One Day, My First Born Son, All This Will Be Yours

Here's the thing; We Americans, as a nation, rejected the concept of primogeniture over 250 years ago.  We betrayed and slandered King George III and all that the monarchy stood for.  Yet I awoke at 5:45 AM EST, on my day off, to watch the royal nuptials between the now Duke and Duchess of Cambridge.  I stayed glued to the TV until the much anticipated first royal kiss which occurred at exactly 8:26 AM EST.  That is 2 1/2 hours of my precious time that I thoroughly enjoyed and am proud to embrace as a sentimental part of my heritage as a citizen of the former colonies. 

George Washington was our first elected president but our wise founding fathers were very worried he would be embraced as our first King.  He was a great leader imbued with a natural charisma that easily could have  lead to a ruling "cult of personality" in our fledgling nation.  The very real possibility of creating an American Monarchy existed during the drafting of the Constitution and avoiding this outcome was never far from their minds, thus our tripartite system of government.  Yet our fascination with, and a vague sense of fealty to the British royal family still permeates our culture.  One may liken it to our love affair with celebrities in general but I think it is different.  I for one have never felt  personally vested in the success of a celebrity marriage like Brad and Angelina.  Yet I desire for Kate and William to be happy and I wish for them to be great leaders of humanitarian efforts which is basically what the Monarchy has evolved into during modern times.

Perhaps my feelings are due to the fact that they are such a handsome couple.  The Duchess of Cambridge has a natural poise and posture that is certainly the envy of models everywhere.  And the Duke seems to radiate a certain sense of warmth and joie de vivre not often associated with his father.  I was only 21 when Charles and Diana were married and I can't remember my feelings, but I think it became obvious early on that their hearts were never fully committed to the task of a royal marriage.  And judging from the history of the British Monarchy it is clear that in a royal union, personal emotion often trumps royal protocol.  Princess  Diana was a great beauty, Prince Charles not so much, yet we all longed for their marriage to be a great success.  So I hope Kate will embrace her role as the future Princess (one must be born the Queen of England), and I wish them the best of luck. 

And as I think about the monarchy I will keep on hoping that our 250 year old experiment in self governance proceeds apace and that temporary rancor leads to enduring rapport between the tribes that we like to call States.

Double Prints Please, and Yes, I do Want Fries With That

I cannot believe that a rapidly proliferating behavior pattern that has the potential to bring an entire nation to its knees has escaped my attention here in the blogoshere.  It started  innocently enough with Dairy Barns and Fotomats.  Then McDonalds and other fast food venues picked up on the idea.  Now it has spread to banks, pharmacies and even community flu shot programs.  Yes, I am talking about drive thru windows.  I have calculated that by getting out of the car and walking into the restaurant or pharmacy one could burn off 6.5 additional super sized french fry orders every year.  That is assuming you use 20 calories to and from your car and you use a drive up 4 times per week (thrice at a fast food joint or Dunkin Donuts, and once at the bank to cash your paycheck).  And never mind the fact that you would most likely save time by getting out of the car as there is usually a long line at the bank drive thru on Fridays, an even longer one during lunchtime at McDonalds and a super sized line at Dunkin Donuts during your commute to work.
And while I am at it, open the car windows during winter and take the stairs in the parking garage. 

Yes, I Do Mean Euro Size 41. That Is Why I Asked For It.

No one who knows me would underestimate my deep understanding and love of gear.  Nor my ability to critically assess when a salesman I may be speaking to knows less about the item than me.  That is the problem with big box stores; the salesmen are never knowledgeable about the items in which I am interested.  The worst infraction made by inexperienced salesmen is when they hang around while you peruse the aisle examining your choices and they try to offer unsolicited and inaccurate advice.  This has especially happened to me at Lowes or Home Depot where you would expect the salesmen to know the difference between a cotter pin and clevis pin.  Okay that might be an exaggeration but don't tell me I need a 5/16" tight thread bolt when I need a  1/4-20 bolt or hand me a 1/2" to 3/4" female threaded  PVC adapter when I need the opposite.  And then stand there breathing down my neck while I am trying to configure my hardware solution.  To be fair, I do sometimes luck out at the big box hardware stores and get good advice, but if I really need help, there is nothing like my local Ace Hardware store where I know the owner. 

So you can imagine my dismay when the salesman at Campmor gave me lip about a purchase I had fully researched online.  If you are unfamiliar with Campmor you may follow the link to be enlightened.  Guys who say they don't like to shop have most likely never been to Campmor, or Cabela's for that matter. On this particular trip I was purchasing a pair of the new barefoot style trail running shoes for Tammy as she had become quite jealous of my new found foot freedom.  (If I have not previously mentioned it in these pages, I have not had hip or knee pain since I embraced the barefoot running craze.  If you are a runner, or would like to start running and have fun doing it, read this; "Born to Run" by Chris Mcdougall).  So I walked back to the shoe department and asked for a pair of Women's size 8 1/2 Merrell Pace Trail Runners.  "Which style were you interested in?" the young sales clerk asked in response.  Knowing that I had just specifically named the style I assumed he meant that it comes in different colors so I followed him over to the display.  "You mean what color?" I queried back.  "No what model?" he answered.  "The women's Pace, in size 8 1/2.  This one right here" I emphasized as I picked it up to show him.  I only detail all this boring dialogue to allow you, the reader, to arrive at the same conclusion as I, that he had zero familiarity with the Merrell barefoot trail running shoe line in spite of the fact that he worked in the shoe department of an outdoor gear store.  I guess I mistakenly assumed that when I initially barged into the shoe department and  told him what I wanted without browsing first, he would immediately realize that I was obviously a connoisseur of fine athletic footwear and he would have just replied "Ahh, excellent choice sir", like a good sommelier.

 So he brings them out and I notice that they are Euro size 39 and Tammy is usually a Euro size 40.  So I mention this to the salesman and he pooh poos my concern and tells me not to worry about the Euro sizes, as they don't really mean anything.  Well........I happen to be intimately familiar with Euro sizes as much of our outdoor athletic foot gear from climbing shoes to ski boots are foreign made.  And when I mentioned I had to go a half American size down to my usual Euro size on my Merrell trail runners (as did many people who wrote online reviews) did he say "very good sir, I shall go and check our stock"?  No he did not.  I'm thinking maybe I should shop exclusively at Nordstrom from now on but they don't sell what I'm buying.  But man, are they good at pretending to actually enjoy helping every shopper regardless of anything.

Anyway, it turned out the shoes fit fine and now Tammy is really going to kick my butt on the downhills.  If you have never hiked or run with Tammy in the mountains I suggest getting out of her way on the downs.  She is usually back at the car while I am still 200 yards back slowly picking my way over the talus in morbid fear of tripping and plunging, if not to my death, then into a compound tibial fracture at least.  Maybe the barefoot runners will help.  Euro size 41.

Phone Home

Sit back, relax, as we now travel back to yesteryear, to a simpler time before cell phones and the self esteem movement in child rearing.  Imagine it is 1992 and your IBM PS/2 with its 20 megabyte (yes mega, not giga) hard drive is running DOS at 486 mhertz and your 750 Kbyte (yes kilo, not mega) 3 1/2 inch diskette is still more useful at data storage than serving as a coaster for your coffee mug.  A time when people knew what the a:\ and b:\ drives were. 

It was a bright spring day, the kind of weather when your troubles don't seem to matter and your lips are whistling a happy tune in spite of the slow driver in front of you.  Tammy and I were cruising down Highway One in California, and if we had coughed up the money to rent a convertible instead of a Cavalier, the wind would have been blowing through our hair in that carefree way that only Hollywood starlets usually seem to experience.  We were young and had just been married seven years.  Nothing could touch us.  But in spite of our carefree attitude I decided I should check in at my office.  My assistant, Debbie, had been manning things while we were away.  Of course this involved stopping at a gas station for a pay phone where I could use my calling card.  When I called I got the answering machine and I left her a mumbled message to the effect of “where the hell are you as I am paying you to answer the phone” and “we are headed to Lassen Volcano National Park so I will be unavailable for two days”.

Debbie and DOS

Two hours later we pull up to the little ranger kiosk located on the entrance road, sixty miles from the nearest highway, and there, taped under the sliding window, is a sign written in black Sharpie, on typewriter paper, that reads “DR. FEUER, CALL YOUR OFFICE”.  As my jaw hung there, the little window opens and as the ranger is about to extort the $10.00 entrance fee (kidding, there were no fees back then for bush league parks) I meekly ask, “The Dr. Feuer from New Jersey?  Because that is me.”  He then proceeds to inform us that "a" Debbie tracked us down to inform Tammy that her Mom, while in San Francisco, has had a heart attack but she is stable and doing well.  Of course there is no phone at the ranger kiosk so we had to drive another five miles to the visitor center to find a pay phone.  Tammy finally reached Debbie and it turns out Debbie had been waiting by the phone all morning for my check in call.  Just when she stepped out for a few minutes to get lunch, I had called.   She received my message but all she could understand was “we are going to volcano “.  Because no traveler in those days could be reached directly, Ralph, my father in law, tried to track us down through Debbie when Kitty had her heart attack.  Debbie then called California information and told the operator (there was no web searching either) she must get in touch with her boss who is driving to “some volcano” in California.  Thank goodness the operator took her seriously and she helped Debbie to figure out that it must be the National Park in northern California.  She connected Debbie to the ranger headquarters and Debbie explained the situation.  They agreed to radio (via walkie talkie) the kiosk and have the ranger there place the sign.  And that, Virginia, is how we existed before cell phones and the internet.

 Tammy calling the hospital from Lassen Volcanoes National Park

 
But here is the human interest aspect to this tale of ancient messaging:  I made Tammy wait for an hour before we drove  to San Fran so I could at least walk a few hundred yards up the volcano to get my picture taken and thus “claim” the park for my life list.  She tearfully and reluctantly agreed, but she waited alone in the car .  True story.  I reasoned that Kitty was apparently okay and we would never come back to this remote park so this was my only chance.  Plus what were the odds that we would coincidentally be only a few hours from San Francisco?  If we had been back home in Jersey we couldn’t have seen her mom anyway.  We finally arrived in San Francisco and thankfully Kitty was her usual perky self. But while Tammy tended to her Mom in the hospital I rented a mountain bike and rode across the Golden Gate Bridge to Sausalito.  Hey, when would I ever again have a chance to do that?  A few years later, it turns out, when we went back to San Fran.  So,  my apologies to Kitty and Tammy, and posthumously to Ralph.

Coincidentally, before our trip, when Tammy found out that her parents would be in San Francisco at the same time as us, she said to her Dad, "We can meet you for dinner in San Francisco."  Ralph replied , "I'm not flying 3,000 miles across the country to have dinner with you."

I can only speculate that if cell phones were around back then, and Ralph could have just called us directly, we would have immediately driven to San Francisco to be with Tammy’s Mom. And I still, to this day, would never have been to Lassen Volcano National Park thereby adding going to all the National Parks to my list of almost dones.  And by the way, we did offer to go to China Town for dinner with Ralph, but true to form he refused.  We ended up having dinner with him in his hotel, as he had previously planned.  I believe he understood my stubbornness in not having Kitty's medical emergency impact our itinerary.  And Debbie still works for me twenty years and ten computers later.

Road Rage Redux Redux

So this morning I was driving to work on my favorite road, of which I have related several hair raising road rage incidents.   This latest episode is not so much road rage as "I am late for day care" rage.  I was going 50 mph in the 45 mph zone when a Nissan Altima breezed by me going at least 60 mph.  I know this for a fact because I sped up just to see if I could keep up and at 60 mph she was still getting ahead of me.  I quickly aborted my pace car speed for fear of, well, fear.  Here is the funny part.  Maybe not funny, more like incongruous.  She had a "Baby on Board" sign in the back window and the actual baby in the back seat (I saw her turn around and talk to him at the red light). 

Now if someone wants to speed , and they are not trying to beat me out to the merge, it is none of my business.  But by displaying this sign she is sucking every driver around  into her world and in essence telling everyone in the vicinity of this car to be careful. While she goes at least 15 mph over the limit in a residential area.  Seriously?  I am trying to not let my posts become angry rants so I will place this one in the "I am just pointing out hypocritical behavior for comedic purposes"  category.  I feel amused incredulity.

Art Is As Art Does

Many artists are capitalists just like the rest of us.  They produce a product that they hope to sell at a gallery for as much as they are able.  They profess to creating their art strictly as social statement, in hopes of getting an emotional response from the viewer.  But there is no art without the sale; I can't name a beneficent patron since the Medicis.  By naming a piece and hanging it in a gallery, as opposed to a craft show at the county fair, I am assuming they have elevated themselves to artist status.  Yet when one does have an emotional response that doesn't agree with the artist, it may very well be inappropriate to state your feelings at the showing.  I guess it is rude to criticize a person in their own home.  But if they are truly an artist, why is it okay to provoke the public yet be offended when they provoke back?

I was at a gallery opening tonight and one of the pieces was named "image of a thought".  The piece, by itself was pleasing and technically well done.  But by giving it this title, the artist was attempting to elevate his piece above a mere painting and into a cerebral social statement about human thought.  Why should we, the art viewing public just accept this at face value?  There was absolutely nothing about the image that invoked this construct.  He seemingly made it up to enhance an illusion of profundity.  You can argue that I don't agree with his interpretation of a thought but by that reasoning I can draw a picture of an atom and call it a molecule.  I wish I had taken a photo of the piece but I can attempt to describe it.  It was basically an outlined pastel colored square with subtle shadings and a few drips running down the bottom.  That's it.  Really.  First and foremost, human thoughts are not linear like a square.  They are  dendritic and convoluted, like a tree or bolt of lightening.  Maybe the nuanced shading represented the nuance of a thought.  Even if you don't subscribe to the idea that our thoughts are bound to the physical structure of the brain and its synaptic network, it just seems imperceptive to declare a thought a symmetrical geometric figure.  That is what confounds me. Art is not art just because the creator says so.  And I don't think we should let them get away with it if they are hanging it on a wall in hopes of selling it.  If this artist would have let his piece be, and not given it a thought provoking name (pun intended), I would have complimented his sophisticated sense of design.  But he chose to step into a higher realm of philosophical abstractism and thus insert his piece into the arena of criticism.

My frustration is misdirected because I never did get a chance to discuss my thoughts with the artist.  If he were present, I certainly would have told him my opinion.  It is my view that if you are going to open the door,  I am going to barge right in.  Instead, I was forced to unleash my criticism on another artist at the gallery with whom I happened to be acquainted.  I should point out that her art can be quite provocative (a Barbie on a cross, with dead beetles sprinkled around for good measure.  I am not making this up).  So I assumed she could take a harsh critiquing.  As I held forth on my view, she slowly began to back away in obvious hopes of ending the conversation.  Tammy said it was my attitude, not my point, that dismayed her.  Perhaps.  I can be a mean drunk.  I did have a few drinks, the cabin being so conducive to a cocktail hour and all.  I don't want to have to go to an art gallery and whisper my opinions in fear of offending the artist.  It might not be art if someone isn't offended.  Art is art only if it is profound.  Otherwise it is just crafts. If you are going to sell your art as political statement, be prepared for the consequences.

This is a thought

This is a thought

This is even a thought

This is not a thought

The Fudge Chronicles

If my new nutritionist sees this I am going to get a lecture so don't post this to your Facebook page.  I am not even going to mention this lapse in my food diary.  I know, I am only cheating myself, but who wants to live without sugar?  Or alcohol for that matter.  Better yet, sugary alcoholic drinks.  Okay, full disclosure; I just ate a piece of fudge.  I feel like Hunter Thompson.  But instead of LSD, I am high on sugar.  And my ramblings are more gawky than gonzo.  Plus I am way to frangible (look it up) to ever have ridden a Harley.  Emily Dickinson then.  I only say this because I can think of many macho and robust male writers but I can't think of one fragile male writer.  I did think of Truman Capote but "In Cold Blood" affirms that one should not conflate homosexuality with a lack of machismo.

Back to the fudge.  I have not had a cookie, a Tastycake, an M&M, not even a jelly bean in four weeks.  I had one Werther's Original the other day.  But hard candies are like time release cold medication.  Designed to spread their effect over the course of an entire day.  By the way, Werther's is not butterscotch so don't ever ask me if I would like a butterscotch and then hand me a Werther's Original.  That's like ordering New York style cheesecake in South Philly and they bring you some facsimile made with ricotta cheese instead of all cream cheese.  This has actually happened to me.  Well, I just looked it up and Wikipedia says that Werther's Originals are butterscotch.  The poor man's butterscotch perhaps.  My mom always bought me Callard and Bowser Butterscotch.  Alas they are no more.  Bought out by Cadbury.  Now familiar to you only because of Altoids. 

Oh, the fudge, right.  My favorite variety store here in Phoenicia is now selling fudge personally made by the proprietor in her ice cream shop next door.  She has installed a nice display case with the fudge laid out like great slabs of marble.  There are flavors like praline, maple walnut, penuche (?), rocky road, and cookies and cream.  All traditional flavors, no doubt, that one has always found on the boardwalk in Ocean City.  But I noticed something about my escalated enthusiasm for it here in the Catskill Mountains.  While I have been visiting the shore and strolling the boards, I never felt any interest in the myriad displays of fudge.  Perhaps my increased awareness is because I have not had a confectionery treat in a month.  But I think it is more because of the setting.  Eating fudge in the summer, on the boardwalk, while wearing a bathing suit, in ninety degree heat doesn't seem like such a great plan.  Water ice makes more sense at the shore, except for the obvious melting dilemma.  Fudge is more appropriate in the mountains, in cool weather, when a down jacket prevents one from casually seeing their love handles when glancing down.

That's it.  I just wanted to figure out why I ate the fudge in Phoenicia and not in Ocean City.

Road Rage Redux

I have been the victim of road rage five times.  Not including incidents on the New Jersey Turnpike which may or may not have been instigated by me.  The first time was by two scary dudes in a scary pickup truck on their way home from a construction job site (I assume from the ladders and tools).  No shocker there.  The second was by a Lexus driving lawyer (I surmise) with a five year old kid in the backseat.  Apparently I wasn't driving fast enough for him on a one lane road when he passed me on the right, in the shoulder, and cursed me out as he passed.  No shock there either but I am interested in meeting this kid when she is a teenager.  Over privileged will probably be an under statement.  The third and fourth times were by mini van driving soccer moms (I infer, from their choice of vehicles and frenetic rush to no where).  And the latest incident was perpetrated by a fiftyish woman on her way to work (I presume because it was 7:30 in the morning and she was wearing a business suit).  I list the events in chronological order of occurrence beginning in the early part of this century until present day.  Do you see a gender trend?  One more interesting fact, the first and last incidents happened at the same point on the same road.  Where two lanes merge into one.  The main road, it just so happens, that I take to work every morning.  A recipe certain to bring out the road warrior in any one of us.

Now I am pretty positive there is some other blogger, somewhere, tallying up the number of times he has been an undeserving recipient of misdirected anger while driving and I am the aggressor in his story.  I fully admit to being impatient with people who are not actually passing while driving in the fast lane.  I have two excuses; One, I am an embittered middle aged white male in America. And two, the left lane is for passing.  I know what you are thinking, but I deny it.  Okay, in one of the five above mentioned scenes I perhaps did egg on my antagonist.  The driver of the pickup truck was obviously trying to beat me to merge into the one lane and I might have, perhaps, subconsciously, accelerated a tad.  He of course gunned it and barely swerved in to beat me into the lane.  He flipped me the bird in his rear view mirror, and you can guess my faux pas.  I flipped it back.  He then proceeded to cut off onto the shoulder so he could get behind me enabling him to tailgate and harass me from behind.  Long story short, the incident ended with me begging their forgiveness for flipping them the bird and my pleading with these two goons to not get beat up in the parking lot where they had followed me.  True story.

As I mentioned previously the latest incident happened at this very same point in the road.  This time I was in the left lane and I admittedly was speeding.  Fifty-five in a forty-five zone.  So I could not understand why the driver behind me was tail gating just to hurry to the next red light.  This is a county road with retail and some residences by the way.  It is not like I was going slow in the fast lane.  There were a lot of cars so she could not pass me on the right.  Well, right before the merge into one lane, a space opened on the right and she swerved around, into the shoulder (the lanes have merged at this point) and then she cut me off so narrowly, I had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting her.  She then proceeded to tail gate the car in front of me.  At this point I assumed the driver is either someone under the age of twenty-five, or a middle aged male even more angry than me, so I am not too disquieted by the behavior.  We of course all meet up at the next light and as I pull up next to the car (it was in the left turn lane) I realize the road rager is a nicely dressed middle aged woman.  Not believing a woman would pose a physical threat to me I rolled down my window and yelled that she almost caused a serious accident.  She blankly stared at me and looked away.  Then as the light turned green she honked her horn to get my attention and as she is turning left she flips me the bird.  A middle aged woman.  And she is the one who recklessly and purposefully cut me off.

Am I chauvinistic to be shocked that women, not young girls, are more aggressive on the road than me?  Or that they would take a chance and rage against a man who could be more malevolent than them?  Perhaps when they see I am so short that my head barely rises above the steering wheel they figure they can "take me".
I don't know.  In one of the other incidents, the mini van mom was practically foaming at the mouth while she yelled at me at a red light.  My infraction in this incident?  Pulling into a lane of traffic in front of her on a very busy road in the commercial district of Mt Laurel NJ.  I swear she was at least 500 feet back and that is about all the room any one will ever have to pull onto state route 73 in this neighborhood, believe you me.  And when I say fuming I mean apoplectic.  I could only imagine that her kid must have been knocked unconscious during a soccer practice miscue and she was rushing to be by his side.  Either that or her crock pot was boiling over at home.  And don't be skeptical.  I was totally innocent in that pageant of bilious fury.

I like to believe that if I am the aggressor and someone were to confront me at the next red light, that I would not take a combative stance in return.  And in fact I once was confronted for aggressive driving but it was not at the red light.  One morning, in a rush to get to work, I aggressively passed a slow driver on his right (there was a lane) to get ahead when the lanes merged into one.  Later that morning when I walked into the operatory to greet my 8:00 AM patient he turned to me and said "were you that crazy driver that sped by me at the light on Ganttown Rd?"  I sheepishly replied that "yes, it was me" and his only admonishment was "Please, be cool with that needle."

One Nation

So many issues, so little time:  The sesquicentennial of the start of the Civil War, the Republican obsession with dismantling Planned Parenthood, the budget battle in D.C., and Snooki getting paid $32,000 to speak at Rutgers, listed in no particular order of abhorrence. I have read many interesting articles about each of these issues and admittedly there is little insight I can offer at this point. I can, however, point out that I always find myself on the liberal side of the argument in spite of my so desperately wanting to be a conservative.  I don't meet many dentists who are on the democratic side of the isle.  We tend to be a very self determined lot and we don't like being told how we should conduct our businesses, our lives, nor how best to help people. The problem, as I see it, is that fiscal conservatism and social conservatism have somehow become irreversibly fused and you can't have one without the other in politics today.  In my view social and environmental issues always trump my own myopic financial self interest.  If I could find a candidate who would cut my taxes, provide social services to the poor, and force me to reduce my carbon foot print without impinging on my right to drive to my cabin every weekend in my six cylinder car, why that is change I could believe in.  I jest, of course.  There is no way we are getting out of this mess without raising somebody's taxes somewhere.  And you know that somebody is me since I am a DINK.  So since I am going to get screwed by taxes no matter who is in office I have selflessly chosen to always vote on the issues that are bigger than me, for the greater good.  Thank you.

But seriously, Snooki?  I actually give her a lot of credit.  The same credit I give to Sarah Palin.  Two people who I would venture to guess did not do as well as me in high school.  Yet here I am blogging to all of eight, maybe ten people.  And these two?  They have the attention of the nation.  Good for them.  They came to the edge of the cliff and they leaped.  Every time I step to the edge of the precipice I get dizzy.   They turned fifteen minutes into a career.  That takes talent, or a pit bull like doggedness.  I've had my fifteen minutes.  I want them back.  I applaud anyone who can rise to the top of their field.  The person might not always be likable but the achievement is admirable.

How about those Civil War re-enactors?  I read that the vast majority choose to be rebels.  I don't know if this is true or not but the point of the op-ed piece was to illuminate the fact that for many years it was the losers who most strongly influenced the historical perspective on the reasons for the conflict.  The southern historians framed the debate mostly about states rights, and not slavery.  An argument still very much in favor today on all sorts of issues.  I have always felt it was specifically (or at least mostly) about slavery.  It was one of the few issues that was not satisfactorily resolved during the meetings of the Continental Congress.  Many of them felt it best to leave the issue to future generations of Americans and eventually the Nation would agree on one moral value.

I understand that southerners wish to honor the valor of their forbearers. But let's face it; The establishment of the Confederacy was sedition.  The Stars and Bars was their "national" flag and to fly it, in my mind, is to condone sedition.  I consider honoring this flag unpatriotic to the United States of America.  Whether or not someone who displays the flag is indirectly supporting the idea of slavery will be endlessly debated.  That is a no win argument because they will always claim they are honoring their ancestors, not dishonoring African Americans.  I can almost forgive the sentiment even if I don't agree.  But I see no way out of the idea that the flag represented a desire to split the United States in two.  On this point I can see no justification for still displaying the Confederate flag.  Although I have to admit one thing.  When I was in Alabama a few years ago I almost bought  a key chain and coffee mug emblazoned with the Confederate flag.  I found the state and the people to be very friendly and I wanted a souvenir to remember my visit, I so enjoyed it.  The items seemed kitschy and harmless but my better discretion kicked in and I somewhat disappointedly put them back.  But I will always remember the awesome hush puppies and biscuits and gravy.

New and Improved

Marketing; the art of creating a need where none existed before.  Listerine did it with halitosis in the early part of the 20th century.  There has always been malodorous breath but Listerine elevated halitosis to affliction status.  Listerine had already been around for years as a bacteria killing mouth wash but it suffered from lackluster sales.  Then a stroke of marketing genius instilled in the public a sense of fear about ones breath during close social interactions.  Listerine soon became a necessity for anyone engaged in the social arts and that would be everyone.

I like to think I am immune from such marketing ploys.  I am not.  In fact, as soon as I am in the vicinity of any sales pitch, a giant red LED sign reading "GULLIBLE" starts flashing on my forehead.  Like when I am standing in front of a shaving cream end cap display with the words "New smoother shave";  A little voice in my head tells me that yes, my skin has been a bit irritated lately. Or I may be at my favorite camping store and the tag on a new Goretex jacket reads "Keeps you more comfortably dry in any weather with ventilating pit zips that keep you cooler", and I think "how in the world did I ever hike without pit zips?  I might have died from heat exhaustion".

In truth, 95% of new and improved products perform exactly the same.  McDonalds now even has a commercial  which touts their "handcrafted burgers".  I am not making this up.  A fast food restaurant with prefabricated comestibles made in a chemistry lab actually claiming this about their burgers.  I guess since a sixteen year old high school kid, and not a robotic arm, assembles the components one can't argue with their choice of adjectives.

Companies must constantly reinvent their products to keep their appeal level high to a more and more attention deficit disordered society.  In a society where a cell phone becomes obsolete before you can text "check out my new phone" competition can be fierce.  So I must give kudos to a company that has been around since FDR declared December 7 a day of infamy, Old Spice deodorant.  I don't even know how it held on this long since most of its loyal fan base might actually have arrived in America on the clipper ship pictured in its logo.  But the other day as I was making my way past the "Hiya Doc" at my local WalMart (my visits have gotten so frequent the greeters know me), I noticed a wall display of deodorants with catchy names and packaging.  Names like "Matterhorn, Game Day, Arctic Force, and even Denali".  Finally, a deodorant with a name and scent manly enough for a rugged outdoors man such as myself. Upon closer inspection I was surprised to discover that the brand was none other than Old Spice.  And to my furthur delight they also have an entire line of body sprays and washes (haven't you heard, soap is passe).  Needless to say I left WalMart that day with enough man product to outfit my home, my log cabin, my office, my gym bag, and my travel toiletry kit for a years worth of macho activities.  Next time you see me there will be a certain virile aura to my presence.  "Have you recently climbed a pure arctic glacier or returned from some pristine mountain meadow?" you will ask me.
"No, I just smell like one".

I Don't Do Dress Up

Infants. Unless you have one of your own I am not really sure about the appeal.  People say they smell good and that is a good thing from an evolutionary, continue the species point of view, but still, I find the sentiment a bit off-putting.  I can envision a band of Homo erectus proto-humans hanging around their cave waiting for the rain to stop so they can resume the hunt.  And over in the corner, away from the other tribe members, a low browed woman suddenly cries in pain and gives birth to a soft, pink, vulnerable, more evolutionary advanced model.  The other members of this low order band run over and start to sniff, as primitive primates do, this new strange edition to their tribe.  Not recognizing the aroma he is giving off, they, well, put him outside the cave.  Even if you come at this from the intelligent design point of view, it certainly was a good idea to make infants appealing to our more primal instincts, such as smell.  So fragrant by design or fortunate coincidence?  I will leave the conclusion up to you.

But this post is not about happenstance vs. deliberateness as the source of our complexity.  I will leave that debate to the Fox cable network.  Don't get me wrong.  I love kids.  And kids seem to love me since I am not usually the one telling them to eat their broccoli and do their homework.  People without children can seem quite curmudgeonly when other's children are misbehaving in a public place or at the dinner table.  That should not be mistaken as impatience with the children themselves.  In my case, I can most definitely say my consternation is with the parents, not with the insubordinate little imps.  That is the main reason I always prefer to have the parents sit in the waiting room while I am interacting with little Kevin.  A much more manageable bond can be made without the overwrought nerves of  mom sending radio waves of anxiety to the child.  As my brother has sarcastically reminded me, the only people who know how to raise kids are the ones without any.

Allow me to clarify further. I think infants are cute and can be fun to cuddle.  I am just not the cootchy-coo  kind of guy.  I don't go over to babies and make a big fuss and start cooing.  From a strictly selfish point of view, I would much rather interact with the six and over crowd.  By that age they are obviously becoming smarter than their parents and they can be reasoned with, to a certain extent.  This may be the reason I don't like to dress up as some anti-plaque super hero if I am giving a presentation to elementary school kids.  I prefer to have straight talk with fourth and fifth graders rather than dressing up as Tuffy the Tooth and dancing around with a giant toothbrush in front of a pre-school aged crowd.  In fact, I don't even like to go to Halloween costume parties.  (If there are any parents of prospective three year old patients reading this, don't misunderstand me.  I would love to be your child's dentist).


Who knows.  If I had children of my own, maybe I would have been the first one to volunteer to play the big bad wolf in Elm Street Elementary's production of The Three Little Pigs.  I doubt it though.  Maybe there is an Intelligent Designer after all.  Someone was smart enough not to let me have kids.

Don't Tread On Us

I don't understand what the Tea Party stands for.  Or what they hope will be the final outcome of their budget plans.  A federal government so small and ineffectual that any company can dump a bunch of toxic chemicals on their lawn, go out of business and leave the cleanup to the neighbors?  Or leave the sacred Valley Forge National Park in the hands of local zoning boards so a casino and billboards can be built along the ramparts that protected our original freedom fighters?  Would they have preferred that Yellowstone and Yosemite National Parks have been left in the hands of the private entrepreneurs who most assuredly would have back filled, paved, and condominiumized every last inch by now?  Or that we have no one to turn to when an unscrupulous company imports lead lined baby bottles from you know where?

I own a small business, so believe me, I want the government off my back as much as the next guy.  We can go on and on about the merits of  free market capitalism and how government regulation stifles innovation and entrepreneurship.  Fine, I can agree with that.  But who do we turn to when BP screws up because they had the bottom line in mind?  Who is going to make sure all little kids get a fair and equal shot at a decent education regardless of where they live?  What government program does every senior citizen howl about when budget cutting is discussed? (Medicare).  Of course there are those who would argue that the government indirectly caused the Gulf oil spill in the first place because they would not allow drilling in Alaska and BP had no alternative but to drill in deep water.  But that's like pointing a water pistol at a cop then crying about police brutality when he shoots you.

The issue is not that government does not have our best interests in mind.  On an individual to individual basis no one knows what is best for us except us.  But we have gone too far, and our society has become too complex to revert back to being the nation of self sufficient yeoman farmers of which President Jefferson dreamed.  I believe that is what the Tea Party envisions.  They want to be left alone to do whatever they want with "my" land, "my" money, "my" business and to not know the possible consequences to people with whom they have no relationship.  It would  be grand to be left alone to live within the confines of our own conscience.  Big government and far off bureaucracies don't always make the right decisions for local interests, and I do know how better to invest my money for my retirement than some federal administration.  And very often the bureaucracy fails to protect us and it doesn't always work fairly.  But I am thankful every day that they are there to safeguard our natural resources from overzealous development, to provide open parkland space for the pleasure of all people, to protect our air and water supply, to be concerned about the health and welfare of all Americans regardless of economic status or political connections.

No bureaucracy is perfect and there will always be abuses and unfair regulations. I don't trust Wall Street any more than I trust federal bureaucracy.  And I don't believe we are a loose confederation of states where someone can be considered married in one but not another.  Or have a health care safety net in one and not another.  So we have a choice; Either "we all hang together or most assuredly we will all hang apart".

It Wasn't the Mustache That Slowed Me Down

Regular followers of my blog will recall from five days ago that I have recently embarked on a regimen of eating only whole foods and minimal caffeine.  So far it has been going well and I actually feel great.  I am over the caffeine hump and have not had a wheat, corn, or potato based chip in two weeks.  I have only had one wheat based slice of bread in two weeks as well.  And believe it or not, I don't miss it at this point.  Americans don't know what the rest of the world has known for centuries; rice is king.  But the point of my blog is not to gloat about my new found organic lifestyle.  Although it is quite possibly true that I may become one of those douche bags you see roaming around in Whole Foods trying to decide about the ethics of eating a certain brand of cottage cheese that isn't sufficiently nurturing to it's cows.

But once again I find myself off topic.  Along with my new healthier eating habits I have also joined a new gym across the street from my office.   And I have begun to swim regularly again before work or during a long lunch break.  Some of my closer associates will recall that I used to participate (not compete so much) in triathlon events; swim, bike, and run.  Well, I never was a very good swimmer so inevitably I would be one of the last ones, of all age brackets, to emerge out of the water.  I was so bad, in fact, that several times Tammy thought I had drowned since most of the participants in the female 70-80 age group beat me to the start of the bicycle portion of the race.  This actually turned out to be quite motivating because I was so far behind that I became the one doing all the passing during the bike ride and run.

But being a poor swimmer in the training pool is one of the most demoralizing experiences in the amateur racing world.  If I am out on the road riding my bicycle and some guy dusts me I may never see him again once he rounds the next turn.  Same with running.  I get passed all the time and in a few minutes I never see the person again.  Not so in the swimming pool. In a 25 yard pool I may get lapped every fourth length by the same person.  And that person may very well be a 70 year old aquacizing in the adjacent lane.  So every few minutes I am reminded of how bad a swimmer I am.  And while my head is down in the water and my arms are flailing trying not to be lapped for the tenth time in a half mile swim, it appears as if the person passing me is going about as fast as Michael Phelps in the 50 meter free style.  Then while I am resting by the side of the pool watching their seemingly slow stroke rate, I am once again reminded of how inefficiently my arms and legs carry me through the water.

But swimming is the only cardio exercise you can do where you actually feel refreshed and immediately able to return to work. If I rode the stationary bike during lunch I would still be perspiring during my 3:00 pm root canal.  So I will continue to plug away in hopes of one day not being the last one out of the pool.

And that sharp mustache I am sporting in these pics?  Gone, along with any desire to ever actually look like a porn star from the 1980's.

For You? Half Price

The other day I blogged that I had "scored" a Native American designed and wrought (or perhaps cast) silver money clip for ten dollars.  The purchase was made all the more satisfying by the fact that I had bargained down the price from twenty dollars.  The seller was a shy and unassuming Native American woman who had set up shop at a very picturesque rest stop/viewpoint along State Route 92 outside Salt Lake City Utah.  Tammy and I were on our way to the Sundance Resort for some downhill mountain biking.  Going to high priced resort spas for the day has become somewhat of a distraction for us during our regularly planned adventure trips.  Since we only spend our sleeping hours in the room why pay upwards of $275.00  just for a bed?  We never get room service and we never lie around watching cable in the room.  As a day guest one can usually pay for amenities such as a massage and enjoy the grounds and all the facilities for the entire day.  When we are finished recreating we drive back to The Motel 6 or our tent and we are just as rested as the Kennedys.

In many countries the proprietor would consider it rude if you did not haggle.  They know the hand carved drum is over priced.  They know you know the hand carved drum is over priced.  And you know they know.........  And if you don't act like there is even a possibility you will buy it he will take it as a personal insult that you don't think his crafts are worth your time.  When I was in New Mexico last year I somehow got it into my head that I needed a hand made shaman's drum.  You know, the kind they beat in the sweat lodge until your peyote button induced hallucinations, vomiting, and trembling make you so disturbingly twisted that you actually believe you were present when Pte-San-Hunka ( Chief White Bull) shot Custer with his own gun.  Or so I have heard.  Anyway I was driving through the Cochiti Pueblo near Albuquerque when I happened upon a small ranch house with a sign outside reading "handmade native drums for sale".  Tammy was at her CEO meeting back in town so I was on my own.  Not that she could have protected me from the three wolf-dogs growling at me as I got out of my rented Chevy Cavalier.  No, I value Tammy more for her abilitity to prevent me from getting ripped off for a chachka I will regret buying in eight months .

Tammy is a very shrewd haggler.  There is really nothing she wants so badly that she isn't willing to walk away if she hasn't bent the opposing party sufficiently to her side of fair.  Me, on the other hand, they can smell my enthusiasm for their trinkets the minute I get off the plane.  Our first trip together was a five day excursion to Jamaica in 1984.  I had just graduated from dental school and to pay for the trip I cashed a $500.00 bond my grandmother had given me for my thirteenth birthday.  I say thirteenth birthday and  not bar mitzvah because, you know, I wasn't.  Anyway, we were not yet married, but after this trip there could be no doubt that Tammy was the one who would take care of me for better or for worse.  We took a bus trip to a small "crafts village" that consisted of several rows of grass huts neatly aligned, with the artisans sitting outside patiently waiting to show off their wares and hopefully sell a handwoven basket to the well-heeled tourists.  As is our way, we were methodically browsing the huts in the proper order but an overly enthusiastic merchant from two rows down kept running up to us trying to make us skip all the shanties between our current one and hers.  After ten minutes of her cajoling, Tammy had finally had enough.  "I don't like your attitude" Tammy admonished her.  "Now we aren't going to stop at your hut at all.  We are going to skip right over it".  Meanwhile this woman had no shoes and I could clearly see the fifth through sixteenth ribs under her tattered t-shirt.  What does this have to do with haggling over the price of a handwoven Jamaican straw hat? 
Well, we left the village with various handwoven palm leaf contrivances smug in the knowledge that we really pulled one over on those peddlers.  This stuff would cost three times as much at Pier One.  Meanwhile, the ten dollars we saved was meaningless to us yet it probably would have fed an entire impoverished family in Jamaica for two weeks.  You see, people brag all the time about the great bargains they were able to wrangle from the natives while visiting a mostly impoverished nation.  Then when there is a hurricaine or tsunami, we guiltily send off a check for $50.00 to help those very same villagers.  My point is the twenty dollars means a hell of a lot more to some rug dealer in Pakistan than it does to the rich tourist who harassed him out of it and then brags about it.  But as I said earlier, they expect you to haggle so maybe I don't have a point.

Even Barack appreciates a good drum

But back to my drum.  I made my way up the driveway, past the dogs who, I was convinced, could smell a sucker, past the 1972 F-150 perched on two front tires and two rear cinder blocks, and non-chalantly knocked on the screen door which had one hinge and no screen.  I was warmly greeted by an elderly tribesman and I stated my desire to purchase a drum.  He brought me into his living room where about forty drums of various sizes and uses were on display.  His son was the drum maker but he was away on business.  I immediately fell in love with a 3 foot tall floor drum that had a beautiful sound.  There was no way I was getting it home on the plane and FedEx barely made it this far out onto the Rez.  We sat in his living room playing all the drums together until he declared I had found the right one.  It was a manageable sized ceremonial drum with a deep tonal sound and a nice patina to it's rawhide.  Something about my spirit aura while I played this particular drum made him quite sure that the drum had actually chosen me.  After he chanted a blessing for my journey home it was time to buy the drum.  It was priced at $150.00 but I really only wanted to pay $100.00.  He would not budge below $120.00 and a better deal maker than me would have started walking back to the car. As my hand would be opening the car door, the seller would surely give in.  But I like to think this somewhat mystical man was sincere in his warmth for me and my new drum.  Besides, the experience of the purchase was well worth the minor gnawing in my gut that I may have seen drums like this in town for $60.00. Since I only had $75.00 in cash with me (I never thought I would spend over $50.00), I paid the $120.00 half in cash and half with a check.

Well, I banged that drum both day and night sitting in my cabin for about six months hoping for some primal spiritual vision.  It never came.  Now it sits up high on a shelf, silent and alone.  But the spirits might have smiled on me after all.  Two years later and that check has still not been cashed.

Hunter Gatherer

According to the online retail site Sierra Trading Post, I have saved over $6539.00 to date.  This means I had to have spent something north of $10,000.00 at their online establishment.  Maybe more because I have actually visited their store in Cheyenne, Wyoming, when I happened to be driving by on my way to some outdoor adventure.  They didn't ask for my online user name and password when I purchased the $250.00 climbing boots (and a ton of other crap I am sure, but can't remember) so I assume I have saved even more.   I came up with the ten thousand dollar figure because I usually do not make a purchase until the price is discounted an extra 20-30 percent over their already discounted prices.  Of course I have returned many items where the color or size was "not as expected" so I assume these are not then deducted from my total savings number.  So maybe I have spent significantly less, I do not know nor do I really want to find out.

Of course my excuse is that all my purchases are utilitarian.  I do have a few tchotchke collections that once I started I felt I couldn't stop because if I were to be missing one crucial piece then the whole collection would have to be sold piecemeal on ebay at a terrible loss to my eventual heirs.  And by terrible loss I mean maybe thirty-nine dollars.  Here is an inventory of my prized collections:

1. Hallmark's Skys the Limit airplane Christmas ornaments 1997 through 2010, in progress
2. US Mint proof state quarters 1999 through 2008 complete
3. US Mint proof presidential dollars 2009 through present, in progress
4. US Mint proof America the beautiful quarters 2010 through present, in progress
5. USPS Nature of America Stamp sets 1999 through 2010, complete.
6. Miscellaneous interesting USPS commemorative stamp sheets such as the Classic Movie Monster series.

You can understand why I bought the coin sets.  They celebrate everything I love about America and they can also be used as actual currency if all else fails, thereby complying with my "I buy only useful items" rationale.  Same with the stamps.  Although  these would require an additional investment to put into use owing to the fact that the cost of a first class letter has gone up significantly since Frankenstein and Dracula  have been immortalized on a US postage stamp.  The airplane Christmas tree ornaments are, admittedly, strictly bling.  Once I bought the cool replica of the Wright Brother's first airplane I couldn't stop.  Every year I vow not to buy the next airplane in the series, and then I see it's the very cool Spirit of St Louis that Lindy flew to France (or was it England?) and I cave. 

So I do like to shop.  In a bricks and mortar store, online, or in a parking lot on the side of the road in Utah (where I scored a Native American sterling silver Kokopelli money clip for ten dollars).  What I don't like to do is browse.  That you see, is what women do.  In fact most men do indeed like to shop, well buy actually.  We just don't like to browse.  We know what we want.  For every guy that states he hates to shop I will show you a basement full of every power and hand tool imaginable, a drawer organizer filled with enough nuts, bolts, screws and cotter pins to repair a nuclear submarine,  a closet filled with golf clubs (titanium, carbon fiber, and alloy), a ball for every sport that involves a ball, sneakers for each of those sports, rackets and  assorted accessories for those sports, fishing and hunting gear, and enough logoed ball caps to outfit an entire African village.  Out in the garage there will be enough gas powered lawn tools and gasoline to generate electricity for that same village for three consecutive months.  And more likely than not there is a 1972 Dodge Charger in various stages of rehabilitation that by now has actually cost more than a 2011 Maserati.  If the guy likes to cook?  You can bet he has bought more garlic pressers, lemon zesters and power processors than his wife would have under the same circumstances.  So please guys, do not tell me you don't like to shop.

Admittedly most of the things men buy are utilitarian.  Women, on the other hand like objets d'art.  Although let's face it, they are really just objects d'clutter.  Miniature Dickens Christmas villages, Santas from around the world (all bought in Target no doubt), garden gnomes and bambis, those creepy faceless Willow Tree statuettes, and the "priceless", yet over priced, Precious Moments figurines.  Back in the nineteenth century Lewis and Clark referred to these items as gewgaws.  There wasn't an aboriginal tribe around that couldn't be bought off with a few carefully doled out tchotchkes. The men took the hatchets and coins while the women took the beads and baubles no doubt. 

Now in the twenty-first century hatchets have been replaced by iPhones and baubles by Dolce and Gabbana.
We might think we are the most highly advanced civilization ever but there really is no psychological difference between a rough hewn cabin trading post on the Oregon Trail and the internet based Amazon.com.  Only the highway has changed names.