentage points in the overall population of water bottles that make it to the landfill rather than the recycling bin. Fact is, most do not get recycled. Add to that the actual cost in "manufacturing" bottled water and you start to grasp the scale of the problem-- grasp and gasp. As for water quality? Most of that is marketing baloney as well. Check out a few sobering statistics on the subject from the Environmental Working Group. There's no secret to this information. The Internet is filled with resources documenting the direct and indirect costs associated with selling bottled water as a retail beverage.

I can only hope the day comes when walking around with a single use bottle of water comes to be regarded with the same disdain as walking around smoking a cigarette. On second thought, bottled water is probably worse: At least with a cigarette a person is largely only hurting oneself. I'm inclined to believe the footprint of our bottled water habit is far greater-- and by far less well recognized.

Dream World

Do Not Disturb

Years ago I took care of a little 103 year old woman with a broken hip. She was a retired teacher and still lived alone in her own house. She was so bright and alert it was amazing.

A day or so after surgery I went in to check on her. Asking how she was doing she replied she was doing wonderfully. She had been to a Tigers baseball game the evening before. I was crushed to hear this seeming delusion and my face fell. She paused, smiled, and then said, "aren't dreams wonderful?"

I recalled this today when I was suddenly awakened from a deep sleep by a big white fur-ball and a five year old. Just when I was enjoying a visit with my brother in New York. Just when I was getting a tour of his cool studio space in an ancient primitive Manhattan garage.  Just when we were about to go to lunch.

I'm not informed on the Freudian interpretation of dreams. But I am informed on the value of a really good dream and uninterrupted sleep. On that count, I'm starting off my Sunday seriously shortchanged and in a therapeutically bad place! Time for a nap!!

Cold and Flu Seaon

Emergency rooms all over the U.S. are being packed with flu victims. It appears there are a couple different strains making the rounds. There's the old standby fever, chills, dry cough, upper respiratory breed. That can be fatal. Then there's the norovirus which blesses it's victims with a day or so of vomiting and/or diarrhea. They wish it was fatal. No such luck. You just get to suffer.

Turns out it's virus season for computers, too. Our network went down one day this week. Kind of an interesting problem when lab, X-ray, patient records, and phone systems are all provided from the same server.

Fortunately, our hospital has a Plan B and that worked well enough to allow care to continue uninterrupted even if slightly inconvenient. The event reminded me of two of the elements of electronic health records that really give me pause.

First, I had the pleasure of jotting down my patient progress notes on paper. Quick. Concise. But relatively worthless to a government or insurance agency that wants to look over my shoulder and determine whether the care provided qualifies for any part of the bill submitted. From my perspective, electronic health records have it only half right: They have real value in checking to insure medications and allergies are recognized and not overlooked. What they offer otherwise is simply a billing tool, a method of insuring every i is dotted and t is crossed in pursuit of maximum reimbursement. Well, they're that and a bonanza for the software developers.

The second element for concern is security. Computer security is like the safe storage of nuclear waste. It's an oxymoron. All one hear's is how much the quality and safety of patient care will improve with the electronic record. Maybe. Definitely true in some respects. But in others computer security possess a substantial risk. The best efforts to shore up those defenses will always be the target for the clever, the curious, and the criminal. And, as long as humans are creating that cloak of security, humans will be working to devise ways to take an uninvited peek beneath the cloak. It's hard for me to imagine there will ever be a day when a person can park their personal information, whether financial or medical, on the world wide web without concern.

Where's That Feather?

M.I.A.

Ev came home from school the other day and was quite excited and mystified by a small feather he'd found at school. He was pretty sure it had come off a pillow but couldn't be positive. He simply could not wait to show me that feather he had tucked away in the front pocket of his jeans.

As will happen in the busy life of a kindergarten kid, he soon discovered the feather was no longer in his pocket. He dug and dug and simply could not find it. Soon he had me reaching in the pockets of his micro sized jeans but to no avail.

One thing about Ev, he's not a quitter. If there's a problem he wants to solve it. Soon he had a pocket penlight and was holding the pocket open with one hand while trying to illuminate the cavity with the other-- a pocket that opens something less than one inch front to back. No luck. Frustrated but not yet resigned to his loss, he walks back into the kitchen a minute or two later, pants off. Now I can really hold the pocket open for him while he uses his miniature flashlight.

The Hollywood ending would allow that there, in the deepest recess of that pocket, while standing in the kitchen in his Star Wars Angry Bird undies, he'd find just the tip of that quill protruding, waiting for his hand to pinch the tip and retrieve his feather. But this is Michigan and the feather was not there.

It reminded me of Zuzu's petals from "It's A Wonderful Life." It just so happens, however, I was not able to come up with a spare feather to tuck in that pocket while he was distracted. Not that he'd have ever fallen for that-- he's 5 and not much gets past him anymore. It's times like that, though, when you feel like a failure as a parent!

Oh well. If that's the worst of my failings with Ev, I'll be a happy dad.

Cough, Sputter, Gasp, Gasp!!

Draw the curtain

About 6 months after getting married, my wife asked if we could get a TV. Not that I didn't have one, it was just that mine had an 11 inch screen and rabbit ears. For her the issue was football. I had married a football fan and Michigan football and Monday Night Football were fast approaching. So, happy wife happy home, I joined the flat screen nation.

Last night the college football season finally came to an end. We actually watched the game for about 30 or 40 minutes until the outcome became too obvious and painful to watch. That, and Tam just about choked on her own spit when they mentioned the coach having an annual salary of 5 million.

For us, we like to watch the college games in the fall when the colors are coming on, the temperatures starting to drop, and the tailgating is in full swing. It's fun to be naive and think about the games as great college rivalries and forget about media timeouts and schedules that revolve around viewer habits and network demands. But sitting here in January, on a Monday night, after 327 other college bowl games, and hearing about the coach's 7 figure income, it's too hard to overlook the real force behind college football: revenue. It's hard to connect with that ancient spirit of collegiate sports, the spirit that probably departed around 1967.

Walking away from the television last night was like that scene in the movies where the guy's been shot and you can't quite tell how bad it is. And then he starts to cough and gasp and sputter and then the blood starts to pour out of his mouth. Not sure about fatal, but the damage is serious and it don't look good.

We have almost 8 months to recover. Hopefully we can recover enough to overlook the commercial bonanza that is college football, settle in, and once again watch the Ducks and the Wolverines while listening to my wife yell at the TV.  But, as they saying goes, I just don't know if it can ever be the same again.

Calling All Resolutions

January 7. One week into 2013 and already we're faced with our first Monday. Which year, which decade, which millennium is the one that starts off with a January void of Mondays? Here in my neck of the woods it's cold and dark outside, certainly not the set of spark plugs one needs to get up and get started in the work week.

The good news for me is that I've been on call since the 31st. So, for me, this is like a whole new beginning. Tonight when I come home I can have dinner, stay home, and leave my beeper in my sock drawer.

Which brings me to this point: If you've managed to fall off your resolution wagon within the course of this first week of January consider today your starting point, not your finish line. It's the first Monday, of the first full week, of the first month, of the new year. That should be encouragement enough to climb back in the saddle and keep on down the trail to personal success. (Although, personally, I'm not one for resolutions. I'm just not that kind of risk taker.)

Too Much Villain

One bad dude

I watched the feature cartoon Rio with Ev last night. It is one of those super animated movies-- "from the creators of Ice Age." The movie is filled with fun action and humor of the type that kept Ev entertained throughout. But I had a problem with that kid's movie.

The problem is this: Is it just me or have cartoon villains become truly evil? I grew up on a fairly steady diet of Bulwinkle, Under Dog, Quick Draw McGraw; all of which regularly featured villains, bombs, guns, and plenty of POW! But they never featured credible threats, bullying, or terror ( with the possible exception of Sweet Polly crying out to Under Dog).

Years ago Disney rolled out Bambi with issues of loss of a parent. Dumbo with the issue of separation from a parent. Snow White, Cinderella, The Fox and Hound-- every one of these challenged children to face issues that were probably well beyond their years. Witches, evil step-mothers, mean adults. Frankly, I didn't see the value in exploring those complex issues among kids sitting in theaters eating Good 'n Plenty and buckets of popcorn back then any more than I do now.

Historical Disney aside, the current generation of cartoon features, well tailored to adult and child audiences, are different. The villains in Rio, the exotic bird smuggler Marcel or his trained Cockatoo thug Nigel, are truly mean. They're cruel and use terror and intimidation as their sole m.o. These characters have PhD's in bullying and lack the bumbling incompetence of earlier cartoon villains. These characters make the viewer genuinely fear for the safety and wellbeing of our protagonists and convincingly sell cruelty as a means to an end. By movie's end the bad guys get their due and our heroes prevail, but the path has been frightening and filled with multiple layers of mean.

Maybe I'm just getting old but, is this formula necessary? Are children, 3, 4, 5, and 6 year-olds, starved for examples of how intimidation and threats are used so effectively by some? Does a movie like Rio equip them to more capably navigate the multitude of mean and dangerous people they'll meet in life?

To be fair, I must disclose that I've never been able to sit still for a scary movie or one that dealt with complex or threatening psychological issues. I love a happy ending and a smooth ride in route. Think Nora Ephron or Woody Allen. Perhaps I'm just naive. Perhaps even small kids today are just way too sophisticated to endure the bumbling incompetent villains of the past generation of children's entertainment. But if that's true, I have to think we've made them that way.

Palm Piloted

Last night I was watching Sleepless in Seattle. I haven't seen the movie in years but I'm a sucker for rom-coms. (Although I've never really gotten to the point where I understand Affair to Remember. I mean, I get it but, really, she has to get hit by a car?)

But the scene that sticks in my mind from last night features Tom Hanks and Rob Reiner sitting at a counter in a bar having a beer and eating lunch. Occasionally you can hear the sound of a phone ringing. A real phone. Watching that scene it occurred to me it's a scene which has lost relevance: This could never happen today because, in real life, our two guys sitting together at the bar would be too distracted by their cell phones, other peoples cell phones, and an environment that, more often than not, includes large flat screen TVs hung at 6 foot intervals.  Worse still, it's entirely likely that two guys might not get together to gab at lunch in the first place because they can just as easily text, talk, and play their lunch hour away-- all in the privacy of the palm of their hand. Why have a face to face when you can text? Why talk when you can Google?

I guess when the Palm Pilot came out we really didn't understand what it was that would be piloted. Turns out it's us. Slaves to the rise of our own devices.

Beyond Passion

A friend of mine recently sent me a link to a story about this photograph. The photograph itself is beyond amazing. Truly. But I'm not sure: Is it the image or the project that leaves me in wonder?

The image itself just further confirms to me the very incredible, unfathomable insignificance of our existence. Our invisible lives on this invisible speck in this infinite universe. Climate change? Carbon footprints? Meaningless in the vastness of it all.

All that's not to say we shouldn't enjoy a good movie or a vacation with the family. Just the opposite. We should enjoy this life, those we love, and take exceptional care of this little island of green and blue because, as the saying goes, "it ain't much but it's all we got."

The project, though, is the other thing that takes my mind a bit to comprehend. Whether this man's work will be significant to me, you, or the world at large in another 5, 10 or hundred years is really beside the point. It will always be important to him. He will always have the immeasurable pleasure of knowing he conceived of an idea, watched it grow to humongous proportion, and then had the wherewithal to mentally and physically see it through. That is a slice of life most of us may never really be able to say we've tasted. Undertaking a project requiring tremendous sacrifice, tremendous vision, at an incredible cost of time and resources-- and all completed just to scratch that itch, to dig that treasure, and to share the spoils with others.

I'm sure that, at any given period in history, there are always a handful of people around the world at work on personal endeavors of similar magnitude. I just happened to have this one shoved under my nose. In the least, a story like that of Nick Risinger and skysurvey should help us all find the motivation to finally clean out the garage and organize all that crap.

Stale Cookies = The End

Adios little man.

My Mom used to start baking holiday cookies shortly before Thanksgiving. They would be hidden away in cool storage and doled out stingily in the weeks leading up to the holiday. If there were guests or family over, then you'd find a plateful put out. But Mom would have her eye on our greedy little hands. Without fail, as we finally rounded the corner on New Year's she'd release her grip and we'd get to dig into the remaining stocks of holiday cookies so carefully rationed for the previous 6 weeks. Needless to say, they were less than fresh but we were happy to have them.

I thought of this last night while watching the Rose Bowl and munching on the last gingerbread boy standing. Only about 3 weeks old, it had just the right texture and flavor to transport me back all those years. Stale, like then, but I was just as happy to have it. What a way to start the year!

And now, January 2nd, the cookies are gone, the house is swept clean, and today is finally just a plain old Wednesday. (Except it's my sister's birthday. Happy Birthday, Sue!)

Starting Off At The Stove

For New Year's Eve I thought we would go southern. We had traditional Hoppin' John, a dish made with black eyed peas to bring good luck in the New Year. I've been making it for quite a few years and, I have to admit, with variable results. I thought a big 4 layer coconut white cake would be just the right dessert, too. Another southern tradition, or so I read.

As it turns out, the big cake is just a stack of goo which does not allow one to look away, for even a moment, from the mountain of calories being ingested. That and the flavor is just okay-- certainly not what I would call worth the caloric cost of indulgence. Let me put it this way: The crappy photo does it justice.

In the balance, the year is off to a neutral start, although starting off at the stove is never a bad start to any day. Or year. I guess there's a lesson here, the parable of Hoppin' John and Coconut Cake: Always hope for the best and remember that looks can be deceiving.

Good luck, stay smart, and good eating in 2013!