Dear Rejected Pet Owner

I found this unpublished blog from when we tried to adopt a cat after Grayson died:




Dear fellow animal lover,

We have received your appeal to our rejection of your attempt to adopt one of our exceptional, yet abandoned feline domestici.  As explained in our rejection letter, we prefer to keep the specifics of our selection process in a shroud of double, super special top secretness so as to avoid any hint of rationality.  Plus one time, a normal family with two kids and a working Mom actually tried to convince us that they were capable of giving one of our kitties all the attention it deserved.  Ha!  We would like to know in what time defying universe they are living.

In any case, since your entreaty seemed to demonstrate such an extreme degree of pathetic retiree loneliness, we decided to grant you a one time exception and we will outline below the reasons we rejected you as a suitable parent for one of our pharaonic cats.  Get the metaphor?  The Pharaohs had cats as pets and Jews as slaves.  Guess where you fit in?

Well, first off, we are duly impressed that you were once voted as a Top Dentist in South Jersey but we fail to see how this relates to your suitability to raise one of our felines.  Sure, you would probably provide better than average dental care but predators are more than just their fangs.  We believe you can barely see past the canines and you may fail to realize there is a cat attached to every tooth.

Secondly we are gravely concerned about some trigger warnings to which you seem oblivious.  When asked about the kind of toys you would provide, you mentioned feather toys.  As most reasonably educated people know by now, using feather boas and such is an offensive stereo type of gay men.  How would you like it if we wore yarmulkes for Halloween?

You also mentioned that you would be purchasing the cat food at the same grocery store where you shop for your own human food. You further went on to explain that you sometimes buy generic store brands like frosted corn flake cereal and Lancaster Brand (Acme's store label) meats.  Needless to say, our jaws dropped at the suggestion that your cat would be happy eating store brand bits and kibbles.  We appreciate the fact that you are 56 years old and can swim a mile, bike 26 miles, and run 6.2 miles all in one day, and on a diet of iceberg lettuce, dark chicken meat, and store brand spaghetti but for the love of over indulged pets everywhere, why bring the cat down to your level of gastronomic decrepitude?

Perhaps you would be better off and you would more easily qualify for a human child through child welfare services. Perhaps one who loves hugs and smiles easily. As we all know, cats hate hugs and it seems as if you are in dire need of any type of mammalian embrace. We wish you the best of luck in your search for senescent sodality.

Best regards,

Chelsea,
Home care coordinator of Pedigreed Cats Anonymous

The Cat Nazis

This post originally appeared on Facebook where I have 56 friends as opposed to 9 friends on my comatose blog.


As many of my 56 Facebook friends, and Tammy's assorted friends know, our beloved cat, Grayson (pictured in the first photo), died suddenly last weekend. We thought we could wait until after our vacation this summer to adopt a new cat, but alas, I was way more lonely than I anticipated. Since Grayson was such a beautiful and affectionate animal (at least to those of us he didn't bite), and we had owned another rescue Maine Coon mix, we decided to try and adopt another rescue Maine Coon Cat. We found an organization online called Only Maine Coon Rescues. We fell in love with the photo and bio of one of their featured cats. The bio described him as having a bit of an attitude in that he would gently swipe at you if you "over-petted" him. He seemed to have what I like to call "catittude". A personality quirk I adore in cats. They are very independent as opposed to being extremely needy like dogs, and I love that quality. So I dutifully filled out the lengthy online application and anxiously awaited the reply. Well, three days later, I still had not heard anything in spite of being assured by the auto response e-mail that since "OMCRescue.org" is a volunteer endeavor it would be 24 hours before we should expect a response. In the mean time, Tammy had researched rescue cats on the Camden County Animal Shelter web site and she found Bentley, whose 70 year old owner had just died. Her daughter could not take on another cat so she was forced to bring him back to the pound. Bentley is the cat pictured in the second photo. Who could not fall in love with those big, round, expressive eyes??? Like a Margaret Keane character come to life. So we went to PetSmart (where the animal shelter showcases the cats) and adopted him. Well, wouldn't you know it, two days later I received an e-mail from the Maine Coon cat rescue organization. No, it was not serendipitous good news. It was a rejection letter!!!!!! And it was, I must say, more painful and out of hand dismissive than the rejection letter I received from Harvard University in 1978 (okay, I never applied to Harvard, but you get my point). I have, and this is the point of this long story, included a copy of the letter below. I don't object to being rejected if they feel I don't meet certain criteria, but for goodness sakes, allow me the dignity to understand the rules. I wasn't even granted the courtesy of a home visit by one of their, I assume, trained, feline centric social workers before being rejected. And maybe I am over-reacting, we are talking about voluntary do-goodism here, but how patronizing is it to say, we are sure you may still be able to adopt a cat elsewhere, but not from us with our TOP-SECRET, super special feline domesticus guidelines. MY goodness, if I ever had a patient for whom I did not want to fix a tooth because he never brushed his teeth, I would explain to him the importance of oral hygiene for the long term maintenance of your dental work. Start brushing and I will be happy to be your dentist. I spent ALOT of "unreimbursed" time educating my patients (the most important aspect of healthcare btw). I wouldn't just kick someone out of my office because they didn't meet my high standards of caring. But maybe that's just me, I don't know. Maybe a dialogue between two people with opposing points of view would have prevented the election of Donald Trump by the so-called unheard masses. Seriously. Cat Nazis do not further the cause of unwanted pets in this country. Maybe you disagree. I would love to hear from you, especially if you think I am a sarcastic, bitter old white man. Which I clearly am. Here is the rejection letter. Feel free to e-mail them with your opinion that their selection process should not be shrouded in Trumpian secrecy.....even if you think they were correct to reject me because I obviously have anger issues:

                                                                                                     
OMC! Rescue (Only Maine Coons Rescue) would like to thank you for taking the time to apply to our rescue group.
Unfortunately, your application was not approved.
To maintain the effectiveness of our adoption process and guidelines, we cannot provide specific details as to why your application was not approved.
We do understand any disappointment you may feel with this decision. This does not mean that you cannot provide a good home to another cat in need. It just means that something in your application did not meet the guidelines we have in place to adopt our cats.
OMC! Rescue wishes you success in your endeavors to add a new cat to your home.

Sincerely,
Only Maine Coons Rescue - OMC!
http://www.omcrescue.org
info@omcrescue.org


Here was my reply email:

Oh, silly me. I thought having owned rescue cats since 1973 would qualify me.  One of our Maine Coon mixes showed up at our door one day, and after trying to find her owner, we took her in.  She lived with us for 18 years.  She adopted us.  Maybe the cats should make the decisions, not you.

Regards,

Richard Feuer

This, of course, will reinforce their low opinion of me.  But that's the problem with fundamentalism, isn't it?  The inability to ever engage in self reflection.

What is Two-Thirds in Decimals? Redux.

 
My life thus far has been a series of minor tragedies, beginning at birth, with an undescended right testicle.  Cryptorchidism affects 3% of full term males at birth and of those, 20% will require a surgical intervention to reposition the affected testicle back into its proper housing, the scrotum.  I, of course, was one of the unlucky 0.6% who needed this procedure thus qualifying the event as an irksome, if not tragic, situation for the six year old boy I had become during the mandatory "let's wait and see if it drops" biding time.  If you missed the math by the way, that 0.6% intervention rate came from taking 20% of 3% which is 0.2x0.03=0.006.  Which, if you were asleep in  the fourth grade, is equivalent to 6/1000 or six tenths of one percent more commonly known as 0.6 %.  I only bring up the math to segue into my discussion of a far greater tragedy than my one undescended testicle and that is my consternation at the confusion caused when I tell the deli person that I would like 2/3 of a pound of oven roasted turkey meat, please.

You see, the scale at the deli counter is in decimals so the clerk needs to convert my two-thirds request into a decimal number so he/she/LGBTQ can read the scale.  If, by some miracle, I am feeling charitable I will just go ahead and order zero point six-five pounds of the turkey breast so as to avoid too much brow wrinkling on the part of the deli worker.  But because my favorite life affirming mantra is "I can't believe what an idiot this guy is", I usually go with the 2/3 of a pound request just so I can confirm my already dim view of my fellow citizens.....As if the popularity of Donald Trump as presidential candidate isn't confirmation enough.
But there is hope and the optimists at The Department of Education have a plan to educate would-be bologna slicers.  It is the educational directive known as STEM; Sandwich Technology and Eating eM.
The original meaning of the acronym had, of course, a far loftier goal of training the future engineers of America but there are obvious cracks in the plan.  The main one being the seeming lack of jobs for all those college graduates who are living back in their old room at Mommy's house.
If the middling Rutgers grads are working at "The Gap" selling casual work wear to their more successful peers in Silicon Valley, then the only hope for the STEM kids is behind the slicer at the deli counter.  But at least they will be able to fulfill my order with a wink and a knowing nod.  I'm an optimist if nothing else and perhaps we can get some of the Intelligent Design believers in Texas to send their kids to science camp to learn basic critical thinking skills.  But seeing as the man (Cruz) they sent to Washington is doing all he can to bring about the prophesied apocalypse, I seriously doubt it.

But I digress.  It just came to my attention that I previously complained about the same math illiteracy issue in 2011 so maybe, just maybe, the STEM initiative will actually help.  I would donate some money to the cause but when I Google "donate to STEM" it only comes up with charities for stem cell research.  Which brings me back around to the original point of this post which happens to be directly related to my own stem cells in that the testicle is the holding tank for their delivery vehicle.  And if my having the rhetorical skills to link thinly sliced turkey breast to a testicle is not the best plug for what an education in science and math can do for someone, I don't know what is.

P.S.  I used ambiguity in that last paragraph to make a point.  Click here to donate to "stem cell research" and click here to donate to "STEM education initiatives". 

Dear Woody

Back by popular demand the beloved Dear Woody column. Once again, the names have been changed to protect the guilty:

Dear Woody, 

Everyday I still check to see if you wrote a blog! I miss them!!! 

Love, Darren

Dear Darren,

Thank you for your kind thoughts.  But try reading a book or upgrading your cable to include HBO.  

As for the blog, I have taken the advice of many family members; If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all.

Love,

Woody

Choices

There are not many excuses in life but there are plenty of mitigating circumstances.  A good friend of mine posted a link to the above morality maxim on her Facebook page.  Not wanting to embroil myself in an internet kerfuffle, I made one reductio ad absurdum comment and I then backed off when her reply had at least one word typed out in emphatic CAPS.  My comment-repeated here only for purposes of clarification-was "What about Sophie's Choice?  Was she alone to blame?" My point, of course, was not well received, or more appropriately stated, not fully appreciated.

The main point of the aphorism is actually quite valid and I agree with the sentiment in principle.  I am, by nature, a determinist and for every calamity that seems to befall some hapless people, I believe there lies an imprudent decision somewhere in their past.  And if some maladjusted misanthrope pulls the trigger on an ill advised caper, then he alone has chosen to do so and he must suffer the consequences agreed upon by twelve reasonable people.  Even if that reprobate was raised by five different foster families and Mom is a prostitute and Dad was killed in a drug deal gone bad.

So what then, is so objectionable about the missive that it shouts a right wing, fundamentalist sentimentality?  Simple, it's the final word; Period.  And not only does this graphic close the door on any and all discussion, but the person who originally posted it (not my friend) added a comment along with the graphic; PERIOD.  Just to make sure, I assume, we don't try to read in any ambiguities.  And yes, it was typed in CAPS.  She is shouting at us and we haven't even begun the debate!  And apparently she feels that there is no debate.  But it is not this inability to acknowledge the gray areas in life that troubles me.  It is the seeming lack of empathy that interests me about this post.  Was it about a specific incident?  Like the Travon Martin case?  I don't know.  It really seems to be just a generalized statement on the condition of man, or a man's life, since it was a stand alone Facebook post.

I deem the persons who post these kinds of missives to be normally kind and good hearted people.  At least the people I friend and know on Facebook who might agree with this maxim are kind and earnest human beings.  But to emphatically post such a missive, without an explanation about a specific incident toward which it is directed seems un-empathetic at best and condescending at worst.  Here is the delicate point upon which I tread:  I have noticed that many of the people who agree with the sentiment expressed in this platitude consider themselves devout Christians.   It seems incongruous to me for people of faith to disagree that this sentiment, as it stands in an isolated Facebook post, demonstrates a certain lack of empathy.  But I would like to discuss an observation that may lead to some understanding.

Another debate, this one with a live person, gave me some insight.  I was having a discussion with an acquaintance, who shall remain nameless, about his work with incarcerated women in a state prison.  He is teaching them so that they may earn their GED.  I expressed my admiration for his work and how both rewarding and difficult it must be.  We started to discuss the nature of the women in prison, and being the conservative libertarian that he is, he expressed little sympathy for the women as they only have themselves to blame for their situation. But he did feel it was his duty to help them.  I averred that not everyone is born with equal abilities and with the same opportunities in life (we are all born with equal rights) so we should take that into consideration when judging these women-not to excuse them-but just to understand their situation.  That way, we may better help them to make good choices.  His response shocked me into silence, a vary rare occurrence indeed.  He said "What, are you Hitler?  That is akin to believing in eugenics".  I should note, as it pertains to the current discussion, that at the outset of our conversation he acknowledged that his world view flows form The Bible and God, as opposed to mine, I suppose, which originates from the natural rights of Man a' la Rousseau and Spinoza.  Thus implying we would never come to agree.

Which I suppose is true since, I can only assume, he thinks all secular humanists who believe in a natural order theorize like Hitler (who was raised a Catholic BTW) and I believe him to be quite unempathetic for a religious man.  But it is this idea that he believes (I can only guess) that all human beings are endowed by their Creator with an immaculate free will to choose good versus evil, that interests me.  For I think this is the root of what I consider to be a right wing, Christian fundamentalist view of human behavior.  Our souls are perfect as God has created us and it is only in this corporeal life that we choose mischief.  If circumstances are not going our way, we can choose to put it in God's hands, and if we do not, we have only ourselves to blame.  Even the most wretched and downtrodden among us have chosen to look away from God.  When looked at from this point of view it is easy to see why someone who professes a life based on The Bible can seem un-empathetic.  They do sincerely want to help someone who might find themselves in an untenable situation. But they believe that  this person only has himself to blame since God has given everyone the same free will to choose between good and evil.

I am not criticizing nor condoning this world view.  I am just trying to understand what I, and other like minded liberals, perceive to be a lack of empathy by some right leaning Christians. And let me be clear that by lack of empathy I in no way mean they don't care.  I believe they do care very much about helping others.  They might have sympathy, but they do not have empathy.

This Is Only Funny Because I Didn't Break My Neck

I have been cautiously working on a blog post that has the potential to ruffle a few feathers but in the meantime I had an accident this past weekend.  The accident was aided and abetted by an improvident decision on the part of a very close associate of mine so it might have been premeditated.  Though malice aforethought seems highly unlikely as this associate is my loving and beloved wife-who is emotionally, psychologically, and physiologically incapable of even looking at a dead mouse caught in one of the various mousetraps set about in our cabin.  And so bewitched is she with the needs of the various animals in our chalet that my cat might actually be the primary cause of this mishap.  Of course, the cat wasn't supposed to even be up at the cabin this weekend since it was my sister-in-law's turn to enjoy the pastoral setting of Woodland Valley and she is uneasy around cats ever since she was bit by one during a vet visit gone awry.  But being the delightfully easy going person that she is, she agreed to allow Grayson, the cat, to accompany us on the three and one half hour car ride up to the Catskills.  Thus, it is actually her fault that I fell in the hole.

For some atavistic reason having to do with caves and lairs, my cat is fascinated with all things dank and dark such as basements and crawl spaces.  And so it wasn't very long after we bought our cabin that Grayson became obsessed by the mysterious trap door in the floor of our furnace room.  I am convinced he could smell the musty air permeating up through the gaps at the edges of the six square foot panel in the floor.  Either that or he saw me disappear down it one day when I had to check on the water pump.  In any case, if we happened to leave the furnace room door open he would meow and paw at the trap door until we shooed him away. One day we finally relented and opened the trap door for him to curiously peer into the abyss in that cross-eyed way that cats have of staring at a new circumstance in their otherwise selfish life.  And so it became routine for him to meow his way into forcing us to open the trap door for him.  We even left the ladder in the hole for him to climb back up to the surface when he was done exploring his "cave".

Being the prudent man that I am, I was sure to leave the light on in the furnace room and the door propped open with a brightly colored broom handle laying across the entrance so no one could mistakenly walk in and abruptly fall five feet down to their catastrophic misfortune.  Even with these precautions in place, I always felt a vague sense of unease about leaving the trap door open for the cat.  At least it was only Tammy and I in the cabin and we both knew when the other had left the door open for Grayson.  Or so I assumed.

Now, the cabin being what it is, a cabin, one must maximize storage space for all of the toys that go along with living in the woods.  Snow shoes, skis (downhill and cross country), boots (hiking and skiing), various poles for stabilizing oneself while engaging in either walking or schussing downhill, footwear for stream ambling, foot wear for bicycling, and of course a different helmet for each of the aforementioned endeavors.  A furnace room happens to be the perfect location for these toys since my wife won't let me hang my hiking poles on the bear hook in the foyer (mouse click here).  Heaven forbid if a guest should find out I hike in the woods by spying my gear out in the open.  But I digress.  Needless to say, this room is well traveled by me.

On most Friday evenings when we arrive at the cabin, Tammy, myself, and the cat immediately engross ourselves in the various chores that have become our routine.  Tammy disappears outside to check her garden, I set about replugging in the various small appliances that might have started a fire while we were away, and Grayson begins his vigil at the door of the furnace room meowing and whining until we relent and open that door, and then the trap door.  On this particular Friday, as I have mentioned, we had company.  So when Tammy wanted to open the trap door for Grayson, I felt an immediate sense of unease.  "Someone", I prophetically proclaimed, "is going to fall into this hole".  But as is usually the case in feline populated households, the needs of the cat come first. So we warned our guests and we left the light on in the furnace room and the crawl space and propped the broom handle as a sort of caution tape in the doorway.  Everyone, I assured myself, is aware of the peril in traveling freely about the cabin.  Once the cat had satisfied himself that a family of racoons had not moved into his cave, which usually takes about thirty minutes, he came back up the ladder and with a sigh of relief I closed the trap door.  Thus restoring a contiguous hard surface for plummet free walking about the cabin.

That Saturday dawned sunny and a predicted  break in the heat wave gave us all a buoyant outlook for the weekend.  So over breakfast it was decided that Tammy would accompany her sister and brother-in-law on a walk down Woodland Valley Rd to enjoy the serenity and I would would go on a bicycle ride to suffer on the various steep mountain roads that ascend throughout our valley. When I returned hot, sweaty and tired two hours later I was looking forward to a relaxing lunch of a couple of beers and whatever discommodious vegetarian summer salad Tammy had found on eatlikearabbit_feelgreat.com.  But first I had to put away my bicycling shoes and change into my flip flops.  If you scored well on the reading comprehension portion of the SATs you will immediately realize where I keep my bicycling shoes.  In the furnace room. Why "someone" left the trap door open, with the light turned off, and the door only slightly ajar, with no warning broom stick laid at an angle across the doorway, I have no idea.  And why this was done while I was away from the house and not forewarned, I have no idea.  And why the damn cat had to go into the crawl space at twelve o'clock on a sunny Saturday morning I also have no idea.  I do now have an idea, however, of what it is like to fall into a mountain crevasse and live to tell the story.  At least there's that.

One of multiple contusions.

I Am Pissed Off Again! And It Feels GGGGrrrrreeeeaaaat!!!!

Another assault on liberal thinking has just been launched from, of all places, Narberth, Pennsylvania.  Again.  Regular readers of my ersatz (one of my most favorite words) column will recall my opinion piece of June 21, 2013 in which I responded to a resident of this small Pennsylvanian hamlet over her misguided views on how liberals think and what they believe.  What are the odds that I would be pissed off  twice in one week from the same small town in Pennsylvania?  To be fair, this volley was not a direct hit on progressive political thinking.  It was directed more at the cafeteria monotheists among us.  You know who you are.  You like to pick and choose among the various dogmas, doctrines, and sacraments, to best suit your current spiritual state.  Yet you still believe in the one God.  Perhaps you are just confused about all the dictums-which are mostly enforced by ersatz (see?  A great word) clerics.  But it is usually liberals (and right of center thinkers) who choose to see the world, even the divine one, in various shades of gray.

Here is the letter (it was in response to an article on the proliferation of yoga studios in Philly):

Uneasy over the lotus position

Yoga is more than a system of physical exercises. There is a spiritual component that may or may not be emphasized ("Going to the mat," June 23). Most yoga teachers are probably nice people, and yoga participants may seek to participate in a benign exercise program. Indeed, people testify to physical benefits such as greater flexibility or easing and healing of certain maladies. But I don't believe that yoga is benign. It has been practiced for thousands of years and is tied directly to Eastern religions, mainly Hindu gods.

People who open themselves to those gods or spirits, even in a church, synagogue, or YMCA setting, are inviting in and engaging with other gods. Jews, Christians, and Muslims agree that there is one God, with differences. In each of those faiths, God is divine. To practice yoga is to integrate parts of Eastern religion and mysticism into people's lives, perhaps unknowingly, or in the belief that it won't matter. But people can become confused, and their priorities may become rearranged. There may be outright distancing from God. So I'm sorry to hear that Philadelphia has the distinction of ranking third in the country for yoga.

Margie Nathanson, Narberth, PA

Here is the link to the original so you don't think I made this up:
Yoga is the devils workshop.

And in case you are wondering why I am allowing myself to get so bent out of shape over what one person, whom I am sure is very lovely,  thinks, click on this link (the lawsuit was brought by Stephen and Jennifer Sedlock):
Breathe deep the gathering gloom.


My response:
Dear Margie,
cc; Stephen and Jennifer, Encinitas CA

You know what?  I actually agree with you.  Fundamental yoga practice is inconsistent with fundamental Western religious thought.  And there is that thing about worshiping false idols.  But how do you know what is in the hearts and minds of other people?  That's where you lose me. If Christians, Jews, and Muslims can agree to disagree, why can't Hindus, and Buddhists be a part of the detente?  Or secular yogi practitioners?  Aren't we all looking for the same thing, like you said, but with differences?

Perhaps I am being intellectually rigid, but if you believe Mohammad was a false prophet and John Smith was a false prophet, then you should be just as upset over a Mormon tabernacle or an Islamic mosque being built in Philadelphia as you are about a yoga studio.  And that would be just downright bigoted. 

A Snake in the Grass

A young man was walking along in the woods one chilly spring day when he suddenly came upon a snake laying motionless in the middle of the dirt path.  He gently prodded it with his hiking staff to see if he could coax it to slither aside.  "Please, young sir", implored the snake, "I am but a cold blooded animal and I cannot gather the strength on this cool day to crawl back to my nest to guard my young.  If you would but pick me up and warm me for a few minutes I could summon the energy to wriggle home and check my brood".
The young man was taken aback by the snakes odd request.  "What kind of fool do you take me for?" he asked the snake.  "You would most assuredly bite me".
"Oh, no.  I am way to weak to even think such a thing.  I am only interested in my young.  Please, please.  I beg of you.  My children may themselves be killed by a hungry mammal if I am not there to protect them".
"I don't know", replied the man, obviously beginning to soften to the snakes pitiful circumstance.  "Do you promise not to bite me if I help you?"
"Of course, of course.  I would never bite the hand that helped me".

So, perhaps against the young man's gut sense, he knelt down and extended his hand for the snake to crawl onto his arm to be warmed.  And just as he opened his palm, the snake struck out and sank his fangs deep into the soft flesh of his hand.  "Ouch!" he cried out in pain and astonished disbelief.  " Why did you do that?  You gave me your word".
"You knew what I was when you reached out to hold me", hissed the snake as he slithered away.  "You should not have expected me to be something I am not".

I Asked For It

Careful what you ask for.  I asked to be pissed off and boy did Connie Waterman of Narberth, PA oblige.  She is a fellow letter to the Editor writer at the Philadelphia Inquirer.  Here is the link to her letter. I will paste it here as well, in case the link is ever broken.  I don't ever want to forget it.

Here is the link to the letter: Thou shalt not hate. Scroll down to "Threat to Military Readiness"


I have pasted the letter here as well:

Threat to military readiness

I do not claim that there is no sexual misconduct in the U.S. military. However, I believe Sen. Kirsten Gillibrand (D., N.Y.) and other Democrats are encouraging any misconduct claim from women in order to destroy the military accomplishments of men ("For U.S. military, an enemy within," June 13). Since the 1960s, liberals have loathed the military. Liberals destroyed the institution of marriage, Judeo-Christian values, the family unit, work ethics, personal responsibility, and respect for life in the womb. The military is next.

Connie Waterman, Narberth, PA
______________________________________________________________________
My response:
Dear Connie,

I am very disappointed in your letter.  The military isn't next.  It's already dead.  The day they allowed a gay Marine to defend his country is the day the military died.  It is already too late for our brave men in uniform.  No, the next American institution the liberals are going to destroy is healthcare.  Our sacred right to spend 80% of our precious healthcare dollars on the last five years of our life is in jeopardy.  Liberals want equal access to healthcare regardless of ability to pay. Preposterous!  How dare the social misanthropes who call themselves liberals allow someone with a preexisting heart condition to get affordable healthcare. Those chronically ill malingerers have no one to blame but themselves what with all that cigarette smoking and Big Mac eating. And what about their 25 year old kids? Why do they deserve to leech off society? No one gave me health insurance when I was a young adult. If I was careless with a knife and accidentally sliced my finger off, my mother sewed it back on. Out here on the prairie we take care of our own.

And speaking of the prairie, those damn liberals are systematically destroying the farmers way of life. They especially hate, hate, chicken farmers. What did Frank Perdue or John Tyson ever do to harm a chicken? Those men were church going saints. They do those chickens a favor by squashing them in like invertebrate sardines and providing free hormones and antibiotics. Chickens can't fly anyway. The liberals want to create an entire generation of entitled chickens by messing with the Farm Bill. Liberals care more about chickens than they do another woman's womb.  Pure evil.

Evil?   I'll tell you what's evil. The woods. Absolutely no good can come from allowing trees to proliferate any where in America. The forest is the devil's home. Where do you think Satan tempted Eve?  In the woods, that's where.  A snake in a tree.  The liberals want to preserve our forests! They just hate mankind that much. Imagine favoring trees over strip malls. There are no snakes in the Kohl's parking lot. I can assure you of that.

I agree that liberals have destroyed the sanctity of marriage.  Have you ever heard of a God fearing Christian cheating on his wife?  Only a self centered, lazy atheist would split up his family over another woman.  I can't think of a single hard working atheist that ever did a single thing for this country.  Well, except for Thomas Jefferson.  He might have been Agnostic, though.  I'm not sure.  He was so busy providing for the slaves on his farm, especially that Mrs. Sally Hemings, that I don't know how he had time to rewrite the entire Bible leaving out all the metaphysical passages.

Speaking of Thomas Jefferson, I don't think there is a single liberal that knows the first thing about our founding fathers.  Men like John Adams, George Washington, John Jay, Alexander Hamilton and James Madison.  They weren't a bunch of wealthy intellectual elitists.  No, they were just like you and me.  Hard working, God fearing, blue collar laborers.  If it wasn't for those nice slaves keeping the plantations running, those selfless men never would have had the time to meet in Philadelphia.  Now that I think about it, it was a bunch of liberal abolitionists that wanted the slaves freed in the first place.  The plantation masters were certainly conservative church going men.  Where do these liberals get their crazy ideas?

One more thing.  The American family was way better off before we had; The Family Leave Act, a minimum wage, The Americans with Disablities Act, Medicare, Social Security, The Clean Air Act,  unemployment benefits, and work place safety rules.  Liberal ideas, every last one.  How dare anyone believe we are all responsible for each other whether they worship in our church or not.

Dear Woody

The team here at "Cabin in the Catskills" is always looking to provide additional value added services to our loyal followers.  So we are pleased to announce a new interactive feature entitled "Ask Woody".  An advice and help column dedicated to the proposition that all people have equal access to get themselves lost or seriously disabled in our public wild lands.

Herewith the first column.  The names have been changed to protect the hapless:


Hi Woody

Tanya, my wife, and I plan to go camping/backpacking this week.

Do you routinely carry a tarp?  What kind?  (How big/where did you get it...) and what length of rope/how many pieces of rope do you carry?

If it is easier to talk over the phone, I will be free most of the day tomorrow.

Thanks.

Darren




Dear Darren,

1.  I do not use a tarp.  I like to sleep in a full tent with four walls and a rain fly.  That way I feel a little more protected from the axe murderers roaming about in the woods. The idea that they will have to first hack their way through two layers of nylon makes me feel that I will have at least a few more seconds to grab the 12" Bowie knife-that I definitely do carry no matter the weight-to defend myself.

View of axe murderer through tent door. 

2.  I do routinely carry fifty feet of standard parachute cord, preferably camo green.  This is available in every outdoor store across America.  It is used primarily to fabricate a trip wire perimeter around your tent to further delay said axe wielding psychopath.  But if you plan on climbing a few cliffs, then pack 60 meters of 10mm dynamic climbing rope for sure.

Regards,

Woody

P.S.  Unfortunately due to the high volume of letters we are not able to reply personally by telephone. 

The More Things Change......

I am 53 years old and riding my carbon fiber bicycle with racing geometry and a stiff frame is like going a couple of loops on the Cyclone.  The adrenaline rush is great but the numb hands, neck, and shoulders?  Not so much.  So, I just bought a new touring/cyclocross/city bike with a relaxed frame geometry for a more comfortable ride.  I feel like a kid on this bike and I have already begun to dork it out just like the old days:  contrasting red reflective tape (because it is all black), rear rat trap carrier (ok, so it's not an original Pletscher but I still call my sneakers, tennis shoes), a front light (no, it does not have a generator that is activated by a gear rubbing on the front wheel) and a rear tail light for extra safety. It even came with a bell. Here are a few pictures:

Headlight, bell, odometer, reflective tape.

Rat trap, bungee cord, tail light, saddlebag, reflective tape.

Here is a photo Tammy took of me with my new bicycle:

Black Beauty II (The bike, not me).

After Tammy said, "It looks like your old bike," I found this picture, taken exactly 35 years ago in June of 1978 with the bicycle I built from scratch in 1977:

The Original Black Beauty.  Complete with reflector tape and rat trap.

You can't make this stuff up.  The only thing that has changed in all this time?  The size of my bank account and bicycle technology. Which brings me to the point of this blog.  People don't change.  Only resources and technology change.  Who do you think is buying all those Chargers, Challengers, Corvettes, and Camaros?  Sixty-five year old men trying to relive their youth that's who.  When is the last time you saw someone under the age of forty riding a Harley?  The biker bar full of Hell's Angels drinking shots of Old Grand Dad has been replaced by a bar full of old granddads drinking Blue Angels.  (That doesn't really prove my point but it seems like a great line).

Sure, some forty year old will wake up one day and decide to do a thru hike of the Appalachian Trail even though they never backpacked or even camped before.  But I'll bet you a hundred dollars that they are the type of person who was always intense in whatever activity they were engaged.  They probably spent a year at an ashram in India staring at their belly button.  I hope they never find whatever it is they are looking for, by the way, because for them, the pursuit is the product.

Lucky for me, I have always been fond of bicycles, backpacks, and bonhomie.  OK.  So one thing has changed.

Somebody, Please, Piss Me Off.

Yo, very sorry.  I haven't been inspired by much lately.  That either means I am uncharacteristically content or pathologically apathetic but here is something; I just had my third letter to the editor published by the Philadelphia Inquirer.  I guess I got pissed off enough to come out of my writer's block to fire off a letter.  I am pretty psyched they accepted it.  Here is the link to the article I chided:  Democracy's Challenge by EJ Dionne.

And here is the link to my letter; Heat Can Shed Light in DC.  Scroll down to the letter with that title.  The Inquirer came up with the title, not me.

On a different note, it was suggested that I blog about a recent medical procedure/test I underwent this past Monday.  Unfortunately for me it went very smoothly so I can't come up with an angle.  I hate when that happens.  Perhaps next time, the gastroenterologist will accidentally leave a gauze pad up there and then I'll have something to bitch about that will amuse you.  If everything in the world went smoothly there would be no great writing. 

The Sports Have It

In yet another blow to the fragile egos of high school nerds everywhere, the US Department of Education has recently specified new rules regarding the inclusion of disabled students in scholastic sports.  Arne Duncan, Obama's Secretary of Education,  has likened the new equal rights regulation to the ground breaking Title IX ruling which opened the door of extra and intramural sports to differently gendered persons of the female persuasion.  It occurred to the brain surgeons over at the Dept of Ed that disabled students have been denied equal participation in the character building, teamwork promoting, milieu of school based sports programs. 

I have news for Arne and Barack.  There are far more physically and mentally "normal" kids who have been denied access to the team and character building province of school sports teams simply because they suck at sports.  I know for a fact that there is no way in hell that a kid who can't do a mile in under 8 minutes is going to make the cross country team.  And if he or she is neither in a wheel chair nor a single limb amputee, they ain't making the "para" team either.  Some kids will always flinch when a line drive ball comes barreling toward them at second base.  Are they disabled?   Is a kid who will never be good at hitting a ball over a net with a racket disabled?  Is a kid who just can't seem to kick a ball around a swifter footed 15 year old disabled?  There are plenty of kids, I am certain, who would love the chance to be involved in high school sports, but for the simple fact that they just aren't coordinated enough, they will never get the chance to be a part of the team.  Sports don't discriminate against the overtly disabled.  Sports discriminate against the subtly spastic.

My god, There is an entire Olympics devoted to "special" athletes.  I bet every participant is actually a great athlete regardless of their IQ or extremities status.  So now what?  High schools and colleges will have to open up sports programs for overtly disabled kids?  Will they take money away from the drama and art clubs to pay for these special sports programs?   What about a child who just sucks at catching a ball?  Or sucks at running a mile?  How are they supposed to feel part of a school team?  There are no cheerleaders at a Science Fair or Mathletes meet.  I have never heard of a high school pep rally being held for an extramural debate team competition.  As a card carrying Democrat, I can't complain too much when the Feds engage in social engineering.  But I am afraid there are going to be way more kids who will still feel left out, maybe even more so, than who will benefit from this incompletely thought out regulation.

L'Affaire Lance

I remember standing near the finish line at the CoreStates Bicycle Race in Philadelphia in 1998 and saying to Tammy, "He's done.  That's a shame".  I was talking about Lance Armstrong's career.  He finished a disappointing 33rd after his 1996 fight with testicular cancer.  But at least George Hincapie, Lance's friend and USPS team mate, won the race.  Then several years later after reading Lance's autobiography I realized the error in my denouncement of his future career.  After battling advanced testicular cancer he viewed his 33rd place finish in this grueling one day bicycle race as an unbelievably positive accomplishment. And thus did Lance tip my always ambivalent feelings for him back into the positive column.  You see, I have been loosely following his career since he was a young, up and coming triathlete so the depth of his hubris and arrogance has never been a shock to me.  Disbelief and shock were not two of the emotions I felt watching him haltingly try to come clean about his behavior to Oprah.  Nor did I feel any sense of relief that finally he will reap what he has sown.  I only felt resignation and sadness at yet another example of the havoc and calamity that testosterone spews into our world.  Which in Lance's case, is truly ironic.

I am in no way justifying his behavior, I am only trying to shed light on why it should not be shocking.  If he is guilty of anything, it is taking alpha male ruthlessness to a new level of vindictiveness.  In my view, his behavior is only one extreme of that which has been exhibited by many alpha males before him.  The entire Penn State Football leadership team comes to mind.  As Lance stated in the confessional that is Oprah, protecting the kingdom rises above all other concerns.  Whether they be fellow athletes or ten year old boys their sacrifice is of no great concern if the empire is to be protected.  College football coaches, and petty despots alike have the ability to separate their actions from themselves.  There is a disconnect between the id and super ego in their minds (look it up).  While watching Lance try to answer Oprah's questions I was struck by his seeming inability to understand how his standing as team leader could cause the other cyclists to feel they had no choice but to dope if they wanted to remain on the team.  "I gave them no direct verbal order" he protested when pushed.

It would be nice to say it's only about a bunch of guys riding bicycles.  Or about a bunch of guys hitting a ball with a bat.  Who really cares if they cheat themselves and their fellow players?  That is indeed true, but especially in the case of Lance Armstrong, the repercussions of his behavior have reached far beyond his bicycle seat.  What he did was despicable yet he is the only athlete I ever truly admired and followed.  The reason for this is that I never deluded myself about him.  I always knew he at least used EPO.  I always knew he was an SOB to those who dare oppose him.  But there were other aspects to his story with which I identified.  He was a high school sports team outcast and he found solace on a bicycle.  His story is very complex and it goes beyond "can you believe this guy?"  I never give racketeers any slack for their crimes but in Lance's case I am more saddened than outraged.

We have Nothing to Fear But Fear Itself

Dear Wayne LaPierre and Fellow 2nd Amendment Fanatics,

I do not want to live in a country where there are armed guards in every school.  Period. 

I know how you feel though.  I, myself, am a 1st amendment fanatic.  But if everyone has a gun, my freedom of speech will surely be impeded. 

As Ben said: Those who would give up Essential Liberty to purchase a little Temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.

The Mysteries of Living With a Woman Redux or A Feuer Christmas Carol

Scene:  Christmas Eve morning in the Feuer household.  Tammy leaves for work before Richard.  She has a "hospital full of angry patients who can't be home for Christmas" to run while Richard only has one unlucky patient "who bit the wrong way into a candy cane the day before Christmas" to ameliorate.  Tammy is gone by 7 AM.  Richard finally works his way down to the kitchen at 8:30.  And there, in the semi-early morning dawn light he sees the note on his place-mat.  He already suspects it is not an "I love you, have a blessed day" missive.  Richard and Tammy have been together too long for the kinds of platitudinous crap trappings more commonly seen in 6 month old unions.  No, it is most assuredly a honey-do list on this, the most horrific, nauseatingly frantic, and insufferably annoying shopping day of the year.  So before Richard even sees the print on the sticky note he is "oh crapping", "you gotta be kidding me", and I don't freaking believe this" himself to death.  But, blessedly (Christmas miracle number one) the note is short.

Action: There are only two items on the list and they are conveniently labeled 1 and 2.  But helpful numbering system aside, the instructions are in "Tammy shorthand".  If you are unfamiliar with this time and space saving method of enumeration let me explain.  You see, even the most lengthy of instructions, lists, and commandments, can be squeezed onto a sticky note no bigger than 1" by 1" square.  If Tammy had been the set designer for Charlton Heston in the Ten Commandments he could have come down from the mountain with not only the big ten, but the entire Torah on a stone tablet no bigger than your basic Etch a Sketch screen.  The key is to start randomly somewhere in the middle of the page, with really big print, and then when you start to run out of room, merely start twirling the paper around and around, writing smaller and smaller, utilizing every corner of the paper without regard to top, bottom, left or right.  And then, as with indecipherable ancient Aramaic, expect the generations that follow you to use this as a guide for their resultant behavior.  Or in my case, as merely a guide to how many, and what kind, of rolls to buy for Christmas dinner the next day.

Here then, for your interpretation, is the note:

It is obvious, if you are a student of semiotics, that the Pillsbury Crescent instruction was actually written down first.  The green beans were added as an after thought.  Thus the helpfully circled 1, 2 informational symbols inserted in the margin.  But the more significant sign of Tammy's thought process is the smaller typeface and banishment to that portion of the memo pad already taken up by the sponsor of the instructional note, the NJDOT, of the green bean commandment.  We can further assume, once we have this information, that the style of cut, size of bag, and brand of green beans will not be too crucially important to the success of the covered dish for which they are intended.  So we are good for the frozen food isle.

What is not so apparent is the number and possibly style of rolls to purchase.  In solving any Rosetta Stone style hieroglyphics one must first rewrite the words in the proper order of the translationalist's language.  So for us, commandment number two reads as follows, or so I thought:

28's =16 Pillsbury Crescent + 4 rolls.

My first thought, of course, took me back to eleventh grade chemistry class and those confounding oxidation-reduction equations where the number of electrons "in"must equal the number of electrons "out".   Could it be that we were having 28 guests and Tammy was trying to figure out if 20 rolls could feed 28 people without a loss of satiety?  I really had no idea so I knew what I had to do; recruit someone who spoke the language of honey-do lists.  So I showed the note to my dental assistant after we finished fixing the tooth of the hapless candy cane eater.  "Do you know what this means?  What are 28's?" I hopefully asked.  She, too, had no idea what the note meant.  Then, once at the supermarket I ran into a patient of mine who happens to be an engineer and a female.  I hopefully showed her the note.  She had no idea either.  But once I got to the refrigerated  section, it began to make more sense.  The crescent rolls were in packs of eight.  Oooooooohhhhhhhhh, I thought to myself.  She means two packs of eight.  But what about the + 4?  Still worried about buying an incorrect number of rolls for our carbohydrate deprived guests I asked a lady standing next to me what she thought.  After her initial shock at a strange man saying to her in the refrigerator section "can I ask you something?" (from her circumspect glare I really believe she thought I was going to proposition her) she had no insight for me.  So, assuming the note was making a distinction between crescents and regular rolls I bought a smaller pack of Pillsbury Grandes.  This was a five pack, but since there were no four packs of anything, I was satisfied with my ultimate decision.

The only thing now, standing between me and Christmas break relaxation, was the inevitable ten people deep lines at every register.  But here was Christmas miracle number two; I found a register with only one person in front of me and she was already ringing up the last item, a 12 pound, serves two,  fruitcake.  I was home 10 minutes later.  And it was only after taking the picture of Tammy's note for this post that I decrypted its full contextual meaning.  She actually wrote it utilizing a vertical columnar pattern a la Chinese characters.  Here then is the note reinterpreted:

2-eight packs equaling sixteen (as if I needed help with the addition) plus 1-four pack of Pillsbury Crescent rolls.  If you look again at the note more carefully you will see the columnar structure.  Numbers in one column and letters in the next column.  Mystery solved.  Except for the fact that I found no four packs of crescent rolls.  Here is how a man would have written the note:

1. 1 lb green beans
2. 2x8 pack and 1x4 pack Pillsbury crescent rolls.

That's how we order lumber by the way.
(ask a man what this means; 5x2"x4"x8' stud grade, and he will know).

And by the way, for Tammy's Christmas gift, I adopted mile 83.2 to 84.2 of the NJ Turnpike in her name because I believe her choice of sticky notes was a hint at what she wanted (being the cryptologist that I am) .  So don't throw anything out your car window while driving there.

The Spice Rack and Other Mysteries of Living With a Woman

Women are great executive chefs when it comes to planning holiday meals.  Able to conceive, plan, and execute a menu for a party from four to forty and enjoy doing it.   I consider myself a good prep and dependable line chef.  There is no shame in this.  Point me toward a huge pile of russet potatoes, the peeler and a sharp knife and I will make sure they are julienned just right for the chef de cuisine to turn them into gourmet papas fritas.  But task me with coming up with the menu in the first place and I will just call ahead for take out fries from the nearest burger joint.  So when my brother asked me to cut up some veggies for a crudites tray for my nephew's apres Bar Mitzvah party I was all over it.  But when he asked me if I thought we had prepared a sufficient quantity I was stymied.  "I have no idea", I lamely replied.  "Tammy usually tells me how much to make".  It is an absolute mystery to me how my wife seems to know with unflinching confidence what, and how much, to prepare for a party.  "Go to Acme and get a pound and a half of cooked shrimp for the hors d'oeurves" she steadfastly commands me as if I might mistakenly only buy one pound.  Therefore leaving each of our guests three shrimps short of what they actually desired.

Another source of great inscrutability for me is the spice rack . There are spices on display in our kitchen that were once used in 1997.  A particularly enigmatic one that comes to mind is cream of tarter.  I am not even sure that is a spice but my wife insists on it being perched on the spice rack alongside the more obvious Mediterranean oregano.  Some spices get relegated to the lazy susan in the spice cabinet but others are kept out on the hanging wall rack.  Allspice is in the cabinet but rosemary is on the rack.  Since neither have been used in anything served to me in the past twenty years I am unsure as to the logic of the organizational scheme.  But one time I did trade out the thyme leaves for the Season All (the most versatile of spices) and there was hell to pay.  Perhaps since the spice rack is visible to our guests it sends a certain message about our kitchen.  Fancy McCormick jars of rosemary, tarragon, Turkish bay leaves, and Saigon cinnamon all say Dean and DeLuca while a tub of Season All says Costco. If it were up to me we wouldn't even need a spice rack.  I would have garlic, onion, chile, and red pepper powders along side the salt and pepper shakers. And perhaps some coriander for my famous guacamole.

The puzzlement of the female character does not end in the kitchen.  My wife's sartorial vocabulary also eludes my cognitive frame of reference.  For example, please briefly describe the item of clothing seen in the photo below:

My wife, on a recent weekend away, informed me that I had left my "gold top" in the car.   "What's my gold top?" I irritatingly inquired.
"You know, for the outfit you are wearing tomorrow" she replied.
"You mean my yellow flannel shirt?  I am just going to wear it with my black jeans.   Men have shirts, not tops. "And furthermore", I firmly added, "I don't wear outfits."
Men have shirts and pants.  Women have outfits.

Then there is the matter of window treatments.  The idea that windows get treated is as foreign a concept to me as dressing a turkey.  If I were a bachelor I am quite certain the windows in my condo would have shades, blinds, or possibly, if I had a study, shudders.  If I did have the need to dress up the window frame I would take two measurements, width and height, and go buy some pre-made curtains at JC Penny which hang on a straight forward rod. In my house, however, we have swags, jabots, cornices, and lambrequins.  All custom sewn by my wife.  And in order to even fabricate a swag one needs the mathematical chops of Sir Isaac Newton. The formulas used to calculate the amount of material needed to sew a swag which will hang just so are complicated enough for an advanced algebra course. Yet Tammy can figure it out in her head while she is standing in the cutting table queue at JoAnn's while holding the bolt of calico muslin.  But for some odd reason she refuses to understand that a 15 watt CFL replaces a 60 watt incandescent.  Or even what CFL stands for. 

My final observation has been touched on before in this column (I promoted my blog).  When company comes over, even our own family, why must we hide all the evidence that we actually live in our home?  Every magazine, newspaper, glass, sock, and pen must be hidden from view as if we have newly arrived in our abode along with the guests.   I guess it's like your mother telling you to always put on a clean pair of underwear in case you are in an accident and the paramedics have to cut off your pants.  But much like the paramedics realizing many accident victims shit their pants anyway, your company surely is aware of the fact that there is usually a foot high stack of old newspapers on the coffee table so what's the difference.

Henry Higgins asked "why can't a woman be more like a man" many years ago so this topic is hardly new.  But I encourage you to send in your own anecdotes.  I even encourage "why can't a man be more like a woman" quips.

This is Rich, What's Your Bitch?

Dear Rich,

Why can't I get my sister/brother/mother/father-in-law to behave in a manner I find appropriate?  Why must they engage in behavior that exasperates me?

Signed,
The Well Behaved One.



Dear Put Out Daughter/Son/Mother/Father-in-law,

They are not going to change so you must......change. You can continue to bang your head against the wall hoping the wall gives before your head does, or you can accept things as they are.  Your choice to make, not theirs to comply.

Signed,
Rich

I have thus distilled 50 years of advice column writing.  I welcome your questions.

My Impressions of the Impressionists

So we went to the infamous Barnes Museum the other Sunday.  Oh, sorry, it's not a museum, it's a Foundation.   Founded by the extraordinarily curmudgeonly Dr. Albert Barnes.  Actually, that is a disservice to curmudgeons everywhere.  He was basically just pissed off at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.  As is well known by now to even the most dilettante Philadelphian, the art establishment  rejected Dr Barnes's vision over 80 years ago.  He espoused a unique organizational scheme to display the art he had amassed, a codification system that would reveal commonalities in design of various artworks to even the most casual art enthusiast.  The biggest problem with abstruse art, you see, is that the casual observer rarely appreciates it.  Art, it seems, must be put in historical context to fully understand its profound nature.  If we look at a so called masterpiece painted in 1783, for example, we may think to ourselves "big deal, I saw Bob Ross paint a prettier picture on PBS television the other night and it only took him thirty minutes".  That may be true but he did not invent how to make clouds look like they are actually reflecting sunlight.  Some fifteenth century Dutch dude figured that out.  Or it might have been a sixteenth century Venetian.  I have no idea.  But that is exactly the point.  Barnes would hang a few pictures with, say, brightly highlighted clouds all in a single cluster.  Regardless of in what century they were actually painted. So a dilettante like me could put the art in historical context and easily visualize the common design elements in otherwise disparate pieces.  Or perhaps not. I really have no idea what the hell Barnes was thinking.  The various galleries, while awesome in the sheer amount of great art packed into a small space, reminded me of a cluttered refrigerator door in the home of a too proud mother of an artistically prolific six year old.  My niece, the art historian, tried to explain the hodgepodge to me, but really, I was way more interested in the other people enjoying the art that day than the art itself.  I am more anthropologist than aesthete.

When I say that the other patrons were enjoying the art, I really mean that they were merely studying it.  At least as far as I could tell.  You see, the really odd thing to me was that not a single person in the entire place was smiling.....except me.  Not a smirk, grimace, grin, frown , nor harrumph, and as far as I could tell, no movement at all of the labial commissures on anybody's face.  I don't believe I even heard a sigh nor murmur of disgust in front of one particularly galling Renoir.  I, of course, exhaled a loud "how the hell did that get in here", hoping to at least get a nod of assent from the cute bereted beatnik standing next to me but she merely pivoted and focused her attention on the Delacroix adjacent to the Manet.  Which only forced me to harrumph even louder hoping to get some reaction.  Nothing.  In fact the only time I could get a rise out of any one in the entire museum is when I dared to stick my nose too close to a Seurat to see if the painting really was made up of tiny dots.  Then a blue blazered, overly austere guard came running over and told me to please step back from the art.  That got a harrumph out of my bereted friend.  A show of enthusiasm, I guess, is taboo in a museum of world class art.  Doesn't the very nature of art demand that it evoke some emotion in the viewer?  As far as I could tell the only emotion being felt in this place was one of funereal resignation.

But, I hear you protest, one must be subdued, like in a library, so as not to disturb the ruminations of the other enthusiasts.  To which I reply, the guards never shushed me, they only told me to stand back.  And believe me, I was doing a lot of disruptive emoting.  I would turn the corner into a new gallery and be blasted by a wall crammed with the most sublime art in the world and I could hardly contain my enthusiasm.  But the other art lovers were literally standing there frozen in a posture one would only expect to see at a cemetery while their mother was being lowered into the ground.  Yet they weren't crying.  One would be at a loss to figure out what, if anything, they were feeling at all.  And in front of world class art!  I really don't get it.  No wonder most people just go to Disney World.  At least there you can loudly cheer when your six year old daughter completes her spin art painting at Mickey's Wonderful World of Spin Art booth.

The Devil You Know

People will still be knuckleheads whether I am a libertarian or a socialist.  Some otherwise intelligent person will make a stupid decision whether I believe in more government or less.  FEMA will still be crucial whether we have a Democratic president or Republican.  And wealthy people will still always want to make even more money whether or not they must pay higher taxes.  Just ask a Rockefeller or a DuPont, or JP Morgan.  Those Robber Barons didn't stop making money or growing their businesses just because the Federal income tax was instituted in 1913 did they?  You had no idea when the Federal income tax was first instituted, did you?  I didn't think so.

That is why I am, have always been, and always will be, a Democrat.  Our country has gone too far to ever again be a nation of yeoman farmers as the first Republican, Thomas Jefferson, envisioned over two hundred years ago.  If a knucklehead in Long Beach Island, New Jersey decides to ride out the worst storm in 100 years, even though she could have easily evacuated to her brother's house 100 miles inland, then later says it was the worst decision of her life, the people in Culver City, California are going to have to help pay for her recovery whether they like it or not.  Because what is the alternative?  Let evolution take its course and weed out the unfit?  If I understand the Republican platform correctly, then most of the people who don't believe in big government don't believe in this basic evolutionary principle anyway, so now what?  All the faith based charities in the country are not big enough or organized enough to save us from ourselves, or Nature's fury.  Hurricane Sandy, and Governor Christie have only reinforced this idea for me.

I have heard otherwise charitable people say that if an adult makes an enlightened decision to wait out a natural disaster in spite of official warnings to evacuate, then we, as a society, no longer have an obligation to help them if they get into trouble.  The first responders, after all, will now be put in harm's way.  True, but firefighters, wilderness rescuers, National Guardsmen, policemen, and our Special Forces carry out risky maneuvers everyday to save stupid people from stupid mistakes.  So where do we draw the line on whom to rescue?  And who should decide, Sarah Palin?  Should a firefighter not try to save someone from a fire caused by that person's smoking in bed?

It's true that we, as citizens, must not be sedated into a zombie state where we wander around brain dead expecting the government to bail us out every time we step over the cliff.  But surely there is a happy medium where reasonable people can agree that sometimes the Feds need to take charge.  When I reflect back on the arc our Country, and civil society, has taken, I believe it has been what most Tea Partyers and conservatives would consider a socialist agenda that has moved us forward toward becoming a more compassionate and humane society: Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid, the National Park Service, civil rights laws, female suffrage, labor laws, The Wilderness and Clean Air Acts, The EPA, FEMA, The Affordable Care Act (yes I said it), and Roe v. Wade to name a few.  All measures that the "conservatives" of the time were vehemently against.  There surely is abuse and corruption of these social engineering measures. But in what universe is corruption non existent where human beings are concerned?  Certainly not in Adam Smith's unfettered capitalistic world.  Nor in Karl Marx's definitely imaginary world either.

Look, I hate it just as much as the next guy when I work hard, pay too many taxes, and buy plenty of insurance, to see some reprobate drive to the Walmart in a Cadillac only to pay with food stamps.  But I hate it even more when some Wall Street asshole sells that same ignoramus a subprime mortgage he knows will default.  If we can't trust an expert, who can we trust, right?  So, in conclusion, I'm votin' for Obama.  As my Grandma Rose use to say, "the devil you know is better than the devil you don't know".