Bad Ideas

When was the last time you heard a good idea? Probably not too recent unless Shark Tank is part of your Must See TV. It seems there are plenty of bad ideas floating around out there especially politically. Dismantling the Affordable Care Act (aka Obamacare) and the Green New Deal (as proposed) are bad ideas. I think President Trump’s U.S. Space Force is a bad idea. The additional military service branch is not needed and undoubtedly will be very costly. Any consideration of paying slavery reparations is also a bad idea (I’m looking at you Kamala, Cory, Elizabeth, and Julian).

There are numerous non-political ideas that have come, or are coming, to fruition in which many people are pleased with, but I still think they are bad ideas. A great deal of those are in regards to technological advances. I am opposed to self-ordering kiosks in restaurants, supermarkets offering scan & go, digital downloads in lieu of coupons, and self-driving vehicles. I’m not going to do so well with all this artificial intelligence (AI) I keep hearing about either. I’m not even a fan of online banking.

I’m well aware online banking now appears to be the norm, but to me that’s simply one more avenue toward possible identity theft or worse. I also believe banking via the internet can convey a distorted sense of the reality of one’s actual finances, with the tangibles (billing statements and cash) being out of sight and therefore out of mind. I just think online banking can more easily lead to fraudulent activity and irresponsible spending habits. I certainly know I’m in the minority on this one, but I’m in no hurry whatsoever to live in a paperless society.

I profusely pray that I am not in the minority when it comes to dismissing a new trend taking shape concerning working parents raising their children. “Busy” parents are being offered ways to outsource the basic tasks of parenthood to others deemed as pros. Bad idea. Yes, there’s no need to waste your time potty-training your own flesh and blood when someone else is willing to do it for a substantial fee. You just can’t make this stuff up. The story was in USA TODAY (5/13/19). The mother of a former toilet-illiterate girl said, “I love working with an expert, and I didn’t have the time. My husband and I both work. I’m an expert in basically what I’m paid to do, which is my profession. Why wouldn’t I go to someone who understands?”

Another mother lets a subscription clothing service choose the outfits for her two children, ages 3 and 18 months, to wear. She said, “I’ve got more life demands. I don’t have the time, and I want my kids to look good. It takes the work out of it for me.” Hey ladies. Here’a a little friendly advice: If you don’t have the time or the energy for the fundamentals of child-rearing then maybe DO NOT have children. I’ve intentionally withheld the names of these two women, whom I find to be selfish and maternally-challenged, for their own protection. I’ve come to my conclusions about them based on their own words.

I think we should all know by now that coming to a conclusion prematurely is a bad idea. If we haven’t learned this by now, after the whole Jussie Smollett debacle and the fiasco involving the Native American “versus” students donning “Make America Great Again” gear, then we most-likely never will. I warned of a New York Times journalist possibly coming to conclusions prematurely, just last month in my piece titled “Just The Facts, Ma’am”. The writer decided for us that President Trump’s newly enacted tax breaks were a bust. Well, the facts are in. “Americans were left with more money in their paychecks this year, ” and “more people got refunds, with the IRS issuing 95.7 million, up from 95.4 million a year ago” as was recently reported by USA TODAY (4/29/19) after this year’s income tax filing deadline.

I think it is an extremely bad idea for 2020 Democratic presidential hopefuls to continuously mention President Trump’s August 15th, 2017 statement regarding the skirmish between white supremacists and counter protesters in Charlottesville, Virginia (I’m looking at you Joe). Among a plethora of other things voiced during his August speech, Trump said, “but you also had people that were very fine people on both sides.” To me, that popular but tiresome soundbite absolutely rings true. I think (know) an individual can be an overall good person regardless of his or her sorely misguided view on race superiority, although the media and numerous Democrats would have us believe otherwise. In the same manner, I believe an individual can be an overall bad person even though he or she is not a racist.

Can an alcoholic or drug addict be a good person? An abortion-rights activist? What about an atheist? Isn’t it possible for a racially ignorant human being to be a loving family man, a loyal employee, good friend, or a philanthropist? Or does a significant flaw in one’s life constitute an individuals entire identity? I think it’s quite possible there were very fine people indeed on both sides of the Charlottesville clash.

Even more shameful than promoting the aforementioned soundbite as racism is the insinuation by some of the 2020 hopefuls that those who are not disgusted with Trump’s statement must be racist as well. Harping on this issue is a very bad idea for the Dems – unless of course their aim is to alienate Independent voters and help steer President Trump to a second term as our commander in chief. (As of now, I think it will take a miracle of sorts anyway, for Trump not to be re-elected.) For the sanity of our great nation, making everything political is a bad idea.

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Just The Facts, Ma’am

“Just the facts, ma’am” is a familiar catchphrase from the 50’s television series Dragnet. The police crime drama was a little before my time (I was raised on Charlie’s Angels, Happy Days, and The Six Million Dollar Man) but the old Joe Friday saying has endured for several generations. Unfortunately, in these times it seems actual facts are only sporadically found on our screens, in our newspapers, and even in our hearts. We tend to choose our tribe and then blindly believe everything we see and hear that reinforces our biased perceptions while also ignoring or completely dismissing anything that may disturb our preconceived notions even though it may be true. Ultimately, we can only blame ourselves if we succumb to our naivety, gullibility, and partisan blindness regardless of how much the media attempts to direct us toward that destructive way of thinking.

For example, a while back I was struck by what I considered to be a bold headline when perusing an edition of The New York Times (2/13/19). The front-page headline read “Pledged Relief, Early Tax Filers Find Only Pain.” I instantly found two things a bit peculiar about that statement. I had to wonder why the journalist, Tara Siegel Bernard, was already coming to conclusions, presumably in regards to President Trump’s newly enacted tax breaks, when the majority of taxpayers had yet to file their tax returns, and how could it be they found only pain? My curiosity got the best of me, so I decided to read the entire story.

I suspected the article was going to take a negative view of Trump’s income tax overhaul – and how, once again, our commander in chief failed America – and I was right. To be fair, the writer did tweak the aforementioned heading later on in the story with, “some filers find only pain,” but that key word was buried deep within the issue (not on the front-page). And the damage was surely already done if one chose only to scan the original headline. I know this may just be a case of semantics, but the words used in print, whether chosen carefully or haphazardly, can definitely make all the difference in the world. I have no time, nor the patience, for careless, manipulative, or biased journalism. Please, just the facts, ma’am.

I was indifferent to Trump’s proposed tax cuts from the start. Those who are concerned about our country’s national debt, or who believe all corporations are pure evil, will probably never be on board with the government issuing tax breaks. I, for one, am not really concerned about a balanced budget (it’s way too late for that), and I’m not too worried about “big, bad” corporations. I can only attest to my own experiences. And this is the first year, in well over a dozen years, my lovely wife and I will be receiving a refund at tax time. Coincidence? I’ve done the math (it’s not rocket science…or even algebra) and with all things being equal the fact is the missus and I will have an additional $762 in our pockets this year, for no other reason than that of Trump’s newly enacted tax breaks. Thank you, Mr. President. I am certainly not about to complain about something that’s undeniably beneficial to my family. Those are just the facts, ma’am.


Let’s Be Real

Can we talk? I mean really open up and share our innermost authentic selves with one another? Not politically correct, surfacy chitchat that’s currently prevalent in this country, but a genuine conversation without the fear of backlash from our partisan mainstream media and everyone else who may hold an opposing view? Not in today’s society! But I don’t care. So, here goes. Let’s be real.

Kevin Hart, comedian and rising movie star, was lambasted not too long ago for decade’s old so-called homophobic tweets and a 2010 performance in which he shared his desire for his young son to be a heterosexual. Let me be perfectly clear here. I’ve said this to the missus, I’m saying it here, and I’d unapologetically profess it to the world, if I had such a platform, that I also would rather a son of mine be straight than gay. I’d continue to love my child regardless, but I would not be attending any gay weddings or celebrating homosexuality in the streets. What’s wrong with that? Let’s be real. Nothing!

However, Kevin Hart lost a prestigious hosting gig simply because he feels as I do on this matter. It does seem like Mr. Hart initially apologized before almost immediately retracting his apology, apparently after realizing he actually did nothing wrong and deciding it would be better to be true to himself. Why even publicly apologize if one is not sincerely remorseful in REAL life? Steve Harvey, comedian and television extraordinaire, touched upon this very subject during an episode of Jerry Seinfeld’s Comedians In Cars Getting Coffee. The pair were discussing stand-up comedy and how people are now offended about everything, and sometimes an entertainer has to apologize when someone takes to Twitter and Instagram in calling the “offender” out.

This happened to Steve Harvey after he joked about a fictitious character (he made up) as being a “half-wit.” Mr. Harvey said, “I apologized. I had to do it.” Jerry asked, “Why, why do you have to do it?” “Cuz I got a talk-show,” Harvey responded. “Cuz now here comes a sponsor, and all the rest of them have to piggyback and act righteous, too. Oh, they’re pulling their sponsorship. Well, we gotta act like we care, too. They don’t really care. They don’t really care. But they gotta act like they do. It’s the deal. We gotta act offended.” I think it’s quite shameful when people – even in the entertainment industry – are coerced into spurning their authentic selves.

Someone who I think should be authentically remorseful today is Governor Ralph Northam. The Virginia Democrat admitted to being in a photograph, taken in 1984, either wearing blackface or clad in KKK Klansman garb. He retracted his admission the very next day, claiming he wasn’t even in the picture. I’m not nearly as concerned with what Governor Northam may or may not have been donning a few decades ago (more on that later) than I am with what I perceive as his bold-faced lying at this present time. How can an individual honestly not know whether or not he is one of the two people appearing in a photo, or remember whether or not he wore such a peculiar costume as a young adult? Let’s be real. I’m not buying it.

Over the years, I’ve transformed into many characters for Halloween’s sake. I know I’ve been a pirate, a vampire, Peter Criss of KISS fame, and numerous monsters and football players (probably even O.J. Simpson) when trick-or-treating as a youngster. If I ever went as The Juice, although assuredly I was not in blackface, I certainly wouldn’t apologize for it now. I may not have a recollection of every costume worn during my childhood, but I undoubtedly would remember if I ever mimicked such a unique character such as a member of the KKK, Hitler, Madonna, or the Pope. So, let’s be real Governor Northam.

I am not opposed to the use of blackface – even today. Megyn Kelly literally lost her job at NBC a short while ago simply for stating what I just penned. (For the record, Ms. Kelly personally never wore blackface.) But let’s be real. I’ve researched this topic before, for my own education, and there’s more to the art form of blackface than what’s being depicted on social media and transmitted to our television screens. Blackface originated in the 19th century. Both blackface and whiteface are forms of theatrical makeup that’s used to change a performers race to match a specific role they’re playing on stage.

Blackface minstrels, on the other hand, were personified performances promoting racial stereotypes. The minstrel style of blackface back then and now (the practice continues in other countries) is unequivocally despicable. However, I see nothing malicious with neither blackface nor whiteface when used responsibly to emulate someone of a different race for costume parties or Halloween. What would be a good way for me, a handsome Caucasian, to transform into a LeBron James, Prince, or Beyonce look-alike? I’d suggest the obvious altering of my skin tone. I’d offer that same recommendation to any African-American desiring to imitate the likes of Tom Brady, Elton John, or Lady Gaga. What’s amiss or offensive about that? Let’s be real. Nothing!

Political correctness demands we rail against blackface, and many other things, but I will not. If we are so delicate that we’re attempting to rid this country of all things remotely connected to the ugly history of slavery (history being the operative word) then what’s next? The elimination of all whips and chains? A ban on all ships within our severely sensitive society? The day I succumb to political correctness is the day I forfeit all reality and become a disingenuous phony of a human being. Let’s be real. That ain’t gonna happen.


Baby, It’s Old Outside

By now, I’m sure we’ve all heard about the great, catastrophic controversy surrounding the joyous season’s classic duet, “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” Supposedly, the Christmastime standard is nothing other than a date rape song and should no longer be celebrated or given any airplay on radio stations – if one is so inclined to believe what a few folks have been spewing as of late. Gerard Baker, editor-at-large of The Wall Street Journal, recently penned, “It is literally a cheerful, line by line, singalong guide to date rape, amusingly checking off all the devices that manipulative predators deploy to trap their female prey: excessive flattery, lies, guilt and a spiked drink.” Really? Is that what the song’s about?

As is usually the case in today’s world, there tends to be an equally extreme view in opposition to one’s radical take on any given subject. Marney White, an associate professor at Yale’s School of Public Health, seemingly counters Gerard Baker’s given stance within the pages of USA Today (12/14/18). She sees the holiday song as more of a feminist anthem. The professor states, “Our heroine is not saying ‘no’ to an aggressive man. She is saying, ‘I know I should say no, but really, I want to stay.'” Ms. White also contends, “At no point does she say, ‘I don’t want this.'” The Yale professor concludes her unique take on the matter with, “‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside’ is a song ahead of its time, and it celebrates a feminist taking control of her own sexual choices.” I don’t know about that. I think both Ms. White and Mr. Baker are reading way too much into Frank Loesser’s seasonal song.

It is my understanding Mr. Loesser wrote the now controversial Christmas song in 1944, and he originally performed it with his wife at parties. The line “Say, what’s in this drink?” may appear to be a bit suspect in these times, but to my knowledge “roofies” and other date rape drugs did not exist back in the 1940s. Common sense dictates the female companion was simply expressing that she was beginning to feel the (most-likely desired) effects of her alcoholic drink. And nothing more. The recent attacks on “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” have surely been launched by no one but your committed instigators of the world yearning to promote more divisiveness in this country. And to think – at a time when the majority of us are desiring peace on earth, good will toward men.

“Baby, It’s Cold Outside” can be found on several of my extensive collection of Christmas CDs. I’m fairly certain neither Amy Grant, Kelly Clarkson, Vanessa Williams, nor Barry Manilow envisioned their versions of the song as glorifying rape. I personally do not care for Frank Loesser’s Academy Award-winning song. And it has absolutely nothing to do with whether or not the Christmas classic offends the #MeToo movement clan. Maybe it’s my limited mental capacity, or maybe it’s because I’m getting up there in years, but I have one heckuva time even understanding what is actually being sung. The duet’s overlapping lyrics are just too distracting for me to decipher, especially when I only hear them a handful of times every twelfth month of the year. So why bother?

Regardless of my distaste for the holiday duet, I can’t find anything legitimately wrong, lyrically at least, with the song. Frankly, I’m appalled by how sensitive and easily offended we’ve become as a nation. How a presumably innocent, flirtatious holiday tune, written nearly three quarters of a century ago, can become even remotely controversial today is beyond the pale. I’ve grown extremely tired of all the political correctness engulfing our society. Inside my festive household, it’s quite nice and warm. But out there – baby, it’s quite old outside.


Enjoying The Journey

Aah…there’s nothing like coming home after a two week vacation. Vacations are wonderful, especially while visiting family when returning to one’s original stomping grounds, but there’s something to be said for a comfortable routine at home as well. My lovely wife and I had just gotten back to Arizona, from our trip to Iowa, when I found myself saying aloud in a somewhat sarcastic manner, “Just enjoying the journey.” Well, first I said, “What the?” Our car which had been sitting in the parking lot of Sky Harbor International Airport, while the missus and I were off gallivanting, was dead as a doornail. We were stranded for only a short time because we quickly learned the airport offers free (minus a tip) jump-starts, but it was enough time for me to remember I had said the same thing only a few days earlier. However, at the time when I said, “just enjoying the journey” while back in Iowa, I genuinely meant it.

I have always wanted to try my hand at kayaking and was pleased to find out my big sis had arranged, for those family members willing to endure one of my “bucket list” items, a two-hour kayaking excursion at Rock Creek State Park. It was a beautiful day to be at one with the lake. And I was literally at one with the lake. As I was backing my kayak away from the harbor, I was violently thrown out of the watercraft. Oh yea, and I don’t know how to swim. No worries though. My kayak was not one of those confining cockpit types (I made sure before getting in), I was donning a lifejacket (I’m no dummy…and wearing one was mandatory), and the water was only chest deep at this point. I was the only one in our group to taste the unfiltered water of Rock Creek.

Knee deep in sludge, and drenched with not so crystal clear lake water, I trudged the few yards back to the shore. The park’s employees swiftly met me there with looks of great concern on their faces although assuredly they were laughing hysterically on the inside. Come to find out, I had been given faulty equipment – my theory, but certainly backed up by common sense. A vast amount of water had been left within the watercraft’s shell which made the weight distribution of the kayak extremely unbalanced when I initially attempted to go forward. About ten minutes later, after the staff drained the intrusive liquid from the kayak, I began the launching process all over again. This time everything went smoothly, and I believe during the next two hours I proved to everyone that I could probably be a kayak Olympian. My wife felt so bad for what had happened, even possibly shedding a few tears, but I truly wouldn’t have changed a thing that day. It was an experience not everyone will have, and for me an integral part of enjoying the journey.

Driving home from Sky Harbor I was hoping our car’s battery would recharge itself during the lengthy jaunt. No such luck, so I scheduled an appointment for the ailing Hyundai Elantra at our local Brakes Plus. The following day, after taking the missus to work, I tried jump-starting the car for no less than 35 minutes, but to no avail. I was now angry, sweating profusely, and swearing up a storm. I felt totally defeated and shared with God how ridiculous I thought the whole situation was. I questioned how this could possibly be any part of His plan, and I pleaded with my Savior to help me out. I then apologized for my unsavory tongue and cautioned God I was only going to turn the key one more time before giving up. (He knew I was fibbing a bit.) After the second try, I finally heard the sweet sound of a purring engine. I thanked God! I then phoned Brakes Plus to inform them of my obvious tardiness – my appointment was scheduled for 9:00 am, and it was already 9:10 am.

I was relieved when I was told by the representative to bring the car in anyway. But wait. As I was backing out of the driveway, I became utterly dumbfounded when realizing the Hyundai’s power steering was barely functional. And there were at least four warning symbols now illuminating from the dashboard. I’ve never seen that before. God surely does have a sense of humor. There was no turning back. I silently prayed, and held my breath, as I drove approximately 3 miles to the auto repair shop. (Spoiler alert: The car’s alternator was bad and needed replaced, as well as the battery.)

My original plan had been to relax at a nearby Starbucks while the Elantra was being serviced, but now I was saturated with sweat and just wanted to get home. The gal behind the counter offered me a ride, but I declined. I already had it in my head that I’d be walking home, and I also don’t like to be a burden to anyone. It’s hereditary I suppose. My one grandpa could be quite stubborn at times, and my other grandpa did not like to ask anyone for help. I’m a descendant of both, so I’m screwed. I slung my backpack, almost filled to capacity, over my shoulder and headed out the door. I planned on entertaining myself at the coffee shop with the contents inside my backpack: my Bible, crossword puzzle books, an AARP magazine, my Fantasy Football notes, and most vital – my reading glasses, but now they’d all be accompanying me on this surprising long haul.

I had only taken a few strides when I spotted the large metal cross on the grounds of the Circle of Peace Church. Even though I’ve never been inside that church, one can’t help but notice the iconic symbol when driving by. I’ve seen that rusted cross hundreds of times before, from the well traveled thoroughfare, but this time was very different. I was close to it. I was drawn to it. I was prompted to take a pause. I sat down on one of the six wooden benches at the foot of the cross, and I prayed. I thanked my Heavenly Father for being there with me when I was feeling alone, frustrated, and overwhelmed. I offered Him my gratitude for the many blessings He has bestowed upon me including my family and the finances to be able to afford whatever would be determined to be wrong with our car.

I told God I knew this inconvenience was a Lower Story event, and I wasn’t sure what I could learn from it, but whatever the reason I hoped ultimately it would bring glory to Him. I have always sort of wondered why the Circle of Peace Church stationed benches near their outdoor cross. This is the desert, and the area’s not shaded after all. I had never seen anybody take advantage of their set up the entire time I’ve lived in the city. I’ve even questioned at times whether or not the outdoor arrangement made any sense at all. Now I have my answer. I left that old rusty cross with a new attitude.

I was about halfway home when I became painfully aware that I wasn’t wearing the most comfortable footwear for a trek through the desert. But, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death ….” With several more blocks to go, I could no longer tolerate my uncomfortable shoes. I immediately noticed I was, of course, wearing a virgin pair of socks. I’d much rather have dirty socks than blackened feet, so I finished the three-mile hike sock footed. I even showed a bit of moxie, by walking an extra half a block to retrieve the day’s mail, before finally reaching my destination.

I had persevered. I celebrated with a rinse in the swimming pool and a much needed drink. (Fruit Punch Gatorade never tasted so good!) My unexpected hike had given me a new perspective, a renewed appreciation – and a couple of mega blisters on the heels of my feet. Sadly, the very next day I broke my favorite coffee mug, and the garbage disposal stopped working. But the unforeseen circumstances and little inconveniences in life are what make the good times seem even that much sweeter. Things don’t always go my way, but at least I’m enjoying the journey.


The A-Word

There are some words in the English language that when spoken tend to make people cringe. There’s, of course, the mother of all dirty words: the F-word. There’s the C-word that especially drives the fairer sex to shudder, or so I’m told. And then there’s the A-word. Not to be confused with the other A-word which is commonly followed by hole. (Oddly enough, censors have decided hole is a more offensive term than ass. Hole is the word always bleeped out on broadcast television when combined with that A-word.) The A-word I’m alluding to is probably the most cringe worthy word when mentioned in our society at this moment in time. I am, of course, talking about abortion.

Admit it. You just cringed. And a good number of you are now saying, “Oh no he di’int.” Well, yes I did just go there. I’m well aware discussing this topic is a no-win situation for me, but I really don’t care. I also realize both the pro-choice and the pro-life advocates are extremely passionate about their chosen stance. I think there are sensible arguments to be made on both sides, but when the rhetorical idiocy and politicizing enters the fray – and it always does – the extremists’ and alarmists’ voices drown out any rationale thinking and hinders all bipartisan discussion.

You’re either a sanctimonious conservative Christian opposed to civil rights, or you’re an immoral liberal gung-ho on killing babies. Those typically are the only two categories of people offered by the media. You are either an anti-abortion extremist fond of abortion clinic bombings, or your views align with Michelle Wolf’s who recently said, “Don’t knock it till you try it! And when you do try it, really knock it. You know, you gotta get that baby out of there.” The “comedian” equates anti-abortion as being anti-woman, proclaims “men are irrelevant” in this matter, and finds humor in quipping, “God bless abortions and God bless America!”

I’m a moderate when it comes to the A-word. I assume my chosen stance is quite the anomaly in this country, but hopefully not. I believe life begins with a heartbeat – usually detected at six weeks after intercourse. Therefore, my thoughts on the A-word are based on that premise, and I think anything goes in a pregnancy up to that point. That’s surely why I’m a proponent of the “morning-after pill.” The single dose does not abort a baby, but it does prevent fertilization if taken in time. The pill is fairly inexpensive and highly effective up to five days after engaging in unprotected sex.

I think this allows a woman the best chance of having peace of mind since she’ll truly never know if she would’ve become pregnant. Sort of like the old-time firing squads that enabled a sense of “diffusion of responsibility” by issuing one firearm containing a blank cartridge amongst the firing squad. Nobody knew for certain if he actually participated in the execution. I also believe Planned Parenthood is not the evil that some portray the vital organization as being. The reproductive health agency offers numerous services other than abortions. Planned Parenthood was a godsend to me and the missus prior to and during our first year of marriage.

I absolutely think abortion should be legally available in cases of rape, incest, and when the mother’s life is in jeopardy. I think legalized abortion should be an option in some cases of unwanted pregnancies as well. For example, the hormonal fifteen-year-old who makes a mistake and afterwards has no means to properly care for a child. She should not be coerced to carry a baby to term for adoption purposes either. I think if the government forces motherhood on a woman then the government has to be willing to financially support the child for as long as needed. But at the same time, women who continue to choose to bear children they cannot afford should not be rewarded with an abundance of government funding.

I’m definitely not entirely onboard with the pro-choice notion that a woman’s body is solely hers to do with what she wants. None of us, male or female, realistically have total control of our bodies. There are laws against prostitution and drug use, and the government can quarantine any human body with an infectious disease, such as tuberculosis, at any time. It also seems a bit unfair that the man has no real voice in the matter – because it does take two. However, it is probably proper for the woman to have the final say on whether or not to give birth. Proper up to a point.

I do not think abortion should ever be used as a method of birth control. Acquiring an abortion after the first trimester of a pregnancy should not be as readily available as Michelle Wolf desires. But banning abortion entirely is just as silly. I’m completely fine with the government imposing restrictions on abortion once a heartbeat is detected. I am relieved we currently have a conservative majority in the Supreme Court although I don’t anticipate any significant changes coming concerning the A-word. The Supreme Court Justices are there to interpret congressional laws, and the lion’s share of them tend to rule with high regard for set precedents.

Right or wrong, or somewhere in between, those are my thoughts on abortion. The goal of this essay is not an attempt to radically change people’s minds. It’s simply intended for all to consider what they may have never considered. I also think it offers some hope that we are capable of engaging in a much more civil dialogue regarding the A-word.


The 5th Of July

The missus and I arose early this past Independence Day with jovial thoughts of our well-planned itinerary for celebrating our country’s birthday. We finished our tennis match (well, a set at least) and then visited one of our six nearby Starbucks for some coffee. (Well, I had coffee. My lovely wife had her usual “fivebucks” foo-foo drink: Venti nonfat White Chocolate Latte – extra hot, no foam, and light whip.) After an hour or so of stimulating conversation, and achieving our caffeine fix for the day, we headed home to continue our day’s agenda which included swimming, sipping adult beverages poolside, having a cookout, and then savoring some homemade ice cream for dessert. I had already watched my DVDs of Mel Gibson’s The Patriot and We Were Soldiers the day before in order to get in to the patriotic spirit of the holiday, so everything was going just as planned. Then the telephone rang.

My brother began leaving a message on our answering machine (yes, we still have one of those) in his best “old man” voice although he wasn’t fooling anyone. My younger sibling lives in Colorado and rarely calls, so my wife hurriedly picked up the phone. After a minute or two of my wife and my brother exchanging pleasantries, I got on the line with my kinfolk that I had not seen or heard from since Christmas. I was relieved to learn there wasn’t an emergency. My bro, six years my junior, basically just wanted to say hello to his dear, dear brother. We chatted about everything under the sun: the weather, family, the upcoming Fantasy Football season, real sports, childhood memories, adulthood, TV evangelists, and our Christian faith.

We then discussed current events which of course led to a political discussion and ultimately a debate. It’s quite interesting to me how my brother and I seem to disagree about EVERYTHING politically. We were reared by the same parents, in the same house, yet a majority of our perceptions and philosophical preferences are entirely out of sync. There was no yelling, no childish hang-ups, and very limited hurt feelings during our cordial debate. (What a completely different, wonderful world we’d live in if only our elected officials had the good sense to conduct themselves in such a manner.) By conversation’s end, my little brother and I were still able to profess our love for one another when saying goodbye.

Come to find out I had been on the telephone for nine hours. That’s not a typo, folks. 9 hours! No wonder I was left with a blister on my ear and a severely sprained elbow. Not really. But my elbow was a bit stiff and my throat a little sore. This from a guy who as a teenager in love had no patience whatsoever when talking on the phone even while courting his future bride. A good deal of our spats back then were due to my lack of enthusiasm when conversing on the phone. I don’t know why it is, but I’d much rather write a letter, send a telegram, or even try my hand at sending up smoke signals than communicate via telephone.

But I digress. Sometime before my conversation had ended with my brother, the missus had kissed me goodnight. After hanging up I spied a note from her which read, “The 4th of July has been postponed until Thursday, July 5th.” Until that note, I had actually forgotten it was Independence Day (well, evening at this point). I immediately felt horrible about neglecting my wife and missing out on our well-planned day together. However, I was thrilled she was willing to give our much anticipated agenda another chance the very next day.

The missus did have to work during the morning of the 5th of July, but shortly after arriving back home she had our ancient boom box plugged in and properly positioned on our patio, our two outdoor umbrellas completely opened and situated for maximum shade, and a variety pack of craft beer on ice awaiting us. In no time flat we were able to resume our fun-filled agenda from the day before. My lovely wife and I spent the afternoon enjoying the pool, conversation, and each other. We sampled our chilled Leinenkugel’s Explorer Pack consisting of Orange Shandy, Summer Shandy (lemony), Cherry Blonde Lager, and Canoe Paddler (a spicy domestic style brew). We had our “cookout” which consisted of pan-fried hotdogs (my little sister refers to as “tubes of death”) and all the customary side dishes. Our grill was never turned on, so technically it might not have been a true cookout, but we did at least eat outdoors.

We took full advantage of our fabulous one hundred and fifteen degree weather. That’s not a typo, folks. 115°! But it is a dry heat. Later on, we savored a bowl or two (or in my case, three) of delectable homemade ice cream – finally completing  our patriotic celebration. At some point during the day’s festivities the telephone rang. My wife and I instantaneously in unison looked at one another, but then we quickly went about our business. There was no way we were going to miss out on the 5th of July.