Now You See It, Now You Don't

It's no secret I will do just about anything for the Queen. Under the right circumstances, the Sixth Commandment might even be subject to a more liberal interpretation should some poor, unfortunate fool be dumb enough to attempt harming the Queen thereby underestimating the depth of my willingness to fulfill my marriage vows. Specifically, the one about protecting her. Is it really murder if someone simply ceases to exist on this planet?

So, if I'm willing to do serious bodily harm to a would be regicidal maniac, it should come as no surprise that I'd engage in a little property destruction without too much persuasion.

As regular readers, friends and family are aware, the Queen's health has been challenged for some time now. We had been noticing a musty smell in the master closet for some time which would not go away despite our best efforts to clean, vacuum, wash, and reorganize said closet's contents.

Not long after we started smelling the musty odor, we received allergy test results indicating the Queen has sensitivities to mold. Sensitivities in most people might be a case of the sniffles or a slight headache. Sensitivities with the Queen are slightly more debilitating. Like seizures, severe muscle weakness and other forms of excitement.

Naturally, we started looking more closely at the master bath for potential sources of mold. The sink and toilet were clear of any water leaks leading us to the master shower which looked exactly like the photo below.

A close examination of the shower revealed cracks in the second course of tiles up from the floor as well as a lack of grout in the corner from the floor almost to the top. The Queen and I had been discussing remodeling the shower for a long time. It just had not been a major priority given everything else we have been dealing with of late. Unfortunately, we no longer have the luxury of taking risks and letting a potential shower leak go unrepaired.

To quote the magician: "Now you see it, now you don't."

The good news is that the person who built this shower was very good at his job. There was no water penetration into the wall cavity. The bad news is that I need to build a new shower.

If anyone is interested in buying a slightly used but extremely well built shower, I'd be happy to make suitable arrangements with anyone willing cart it off. One warning though:

Some assembly required.

It's in the Cards...or the Genes

I find myself slowly creeping up on my 40TH birthday. Hiding from it is probably a better description even though the event will take no notice whatsoever of my efforts to avoid capture. I don't want to grow up anymore than the next Toys 'R Us kid; but, as the winter months tip toe into Texas for their brief stay before being unceremoniously thrown out on the street by the bluster of spring barging in like a drunken Irishman full of too much hot air and recycled beer loudly proclaiming the yearly anniversary of my birth, I find myself reflecting more and more on what I still want to be when I grow up. Or least, what I want to do in the next 40 years or until the Second Coming...whichever comes first. If me and the planet are still here when I turn 80, I suppose I'll have to rethink everything again.

In between pondering my purpose in life and during those rare times when I have nothing better to do, I've been playing online poker. It's not nearly the same as sitting around the table with a group of family or friends, telling stories and jokes, and generally having a grand old time, but it'll have to do for now.

I've always enjoyed playing real live card games. There is a feeling and a smell to a well worn deck of cards which I can't even think of a proper way to describe. A new deck is a little like a brand new car. They're all sleek, glossy and shiny with a sharp chemical smell of fresh ink. They're slippery in your hands and fly across the table on a deal. A well worn deck of cards, on the other hand, has a texture that forces you to make an effort to spread them across your hand to reveal the secrets handed out by the dealer. They will still fly across the table until some minuscule imperfection in the card or the table stops the card dead in its tracks like it hit a brick wall. The ink smell is still there, but it has lost some of its edge and has matured from countless games as if aged in a barrel with fine wine.

It is no secret that my love of card games comes from my upbringing in a family of card players. I think I learned to play gin about the same time I learned to play Chutes and Ladders. My grandfather's (mom's dad) morning ritual for as long as I can remember was playing Gin with his second wife while drinking their morning coffee. My great grandfather Pennington (mom's mom's dad) even played poker semi professionally to help put food on the table for his family back in the Great Depression.

I guess you could say card games used to be a way of life in my family. I don't remember many family gatherings or visits that didn't involve a game of cards at some point or other. Gin or Canasta were the main games of choice; however, an occasional poker game was not unheard of. I say used to because family gatherings have become increasingly rare these days for a variety of reasons; and, on those rare occasions when we can get everyone in the same spot, the TV or the computer or the honey do list trumps the simple pleasures of a real live, ink coated cardboard in your hands, face to face game of cards.

One such family gathering stands out amongst the disorganized mess that is my memory. I can't remember the occasion, whether it was Thanksgiving or what. Nor can I remember who all was there. I do remember we were at great granddad Pennington's house in Austin when someone, cousin Pat (I think), suggested we have a penny ante poker game. So, a bunch of us all sat down around the round oak table now sitting in my mother's house and commenced to playing good old fashioned 5 Card Draw and 7 Card Stud. This was well before the huge popularity of Texas Hold'em.

I recall holding my own fairly well despite the fact I was the youngest player at the table (all of probably 16 at the time) and hadn't played much poker before that night. I can't remember what time it was exactly; but, sometime around way past late:30, a general consensus arose amongst the group that it was time to pack it in for the night. Cousin Pat piped up and said, "One more hand. No limits." I was sitting across from great granddad which gave me a front row seat to catch the gleam in his eye as he said, "Awright". The action came around to Pat at which time he bet $10. Heady stuff for what was a friendly penny ante game up to that point. Great granddad was next in line around the table from Pat, and the only sound he made was the sound of his belt clearing belt loops as he whipped off his money belt. He started to count out several hundred dollar bills much to Pat's dismay.

I remember Pat trying to argue about something. I can't remember exactly what. I suspect it was a feeble argument trying to limit the game to table stakes or pleading poverty. Whatever it was, it was a losing argument and a losing bet. He lost on both counts, and the game was over.

I miss that. You can't get that kind of story from an online card game. "I beat the computer in hearts" or "I was in a heads up hold'em battle with a guy from the Ukraine on Pokerstars.com." just isn't quite the same. Where are the smells, the sounds, the glint in the eye, the knowing smiles, the smug satisfaction of watching your opponent cringe as you lay down a winning hand in an online card game? Will it matter in 40 years?

The big round oak table is still there bearing the patina and scars earned through years of family get togethers and countless card games. It sits waiting for a table full of family and friends to gather around to shape new memories of old games. It waits patiently to see how often mom will try to bait the stack in Canasta, who will try to bluff to an inside straight and whether a rare lay down hand in gin will appear. I look forward to that.

A Moving Curse

I had dinner with mom recently. I think. It may have been a week or two ago now. Time no longer has any meaning to me. Warning to those who are offered the chance to work from home: make it a point to get out in public once in a while to avoid becoming a workaholic hermit.

It was a lovely dinner after a long day of driving from Dallas to Aggie Land (Bryan, TX - that’s a 3 hour trip one way for those of you who are cursed with the misfortunate to be from somewhere other than Texas) and back; however, mom made it a point to take issue with the way in which she has been portrayed in this blog so far. Specifically, she indicated perhaps, just perhaps, I might have been using my bully pulpit to make her the butt of my slightly skewed worldview a little more frequently than a good son should.

I love my mother. I really do. I wouldn’t have a world view, much less a slightly skewed one, without her. So, in an effort to show her how much I appreciate her and respect her wishes not to be the whipping girl yet again, it’s dad’s turn to be thrown under the bus. I’ll get around to rehabilitating mom’s image in another post. I promise. Oh, and if my sister is reading this by some miracle, I will gladly entertain requests to be left out of this exercise in character assassination. I’ll even seriously consider such a request if accompanied by appropriate compensation.

Now that the solicitation of bribery as a means of avoiding familial libel and slander is over with, we can continue with our story.

I’m not too worried about dad getting offended by my humorous references to his character flaws, real or imagined, as I’m pretty sure he’s still not reading the blog. When I last spoke to him a few weeks ago and inquired as to his opinions about whether he liked the blog, the quality of the writing (he was an English major in college after all), etc., he said, and I quote, “He-eh”. At least, that’s the only way I know to spell the sound that comes out of his mouth when he has no clue what someone is talking about. It sounds like a cross between “hay” and “eh” with a slight hint of a nasal “nuh” in the middle. Or maybe the nasal sound is tacked onto the end somehow. It’s hard to tell.

I’m sure there are lots of stories to tell about dad. The problem is I only know a few of them that don’t involve carefully repressed memories. I think it’s one of the side effects arising from him not being the custodial parent in a “joint custody” situation. One of these days I’m going to ask a family law judge how they figure “every other weekend and two weeks in the summer” constitutes “joint custody”. Seems to me like someone was smoking a joint when they came up with that euphemism, but I digress as usual. Instead, I will focus on how I take after dad.

If you were to ask number one follower, best man and all around good guy, Ken, what is my most notorious curse, he will likely, without hesitation, tell you it is my perverse luck with moving. As in “it’s time to pack all my crap and change addresses” moving. I’ve lost count over the years, but I’m pretty sure Ken and I have helped each other move at least a dozen times. We’ve got it down to a science. However, every time, without fail, on any moving day I happen to be involved with, disaster strikes. I’ve pretty much seen it all: a completely insane soon to be ex-wife (not mine, Ken’s, The Queen is a dream to work with on moving day), dozens of fearless cockroaches chasing Ken and I down to reclaim their sofa that had just been moved in the middle of the night so that Ken’s now ex-wife could avoid leaving a forwarding address (that move was also the scene of the laundry closet wall caked with dryer lint because someone didn’t connect the vent hose…for a few years), heatstroke caused by choosing the hottest freaking day of the summer to move (there is not enough water or Gatorade on the planet to keep someone properly hydrated in 100+ degree Texas heat when the inside of the moving van feels like the surface of the sun), moving furniture up three flights of stairs while coming down with pneumonia (The Queen had to do most of the work that day as I was passing out from fever), thunder storms, furniture that had to go in through a second story window because it won’t fit through the front door and many other fond moving memories.

I come by my curse honestly though. It’s genetic from dad’s side of the family. Mom’s side of the family doesn’t move unless forced to by a tornado. I can prove it, too, with two fond memories from the Annals of Disastrous Moving Adventures.

The first fond memory I will relate is actually the second memory chronologically speaking, but it’s bad form to give your best evidence first. As moving weekends go, it was what has become typical for me: the weather sucked (thunderstorms all weekend) and one of my uncles (mom’s brother) went into the hospital for the final time due to a terminal illness. The bad karma of that weekend could have all been avoided though had my father made a simple, life altering phone call. You see, my dad and my uncle (his brother, not mom’s brother) had season tickets to the Dallas Cowboys. The Cowboys made it to the Super Bowl that year which gives season ticket holders first dibs on Super Bowl tickets. My uncle generously asked dad if I would want the other ticket. Dad, without asking me, told my uncle that I wouldn’t want it because…wait for it…I was going to be moving that weekend. He and my uncle went and had a great time in Pasadena, California while I was stuck back here in Texas to get run over by the bad karma bus. No, I’m not bitter at all.

The curse actually got started earlier than that though. This particular story will prove, without a shadow of doubt, my curse is genetically inherited from dad. Dad and my uncle owned and ran their own company. Sometime in mid to late 1988, they decided to buy a competitor’s operation down in Houston. Dad drew the short straw and prepared for the move to Houston to become the fearless leader of the office there.

By the time dad was ready to move, it was late December or early January. The week he was going to move, he was out of town for the first part of the week when the weather was perfect: sunshiny and relatively warm for winter in Texas. Dad came back into town Wednesday night, and we started loading the truck on an overcast and chilly Thursday so we could leave first thing Friday morning. Thursday night brought a Dallas, TX version of a blizzard: snow and ice covering everything, dropping power lines, and turning roads and bridges into skating rinks.

Now, I can hear some of you from places that actually have four seasons and see snow outside of a glass globe snickering into your coffee mugs; but, down here in Texas, most drivers think ice goes in your tea and were never given practical tips like cruise control don’t work on ice. Dad and I woke up Friday morning to a winter wonder land and embarked on what should have been a four hour drive to Houston. I know this is beginning to sound like the opening to Gilligan’s Island, but it’s really not that bad.

The snow and ice storm followed dad and I from Dallas to Houston. Ten hours later, dad and I rolled into Houston with a moving van full of dad’s worldly possessions still shiny side up by doing what most other Texans haven't figure out yet, driving incredibly slow. It was well after dark, and a lovely freezing rain gave Houston that cheerful, death on a slab in the morgue look. I don’t remember what floor dad’s apartment was on. What I do remember is being stiff from sitting in the cab of a moving van for 10 hours and then having to unload enough of the furniture to have something to sleep on that night. One elevator load at a time.

Saturday morning, after we unloaded and hooked up the TV, dad and I discovered that Houston had its worst ice storm in decades. Forty plus unlucky drivers managed to have a massive accident on an ice encrusted I-45.

Remember what I said? To people in Texas, ice goes in your tea.

As you can see, my moving curse is most definitely a genetic gift from my father. What I’m still trying to figure out is, given the fact he is well aware of my curse, why does Ken keep asking for my help when he moves?

Health Food

Insurance adjusters typically have a love hate relationship with being out of the office, and I've been out of the office quite a bit lately. In fact, between time off, computer failures and attending mediations, I've only been IN the office about 5 days for the entire Month of October. That's serious when it typically takes about 2 days to recover from every day you spend out of the office in this business. In just the past 10 business days, I've gone to mediations 6 times. Some of which were a complete surprise to me as my inbox overfloweth. Yes, I'm completely screwed.

Among mediators, as with other professions and industries, some are better than others. One thing that almost all mediators try to do is to create a comfortable environment and provide snacks and drinks to their captives...I mean clients. Mediators actually have no power to force people to do anything, but they've learned that adjusters with low blood sugar get cranky and put a serious dent in their settlement percentages.

At Tuesday's mediation, my attorney and I had just had an awesome lunch at Chuy's Tex Mex. We waddled into the mediator's office for our afternoon mediation and were greeted by the above pictured 2 foot square bowl of chocolate and sundry snacks. Now, I have been accused of having a sweet tooth, and I have a well documented love affair with chocolate. However, at that particular moment with Chuy's Elvis Green Chile Fried Chicken still making a valiant effort to convince my brain that my stomach was full, I could not bear the thought of another morsel of food. Not even for chocolate. Had it been a plate full of fresh baked cookies, that'd be a different story. But, you have to draw the line somewhere.

Then my attorney said, "Hey, look. It's a salad for fat people."

After I finished laughing, my brain started arguing with my stomach.

Stomach - Salads are healthy, right?

Brain - It's chocolate, stupid.

Stomach - But, it's a salad.

Brain - No, it's not.

Stomach - I'm hungry. Can I have some salad?

Brain - No, you're not; and, no, you can't. We just ate.

Stomach - How about just a little bite?

Brain - No

Stomach - Yes

Brain - No

Stomach - No

(Mmmm [smack, lick], this is good)

Brain - Yes....hey, wait a minute.

It was some good salad.

How I Met The Queen

Some might ask why I call my bride The Queen. That’s a simple question with a deceptively simple yet subtly complicated answer.

First, the simple part of the answer. I tell young people who are thinking about getting married that, instead of worrying so much about the wedding and being prince/princess for a day, they should be more concerned with whether or not their chosen spouse will treat them like a king/queen for a lifetime.

Now, for the complicated part of the answer. My parents divorced when I was 10 years old. To be perfectly blunt, it was not a pleasant experience for a young child and didn’t get any easier as I grew older. As a result, I have very definite VIEWS about marriage. I think a major cause of the alarmingly high divorce rate in this country are people getting married for the wrong reasons: shotgun weddings, young people with no clue who are in “love”, people who really have nothing in common with the person they’re with, the whole prince/princess for a day thing, etc. Based on my experiences growing up, I told the Queen in no uncertain terms that divorce would never be an option for us. In fact, I told her not to promise “until death do we part” unless she had picked out the spot in the back yard where she was going to bury me as I would never go through nor put another human being through what I experienced as a child.

In light of that background, you might be curious as to how someone with such definite VIEWS on marriage came to find the perfect woman in the first place.

To say that I was not always the best at selecting dating partners prior to meeting the Queen is probably an understatement of such colossal proportions that metaphors or similes to adequately describe my lack of skills in that area simply fail me. I still cringe at the thought of a certain memory from high school involving me bringing a girl home to meet mom for the first time.

The Scene: Typical 1970s era galley kitchen. One painfully thin yet very tall 17 year old young man with longish hair (okay, okay…it was a mullet…don’t laugh, you know you liked them) quietly stirring the spaghetti sauce at the stove. Mom leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyeing the young thing with intentions towards her son. One tallish, 17 year old female of the species wearing tight jeans, boots and big hair (yeah, you know you liked the big hair, too), sitting on the counter next to the sink looking mostly innocent.

Mom to girl: So, tell me a little about yourself.

Girl to mom: Well, I’m a recovering drug addict, and I go to Alcoholics Anonymous.

(5 seconds of stunned silence interrupted only by the “blop” sound of a large sauce bubble popping while my brain locks up after trying desperately to become invisible)

Mom to no one in particular: Oh, that’s nice. I think I’ll go set the table.

I still, to this day, have no clue as to why this particular girl decided to withhold such vital information from me until the all important parental introduction; however, I can only assume it was a perverse test of some kind. Now, I know some people might be thinking that I had some prior knowledge of this little tidbit of information or that the girl was making it up to get a reaction, but you would be wrong on both counts. I went to a suburban high school of approximately 3500 to 4000 students. It’s not like everyone knew each other from birth. I had only known her a short time when this event took place, and at no time during our brief acquaintance prior to that moment did the subject of her adventures in recreational pharmaceutical use or self medication come up. Perhaps she just assumed that I knew these things since her best friend’s locker was next to mine. Perhaps the mullet gave her the false presumption of shared habits. I will never know. To Mom’s credit, all she said to me after dinner was “be careful.” Oh, yeah. You think?

So, the story of how I met the Queen should come as no surprise to anyone. The fact that she turned out to be a genuinely decent person who later, for reasons that still escape me, agreed to marry me is nothing short of a miracle.

It was a gloriously sunny but not unbearably hot day in early June 1997. I decided it was a perfect day to go rollerblading at the park. Some friends of mine had just recently introduced me to rollerblading as a form of exercise, and I was probably out there trying to get some exercise and improve my rollerblading skills. That, or I was “sightseeing”. I mean I was a hot blooded, American male with a pulse after all.

As I’m rolling along, I happen to overtake a breathtaking red head rollerblading with, shall we say, a woman with more life experience. Courtesy demands that a person overtaking and passing another give them a warning. I said, “Passing on the left.” The red head immediately responded with, “Well, passing on the right.” Passees don’t normally respond to passers. At least, not in my experience. So, naturally, the future Queen made an immediate impression beyond her obvious physical attributes.

Well, I continued on my merry, solo way until I ran into a friend at the parking area. He and I chatted about nothing in particular for a bit until, lo and behold, the red head and her partner turned up as well. I’ll be honest; I was rude to my friend as my attention was immediately drawn to the conversation between the red head and her partner as they were parked within earshot of where we were standing.

By shamelessly eavesdropping, I determined the following:

1) The woman of experience with the red head was, in fact, the red head’s mother.
2) The red head was teaching her mother how to rollerblade.
3) The red head’s mother was tired and had decided to go home.
4) The red head was going to stay at the park and continue rollerblading.

Now, some might say I’m a bit shy. Others might say that there are wallpaper patterns more outgoing than I am. Perhaps. I prefer to think of myself as reserved and selective. I mean, really, how do you maintain the aura of the tall, dark, mysterious stranger if everyone knows you? At any rate, I heard myself asking the red head if she wanted some company. Who said that? No, it couldn’t have been me. Well, yes. Yes, actually, it was me. Maybe it was the fact that we had actually already exchanged a few words. Maybe it was God pulling the strings for a lark.

Regardless, I heard the red head utter the now infamous words, “If you can keep up.” Then she was off like a shot. I can’t recall for sure whether or not I said goodbye to my friend, but I think he got the picture. It took me about 50 yards to catch her again, but I did. I may be quiet and reserved, but I have a competitive streak a mile long. There’s also the fact that I’m about a foot taller than the Queen, and my stride gives me an edge on the rollerblades. She didn’t have a chance.

We spent the next couple of hours rolling around the park. We chatted and joked and had a great time. Or, at least, so I thought. At this point in the story, she usually claims that I asked for her phone number. While there is a distinct possibility that this occurred, I have no firm memory of doing so. So, of course, I deny it. I do recall giving her my business card with my numbers. Which she didn’t bother to use. And here I thought I had made an impression.

What’s a smitten man of means and intelligence to do? Turn stalker, of course. I started hanging out at the park a little more frequently hoping to catch sight of her again. I did manage to catch up with her briefly one more time in June when she was at the park with her best friend. That event was memorable as she slipped at the water fountain and imprinted the back of her white t-shirt with a muddy full moon. Kodak moment missed except in my mind’s eye. I wish I could print that memory.

Still no calls, though. Time for drastic measures. Even though she had never revealed her last name to me, the future queen had made the mistake of letting it slip where she worked. She claims she didn’t know she had told me where she worked. I think it was her way of testing me to see how persistent I would be. I finally worked up the nerve and looked up the phone number to her place of employment in the phone book. I called and asked for the future Queen by her first name and was greeted with the response “Which one” in reply. I asked for the red headed one and was transferred by the receptionist. Apparently, there were two red heads at this company with the same first name as the lady I was connected with had no idea who I was and said something like, “Oh, you must be looking for the other one.”

At this point in the story, I would like to report that I was greeted with an “Oh, hi, it’s nice to hear from you. I was just thinking about you.” Didn’t happen. Unfortunately, the truth is that the future Queen answered the phone in a surprised and incredulous tone with a “How did you find me?” Score one for the stalkers. To her eternal credit, the future Queen regained her civility and composure quickly and informed me that it was her last day at that particular place of employment. Score two for the stalkers. When I asked the Queen to be if she would be interested in going out on a date, she actually accepted my offer since I had shown such persistence and resourcefulness. Score three points and the hat trick for the stalkers.

Not one to let an opportunity to make a better impression go wasted; I made reservations at an awesome restaurant. Reata in downtown Fort Worth. At the time, this restaurant was situated on the top floor of the Bank One building 30 something stories above the streets of downtown (on a side note, they had to move after a tornado struck downtown a couple of years later and caused major structural damage to the building). The view was spectacular at least as far as billiard table topography allows, and the food is phenomenal. It didn't hurt that a business associate had given me a gift certificate which helped cover the check. Don't roll your eyes at me. At least it wasn't a BOGO coupon at Whataburger.

Apparently, I made a good enough impression to warrant further dating. The Queen to be and I dated for 6 and a half years before I proposed to her after dinner in the rooftop dome at Reata’s new location a few streets over from the old location. From the moment she said “Yes”, we planned and held the wedding in under 4 weeks. Mainly because we didn’t spend a lot of time sweating details and delegated a lot of things. We knew each other, and we knew that the wedding was going to be just one day in a lifetime together. We wanted to have fun and did things very spur of the moment. Wedding cake? How about a baker’s dozen of hand decorated cup cakes? The wedding recessional? How about the fanfare from the throne room scene where Hans and Luke get their medals at the end of the original Star Wars movie? I can tell you it was a hoot to walk back down the aisle hearing people laughing and saying, “Hey, that’s from Star Wars isn’t it?”

Yes, yes it was.

The News is all Happy and Gay

Even though it’s usually depressing, I try to keep abreast of the news so that I have at least a vague idea of what’s going on in the world around me. I still remember going to a retreat up in the mountains of Washington state which was so far removed from any contact with civilization that there was no phones, no radio, no TV and no internet access. You’d only see a newspaper if someone brought one with them when they arrived. However, after spending a week on the side of that mountain with no contact with the outside world or modern conveniences like cars, I was stunned to find out how alien everything in our modern society felt. It was absolutely wonderful, and I’ve been meaning to go back there for years.

On the other side of the coin, I was also stunned to learn that people wondered what planet I had come from when I said I had no idea Princess Diana had died in a car wreck while I was busy communing with nature. Why couldn’t I have been there when Michael Jackson died instead?

Now, the other day, I read a news article that President Obama has nominated a policewoman from Minnesota to be the first openly gay U.S. Marshal. My first reaction was: Why is this news? Did she cheat on her taxes, too? Apparently not. The brief news story makes mention of the president’s rocky relationship with the gay community and specifically his pledge to end the “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy in the US military despite his lack of concrete efforts to do so. It reminds me of an Bloom County cartoon from the 1980s in which Milo is calling NASA about shuttle launches back when NASA was making a big push to get the first [fill in the minority/ethnic/special interest group here] into space. Milo asks if NASA had launched a blind, Indian contortionist or some such and the NASA spokesman said “Yep, he went up this morning.”

I’ve never thought of myself as homophobic. I just plain don’t understand why a man or a woman would look at another person of the same sex with lust in their heart to borrow a phrase from Jimmy Carter (and to think that man won the Nobel Peace Prize), and let’s not talk about lopitoffamy or addalittletomy surgical “interventions”. That just makes my skin crawl to think of looking at an original, standard equipment item attached to your own body that’s functioning properly and not cancerous and decide you can’t stand the thought of living with it another day so badly that you pay good money to have it removed. Uh, uh. No thank you, sir. Step away from me with those sharp objects.

So, this news story, to me at least, is a thinly veiled article about progress the administration is making towards ending discrimination against homosexuals. Despite the fact that I am a committed, life-long heterosexual, I have always wondered what sexual orientation has to do with what a person does for a living. As far as I’m concerned, the only criteria beyond education and prior work experience is whether or not a person is physically capable of performing the duties and responsibilities of a particular occupation. For instance, I’d love to be able to earn a living as an airshow pilot; however, I am not sure that I’m physically capable of keeping myself from puking through a 10 minute aerobatics routine. Does that mean I’m being discriminated against?

Then, today, I see another news article about the administration’s efforts on behalf of the gay community (http://apnews.myway.com/article/20091014/D9BB3IIO0.html). This article makes no bones about the fact that the administration is working to end workplace discrimination against the gay community. Okay, fine. More power to you; but, really, how far do we need to go with this?

I mean, seriously, do we need to be adding more groups to the list of protected classes? I think we have more than enough of those already. I think the fact that we even have to have a list of protected groups is a sad commentary on us as human beings. Think about it for a minute. Companies are in business to make money. Non-profit groups exist to effectively achieve a certain goal or provide a certain service while wasting the least amount of resources necessary. They should WANT the best, most productive person for the job regardless of what the look like, which god they worship or who they pick up in bars; and, yet, here we are still dealing with discrimination in the 21ST freaking century since Jesus came down from on high to show us the way.

Does that mean we have to force people under penalty of law to do what’s in their best interests? Have any of the government’s affirmative action efforts to coerce people into being “diverse” changed anyone’s attitude about anything? I doubt it. I still hear racist jokes and religious jokes, hear stories of sexual harassment and glass ceilings, and more. We’re still seeing a culture of thin skinned victimization reported in the media, and you can’t disagree with President Obama without people looking throw your dresser drawers for a Klan robe. The only thing I’ve seen discrimination laws do is keep lawyers busy like they needed any help with that.

I tend towards a healthy dose of common sense in my opinions. I think an employer should be entitled to seek out workers who fit within the culture and demographic of their business to more effectively work within an industry or market. Does it make sense to force a fundamentalist Christian organization to hire an openly gay or transgender person as a lead spokesperson? Probably not. Does it make sense to hire a person who barely has a command of the English language and speaks with a heavy accent that no native born Texan can understand to sit in a customer service or help desk call center? No, it doesn’t AT&T. Neither of those scenarios make sense.

My feeling is this: If a business person is too stupid or small minded to over look their own prejudices so that they can hire the best person for the job and pay that person according to the value they bring to the company, that company deserves to lose money. Their competitors won’t always make the same mistake. Unfortunately, a distressing number of them do.

Until We Meet Again, My Friend

***Warning. The following post may be a bit of a downer compared to my usual cynically humorous outlook. If you're already depressed, go read old Calvin & Hobbes cartoons or something.***


My week got off to a very inauspicious start. I was on "vacation" last week taking care of the Queen while the inlaws went to the annual church festival without us, and I took Monday of this week "off" even though I was secretly trying to work in an effort to get caught up on the 168 emails, 91 edocs and 27 voicemail that had accumulated in my absence. I say trying to work because my DSL connection has been plotting a suicide attempt for several weeks now. Due to the DSL trying to convince me to shot it by crashing every few minutes, I was unable to get any real work done. Tuesday and Wednesday were not much better.


One of the few emails that I was able to read on Monday was from a friend and former co-worker, Barbi, informing me that another friend and former co-worker of mine, Mike, had been in a serious car accident on Friday. The email said he was in the hospital critical care unit. Mike was not quite 2 months older than me. So, I figured...how bad could it be? Right?

Then my Facebook account exploded. Not literally, of course, but relatively speaking. My Facebook activity has stabilized to the point where new requests, notes, messages, etc. are the exception rather than the norm. Barbi sent me a friend request on FB as well, and I got another friend request from another former co-worker. 2 friend requests in one day from the same day. Red flag. Then the urgent messages started showing up. Things aren't looking good.

How bad can it be? When I finally spoke to Barbi, I found out. Try "Mike hit an eighteen wheeler suffering severe head injuries and now on a ventilator" bad.

I spent the next few hours debating on whether or not I should go to the hospital to visit. Not necessarily for Mike, since he was out of it in a coma, but mostly to be there for friends and his family. And so that, later, I wouldn't hate myself for not going.

Despite my cynicism, I tend towards being more emotional than the average male of our species. So, it wasn't an easy decision. I cried. I prayed. I cried some more. In the end, I decided to go.

I got to the hospital shortly after the late visiting hours started. Barbi was there with her husband. Mike's wife Erica was there (on a side note, Erica was the one who printed the invitations for the Queen's and my wedding), and I had just missed seeing Mike's daughter.

Even though we weren't family, we were allowed to go back into CCU and see Mike. From what I understand, the hospital bent the rules at Erica's request given the situation. I was able to see Mike and spend some time with him. He was recognizable in a distorted kind of way due to the swelling from his injuries.

Mike was always a very fashionable guy, and he would have been mortified to receive visitors in a hospital gown not to mention all the tubes and wires. Then there was the fact that they had to shave part of his head. Fortunately, he didn't suffer any really grotesque injuries like some of the things you see with severe burn victims or amputees. He was whole, but he just looked like he had been in a bad fight.

By this time, Erica had already made the decision with the doctors to have the ventilator removed the next day and "let nature take its course". Apparently, Mike was not showing any brain activity and was not expected to improve. But, for reasons I didn't think about at the time, I stopped short of saying goodbye. The last thing I said to Mike was that he was a good friend and always would be.

I spent some time with Erica after I visited with Mike. She's holding up remarkably well under the circumstances even though she describes her current emotional state as "Craptacular" to any who ask. She talked about how difficult it was to get a hold of anyone at Mike's work. In this day of direct dial extensions, she only had Mike's direct number which wasn't much help. Mike's cell phone was not among his personal possessions when he was brought to the hospital. It surfaced a day or two later. Fortunately, people from his work got in touch with her and started the ball rolling on the workers compensation claim, insurance, etc. The president of Mike's company even flew in from Connecticut to visit.

It still chokes me up to think about Mike and what happened to him and his family. I sit here writing this with tears trying to fill my eyes. I still won't be saying goodbye to Mike here even though he died on Wednesday shortly after the ventilator was removed. Mike was not much on religion. But it doesn't matter. God believes in us whether we believe in him or not. I believe, and I know I will see him again.

Mike, I will remember your smug, knowing laugh. I will remember your sense of humor and your love of Hondas and Acuras. I will remember that you were a fan of The Cure. I will remember that the most prominent thing in your office was a picture of you holding your daughter on the day she was born. I will remember you until we meet again. Rest in peace and worry no more.