Bah, Humbug

I suspect that I am not alone in my procrastination.  My wife asks me if I've finished my Christmas shopping and I just smile.  Needled further for an explanation, I surrender such phrases as "Maybe," or the duplicitous, "You'll never know." A loving smile seals my fate as a no-good rotten liar.  In fact, I never shop 'til Christmas Eve.  I justify such behavior with the idea that now that the vendor has realized that they have way too much inventory and way too little in the way of receipts, they'll practically pay me to empty their burgeoning shelves.

Of course, having to park one hundred fifty yards from the nearest aforementioned merchandisers, I am smug in my assurance that exercise is a good thing, especially for a middle-aged man that spends far too much time on his keister.  Pushing my way to an entrance, holding the door open for the entering and exiting fools like myself, I consider what it is that I'm doing there.  I grow sullen at the outright flagrant foul of having to spend resources to fulfill the societal expectations of a holiday run amok.  I also fear the vacant stares and managed smiles of those who receive my paltry expressions of affection.

Lost in a private reverie of the ridiculousness of celebrating the Savior's birth three months before he was actually born, I push in front of a portly woman who has eyed the same last copy of "Southern Soup Recipes," which would bring at least a measure of gratitude for my spouse, who eats soup like a prisoner, to the bottom of the bowl and every single day of her life.  The woman whose lust for the book has now grown insistent, outweighs me by fifty pounds.  With the small residual effects of my athletic past, I snatch the book to my breast, then begin scanning the pages.  I don't reveal that I'm aware of the large woman's sneer.  This too is gratifying and serves to further justify my last-minute voyage taken once a year.  In my wretched soul, I like the feeling of catching the touchdown pass with no time on the clock.

The minutes become hours and one of my knees has tricked out.  I hobble around the bookstore looking for something that would be of interest to my wife's parents.  Through their wisdom and frugality born of earlier hardships, they lack nothing in their lives, save children free of problems.  That quandary leaves me wishing I could purchase a freedom of anxiety for them, to let them know that despite the dead-level systematic nature of our current condition, we will be fine, our commitment solid.

I return to the venue of my seventh celebration of all things Mandevillian, hiding the paltry offerings in the closet of the room which for a week, will be our home.  The wrapping and tagging will occur on the third floor of their spacious estate, upon a pool table lain dormant.  The shouts and warnings against spoiling the surprises of the next day will become a din.  The idle conversations will form bonds.  My cynical heart will soften.

The Pen is Mightier than the Sword, though less profitable

Deep within my soul, unbeknownst to me, was gestating a latent figure of mysterious origin.  For a generation, I had spent all of my waking moments raking in all of the currency printed by the mint, that which was allowed as my share according to my efforts and those who control such things.  I accomplished those things with a stressful, mindless efficiency that left me hollow.  Peddling stocks and bonds and building homes for a real estate bubble now burst, may very well have provided the wherewithal to purchase cars and DVD's, but it left me, sans bubble, yearning for something that I would be passionate about.  Down in back pain and a laptop, appropriately, in my lap, I began penning words in a certain order that seemed to convey a story.  Whether a rebirth or a delusion of catastrophic proportions economically, that became my joie de vivre.

My lovely wife Stephanie has been an avid supporter of this venture, though I'm sure, lost in the demonic wash of wondering where the next dollar will come from in the revolving door of bills and utilities.  Having whittled away at the debt so easily amassed during the days of wine and roses, the pressure cooker of making the monthly nut has been reduced in volume, but still steams with constant urgency.  In this, I digress and miss the entire point of this missive.  In fact, no one really understands nor cares about the financial struggle within these four walls, unless of course, it involves them.

What has been the most compelling result of my new adventure has less to do with the trainloads of rejections from agents than it does about the effect of becoming a "writer" on those around us.  After finishing the first novel, family and friends had an awakening.  Manuscripts long parked in desk drawers were pulled out to be revived and revisited.  My wife even began penning a fictionalized autobiography that if I must be honest, was in its rawest form, far better prose than anything I had written.  My sister-in-law began sending me chapters of a book of paranormal romance that is extraordinarily well-written.  My brother is now starting a book he has been threatening to write for years.

With the aforementioned characters excepted, and those playing the role of an ad hoc editor for my work, there is another crew of spectators that I find amusing, and frustrating.  There is the pervasive view that writing is simply the art of conversation converted to printed word.  Any fool can do it and of course, many fools do, the crowd I include myself in after reading the work of true wordsmiths, like Conroy, Siddon or Clarke.  What is most frustrating is that writing as a way of life isolates one and robs the spirit of oxygen.  Rummaging around in bookstores and libraries lends itself to further removal from the general population and results, occasionally, in weird manifestations of this seclusion, to wit, striking up conversations with complete strangers and telling them of your craft, only to have them frown and wonder whether a mild stroke or a psychotic break may have been the genesis of your downfall.  Knowing nods of spousal friends only serve to reinforce the disappointment generated in the soul of the writer.

This is, I suspect, not unusual for anyone who steps out of the mechanized cultural conception of normalcy.  The banker who buys a welding kit, scouring the junkyard for just the correct metallic object, then firing up the night with his sculpture much to the chagrin of his neighbors and his family, who silently contemplate the dire necessity of admitting the now mad former wage-earner into the psychiatric facility nearby.  Or, consider the now-laid-off human resources administrator who rushes to Michael's and purchases the canvas, brush and paints to begin replicating the human experience in oil.  In each of these cases, the madness is justified with the mention of some person in history who abandoned all logic and set about to create something heretofore unknown.  Without platform or experience, the sum total of one's life work becomes a sad commentary for those who had the creative friend pigeonholed into a comfortable niche, which made it easy to converse over cocktails.

Outside of the company of those who share such dementia, the creative sort is at sea, unable to effectively enter into human discourse with those now safely set in their understandable posture.  All things American are weighed by the amount of funds set aside for future perpetuation of the lifestyle one has assumed to be fitting, casual and comfortable.  To see another within the circle abort this process, to flail away in some ill-conceived exploration of all things esoteric raises the alarm bells within those who, after all, only have the flailing madman's best interests at heart.

To them, I would suggest that to live a life without passion, free of the exploration of the creative spirit that yearns for expression, is a life wasted.  This is not an indictment against the practice of law or medicine or administration, though the respect for another has nothing to do with cliches.

What the Hell Does "Retirement" Mean?

One of the biggest lies in all of American culture is the one about retirement. Sure, we boomers grew up and most of the older folks spent 30 or 40 years at General Motors or Dupont, then wasted away during the next 10 or 20 years of what remained of their life, bouncing babies on their knees. But now, my generation changes jobs an average of 7 times during their career. There's a whole frickin' industry now that caters to just that.

Then, there's an entire discipline that studies the emotional fallout from major changes in our lives. Later, another group will make in-depth studies of the first discipline and determine the need for better credentialing. Have you ever stepped back, taken a deep breath, and thought, "What in the hell are these people talking about?" I mean, get a life. That having been said, my epiphany du jour is that this is just what we all need to do. Damn the torpedoes, find out what it is that floats your boat, yanks your chain, makes you wake up at 5:30 in the morning rarin' to go.

"Easier said than done," you say. Fine, don't try. Look, I'm not high on the mountaintop of personal victory, but I did, after 57 years, stumble over it. I found it by the strangest of circumstances. I was crippled by my arthritis, sitting on a couch in the only position that afforded me some relief and bored to death. I got my laptop, started writing a book and became obsessed. Yes, I admit it- I'm plagued by OCD issues, but the point here is that it has become my passion, my raison d'etre.

Don't get me wrong. I'm no Pat Conroy. I know that. And, I have no aspirations to write the great American novel. By the same token, people who know how to edit tell me it's pretty good. Who knows? I may never get published but I'm having a blast.

Which brings me to you. After all, there are enough self-absorbed, one-dimensional people in your life already. Instead of spending your life hoping you don't get fired, bored to death with a dead-end job, why not begin to look back at your life and see what you really love to do? Go back to school days if you have to, just start to inventory the times from your past that have a glow around them in your memory.

I guess what I'm saying is that you may be a proficient attorney, but hate practicing it. What else have you done or dreamed of doing that you've never had the time to pursue. Go for it, dude or dudette. Just start living in a way that allows you the chance to do something you believe in, enjoy, get off on, feel warm and fuzzy inside while you're doing it. The best doctors, bus drivers, musicians, interior designers, chemists, house painters---they all have one thing in common - they love what they do. In their eyes, it is their purpose for being here on this planet. If you don't see that in your work, go find it, eh?

Go for it. Grab for all the gusto. Live your dream. (Your trite adage goes here). You never retire if you find your purpose. Dr. Debakey, the great heart surgeon, worked into his 90's. Peter Drucker, the father of modern management, died at his keyboard in his 90's. Got it? O.K. Start right this instant, get off your butt and if you're not enjoying your life, start to change it. Make a list. See a shrink. Talk to your best friend. Whatever it takes, I challenge you, get going.

Please excuse me as I dismount my soapbox.

Out There

Looking through a telescope at the heavens can be an awe-inspiring moment. It is even more powerful when seen through the Hubble telescope, peering into space viewing stars and constellations that by the time their light comes into our view, have already died out or changed dramatically in real time. New scientific evidence tells us that the universe is also expanding at an incredible rate, swallowing up the void of nothingness that existed before.

The feeling I take away from all of this is just how insignificant we are in this whole setting. And, I can't help but feel silly about the things that consume me from day to day. Whether one has a faith that shows us the awesome power of the Creator, or one possesses a more pragmatic view of the causal elements of our beginnings, it is without debate that we exist in a universe that makes both our existence and our striving appear almost inconsequential. On the other hand, does it not also compel us to readjust our sense of urgency to reach for more than that which we have accepted as our fate?

The ability to lift oneself above the fray in order to assume a more cosmic consciousness is typically accomplished by those of science and religion. Why can we not all adopt an encompassing vision of our lives? I apologize for waxing philosophic, though there are those moments in life that afford one an opportunity to reassess, revalue where we find ourselves and our raison d'etre. In the loss of: a loved one, a job, worldly possessions, one's health; we are suddenly face to face with our own mortality, our sense of safety and security. In that flicker of time, we can either dismiss the importance of that which is greater than ourselves, or continue on painfully in the fruitless pursuit of all things temporal.

In Chrisitianity, repenting of one's past mistakes produces the ability to begin anew. The word repent comes from the greek word repellos (sp?) which means to "turn around" completely. A 180. This is the best description that I know of to describe a person's going in a completely new direction. What this means to me is that there is a possibility in each of our lives to start over. The biggest hurdle we face in such an effort is to decide what the new direction is. Religion teaches the new direction's tenets. Science has the foundation of previous research. What of the common life we have built for ourselves?

To step out in a new direction can often feel like being blindfolded and stepping off a cliff. I sense that the real key to making this a reality is in how we frame our life. In other words, taking every simple event and every person we meet at face value, removing judgement from our lexicon and our thoughts. It is unfortunate that the most profound epiphanies in life sound very trite. The truth, as I see it, is to look diligently for the good in everyone and everything. Finding fault is an industry with poison byproducts. Everyone is good at it but no one profits from it. Looking for the good around us is difficult in some cases, but rewarding every single time. There is no defense against love and it never returns void.

Once this perspective takes hold, the passion of our lives becomes self-evident. What we are good at blossoms and consumes us. The empty space of a lost loved one or even our worldly possessions becomes totally unimportant. It is then that we can begin to live with joy, which is distinctly different from happiness. Happiness depends on circumstances. Joy is a state of being.

The Bone Cracker

One of my favorite sayings is that "our brain often writes checks that our bodies can't cash." It becomes a more compelling comment with age, as we aging baby boomers think that we are still able to perform physically like we did 30 or 40 years ago. Yes, there are some of us that have kept a vigil to fine tune our physique and to them, I say: "good for you, smart alec." For the majority of us, however, the assault on our good humor seems to accelerate with each passing year. It is with this in mind that I have to admit something I never thought I'd believe. Chiropractic medicine works.

Ask any traditional M.D. what he or she thinks of chiropractors and you'll get everything from guffaws to a grudging statement along the lines of, "Well, if it works for you, for whatever reason, that's fine." In other words, the AMA holds Chiropractors in the same esteem as say, witch doctors. This is the general impression I had of Bone Crackers until I spent four days on the floor in Houston some years back. My primary care physician ordered me enough drugs to mask the pain but it was easily the most incredibly debilitating experience I had ever suffered through. At a friend's insistence, I went to a chiropractor and in a few sessions, I was fine. With that experience, I lost my contempt for chiropractic medicine.

This past week, carrying a roll of carpet pad for a neighbor who had flood damage in Atlanta's deluge, I felt something pull and for four days, I had pain reminiscent of the Houston experience. There simply is not enough Advil in America to remedy that kind of pain. This morning, I visited Dr. Utberg, my wife's bone cracker. Through heat, electric stimulation and a few minutes on the table, my pain is now manageable and I can turn my head without wanting to scream. To the bone crackers of America, I say: "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

For those of you still suspicious of chiropractors, I hope you never experience the kind of pain that leads some of us to their door. I do hope that you'll try this therapy before submitting to the knife of a surgeon. Those kind of surgeries have very mixed results and I can count on one hand the people whose outcome was profitable. At any rate, I digress. Suffice it to say that I am a fan of bone crackers and can sit here and write this as a direct result of Dr. Utberg's expertise.

It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over...

As the Dow tiptoes towards the 10,000 mark again, many wonder what difference that could possibly make on the reality of a recession. Having studied this in a former life, I can tell you that in and of itself, it is only a number. The Dow Jones Industrial Average represents American industry only insofar as people believe it. Having said that, the Dow is a mathematical representation of the health of an overview of the business sector. It carries a great deal of psychological weight on the general population but almost never affects the decisions of those who actually wield the power on Wall Street. The real importance of the DJIA and other indicators is that they are leading indicators. They typically rise prior to general improvement in the overall economy.

When money starts to flow back into stocks, it's money that investors have started to pull out of safe havens, like money markets and bonds, and begun to invest into industry. That belief underlies the notion that things are turning around and stock issues are about as low as they're going to go. Another way to state it is, money plowed into Wall Street eventually makes it to Main Street.

Other leading indicators study the actions of manufacturers and the effect on raw commodity prices. If people that make things aren't ordering raw materials, they aren't going to be producing widgets. This is where things get tricky. Manufacturers aren't going to ramp up production and order raw materials until they sense demand from consumers for their widgets. Kind of a Catch-22, no? This is where it can all take time to work out.

Employment is a lagging indicator. An improvement in employment is usually at the tail-end of any recovery. Why? As capital, the fuel of the economic engine, frees up a little and manufacturers work through their inventories, little by little, the producers in our economy will begin to produce more. This has to be met by a smidgeon more demand from consumers, which means the producers will hire a few more people, who will buy a few more widgets...... You get the picture. It's a tenuous and lengthy process. America may be in full recovery before anyone starts hiring again. Bad news for the unemployed - good news for the nation.

When will the employment picture get rosy? Well, first employers have to quit shedding jobs. This process is still going on and despite the dancing around the bonfires because it seems to be slowing, nonetheless, we're still shedding jobs. Line up all the economists in the world end to end and they can't reach a decision. Nevertheless, the consensus opinion among the best of them is that we won't see hiring begin in earnest until late next year, maybe well into 2011.

Is the recession over? No. Can we suffer another downturn? Yes. Will we? Who knows. My sense is that we are in recovery mode and unfortunately, it will take years, not months to look back and say we made it. In the meantime, there will be more job losses, more banks will fail, the DJIA will slip back a few times but, it is generally believed that the worst is over. Just don't try to tell that to a family facing foreclosure, or a breadwinner running out of unemployment money. This is capitalism at its best, and its worst.

Heads Up

Within the City Limits of Atlanta, there is a tony neighborhood known as "Buckhead." It is recognized widely as the most celebrated address from which to hail. Having built there in the last few years, it occurred to me that the name had to have come from somewhere. In the chitter-chatter of builders and Realtors a story came out about the origins of the name that piqued my interest.

According to the story I heard, 100 years ago, at what is now the intersection of (older) Northside Drive and Mt. Paran Road, there was a general store. This was easy to verify in that, indeed, there is a general store there that has been there for about 100 years. The current owners have owned it for a few years. Nice couple, they provide some of the best breakfast fixin's anywhere and construction crews and bank presidents wait in line in the morning to get their biscuits.

So anyway, this crossroad was a busy spot in the piney woods even a century ago. For want of the kind of maps we enjoy today, most people who wanted to meet anywhere would use landmarks and street intersections to give directions. In the case of the intersection of Northside and Mt. Paran Rd., according to the story, they would reference the general store. More specifically, the buck head that the original owners had placed up over the door. Meet me at the "buck head" store became the reference that most everyone in that area of Atlanta knew and understood. Wait, I know you're thinking that this has to be a hoax. I certainly did when I first heard it from a realtor. In fact, several notable locals confirmed that this story was one that they had learned from a young age, though the location I had identified was suspect.

I approached the current owner of the store about this and he smiled and said, "Well, I don't know if it's true or not. I don't care, as long as it brings people in." An affable fellow, he wasn't much help. Well, this was the story I believed until another story surfaced that has apparently been credited with more authenticity. In this tale, one Henry Irby had a general store and tavern located at West Paces Ferry and Roswell Road, which is in the heart of the commercial area Atlantans generally conceive of as Buckhead. In this tale, like the other, Mr. Irby hung a large head of a buck somewhere on his establishment and that became the landmark mentioned in the other story. In fact, the area was known as Irbyville until it was annexed by the City of Atlanta in 1952.

Whichever tale is true, there is apparently some credence to the fact that Buckhead was indeed a name derived from the head of a deer. Buckhead, the community, has prospered for over a century and now possesses the ninth wealthiest zip code in America (30327). According to Forbes,the average income is around $350,000. per year and the average home value is about $750,000. (To convert that to California Real Estate values, add a zero). Buckhead is the home of the Governor's Mansion, along with the highest concentration of upscale boutiques in America. Not satisfied with those milestones, the area's developers decided to raze an entire row of night spots (especially after a rash of shootings, rapes, robberies and general mayhem began to become the theme of the area) in the heart of the community and create a mixed-use area intended to top even Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. That is currently on hold, more or less, due to the economy but it will be completed, sooner or later. The wealthy still have their wealth and wanna-be wealthy neighbors will always flock to their stores.

On the residential side, many mega-mansions sit idle, newly built, waiting for someone to buy them. My builder friends in Buckhead, however painful the lull has been, are already buying up lots and finalizing architectural plans for the next surge in the cycle of home building. Some things never change......

Power Failure

With the rain falling again today, I will continue the renovation work inside. One of those tasks that I have avoided successfully is the replacement and rewiring of the lighting in the main living area. As a retired home builder, the obvious question might be, "Why are you so reluctant to do this?" The long answer is that every home builder has strengths and weaknesses. Though I feel I have strengths, my nemesis is electricity. Not that I don't understand how it all fits together, in most cases, I've just carried some kind of terror at getting electrocuted my entire life. I'm sure the seeds of this are psychological imprints from my upbringing. My dearly departed father, bless his soul, did not know which end of a screwdriver was the business end. He was terrified of electricity and somehow this gestated in my consciousness during my impressionable years.

Too, our house has been "redone" before, some years ago. The person or persons that did it, without professional help, created what I would call a plethora of spider-web wiring that is nothing short of ridiculous. I have seriously thought of finding them and giving them a piece of my mind - or a well-attended public flogging.

On several occasions, I have employed a friend who is an electrician to assist me in avoiding my wife and me dying in an electrical fire. I've also spent a fair amount of effort over the past 6 months deleting wiring that ends up, uncapped, in the middle of the attic; sealing junction boxes that hold live wires but have no cover; fixing switches that activate, well, nothing, and replacing other switches that snap, crackle and pop when turning something on. I trust that by now, I have eliminated most of the "hot spots" in our home's wiring. Today, however, the hunt must continue. (See how much time I've wasted already?)

I could go on and on about my delightful discoveries but the point, and I'm sure I have one, is that regardless of my knowledge level, I still fear electricity. I've been "bitten" before, many times, but knowing that it takes a mere .7 amps to stop the heart in the correct location, it gives one pause. In my case, pause is translated to incredible periods of procrastination. Rained in today, I cannot reasonably explain not doing my rewiring. It must be done, sheetrock patched and finished, before I can paint the interior. Don't you just hate logic?

I suppose the main reason I'm telling this story is that my wife will be out of the house today and if you don't hear from me by noon, please call Fire & Rescue.

The Sacrificial Lamb

On September 15th, 2008, Lehman Brothers filed for bankruptcy. The Bush administration earlier that week had stepped in to save Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae. Why, with the likes of the bailout of AIG and others, did Henry Paulsen, then Secretary of the Treasury, under Bush, allow Lehman to fail? This was also orchestrated in a meeting called by then President of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York, Timothy Geithner, our current Treasury Secretary.

Through statements made at that time, it was felt by Paulsen and others that: a) the public appetite for huge bailouts had been reached; b) Lehman, unlike AIG and other beneficiaries of the Government, would not have the same global impact if allowed to fail; and most importantly, c) Congress was unwilling to act to provide rescue funds at that time as they languished in finger-pointing and a lack of will. This, then, was the real reason Lehman Brothers was allowed to fold. It was to create enough of an explosion to get Congress to act. It worked. The firm founded in 1850 became the sacrificial lamb.

This is not to suggest that Lehman Brothers did not have problems. It was in serious trouble. It had closed down its sub-prime mortgage division, BNC Mortgage, in August of 2007. The damage from sub-prime mortgages, however, had already been done. Oddly, it had held on to both the mortgages and other securitized mortgage instruments. The Lehman holdings in debt swaps was also enormous, leading the International Swaps and Derivatives Association to hold an unprecedented trading session on September 14th for traders to offset their positions, on the promise that Lehman would enter bankruptcy that day. In fact, Lehman did file the next morning. The official records of the Bankruptcy court show that Lehman had $768 billion in debt and $639 billion in assets. The Lehman Brothers employees all packed up and went home.

The Lehman Brothers debacle did what it was "intended" to do. Shortly thereafter, the tumbling markets, triggered by the failure of one of America's venerable old investment firms, forced Congress to act. Thus, the TARP funds, to the tune of $700 billion, was passed by Congress in a surreal environment of cooperation with the Bush administration. No economist, of whatever ilk, doubted that this was needed. The markets continued to bleed and the rest, as they say, is history.

They also say that hindsight is 20/20. Much has been written about the decisions a year ago for the selective euthanasia employed by our government officials. With the storm seemingly behind us, the history being written today seems to gloss over the real impetus for Lehman's failure. Most of us have difficulty in conjuring up the terror we all felt at what could possibly happen from a complete global meltdown. In that sense, we all have walked away from that day one year ago. For 26,200 Lehman employees, it is still all too fresh in their minds.

Swimming Upstream

In the ethereal world of politics, one topic that has caused me great consternation is the debate over illegal immigration. Ideologically, it makes sense to secure one's borders, if for no other reason than national security. Common sense dictates that you can't just have anyone coming into the country who might be carrying a suitcase nuclear weapon. In this regard, the debate is, intellectually, a moot one.

Then, there is the practical world we live in. Hispanics have been sneaking into our country for decades to find work. Migrant workers out west were always allowed in to provide the labor not otherwise available to pick crops for the agricultural industry. We just looked the other way. It was a convenient and symbiotic partnership that provided a win-win situation. That, of course, paved the way for a flood of illegal aliens into the United States during the last half of the 20th century and the proverbial caca began to hit the fan. Many unskilled and semi-skilled based businesses began to choose the cheap labor from across the border rather than the more expensive domestic laborer. Soon, more ambitious immigrants started their own businesses with this cheap resource, effectively putting American small enterprises out of business.

Nowhere has this impact been felt more profoundly than in the construction trades. We in the industry have witnessed an entire generation of craftsmen displaced through this invasion. Stone masons, carpenters, painters, roofers, electricians and so forth have become predominately of a foreign extract and the American component has dwindled away. For this reason alone, there has been a lot of animosity towards illegal immigration and the loss of "craftsmanship" that many feel has been lost, forever. In reality, the only remaining craftsmen who can survive do so in the high-end niche of home building and commercial finish-out trades. A few "natives", employing foreign labor, survive by running the largely illegal crews so that they can compete cost-wise with purely foreign crews.

The last two years have been withering for the foreign workers. Many have returned home. Others survive in a catch-as-catch-can attitude towards work. Some headed into commercial construction with their American counterparts, only to face what appears to be a looming meltdown in commercial construction. But I intended this to be a human interest piece. It is about a young man we'll call Paco. We won't divulge his real name as he is an illegal alien.

Paco came to America, illegally, 12 years ago when he was 13. He has worked hard and now owns a home (in a legal relative's name), has a beautiful wife who is legal and two children. He did a lot of trim carpentry for me and is quite gifted at what he does. He lives in a metro Atlanta county that is, let's say, trying very hard to crack down on illegals. His brother (who is a citizen) has been stopped by this county's police forces several times, roughed up a couple of times and generally been harassed to the point that he's moving elsewhere. Bravo, say some. Paco's wife, again, a citizen, has had the same treatment in the same county. Tough break, say others.

Without getting bogged down in that story, however, it is incumbent on me to comment on Paco's character. He is doggedly honest, despite being cheated out of money by others. Paco is a tireless worker, who gives everything he has to produce the best possible outcome for those who employ him. He is generous to a fault. In other words, Paco's crime of coming here illegally is not important to me. He has helped me renovate the exterior of my home charging me only for his discounted time and actual material costs. The other day, when I told him that I was over budget and would have to complete some incidental work on my own, he told me: "No, I will finish what I started - no charge!" I just looked at him amazed and he said, "Don't worry. You are my friend." How would I feel if he were deported? Crushed.

This is my dilemma. I support the idea of secure borders. But in my experience, I have never seen people work so hard, for so little, to the benefit of Americans in general. Both the industry who profits from them, and the home buyers and commercial lease holders who pay less because of this cheap labor, we all have benefited from their presence. Many of them I call my friends. The economy has reduced the sense of urgency of the issue in that the border crossing has now become stagnant. I will forever be torn, though, as my heart and my head cannot come to terms as to what is fair.

A Day of Rememberance

2,976. At the World Trade Center, the Pentagon and in a field near Shanksville, Pa., this is the number who died on September 11, 2001. We now use shorthand to remember 9/11. It precipitated a war that still rages eight years hence. We have had no attack on American soil since. And, as we Americans are apt to do, we were united as no other period in our lifetime in the aftermath of this heinous act.

Everyone remembers where they were and what they were doing when the reports began to trickle in about the attack. I was building houses in Houston and was driving between projects when the music on my Jazz station was cut off in mid-note and the voice of Peter Jennings of ABC news began to mumble something about smoke coming out of the World Trade Center. I raced home to the television set in time to see the first of the two towers collapse. Then, other reports began to come in about yet more aircraft going down. First, the Pentagon, then one somewhere in Pennsylvania.

There were incredible acts of heroism that day. Some were passengers on United Flight 93. Others were firemen and policemen trying to rescue survivors in the World Trade Center. At the Pentagon, staffers braved walls of fire to rescue friends and co-workers. Then, there were everyday people like you and me helping the wounded find help among the falling debris. For the rest of us, it was a feeling of helplessness that knew no depth.

Today, it is my devout prayer that God provide comfort to the families and friends of those that were lost. May we also take a day to reflect on those things that are most important to us. In a moment, the safety and security we take for granted disappeared. Lest we forget.....

One Ranger - One Riot

One of the most lasting impressions I took from my 20+ years of living in the Lone Star State was the mystique surrounding the Texas Rangers. It hasn't abated even in the 21st century. It is widely known there that if your evil ways have attracted the Texas Rangers' attention, you might as well drive to Austin and turn yourself in - the party's over. From the nomadic serial killer, Resendiz, in our lifetime, to the infamous Bonnie & Clyde in our parent's day, and back further to King Fisher of the Mexican bandito period, the bad guys all came to justice at the hands of the Texas Rangers.

The legends abound of Ranger exploits but the most famous one that endured, despite being dispelled, is the one surrounding "One Ranger, One Riot." This one holds that the riots in the border towns of the late 19th century prompted a sheriff to contact the Rangers. On the day the train pulled in to the town, the sheriff met the train and waited for the boxcars to open up and for a troop of Rangers to come barreling out on horseback. He waited and finally one Ranger exited the passenger car, to which the sheriff, stunned, said to the Ranger, "You're alone! We've got a riot going on in this town." To which the Ranger softly replied, "One Ranger, one riot." Or something like that. In fact, that story has been more accurately linked to an illegal prize fight that the Governor wanted stopped and the Ranger actually replied, "Ain't I enough? How many prize fights do you have?" Also in fact, there were probably thirty or forty Rangers there, not one. Still, this impression didn't take wings from that one situation alone. The Rangers were fearless and in the early days, quite vicious. Some of the lore has scrubbed away the more despicable actions of Rangers like McNelly, who administered frontier justice with extreme prejudice. In that King Fisher and his bandits were killing entire towns and rounding up all of the cattle on the border and returning to Mexico, most Texians applauded the carnage-in-kind.

The Texas Rangers of today, and since 1935, are a division of the Texas Department of Public Safety. There are 134 Rangers (set by statute) distributed throughout the state, attached to 7 stations. The 8th station, the administrative offices, are in Austin, Texas. The Texas Rangers are equivalent to the Bureaus of Investigation in other states. Their forensic skills are unmatched, though working with a relatively small staff of experts. They wear an "authorized", though not mandated uniform of a Stetson, starched shirt, boots, with a .357 Sig Sauer or .45 Colt sidearm. Most Rangers carry 12 gauge shotguns and some, Ruger Mini-14 Rifles. They must periodically qualify for any firearm that they carry with them. And of course, they wear the famous Texas Ranger badge. Still today, the badge is made of Mexican silver. In the beginning, it was hammered out of a Mexican 5 Peso coin. It still sports the five-pointed star of the Republic of Texas, when Texas was still a nation, not a state.

All law enforcement has a fraternity, a brotherhood. In the Texas Rangers, it is more - it's a family. I have a friend in Houston, Harry Theriot, whose uncle had retired from the Texas Rangers years ago. Upon his uncle's death, many of the contemporary Rangers, most of whom never knew this man, a few not yet born when he retired, attended his funeral in West Texas. The Rangers are that close.

Not untouched by controversy, the Texas Rangers have been a legendary influence on Texas history for 185 years. I remember living in Houston when the serial killer, Angel Maturino Resendiz, was being hunted by everyone from the FBI to the RCMP of Canada. Though not a native Texan, it gave me great pride when one Texas Ranger, Drew Carter, took Resendiz into custody in El Paso, Texas. One serial killer - one Ranger......

The Light At the End of Tunnel - Is That A Train?

One of the inevitable and profitable consequences of aging is wisdom. Younger observers might characterize an elder's sagacity as cynicism. In Texas, we used to say that the young man who knew no fear believed he was "7 feet tall and bulletproof." It is a fact that no one in their youth can adequately describe the effects of aging, nor can they witness the world with a seasoned eye. Time and experience is a great teacher. It must also be pointed out that all of those who grow older do not gain wisdom. That is a gift of learning through properly assessing the consequences of one's actions. Borrowing from a threadbare adage, he who does not learn from the mistakes of history is destined to repeat them.

This whole rambling missive is brought about by economic doldrums we now find ourselves in. If anyone had told me that we would be in the worst recession in our lifetimes during this decade, I would have been dismissive, or at least, doubtful. Though everyone now possesses 20/20 hindsight, it is suspicious that almost everyone today knew this was coming. Of course, there are always those who continually prophesy the apocalypse. And to be fair, there were a handful of prescient, thoughtful spectators of all things financial that did correctly advise that we were not able to sustain the leveraged and heady times we enjoyed. The most distinctive, to me, was Warren Buffet. For 15 years, he foretold of reaping the whirlwind of synthetic, complicated debt instruments and the overall bubble of consumer debt.

The question for most of us is when will this all end. The answer is not uncomplicated. For many, their jobs continue and little has changed, leaving them at the most, more cautious with their money. For 16 million Americans, who are unemployed or underemployed, the outlook is grim for a sustained recovery that will begin adding net jobs to the economy. There are other financial shoes to drop, which are just now coming into focus. Consumer debt, commercial real estate and the second wave of troubled mortgages, those of the unemployed, are beginning to show signs of trouble ahead. It is most likely going to take years, not months, to show resilience in our banking and business enterprises.

How does one survive with their sanity? For me, it's the inevitable conclusion that at least for a generation, the American dream, as we knew it growing up, has changed. Our economy has been based on the consumer for 50+ years. That consumer has been bludgeoned into a stark reality that leverage, or debt, is bad. As long as real estate values escalated at a rate greater than inflation and the debt service on that property, wealth was created. As long as auto makers and home builders could use debt to entice buyers to continually ride the roller coaster of parlaying perpetually increasing values, or equity, into more expensive homes and cars, the heady days of trading up every few years was a dream most of us bought into. Eventually, the chickens come home to roost and now everyone is tiptoeing over the droppings.

From our parent's time of paying as you go, we boomers became a group that both sowed and reaped the consequences of profligate spending. Our creation was a synthetic world of buy now, pay later. When the music stopped, the chair of rolling up the debt for future accountability was missing. So, are we now becoming cautious consumers or a nation of savers? My guess is that we will be both. It is hard to conceive of our peers delaying gratification by paying cash for their automobiles and houses. On the other hand, many undoubtedly will do so. What that means for an economy based on endless spending by the populace is an economist's nightmare.

For some, the answer is a moot one. Having lost employment, their homes and in some cases, their cars, the climb back to solvency will be an arduous one. For the rest of us, based on the conversations with my peers, caution is the least we can expect for the near future. I suspect this goes further than opting for a 37" television rather than a 52" one. It is also more complex than simply limiting the per bottle cost of wine to $10., rather than $20. Decisions to spend money will be more deliberate, thoughtful and protracted. The greatest challenge for the entrepreneurs for tomorrow will be to anticipate just what the needs of our fellow Americans can be met more efficiently and economically.

The American entrepreneur will undoubtedly find a way to enjoy success within this changed landscape. One thing's for sure, though, it will not be found by simply throwing money at it.

A Foul Wind Bloweth

I have grown weary of ideology. I have seen so many friends grow angry and sullen over the affairs of state in this country. I suspect that my new found aversion to this ongoing dialogue will seem to others to be weak, perhaps lacking principle. Why is it that I have lost my passion for debate over how the government performs? The arguments du jour, once intriguing, leave me tired. Perhaps it is because the joy of repartee, the spirit of lively debate, has become the incessant drumbeat of war.

Indeed, it is a war for the minds of men and it is being waged in all venues for social discourse. The fervid act of some new discovery leaves men breathless, sometimes incensed at the outcomes of the advise and consent process that results in outcomes they cannot abide by. Some of the diatribe has become rabid, even virulent. This new level of anger is not exclusive to any party nor is it limited to the extremists (the usual suspects). It is being displayed by anyone and everyone whose primary motivation seems to be in blaming someone or something for their feeling of hopelessness. The term "loyal opposition" is now rather, "the fools who stand on the other side - who disagree with me." For those in power, every one of their words is parsed, every look dissected frame by frame, every decision second-guessed ad nauseum.

Most days, I silently hope that I will hear nothing of this war. It is as if my soul has taken up residence in a hidden room, waiting fearfully for the sound of jackboots at the door. I can only crouch behind my stony silence wishing for nothing more than the simple sounds of nature, the gentle caress of my wife and maybe just the absence of contentiousness. In the evening, I sip an interesting Spanish wine and in my solitude, I yearn for fond conversations and small talk among friends. But, alas, there is no middle ground for the zealot, no synthesis of mutual interests, no hope for an agreement - only the divide.

I am fatigued with this petulant whining. Maybe it is the natural effects of aging. I can remember my seething discontent at those who disagreed with me in decades past. It angered me then to think that there were those around me who had missed the whole point of the truth - a truth I clung to with a fierce grip, ready to expound upon at the drop of a hat. The reality is, as I've learned, truth is a moving target. Rather, truth is usually "self-evident" from the vantage point of where one finds themselves in their lives. More compelling, if the petitioners for redress could be sedated, perhaps they would realize that only an omniscient God can own the Truth, not we ourselves.

This has compelled me of late to feel drawn to history. The history of times of rancour, loss and upheaval. It is not without some solemnity that I revisited the period know as the Great Depression. Then, as now, nations' economies were in shambles, fanatical groups had seized power in the vacuum of hopelessness, a nation was divided - no, the world was fractured by the argument of what was wrong and how to fix it. The human reaction to the deprivation of civilized behavior, a maintenance of the status quo, was to create even more chaos, or, to simply look away. The antidote to human suffering was perceived by the new regimes of the early 20th century to be the eradication of the viral causes of it. Of course, the identity of that virus depended on the diagnosis of the respective ruling power. Tens of millions perished in that therapy. Is then the prescription of war the catharsis through which order is restored? God forbid.

I worry about these things because the natural progression of the war for minds, without any accommodation, historically and inevitably leads to armed conflict. Though no one should abandon principle, neither should they scuttle mediation, a tender heart. In our peculiar war of ideas here in America, the false security of affluence has been pulled from under our feet. Was this prosperity, then, our God? Why else would our arguments have become so strident, so vicious? I can see no common ground. What history teaches us is that natural order will be restored. Let's hope that the consequences of a restoration of order will not leave us a lesser culture, with the death of reconciliation to become our legacy. Each one of us carries the weapons of war, and the seeds of peace.

Wandering Minstrels

This week, I had the opportunity to stand guard over Paul McCartney's amplifiers. It was the day before his first outdoor concert in the Atlanta area since 1965, when he was then playing with the Beatles. A friend had an opportunity to play security guard, along with a couple of hundred others and offered me the chance to join him. Thinking I was doing him a favor, I was glad to do it. My wife and I went out, stood at attention for 9 hours in a boiling summer sun, and did get a glimpse of Sir Paul (I had no idea he was so short). He had a two hour "sound check," a mini-concert, much to the joy of the staff and some onlookers from outside the newly erected fences. I was amazed that as this aging entertainer made his entrance into the park under police escort, screams from the entrance were as wild and raucous as they must have been 44 years ago, though far fewer in number.

Which brings me to my dissertation. It occurred to me that in one century, we have elevated a class of our citizenry from the bottom to the top. This is not without historical precedent as a catalyst of some sort lifts a group within a culture to special importance. Rome had the Praetorian Guards, raised from the obscurity of the legions to become the elite troops guarding the city and Caesar himself. Greece had the Spartan male. In our culture, there was always a fascination with the gypsy-like entertainers known as wandering minstrels and actors. How, in a generation, did they become so revered within our society?

It would be difficult to deny that musicians, actors and so forth have been lofted onto the shoulders of western civilization with an almost religious fervor. There was a time when the citizenry would leave their arduous life and gather in the town square to be amused by these characters. Today, we live in a time when we now hang on their every word. As a people we have become adoring, bemused and worshipful of them. Anthropologists might suggest that through the industrial revolution, we created a massive leisure class that felt drawn to diversions heretofore not tenable, if only from the lack of time to devote to them.

It is my thought that technological advances, primarily through one Thomas Alva Edison, brought these diversions to seed. The phonograph, the moving picture and other inventions allowed everyone to witness the musical and theatrical talent for themselves, at their leisure. As these mediums gained acceptance in the general culture, it was only natural that some of these artists would achieve a degree of fame and in some cases, fortune. With fame and fortune come power. Power is a powerful aphrodisiac. There are basically two subsets of any social fabric: those who have power and those who are drawn to it.

My epiphany has been born during a long gestation of watching others around me in their fascination with our Star Culture. I certainly do not mean to suggest that I am free of the effects of this. As a teenager, I remember the overwhelming awe when listening to the music of the Beatles and the stage presence of actors like John Wayne. It would have been impossible to have met them personally, I'm sure, without swooning over being around these idols. Through the process of simply growing older, much of that fascination dissolved. As musicians self-destructed and actors took on political views somewhere left of Chairman Mao, I soon lost interest in looking at entertainers as anything more than an amusing respite from a working life.

It's difficult to decipher just what this all means as a facet of the ethos of our country. I suppose we can leave that to the historian. I also suspect that were I in the company of one of the entertainers whom I enjoy, it would probably be difficult to suppress an increase in my heart rate.

President Hyperbole

It was with great interest that I read about the drop in unemployment numbers for July. It probably did nothing to cheer the 247,000 people that lost their jobs last month. President Obama appeared in the Rose Garden of the White House and announced that his administration had rescued us from "economic catastrophe." Hold on just a moment, Mr. President.

Though the unemployment rate did drop by one-tenth of a percent, it is a little misleading. That did not account for the 400,000 people who dropped off of the unemployment rolls and have simply given up looking. If they were counted, the unemployment rate would have ticked up two-tenths of one percent.

This isn't to say that there aren't signs of improvement: average work week is up slightly to 33.1 hours for the first time in a while; the economy contracted only 1% in the last quarter, a significant improvement; employer surveys indicate that the job-shedding is over if things remain stable. But, to say we've avoided catastrophe by actions of this administration? The only truth to that statement would have to be found in two things: first, people's perception of the economy improving, which would have to shed some credit to the current leadership; and secondly, stemming the tide of bank failures due to their synthetic shenanigans, which is debatable in that the contagion might very well have righted itself after some additional bloodshed.

Further, only $100 billion of the $787 billion stimulus package has been released. How much has that money actually created in terms of real jobs? Since records started being kept in the late 1940's, never has one-third of the unemployed been unemployed for over 27 weeks. So, standing in the Rose Garden taking credit for averting global economic disaster is fraught with radioactive bulls..t.

I think President Obama is a very bright man. I read his books. I like the logical process he possesses in approaching problems. What I would like to see more of from him is a "roll up your sleeves" work ethic, primarily with his party's leaders in Congress. Instead of letting Pelosi and Reid run the whole process of inventing cures for America's ills, there needs to be hands-on management from the party's leader. If he's truly a centrist, and it is on this point that he was elected, he will have to do more than engage in hyperbole and apology to lead this country.

As one who has benefited from some of the President's initiatives, I am grateful for some of what has been done to right the ship of state, as well as to help those who have suffered from the recession. Taking the broader view, however, if one is elected by an electorate that considered President Obama to be a moderate, bi-partisan leader, he needs to be mindful that allowing a left-of-center Congressional leadership run the show will not bode well for mid-term elections, much less the presidential election in 2012.

Going Postal

The origins of the Postal Service hail back to 1692, when King William and Queen Mary ordained a post office scheme for the royal colonies. The United States Post Office was created by the Continental Congress in 1775 under the direction of Benjamin Franklin.

Railway mail service was begun in 1832 although it was not until 1869 that it became institutionalized as the Railway Mail Service. The story of the mail sorters on the rail cars sorting 600 pieces of mail per minute, often only seconds before some of it was to be delivered at the next station is legendary. Air Mail Service was established in 1918 and existed until 1975 domestically, and 1995 internationally, becoming obsolete in that air service was a given.

The current United States Postal Service is the third largest employer behind the Department of Defense and WalMart. It employs 760,000 employees, operates 260,00 vehicles and 32,741 post offices and locations. It is estimated that the cost to deliver your mail costs $235 per year, per residence. The USPS is an independent agency of the Executive Branch of government, with special powers but it is not a corporation owned by the government. Still, it operates like one.

The long-awaited demise of the USPS seems closer than ever. The budget shortfalls are chronic and there is now talk of closing 1,000 facilities and yet again, raising rates. After the success of UPS and FedEx, it was considered only a matter of time until the USPS drifted off into obsolescence. In fact, the internet has had the biggest impact on the USPS as it saw a 22% decline in First Class Mail from 1998 to 2007. It doesn't take a math genius to see that if, as reported, it takes an additional $8 million to fuel their fleet for every penny that gasoline prices rise, the Postal Service bleeds red ink profusely in an environment like we've witnessed over the last year or so.

With the advent of email, scanned documents, legal papers sent by fax and the like, it truly is a mystery as to how long the USPS will be able to survive. It's clear that it won't in its current form. On any given day, the legitimate mail vs. the direct advertising that's stuffed in our mailboxes is a small percentage. This will likely only increase as businesses must advertise, and they sure aren't doing it in print or other local media. The Economist reports that advertising revenues have fallen so precipitously that many magazines and newspapers are hanging on by their fingernails. Magazine ads will be down 18.3% this year while newspaper advertising will be off a stunning 26.5%. Radio ads are off 21.8%. This portends more direct mail advertising and perhaps a partial reprieve for the USPS.

With the handwriting on the proverbial wall, however, it tells of coming limitations in service offered by the USPS and undoubtedly, increases in postage rates. The world wide web now offers a plethora of services from greeting cards and invitations, to novel venues that give users instantaneous access to social discourse. There will, of course, be those graduation and wedding announcements that will be with us for at least until the baby boomers pass away. After that, the X and Y Generations will probably have invented a virtual notice that makes those obsolete as well.

Childhood Terror 2

Chicken Pox. The mere mention of it sent terror through a household. The state of medical research in the 50's was, well, not as advanced. So, as a four year old boy living in Augusta, Ga., I was put in a dark room (in some cases, there is a sensitivity to light), and quarantined. That, in itself, was terrifying. Of course, having measles and mumps was no walk in the park, either. But it is one of the few memories I can clearly see in the mind's eye from early in childhood.

Apparently, when one has chicken pox, or vericella zoster as it's called by the medical community, the body's immune system will eventually crush the virus. In many cases, the virus just goes into hiding, or dormant, and stays there. Often, in later life, the little booger gets a wakeup call from somewhere and rears its ugly head. This, my friends, is called "shingles". This is a holy terror reserved for those getting on in years. Getting on in years, for those in their twenties and thirties, is when you race (at the speed of light) through your 50's and beyond.

This week, I felt a rough patch on my back above my right shoulder. It was tingling but I thought at first it was from all the sun I've gotten while painting the house. Then, I began to obsess that I had skin cancer. I remember my father getting little cancers cut out of his skin every so often. I mentally inventoried my life insurance policies. I called my Doctor and got in immediately. Dr. Schramm, an excellent diagnostician, came into the room, saw me reading a statistical review of cancer cases in the United States, looked at my shoulder and said dispassionately, "Ah, shingles." I showed him the cancer magazine and he shook his head and simply said, "No." While greatly relieved, I asked him what this meant, this "shingles" diagnosis.

"Well, it's obviously a mild case. Any itching?" "Not much - just tingling", I replied. I showed him the pea-sized place on my right wrist and he just sat down at the computer and typed in "dermatologic" and then "vericella zoster". He prescribed acyclovir, an antiviral and a skin cream. As I walked out, my wife, Steffi called. "Well, how did it go?" she asked. "I've got six minutes to live," I replied. She didn't laugh. "No, I've got a mild case of shingles." "How do you feel?" she queried. "Like climbing up on the roof and laying in an integrated pattern," I joked. She repeated it for her friend, Candice. That did get some guffaws.

Some I told of my malady looked at me like I had told them I had six minutes to live. They all had stories of untold misery and suffering of their family and / or friends. My only comment was that I may have lucked out, as it wasn't all that bad. My next question to them was if they had ever had chicken pox. You see, apparently, most people having had chicken pox built up an immunity against vericella zoster. But no, not me. My vericella zosters were were just laying in the weeds (ganglia, to those with an interest in accuracy), ready to fire back into the blood stream at the most opportune time. This, as it turns out, is the opportune moment for attacking my nervous system for Mr. Zoster.

Thankfully, having gotten in early to my doctor and getting on the anti-viral meds, I should be OK inside of a week. The term "shingles", however, evokes such a horrific specter of pain and discomfort, I'm probably going to avoid all social contact for the term of this infection. Having found out about my disease, the usual suspects who stop by the house will suddenly have all kinds of excuses about not coming by. I understand.

Old Friends in Cyberspace

There are a hundred reasons not to get involved in most of the contemporary venues available on the internet. The most compelling reason is that it can become a terrible waste of time. Sometimes, it becomes addictive. My daughter and friends spend a lot of time texting, tweeting, facebooking, evite-ing and so forth. I think back to my 20's and try to remember what it would have been like to have that facility. I suppose because of time, when I think back to that era I would probably have found a use for being able to contact anyone on the planet at any given time of the day and let them know exactly what I thought of them, or, what I was doing at that instant. On the other hand, I'm not sure anyone, including me, would have cared.

Which brings me to Facebook. This docking station in Cyberspace interested me for purely business reasons, not to miss any chance for networking mind you, back last fall. After a few days, I just didn't see the profit in it. After some prodding by my friend, Jeff, I reactivated my account a couple of months ago. To my surprise and incredulity, I found several of my best buds from my youth. Yesterday, I had the opportunity to meet with one of them, Phil Miller, for the first time in 35 years. It was two of the best hours I have spent in some time. It was also just like we'd seen each other last week. Some stories of course, one or the other has long repressed from memory. It's better for one's self-image. Other tales brought out laughter and warmth long forgotten.

Phil is now a minister, married to his high school sweetheart, Linda (36 years) with 3 children and umpteen grandchildren. He looked fit and healthy. We plan on getting together soon to let the wives meet. I may even go up to his church and sit on the back pew, making sound effects like we did in class in high school. How unnerving it will be to hear a coyote wail during the singing of "Bringing in the Sheaves". It will probably be the first time the deacons have ever had to eject a visitor from the sanctuary. I won't go quietly.

Another close friend from that time in my life, Paul Eifler, showed up on Facebook and we've had a telephone conversation and plan to get together soon. Paul, too, now has children and grandchildren, lives in lovely Hartwell, Georgia and is quite content. He is an HVAC contractor and we commiserated about the dearth of economic activity in home building. He survived two heart attacks and now lives a healthy lifestyle. I plan on getting those details from him at our meeting.

Then, Mike Thwaites, another close friend, popped up and we're making plans to get together soon to rehash the last 30 years. Mike practices law, has two grown children and is still married to his childhood sweetheart, Jennie.

Of course, there's always the part of the conversation when one or the other of you finds out that so-and-so died. Some of those so-and-so's were people we both cared about. Some were not mourned so deeply. They will, however, forever be 20-something in our memories, unlike ourselves, who now show the effects of aging and our rough and tumble youth.

With all of my complaining about the inane nature of some of the technological advances in communication, this has been one that has truly meant a world of difference to me. The only problem is that time has blurred the pictures of what people you knew looked like. Facebook suggests, from your information, people you might know and want to reconnect with. I sometimes stare at a picture and know that I recognize the face or name but can't remember the context. Those, for the sake of time, I skip. After all, that might be the one person I unintentionally injured emotionally at some point.

I must say that Facebook has been rewarding- not in the way I originally thought, but certainly in a way more important than hitting on an old friend for a job.

Working Out At Piedmont Park

Recently, my neighbor, Gene, asked me if I had any interest in working security at a Paul McCartney concert in Piedmont Park. Of course, my advancing age and lack of tone made me somewhat curious why he would ask me. "No," he said, "You're not required to carry a gun or anything like that." That was a relief. I asked him what was required of the security personnel. He told me that you wore a shirt marking you as a staff member and basically, went where they told you to go.

You see, Gene had, years ago, done this for Alex Cooley, a big concert promoter here in Atlanta. He's seen and met hundreds of musicians and to his credit, being a 3rd degree black belt gave him the incentive and means to conduct such an enterprise. Basically, according to Gene, you escort musicians, stand in front of the stage, etc. for a very long day. They feed you and make sure you're not drunker than the crowd. I was doubtful but now he's ordered my shirt and I feel like it will be fun. I'll wear my good shoes.

I have, however, become concerned with my lack of, ahem, physical presence so I will pump iron for a couple of weeks to at least look like I can stop someone who hurls themselves at the stage. I think in reality, I'll stick close to Gene. I can put on a pretty intimidating visage, according to those who know me. But if push comes to shove, I'd prefer to have Gene throw a side kick into the offender's torso. Then, I can stand by and keep looking like I'm intimidating.

Paul McCartney must be paying off his settlement with that weird ex-wife. Poor guy. He must be down to, what, $50 million by now? It will be hard to avoid shouting things like: "Hey Paul, dated any one-legged women lately?" Or, "Why did you ever put a microphone in front of Linda?" In truth, I'll probably be guarding a statue or an umbrella stand. Still, it's pretty exciting getting a chance to be that close to someone that I idolized as a pubescent kid. I won't mention the sagging jowls and wrinkles if he doesn't.....

Obama Supporter Comes To His Senses!

Yes, after suffering unmitigated hell from my friends over voting for Obama, I have finally seen the light. That's right. They have preached over and over that if someone doesn't work or pay for what they get in life, they shouldn't get it. I finally understand.

Consequently, in honor of my conservative friends, I'm going to adopt a totally new style in my household. The time of free lunches, as these friends keep reminding me, is over. As a result, I'm coming out with a new list of fees related to entertainment at our humble abode.

First, since I'm busting my ass redoing my home, I feel it's only fair that people who enjoy the place should pay their fair share. The cover charge for just showing up now is $5 per head. If it's a scheduled event, the fee is waived. No one under 25 is welcome (I just threw that in to be mean).

Also, the free booze is over. All wine will be $8+ per glass, or a flat fee of $20+ per bottle, depending on vintage. After all, going to the liquor store burns gas and my time, not to mention the corking and decanting and an amortized amount for the wine glasses, which at our house, have a short life expectancy. If wine is brought to the party, there will be a minor $4 corking fee. All mixed drinks are $10 each. Beers are $6.

There will be new fees to use the swimming pool, as well. You may purchase a $20 pass for all-day use, or pay by the hour @ $8 per hour. It will not matter if you use the pool or not, only that you are by the pool, dressed in swimming attire. This applies both to the pool and the hot tub area as well. Chaise lounge rentals are available for $3 per hour. Towels are $2 a day. My conservative friends are absolutely right (pun intended), I have to cover the cost for the pool equipment maintenance, chemicals, utilities, daily cleaning, etc.

Meals. If the parties participate in the food provisions, there will be a review and if it's an equal portion for the meal, no fees apply. Use of the gas grille is to be billed at $10 per hour. Damn, Steffi and I worked for that and we're not about to just give away grille time to people who didn't work for it. Meals prepared by us will be $25 per head.

Card playing will require a $5 fee to play. Cards aren't free and neither was the table we're playing on.

Looking at our flowers will be a nominal $1 per look. It took a lot of money and sweat to get them looking this way.

Wii games are $4 each time the person plays. Watching our television is $2.50 per head per hour.

A glass of water is $.50. My water bill was over $100 last month.

Music is free, unless the party requests a specific recording, which will be $.10 per song.

To sit by a fire in the winter (firewood's not cheap) is $.50 per hour.

Bathroom use: included in the cover charge.

Well, I guess that just about covers it. I can't believe I have been so blind. Things we work for do cost time and money so why just give it away to others who didn't work for it?

On the other hand, the tongue in my cheek is getting tired and I don't really believe any of this nonsense, anyway.

Time Travel

If I had not experienced it first hand, I would never have believed it. Yesterday, as my cat returned from a successful venture of hunt and kill, she laid a rabbit at my feet. Perfect specimen, I thought. I knew it was only a matter of time until our cat began to throw the rabbit around and then start to nosh. As I painted and prepped the house,however, this creature was perpetually getting in my way. I felt this kill, like many victims before it, would have to be disposed of. As our rear fence guards some wooded terrain owned by the golf course, I often hurl carcasses well into the dense underbrush, to the complete joy of the scavengers and no doubt, the golf course personnel as well.

Depending on size of the carrion, which will trigger a special fee depending on its size before going airborne (ahem), I normally will employ my special snow shovel for rabbit-sized launches. As I readied the cargo for flight, I felt unusually powerful in my arms, no doubt a result of prepping and painting. An almost supernatural force spun the shovel skyward and I saw the rabbit climbing higher and higher in the air at incredible speed, until a flash of light, almost blinding me, filled my vision.

At almost the same instant, something hit my shovel, knocking me to the ground. In the shovel, incredibly, was the rabbit, alive, with the same markings, though much, much younger. As I sat stunned on the ground, the rabbit winked at me and took off for the bushes. Then it occurred to me: The rabbit had traveled through time, returning younger than it had left, only a nano-second before. What troubled me though, was how it had returned to the identical spot in my shovel. Discounting worm holes, as I often do in my discussions with Stephen Hawkings, I deduced that the rabbit had actually traveled at very close to the speed of light (c), achieving far more mass (m) as it approached c. With an adjustment for the gravity of the moon, it had assumed a trajectory that placed it in perfect elliptical figure-eight orbit around the sun. Of course, the rabbits m by now was close to a density capable of sucking the sun's m into it, potentially creating a black hole in space. Consequently, I had risked the end of our planet that would have been realized in only 17 minutes (the c of the sun's rays times d , the distance of the sun from earth). But, that's not important now.

By sheer luck, I had proven time travel. The phone is ringing now, the caller ID showing "Nobel" on the display, but I must ignore it. Quantum mechanics and special relativity have finally been wed. Imagine the offspring. No, don't. I can only say that this event has changed my life forever. If I can only find someone strong enough, I can pull of a real-life Benjamin Button right here in my own home! I've known for years that Steffi, my wife, prefers younger men so this will be the best of all worlds. Then, instead of pissing my life away chasing money, I will be able to fulfill my destiny of pissing it away at Oxford, drawing on chalkboards and wearing god-awful clothing.

I must go now. My painting and prepping awaits. I can't wait to see what the cat drags home! Now, where's my medication?!?

Animum Rege

Growing up, my parents responded to some advertisement concerning Heraldry, or more specifically, "Family Crests." They sent off and had the Coat of Arms of my mother's family name, Baird, and my father's family name, Reaves, shipped to us. They hung on the wall during my youth and upon closer inspection, the Reaves Coat of Arms contained the Latin phrase Animum Rege. Having had some Latin, I then interpreted the phrase as to mean "Govern Your Mind". Googling it today, it is more properly interpreted as "Control Your Passions." Apparently, when it mattered, the family coat of arms typically carried these mottoes within the heraldry art.

Though my brother Graham's research into the Reaves genealogy revealed the actual coat of arms, without the motto, it still stuck with me as being particularly relevant. Having so many of the Reaves clan struck down with alcohol abuse, including those in my own generation, I felt that the phrase animum rege had to have been hanging on the wall of our forebears over the centuries.

My own affliction concerns the ability to animum rege on occasion when stress enters the picture. Take painting the house, for example. I think it highly unusual, no, an abject failure of good breeding, to not animum rege when dripping paint on the ground whilst painting. To wit: for the painter to use vile profanity, living in a Christian neighborhood, with my devout Christian neighbor, Charles Love, working just across the street in his garage, was not the venue for streaming curse words accumulated over a lifetime as I spilt the paint down the front of my pants. And, being unable to animum rege, I saved my very best curse words for myself.

One can only deduce that when met with temporary setbacks that inevitably occur during day to day life, the reaction to curse the darkness, as it were, is proof positive that the ability to animum rege is not within the skill sets of this individual. One would think such a person would simply hire others more capable to finish the job, but when said person has forsaken the productive class of his peers to meddle in retirement, that would be a horrific waste of liquid assets.

So, today, while still dizzy from the pharmacological wizardry that was employed to finally send me off into REM sleep episodes, I will try yet again to animum rege when tackling a new section of the exterior walls of my humble abode. Reaching for another profound adage to spirit me out to the paint tray, I will try and remember that it's not how many times one fails, it is how many time one picks oneself up and starts again that eventually yields success.