The Cereal Bowl of Life

I'm thinking of my old neighbor, Dr. Freeman this morning. He, more than anyone else, inspired me to become a physician. (Well, he and that little shit of a cardiologist at Santa Monica Hospital with his great sport coats and red V12 XKE convertible.) Dr. Freeman was a physician in that rapidly disappearing old sense of the word, a man who truly looked to the needs and concerns of others; carried a little black bag; made house calls on Saturdays to little old ladies.

I'm thinking about Dr. Freeman this morning as I'm mixing my cereals, my Cheerios with my Oatmeal Squares and Wheat Chex, and a small handful of leftover Fruit Loops for color. Fruit Loops always seemed to be a staple at the Freeman breakfast table and this morning, as I poured out the fruit Loops, I had to smile as I remembered Dr. Freeman: I will never forget him sitting there at the head of the breakfast table, back to the window, newspaper laid out, pouring his coffee onto his cereal. His son and I stared wide eyed and Danny objected only to be told, "What's the difference? It all gets mixed up on inside anyway."

It's an interesting lesson and observation, albeit lost on a couple of 12 year-olds. Imagine if we could all allow ourselves to be so nonchalant. If only we could recognize that blacks and whites and Jews and Muslims and Christians and Democrats and Republicans and straights and gays are all tumbled together in the cereal bowl of life. What a wide eyed revelation it would be if we could only understand it doesn't matter. It all gets mixed up on the inside. Fruit Loop or Cheerio-- it's all just cereal sharing a common vessel.

Cheap Undies and Value Based Spending

A couple of weeks ago I was in a large well-known department store in Chicago. Tam and I were buying back to school clothes for Ev. As I get older it's really fun to buy clothes for our little guy-- after all, he looks so much better in his clothes than I do in mine anymore. It's a vicarious pleasure seeing him in cute jeans and snappy shirts. All lean, no waist.

Nonetheless, as I walked through the store I remembered I needed to pick up some new boxers. I looked at the nice substantial ones made by big-name designers. These were the boxers that hang separate on hangers. Nice. One look at the label, however, and I had to put them back: I'm not paying $30 for a pair of boxers made overseas under sweat shop conditions for pennies per hour just so some American fashion icon can have 5 houses, a fleet of jets, a multi million dollar car collection, and a bad haircut. For $30 I can have them made in the US, of US materials with US labor from sources like City Boxers, Flint and Tinder, or Donn Mason. So, the hell with that. In a pinch, I bought the name brand 4 pack for $30 or so. At about $7.50 a piece, they'd do for now.

Or so I thought.  The bargain priced name brand boxers I bought (made in Vietnam) looked terrific in the package but that's kind of the end of it. Once out, what looked like neat and comfy fabrics turned out to be stiff and lifeless flimsy plaids and prints. Definitely not a product that'll be sitting folded in my underwear drawer in another 6 months. Alas, these will never become comfy old friends.

It seems everywhere you look these days you find evidence of the creeping culture of cheap crud that has degraded so many products from hospital gowns, to restaurant napkins, to boxer shorts. Like flimsy paper plates that collapse in your lap or no-brand toilet paper that persuades you to skip that next trip to the bathroom, these products are simply not nice. As costs are reined in and profits held steady, affordable products are more and more becoming the things that one would not knowingly choose to use.

Well, it turns out that's what you get in a $30 four pack of boxers these days. I'd understand if they were disposable. They possess all the welcoming drape, feel, and substance of newsprint. I pretty much thought they'd disintegrate first time through the washer. I'll tell you now they did not disintegrate when washed but I'll be darn surprised if they survive 6 more trips around the spin cycle of my (made in USA) Speed Queen.

I have new boxers on the way. All cotton. Made in the USA. $25 a pair. When it comes to US workers, American products, and my bum and naughty bits, it's worth the expense. As my financial planner would say: it's a value based spending decision. It's just too bad that, anymore, it requires relative wealth to obtain such value. Quality underwear, it seems, is a luxury-- but, then, I guess women have known that for years.

Tis Autumn

Driving along yesterday I heard this song, sung by Stacey Kent. It's a terrific autumn song. The lyrics are cleaver, romantic, and sweet. As I listened I wondered, how long will anyone be able to write like this anymore? Even our simple language is slipping away from us as we no longer write for personal expression. It seems as if 70% of what we see written these days comes as either corporate-speak b.s. jargon or as text messages. I mean, WTF? I fear the number of people able to write poetry or a beautiful melody of words-- let alone an actual personal note or letter-- is rapidly shrinking away.

Fortunately there are still a few good song writers, poets, and authors in this world. But for now, enjoy this old timer.

Tis Autumn – words & music by Henry Nemo

Old Father time checked, so there’d be no doubt;

Called on the North wind to come on out,

Then cupped his hands so proudly to shout,

“La-di-dah di-dah-di-dum, ‘tis autumn!”

Trees say they’re tired, they’ve born too much fruit;

Charmed on the wayside, there’s no dispute.

Now shedding leaves, they don’t give a hoot –

La-di-dah di-dah-di-dum, ‘tis autumn!

(Bridge)

Then the birds got together to chirp about the weather

Mmmm-mmm-mmm-mmm.

After makin’ their decision, in birdie-like precision,

Turned about, and made a beeline to the south.

My holding you close really is no crime –

Ask the birds and the trees and old Father Time.

It’s just to help the mercury climb.

La-di-dah di-dah-di-dum, ‘tis autumn.

(Instrumental)

It’s just to help the mercury climb.

La-di-dah di-dah-di-dum, ‘tis autumn.

Set Your Alarm For November '14

It's been just a few days now since the senate and house were able to weave enough of a patch to get the the United States government back to work. It came after 16 days of media opportunities for all parties to the debacle. Like Miley Cyrus with a big sponge hand-- there is no such thing as too much; there is no such thing as bad publicity. I saw the interviews with representatives and senators waxing earnest over the need to do the right thing and I was sick. Massive egos sucking up the spotlight, feigning concern while titillated by the attention. I saw the photo of Reid and McConnell the morning after and I was sick. Where there should have been nothing but shame and embarrassment, there stood the proud engineers of compromise as if there was a silver lining.

I've read the numbers-- some say 24, some 27 billion dollars in negative economic impact-- but the cost is much greater. Our great democracy has been brought to its knees by a renegade few, unwilling to live with one policy so they're willing to jeopardize the whole system. And, in fact, they have jeopardized the whole system. These displays of brinkmanship don't fall short of generating real and lasting damage. The world watches while the U.S. system of government stalls and risks the economic welfare of the world. My hunch, and the concern of many others smarter than me, is that the world won't forget, the damage is real. If the U.S. is vulnerable to the reckless agenda of the few-- if the minority can act like a toxic virus-- then the U.S. just may not be the best and safest place to do financial business. Perhaps it's time the torch was passed.

Beyond the possibility that this republic has been permanently damaged by the reckless self-serving agent of an irresponsible minority, the thing that really concerns me is amnesia. I'm afraid we will forget the cost of the past 16 days. I'm afraid we will forget the cost of a house divided, crippled by a thorn in the paw. I'm afraid that, when election time rolls around once again next year, money will talk and bullshit, well bullshit will continue to talk as well-- well financed, slickly packaged, neatly delivered bullshit.

We've received a wake-up call. Let's not forget to set our alarms come next November. Whether Democrat, Republican, or other, choose wisely for a candidate committed to our country and one who understands the cost of playing games instead of playing the game.

Heeeeere's Autumn!!

This past weekend I enjoyed driving around with the top down. Even early Saturday morning, driving 20 miles to help out in surgery: 50-some degrees, severe clear and sunny. It requires a coat and sweatshirt but it's the best time of year to drive around topless. Where I live, driving along on a quiet two-lane highway you'll pass corn fields waiting for harvest, bean fields being shaved clean, fields of soil turned and ready for winter wheat; all this framed with a perimeter of hardwoods well into their yellow, orange, and red wardrobes. And all those sites are associated with their own olfactory thumbprint-- the soil, the leaves, the fields.  It is a fleeting few days each year but, man, we hit it this past weekend! And later that day I got to walk the campus at the University of Michigan with Kels. How great to walk a classic Big 10 campus in the sunshine of a fall afternoon.

And then, today….it only took a moment: I came home from work and within less than a minute it was over. I came home to a house that was finally too cold. With a heavy gray cloud cover moving in from the west and the wind picking up, it was time to turn on the furnace.

We have a few weeks here still. Two, maybe three. But, when you live where it turns cold for months at a time, it's always a bit sobering when the bottom falls out and you have to throw the switch from "cool" to "heat." It's rather dramatic for some of us, if you hadn't noticed.

Getting It Right

Eight years ago, on the night of October 14th, I went to one of the best parties I've ever attended. It was small for a big party, but a big party it was, at a small old desert getaway hotel. It was family and friends, some of whom I haven't seen since. Some of whom I never will see again. But that warm night, under the full moon and stars of the night-time desert sky, we ate, and drank, and listened to Bandidos de Amor and their guitar driven "California Rumba," playing and singing beside the pool. Loud voices and laughter, dancing, margaritas, and superb Mexican food served up by a French chef and his staff of Mexican cooks. What a night. And we had the place to ourselves so we partied til the wee hours. And then, the next day, I got up and got married.

It seems that too often it's the bad decisions I remember. The opportunity missed, the responsibility dismissed, the box instead of the curtain. But that time I got it right. And, 8 years later, it's still right.

A Tonsorial Misadventure

Just clean it up a bit.

Living in a small town where the resident to hair-stylist ratio seems to always hover around 4:1, one would think you could pick up the phone a week in advance and get a haircut scheduled. Not so. (There are people who already know where this story is going. Been there...) No, it seems cutting hair in a small town must be both lucrative and extremely taxing because there seem to be just an awful lot of times when I can't get an appointment-- she's either booked or off.

And so it was a few weeks back. My hair had sprouted long wings off the back and I was afraid I was only a few days growth from becoming that old guy one sees driving around town in a beat-up MGB, gray ponytail protruding from the back of his "Old Dudes Rule" Hang Ten ball cap. So, unable to get into my usual place I tried a new one-- a young woman who was said to be good and cute… not that looks matter to an old dude. Right. Anyway, off I went to get my wild gray mane tamed.

Well, it turned out that this young gal had a chair in one hand and a whip in the other when it comes to men's haircuts. After explaining that I wear my hair a little longer, and, yes, usually it gets cut with a scissors and a trimmer, she nodded affirmatively, ran her fingers through my hair a couple of times and, before you could say "what's that?" a hair clipper appeared in her hand with a cutting head the size of a corn harvester. Zing! the wings were gone. Zing! my head felt lighter. Zing! Zing!! Zing!!!

Do you remember mullets from the 80's? I had a reverse mullet. The back was cropped short and the sides and top left longer. She assured me that most of her customers really liked their haircuts after a few days.

I don't think of myself as especially vain but I did not feel good. Most people all said the same thing: "You got your haircut. I like it. It's a little short in the back." A week later I found myself eyeing the clippers in the home barbering aisle at Target. I was starting to think I could have done better with a Robocut Flowbee.

So yesterday, about three weeks later, I settled back into Bonny's chair. She left the back alone and balanced out the rest. No clipper. It looks good. Lesson learned. She'll probably have to retire or die before I jump ship again. Then again, I have known her to get distracted, take a phone call, and leave a side unfinished. At least that's a tonsorial misadventure that's a little easier to rectify….if she's working.

Which Greatest Generation?

I saw a friend's post the other day, a photo with the attached hashtag, "greatest generation." I know the reference. I'm at a loss to disagree. But as I think about it, I have to ask: how contrary to everything else about my youth and experience growing up that I, or any of us, should be so willing to surrender that title? Why should we feel satisfied, nostalgic, and, well, anything but confrontational in assigning that weighty adjective to a passing generation?  Isn't it odd, sad even, that we sign off on this? No comeback, no pushback, no inclination to say, "now just a doggone minute!"

I look at my children and the children of some of my friends and I think perhaps we're doing something extraordinary ourselves. Perhaps we're not physically building a nation, constructing factories, machinery, riveting bombers and ships, building cities, towns and roadways. But perhaps we are making something better. In spite of the crush of entitlement and fiscal dependency, perhaps we are still somehow raising a generation that will accomplish great things beyond our imagination.

Lord knows some days I encounter what seems like an endless parade of unproductive need and greed. And, too, I have to wonder when I encounter 10 year-olds and teens who can't remove the phone from their hand or the buds from their ears-- and the parent doesn't even seem to mind. But, in spite of that, when I see the hashtag "greatest generation" and the reference is to a generation that is all but extinct, I'd like to think them wrong. We should hope-- and expect-- to do better.

Good Chemistry in the Kitchen

Sometimes I'm amazed at what I used to be able to do-- the things I've learned and done that I couldn't even consider doing once again.  The list is considerable when it comes to physical abilities but the other night I was reminded of my mental capacity in particular-- after putting together what turned out to be an amazing vegetarian stew.

Key word there is "after." I love to cook and I seem to have no problem grabbing this and reaching for that, a dash of this, a splash of that. To my good fortune, more often than not, I do a pretty good job in getting the right mix of substance and flavor.

And so it was the other evening as I sat down to a bowl of this hearty and flavorful vegetable stew. It was sweet with a little heat and seemed to perfectly blend the many flavors into a new delicious whole. Viola! When I sat down to enjoy my wonderful creation I started to think about how I'd concocted this dish. I knew there was white wine, mushroom soup, vegetable stock, potato, yam, corn, green beans, (are you getting this down??) pinto beans, smoked chipolte chili powder, onion and some garlic powder. I think. It was then my mind went back to good old Willamette U and my organic chemistry lab with Dr. Hudak. So many milliliters of this and so many grams of that heated to precisely this temp for precisely this length of time.  Looking at that bowl of delicious vegetable stew and thinking back all those years to organic chemistry it's a wonder I ever made it to out of college. My current kitchen methods employed in a chemistry lab would be as likely to get a visit from the FBI or Drug Enforcement Agency as it would the approval of my professor.

Oh well, I must have learned something. I guess that's how it is as you go through life: You take it all in, learn what you must, retain what is needed and, in the end, hopefully you end up with a bowl of killer vegetable stew. Bon appetit!

Smoke Filled Rooms

I went to pick up the dog the other afternoon. Necessity had dictated he be transferred from one household to another while I was away and so Jack spent the weekend hanging out with an aging obese Pug named Baby Girl. He seemed to have a great time and the sitter had done me and Jack a huge favor, stepping in to help out in a tight spot.

When I went to pick him up, however, the experience was odd from a contemporary perspective: The homeowner was a man in his late 70's, a widower, and a life-long smoker who still smoked cigarettes in his home. It was a peculiar experience being in that house. I called Tam when I left and told her I'd only been in that house for 10 minutes but I smelled like I had been in a bar in the 70's or 80's. I wondered how I'd even done it back then.

Then I got to thinking how, for years and years, this had been the status quo. In my home as well as many others at least one parent smoked; cigarettes, cigars, a pipe. In our case it was a pipe that followed my dad around. A visit to or from his siblings, however, was always heavily perfumed by cigarette smoke. I hate to wax nostalgic on this subject but there was a whole generation or two or three, a quarter to a third of which smoked. And those cigarettes drove industry, manufacturing, creative genius, and a whole lot of entertainment, both at home and out and about.  I mean, in a way, how peculiar that now, when you go in a place like 21 or the Polo Lounge, the 50/50 or the Macleay Country Inn, you get abruptly shown the door should you dare light a cigarette on the premises. Whether it's a high end watering hole still operating after 70 or 80 years, or a good ol' honky tonk-- it's no smoking.

Not that I'm lamenting any loss here. Cigarette smoking is terrible. The disease and decay that follows smoking is horrid. No one would smoke if they actually believed it would happen to them. It's like war: Bad for humans and all living things. And, with that said, and all things considered, it's weird that my son in all likelihood will never know a smoke filled room. As good as it is that most all people have the decency to smoke outside when they must, as good as it is that a whole lot of people do not smoke any more, there was an entire era in this country when the United States was growing, industry was king, our battles appeared to be won, prosperity was within reach, and people, like factory smokestacks, puffed along all day.

As much as smoking was an accepted part of our culture for so many years perhaps it was a parasite. Perhaps the genius and industry of those previous generations was actually hamstrung, not fueled, by smoking. Hopefully we'll find out as cigarettes become more an anomaly than an accessory. In the meantime I can tell my son about it-- just what it is that he can be glad he's missing. No need to pay a visit.

Maybe, Just Maybe

Maybe, just maybe, we're getting smarter. I started thinking about this the other day driving the freeway home from Chicago and entering a construction zone.

Here in Michigan the "barrel season" opens in April and usually runs through October until the weather  dictates an end to road work. Inevitably, construction season also means lane closures and those signs advising "Lane Ends." Usually the driver is advised the lane will end in 3 miles, then 2, then 1, and then you see the flashing arrow and the barrels squeezing the one lane into the adjacent.  In the past, however, my experience has been that it just doesn't happen as smoothly as that. My experience here and elsewhere has been that, by the time you are reading "LANE ENDS IN ONE MILE," traffic has already slowed to a crawl or stopped. That happens because about a quarter of the drivers feel the need to jump the line, race all the way to the merge site, and then force their way in while the drivers behind are abruptly stopped. That line jumping behavior is incredibly rude and selfish and, judging by my observation, doesn't get the imposer much more than a few minutes ahead of the game-- and only at the cost of increasing the misery of other drivers.

So, last Sunday, I was dumbstruck as I approached the merge lane and I could see almost a mile in the distance the affected lane was wide open: No line of cars trying to wedge their way in. No slowing of the traffic flow. No rear-enders. No angry drivers. Just a smooth flowing merge. Come to think of it, this whole summer has been better in that regard. Not perfect, but better. Far fewer major back-ups owing to merged lanes and line jumpers.  So that made me think that, hmm, maybe we are getting smarter.

Wouldn't that be amazing if people we're getting to a point where they actually were coming to realize there is more to gain from cooperation and sharing than there is to be gained from selfishness? It seems entirely contrary to prevailing human nature, rather unlikely at best but, that said, one can only hope that maybe, just maybe, the highway is the harbinger of better things to come.

Bad Berries

"It's just a little mold"

My mom used to love seasonal fruit. She was a believer in the merits and economy of locally available produce and loved it when the seasons were announced by the arrival of seasonal treats like strawberries, raspberries, and apples. The family really got to indulge, however, when the season wained. The prices fell as the crops were in abundance and the novelty and demand had fallen off. It was then that you might find a basket of strawberries with a few less than perfect specimens. A child of the depression and having grown up in a home where there was always enough but never excess, she knew her way around a half molded berry-- with a knife. "It's just a little mold" she'd say, cutting away the repulsive bit of rot, simultaneously depositing the nasty bit in the scrap pile while its unblemished part would fall into a bowl, soon to be placed on a slice of angel food cake and crowned with Dream Whip.

I was reminded of this yesterday when we were sorting through a box of late season strawberries here at home. The contents were running about 3 to 1, good berries to bad, but still, there were those constituents with the moldy backsides-- half good, half bad. As Tam carefully lifted the offenders from the container and set them aside for the trash I suggested what my mom would do.  (It was one of those moments when you can't quite believe the words are coming from your own mouth-- an action of your mother's, abhorred since childhood, and yet, there it goes, the suggestion to do the very same thing 45 years later. Really? I just suggested you do what??) Needless to say my suggestion fell on deaf ears.  

In recollection, the wisdom of my mother's conservationism was well founded and actually provides an excellent example in life. In this day and age it is especially pertinent: Don't throw out the baby with the bath water. Look for the beauty, not the blemish. 

In a time of growing intolerance it seems more and more we are encouraged to look with greater diligence to find fault, disagreement, and to place blame. Rather than recognizing our blemishes, rather than recognizing the value and wisdom in working to find and utilize the substantial good in every opportunity and situation, we are quick to discard the whole thing. As distasteful as it may seem, we may often be discarding some truly worthy resources.

Fortunately, it seems it has been a characteristic of our successful democratic civilization: Here in the United States we have learned to live together. We have somehow manage to discard many of the blemished parts, keeping the ripe and delicious elements together in that one big serving bowl to be enjoyed by all-- the great melting pot. Not a bad system. Let's hope that old-fashioned sensibility can survive a what seems to be a growing distaste for what we perceive as less than perfect berries.

You Ain't Worth Crap

Summer's been over for a few weeks now. I guess it's time to get my butt in gear and revisit this blog. For starters, here's a piece I submitted to our local paper this past week:

One of my favorite stories by Dr. Suess was published in 1961 and simply titled, The Zax. It is the story of the South-Going Zax and the Nouth-Going Zax who eventually come face to face in their tracks. Neither Zax is willing to take one step to the east or the west and so their they stand, unmoving, face to face, while the rest of the world grows up around and over them; the Zax oblivious to the cost and folly of their uncompromising ways.

And so here we are at October 1st, the government defunded, while our elected members of government stand toe to toe unwilling to budge. Meanwhile, the world moves on and how soon will it be before we wonder, just when did the U.S. become that second-class piece of real estate?


The truly alarming part in all of this is that it’s not about healthcare reform. It’s not about Obamacare. It’s about jobs. For once the congress is taking real and tangible action to protect American jobs: Their own. The alarming piece, from my view, is that this debacle is about re-election strategy. It is the criminal offspring of a political system in which our elected representatives are beholden to the individuals, corporations, and organizations with the resources to bankroll a billion dollar presidential bid, the millions needed each year to elect our congress, the tens or hundreds of thousands needed to elect our state representatives. Our elected representatives claim to represent the voice of their constituents but what constituency is that? With national organizations extending their reach across state boundaries, pouring money and resources into our representatives campaigns for election and re-election, just whose agenda is it that gets carried to Washington—where our valued representatives settle into a job offering income, healthcare and retirement benefits most Americans will only ever dream of.

I used to read of the open political corruption in other countries and I felt both disgust for the system and sympathy for the citizens. Whether the current stand-off in Washington, D.C. continues for only 12 hours, 12 days, or 12 weeks, I think it’s time we open our eyes to the fact we have become that country. We have become that place where representatives, legislation, and votes are bought and sold on the open market. For all the self-righteous back and forth banter one hears about just what the Founding Fathers intended, what the Bill of Rights provides, the sanctity of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, I feel fairly certain the current state of affairs is not what they had in mind.

The solution to our current sorry state of affairs has nothing to do with Obama, healthcare, Republicans, or Democrats. It is solely dependent on effective and sweeping campaign finance reform. As desperately as our country needs meaningful healthcare reform, the process by which we allow the unfettered buying, selling, and manipulation of politicians and policy is the rotting corpse on the prairie of American life.