January One

I think of all the resolutions, plans, designs, and good intentions that come and go year, after year, after year-- mostly short-lived and useless-- the one thing I woke to this morning that is real and will not be abandoned was a sense of gratitude: My family has arrived at a New Year safe and sound. In a year that, like so many others in this day and age, has come to an end riddled and pockmarked with violence and misfortune, we awoke to our own good health, healthy children, a warm and comfortable home, and never knowing real misfortune, hardship, hunger, or thirst. If it's not asking too much, I'll hope for-- and wish you!-- the same in 2014.

Happy Thanksgiving

I visited an old friend and colleague the other day. He’s 94, sharp as a tack, lives alone with help. Whenever I meet a person of age like my friend, a person who has lived a full and rewarding life, I have to think of the memories—the great bank of experience and recollection one accumulates over the years.

I thought of this again yesterday morning. I got up and it early before work so that I could get a few pre-Thanksgiving tasks underway. I boiled my sweet potatoes for sweet potato pie. I cooked up the rice and grains for a couple of side salads we would be taking. And as I did this work I started to walk the aisles of my many Thanksgiving memories. I missed an opportunity to be with my extended family for Thanksgiving this year simply because the day snuck up too quickly. And, so, as I peeled and chopped and drained and tossed my way through the predawn hours in my kitchen, I thought back to preparing meals with family—brothers and sisters and Mom directing traffic. I thought back to kitchens past, exploding with all family hands on deck: peelers and choppers and stuffers and bakers and mashers and Dad tending bar for the guests.

Among the very many things for which I can be thankful are those many years of wonderful family memories. Memories of family work in preparing a big meal to be shared. Not each moment necessarily a joy at the time but certainly a treasured gift looking back all those years.

This year my friend will be with neighbors across the street enjoying Thanksgiving dinner and the company of friends. I like to think there’s still room for more memories, even at 94. I feel sorry for those who are without family or friends on this day of giving thanks. But, most of all, I feel sorry for those with family and friends who don’t take advantage of this opportunity to create a treasured memory either by choice or necessity: those who prefer to dash out to hit the sales and those who find themselves forced to work the stores that simply cannot resist the opportunity to pervert this national day of Thanksgiving into yet another opportunity to shore up profits on the year.

I wish you all a very Happy Thanksgiving and hope you spend the days making memories of your own. Not of half-off bargains but of a day shared family and friends. A day spent slowing to a stop—even for just a moment. A day in which we recognize that we are truly among the most fortunate of all.

How the Grinch Spent Halloween

I played the Grinch last night. On a night when so many little kids were out scouring the neighborhoods for candy and treats, I holed up in the den, lights low, reviewing someone else's legal issues, looking at my daughter's essays for medical school applications, and writing a proposal for the hospital Board of Trustees-- fun! But before all that I first went out for Chinese and sat there feeling guilty, knowing there was plenty of time and multiple venues between that restaurant and home where I could rush in and arm myself with candy. But I didn’t. I finished my dinner, ate my fortune cookie, and headed home with the hope no one would go hurrying expectantly to the front door after seeing me pull into the driveway. No, the porch light remained off and I remained undisturbed except for that nagging little angel sitting on my left shoulder asking me why I wasn't giving out candy.

As I struggled with my decision I remembered what Tam had told me: Don’t do it! She reminded me how last year I got a bit snippy with great big mommas holding out pillow cases for infants in arms and babes in strollers. And with the parents and kids who hold out second and third bags for sick kids at home. And especially with the kids not in costume who didn’t need coffee grounds to make a fake beard—they just skipped shaving that morning. And, too, with the 1/3 or more who couldn’t say “trick or treat” let alone “thank you.” Nonetheless, I felt kinda bad hiding out in the den for three hours.

Next year I may return to answering the ding-dong doorbell of trick or treaters. But first they’ll have to get by the sign in the yard. Next to the sign will be a post with a high line drawn at about 70” and a low line drawn at about 30.” Next to that post the sign will read:

ALL TRICK OR TREATERS MUST BE:

TALLER THAN THE BOTTOM LINE

SHORTER THAN THE TOP LINE

UPRIGHT AND WALKING WITHOUT SUPPORT

ABLE AND WILLING TO SAY “TRICK OR TREAT” AND “THANK YOU”

UNDER THE AGE OF 19

(WE CARD WE CARE—PLEASE BE READY TO SHOW GOVERNMENT ISSUED PHOTO ID)

IN COSTUME

PRESENT TO COLLECT

(WE REGRET THAT TREATS CANNOT BE PROVIDED FOR ABSENT PARTIES REGARDLESS OF CIRCUMSTANCE)

Yeah, now that’s the spirit!

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.