Ramblings of a Madman

Ode to a Son

My flight home to L.A. was delayed this morning and I checked my email while waiting at the airport.  I received an email from Trina about one of my best friends from high school.  She told me she'd been reading the Seattle Times this morning and saw an article that Kevin's son Steven, 17 years old, was killed in a car crash this week.

There are no punch lines.  No quips.  No easy answers.  She had given me Kevin's phone number earlier this week, since I haven't talked to him in 2 or 3 years.  I'd planned to call him when I got home.

Now I don't know what to say.

I have a 17 year old nephew named Max.  He's about the greatest kid in the world.  I don't tell him nearly often enough.  He's growing up, becoming a man, making decisions, learning.  The thought of losing him senselessly is overwhelming - and he's not even my son, though he's the closest thing I've ever had.

Many of my friends have sons and daughters near Steven's age.  They've experienced a joy I may never have.  My heart goes out to Kevin.  I wish there was something I could do, some way to make it better. 

I guess the one thing I can say is what Trina said when she sent me the email - every day with your loved ones is a gift.  Take advantage of every opportunity.  Live every day like it counts.

This week has been a celebration of connection with people I have known, people I love.  It's been a very good week.  Seeing my classmates, even those I didn't know well before.  Visiting with my aunt and uncle for the first time in years.  Staying with my dad and stepmom.  Hanging out with my nephew and visiting with my mom and sister.  Seeing my best friend from junior high school last night for the first time in 33 years and being amazed at the man he's grown into - totally unexpected and inspiring - he drove all the way from Seattle down to Portland just to spend a couple of hours drinking beer and connecting - and taught me things about life along the way.

Steven's death brings clearly into focus what should be clear all the time.  Life is short.  Love is essential.

Give love.  Live life.  Love God.

Weird but Fun

That's how my friend Adrian put it after our 30 year high school reunion this past weekend.

She couldn't have said it better.

It was an anticipated event.  When I went to my 10 year reunion in 1988, it was sort of like going back to high school ten years later - in other words, plenty of posing.  So I wasn't inspired to go back for the 20 year reunion in '98, and really wasn't sure I wanted to go back for the 30 year reunion this year.

Then Adrian called and asked me to be her date.  Rick, her husband, who has more sense than almost anyone I know, had drawn a line in the sand - wild horses weren't dragging him to another ex-high school event - so I got elected by proxy.

Actually, it was just the nudge I needed.  Instead of sitting on the fence, I now had a partner in crime, and since Adrian is one of the best people in the known universe, I knew we'd have fun.  Besides, she's cute and she'd make me look good going in.

30 years seems like a long time -- until you actually look back and realize how quickly it passes.  I had visions of people I knew sagging, bagging, doddering, ready for wheelchairs and assisted living facilities.  I was totally unprepared for the phalanx of good-looking, accomplished classmates I encountered.  Everyone was in remarkably good shape - and, thankfully, a lot more relaxed this time around.

When we got there, we spent the first hour peering at each other's name tags - the ones with our senior pictures pasted on the front - trying to figure out who we were talking to.  It was kind of a trip.  Virtually everyone we saw greeted Adrian like a long lost friend - then squinted at my name and photo and went, "Whoa, what happened?"  You have to be a tough guy to be me sometimes.

I'll tell you another thing - the women were HOT.  I finally divined an advantage to remaining single throughout the past three decades - by attrition, I wound up being one of the most eligible men in the room.  "You're single?  And straight?  Here's my card.  Call me.  Tonight."  Divorced forty-something women are not shy. 

While I've gotten used to swimming in the singles scene over the years, it's a bit weird to be doing it with several score people I used to laugh at in high school. 

After the initial group mingle, things slowed down a bit as everyone caught up and figured out how much (or little) they had in common.  In other words, there's a reason why most of us hadn't seen each other since 1978.

Fortunately, two things happened that took the experience out of the realm of mere entertainment and made it into a worthwhile opportunity for connection.

One was my buddy Brant showing up.  We were friends in high school - both of us were on the school radio station, and we also worked as DJs at the local skating rink.  Brant is one of the world's coolest humans.  No matter where he goes, he carries this aura of casual reserve with him.  He's not trying to be cool.  He just is.  He likes people.  He never tries too hard (as opposed to, say, me).  He's got a great sense of humor and a knack for 'keeping it real'.  He's just easy to be around.

We'd kept in touch over the past couple of years via email and the occasional phone call, but hadn't actually seen each other since we graduated.  So I was happy when he told me he was coming. 

It was great to see him at the reunion.  He was, without question, the most popular person there, and deservedly so.  We had some pseudo-celebrities in our midst but Brant was the guy everyone gravitated to.  He's the one who pulled it together.

The other pleasant surprise was Trina.

Trina was one of those girls in high school who walked on rarefied air.  She was beautiful, classy, smart, genuine - in other words, totally out of my league.  I'd no more have known how to approach her as an adolescent than sprout wings and fly - and she's gotten even more interesting and attractive in the years since.

Happily, she and Adrian are friends - and Trina (who of course was on the reunion committee) was required to greet everyone at the door.  Which meant that when we walked in, she and Adrian could catch up on old times - and, more importantly, she had no choice but to talk to me.  It was, after all, her job.

I've been flirting shamelessly with her ever since.

Of course, being the exceptionally genuine, kind person that she is, I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm just being nice.

She obviously doesn't know me that well. 

So I'm pressing my advantage.  By the time she figures out I have a massive, 'post-high school' crush on her, I plan to have her convinced I'm intelligent, witty, charming, and exceptional - even if I do live 2 states away.

Who can resist an offer like that?  It's weird but fun.

Hi ho, the derio, a-shopping we will go...

(Editor's Note - did you know a major retail chain made Santa Claus change his laugh last year to "ha ha ha" because "ho ho ho" is now considered derogatory to women?  Social evolution at its finest.)

She saw me coming a mile away.

I'd like to say our eyes met across a crowded room, but it was more like she locked me in on infra-red, tracking my coordinates like a smart-bomber on stealth deployment, preparing to drop her payload on an unsuspecting victim.

Men should never be allowed to shop.  Not by themselves.  And definitely not within the sphere of influence of a female attendant - under any circumstances.  And men should MOST ESPECIALLY never be allowed into any kind of store with a woman present when the store is an advertised purveyor of...men's clothing.

Never.

Never, never, never, never, never.

I was suckered. 

See, men are not shoppers.  By their very nature, they're out of their element.  Shopping, PARTICULARLY for clothing, is a woman's game, and never into the domain of woman a man should tread (I'm sure I read that somewhere).  A gasping flounder flopping in desperation on a boat deck has a better shot at survival than a male in a retail store.  Particularly when the salesman is a woman.

I was history from the time I walked in the door.

I know what you're thinking.  1) Bob, what in God's name were you doing in a store to begin with?  Especially one that didn't have "Costco" written in big bold letters across the front.  And 2) Just how hot was the chick that sold you the clothes (wink, wink, nudge, nudge)?

The answers to those 2 questions, in order, are:

1) I went into the store to buy a sport coat and a pair of slacks.  The reason - I'm going to a high school reunion this weekend in Seattle (I'm sure you'll hear more about this in the near future - for now, let's just get through the sacrificial offering that occurred last night in downtown Glendale) and I needed some casual clothing.

See, every day I have to wear a coat, shirt, and tie to work, so you'd think I have some clothes I can wear to an informal gathering with old high school chums, right?  Wrong.  For the past 3 years, I've basically worn the same five dress shirts, 4 pairs of slacks, and a rack of ties I bought at the 3 Day Men's Suit Broker about 3 years ago.  And it's time for us (the clothes and I) to part ways.  I mean, they're still fine for work and I can phase them out over time, but since I'm going to a function this weekend with a couple hundred people I haven't seen in 30 years, I figured I can probably splurge on a new sport coat.

I was wrong.

Note to self - never go into a store armed only with my own guile, wile, and self-control - I mean, let's face it, if these are the weapons of choice, I'm an unarmed man.

Which brings me to question 2) above - who was the babe that saw me coming and fleeced me of every natural cent I had?

It's not what you think.

I never saw it coming -- and I should have (the phrase "I never saw it coming -- and I should have," would make a nice etching for my tombstone, don't you think?)

She was very nice.  Unassuming.  No way she was a salesperson.  I thought she was just there to fold the clothes and put them away when shoppers were done (when they say there's one born every minute, I can point to the exact minute they're talking about - it's on my birth certificate).

She didn't look like a salesperson.  She didn't act like a salesperson.  She looked, well, almost mom-like - you know, the kind of person who you just sort of trust to be thoughtful and helpful.  And by the time she was finished with me, she'd make Sherman's March look like a Sunday walk in the park.

We started so casually.  I was looking at sport coats and she asked me my size (Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!).  None of this "How can I help you" stuff with dollar signs in the eyes and that "where have you been all my life" vibe.  Nope.  Nice and easy.  Just being helpful.

In my own defense, I should say that I was a complete moron from the very beginning - see, I did the man thing - figured I'd go in prepared.  I was even wearing the shirt and slacks I figured I'd wear to my reunion - safer that way because I'd know what to match them to, right?  That way I'd only buy the jacket I needed, because I already had everything else, right?  Right?  RIGHT!!!??????

Sigh.

She showed me a couple of jackets and they just weren't quite matching what I was wearing (I can't print the comment I was going to put here - this is, after all, a PG-13 rated blog).  Then she found a jacket that looked good and a pair of slacks.  Excellent.  We're good to go.  Let's mark these babies up and I'm outta here.  Yessirree. 

Let the record show I truly thought I was done.  Let the record also show I was delusional.  The following events simply emphasize how sorely I'd underestimated my adversary (the nice, sweet, 'folding clothes' lady).  She was just letting the mark relax before she moved in for the kill.

The whole time, she's coming in completely under the radar.  No pressure.  She suggests that the tailor can alter the pants while I'm there.  It'll take fifteen minutes.  That way I don't have to come back and pick them up later.  Good idea.  What a nice lady.

Run Forrest!!  Run!!!

So I've got 15 minutes to kill and I wander back to the jacket rack.  I think the nice mom-like saleslady is helping another couple, so I'm just checking out a couple of jackets to pass the time.  Suddenly, magically, she simply appears - from whence, I wonder.  She just seems to be passing by, putting away some stuff.  And as she passes, offhandedly she suggests another jacket.  Then another.  I mean, we're just trying stuff on, right?  I already bought my clothes.  No harm in looking...

In fifteen minutes, I'd bought 3 sport coats, a pair of slacks, shoes, socks (6 pair), two shirts, a tie, and a partridge in a pear tree.  The partridge was complimentary - I can always use it for the holidays.

My new mantra is "I will not go into the store...I will not go into the store..."

See, I do all my shopping online these days.  That's where men should shop.  Online is great.  Online is cool.  There's no bewildering array of merchandise.  No racks of doodads to sift through.  No acres of apparel.  All the stuff you want is right there on that little screen.  One click and you go to the next thing.  Want it.  Buy it.  Simple.  Straightforward.  And they deliver it right to your door!  I LOVE online shopping.  It's the guy's way to go.  Even the payment is easy (okay, perhaps this part isn't quite such a good idea).

And most important, there are no predators online disguised as nice, helpful, unassuming middle-aged ladies ready to swoop down and relieve you of your 401K contributions for the next 27 years. 

Did I mention she gave me her card?

When You Wish Upon a Star...

My mentor asked me to write about what would be fulfilling - what the experience would be like.

He asked me to write about this weeks ago, and it shows the level of my disillusionment - or exhaustion - that I finally had to wake up at 3am this morning to write about it.  Not because I'm motivated, but because I can't go back to sleep.

This seems like the opposite of fulfilling - for more on the opposite of fulfilling, read the previous post "Swimming with Sharks" - which could have been titled "Why I'll never make it in the corporate world".

So.

What does fulfilling look like?

I think we'll stay with the "Opposite" frame of reference (makes me think of the Friends episode where Joey and Chandler get into an Opposite contest, with Joey going 'opposite' on Chandler and wearing every single piece of Chandler's clothing at once -- sans underwear - if you saw that episode, you're laughing right now, and if you didn't see it, you definitely had to be there...).

The opposite of where I am right now would be - married, with kids and a house, not in a neighborhood that could charitably be described as 'urban'.  Working for myself - not in the corporate world.  A minimum of paperwork.  Using my communication skills to inspire or at worst entertain - preferably both - rather than to defend myself or skewer some other poor dumb bastard before he skewers me - did I mention how much fun I am at work?  Living outside of the city - and having the means to get away from it whenever I want - not tied to my job.

I've always dreamed of freedom - financial freedom certainly, but more like freedom to explore, travel, experience more of the world, spend time getting to know people, doing interesting things, learning about life and what makes people tick.  Working with people who are motivated by Contribution, Creativity, and Compassion, not Conflict, Conspiracy, and Competition.

Owning a Harley.  Having time with my family and friends.  Having the energy to do the fun things I used to do before I got tired surviving the corporate wars - which is all anyone does where I work - survive.

Fulfillment would look like making a contribution - touching people's lives, helping them get where they need/want to go.  Encouraging them, giving them direction, knowledge, support.  Pushing them to live better, grow, mature.

Alex, my mentor, told me last week to trust God.  Trust is not one of my strong points - especially in the whole God conversation.  My history of trusting God has been a bit...dodgy.  So I'm not sure what that looks like.  On the other hand, trusting myself hasn't been a bed of roses either.

But I like the whole fulfillment idea. 

If I could only get some sleep... 

Swimming with Sharks (subtitled, "Dilbert Lives!")

DISCLAIMER: This post may not be amusing, entertaining, or interesting to anyone but myself - but it's 2:30 in the morning and I can't sleep, so I may as well get at least one of the topics on my mind off my chest (wait a minute...you know, as anatomy lessons go, this one may need a little work - what do you expect from an insomniac).

Yesterday was Exhibit One in why doing the right thing can legitimately be considered career suicide in the corporate world, and perhaps explain (as if it needs any explaining) how corporate fiascos like Enron get started, gain momentum, and finally collapse, leaving innocent victims strewn about like so much refuse, wondering what the hell happened.

I work for a large corporation.  Technically, it's a nonprofit organization (the nation's largest in the healthcare field) but make no mistake, all the elements of corporate America are hard at work within its hallowed halls.

I'm what you might call middle management.  Middle age.  Middleweight.  I've become my own worst nightmare.  I'm smack dab in the middle of the road.  You know what Mr. Miyagi said about getting stuck in the middle - "Squish like grape."  Call me The Grape Guy.

My company is in the midst of "affordability" problems.  You might have heard of this concept.  It's called "we grew so big when things were going well and made so many bad decisions (including building a new medical center at EVERY ONE of our Southern California locations), that now we have to cut costs everywhere we can find them in order to keep our doors open - just before we start getting rid of everyone we hired when things were going so well."  Fun times.

Since I value my paycheck (and have a certain level of integrity, let's face it), when my systems administrator (also known as The Guy Who Actually Understands the Funny Blinking Stuff that Takes Up a Small Warehouse of Space in our Office) tells me how we can save a bunch of money by going with our current systems vendor over the new, 'standardized' vendor being foisted upon our department (and the entire corporate structure), I figure, let's DO THE RIGHT THING (those of you who saw the Spike Lee movie can see what's coming - believe me, I did too, but sometimes I just can't help myself).

So I told him to put together a proposal. 

We spent 4 weeks massaging it, doing the proper homework, making sure the numbers were right, that we were comparing similar functions, etc (actually this is making me sleepy - I may have found the cure to insomnia - describe work to a reading audience).  Finally, Nand, my guy, has the right info lined up and ready to present to my boss - which we do.

And it goes well.  In all fairness to my boss, if you present him with something that makes sense from a business perspective (and makes him look good as a result), he's pretty supportive.  Which almost makes me forget our first conversation where he told me there were 3 options I could give him when he asked for a completed project - 1) the project, done the way he asked, 2) my letter of resignation, or 3) a death certificate.  He also told me he wasn't joking.  I love my job.

However, he was just the beginning.  I'm not naive enough to believe that this proposal would get through all the layers of corporatese and political wrangling necessary to actually do something useful - and I was right.  I correctly predicted the proposal would be met with mudslinging, accusations, derision, contempt, and attacks on my character, intentions, and commitment to the organization.  Remember, I knew this was going to happen before it even started.  Nobody can tell me I don't have courage (or a bit of a masochistic streak).

The bottom line is that for the past 3 months, as I've edged this idea closer to the point where it might stand a snowball's chance of being implemented, I've also risked virtually any hope of advancing at my new job - even though what I'm doing is in the best interest of the company, saves money (a lot of it), and costs nobody anything (except possibly the reputation of the people who chose the too-expensive vendor to begin with).

It culminated yesterday with a conference call where a Big Cheese accused me of not being a Team Player and then offered magnanimously to get me off the Hot Seat by suggesting that a Committee consider my Disturbing Proposal in order to decide whether the Organization can or should do anything with this - even though I've obviously been Out Of Line the entire time...

I did my best to bite my tongue (it's also possible that God intervened on my behalf by cutting off my cell phone reception - twice).  And played the part of the dutiful employee, grateful for his assistance in moving this soon-to-be corporate boondoggle along.  Of course, I rose to my own defense when necessary and prevented him from entirely assassinating my character - all the while watching in detached wonder at what happens to people who Do The Right Thing in a dog-eat-dog world.

And this was just the first level - the next level is national - the guys whose idea it was to use the Too-Expensive Vendor (I'm just going to start calling them the T.E.V.) in the first place.  If I get a letter bomb in my mailbox, I won't be surprised.

And the reward for all of this abuse is...simply the next step in my Affordability Plan. 

I can't wait...

Ow.

Upon reflection, I've decided that engaging in contact sports at age 48 is something of a poor recreational choice.

Not that I had a great deal of choice when it happened.

Setting: The beach at Belmont Shore - July 4, 2008.  A day that will not live in history but will perhaps serve as a reminder that there are times when I'm just not that bright (I know the extreme shock you must be experiencing right now).

Everything started out fine.  BIG barbecue, lots of fun being had by all (in some cases in direct proportion to the quantities of alcohol consumed) - by my tally, 200 lbs of meat cooked (not an exaggeration) - chicken, baby back ribs, carne asada, hamburgers, hot dogs, you get the idea, plus about 5 bags of chips and 2 kegs of beer.  My kind of barbecue (there was some grumbling from the female contingent about the lack of variety in the fare being served, but my take is, if you want lettuce at a barbecue, bring it yourself).

The great thing was, I didn't have to plan anything - just bring my balls (volleyball, football, 4-square ball, paddle ball, beach ball - why, what were you thinking?).  And that's where the plan went just a wee bit awry.

You see, people who drink beer shouldn't be allowed to have ideas.  Any ideas.  Because when you're half lit, any idea you have is bound to be bad.  Bad, bad, bad.  At least for me.

It was my buddy Jim's bash - quite a few people from work were there, along with various and sundry girlfriends, wives, family, drop-ins...

Jim is a great guy.  In fact, you could make a case that Jim is THE great guy - the kind of prototype great guy who defines what great guydom is.  You want to talk sports.  Jim is your guy.  Cars.  Ditto.  Women.  No problem.  Drink beer.  Tell jokes.  Hang out for no good reason at all.  All standard operating procedure for Jim.  He's just about impossible not to like.

So when he saw the football I brought, he got excited, saying something clever like "Bob, let's play football.  Come on." And what do you say to a great guy like Jim? (Hint: "No" is a great start and an even better finish.)  Like I said, sometimes I'm not the brightest bulb in the package.

So football it was. 

This was not the original plan.  I brought the football for the same reason I brought a frisbee - to play catch.  Playing catch is relaxing.  Playing catch is fun.  Most important of all, playing catch is a non-contact sport, at least in the sense that the only contact you're making is contacting the football with your hands, or, if you're slightly less coordinated or aware, your face (not that this has ever happened to me).  Regardless, while playing catch, you're not likely to have several other guys ranging from welter-weight to super-heavyweight launching themselves at you from all angles in an attempt to dislodge the ball from your arms (and your head from the rest of your body).

In the game of football of course, it's a different story.  The first (and only) rule I cared about was just how painful this experience was going to be - for me.  The young guys (by which I mean everyone else), and of course Jim, were all for playing tackle football.  I on the other hand, was all for keeping my shoulders un-separated and collar-bone unbroken, and insisted strongly on playing "touch."  I was able to convince the guys that, no matter how 'loose' some of us were feeling, sand is pretty much just really small rocks, and that's what we'd be falling on. So I got my way.  Sort of. 

Football is a game best played by young men wearing helmets and LOTS of padding.  Young, agile, swift, powerful men who recover quickly from bone-jarring collisions and dislocated humeruses.  Not middle-aged men with spare tires around their mid-sections who spend the majority of their work time staring at tiny computer screens and the majority of their non-work time staring at massive television screens.  Put Jim and I in the latter category.

Things started out fine.  We put the old guys (Jim and I) on opposing teams (by the way, Jim goes into the super-heavy division - the guy's got some serious size on him), then spread the wealth of the young guys among us to try and make it even.  Oh yeah, I got the only other geezer on the field - a 5'6", 148 lb, 49 year-old bantam rooster without the good sense to figure out he's not 23 anymore (unlike me).  He also had a personality that could charitably be described as irritating and by the time we'd been playing for 15 minutes, I wanted to kick his ass myself - and he was on my team (any 49 year old who shows up for a beach party wearing his shorts just barely above his crotch line, with about 6" of skivvies showing, deserves what he gets).  I'll give him credit though - he actually kept up with the young dudes pretty well (though I bet he's feeling it today - more on that in a minute).

Being the tall guy, I got to be the quarterback.  I started out pretty well, completing 6 of 7 passes, including one for a touchdown (the one incomplete was to the banty-legged 49 year old who dropped it when I laid it right in his hands - after he'd griped for the 4th play in a row that he was open - "didn't you see me?" "No, but I can hear you just fine...").  I even caught a pass for another touchdown when we switched QBs and let the middle-aged midget throw the ball, just to make him quit whining.  I think the other team was so shocked that he completed the pass - and that I caught it - that they just stood there while I trotted into the end-zone (clearly marked by a random stick planted in the sand).

So far, so good.  That's when time began to catch up.  In the first place, there's a big difference between working out in the gym and getting your exercise on a football field (er, sandy beach) - the primary difference being that when you're on a treadmill or doing bench presses, the equipment isn't trying to pummel you into submission.  And the whole "touch vs. tackle" argument was definitely leaning into the "tackle" dimension.  I was getting clocked by guys whose definition of touching did not come from the Esalen Institute.

By the time the fireworks were ready, the scoreboard read Good Guys (us) 21, Bad Guys (them) 21 (we assumed the extra point conversions were good).  I'd also scored a sand-burned knee, wrenched back, slightly bruised ribs, and possibly a mild concussion - though it's possible I was suffering brain damage before I ever went on the field, so we'll let that one pass.  The other highlight of the game was watching Jim, all 6'3" and 260 lbs of him, run a sweep left and completely annihilate my Rooster-teammate with a classic Larry Czonka drive, running directly over him for a first down (I should be ashamed of myself for giggling at the pain of my teammate).  I've got to hand it to the little guy though - he bounced right back up and kept playing, though there was a definite wobble to his strut for the next couple of plays.

Rooster-guy wanted to keep playing into the night (what is it about certain little dudes that they absolutely have to prove they're the baddest and the best), so I encouraged him to do so on his own.  I promised to root from the sidelines, where I prepared to receive mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from the cheerleading section. 

Unfortunately, the EMTs came and carried me away on a stretcher as the 4th of July fireworks went off overhead, so I'll never know who won.

"Too Old to Give Up, but Too Young to Rest..."

Oh, the wonders of an iPod.

Like most homo sapiens of the masculine persuasion, there's nothing to renew vision and restore enthusiasm like getting a new toy (or discovering a new feature on an old one).

In the midst of dredging up the energy to get my less-than-enthused bod into the gym this morning, I remembered I recently bought an arm-holster for my iPod - it's basically a holder that straps onto your arm with a pocket for the music machine, so you can wear the iPod while you work, hang out, etc.

Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles...suddenly I'm jamming around my pad to the rasping croons of Roger Daltrey, backed by the thunderous thumping of Keith Moon (my favorite ex-rocker who died of excess - alcohol poisoning in his case - much better than choking on a ham sandwich like Mama Cass, and I bet she never drove her Rolls Royce Silver Shadow into a hotel swimming pool).

I've got tunes!!!!  Sweet.

In a heartbeat, my mood went from definite doldrums to dancin' fool.  YESSS!

Unfortunately, the iPod didn't make me any stronger or fitter (when THAT version comes out, sign me up) - but it sure made the workout more fun, and that's two thirds of the battle of the bulge - if pounding weights and climbing hills was more fun than stuffing Ben & Jerry's down your throat from the comfort of your living room sofa, everyone would be doing it.

Another note - my nephew Max is in town.  I know this because I picked him up at the airport and took him to In-n-Out for a burger the other night - it was his idea and his treat, and you've never seen a 17 year old so proud to fork over seven dollars and thirty four cents in your life.  That's because he's now a working man - has his own money and everything.  You go dude.

Now he's off to the Anime Expo with mutant friends, spiked hair, chin pubes, and a costume he made himself (with help from the noted costume designer Grandma), including a four-foot pair of home-made scissors - and if you need me to explain any of this to you, remember - he's seventeen - because that's the only explanation you're likely to get.

And now it is time to express profound gratitude and humbly acknowledge the gift of freedom and self-determination bestowed upon us in this country by those with the vision, courage, and fortitude to say nay to the rule of distant bureaucrats from across the Atlantic Ocean (we choose to be ruled by our own bureaucrats, grown locally thank you very much), to give thanks for the opportunity to live in our country and make our own way.

Which means I'm off to the beach for bodysurfing, blond-gazing, and frisbee-frollicking, punctuated by a barbequed ribeye, well-done, with just a hint of hickory flavor - a fine way to celebrate the birth of our nation (I just got a mental image of Thomas Paine in surfer jams and dreads, hanging 10 on an eight foot curl - a Founding Father my nephew could chill with - they could share iPods).

Happy 4th!