the load

I spent the better part of today loading my pickup truck with an enormous amount of stuff that has to go to the cottage this weekend. It always amazes me how much stuff we haul back and forth from home to the cottage every damn time we go. There seems to be no end to the stuff we find necessary to conduct our lives both here and there.

Normally we drive our van when we go, and it is usually packed to the roof with necessary stuff. At least we think it's necessary. If we need the stuff there so much why do we keep bringing it back home? Why not just leave it there? Why don't we just have two of everything, so that we wouldn't have to haul it all home again? I can't think of anything that we need so badly that we absolutely have to take it with us. Food maybe. But there are grocery stores up there, so why haul it from home. Clothes of course. It isn't a nudist colony up there either. But why not just leave some clothes there instead of packing a duffle bag full every time?

Still, we continue our freight hauling ways even though we know we are crazy to do it this way. Even when we are going there just for a couple days, like this weekend, we manage to fill the vehicle, whether van or truck, to the point of overloading. And of course there is always something we've forgotten at home or at the cottage. You'd think that now, after some fifteen years of doing this, we would have it down to a science. But , no, we just keep doing the same thing over and over. I guess yu really can't teach old dogs new tricks.

Speaking of dogs, I almost forgot to put her in the truck. One more thing to remember. We're off.

It's here

While playing fetch with the dog out in the yard this morning, I suddenly realized that it was 60 degrees, the sun was shining, the daffodils were shooting up new stalks, the daylillies are emerging, the grass is greening up, and I spotted some new buds on the trees. Daylight savings time starts this weekend, and baseball opening day is Monday. My golf clubs are sitting by the door ready to go into the car where they will be for the rest of the season, ready for action. It's time to put the snowblower away and get the lawnmowers ready to go. Just like that, March is nearly done and Spring is here. I'm feeling good.

from the past

While digging through the back of the cabinet that stores the words I scribbled long ago, I came across the following poem, written by me at the death of my father some 30+ years ago. The words ring true even now, and evoke the same emotion now as then. I hesitate to analyze or search for deep or hidden meanings in the poem. That is best left to whoever choses to read it. I am curious, though, to hear your response. So I offer this poetic attempt for your perusal.

IN MEMORIAM

We cannot much longer sit shivering,
Shrugging at promises.
white frost does not melt into green
and we cannot remember the last crocus
Trees are leafless in misbegotten Junes
Tarnished dark like late December afternoons.
Sheets are draped on all the mirrors,
Eyes of each avoiding the unkempt faces of the others.
The relatives come clucking,
like he last of the chickens after the fox has been through,
And quickly leave.
And more spoons are gone from the last of the silverware.

The lid has slammed
And they fetched you off
to a resting place amid
the granite, grass, and tea roses.
The old trees whisper words of awe,
rustling at the majestic power
that prescibes endings,
Words left unheard,
but still weaving through the leaves,
By ears no longer tuned to earthly murmurings.
If you hear, you don’t let on,
so the consolation is small.

The man in black speaks to the powers
in hushed tones that brown the air,
Invoking streaming tears among the living,
born of inner rumblings appropriate to the occasion.

The tea roses are now wilted
But the trees seem just as old.
All that remains to be seen
is a mounded reminder,
brown, surrounded by green.
A marker that says you once were
but are no longer,
Pushes the memories lingering,
but now fading
in the fog of minutes,
hours,
days,
weeks,
months,
years,
Into obscurity.

Still we plod along,
the loving embodiment
of your presence once so short,
Living proof that tea roses will grow again,
And trees will grow still older.

doldrums

I don't know what it is, but the past few days have found me lethargic and uninterested in much of anything. This is the season when it is neither Winter nor Spring, when it is still not quite nice enough outside to venture out into any extensive outdoor activity. Yet staying inside seems like such a waste of the sunshine out there. I am a decidedly warm weather person, so temps in the 40's don't get me too excited. Still, those warmer temps are an indication that it will soon be pleasant enough for me to take advantage of the outdoors again.

I do feel guilty for not being outside more this past weekend, since it was quite nice out there. Mary, however, was still feeling the effects of the cold she has had for the last two weeks, and didn't have a lot of energy for running around. So I was reasonably content to stay in and spend the extra time in my workshop, while she busied herself cleaning part of the basement.

I did feel, though, that I didn't actually get much done. I feel like I'm running in place. I have 4 different projects going on in the shop right now, and don't seem to be making much progress with any of them. I seem to be caught in a mental slowdown and can't stay focused on any one thing. Thus, the lack of progress on any of the projects. I fear that those things will get less and less attention as the weather gets better and better and I find myself outside tending to the usual springtime chores. So, on the one hand, I feel compelled to work harder and longer in the shop to complete those projects, and on the other hand I don't seem to have the energy or focus to accomplish that.

And then there is the usual work of seasonal preparation at the cottage that will need to be done. Once we start going there on a regular basis, nothing will get done around here. I am thinking of moving much of my workshop up there for the summer, now that we have the new garage and plenty of room for it. Mary has already placed an order with me for a couple of tables and lamps she wants there. So I figured it would make sense to move the workshop there since we spend most of the summer there anyway. That way, between golfing, kayaking, golfing, bicycling, golfing, reading, golfing, happy houring with the neighbors, and more golfing, I can work a little bit there and feel like I am doing something useful.

I know, all this sounds like a lot of useless and unnecessary whining about nothing of consequence. But, hey, it's my life and I'll whine if I want to. Now I think I'll go take a nap.

physical dichotomy

I had my yearly physical with my primary physician a couple days ago. I've been doing the yearly thing for many years now, always at the same time of year and always with the same doctor. I only see him on, thankfully, rare occasions during the year whenever some debilitating malady strikes that requires a prescription to bring under control. That has been a rare thing the past few years. Why? Because I am ridiculously healthy due to watching my diet, getting regular exerecise, and observing moderation in all things.

You might ask, "how can someone with Parkinsons Disease consider himself ridiculously healthy?" The fact is, it's because of the PD diagnosis I got three years ago that I began watching my diet and began a regular exercise regimen. One of the best ways to counteract the effects of PD is exercise. People with PD have difficulty engaging their muscles to do the simplest tasks, like walking, and perform many normal movements slowly. Muscle spasms are common and result in involuntary movements of hands, arms, and legs. Because of the diffuculty in getting those muscles to move naturally, Pd patients often stop using those muscles, which then become weak from disuse, exascerbating the condition.

I have found that the daily exercises I perform are what keep me functional. I ride the stationary bike, do some weight training, both on a machine and with free weights, walk on the treadmill, and have a regular yoga routine for stretching and maintaining flexibility. They allow me to perform normal day to day tasks and to pursue my woodworking passion, and to continue to paly golf (badly, but I still play). Granted, I don't do anything very quickly and sometimes need to just sit down and take a break, but at least I can still do the things that need to be done.

The irony of my situation is that now that I have PD, I am in the best shape of my life. I am stronger than I have ever been and I will probably live longer, and healthier, than if I had never gotten PD. I feel that I can keep the disease at bay for a long time with exercise and proper diet. I do have to take regular doses of medication each day, which is a small but necessary part of managing PD, but I really feel that my lifestyle has as much to do with my continuing to function at a decent level.

In a couple weeks I go to see my Neurologist for a regular checkup. I am going to go with the knowledge that I am doing all I can to manage my condition. I hope to impress him with my continuing efforts and to add to his data base about the benefits of physical activity being a key to functionality for PD patients. I don't mind setting an example if it benefits others with the same fight on their hands. Bring it on.

trash, man

Today was our usual trash pickup day, which means that yesterday, late afternoon, I hauled the bagged detritus of our past week out to the curb. Nothing particularly interesting in all that. I do the same thing every week at the same time. But for some reason I was more inclined to look around as I placed those black bags of trash curbside. I did not like what I saw.

We live on a busy street, a main thoroughfare for north/south traffic. There is a signal light a half block away at the freeway entrance. It is not unusual for there to be a line of cars extending back to our house from the corner light when it is showing red. The point is that we have a generous supply of vehicles both moving and stopped at any time of the day and through much of the night. All those cars means that there is a fairly high incidence of moronic litterbugs that pass my house everyday.

For some reason when people drive past my house, they feel compelled to empty the trash from their cars. Whether they do that when stopped at the light or if it is driveby trashing, I don't know. The result is the same either way. There is a lot of crap that accumulates in the gutter and on my front lawn from those slobs who think that they can just toss anything out their car window as long as they don't get caught doing it.

Apparently there must be a sign or something that I don't know about that says "empty your ashtrays here," or "toss your soda can here," and "fast food wrappers accepted at any time." Then there is the occasional tire or tailpipe that finds its way to the side of the road. Enough various car parts have accumuated over the years that, had we saved them all, we could assemble the reasonable facsimile of a badly used vehicle. Why do drivers assume they can offload their garbage or leave behind their trash where it has to be cleaned up by someone else?

That someone else is Mary. She is the resident litterlady. It is not unusual at all for her to stop at the end of the driveway when she arrives home, park her car there, and proceed to walk up and down the block picking up trash from our and our neighbors front yards. She frequently spends fifteen or twenty minutes doing that. It wouldn't be so bad if that happened once in awhile, but it is a nearly daily occurance. I will sometimes pick up something if it is easily within reach, but I have never roamed the neighbohood collecting the litter there. I'm not even sure our neighbors are aware of her tidiness. I've never seen any of them out there picking up litter, probably because she beats them to it.

We also have quite a few high school students walking by since the local high school is four blocks away.
Often they will be walking along, sipping from the giant cups of sugary liquid they buy at the corner gas station. Just as often they will simply toss the empty cups aside as they walk by. Where do these kids learn that it is alright to drop their garbage wherever they happen to be at the moment? Several years ago, when I was still reasonably quik on my feet, I happened to be out in the front yard when a couple kids went by and one of them placed his empty soda can on my mailbox post. Obviously he hadn't seen me or I'm sure he would not have had the audacity to do that right in front of me. At least I hope not. Anyway, I retrieved the can and chased after him, tapped him on the shoulder, and handed him his soda can. I told him that if he ever did that again I would feed it to him from the wrong end of his miserable little body. I know I scared the living shit out of him, but it felt so good to do something about the indifference that he showed for my property and his environment. I've never seen another cup or can on my mailbox either.

I only wish I could chase down all those drivers who show the same indifference to my property and their ennvironment when they toss their garbage out their windows. I dream of catching one of them and stuffing a handful of cigarette butts in his face. Or maybe taking that beer can (yes, we've had a lot of beer cans over the years. That's scary on a couple different levels) that he tossed out his window and girnding it into the paint on his car's hood. Unfortunately there will always be another idiot to replace him. There will always be another moron who doesn't care. There will always be some more trash for Mary to pick up. There will always be more litter for me to complain about.

american pie

Tall ones
short ones
big ones
small ones
fat ones
skinny ones
even tiny mini ones.
I saw them all yesterday while perched on a comfortable chair, my observation post, in the center of the mall. Witnessing the parade of types, plumages, and mating dances, all of the same species, made me marvel at the diversity baked into the American pie. Passing by in review were representatives of all the varied categories of humanity that inhabit our world. I am both amused and awed by all I saw.

There was the determined hustle of the purposeful shopper, intent on hunting down the next bargain; the fatigued slouching gait of the overshopped; the prancing of the preening teens hoping to be looked at; the dazed and beleaguered empty stare of the young parents herding 3 tired and whining kids; the proud strut of the new parents pushing a Lexus of strollers (with more options and possibly horsepower than my first car), showing off what is probably a newborn hidden somewhere in the depths of the blankets and swaddling; the I-dare-you-to-judge-me cockiness of the punky mohawked peacock with the irridescent spiked hair and scrapmetal dangling from every available skin fold and orifice; the punching, poking horseplay of the prepubescent boys in their overly baggy pants and shirts (they could both fit in one leg of those pants and still have room to spin around without touching each other); the teenage girls, all blonde, barely dressed in their hip hugging jeans and bare midriffs giggling and gossiping in a language only they can understand; the grandmotherly matrons all bedecked in their Sunday finest (obligatory strand of pearls at their necks) shopping for the grandson's birthday without a clue what to get a 14 year old boy of this day and time; and the polyglot murmurings and cellphone conversations of the tribes that congregate here in the new town square of America.

The one scene that played out in front of me, as I catelogued the show, that made me feel happy and content and hopeful, was the grandmother and granddaughter walking hand in hand and sharing their thoughts and secrets, their smiles and quiet laughter, oblivious to the raucous river of activity that they were floating through. They could not have looked more mismatched-- Grandma, though short and round as grandmas usually are, exhuded wealth and sophistication in her expensive dress and high heels, her Gucci bag undoubtledly stuffed with credit cards, while her grandaughter sported the grunge look of a street urchin, layered in seemingly found bits and pieces of attire. Yet they had apparently put aside the clash of cultures, had bridged the generational divide that so often separates us, and were earnestly communicating on a wavelength that we are rarely tuned into.

That one slice of the American pie gave me hope for our future as a civilization. If all the grandmas and grandpas will listen and not judge, and if all the younger generation will talk to them and explain, the world will continue on without unnecessary clashing and head butting. Communication leads to understanding and understanding leads to tolerance and tolerance leads to peace. If all cultures in all the countries of the world were to start communicating, like that grandmother and granddaughter, within their own small section of the world, then it is not a very big step to expand that communication and understanding and tolerance to their neighbors, and ultimately to everyone.

It sounds so simple. Why not give it a try. And we don't really need a shopping mall to bring us all together, although it doesn't hurt to see and hear our fellows in their natural habitat. The next time I'm in the mall, instead of just observing, I am going to approach that mohawked kid with the myriad piercings and ask how he does his hair. Hey, it's a start.

preview

The past two days have been an introduction to the eventual retirement of my dear wife. She has been home for two days with a nasty cold that would have made teaching nearly impossible. So being together these two days, we have been experiencing what our retirement days might be like. It ain't pretty.

Some background is in order to help you to understand the two of us. We really are not compatible at all when you get right down to it. Somehow we've managed to survive and even flourish for the past 36 years of marriage. Love is a strange beast.

Mary is a talker. Nonstop for most of her waking hours. She thinks out loud. If there is a thought that crosses her mind, she verbalizes it. Usually more than once. She loves to share all those thoughts with whomever is around. That's usually me. Silence is a state she is terribly uncomfortable with. And she evidently feels that I should be just as uncomfortable with silence as she is.

I, however, am more comfortable with silence. I exist mostly in my mind. Imtrospective is a good way to describe me. I share my thoughts usually reluctantly, if at all. I prefer to save my words for when they will have the most impact. I prefer to think about what I am going to say before opening my mouth. At least most of the time. Regular readers of this blog know of those instances when my thoughtless mouth has gotten me into trouble. But for the most part I prefer silence. Especially in the morning.

My penchant for morning silence goes back high school when I spent several years in the seminary. Silence was the rule then in the morning. We were forbidden to talk from the time we arose in the morning until after morning Mass and until grace had been said at breakfast. That silent time has been ingrained in me ever since. I find it nearly impossible to put together a coherent thought , let alone a complete sentence, until after I have had my breakfast. And sometimes beyond that time. Like until after my morning exercise. And sometimes until lunch time is imminent. In other words, I like it quiet most of the time. You can see the problem coming, can't you.

I am admittedly a creature of habit. I arise in the morning, eat breakfast while reading, exersize for an hour or more, shower, get dressed, do whatever domestic chores need doing, have lunch, and spend the next few hours doing whatever I want or need to do until it's time to prepare dinner so it's ready for when Mary gets home. That schedule is nearly immutable. It is etched in stone. The only one who can change it is me. That is, the only one who can change it willingly and with full cooperation, is me. That schedule is my touchstone during the week, Monday through Friday. Weekends are different. I expect a disruption in the schedule because Mary is part of the equation then. That's ok. I can deal with the interruption to my routine when I have time to anticipate it. Weekends have their own routine that I am tuned into. It's those weekdays when the unexpected happens that throw me all out of sinc and make me grumpy. Mary changes my schedule just by being here.

So I come downstairs after arising, ready to prepare and enjoy my breakfast and reading as usual. We have a counter that is situated below a window that looks out on the backyard. That is where we eat most of our meals. That is where I eat my breakfast. Alone, usually. So I am used to spreading out a bit--I leave my banana and muffin on the placemat to my left, my cereal and coffee in front of me. Except SHE is sitting at the place to my left, so I have to relocate my banana and muffin to the space in front of me. It is way too crowded like that. I don't know what to do. Do I chase her away so that I can have my normal space (that would require my speaking, so unless she knows sign language, we will get nowhere), or do I adapt? I think I can handle it, but then she starts talking. To me. She expects me to listen. She expects me to respond. That's four red marks on the debit side of the ledger right there. I grunt. I sigh. I breathe heavily. My body language tells her she is near the edge and she wisely retreats to her favorite spot on the futon next to the window where the sun shines in every morning, where she likes to read the morning paper on the weekends. The crisis has been averted. For now. We fall into our weekend routine, where I get the counter, she gets the futon, and we maintain the one room buffer that saves our marriage.

I actually become communicative after I have had my breakfast, exercised and gotten dressed for the day. That doesn't mean I want to carry on a continual conversation for my remaining wakeful hours. Nor do I need constant supervision or direction in how to best occupy my time. But Mary is a manager, a control freak, the boss of all. That includes me. So while she enjoys cleaning and housework, organizing closets, decorating our home, I try to stay out of the way and uninvolved in her compulsive pursuits. But somehow she always hunts me down and includes me in her activities. Hang a picture. Remove and clean the heat vents. Prepare her lunch. The list goes on and on.

This is normal activity for the weekends. I expect it then. But on Thursday and Friday my internal clock says it is too early to be doing all this stuff. I should be in my workshop making sawdust while shaping those wood scraps into something nice to look at. Understand, she does all this stuff without realizing that she is encroaching on my creative time. She is really very supportive of my creative pursuits, ususally laying claim to everthing I make. She just doesn''t differentiate between weekdays and weekends.

Adapting to her wants and needs is really my problem. I have to make the necessary adjustments. I am the compulsive one with my daily habits. She takes such good care of me and I know she loves me unconditionally, and I her, that I have no excuse for not giving her all the time and attention she desires from me. But it's hard to do. I will never be talkative in the morning, nor will I verbalize my every thought. She will continue to do both. Somehow it has worked for the many years of our marriage. Retirement may be the ultimate test of our relationship.

Perhaps you can teach an old dog new tricks. Of course if you swat him with a stick often enough, he'll get the message. I just fear that it will take repeated blows upside my head with a 2x4 to get me to come around. Thank God her retirement is still several years away. I am going to need all the practice time I can get. And as many blows with that 2x4 that are necessary.

Leaves

Leaves
Originally uploaded by Bobciz.

Here is the third in the series. The next one is started, but I have a couple other pieces in the works at the same time, so it may be awhile before I finish it. So much to do, so little time. But all these projects keep me off the streets and out of the bars and out of trouble, so I guess they serve a higher purpose.

say what you mean

I'm sitting here sipping some schnaaps, trying to head off a probable cold that Mary has brought home from school. She's coughing and sneezing and spreading germs with reckless abandon. I've been avoiding her and the plague she is carrying and following behind her washing all the surfaces she has come in contact with. She is planning on staying home tomorrow to recover a bit and to stop spreading the germ to her students. She doesn't seem to be overly concerned about spreading it to me, though. So besides the schnaaps I have ingested a massive dose of vitamin C, which always works to help fight off the infection.

So while I'm sitting here wondering what to write about, I hear on the tv, which is tuned to ESPN (the Suns are blowing out the Clippers, in case you're interested), one of the announcers say, "I could care less," about something. Now that phrase is one of my pet peaves. What he meant to say, but didn't because he didn't think about it, was " I COULDN'T care less."

When someone says, "I could care less," the implication left unsaid is that they still care at least a lttle bit about it. They are still harboring some care for the subject at hand. They are saying that they care little about it, yet are not totally bereft of feeling for whatever has prompted the statement. There is a tiny bit of care still residing in them. What they MEAN to convey is that the subject carries such little weight with them, that there is NO CARE left for them to spend. Thus they really COULD NOT care less, since there is no care left, and that is what they should say. There is really no care left in them to spend. But that isn't what they say. Why? Because they are not thinking when they make the statement.

That reminds me of the use of absolutes in conversation, such as, "he ALWAYS does something, or, "he NEVER does something." Such activity is nearly impossible. No one is capable of always or never doing something. They might "sometimes" do something, or "occasionally" do something, or "often" do something. But for some reason, unthinking or sloppy speakers use those absolutes much of the time. (Notice I didn't say they always say them). It just irritates the hell out of me when I have to listen to such inaccuracies. Think before you speak and say what you mean.

There are other linguistic irritations that itch and need scratching, but that will have to do for now. When I drink my evening schnaaps I ALWAYS get fuzzy headed and ALWAYS lose some coordination and am then NEVER capable of typing accurately. So those other irritations will have to wait for another time.

I must have been good

I must have been behaving myself recently. Or, at least, not being quite as naughty as usual.

I have to admit that I've been trying to watch my smart mouth and not speak without thinking first. I still have the bad habit of flicking my hand at her when I want to dismiss her and the conversation. She hates that. But even that gesture has been used less frequently. See, I am trying.

My trying to be good has reaped some tangible rewards. I think there is a relationship between my attempt at good behavior and the fact that Mary likes to give me stuff. She likes to buy me things that I have expressed a passing interest in. Then again, maybe it is just her generous nature and has nothing to do with my improved conduct.

There also seems to be a correlation to the time of year. It seems that the approach of Spring spurs her generosity more than any other time of the year. Last year at this time, she bought me a new set of golf clubs. And I don't remember trying to be particularly well behaved at the time. Of course, she likes to buy herself stuff more at this time of year, too. Perhaps the increasing length of the days has something to do with it as well.

You know I've been trying to be good when I tell you that I have accompanied her on several recent weekends to furniture stores, looking for some new furniture for the lake cottage. Normally I would make any excuse possible to avoid the drudgery of furniture shopping. Let's face it, if it was still football season, there is no way she would get me out of the house to go on such an errand. That, plus the fact that the NCAA basketball tournament hasn't started yet, gives her a window of opportunity that she is taking full advantage of. So I have been a dutiful husband, driving her from store to store, offering opinions on style and color, and acting really interested in the whole thing. I can fake it pretty well when I have to.

Anyway, she has rewarded me with a new Kayak for the lake. I have indicated in the past that a kayak is something that I would like, that would be well suited to the lake and my need for exercise. So she bought me a bright yellow eleven footer. Of course now she is worried that I am going to drown the first time I get into it. Maybe she is really looking to collect on the life insurance policy. Nah, she really isn't like that. Besides, I don't have that much insurance anyway to make my demise worthwhile. So I choose to look at my new kayak as a reward for my good behavior.

I have my eye on a couple of golf clubs, a new driver and a new putter. I wonder how many furniture stores I will have to take her to to score those goodies? How long do I have to keep up this torturous good behavior? It is so out of character for me.

wisdom

I'm not quite sure what prompted this, but lately I've been thinking about the definition of wisdom. We often hear something like, "a wise man once said...", or "the wisdom of the ages tells us...", but do we really pay attention to what we hear? Do we recognize wisdom when it is presented to us? Do we really know what true wisdom is, or are we swayed by the utterings of a supposed wise man, whose voice is recognized as containing surpassing knowledge?

How does someone become a wise man? How does a man acccumulate the necessary knowledge to be considered worthy of the title? Who conveys the title, "Wise Man," on the recipient of that respectful appellation? Does public consensus serve to apply such respect, or does a bit of lobbying on behalf of the would-be wise man help to achieve that lofty status?

I guess I'm skeptical of anyone who would claim wisdom, since a certain humility seems to be required by the claimant. Yet there must be someone out there who is wise, who has all the requisite attributes to be considered a wise man. I make no claims myself to being wise, although I'm sure I have accumulated enough knowledge during my llife to at least pretend to have approached that state. But is mere accumulation of knowledge sufficient to claim wisdom, or is the pursuit of wisdom an ongoing thing which is never fully achieved? Surely the application of knowledge plays into the equation. Having a wide range of accumulated knowledge without applying that knowledge seems insufficient to claiming wisdom.

Then there is the esoteric knowledge that accrues to the philosopher and ascetic that, simply by being narrowly understood and applied, implies wisdom by default. The Dalai Lhama is a good example of that. He is considered a wise man by virtue of his status as a holy man, tuned in to the spiritual, less understood realm of being. But is his wisdom applicable to us common folk who live in a world that he only sees from the vantage point of his mountain top? Is his recognized wisdom something that we can use, or are we cowed by his presence into thinking his every utterance is food for thought? For that matter, is it necessary to make pronouncements based on whatever knowledge is available to be considered wise?

I am full of questions, but lack answers. Does that make me unwise? Or does it mean I am still on the journey seeking wisdom? Perhaps the wisest man is he who continues seeking answers to all the questions he encounters because he is not satisfied with the extent of his knowledge. In that case I am indeed a wise man. Then again, maybe wisdom isn't really a thing, but rather simply a state of mind bolstered by a lifetime of accumulated knowledge. Every man gains knowledge throughout his life, even if he is not actively seeking it. So is every man wise? And where does common sense fit into the story? Many of those considered wise have little or no formal education, but possess exceedingly high rates of common sense that make their opinions respected and sought for their apparent wisdom.

Does all my confusion eliminate me from the ranks of the wise? Should I really care? Do I need to be considered wise to satisfy some part of my ego? Do I rank among the wise simply because I've been around for awhile and seen a bit more and experienced a bit more than someone of lesser years? Is age a prerequisite for wisdom, or are the ranks of fools populated by the older would-be wise men? Someone help me out here. I need reassurance that I am not totally bereft of hope that I might one day be considered wise. Or at least on the right track toward that goal.

Who's he kidding

While exercising, riding the stationary bike this morning, I was watching Sportscenter on ESPN. Naturally, they had a significant report on the publication of the new book by a couple reporters in San Francisco about Barry Bonds and his "alleged" drug use. In the book, which I haven't seen or read yet, they offer considerable evidence that Bonds used, over a period of at least five years, a wide variety of performance enhancing drugs in various forms. As far as I'm concerned, they are merely stating and proving the obvious. Take one look at Barrry Bonds and you have to admit that there is something unnatural going on.

So why do we care? I reallize that for those of you who are not sports fans in general, or baseball fans in particular, the whole discussion about drugs in sports is boring. But for those of us who take an active interest in sports, the integrity of the statistics that are generated by any sport are the backbone of our interest. Those statistics allow us to measure the relative performance of athletes against those currently playing and those who played in the past. A level playing field is assumed when using those statistics. Baseball in particular thrives on the wide ranging statistical categories that define performance. But those statistics become unusable when we try to compare the performance of a natural athlete against the performance of a drug using cheater.

That Barry Bonds has used steroids is an obvious conclusion when you look at the man. All the signs are there: the bloated body, the overly large head, the irrational and angry behavior. Has anyone tried to check the size of his testicles? Shrinking genitals are a common result of steroid use. Mr. Bonds admittedly has balls to continually deny any drug use. It's just that those balls are the size of a newborn's now. Does he really believe that we are all so gullible and naive that we will accept his protestations of innocence without question? I don't want to hear all the nonsence about "innocent until proven guilty" either. The evidence is so strong and overwhelming that it cannot be ignored.

What to do? For me there is no question that he should be banished from the game, that all his statistics and records be erased from the record book. All the home runs, the rbi, the stolen bases and the MVP awards are bogus. Since he "allegedly" began his steroid regimen in 1998, all statistical categories that he appears in since that time should be adjusted, showing
what they should be without hs participation. I know there will be those who will argue that he is still a great baseball player, but I would have to ask, "how do you know what kind of player he would have been without the physical enhancements that drugs provided ?" He has made a mockery of the game with his selfish cheating in the pursuit of baseball's most cherished records.

It astounds me that there are some sportswriters who are still debating whether Barry Bonds should someday be elected to the Hall of Fame. Perhaps if there is a section devoted to drug using cheaters, liars, and all-around assholes, he would have the place named after him. But please don't desecrate the shrine of baseball by including the likes of him wthin its sacred walls. The only way he should get in there is with a bucket and mop so he can clean up the shit he left behind.

who cares

I challenge anyone to name the winners of last year's major academy awards. I seriously doubt that you'll be able to rattle them off. They are not on the tip of your tongue. They are buried deep in the recesses of your overstuffed brain along with all the other useless trivia you have buried there.

The point is, who cares. By the end of this week you will have to think hard to recall the winners on last night's show. All the self-congratulatory back patting that goes on on the various award shows is simply a display of narcissistic pandering. Why do we idolize these people so? They are just actors. They are just singers. They are just entertainers. They are the court jesters of our world, and as such should not be taken so seriously or given such acclaim. If we are amused by their antics for a few moments, they have fuflilled their duties. Once off the stage, they should be placed in their proper place in the pecking order of importance, just above fool, but still below dillettante.

Play acting at its greatest height is still play acting. Pretending is something most children grow out of as they mature. Continuing to pretend is surely a sign of stunted maturity. Granted, the occasional story will come along that causes us to examine the human condition, and possibly learn more about ourselves. But then to lavish undue praise and adulation on the storyteller is misguided. The story is the thing. The storyteller is incidental, a role easily filled by almost anyone. That a whole, bloated industry has grown up around such storytelling, dumping untold riches on even the minor performers, is a testement to our collective misguided priorities.

Don't get me wrong. I love to watch movies. I love to be entertained. I enjoy a good story well told. What I don't care for is the cult of adulation that has sprung up around the performers of those stories. Those performers are most often placed in the hierarchy of society in a position far above their logical state. Many are only minimally talented, but have been chosen for their good looks or sex quotient. Most would have difficulty holding down a real job. Many are of questionable intelligence. Moral fiber is sadly deficient among the ranks of entertainers. And yet we rain praise and convey celebrity on them beyond all reason. And when they decide to hold an awards show to further bolster their place in our collective consciousness, we eagerly participate in the folly and, in that participation, make ourselves look foolish.

There are enough fools already. Let's not add to the number any longer. The next time there is an award show singing the praises of the jesters, let's just ignore them and maybe they will go away. Find something better to do with your time. Maybe go to a movie.

busy weekend

This past weekend was an unusually busy social weekend for us. And fattening, too. Friday evening we met Pete and Judy, our friends from Madison, for dinner. They were in town for a couple different reasons and called and asked that we meet them for dinner before they returned home. So we met them at a restaurant near our home and spent a couple enjoyable hours talking and laughing and eating too much.

Then on Saturday, we met our friends from Sheboygan, Stu and Mary, old friends for the past 36 years, at a restaurant in Cedarburg for a mid-afternoon lunch. Cedarburg is about half way between our two homes, so a logical place to meet. This is the first time we've met there. On previous occasions when we would meet like this, it was at a different restaurant in Port Washington. But that place is closed for renovations or something, so we decided to meet in Cedarburg. Sounds simple enough, but, as we should have expected, there were complications.

First of all, it's been many years since I've been to Cedarburg, so my memory of how to get there was a little sketchy. But I have a very good sense of direction, and once I've been someplace I can always get there again, even years later. So, ok, I overshot the place slightly, but realized my mistake immediately. The fact that we were a bit late (as usual, since Mary has her own sense of time, which is otherworldly and results in our constantly rushing to get anywhere on time) was making me a wee bit grumpy and slightly uptight. Then, when the restaurant where we were supposed to meet failed to appear at the appropriate address, I got a little grumpier and a little more uptight. I hate being late for anything. Especially when it's not my fault. I was where I was supposed to be, the restaurant wasn't.

Thank goodness for cell phones. They are wonderful inventions, useful and convenient. That is when you actually have them with you and turned on so that people can actually call your number and have a reasonable expectation of hearing your voice on the other end. Stu left his sitting at home on his kitchen table. I'm not real clear myself on this, but I think you have to have it with you in order to answer it when someone calls you. So we found ourselves sitting in the car, curbside, in downtown Cedarburg, unable to get hold of our friends, who we were sure thought that we had stood them up, since we were now nearly 30 minutes late. It turns out, however, that we weren't the only ones late and confused.

Stu found the same thing we did-- that the meeting place was not there, but that a different establishment occupied the location. He went in to the place to find out what was going on, only to discover that this was not a place where we would want to spend any quality time. Since none of us have pot bellies and sagging butt-crack- exposing-pants or evil looking tattoos or drive large noisy motorcycles, he just didn't feel that we would fit in. So he found a phone across the street at a gas station and called us. We HAD OUR CELL PHONE WITH US. IT WAS TURNED ON. We answered it. Stu suggested we find another place to have our belated lunch meeting. And so we did.

We found a nice cozy bar/restaurant right downtown and spent the next 3 hours laughing at our misadventure. The time flew by as it always does when we have our gettogethers. We always have way too much to talk about and too little time to cover it all. I suppose we could meet more often, but then we probably wouldn't have nearly as much fun talking about what idiots we are. The lesson is, I guess, that good friends are those who can laugh with you, not at you, even when we are late getting started.

Finally, on Sunday I got to spend a few hours with my son, Jonathan. We went to the Golf Show together and wandered among all the other avid golfers inspecting all the latest equipment, looking for bargains, hoping to find the holy grail among all the new clubs. I know Jon went along with me really just to humor me. He is an avid golfer, but not a FANATIC like I am. He just plays the game; I live for it. He just swings away, and very well at that, where I analyze and practice and obcess and inspect both my equipment and my swing, always seeking to improve my game. I'm sure there are other things he would rather have done, but he chose to spend those several hours with me instead, and I love him for it.

What pisses me off, though, is that with all my analyzing, obcessing, and practicing, he still beats the crap out of me on the golf course, without seeming to try too hard. I justify the difference in our games on the basis of age and my impending decrepitude, and take every opportunity to remind him that someday he won't be able to hit those 300 yard drives and will know my frustration when he gets to be my age. Small consolation. Fact is, I swell with pride whenever he bombs another 300 yard drive. I just can't let him see that. I figure I will just try to confuse and astound him with the minutiae of golf knowledge that I throw at him, hoping to shortcircuit his swing and allow me to win a hole or two. I have my pride and am not above a bit of gamsmanship. Gamesmanship is a big part of the game, even, or should I say especially, between father and son. I can't wait for the season to begin.

lunch

I had lunch yesterday with my friend, Rich. That's not at all unusual, we make it a regular thing nearly every week to meet for lunch. Sometimes we'll go a couple weeks without meeting, usually due to the fact that he is tied up at work. Or sometimes I might have a conflict on the one day that he is free at lunchtime. But the point is, we meet regularly.

It wasn't always so. Rich and I go way back. We were friends in high school a long time ago. We saw each other off and on after high school, but certainly not on any regular basis. Then somewhere along the way we lost track of each other. The last time I remember seeing him during that time was at his wedding. He and Sherry then moved back east where he took a job and did the grad school thing. They had a son during that time while I stayed here, married and raising a family. That was all over 25 years ago.

Those 25 plus years flew by. I would periodically think of him, where he was, what he was doing. You know how it is, you remember a long ago friend, he crosses your mind for whatever reason, and you feel bad for losing contact. This was all in the time before we had all this electronic media and the ease of communication that email allows. We actually had to write letters using pen and paper, put the written pages in an envelope, apply a stamp to the envelope and entrust the envelope to the postal service. Primitive, yes, but it somehow worked. But that whole procedure required considerably more effort than today's email, so it was easy to procrastinate to the point where it didn't happen anymore.

And then one day the modern world caught up to us. There was an email one day from Rich seeking to make contact again. He was back in this area and he must have googled (is that cool and with it, or what) me or maybe Mary and found our email address. However it happened, he sent out the feeler that reestabllished our freindship. After a couple emails and a phone call, three years ago we, he and I, decided to meet for lunch to get reaquainted and to catch up on all the lost time. Once we got together it seemed like it was just 25 days since we last saw each other, not 25 years. When you really have a connection with someone that's what happens.

We've been meeting for lunch on that regular basis now for the past 3 years. We always meet at Appleby's and always order the same thing each time, so we don't have to bother wasting time on reading the menu and making a selection. There is never a lack of things to talk about, to laugh about, to commiserate about. We talk politics, sports, family, philosophy, and the idiocy that surrounds us. We laugh at the same things, mostly ourselves, and agree on most everything. We usually manage to solve the world's problems in the hour and a half lunchtimes that we have together. But somehow more problems pop up and plague the world each week so we have to go through the process again and again and again. If one day everything is right in the world, you'll know who to thank. But deep down inside, I hope that there will always be more problems, so that we can continue to get together seeking solutions.

I know we will always have something to laugh about--ourselves, two near-geezers, gray and getting grayer, shaking our heads at the place we find ourselves in, and constantly wondering how we got to this point. It's been a journey that we both hope is only half way there, wherever there is. The hope is that we will see the rest of the journey together, without losing track of each other again along the way.