The Bully Pulpit

Here is my contribution to the current dialogue about the devasting effects bullying can have on a child (and the resulting adult):

I am utterly convinced that my fourth grade bully is now a Lexus driving, front row, center court seat owning Knicks loving asshole of a lawyer.  I have no proof of this as he has not bullied me in over 41 years but little pricks usually grow into big pricks.  And like a Viagra fueled penis, he is most assuredly a priapismic dickhead whose ego is permanently engorged with the love of his own thoughts.  This might seem rather harsh but my blog is my art and my art is my catharsis.  Besides, it's this or therapy and Google does not yet have a free therapy app, or do they?  Hold on while I check......Okay they do.  Click here for the site.  In any case this summer of discontent occurred back in 1970, yet unlike many of my fellow baby boomers the unease that had settled over me was not attributable to the War in Vietnam.  I was only ten years old at the time and besides, my parents had already promised us that we would love Canada if the war wasn't over by my brother's eighteenth birthday.

The bullying did not take place at my elementary school while I was attending the fourth grade.  Except for a few random purple nurples in the hallway or a goober or two hurled my way in gym class, I escaped elementary and middle school relatively unscathed.  And if any bullying did occur in school it was usually a one time deal.  To be honest, I can't say that I never hurled a verbal assault or two down the ladder myself.  But for some reason I allowed myself to be victimized while at summer camp between my fourth and fifth grade years.  And this was at a summer sports camp for nice Jewish boys.  When I asked my parents why they sent me to a jock camp in the first place they replied "because that's where all your friends went".  True, but I was no jock.  By third grade I had already rejected soccer and little league in favor of Boy Scouts and the Milben Beginner Chemistry set.  And at the age of ten I knew that one should always add acid to water not water to acid but I had no idea what the infield fly rule was. 

The main premise for the entire summer at Camp Alton was, in fact, an eight week long sports competition between two sides: The Gray team represented by even numbered bunks A through L and the Green Team represented by odd numbered bunks A through L.  In other words, right from day one the kids who slept in Cabin K1 were the mortal enemies of the kids who slept in Cabin K2 and B1 teens would never socialize with B2 teens even though we were all little Jewish kids from the suburbs.  Everything we did, and I mean everything, was judged and scored, then tallied up at the end of the summer to see which team won.  If our bunk beds were not made up properly we lost points.  If a candy wrapper was found under the bed we lost points.  Every arrow we shot and missed in archery and every strike out in softball was calculated, correlated, kept track of and used against your entire team at the end of the summer.  How's that for self-esteem building?  One half of an entire summer camp went home losers.  And I don't believe there were grief counselors in those days on the bus ride home from Lake Winnepesaukee.

So I imagine that right from the first pitch, on July first, it became quite obvious to my bunk-mates I was not going to be much help in securing the Green Team's brass nameplate being placed on the plaque in the dining hall, permanently proclaiming the winner of the summer of 1970.  And if my lack of batting power didn't seal my fate then the soft gentle weeping into my pillow at night because this was the first time I was away from home certainly did.  All these years later I don't even remember the details of the teasing but I do remember that it got so bad that my counselor marched me down to the camp director's office one morning for some fatherly advice.  This is what Chief (you read that correctly) had to say; "Just walk right up to Jeffrey [the bully] and punch him in the nose without any warning.  He will never bother you again".  This was the adult male camp director's advice to a homesick ten year old child.  And he further instructed my eighteen year old senior counselor to advise me when the perfect opportunity arose.  But much to my everlasting shame I never did the deed.  My older brother, who was in cabin G2, did it for me.  Bless his little twelve year old heart.  My brother did what I didn't have the guts to do.  He walked up to Jeffrey after he had been teasing me one afternoon and socked him square in the nose.  Knocked him right to the floor.  I don't remember if I got any respect after that but I knew at least my brother had my back. And ironically, Jeffrey became a camp celebrity because he survived an attack by an older camper.  He bragged about it all summer.

It might seem pathetic to still be thinking about this now that we are all adults and Jeffrey could very well be a grandfather by now.  But I was clearing out my Mom's attic one day and I came across the Camp Alton yearbook from 1970.  And there, on page 12,  were me and Jeffrey sitting and smiling along with our eight or so other cute little ten year old friends from cabin K1.  How could I have let such a cute little ten year old be so mean to me?  And staring down at his little innocent cherubic face all I could think about was how nice it would have been to smash my fist into it.


So Jeffrey R. from Long Island, NY, if you are out there, Facebook friend me because we need to talk.

No Parking Here to Corner.

There is a law in the town where I grew up. On-street parking is banned between midnight and 5:00 AM.  If you have overnight guests who can not fit their car in the driveway you must go down to the police station to get a special permit for overnight on-street parking.  This ordinance seems rather persnickety but it keeps the streets clear and prevents would be ne'er do wells from casing the well appointed houses.  To this day I resent  non-residents parking their car in front of my house for anything other than short local visitations.  Besides, having cars parked all over the street debases the suburban context of the neighborhood.  Especially if the owners live in the apartment complex a block away.  This isn't Philadelphia after all.  We have driveways for a reason.  And if my thoughts are subtly tinged with elitism then I plead guilty by cultivation. I hate cars parked in the street for the same reason I don't golf:  The only private golf course in my hometown of Rockville Centre, NY  had an unwritten exclusionary agreement that Jews were never to be admitted as members.  So when I grew up, cars were never parked in the street all night long and Jews simply did not golf.  At least no Jews that I knew of in high school.  Those notions are as much a part of my psyche as never being without a number two pencil and a pad of lined paper on which to keep track of the things I need to do.

That is why my latest agitation has so profoundly affected me.  The incident brought together these two fundamentally different, yet equally sacrosanct, principles in my life:  Don't ever violate residential parking rules and always have some form of lined paper on hand.  In this particular affair, I violated the first rule and the offended party violated the second rule.  And in this perfect axiomatic storm we can clearly see that two wrongs do not make a right.


The transgressions occurred on the evening of my office Christmas party (Jews might not golf but we do attend Christmas parties).  The restaurant we had chosen for the gala is in a residential neighborhood and there is little, if any off-street parking for the patrons.  So the street is normally crowded with cars parked in front of the homes near the establishment.  A situation which I, by the way, find abhorrent for the homeowners.  But I was not involved in the zoning decision to allow the restaurant to expand without a parking lot so what blame can I have?  None if you ask me.  Especially since it was dark and there was no sign stating "No Parking Here to Corner".  There is always a sign specifying this rule.  Even if the corner curb is painted yellow.  A very faded yellow, I might add, hardly even visible the next morning in the full light of day.  It just so happens that there was a driveway curb cut right on this corner so when I did park there I made sure to be at least two feet from the apron so as not to block the driveway.  And as I previously specified, I did not notice a yellow painted curb.  If I broke the law it was not due to a wanton disregard but rather an inattentive ignorance.

So when I arrived back at the car after a joyful night with my coworkers, I was rather shocked to find the following note tucked under my windshield wiper:

The note was presumably written by the homeowner in front of whose house I parked.  So I further presume he had access to whatever stationery supplies one normally has in one's home.  A stapler and some paper clips perhaps.  Maybe scotch tape especially since it is the week before Christmas and there are presents to wrap.  Or how about a legal pad and at least some form of writing paper?  And no, I cannot believe this particular homeowner has so fully embraced the paperless revolution as to use only an iPad, iPhone, and Word.  Because if that were the case then some inkjet paper would have at least been available.  This venomous note lost some of its gravitas not because of basic grammatical errors (who hasn't confused you're with your) nor because he dragged my innocent car into his double scatological metaphor (I may indeed be an asshole, but my automobile is certainly no piece of shit).  No, even though I truly feel horribly hypocritical for illegally parking in front of his house I cannot but help to lose some of my sympathy because his note was written on a sheet of Bounty paper towel.  As for the arrows over the i's I have not a clue.  I believe this guy must be the same one who showed up to every test in high school without a number two pencil.

I seriously flirted with the idea of knocking on his door to apologize but then I remembered that the guy who never owned a number two pencil was also the same one who gave me wedgies in the locker room after gym class and stole my desserts during lunch.  No, some amends are best left unsaid.

Maybe They Should Serve Sponge Cake After the Mass

This is a true story.  I have not twisted the facts to make my point.  In fact, I don't even have a point. Nor has it been Rashomonized because of any bias I may have toward the subject matter.  This anecdote is strictly observational in nature and you may glean from it what you will.  All I can say is, I don't even get it.  I have no explanation for the disconnect in the subjects I observed as they shuffled past me on their way home from Sunday Mass at My wife's Catholic Church.  My own spiritual experience with the Mass is by proxy....through my wife.  And while I might not get a religious euphoria after attending Mass with her, I  feel at least some camaraderie with my fellow human beings.  Well, I can see how they would feel fellowship toward each other anyway and perhaps all of humanity by extension.

On this particular Sunday I did not actually attend the service with Tammy.  As is sometimes my wont I walked to the Church near the end of the Mass to meet her outside, on the sidewalk, on her way home.  I have observed that no matter what has happened Saturday night, such as a major argument over the fact that her Church going puts a major dent in our Sunday plans, she always returns home from Mass with a skip in her step and love in her heart.  Praise the Lord.  So as I stood on the sidewalk warmly anticipating her smile as she left the Church, I felt a sodality with the other congregants as they walked passed me on their way home.  I was in a grand mood, because I knew Tammy would be as well, and I hadn't even attended the service!  Surely every churchgoer felt the same way.  I was ready with a smile and a hearty hello. But to my great dismay not a single person made eye contact with me as they walked past.  They walked with their heads downcast and to the man, a scowl on their face.  Not a single person said good day nor did they even acknowledge my existence.  I looked down at myself to make sure there wasn't drool or some sort of bodily discharge from a sneeze oozing down my shirt making me look like some crazed bum.  But no, as usual I was dressed better than most of the people who were leaving the service.

Twenty-five people must have passed me.  Were their sins not just forgiven?  Did they use up their allotment of  "peace be with you"s?  Could they sense my Jewishness?  I have no idea.  This incident, by the way, happened long before The Pope changed the Liturgy to better reflect the sentiments of the eighth century Latin speaking monks.  Because, you know, now everyone will feel even more connected to God.  Why let a little modernity ruin your relationship with a six thousand or so year old deity?  The Jews get it.  They read from an ancient papyrus scroll and sing and pray in archaic Hebrew.  And I know for a fact that they feel so happy after a service they will give their piece of sponge cake to any stranger who happens to be standing there.

Why You Should Buy a Kindle

Every other day some columnist has written a piece detailing their agony over the decision to give up paper books and journals and buy a Kindle or tablet.  I can boil it down for you and make the decision very easy.
If you currently only read books from the library a Kindle will definitely be a financial shock.  You will now have to purchase all of your books.  On the positive side no one but you has taken your Kindle into the bathroom with them....after eating bad clams.  Or sneezed into it.  Or picked their nose and left the booger on page 231.  All of these things have happened to the library books you read in bed and let touch your pillow.  I'm just saying.   And when borrowing library books on the Kindle does become widespread then there will be no dilemma about whether to buy one.

If you like to browse for your books at Barnes and Noble, and circulate among fellow readers, then downloading from Amazon can be lonely.  But the reviews, especially the mean ones, on Amazon.com will most assuredly keep you entertained.  After reading some of the reviews you might not even have to buy the book.  This is especially true for non-fiction.   We all know a non fiction book is basically one 25 page chapter repeated over and over to fill 350 pages anyway.  If Thomas Friedman tells me the world is flat and proves it by an anecdote about call centers in Mumbai India, then I believe him.  And I usually believe him by page 23.  Or if Michael Pollan tells me to eat more home grown vegetables and less corn syrup enhanced chicken nuggets I am on board by page 18.  No need to go on and on about some wacko hippie foragers or right wing survivalist farmers for 250 pages.  So by reading the reviews or downloading the free samples in the Kindle store you have already saved money.

If it is the tactile feel of the book's paper, or the sound of turning a page you think you will miss, let me disabuse you of this silly notion right away.  The Kindle can be held in one hand.  It can rest on your lap without your having to hold it open.  It can play music while you read.  It can read to you.  You can buy a book without getting out of your beach chair.  You can have your newspaper delivered to it and it will never be wet or late (well sometimes it is) and there is no newsboy to tip.  You can cut and clip favorite passages and download them to your computer.  You can look up SAT words by just putting the cursor on the word.
You don't need your glasses while reading in bed as you can make the font bigger than this.  It fits in a back pocket and you will look very cool reading it at the airport. 

There are a few downsides.  Books will never get remaindered as there will be no need for a warehouse to store unsold books.  But if you ever believed technology would save you money, you were already misguided.  The biggest negative of the Kindle, however, is that you can't share a good book with a friend, or trade it at a used bookstore.  But I am sure the authors are happy about that so by reading your book on a Kindle perhaps there is a better chance for struggling writers to make a decent living.  And that's a good thing because I feel sorry for people who get to sit around in their underwear, drinking coffee and eating donuts, and staring at a computer screen all day long to make a living.

Eleven Rules for Living

1.  It is never wrong to be a mensch.  Though the Jews still feel persecuted.
2.  The devil you know is better than the devil you don't know.  Two 25 year olds are not better than a 50 year old.
3.  Own a pet.  They appreciate getting fed.
4.  If everyone threw their troubles into a circle you would take yours back. If I didn't have problems what would I talk about?
5.  Live every day as if next month will be your last.  You do need a little planning.
6. Walk a mile in another man's hiking boots.   Preferably Merrells.  And a Gore Tex liner wouldn't hurt.
7.  Call your mother.  Even if you are 70 and she is 95.
8.  At a party always talk to someone you don't know.  If you need a drink first, I understand.
9.  Don't take yourself seriously.  No one else does.
10.  Be open to other viewpoints.  Keep reading my blog.
11.  Never have more than ten rules.  Thinking you know more than God is a big mistake.

Thank You

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.  First and foremost because it is America's holiday and I am grateful to have been born an American.  I am thankful for my grandparents who had the courage to cross the pond into the strange and unforgiving urban wilderness that is New York City.  Thanksgiving is my Yom Kippur and Easter.  An ecumenical day of celebration when atheists and the pious have equal reverence for their creation.  The right to believe as one chooses is one of the greatest gifts bestowed upon us by our Founders.   And for that I am forever grateful. 

I am also thankful for just being conceived.  The first and practically only time I ever won a race was when the sperm that would become me beat out all his peers and crossed the vitelline membrane first.  It would be another 41 years before I repeated the feat in a 10k race, but that was strictly an age group win.  So I am thankful for the gift of life and the 85 or so years that have been granted to me.  To experience love and rejection.  To feel ecstasy and pain.  To witness the birth of a new life and the death of an old one.  To hear the birds sing and babies cry.  And to see the grace of nature's creation and the power of her destruction.

I am grateful for the path that my parents set me on.  I might complain about all the rocks in my way or that I am freezing or sweating but I know there are many, many more behind me who have lost their way or don't know where they are going.  Or if they will ever even get there.  And I am most thankful that along this path I met my walking partner, Tammy.  Because with her by my side I am already there.

Switched on Bach

Tammy and I participated in, what is for us, a rare auditory cultural activity.  I tried not to complain about all the ancillary costs involved, such as twenty dollars to park for 3 hours (in a distant lot, I might add).  Or the ten dollar online processing fee for two $29.00 tickets.  An eighteen percent service charge, by the way,  made even more egregious because I had to pay for the ink and paper to print the tickets.  This thought reminds me of how much I also hate fax machine solicitations.  Especially the ones where the artwork is in so called reverse print.  The page is entirely black and the copy is in white.Who do you think pays for all that wasted ink?  All just to find out that if you order a large pizza between 11:30 am and 1:30 pm on the first and third Wednesdays of every month you will receive a free liter of Diet Coke from the pizza joint just down the street.  If I want to know their specials I would just call up and say "is today free liter of Diet Coke day?"  I am not quite sure, given the overbearing regulatory climate in Washington, how print ads, where the customer pays the production costs, ever became legal.  But this, of course, has nothing to do with cabin living.  But it does have something to do with the current fad of blaming the government for all of our economic woes and believing that letting businesses run amok will solve all of our problems.  Am I the only bourgeoisie that is annoyed by unfettered capitalism?  Paging Adam Smith.

But back to the topic at hand.  The event we attended was a concert at the Wells Fargo Center in Philadelphia.  We don't go to many concerts, or plays for that matter, but once or twice a year I will hear something on the radio and I will say, to no one in particular, or most likely to the patient whose tooth I happen to be drilling at the time, "I have always wanted to see them in concert."  The last time I was thus inspired was during Bruce Springsteen's Farewell to the Spectrum tour in Philadelphia.  That was also a farewell to my youth tour since the last time I saw Springsteen in concert at the Spectrum was in 1980, during my Freshman year in dental school.  Bruce is still exuberantly rocking out in his chosen profession at the age of 62, but at the age of 51 I find myself fading fast in the war with dental caries.  The economy isn't helping much.  Given a choice between a $125.00 Springsteen ticket and a $125.00 check up and cleaning, I might also choose the former.  I am joshing of course... I would buy a new Mountain Hardwear softshell fleece with my $125.00.

Prior to the concert we decided to have a nice meal at a new Italian Bistro which just opened in the economically distressed downtown area of my hometown, Woodbury NJ.  We were happy to see it open as most of the other downtown businesses have more of an inner city vibe.  A take out fried chicken joint, a check cashing service, a "no contract needed" cell phone operation, and a bail bondsman.  I haven't, as of yet, needed any bail money and I try to avoid take out foods that ooze through the bucket before I can get them home.  So needless to say Woodbury can use a little upscale BYO place for a romantic evening that doesn't involve plastic forks and a bottle of Colt 45 in a brown bag.  The best thing about dining in downtown Woodbury is the fact that we could walk to the restaurant and I was able to apply the $9.00 I saved on parking in Center City Philadelphia to a nice appetizer. I chose a Gorgonzola, pear, and candied walnut salad since a side salad was not included with my entree.  In wishing for a chic restaurant to open in my city, I forgot that upscale is synonymous with a la carte.  Is it a crime to want an uptown experience for a downtown price?  Especially since there was some sort of police activity outside the restaurant during two-thirds of our meal.  The red and blue flashing lights added a sort of  "this may be my last meal for a while" ambiance.  But the meal was quite delicious and kudos to the owners for taking a chance on Woodbury.  I sincerely hope they make it.

As for the concert it was cultural in the sense that broccoli salad made with Miracle Whip is cultural.  The nutritious cruciferous green vegetable is certainly in there but you have to get through the extraneous fat and sugar laden dressing to unearth the goodness.  The music was Tchaikovsky, Beethoven,  and Mozart but the lasers, video screens, and staging mechanics was all Kiss.  And like the above mentioned salad, The Trans Siberian Orchestra might over do it a bit with the dressing.  While extremely entertaining during the show, you are somehow left wondering if you should have ingested all that in one sitting.  But the crowd was more potato salad than arugula salad so they know their audience.  And, as Tammy noted, if that is the only way you can get some people to listen to Beethoven then so be it.  To be fair, I don't go to Philadelphia Orchestra Concerts either.   I find it rather difficult to sit through an entire concert without being able to stomp around a bit and shout "whoo whoo" a lot.  Perhaps a few well placed lasers during some of the slower movements in Handel's Messiah might get me more interested in attending.  Or, like the guitar and violin solos at the TSO concert, a harpsichordist on a scissor lift in the middle of the audience might not be such a bad thing.  Let's face it, even a hardcore hollandaise epicurean needs a little Miracle Whip now and then.

Fulfilling the Boy Scout Motto

My wife's cousin has a dead rabbit in her freezer.  She shot, quartered, and skinned it herself so during the zombie apocalypse she is clearly on the short list for my posse.  Of course she lives across the Delaware River which is perhaps a bridge too far if I need immediate assistance procuring food while the virally infected undead have my house surrounded.  Which is the exact reason I am thinking about purchasing a shotgun for myself.  A Mossberg 12 gauge with interchangeable barrel so I can use straight slugs if the lead pellets don't do the trick.  If you know anything about killing a zombie I don't need to explain the importance of a clean shot to the brain.

As far as survival gear goes I am quite well prepared.  I have in my immediate possession; gas, stoves, lanterns, rope, machetes, knives, flint and steel, an appetite for canned beans, water purification filters, and most importantly, an isolated cabin in the woods, on a dead end road leading into a dead end valley-as my neighbor was astute enough to point out.  Come zombies, Russians, al Qaeda, or a prophetic flesh eating virus and my valley will be the last place any one or thing will go looking.  But if trouble should come my way I want to be prepared.  After just a few years worth of weekends of rural cabin life and a federal government and national economy in total disarray I am morphing into a redneck survivalist.  According to my Woodland Valley neighbor and good friend across the street, I may not even be a liberal democrat anymore.  I don't know if it is my second amendment sympathies (kidding), or my love of canned beer and cigars (not kidding), but even after a half hour discussion whence I held the untenable positions of defending government regulatory controls, the Federal Reserve Bank, Medicare, Medicaid, global carbon offsets, and NAFTA, I had to beg off an invite to a local Tea Party rally.  I wasn't really invited to a Tea Party rally but it is true that I had trouble convincing my friend that my sympathies really do lie with the Occupy Wall Street crowd.  It proves the sociological axiom that we more easily tolerate differences in those we know and like.

But back to the Mossberg 12 gauge.  My quest to arm myself has also run into a few sociological roadblocks.  First and foremost Jews, apparently, do not hunt.  Or so says my other Woodland Valley neighbor a few houses, and a few political viewpoints, down the road.  And if Jews don't hunt why do I actually need a gun since everyone knows that during a zombie blitzkrieg I will most likely be one of  the first ones bitten and infected in spite of how well armed I may be.  A presupposition that, in light of my poor track record in the childhood elimination games of dodgeball, tag, and musical chairs, I cannot seriously argue against.  And as a progeny of the merchant class it may be true that I am better suited to procuring my beef downtown rather than in the woods.  The second, and definitely more insurmountable barrier, is my spouse.  The granddaughter of duck, deer, and pheasant hunting outdoorsmen, she never the less sees no reason to own a firearm in the modern era.  My wife does not subscribe to the delusional paranoiac fantasy that in the aftermath of a cataclysmic geological event, such as an asteroid crashing into Times Square, or Rick Perry becoming president of the United States, it will be every man and his wife for themselves. 

This is not the first time I had to convince my partner of the need for unusual preparatory readiness.  Back in December of 1999 she didn't understand why I had stockpiled rolls of duct tape, plastic sheathing and bottled water.  I didn't end up needing any of it but if my computer did crash at least we wouldn't have died of thirst.  Or drafty windows.  And then there was the blizzard of 2010.  We may not have needed sixteen loaves of bread and eight gallons of milk but the birds and neighborhood cats still come around when they are hungry.  And who doesn't love feeding evil feral cats and tic infested Canadian Geese?

Okay, so it's going to be an uphill battle to arm myself.  But at least I have the CDC on my side. No, they don't recommend a shotgun as part of the pandemic preparedness kit now, but if a Tea Party favorite wins the White House that will surely change.  Instead of looking to the CDC, FEMA, HHS, and EPA for help during the apocalypse it will be the NRA, and SOA, calling the shots.  Figuratively and literally.

From the Deaditorial Desk

A teen aged boy died in my house sometime in the late seventies.  And if you have ever been an overnight guest in my Woodbury NJ home then you have slept in the bedroom where he died.  How did you sleep?  It is a tragedy that a teen died in his sleep after suffering a concussion during a neighborhood softball game but the fact was not disclosed to us before we bought the house.  Of course we weren't told a lot of things, like the sewer backs up into the basement toilet and the upstairs shower leaks onto the living room ceiling.  My neighbor's shit floating around in my basement may not necessarily be a deal breaker but the unsettled spirit, of a prematurely dead human being, floating around my bedroom  would be.

My house cleaner (Janice) has experienced his presence.  After making the bed in the room where he died she swears there is a depression in the bedspread, as if someone just sat there, immediately after she turns her back.  She told me this before she knew of the unfortunate incident in my home.  I have never experienced any whispery voices in the middle of the night warning me to get out, because if I had, unlike that Amityville NY family, I certainly would have....gotten out.  I don't even like going into the attic alone to confirm that the 1 am scratching noise is just a family of unwanted flying squirrels.  They can chew up every floor joist, every night for all I care, because I ain't going up there to check until the sun comes up and the vampires are back in their Transylvanian crypts.

My cabin in Woodland Valley has no such  unearthly pedigree.  It was not built on an ancient Native American burial ground.  I checked.  Before I handed over my ten percent deposit.  I might not have realized the stream, running five feet from my living room doors, could one day wash away my dream home, but I did realize that the ethereal war cries of undead Indian Warriors would be enough to wash away my dreams of a peaceful retirement.  The woods can be a very creepy place to sleep.  Especially if you were raised on a steady diet of George Romero zombie movies and Boy Scout campfire stories about unwitting Webelos having their left hand ripped off by a vengeful dead Girl Scout.  There are no forests left in the Northeastern United States that aren't easily accessible to a motivated urban slasher armed with a machete and the will power to hike a few miles to the tent site of one solo camping dentist.  Even at the woods weary age of 51, I sleep with one ear always alert for the sound of a half rotted zombie foot stepping on a twig within a 30 foot radius of my camp.

One would think that a rational scientist, schooled in the irrationality of the supernatural world, could sleep peacefully under any circumstances without worry from a spectral visit at three-thirty in the morning.  A time, by the way, that I have determined to be the most remote and ripe for preternatural phenomenon to occur.  At 2 am people are still getting home from bars.  At 4 am people are beginning to waken for the early shift.  So at 3-3:30 am you are definitely on your own.  There is no way I am getting up to pee at this witching hour.  My toilet is adjacent to the shower and I happen to know, for a fact, that the shower curtain is the perfect screen for a waiting ax murderer.  And to this day I will never sleep with a closet door open in my bedroom.  Why even the animators at Pixar understand this harebrained folly.  Monsters Inc, a movie not totally divorced from reality, is a testament to the wise practice of securing all avenues of ingress to your bedroom.

Perhaps you are shocked to learn that a grounded person such as myself could be haunted by such demented demons.  Well let me ask you; would you spend the night alone, in this house?  I wouldn't.

I Will Have a Personal Size Veggie Lover's Please.

Once again I find myself scratching my head over the logic of the Republicans' argument that we need someone with business experience yet little or no political experience to run the country.  Would Tastycake Bakery hire a CEO from Chrysler Automobile  to run their company?  No, they would hire someone from Hostess Bakery who has experience in their field.  If experience is necessary (a chief complaint about Obama), then we should only be looking at people with experience in government.  I am quite certain a corporate boardroom has a very different zeitgeist from the halls of Congress.  Herman Cain will be in for quite a shock if he ever has to go up against those guys.  If half want pepperoni, and half want mushrooms, they won't compromise and get a half and half pizza.  They will set up a filibuster until he gives in and is forced to order a plain pizza and nobody will be happy with that.

Which brings me to my second point about using a business model to run government.  Most businesses increase profits by doing everything they can to raise revenue.  Sure, they try to cut the fat, but the goal is always to grow and increase revenues.  Not so the federal government according to the Republicans. They want to shrink and stifle new products provided by the government while decreasing revenue.  A philosophy in diametric opposition to all business models of which I am aware (disclosure, I did poorly in economics in college). So how is someone with business experience better equipped to manage an entity that is nothing like a business? 

This is not to say I don't agree with some of their goals.  I just believe a pizza guy, no matter how much I like listening to him, is not the man for the job.

Remember Me?

I have a grand total of 32 Facebook friends after 3 1/2  years of my internet presence.  And most of those are members of  my own family whom, according to the old adage, you can't choose anyway.  When I randomly browse other people's Facebook walls (i.e. friends of friends) I am often despondently interested in how many friends they have accumulated.  This number, in fact, is the most easily accessible statistic in all of Facebook and perhaps most of the web.  It is displayed prominently, in bold typeface, to the left side on everyone's wall.  From my superficial psychological profile of Mark Zuckerburg, after having seen "The Social Network", I assume he places entirely too much weight on quantity, not quality of aquaintanceships.  Though, in acknowledgment of recent friend category options on Facebook, they finally did realize that all friends are not created equal.  Perhaps this is a sign of maturity that comes with age.  And I realize that  Mark is growing up so cudos for that upgrade.  Facebook was originally focused solely on college social networks so I suppose that everyone who came to your frat house kegger is to be considered an "A-list" friend.

Which is my primary issue with Facebook.  I don't want, nor solicit, a lot of "B" and "C" listers.  So I only have myself to blame for my low number.  This is difficult for me to admit on the World Wide Web of human social discourse but I have actually rejected many friend requests.  So when I ask my wife "how come I don't have more friends", she is entirely unsympathetic.  In order to make a friend, you have to be a friend, she not so gently admonishes me.  But that's just it.  One does not make friends on Facebook.  Or perhaps I am just behind the times.  Maybe friends of friends see a post and they say " Man, I have to become friends with that guy.  He is doing some very cool stuff and we have a lot in common".  Then two weeks later it's a night out at the bar and two weeks after that it's backpacking through Southeast Asia together.  I don't know.  But it is my guess that out of 400 Facebook friends, perhaps 20 comment regularly on your wall.  The rest are strictly voyeurs.  But I really have no idea since these numbers are based on absolutely nothing but my own envious disposition.

One of my Facebook buddies, who shall remain anonymous, is currently living, eating, and crowing about living abroad.  His escapades seem to get a lot of attention , but out of 400 or so Facebook "amis" I wonder how many are actually doing the commenting and what level of Facebook friend they represent.  I imagine it is possible that the other 380 friends follow along in mute jealousy.  He knows who he is so I am hoping he will do the research and get back to me.  With a private e-mail of course so as not to reveal the source.

I try to be a good Facebook buddy myself and pay attention to what others are doing but whenever I post a comment the outcome is usually a sarcastic and caustic attempt at humor.  So only those who really know me see the intended bonhomie of my posts....and this blog for that matter.  That is why in the past I have been very judicious about whom (who?) I allow in.  But if I do send out a friend request it always is accompanied by a personal note recounting some high school or college escapade such as; "Hey dude.  I haven't seen you since you threw up in that girls purse at the Psi Omega Buffalo Punch party in 1981.  I see you married that chick.  Sweet!!".  So I don't always understand why I get friend requests from someone I have not seen in 25 years and the invitation is accompanied by a frigid silence.  Throw me a bone at least.  Something like; "Hey Rich, how ya been?  I haven't seen you since you went crying to the nurses office after I nailed your face in that dodgeball game".  A humorous anecdote, no matter how lugubrious, always breaks the ice after a 25 year social hiatus.

Do not click.  Not a real like button.
(Facebook link is  located on the right side of the posts).

So don't be afraid to friend request me. Just be prepared to provide a reason.  And definitely like my blog on your Facebook page.  If I don't let you be my friend on Facebook that doesn't mean you can't read my blog.  That's what friends are for.

What Now?

A lot of people are anxious and worried.  A lot of people are also apparently depressed.  And there are plenty of drugs to treat both anxiety and depression.  There are also thousands of books about combating anxiety and depression if you choose to reason your way out.  If you go to Amazon.com and start typing in anxiety or depression, the creepy automatic thought reader will complete your search with the other disorder.  In other words type in "depr" and Amazon will suggest "depression and anxiety".  Or type in "anx" and Amazon will assume you mean "anxiety and depression".  Try it.  I'll wait.   Of course anxiety and depression, not withstanding Amazon's smart fill algorithm, are two very different disorders. With two very different solutions.

But I am not here to discuss the difference between depression and anxiety.  What difference does it make anyway.  We're just sitting around waiting for the next big earthquake or terrorist attack to destroy our way of life.  My goal here is to bring attention to the real scourge of the modern era.  An emotion that I have come to realize is the true root cause of our national anxiety and depression crisis.  Yet it gets no research dollars.  There are no TV commercials explaining its devastating effect on workplace productivity.  No university trial studies to sign up for.  Type "depression" into the Amazon books search engine and 22,707 hits pop up.  Type "anxiety" and 10,249 hits are listed (your results may vary).  Yet type in "aggravation" and Amazon can only come up with 162 references!  We are not anxious.  We are not depressed.  We are aggravated.  Don't misunderstand me.  Depression and anxiety are real organic disorders.  Probably just not for a large portion of those who have been told they are.

Okay, your teenage son driving his buddies to the mall can be very anxiety inducing but aren't  ninety percent of your emotions more like aggravation caused by his pig sty of a room and his 6000 monthly text messages on a 1000 texts a month plan?  Ninety percent of us are not self medicating with two glasses of red wine (news flash; your two glasses are really four servings) every night because we are anxious.  No.  We are stressed because the cable guy shows up at 3:59pm during a 12noon-4pm window.  Or the contractor doesn't show up at all and when he does it costs 40% more than the estimate.  Or the phone company has been over charging you for the past two years and it takes 22 calls and 816 voice prompts to straighten it out.

I have written about this issue before.  But I conceded my diagnosis to the drug companies and the self help gurus.  We don't need drugs for anxiety and depression.  We need drugs for aggravation.  And there are none.  At least none that are marketed that way.  And sure there are books with titles like "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff" but that title did not come up when aggravation is the search term.  How aggravating is that?  In fact when the Amazon search is narrowed down to health and wellness there are 5335 results for anxiety and only 25 results for aggravation.  And most of those are useless tomes on homeopathic remedies.

And because all of my blog posts must somehow be linked to a dig at the Tea Party I realized something else.  Think about what aggravates you on a day to day basis.  I know what aggravates me on a day to day basis in trying to run a small business.  It is not the federal and state regulations, which are indeed burdensome. But if you make at least a half-hearted effort to comply and set up the systems you don't really think about them every day.  And let's face it, there usually is a global benefit, like fewer mercury fillings being dumped into our water system and fewer needles washing up on New Jersey beaches.  Nor do taxes aggravate me everyday.  I have been audited twice by the NJ Dept of Labor and once by the Sales and Use Tax division. But because I am honest and at least comply with the law in spirit, it went well.  And I do pay way too much in taxes and licensing fees but that just sucks.  It doesn't aggravate me everyday.  It is not the government that aggravates me.  If one is honest and forthright, the government, in general, will leave you alone.

It is, in fact, private corporations and businesses that cause me untold amounts of aggravation, grief, consternation, and outright disbelief at how all decisions are based on the bottom line, every single day at my practice.  My IT provider raising its fees without telling me because they know I have no choice.  Or the frustration in having software upgrades every year that take 9 months to iron out the bugs and then it's time for a new upgrade.  Or my bank, even though they are doing quite well now, thank you very much, cries how they need to charge me for every single stupid little thing, like withdrawing my own money from an ATM.  Or insurance companies paying me thirty percent less than the UCR rate (look it up) for a gold crown even though the cost of gold has risen by four hundred percent.  And signing a one year contract with an internet marketing company endorsed by my software provider then Google changes the rules the next week thus making my one year contract immediately obsolete yet unchangable.  Etc, etc, etc.  I feel way more squeezed by the private vendors I must deal with in my business every day than by the federal government or even the overly burdensome State of New Jersey.

The Occupy Wall Street crowd has gotten it right.  I believe in capitalism and the power of the private sector to move us forward, but on a day to day basis I am entirely more aggravated by corporate greed and indifference than I am by government incompetence.  And I bet that if most of the Tea Party supporters would give it half a thought themselves, instead of listening to the Koch brothers, they would walk over to the Occupy Wall Street protests and say "You know what?  You guys are right".

A Horse Thief Among Us

I have been violated.  And to make matters worse the crime occurred at my beloved mountain retreat.  A place where neighbors are supposed to look out for one another. Unlike the city where life is dog eat dog and your tenement mates are more likely to screw, than succor you.  In fact the locals here in the Catskills pride themselves on their neighborliness and esprit de corps.  And  for the most part I have found this to be true.  Except for my next door neighbor.  Allegedly.  For I have no proof.  Except for Tammy and my other neighbors who agree with my conclusion.  Granted, the alleged perpetrator is renting the house next door so he may not feel the same camaraderie as the rest of us.  He is the second renter to inhabit that house and the first one was very disorderly as well. So one may draw their own conclusions based on this small sampling size.  But I have come to the conclusion that rural America cannot lay claim to a virtue of harmonious living that they aver is not found among city dwellers.  People are people and there are good and bad found throughout all population densities.

It was a crime of opportunity.  A crime, I am convinced, that the culprit felt was victimless.  We were not around, and besides, we are just some rich yuppies with a second home in the mountains who won't know the difference.  Of course this is all speculation but the only way to cleanse oneself after such a trespass is to try and understand the mind of the miscreant.  What was taken from me is not some bauble I purchased at a craft fair.  A knickknack sitting on my front porch for the amusement of visitors to my cabin.  A stolen trinket would not have been so hellacious.  I would have assumed (for that is what I am doing) it was some crazy kids sowing their wild oats.  That I can forgive.  No, this stolen property is something I expended sweat and a great deal of energy on.  A utilitarian necessity of life in a mountain cabin.  Something that one hundred years ago could have meant the difference between life and death during a long, cold mountain winter.

Here is a photo of the crime scene.  When I left the cabin three weeks ago the rack was full.  It is now two- thirds empty:

That is correct.  I am totally bent out of shape because firewood was stolen from me.  A sizable amount of firewood. That I quartered and stacked.  And the only way this amount could have been stolen by a "visitor" to Woodland Valley is if they backed their car into my driveway and hauled the wood up the stairs.  Very doubtful.  Especially since the campground at the end of the road is closed and who else would have taken it?  My neighbor, who rents, that's who.  Casually strolled over during the week when we were not there and helped himself.  How can I be so sure?  My other neighbor (who came to the same conclusion as Tammy and I) noted smoke coming from his chimney during two unexpected evening frosts and he has NO wood pile whatsoever.  Huh.

In all fairness, this is pure conjecture and I have not yet decided how I will confront my neighbor.  But rather than solely stew in a blog post I must be eyeball to eyeball with him when I broach the subject of my missing wood.  In the meantime, Tammy has placed the following sign on the wood rack:

By way of explanation, the actual owner of the house lives in Finland. And the part about the chimney blowing up is because my other neighbor suggested I drill a hole in some of the wood and put black powder in it.  That way the thief will blow up his chimney.  An amusing, but ultimately unsatisfactory conclusion to this affair.  Stay tuned.

A Highpointer's Journey

Click here to view this photo book larger

Photo books are the perfect gift for any occasion.

Sorry about the plug for Shutterfly (though they do a nice job and make it easy)  but Tammy wanted to embed the journal we had made to share with everyone.

Apex to Zenith

Below is the essay I submitted to the "Apex to Zenith", the official newsletter of the Highpointers.org club.  They are the official record keepers of this pursuit.  I recently learned that there is no official record for a dentist having completed all 50 state highpoints (professions are tracked for the "50 state" completers) so I am holding out hope that I may be the first dentist to achieve 48 contiguous state highpoints.  I may never know but I will keep hope alive.  I am officially the 407th known person to complete the 48 states.  200 of those (none of whom are dentists) have also completed all 50 states so that rules out half my competition.  If you, or anyone you know, is aware of a highpointing dentist let me know.
Here is the essay:

48 Completion Statement of Richard N. Feuer

As the 407th known Highpointer to touch the highest geographic point of all 48 of the contiguous United States, I would like to thank the officers and volunteers of the Highpointers.org who make it officially possible for me to brag about the feat.

There have been a number of records claimed by various Highpointers on their way to achieving this goal. For example; the first person, the oldest person.  The youngest person and the first female person.  Someone prides himself on having accomplished the feat in a record amount of time (something like 55 days) and another is proud to say he did them all in winter.  I seem to remember that one nimble person has done a handstand at the top of each State and another is currently engaged in bringing a slinky to each summit.  One proud climber has claimed the record that he made it to the highest point of all the mountains and azimuths of the 48 states on his first attempt at each one.  I say azimuth in recognition of Delaware’s so called Ebright’s Azimuth.  This tiny state not only had the good sense to be the first to ratify the U.S. constitution (at a time when there would only be 13 highpoints)  but to also have the smarts to understand what a state highpoint really is; a coordinate within randomly placed geographic borders.

This brings me to the curious case of Connecticut’s highpoint.  It really isn’t anything at all except a waypoint on a hiking trail.  It lies along the path to a summit which is actually in Massachusetts.  Without a GPS, you wouldn’t even know that you have arrived at the highest point in CT, incongruously named Mount Frizell, because it isn’t higher than anything around it.  The same can be said of Nevada’s Boundary Peak.  While you and your climbing buddies are high fiving each other for making it to the highest rock pile in Nevada (in a state known for, well, being a rock pile), you are staring at a higher mountaintop only ½ mile away in California.  And it is not Mount Whitney.

There is a loosely guarded secret among Highpointer’s that, I must admit, allowed me a minor sigh of relief when I first became aware of it.  It may actually be the second highest peak in many of the western states that is harder to climb and requires more technical know-how to summit:  Washington, Wyoming, Oregon, California, Colorado and Montana.  All have a high point that one can gain via the so called “dog route” (Though Montana is more of a mountain goat route).   A pejorative term experienced mountaineers use to denigrate any route not technical enough to challenge their skills.  But as all of us know, our avocation is not strictly about the physical suffering of being cold, wet, tired, and out of breath.  It is about the mental process of perseverance and persistence.  Along the way I have compiled a list of a few of my own personal benchmarks:

1. Mountains attempted twice to summit: 3; due to weather, injury, and the guide from Hell (true story).
2. Mountains attempted thrice to summit: 1 (weather and injury)
3. Number of summits attempted by my wife:  46 (44 achieved)
4. Number of times I abandoned my wife at base camp:  2
5. Number of highpoints on which we almost got divorced: 2
6. Number of highpoints at night: 1
7. Number of speeding tickets while pursuing highpoints:  2
8. Number of injuries: 2 (ice axe mishap and twisted ankle)
9. Most number of highpoints in a 24 hour period: 3
10. Number of summits achieved before I became a highpointer: 2
11. Number of years to summit all 48:  16
12. Number of highpoints on which I stood near Don Holmes: 1 (at the NJ convention)
13. Reason for probably never attempting Mt McKinley:  see #5 above
14. Number of times I said, “This isn’t worth it”: countless
15. Total cost to summit 48 state highpoints:  priceless

Every highpointer, I am sure, has compiled a list of his or her own personal statistics.  The sport is really more of an inner journey than external travelogue.  There is no reason to go to some of the highpoints except to place a checkmark in a book.  White Butte N.D. comes to mind.  Many highpoints are very remotely located but at least you can make a fun road trip out of hitting maybe 5 or 6 in a week while taking in the local sights. Or perhaps you may enjoy some homemade hush puppies served by friendly blonde waitresses near Cheaha Mountain in Alabama.  Not so for White Butte.  It is a senseless trip all onto itself.  Although due to the long drive and then the gale force winds and tornado warning we encountered once there, North Dakota will be remembered as one of our more challenging trips.

White Butte, ND

White Butte, ND

But there are few things of which I am more proud.  While there is a considerable degree of physical ability needed to achieve this goal, completing the 48 states is a battle fought mostly in the mind.  Granted, a reasonable level of fitness is needed, but the challenge is ultimately more psychological than physiological and therefore more emotionally satisfying. So when they come to cart me away to the nursing home I will be forced to bring only a few precious possessions with me.  One of them will be my highpoint photo journal. 

Mini Bar Madness

The hotel mini bar has come out of the closet and it is gunning for your wallet in a way that would make Gordon Gekko blush.  No one even bats an eyelash anymore at the price tag on the can of cashews found in the cabinet under the flat screen.  Nor the fact that a can of Diet Coke found in the fridge in your room costs more than a six-pack found at your local Beer Barn.  But at least the tempting bags of M&M’s were hidden from view and you could ignore them.  That is until you started hearing their tiny little voices calling out to you while you lay awake at midnight hankering for a snack.  And the hotel counted on that little voice to get you to buy the $5.00 jar of Gummi Bears.

Well, the hotel is no longer taking any chances on keeping the fancifully priced noshes under wraps and in the credenza.  In the early days of the in-room offerings I am certain the management counted on the more gullible of us thinking these snacks were a gift.   A freebie like shampoo and the little shoe shine cloth.  And once they were eaten, ignorance was no excuse to have the charge cancelled.  This worked until most people caught on and they didn't dare even open the mini bar door lest their will power be tested to the max.  Sales of $6.00 Cheez-Its plummeted.  What to do.  What to do.

Taking its cue from the Department of Corrections the JW Marriott Hotel Chain has come up with a snack tracking device not unlike the infamous in home arrest ankle bracelet.  That's right.  A uniformed front desk clerk, one building wing away and four floors down, knows if you even pick up the can of Peanut M&M's to read the calorie count.  And if you aren't a fast reader, your room will be billed within 30 seconds if you don't put it back on the tracking device.  To amplify the entrapment, the snacks are in plain view on top of the dresser, next to the ice bucket, beside the TV.  You can't even hide them in a drawer.  So you are forced to stare at the Gummi Bears, cashews, M&M's, Snickers Bites, and bottles of Fiji Water for as long as you stay in the room.  I am not making this up.  I took a photo of the contraption and I have posted it here for your examination.   I also posted a copy of the bill, with which we were penalized for daring to hide the offensively over priced candy in a drawer.  As soon as we moved the stuff, the sensor ratted us out. 

The story gets more preposterous.  There was no sign explaining the fact that if you even so much as nudge the stuff, you WILL BE CHARGED.  No sign.  None.  Nada. In hindsight I guess I should have been suspicious of an electrical wire and phone cord coming out of a candy tray.  Even so, I probably would have assumed it was some kind of 1970's K-Tel  iced tea pouring/nut dispensing/automatic bottle opening/peanut shelling/service tray.

And no we did not have to pay the charges since the maid found the candy.... in the drawer next to the Gideon Bible.  But if you ever see a wire coming from the little tube of hand cream I wouldn't even open it up for a whiff if I were you.

In the Hall of Knowledge

There is a common misconception afoot in America that we, Homo sapiens, are descended from the apes.  We are not.  It is actually much worse than that.  We are, in fact, descended from the rats.  Any tenth grade biology student, and now me, could tell you that, while we share a common ancestor with the apes, we are not directly descended from the simian family.  We are, however, directly descended from the rat ancestor known as Megazostrodon, which was the first prehistoric mammal.  Our great civilization basically started out as a group of dinosaur egg stealing, bark chewing, nocturnal rodents.  I am sorry if this offends you.  But science is science, unless of course you are running for president of the United States on the Republican ticket.  In that case science is innuendo.  An inconvenience that gets in the way of our egos.

But the story gets worse.  It is even more shocking than you might imagine.  I learned of our primordial ancestor in the Hall of Mammals at the Smithsonian Institute Museum of Natural History.  In Washington DC.  And it didn’t cost me a dime!  (At the time of admission anyway).  That’s right.  Public money, aka your  tax dollars, paid for this bit of conjectural information.  It is not quite clear to me where the Smithsonian gets its endowment, but I smell a rat, pardon the pun.  For five hours I wandered around the halls of this great repository of American natural history and I never paid an admission price, nor was I solicited to make a voluntary contribution.  There was the Hall of Ocean Life.  The Hall of Precambrian Fossils and the Hall of Postcambrian Fossils.  The Hall of Mammals and the Hall of Reptiles.  And of course the Hall of Man, with its focus on hominid (us) evolution.  But no where, no where, was there a Hall of Intelligent Design!  At any moment in my wanderings I expected to enter an awesome hall where, instead of a giant blue whale hanging from the ceiling, there would be a giant bearded man pointing down to Earth. And before his outstretched index finger would stand a naked hominid with no resemblance what so ever to Alley Oop our prototypical cave man.  Walk a few steps further and there, behind the glass, would stand the apple tree with the snake himself in a jar of formaldehyde, forked tongue extended, mocking us for the stupid choices humans make.  

This being the Natural  History Museum, the centerpiece of the Hall of Intelligent Design would have to be a splinter of wood from Noah’s Ark.  Displayed prominently in a 360 degree glass case with little interactive buttons to press.  Push one and learn how the great diversity of life on Earth was preserved on a boat during the Great Flood.  Push another and see how the boat might possibly have been built with slave labor providing the necessary man power.  And finally, as a tie in to the Hall of Marine Mammals, you would actually walk thru the belly of a ginormous  latex whale, like Jonah, on your way to the museum gift shop.  It would only be fair.

To compound this imbalance in portraying our American culture, the American History Museum, across the way, had entire galleries devoted to the frivolities of television and Hollywood.  There, ensconced in his very own case, was the original Kermit the Frog.  He wasn’t green by the way.  More of a shit brindle brown.   And from the moment one entered the museum you were bombarded by signs crowing about the newly acquired ruby slippers that magically teleported Dorothy back to Kansas in the Wizard of Oz. There was even a purple Dumbo car from the Dumbo Whirl-a gig ride in Disneyland.  Thank Providence that our founding fathers knew the difference between fun and faith. 

Life in the Green Zone

It was during the last half of the eighteenth century when Ben Franklin first posited about the false economy in removing all the trees around one's property.  He mused about the as yet unknown oxygen cycle whereby trees replenish the bad air expelled by animals, with more refreshed air for us to breathe.  He came up with this idea because of an experiment conducted by Joesph Priestly which involved a candle, a mint sprig, a bell jar and a mouse. His postulate preceded ecosystem science by 200 years. True story.

The Priestly Experiment

So it is with the blessings of one of our greatest founding forefathers that Tammy and I always felt it necessary to live amongst the trees.  We never even considered living in a subdivision built on an old farm where one Bradford Pear per quarter acre is considered woodland living.  True, Kentucky Bluegrass conducts photosynthesis on a regular basis but due to our active lifestyle and the abundance of hot air I produce we need enough oxygen that only a forest of 200 year old oaks can generate.  And I always felt a few back breaking days of raking leaves every year is a small price to pay for all that recycled air. 

But a series of recent events have led me to rethink my position.    Actually a series of events over the course of the last 25 years.  No, a tree did not fall on our house, though the daily barrage of acorns raining down on our roof has led me to believe Chicken Little may have been on to something.  I did not think acorns hitting a roof could make such a racket.  It's as if the squirrels are the German Luftwaffe and our home the British House of Commons.  Nor is the stick (pardon the pun) that broke the camel's back the drudgery of bending over and picking up the 50 gallon trash can's worth of branches every week.  A large limb did fall and dent the hood of Tammy's car a few years back but that is when I still valued the friendship of the foliage.

Over the course of the years I have tried to take a preemptive approach to removing the dangerous trees before they can inflict damage on our property.  Much like Bush's War on Terror.  I don't hate all the Ents.  Just the arborofascists that want to destroy our way of life by suicide bombing my house by crashing down on the roof.  And also like the war on terror, my preemptive pruning just seems to make them angrier and more prolific.  Every time I remove one, three more seem to grow in its place.  But in any case, the twig that finally convinced me to want to move to a gated, over 55 community with no trees, was a thirty inch diameter Beech that fell into the lake behind our house.  No property damage, fortunately, but my sources tell me we may need to bring in a crane to remove it.  True story.  I will post the pics when the crane rolls in.

In the mean time I will continue to advocate for better understanding between the  autotrophs and heterotrophs because we all have to share the same Earth.

She Bang

It has often been noted that political women have a twofold burden when in the public eye.  Not only must they be quick witted, but they have to look good doing it.  Men, it is often lamented, do not have to live up to this double standard.  Well even the most apathetic student of evolutionary psychology will come to learn the fallacy of this argument in the first year of his studies.  It is a well known paradigm that women are attracted to virile behaviors [in men] such as an ability to kill and skin a bear in the wild or the resources to make a lot of money during a bear market on Wall Street.  Men, on the other hand, are attracted to physical attributes such as nice skin and large breasts.  It is a self evident truth [in light of advances in dermatology, plastic surgery, and Lasix] that it may indeed be more convenient to change one's superficial looks than to reconfigure one's masculinity.  You will therefore forgive me for limiting my remarks to Michele Bachman and Sarah Palin as I see no hope for Newt Gingrich and Jon Huntsman.  Rick Perry and Mitt Romney can obviously kick the shit out of them so all they have to do is have a rutting match to lock up the female Republican vote.  No one seriously doubts that the Ann Coulter Pod People care for much else.

So what does Sarah have that Michele does not?  Bangs of course.  If you have a forehead that only an extraterrestrial could love then I suggest it should be hidden behind some hair.  A very facile and effective grooming approach that I am quite certain will soften Michele up a bit.  Her inscience won't play too well outside of Iowa so perhaps her coiffure can.  Conservative women, after all, are more pretty than pedantic.  If you don't believe me I suggest you compare and contrast the women of Fox News to the lineup over at PBS or MSNBC.  OK, perhaps Rachel Maddow is sensual in a sexy butchy sort of way but Fox has the 18-55 male demographic tied up with Jenna Lee and Courtney Friel. 

We should not apologize for our licentious feelings as they are just that, feelings.  Both men and women have them.  But we can rise above them. 

The Final Step of a 17 Year Journey

The final step of a 17 year journey.

Summoning the strength and courage to stand up.

I decided to sit on the summit rock due to rain and high winds

Back at base camp 1.  The axe is pointing to the summit

No official post yet but I completed driving, hiking, and climbing to the highest point of all 48 contiguous United States.  Tammy and I hiked to our first one in 1994, Clingman's Dome in Tennessee.  We became official Highpointers in 2002 when we completed Signal Hill in Arkansas and we became aware of the Highpointers.org community.  It has been a 17 year inner journey.  The mental and emotional components have proven to be way more taxing than the physical aspect of climbing mountains in the US.  Here are photos of my last summit.  Gannett Peak Wyoming at 13,804 ft.  Summited at 9:30 AM August 1, 2011.
The weather at the summit was quite poor so the pictures are not as pretty as one would expect.

There Will Be a $100.00 Fine for Unwarranted Use of This Stall

Yes, I use the handicapped stall in a public restroom.  A handicapped stall is not regulated like a handicapped parking spot at the mall.  People don't walk around malls and airports with blue handicapped placards hanging around their necks, so how can a cop prove I don't need a high seat and perhaps a grab bar to get myself up?  Besides, many males over the age of fifty could be considered disabled if urinary urgency or irritable bowel syndrome got any respect from the Americans with Disabilities Act.
Another appealing aspect of the handi-stall is its large size and prime corner real estate. So the worst case scenario is that there is only one other guy farting next to you.  It's like the corner office on the 56th floor of a skyscraper, but without the view.  Unless you consider peaking through the crack in the door a view.

But having justified my use of this exclusive stall, I was still embarrassed by what happened to me at the tiny Jackson Hole airport the other day.  Not being in a rush to catch my flight, I lingered while on the handi-throne and caught up on my e-mail via my smart phone.  When I finally did get up to leave there was a guy in a wheelchair waiting to get into the stall.  And boy was he giving me the evil eye.  So as I passed him I muttered something about how irritated my thigh was from my prosthetic leg and thank goodness for the extra room in the handicapped stall for some privacy while I adjusted it.  He replied "Right on, dude".

I am pretty certain Hell for me will be spending all of eternity on a porta-pot that has not had routine maintenance since Adam ate the apple.