Listen to Your Father . . .

Father's Day is fast approaching. I know this because of the volume of advertising I hear on my radio show (about half the volume of Mother's Day, but that's a whole different blog). Also, I am a father. So I have been asked repeatedly by my kids if I can loan them some money. Just kidding. They don't ask repeatedly.They get their mom to do it. But shortly after Mother's Day the "one-who-must-be-pleased" will start random conversations with, "So, what do you want for Father's Day? Besides that, I mean?". And I always tell her the same thing . . . nothing.
And I mean it.

I'll bet your father/husband/grandfather/significant other says the same thing. And you know what? They mean it, too.I know. It's a big pain in the patootie. But you have to remember, before we dads became dads we were men. And when men need something (and by "need" I mean "want") we just buy it. That's how we roll.
So this year, I'm going to suggest you do something radical, nay, revolutionary. Unheard of. Unspeakable. Without precedent.
I'm going to suggest . . .  that you actually listen to your father. And get him nothing.
Now, hear me out.
I know you love your dad and want to show him how much he means to you. But part of accepting the role of father is knowing that there's a bit of "unsung hero" in the job description. And we're okay with that. We actually prefer to display all our dad superpowers, like vanquishing monsters from under the bed and turning sofa pillows into castles, quietly and far from the spotlight. So, moms get far more attention on Mother's Day? You think that happened by accident? All part of the plan.
Now, don't get me wrong. Dads like presents as much as the next guy who maybe isn't a dad. And I'm sure your dad has loved every single present you've ever given him. Except for that one tie. You know the one I mean. But dads are notorious for knowing the value of a dollar and how hard those dollars are to come by, especially these days. I remember when I was a kid asking my dad for a couple of bucks and having him look at me like I just demanded he surrender a kidney. In fact, an internal organ would have been more forthcoming than a twenty, trust me. But just because he was, shall we say, "fiscally conservative" doesn't mean he wasn't generous, to a fault. Christmas and birthdays? My siblings and I were treated like royalty.
Now, I know you're shaking your head as you read this but it's true . . .  your dad would rather you NOT spend your money on him. He would much rather you spend your time.
Yup, Dad just wants you to hang out with him on Father's Day. So let him decide how he wants to spend "his day" and then, just tag along. Sporty dad? Take him bowling or to a Tides game or racing at Langley Speedway. Movie-loving dad? "To Kill a Mockingbird", "Field of Dreams" and "Parenthood" are all great "dad" movies (but don't be surprised if he gets "something in his eye" while watching). Fishing, tennis, golf, antique cars, Star Wars collectibles, Civil War reenactor . . . whatever your dad is into, share it with him on Father's Day. Then, treat him to a nice meal (home cooked or at his favorite joint) and, this is critically important, pick up the tab. He'll probably tell you to "put your money away" and protest, but truth be told, it's a bit of an act. He'll appreciate the novelty of not having to pay, at least this one time a year.
So that's it, the secret to a perfect Father's Day. No expensive trinkets, no hoopla, no big "deal". Which is exactly what your dad, any dad, wants. And that goes for your baby daddy, too. I know, you just want to show your dad how much you love him.
Believe me, he already knows.
Because just by being a dad, we've been showered by our children with gifts beyond measure. The hugs and kisses of a "Daddy's home!" front door greeting. The sleepy whispered "I love you, Daddy" after bedtime stories. The catch in the backyard, the tea parties with Barbie, allowing us to be the big kid we know we still are inside, at least for a little while. Teaching them how to ride a bike, how to drive a car. Seeing the world again through their eyes as they grow, the wonder and the magic, along with the hurt and heartache we so desperately want to keep from them. And the pride in the kind and smart and interesting people they become as they set off on their own.
Every single moment, a treasure. Which for me, makes every day Father's Day.
"But I can't give my dad NOTHING!", you protest. And you're right. You can't.
Because if every time your dad thinks of you and what you've brought to his life, his world, he smiles . . . you've already given him everything he ever wanted.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I seem to have something in my eye.

Paul & Kathy's Excellent European Adventure, Day 1:

So, how did I end up strapped to an impossibly skinny chair 30,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean, surrounded by loud talkers and even louder shirts?

I blame my wife.

Our retired friends Tim and Susan have spent the last ten years plying the waterways of Europe each summer aboard their boat, the Adagio. Every fall when they return they regale us with their travels and invite us to join them sometime.

And every year I politely decline.

Not that I've never dreamed of visiting the Continent. And I always felt bad for Kathy because I knew she would do it in a heartbeat (she having an adventurous spirit and my idea of daring being not washing my hands before eating). But even with the generous hospitality of our hosts, getting to Europe ain't cheap, if you haven't noticed. You can't drive. Teleportation hasn't been invented yet. And boats take too long. And sink. Just ask Jack and Rose.

But this year Tim and Sue surprised us with the announcement that they had pretty much sailed everywhere they wanted to sail and were planning to sell their boat sometime this season. If we were ever to join them, it would have to be now. 

And that's how I found myself drinking Jim Beam in the clouds.

We had already scheduled a week off in May and had planned to visit one of our favorite places, Asheville, North Carolina (motto: "Where the living is right and the politics ain't."). But we found airfares online that only cost an arm (leaving us both legs for all that walking we'd do) and decided to embrace "The Spirit of Adventure", just like the old guy in "Up".

Of course now that our journey has actually begun, I'm starting to wish that we'd simply attached a gazillion balloons to our chimney.

We chose to fly out of Washington, D.C., because the fares were more reasonable but mostly because you can't actually fly anywhere out of Norfolk. Oh, they SAY, you can, but no matter what it says on your ticket you always end up in Orlando (not that there's anything wrong with that). 

Our flight out of Dulles International Airport didn't depart until 5:20 on a Sunday afternoon but knowing I-95 the way we do we decided to leave Virginia Beach at 9:00 AM sharp, which turned out to be a rare moment of lucidity for us. Everything was fine until we reached Fredericksburg and then it was a slow crawl all the way to our Nation's Capitol. We spent another 20 minutes trying to pay the toll on the road to Dulles (six lanes: two EZ Pass, three "Coins Only", ONE with an actual minimum-wage employee collecting actual money. "Coins Only"? For a $2.50 toll?? Who carries TEN quarters around in their pocket, a Pac-Man junkie from 1982?). 

We parked in an Economy Lot somewhere west of Wheeling, WV, hopped a free shuttle bus that circled aimlessly for 30 minutes and finally arrived at the Dulles terminal. 

Boarding, baggage check-in and TSA Full Body Screening went by uneventfully and with a few minutes to spare we decided to have lunch. And by "lunch" I mean "drinks".

We headed to our gate and hoped to find someplace nearby with a valid liquor license. If you're not familiar with the Dulles terminal, here's how to get where you're going:

1) Ask a friendly Dulles International Airport customer service agent how to get to your gate.

2) Following their directions, walk approximately four miles.

3) Ask another Dulles International Airport customer service agent how to get to your gate because you are lost.

4) Walk another four miles as the first Dulles International Airport customer service agent didn't know "what the HELL she was talking about".

5) Take an airport train from the main concourse to your terminal.

6) Exit train, and proceed (by walking, again) to your gate, which appears to be even further away then when you started. ("Oh, the trains? Yeah, we just take you out to the end of the runway and let you walk back. It's a little inside joke. Plus, walking is good for you, fat ass.")

We finally reached our gate and found a place to get a little something to eat and a whole lot to drink. 

I think the reason airport restaurants are so tiny and cramped is so that when you finally get on the plane your seat won't look so Lilliputian. 

Let me say that if you're flying overseas, steal your kids' college fund money and pay for Business or First Class. On a United Airlines Boeing 767-300, the seats in Economy Class (aka "Steerage") are approximately the same size as a first grader's desk, only not as comfortable. They don't call it "legroom" because an actual full-grown adult leg will not fit in the available space, unless your knees bend the other way. I believe the airline industry term is "Femur Space". 

We were seated in row 32 A and B, window and aisle (good) right between the Incredibly Fussy Baby and the Equally Incredibly Flatulent Man (not so much).  

Our scheduled departure time: 5:20.

Our actual departure time: 6:00. 

We'd been on board and belted into our infant seats for over an hour and hadn't even made it to the runway, let alone Amsterdam.

I know. Whine, whine, whine.

I'm reminded of comedian Louis C.K.'s take on flying. He admonished us not to complain about the petty annoyances about the miracle of man-made flight. 

Sure, I'm trapped in a steel tube for eight hours and I've lost all feeling in my lower extremities, but when I'm finally carried off by trained medical personnel, I'll be I

in a whole OTHER COUNTRY on a WHOLE DIFFERENT CONTINENT. 

I should just shut up now. 

Boo-Boos and Boo-Boo.

This is Boo-Boo. And I'd like to tell you about all the things that had to go wrong so that we would somehow meet him.
Kathy and I were spending a few days in the Virginia mountains for our summer getaway. It's funny how those of us who live at the beach seem to love the mountains and vice versa. For efficiency's sake, perhaps we should arrange with the good people of Charlottesville to simply swap houses every August.
Anywho, we booked a room in the Mountain Inn at Wintergreen and headed west.
For our first full day there, we planned some motoring along Skyline Drive and a hike or two to a waterfall or two. With a thick stack of notes, maps and guides courtesy of the interweb, we decided on Doyles River Falls because there are actually two falls, an upper and a lower. We are nothing if not fans of "twofers".
We found the parking area, grabbed our gear, camera bag, water bottles, emergency rations (a.k.a. "wine") and headed for the trail, which was marked by a large rather ominous official National Park Service sign. It warned that the trail was very steep (on the way back, of course) and that a round trip hike to the first falls would take between 3 and 4 hours. You want to see BOTH falls? Plan on sweating and avoiding bugs and snakes for the next 7 hours.
We had other things we wanted to do that day (primarily involving hot showers, hot food and cold adult beverages) so we did what we do best.
We gave up.
We quickly consulted our official "Hikes to Waterfalls Guide" and decided that Dark Hollow Falls would make a great "Plan B" (not to mention a great name for a Busch Gardens Halloween attraction). Not only was the waterfall more scenic but the hike was shorter and it was just a federally-protected stone's throw from the Big Meadows Visitors Center, with it's snack bar and bathroom facilities that aren't trees.
However, we hadn't planned on driving this far and we were running low on gas. Fortunately Loft Mountain was on the way with a full-service rest stop, so we refueled there, then headed for Dark Hollow Falls.
After just a few minutes on the trail, two things occurred to me. 1), we were walking through some of the most beautiful verdant forest in all of Virginia, and B), we were descending at an alarming rate straight to the very bottom of the world. We thought it best to walk straight down to the falls without stopping, saving the uphill climb back for our "photo ops". That would give us plenty of chances to stop and rest and curse each other for thinking this was a good idea. As we approached the bottom of the cavern, I paused to scout the trail ahead as it doubled-back.
That's when I turned to find Kathy, face down on the rocks below me.
I'm sure the park rangers to this day wonder whatever became of the little girl they heard shrieking on the Dark Hollow Falls trail. I rushed to her only to find her laughing softly to herself for her momentary clumsiness. She had slipped on the rocks and stumbled. But after a few minutes of taking bodily inventory, we determined she had sustained only minor, mostly cosmetic damage. With the same courage and fortitude doubtlessly displayed by Sacajawea on the famed Lewis & Clark expedition, she decided to press on.
The falls are indeed spectacular and I'm sure would be even more so during the spring or after a heavy rain. We snapped a million pictures and watched a young foreign man scale the face of the 70 foot tall falls, certain he would plummet to his death at any moment. After several minutes, I suggested we leave before we became witnesses and would thus be needed to testify.
And then, we set off to climb back up to the top.
We took our time, stopping to take lots of pictures and made it back to the car with our lungs intact, then drove the short distance to Big Meadows, looking for sustenance and a place to pee.
We pulled into the Visitors Center parking lot, and headed for the bathrooms to freshen up. While waiting for Kathy I went inside to find the snack bar only to discover it was in a different building altogether. We spent a few minutes exploring the exhibits (and by "exhibits" I mean "air conditioning") and then went searching for grub.
The restaurant/gift shop was adjacent to the next parking lot. It was crowded but we found a table and were soon scouting the menu.
Mmmmmmm . . . National Park Service food.
Kathy ordered a grilled ham and cheese and so did I, minus the ham. The place was pretty busy so we weren't surprised that it took a while for our food to arrive. And I still wasn't surprised when they got my order wrong. But after an apology from our server and a few more minutes soaking up the knotty pine atmosphere, lunch was served.
Our tummies full and our muscles groaning, we climbed into the car, and leaded back the way we came, this time at a more leisurely pace. We pulled off onto overlooks, each with a view more breathtaking than the last, and filled our cameras' memory cards to capacity.
Just south of Lewis Mountain, we came across two cars stopped on the Drive, one in each direction. The car in front of us, impatient for whatever reason, somehow managed to slip between the others in the center of the road and continue on. We slowed to a crawl and strained to see what was going on. And that's when Kathy saw the reason for the roadblock.
It was a bear.
He was a little fellow, peacefully grazing on our side of the road, seemingly oblivious to the growing number of spectators who were gathering to watch.
And he was coming our way.
Kathy immediately powered down her window, grabbed our little "point 'n shoot" camera and started pointing and shooting. He meandered through the tall sage grass on the shoulder, nosing about for any scraps humans may have tossed there. He passed no more than two feet from our car. I glanced behind us to see that no one was close, so I slipped the car into reverse and slowly rolled backward, keeping pace with Boo-Boo (as Kathy had already named him, although I pointed out he was not wearing a bow tie). She got lots of pictures and a bit of video before he silently vanished into the nearby woods. By that time, dozens of cars had stopped as well, full of awestruck occupants, cameras capturing this unexpected encounter. No one left their cars, no horns, no shouting. Everyone respectful of the moment's magic.
After that, Kathy spent every waking hour in the car clutching her camera, ready for the next time a bear, deer, bobcat, moose, wolverine or badger might wander in our path. And while we did spot several deer and even a few wild turkeys (who CAN fly, so Mr. Carlson on "WKRP" was right, after all), we didn't see any of Boo-Boo's extended family.
We enjoyed reliving the day over dinner that evening at Wintergreen's Copper Mine Restaurant, pouring over the many photos we'd taken. And it occurred to me that had our day gone according to plan, it's most remarkable event never would have happened.
So many "ifs".
If we hadn't changed our hiking destination, if we hadn't driven deeper into the park and subsequently needed  to stop for gas, if Kathy hadn't slipped, if that young daredevil hadn't enthralled us with his death-defying climb, if we hadn't gone to the wrong building at Big Meadows, if the snack bar hadn't gotten my lunch order wrong, we would never have found ourselves behind those stopped cars on Skyline Drive.
And we never would've met Boo-Boo.

It was a pleasant reminder that on vacation, as in life, things just have a way of working out. That the randomness of the universe cares little for the best-laid plans. And that sometimes, when everything goes wrong . . . everything turns out right.
All it takes is a little faith, a little luck.
And, in our case, one little bear.

Goodbye, old girl.

The very first order of business when we got home from saying goodbye was to collect her things and put them away. Everywhere we looked there was something of hers. A tennis ball. A water bowl ringed with chew marks. A Costco-sized box of Milkbones. And seeing her belongings just made the house seem all the more empty. We simply couldn't bear it.
Ginger, "The Sweetest Dog Who Ever Was" (as she became known to me), joined our family in August of 1998. After years of cat dominance (Libby, whose tolerance for mere mortals was minimal), we had decided to add a dog to our list of dependents. And if we were going to get a dog, by God, we were going to get a "real" dog. No little wussy, yappy, frou-frou debutante "accessory", but a great big, furry, slobbering, barking DAWG. I'd always loved Golden Retrievers, so we contacted a local rescue organization and, after an inspection that would do any adoption agency proud, they matched us with Ginger.
She was nine months old when we got her. Not quite a puppy. But that didn't stop her from acting like one. For the next 13 years.
Time has a way of softening the rough edges, burnishing memories like a jeweler polishes gold. So, truth-be-told, Ginger was not always on her best behavior. We learned early not to leave anything on our counters because Ginger would, as a Golden's DNA dictates, retrieve it. And then eat it. Didn't matter what. Food. Dish towels. Packages. Small appliances. If she could reach it, it was fair game. We stopped buying her "indestructible" chew toys because she would, in a matter of minutes, prove the manufacturer wrong. And this behavior continued well into her senior years, when not long ago she discovered the operating manual for our new HVAC thermostat and consumed it with the gusto usually reserved for a fine steak.
Ginger was also not a good "walker". In spite of some obedience training (now THERE was money well-spent), she would tug at her leash so insistently she would practically choke herself blue in the face. And God forbid you encountered another dog on your walk. Or a rabbit. Or squirrel. Or a wind-blown piece of trash. Because off she would go, in hot pursuit, leash (and your shoulder) be damned.
And being a "sporting dog", unwary animal visitors to our backyard often found themselves in Ginger's crosshairs. It was not uncommon in her younger, faster days to find captured prey at our backdoor. Once, an exceedingly arrogant squirrel taunted Ginger from a nearby tree until it made the fatal mistake of getting a little too close. Final score: Ginger 1, bushy-tailed varmint 0.
But if Ginger was a bit "unruly", she was also exceedingly sweet. She never met anyone she didn't instantly befriend (because she always held hope that this new person would give her some food). She loved to eat and she loved to play. And, most of all, she absolutely adored us, all of us. Almost as much as we adored her.
Trying to pick a favorite memory of her is like to trying to choose your favorite Christmas. There are just too many. Playing ball with her in the backyard (which she would do 'til exhaustion. Hers, not mine). Greeting me at the door when I'd get home from work, the rhythmic thump of her tail on the kitchen floor, and I swear she would actually be smiling. Big, wet "Gingy-kisses". Watching her roll over on her back to become "Upside Down Dog". Scratching her ears. Rubbing her belly until she'd snort in sheer sensual pleasure. Watching her squeeze herself under our coffee table whenever there was a thunderstorm. For a big girl, she was kind of a baby.
I always liked to think that I was her favorite. After all, I was the one who generally played ball with her and took her for walks. Not to mention keeping her well-supplied with Purina One. But I know I'm just kidding myself. Oh, she loved me well-enough. But she really, really loved my wife Kathy.
Kathy was the one who really took care of Ginger. Bathing. Grooming. Appointments with the vet. And Ginger knew it. While Kathy would lavish Ginger with attention and praise I would scoff, calling her "good for nothing", a "smelly old fat dog" and "spoiled rotten" (which she was). But Ginger didn't care. Kathy loved her. And that was all that mattered. And she knew I didn't really mean any of the awful things I would say to her. At least, I pray that she knew.
As she got older, Ginger remained in remarkably good health. But nothing stops the inevitable and the selfish illusion that we were going to have her forever began to disappear, little by little. Her once keen eyesight, capable of tracking a tennis ball from 30 yards, dimmed. Her hearing faded, her appetite paled. Her stride faltered. "The World's Oldest Puppy" was starting to lose herself. She seemed anxious, unsure. And while she wasn't suffering, her bad days were beginning to outnumber her good.
On Sunday, she stopped eating and drinking. Her breathing became labored and she struggled to stand. They say animals can sense when their time is drawing near. Denial is not part of their world, only ours. She spent that night seeking quiet and darkness, resisting our efforts to comfort her.
On her last day, after we had decided to face the unthinkable, I hurried home from work, expecting to find her prone on our kitchen floor, if not already gone. Much to my surprise, she greeted me with a tail wag, got to her feet and headed for the back door. We went out into our yard where she found one of her tennis balls and began to play "keep away" with me. We spent an hour or so out there, in the place that had been her world (and mine to share) for most of her life. And I saw just a flicker of that ebullient light that seems to shine in all dogs, a trace of the rascally puppy she'd always been. So I began to think that maybe it wasn't yet her time, maybe her doctor would offer us some hope that she might remain with us for a little while longer.
But it was not to be. A brain lesion was responsible for her decline and her prognosis was poor. She'd slip away a little more each day, robbed of her exuberance, her dignity, her self. That hard truth, most of all, was more than we could bear. So we decided to say goodbye and let her go.
In the end, it was as good a day as could be expected, given the circumstances. She had treats, she snoozed, she played ball outside. The vet made her comfortable while we stroked her and kissed her and soothed her. We told her we loved her one last time. And then, she was gone.
Fourteen years. That's a pretty good run for any dog. A rich and fulfilling life, surrounded by family who loved her. And were loved by her, unconditionally, in return. 
Today was the first day since I don't know when that I truly came home to an empty house. I didn't like it. I didn't like it one bit. But I know that right now, Ginger is dashing across an endless sea of grass on a glorious summer day, chasing rabbits and tennis balls and wagging her tail in rhythm to music only she can hear. And that makes me smile. And makes the house seem a little less empty, at least for a little while.
When I took off my black fleece jacket, I noticed it was covered in her golden hair. I don't think I'll ever put it in the wash. Not for a long, long time.

Just the Fact's, Ma'm . . .

The other day I was at Sam's Club (I love warehouse clubs, but that's another blog for another day) and while I was there I filled up the Miata with a tank of their very finest premium fuel. When I was done I fired up my iPhone and launched one of my favorite apps, Fuel Gauge, which I use to keep track of my gas mileage. While I was entering the pertinent data, I was interrupted by a rap on my window. Standing outside my car was a Sam's Club "team member" (or as we used to call them, an "employee"), an older gentlemen whose name I didn't get but I'm confident is "Gus" or "Hank". I lowered the window and before I could say anything he asked me this question . . . "Do you like your car?".
Now, seeing as how I am a celebrity and drive an exotic-yet-affordable sports car that is so NOT a chick car, I am often asked this question. I imagine "regular people" see me tooling-around town in my bright red roadster, their weary souls filled with an understandable desire to be like me. And I always reply in the affirmative. But that's not what "Gus" was after. "Gus" was about to impart some of his hard-earned wisdom.
He pointed at my iPhone and told me about a guy, some unfortunate wretch, who just a few weeks earlier was filling his car at the Wawa station on Rosemont Road when a spark from his cell phone triggered a massive explosion, destroying his ride and nearly taking his life. "Gus" then advised me not to tempt fate by playing with my new-fangled gadget while pumping gas.
After a moment of stunned silence on my part, I thanked "Gus" and assured him I would never do it again. And then he walked away, his duty done.
Now I know he was only trying to be helpful. Which is why I chose not to say anything. But his story, and therefore his warning, is . . .  completely bogus.
First of all, I wasn't using my phone, I was using an app on my phone. I mean, who uses their smartphone to make phone calls?? Plus, being a member of the local media, I think I might have heard about a flaming fireball engulfing most of Virginia Beach. But that's not really important. What matters is that this is a widely-believed "urban legend". And sometimes it's hard to convince people of the real facts.
But you're saying, "Alright then, smart guy . . .  if it's not true then how come the oil companies put warnings on their pumps, huh?". One word . . . liability. To cover their backsides in the extremely off-chance that it actually could happen. Those signs are lawyers talking, not scientists.
All I know is that as of this writing there has not been one single documented case of a cell phone igniting a fire at a gas pump. Not one. Sorry, "Gus". Even the "Mythbusters" guys couldn't get it to happen. And if Adam and Jamie say it's "busted", it's "busted".
It's true you'll find "news" stories on the internet claiming this has actually occurred, usually in far-off places like Indonesia and Australia. But journalism ain't what it used to be. Just ask Rupert Murdoch, if you can catch him while he's not ducking a pie to the face.
And it's not always "urban legends". Sometimes it's misinformation masquerading as fact. Here are just a few of my favorite examples:
A fan cools the air.
Nope. Sorry. Ain't true. Fans just make you feel cooler. They do not actually lower the temperature of the air. In fact, in a small way, they actually warm the air, because the electricity used to run them generates heat. It doesn't mean you shouldn't run a fan. It just means there's no sense keeping one on in an empty room. It's like that old saying: "If a man's in the woods and he says something and there's no woman to hear him, is he still wrong?".
Poison ivy/oak/sumac is contagious.
It might be gross. It's definitely disgusting. But there's no harm in touching someone who has a rash from poison ivy. Go ahead, I dare you. The only way to get the "Mother-of-all" skin irritations is through direct contact with the oil on the plant itself, so stay away. If you find yourself surrounded by "foliage" (which is usually in "nature", which is located "outdoors") remember this rule I learned in the Boy Scouts: "Leaves of three, let it be". Or, as we used to say to our creepy assistant scoutmaster, "Here, wipe with this!".
And if you feel you may come in contact with the dreaded poisonous plantus itchyous, do not wash the area with soap and water . . . it will only spread the oil. Instead, get plenty of alcohol. And by "alcohol" I mean "liquor". 'Cause you're going to need it.
Humans only use ten percent of their brains.
This popular belief began with psychologist and noted crackpot author Williams James, who argued in The Energies of Men that "We are making use of only a small part of our possible mental and physical resources". Science has since proven that humans use practically all of their brains practically all of the time. Which is encouraging and a little bit sad, really. Experts feel that James' mistaken and misguided theories stem from a very small scientific sample, which included only members of Congress and the Kardashians.
Eating "Pop Rocks" and drinking a soda will cause you to explode.
Actually, this one's true. Don't believe me? When was the last time you saw Mikey from the Life cereal TV commercial, huh? I rest my case.
So, the next time you encounter some tidbit on the internet like "Facebook is going to start charging users" or "the Federal Government works for the taxpayers", greet it with a big ol' slice of skepticism. And feel free to ask me and I'll do my best to set things straight.
Or you can ask "Gus". But I'd turn off my phone first, if I were you.

Mr. (and Mrs.) Cellophane

I don't like to brag, but I've long possessed a super-power, a power many people covet. And yet, if they knew it's true essence, they might think twice about their desire to have it.
For I have long had the power of . . . invisibility.
It started in grade school, whenever I would attempt to answer a question posed by whatever nun was unfortunate enough to have me in her class ("Ha! Short straw! You take him, Sister Malevolent!"). The power grew stronger during my high school years, especially around popular classmates, jocks and girls. And now that I've reached a certain level of "maturity", shall we say, it's become devastatingly effective against any member of the opposite sex between the ages of 18 and 45.
Were this cross mine alone to bear, I would do so with a silent, begrudging reluctance. But, as I have only recently discovered, my "Cloak of Non-Existence" is expansive enough to swathe others.
Enter, Mrs. Cellophane . . . my poor wife.
Now, if you know my wife, you know that the very last word you would use to describe her is "invisible". She is not one accustomed to going unnoticed. But I'm afraid a near-lifetime with me has rendered her translucent.
The weekend of our anniversary celebration was rife with examples of our transparency. On the way out of town to celebrate, we stopped at a local tavern (I don't want to name names, but it rhymes with "The Breen Furtle"). It was early on a Friday afternoon and the waitstaff out-numbered the guests four-to-one. But that didn't prevent all of them from walking by our booth dozens of times, never once acknowledging our presence. Finally, we flagged down a busboy, who seemed confused by the whole concept of "customers" wanting to be "waited on", but who eventually succeeded in getting a server's attention long enough for us to order tall frosty glasses of "dinner".
If this had been an isolated occurence, I would have laughed it off as the "usual dark cloud that seems to follow me everywhere, even the bathroom". But it would set the tone for the entire weekend.
The drive to Our Nation's Capital was uneventful, especially for a summer Friday. The check-in to our swanky hotel went smoothly, so we decided to hit the lounge for another round of "dinner". The restaurant's bar was packed with golf fans (as evidenced by their colorful attire and general Republicaness), in town for the U.S. Open. We found a table in the back, sat down and waited for someone to take our order. And waited. And then, waited some more. Finally, my wife, who's reservoir of patience is surprisingly small considering who she's married to, leapt to her feet and corralled an employee. And using an elaborate series of guttural sounds and hand gestures, was able to secure for us a round of potent and very expensive drinks.
The next morning, at breakfast . . .  same deal, different day. We couldn't get anyone in the restaurant to wait on our table. And we had planned on having the buffet, so all we needed was something to drink. Oh, and silverware. That would make enjoying the scrambled eggs a little less conspicuous. Still it took monumental effort to get any attention, making us feel exactly like Tareq and Michaele Salahi, if they could feel anything besides shame.
On our way out, it occurred to me to make a dinner reservation for that evening, as we had tickets to see a play at the Kennedy Center. It was an early curtain so I requested an early reservation, 5:00PM. The hostess replied that 5:30 was the best she could do, but that we could arrive early.
We spent an enjoyable day museum tromping but rushed back to put on our fanciest duds and head out for an evening of fine dining and delightful musical theater. When we arrived at our room, we discovered the management had arranged a surprise: the room was EXACTLY as we had left it, seven hours earlier. I can only guess it was so that we could preserve the memory of our special weekend. It wasn't until we began getting ready that a plaintive knock came from the door. I answered it, only partially attired, and found a member of the crack housekeeping staff fully prepared to enter. I explained that the room was currently housing two full-sized adults and that she would have to come back some other time. It turns out that "some other time" in housekeeping lingo means "never".
Oh, well . . . one less tip to leave.
We arrived at the restaurant at 5:05, only to discover . . .  it was closed. It seems the restaurant doesn't even OPEN until 5:30. But in the hostess's defense, when she told us we could arrive at 5, she never actually followed it with, "so we can seat you early". What she meant was, "so we can seat you at the bar and serve you several rounds of potent and very expensive drinks BEFORE we seat you". My mistake.
Dinner was fabulous. What I can remember of it. I've never consumed that many dollars of aged prime rib that quickly before. Kathy's mahi-mah was equally superb and speedy. In spite of the fact that I had informed our waiter of our urgency (and in spite of the fact that the we were the only ones there) dinner was painfully slow arriving. We gobbled, we paid, we bolted. And just made our 7:30 curtain.
The next morning, back for breakfast, I briefly considered setting myself on fire as we strolled into the restaurant, just to get some attention. But then I remembered how long it took to get our beverages the morning before and changed my mind. Sunday's service would prove to be no better than Saturday's. But they do make a damn fine waffle, so I'm almost tempted to forgive them.
Almost.
So, there you have it . . . "Mr. and Mrs. Cellophane Go to Washington". It spite of it all we thoroughly enjoyed the weekend and each other's company. But the near complete absence of anything resembling good service?
Not so much.
I'd write a letter detailing my disappointment to the hotel's management, but recent similar efforts on my behalf have proven fruitless. Apparently my words are as easy to ignore as my person.
I wonder if they'll ever notice if I neglect to pay the bill?

All My Love, Always . . .

What do you say to the woman you've shared your life with for the last 35 years? How do you tell her that she's grown more beautiful with each passing day, that your heart still skips a beat every time she walks into the room? How do you begin to tell her all that she means to you? Only a fool would try.
So here I go.
I remember the first time I saw her, in high school. She was cute. Damn cute. With long auburn hair, the color of  cinnamon. A beautiful smile, turned-up nose. A laugh that could fill a room. And a boyfriend.
I disliked him, immediately.
We saw each other in our school's theater productions. We shared a circle of friends. Eventually, I worked-up enough nerve to ask her out. She said "yes". The first of many that would follow. And that would be our life together.
Always questions from me.
Always "yes" from her.
When I thought we were ready to be husband and wife, she agreed. When I told her that radio was what I wanted to do, she believed in me. When I said my career would likely take us away, far from our homes, she welcomed the idea, eager for the adventure before us.
Always "yes".
So we left our families, our friends and started our journey. Just the two of us, at first. Before too long, three. Then four.
It is not possible to thank her enough for the gift of our children. For being a fiercely devoted and proud mom. For allowing me to be a father, and showing me the way. Diana and Matt are grown now. They're close by and a big part of our lives, just not every day. And I know that's hard for her. Which only makes me love her all the more.
It can be quite useful taking inventory after 35 years. Two apartments. Two houses. Two kids. Two dogs, three cats. Over a dozen cars. Two motorcycles. Several jobs. Three cruise vacations. Two trips to Vegas.
And 35 anniversaries.
There's a lot to be said for marrying your best friend. Together, we've seen good times and bad. For better . . . our beautiful kids. For worse . . . saying goodbye forever to our own parents. It's only then that you realize in the end, you've only got each other.
And yet, after all these years I still can't think of anyone I'd rather spend time with. Have a drink with, share dinner with.  Sometimes we'll simply look at each and have the same thought . . .  how did we get here? How did these 35 years slip by in the seeming blink of an eye? And through it all, she's been there, always, to laugh with me, cry with me. To calm my worries and chase my fears. To show me the man she always knew I could be, even if I couldn't see it myself. Could I really be that man, for her?
Always a "yes". Never a doubt in her mind.
On the day we got married, I remember looking at her, so beautiful. Her face radiant, her eyes sparkling with the possibility of our life together. And then she was walking down that aisle, about to forever put her hand in mine, and I thought, "it doesn't get much better than this".
Little did I know.
Over the years, I've fallen into the admittedly lazy habit of signing all my greeting cards for her with, "All my love, always". Trite, I know.
But it's true. And it's really all I have to offer.
So, Kathy, let me simply say "I love you". I know I don't say it nearly enough. But I hope I show you, every day.
And that 35 more years together won't nearly be enough.