Why Not?

One week. It is closing time, and America, in all her beer goggled glory is taking somebody home. Unfortunately, this one night stand lasts four years. Will it be the Power Grabber or the P&$*y Grabber?  The candidate full of bull or the candidate full of bull? According to the pundits, it is midnight in the USA, the end is nigh, the Liberty Bell tolls for thee.  According to my friends and neighbors, I should board up my house and move to Canada.  Of course, it doesn't have to be this way. I, along with the rest of the Off-Broadway Third Party Players are also still sitting at the bar waiting to share a cab, to be asked up for "coffee."  America, you don't have to regret your decision in the morning.  As the lyrical genius Eddie Money once said, Take Me (and my patriotic red pants) Home Tonight.

As we hit the one week home stretch, here are Seven Thoughts for Seven Days:

1) You wanna talk issues? I've got issues. I'll be the Mental Health President. Don't worry  folks, I'll worry for you!
2) Being the World's Policeman leads only to more excuses to be the World's Policeman.
3) The phrase "Black Lives Matter" does not sow division, but reminds us there is still division that needs to be healed.
4) I engage in "locker room talk."  I think most men and women have or do.  However, that locker room talk does not include doing anything without consent.  I say two (or three, or six) adults can get as freaky as they want AS LONG AS THERE IS CONSENT.  And, if two of them fall in love, they should be able to legally marry no matter the parts between their legs.
5) Freedom of religion also means freedom from religion.
6) Not everyone's American Dream is 2.5 kids and a picket fence. 
7) I don't believe the Oval Office should be a decades-long, dynastic ego pursuit or another acquisition in a businessman's ledger. I was given not a silver spoon, but a wooden spoon covered in cookie dough.  I'm more everyman than elegant.  I have this crazy notion that our President should serve the interests of the people not his own.  I'm ready to serve.  If you give me your write-in vote (Of which I've been assured I already have one. Suck it, Evan McMullin!), I promise to stow the doom and gloom the punditry loves to peddle.  Let's make America FUN again.

#Hailey4America #EverForward #WhyNot
WriteInRightOn

I'm Too Sexy For This Oval Office.

At first, I thought there was no way Donald Trump would make it to March, let alone November. Next, I thought he, like every politician, was saying anything to get elected.  Then I thought he was saying everything to ensure he would NOT be elected.  Now I realize Trump does not give a flying leap what I, you, any of us thinks.  He looks out for one person.  His every move is self serving.  He's on a Mission from Don.

The video of lewd remarks that surfaced yesterday serves as another reminder that Donald Trump is an orange, unrestrained ball of id. He is America's Tyler Durden. An unrestrained ball of Tyler Durden has no business in the Oval Office. Make no mistake this kind of "guy" talk is what leads to an expectant, entitled culture among young men.    Even if it is common, this talk is not harmless. It can not be dismissed as mere locker room banter.  Fathers, use this video as a teachable moment with your sons. Use this as an example of what's is important - always make sure your mic is turned off. Kidding, of course. The real lesson is make sure you pop a few Tic-Tacs before you head out to grab some      p%*$y. Or maybe we could just settle for  teaching our young men to treat women with respect and teaching our young women to expect to be treated with respect.

Predictably, I have seen comments excusing Trump's boorish behavior. Oh, this video is ten years old.  Oh, it's just boys being boys.  Oh, you know, Bill Clinton was a bad guy, too.  His supporters hold their nose because there are real problems in this world and he can fix them!  As if Trump has provided any evidence of a plan to do so. I've been accused of being distracted by the media, of buying into their phony outrage.  I'm not outraged, phony or otherwise. I'm embarrassed that the GOP, for which I have voted often, could select no better candidate than this media-whoring, women-insulting, self-congratulating blowhard.  If the Democrats had chosen nearly any other candidate to run, he or she would be wiping the floor with Trump.  If they nominated a poodle, we would be reviewing applications for Official White House Pooper Scooper right now.  That the Republicans couldn't nominate a candidate that could wrest the moral high ground from the Clintons(!) is as laughable as it is unthinkable.  Hillary Clinton's Wall Street speeches and Donald Trump's limelight- driven, reality star power tripping ("when you're a star.. you can do anything") show exactly how out of touch these two clowns are with a large chunk of the people they claim to want to lead. We are left with two candidates hungry to ascend to the highest office, while scraping the bottom of the barrel.

I'll vote for neither, but at least with Clinton we have someone polished enough to actually resemble a president.  Donald Trump is a an oaf, a pig that not only slings mud, but enjoys rolling around in it.  We can argue all day about the role of a president in our government. Is the president an executor with real power to govern or more a figurehead? You make the call. If even only a figurehead, though, our president should be someone who  represents us well to the world.  A President's speech should be respectful of all citizens, bestowing dignity on all Americans.  A President's voice should be inspirational, aspirational, lofty. Our President should desire to raise us up, not tear us down.  A President Trump (shudder) wallowing in the muck is not the face I want to show the world. How about you?

The Last Charge of the Orange Brigade

A week ago, coming off a series victory in Boston, the Orioles opened an eleven game homestand only one game behind the Sox in the race for the American League East.  After a 2-5 start to the homestand, the Orioles have ceded any hope of winning the division, clinging to a perilous lead for the final Wild Card spot.  With ten games remaining in  their season, including three each with the Jays and the Damn Yankees, the Birds must begin their last stand tonight in their final game with Boston.  So as a fun summer slips into a desperate autumn, I apologize to Tennyson for butchering his beautiful war poem which served as my inspiration for:

                                       The Last Charge of the Orange Brigade

Half a league, half a league,

With half a league closing behind,

All into the Yard,

Strode the Baltimore Nine.

"Forward the Orange Brigade!"

"Charge for the fences!" cried Buck.

Into the Yard,

Strode the Baltimore Nine.

Homers to the right of them,

Homers to the left of them,

Homers in front of them,

The Red Stockings have been unkind;

Struck down by Porcello with ease,

Swarmed under by the young Killer B's.

For one more chance, against the lefty Price,

Into the hearty laugh of Ortiz,

Strode the Baltimore Nine.

Valiantly staying in the pennant chase,

Desperately trying to keep pace,

Pinning all hopes on the arm of their Ace. 

Charging the field,

Holding the line.

Swinging for the wall,

Tracking each high fly ball,

Jonesy, Manny, and Trumbo

Enduring every strike call.

Just what is left,

Of the Baltimore Nine?

What shot at glory can they take?

O the Wild Card can the make?

A fan base looks for a sign.

Honor the charge they made,

Honor the Orange Brigade,

Tonight, cheer the Baltimore Nine.

And, when you're done cheering the Baltimore Nine, read Tennyson's haunting tribute to six hundred men of the Light Brigade.

Dance Party

I recently stumbled upon a  2014 Washington Post article detailing how Hillary Clinton has not driven a car since 1996.  It seems unlikely, for the same reasons laid out in the Post story, that she has driven in the ensuing two years.  This is only mildly surprising considering as a former First Lady she is under constant Secret Service protection.  Although, you would think at some point she, or anyone in a similar position, would tell Agent Earpiece to hop in the passenger seat and pass the keys.  Driving is too much fun to pass on for twenty years.  Not driving in two decades illustrates, in a minor way, how out of a touch Clinton, like most powerful politicians, is with the everyday existence of their constituents.  America, you need a candidate that's going to keep it real.  Donald Trump?  Hardly.  Whether he's actually worth one billion or ten billion, he's still at least a billion ahead of most of us.  Of all the deceptions he's pulled off during this long con he calls a campaign, convincing millions of hard working regular Joes that he has their back is perhaps the most impressive.  The closest Trump gets to relating to those Joes is bilking them out of thousands of dollars for his "University" or suing them so he doesn't have to pay for contracting work they have completed on his buildings.

No, America, neither Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump have the desire to understand your experience.  Guess what?  You're in luck.  I know a guy that drives himself (in a car that he and his wife paid for, no less).  He cuts his own grass, packs his own lunch (remember, make the peanut butter pocket to lock in the jelly), and drinks beer from a can.  He sometimes argues with his wife and kid.  He often yells at the screen during televised sporting events.  Yep, he's real.  He is me and I am him.  And I/him/me/he/Hailey4America am ready to help. I know how you live, what you need, and what you want.  Better yet, I'm willing to listen to what you have to say.  Yes, I'm an average Joe.  But I'm an average Joe with specific experience that, while hardly unique, makes me qualified to lead:  I'm a Dance Dad.

Hear me out.  I have distinct skills forged in the fiery cauldron of this Dance Dad life:

*Peace Keeper (AKA Knowing where my bread is buttered):  The Future First Lady is a kick-ass Dance Mom in her own right, but by taking Grace to classes during the week, I can cross at least one thing off Amanda's weekend to-do list.

* Handling Tense, Last-Minute Negotiations:  Arguing about which leotard/tutu combo The Girl needs or wants to wear never occurs an hour before class, only when we are already supposed to be in the car.

*Fiscal Responsibility:  I finally wised up and learned that I can take the same, if not better, photos than the professional portraits on Picture Day.  And mine are free! 

*Good Judgement:  The Future First Lady and I (okay, we all know it was Amanda that did all the legwork) selected a dance studio with a non-competitive environment that does not expect young girls to be all tarted up for the recital.

*Demonstrating a willingness to accept help:  The other girls' moms have bailed me out a few times over the last five years.  They've helped by going in the changing room or ladies' restroom, fixing Grace's hair or the unfortunate moment when I helped Grace, then age three, put her costume on backwards exposing WAY too much of her toddler chest. 

*Patience:  Each Tuesday I spend an hour or two in the waiting room while Grace dances.  There are long periods of waiting periodically interrupted by a gaggle of cart-wheeling seven-year-old girls chatting, giggling, and shouting as they change their shoes.  I know patience.

*Details:  Even though Grace is old enough to responsibly pack her own gear, if I don't double check her bag, we will inevitably forget a shoe or a tutu or a water bottle or a headband or the other kind of shoe or hip hop pants or yet another kind of shoe.  See America?  It's all about the details

*Diplomacy:  The studio waiting room has televisions on which we can watch our daughters dance.  Often, instead of watching, I am chatting, reading or writing.  But you can bet when Grace asks me if I saw her doing dance move X,Y, or Z I say something like, "Of course... I'm aware... that you were dancing... in there."  Diplomacy is also required when she asks how she did.  Let's just say that Grace's name belies her actual physical realities.  She tries hard and has a blast, but her hip hop freestyle moves are less Beyoncé and more a squirrel on PCP.  Unfortunately, I think she inherited my dance floor flow instead of her mother's.  Though, she is still a much better dancer than Corey Feldman. Hopefully she'll grow into her feet and become smooth like her mama.  Until then, Diplomacy!

America, we're in this together.  Just a few million regular Joes and Janes.  Let the billionaires argue while we save this country.  Then we can all dance down Pennsylvania Avenue together, one crazy hip hop move at a time (because my guess is they won't let me drive.)

I'm Not Amused

Remember, America, you have another choice this November.  I'm your man.  And I'm my own man.  There's no body double here.  I am 100%, Grade A,  All-American from the tip of my giant proboscis to my average size hands.  From the star-spangled Uncle Sam tattoo on my  gggggg to the tiny part of my brain that knows Aleppo is not a dog food.  Come give me the once over; tell me if you like what you see.  We're all about transparency over here at Hailey4America.  No hidden medical records.  No refusal to release tax returns.  In fact, in the name of honesty and transparency, despite the risk to my candidacy, I am about to reveal a fact about me that might turn off a large portion of the electorate:  I don't enjoy Amusement Parks.

I know, that's totally un-American, right?  We want our presidents to have nerves of steel, yet I am asking you to cast your vote for a man who skips the log flume that "looks a little steep."  Not exactly Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders material.  The truth is, I really don't enjoy amusement park RIDES.  Mostly because they are associated with terrifying concepts like "upside down" and "shoulder restraints." I hate the feeling when the bottom drops out and your stomach launches itself into your throat.   You know, the feeling you get on every big ride?  I understand that feeling puts the "thrill" in thrill rides for coaster enthusiasts, but it is not for me.  I get motion sickness on a playground swing.  Driving on hilly roads sometimes sends my tummy twirling.  IF I want to turn green, I'll hit up the greasy chocolate fountain at the end of the Golden Corral buffet.  With two feet planted firmly on the ground.

Even if I was inclined to test the endurance of my digestion system, I'm frightened of the physics of these rides.  I am not fooled by the quaint names coasters are given.  The parks try to lure me in with gentle names like the Himalayan Hike or Firecracker because they know no one would ride something called the Free Falling Neck Whipper or Twisty Murder Machine.  (Actually, I know people who probably would ride the Twisty Murder Machine.)  I don't want to be on the Pirate Ship the day it goes flying off its arm on the downswing.  I don't particularly want to be in the middle of a loopty-loo when the decades-old lap bar disengages.  I'm afraid to be in the Gondola car when it figures out that nothing but magic and a little spit is keeping it balanced on the thin steel cable.  I'd much rather watch these incidents unfold from the safety of the monorail.  On our recent trip to Hersheypark, I did actually ride a few simple rides, including the Kissing Tower.  I suggested to park officials they may want to consider putting "Kissing" in front of all their big ride names because there is a chance you can kiss your ass goodbye every time you board one.  They were not amused. 

Another reason theme parks are not my ideal pastime is the cost.  For me, they are often a waste of money and time.  For the $75 admission, the girls get thrills and memories for a lifetime.  I get the opportunity to purchase an $8 slice of rubbery pizza and sit in the Splash Zone! to watch marine biology dropouts toss fish at an elderly sea lion until he waves his flipper at the crowd.  My money would be better spent paying a homeless man outside the park to share his bus stop bench for the day.  After all, I spend the bulk of my visit (by choice, obviously) sitting around.  Sometimes I make myself useful by watching the kids that pass on a big ride.  I'm also a damn fine purse holder.  But mostly I sit and I wait.  And as Tom Petty said, "the waiting is the hardest part."  Which is perhaps what I find most stupefying about theme parks.  Are the coasters really worth an hour in line?  Isn't it disappointing to wait all that  time for two minutes of action?  (I guess I could ask my poor wife.  BA-DUM-TISH! Hey, if I didn't say it, one of you dear readers would have.  Self-deprecation is the best defense.) 

I know what you are all thinking:  How could I possibly vote for this ninny?  Rest assured, if elected, I will not do anything drastic like shutter all theme parks.  At worst, I'll issue some sort of decree sending my family to the front of the line.  Heck, my body double I might even jump on a few rides.  How's that for presidential?

America v. The Black Quarterback

I LOVE AMERICA!  THERE IS NO PLACE I WOULD RATHER LIVE!  I AM GRATEFUL TO OUR VETERANS!  I STAND, WITH HAND OVER HEART, DURING THE NATIONAL ANTHEM!  ROCKY IV IS MY FAVORITE ROCKY MOVIE, I SWEAR!  Sorry for the shouting, sometimes it is the only way to be heard these days.  I needed to get those five points on the record lest readers assume that my less-than-full-throated endorsement of EVERYTHING about America signals a hatred of my homeland.   Nuance seems less appreciated in an era when sledgehammers and earplugs are our favored tools of debate.  In the case of America v. The Black Quarterback there seems to be two different debates emerging, at least on Twitter and the Meme-fest called Facebook.  One, more closely related to the discourse Colin Kaepernick hoped to stoke about race, has centered on the level of oppression a millionaire can feel.  The second, which has many with their red, white, and blue panties in a bunch, focuses on what it means to be patriotic.  To be honest, Kaepernick lost me when he showed up to his press conference in a Fidel Castro t-shirt and spouted vague generalities.  He may not be the best representative for his concerns.  That doesn't mean the two debates are not worth discussing.

I'm not here to argue about the shooting of unarmed black men by police.  The news, video, and statistics speak for themselves.  There is a problem.  Instead, I want to know why people feel a millionaire quarterback shouldn't stand up (or in this case, sit down) to oppression.  The same people that rip Kaepernick's non-violent protest rail against other forms of Black Lives Matter protesting.  Better he should block traffic or throw bricks at cops?  Or, maybe, he should simply know his place and shut up.  After all, what does he know about oppression?  He's just a guy who gets paid millions of dollars to play a game, right?  Being a millionaire athlete does not make you immune to mistreatment.  Former pro tennis player James Blake was mistakenly arrested and assaulted by the NYPD last year.  His millions and privilege didn't protect him from police overreach.  I, for one, respect Colin Kaepernick for taking his stance.  In the face of backlash, ridicule, and possible loss of endorsements  he is using his platform as a (minor) celebrity to give voice to an issue about which he feels strongly.  A voice that may not be heard otherwise.  Agree or disagree with his premise, he deserves credit for willing to shine a light despite the ensuing reaction.

The more troubling aspect of the Kaepernick Sit-Down is the notion that you're with America or you're against us.  I know, there is that pesky nuance I was talking about earlier.  Yes, the flag and the national anthem are symbols representing the United States, and her citizens, including those that have died fighting to protect her and her citizens.  Yes, I stand during the anthem and honor the flag.  The flag is emblematic of our resilience, generosity, ingenuity, and leadership.  It represents freedom and hope.  It is shorthand for The American Dream.  So, yes, I stand for the anthem and honor the flag.  But my standing is not a blank check.  My standing is not a blind loyalty.  My standing is not an endorsement of everything "American."  Awful things have been done by men and women wearing American flags on their lapels or on their shoulders.  Terrible decisions have been made in buildings over which that banner waves.  I can simultaneously be thankful for our veterans and question the actions of our government. I understand why someone may sit during the anthem or stay silent during the Pledge of Allegiance.  It's not my choice, but I understand.  It doesn't make those objectors "un-American."  It doesn't mean they don't love their country.  It doesn't mean they should leave.  It doesn't make them bad people.  It means they disagree and, last I checked, that was still legal.  If your entire measure of a person is whether he stands during the national anthem, may I suggest that it is you who should rethink your priorities.    

Supplies!

The looming specter has arrived.  It's Decision Time.  Choices we make in the coming days will provoke arguments and turn family members against one another.  Our selections will have lasting ramifications.  Debating and bargaining will make you question everything.  As Summer melts into Autumn, we must face our fears and do that which we know must be done.  Election Season?  Fantasy Football draft?  No, Back to School Shopping. 

Why do I dread back to school shopping?  It is pretty simple, really.  I love my kid.  I kinda love shopping.  I do not love shopping WITH my kid.  Grace and I have varied ideas of shopping.  I'm a cheapskate that enters a store focused, with a list, hoping to leave with some bargains.  Grace, having precious little concept of time or money, enters hoping to leave with, well, everything.  When Grace goes shopping her normal inclination is to show as much restraint as Donald Trump without a Teleprompter.  She wants every granola bar/stuffed animal/sparkly sandals/bottle of Gatorade we walk past.  I reel her in reminding her of the difference between needs and wants, while simultaneously now really wanting one of those damn granola bars I just made her put back on the shelf.  Usually, Amanda - Wife, Mother, Master Negotiator- is present to serve as a buffer.  This year, because I'm an idiot, I donned my red, white, and blue leather jumpsuit and Evil Knievel-ed the shit out of back to school shopping while Amanda was out of town.  Grace and I didn't exactly crash at the bottom of the Snake River Canyon, but it was exhausting nonetheless. 

Maybe it was exhausting because we have hit those dog days of summer when parental patience runs thin. Grace and I have done a ton of fun stuff this Summer, but two months of playing cruise director and head counselor at Camp Dad has left me tired, my creativity tapped. 

"Attention Campers- Today's activities include: whatever you come up with.  You'll find the television remote and a box of Ritz crackers in the center of the living room floor.  See you in September!"

Beleaguered, weary from motivating summer reading, traversing highways, and finding sand everywhere, we parents stumble towards the finish line.  Eager for school to start, yet knowing we have this one more task to complete before Day One. 

For our family, school shopping has two parts: uniforms and supplies.  I guess I should be thankful that Grace wears uniforms.  Otherwise, with her indecision and unlimited options, I would never make it out of the clothing store.   Even with fewer choices, there are still sizes, colors, styles and prices to navigate.  Shorts or skirts?  Long sleeve or short?  Light blue or dark?  Even though we I devised a game plan, Grace would happily pick one of each and duplicates for good measure. 

Game Plan?

Damn right, there is a game plan.  How are you going to know what you need if you haven't done a proper prior assessment?  Before heading out, I made Grace try on every piece of uniform from last year to see what is salvageable from first grade.  If an article of clothing wasn't stained or too small we didn't need to replace it.  (Note to self: Make her buy all navy blue so stains don't show.)  I'm not saying I made a chart of all her uniforms, but if you don't go into that store informed you are going to be overmatched.  I don't have all day to wrestle stacks of khaki pants. 

Part Two is where Grace and I really butted heads.  For weeks, every time we walked through Walmart or Target, Grace would beg me to pick out school supplies.  Those giant bins of notebooks in the aisle called to her with a siren song.  She asked to look at back packs in each store we walked through.  And, of course,  you need cute, dangly things to clip to your back pack.  The buying of the supplies truly does irk me.  I don't mind buying sanitizer or tissues for the classroom, but why does Grace need a brand new box of crayons when we have a basket of 643 broken (but usable) ones at home?  Why a specific set of blue folders?  Blue shirts.  Blue folders.  Is she going to school in a mushroom?  Watching Grace select her supplies makes the task more tedious.  She stands contemplating the wall of supplies as if she were examining a work of art in a museum.  Looking over the details of each white board marker as if her life depended on selecting the correct one.  I've seen her make faster selections at a boardwalk arcade prize counter.  (Where I usually pray we have enough tickets to purchase a recliner in which I can relax while she leisurely spends her remaining tickets.)  Each item becomes a negotiating point.  She requests a six-pack of glue sticks; I counter with two.  She picks up a new pencil case; not when she has three at home.  She asks to buy the $7 markers; I say yes, as long as, this week, she uses the toilet paper that your hand pokes through when you wipe.  I'm kidding.  Sort of.  Back and forth we spar until I want to simply hand her my debit card and go wait in the car.  Finally, we make it to the car armed with all we'll need for second grade having spent more than the game plan, but (a little) less than I would pay for a boat. 

We reach the car in time to take a phone call from Out-of-Town Mommy who, with a hint of sadness in her voice says wistfully, "Oh, school shopping.  I like to do that with her."

Somebody hand me my Evil Knievel helmet, I need to go bang my head against a wall.   

Wasted

You know what really gets me fired up?  When I'm told my vote will be wasted if I cast it for Candidate X or Y.  I am happy to debate, argue, listen intently, and be wooed by your side.  My vote, though, is sacred and it's mine.  Choosing to cast it for a candidate that stands little chance of winning does not mean my vote is wasted.  It means I voted for someone that keeps my conscience clear.  There is no perfect candidate; I understand that.  Yet, voting for the lesser of two evils is no bargain.  Why would I vote "against" Donald Trump to ensure a Clinton victory when I don't like her either?  And vice versa?  So, let's debate all you like, if you'll stow that garbage about me wasting my vote.  I'll do with it what I please.

If you are on the fence, though, wondering which of the "lesser" to vote for, have I got a deal for you!  I'm ready to make this race to the bottom a three-way. (Ewww, sorry, that was a poor choice of phrase.  Like the stuff of nightmares.)   If the lesser of two evils is okay, why not make it the lesser of three?  It's like the old joke about two buddies being chased by a bear.  You don't have to be faster than the bear, only faster than your friend.  I may not be the World's Greatest Candidate, but I can make the case that I'm better than the Big Two. 

Let me make my case.  Let me tempt your taste buds.  What turns people off about Clinton and Trump?

Clinton's Email Scandal: Email leak?  No such worries here.  I barely know how to log on to my computer.  Is CompuServe still a thing? 

Trump's Temperament: That guy pops off more than Fat Albert's belt after Thanksgiving dinner.  I, on the other hand, keep it together seeing the worst of humanity while working retail.  I deal with homeless masturbators, messy magazine browsers,  If It Doesn't Scan It Must Be Free Lady, and Venti Iced Half Caf Soy CocoMoco Three Pumps of Raspberry No Whip Guy without stabbing someone in the eye. (Brief side note:  I have had Republicans tell me that the media is driving the narrative that Trump is a thin-skinned hothead.  No sale.  I have eyes and ears.  I have read his Twitter feed and watched his speeches.  I know a bully when I see and hear one.  I don't need the "news" to color my opinion.)

Hillary's Trustworthiness: You want trust?  Have you seen the photo at the top of the page?  I can even throw on an Abe Lincoln hat if you'd like.

Trump Doesn't Use Big Words:  I once won a fourth grade spelling bee and I own Word of the Day toilet paper.

They Are Both Hawks: I would suspend the drone program on Day One.

Trump Says Awful Things About Women:  I love women and I support Girl Power.  Although, I admit I am not a woman, so Hillary might have me there.

Dubious "Contributions" To The Clinton Foundation:  The only time I have dealt with foreign donors was when I answered that email from that nice prince in Namibia asking for help getting his fortune into the country. 

Trump Is Small-minded:  I have a huge head! See, opposites.

Trump Wants To Build A Wall: Relax, I have never built anything in my life.

Both Clintons Are Phonies: Could I BE anymore sincere? *wink*

Trump's Lost His Ass In Atlantic City: I once walked through his casino without losing a dime.

Clinton's Pant Suits And Trump's Hair(?):  Three words: My Red Pants

You see, America, I may be the best of the worst.  I'd like to think I'm more, what with my previously laid out  Peanut Butter Pocket Initiative and solid platform, but if it's the top of the bottom of the barrel you seek, I can be that guy, too.  As I said above, your vote is your sacred bond to our shared history.  Do with it what you like.  No matter what you choose it is not "wasted."  I would never tell you what to do with it, but I think you know the right thing to do if you want to get this country moving #EverForward. 

#Hailey4America  #Hailey2016  #FollowTheNose 

 

Girl Power

Recently, after watching a bunch of Comic-Con movie trailers, my wife, Amanda, confided she might be turning into a nerd. This news was backed up by her watching the Rogue One behind-the-scenes-look/trailer dozens of times the previous week.  Amanda has always tolerated my love of Star Wars, and to a lesser extent comic movies, watching the movies with casual attention.  I couldn't put my finger on why she suddenly had a lot more interest.  Trust me, the Justice League trailer didn't look that good.  Then it dawned on me: look what a few strong female lead characters can do.  Wonder Woman, Rey in The Force Awakens, and Jyn Erso all did, or look like they will, kick butt on the big screen.  These are characters my wife and seven-year-old daughter, Grace, can identify with as they blast across the galaxy.  I admit, this wasn't even something I thought about until we watched The Force Awakens.  A hero is a hero, no matter their gender, right?  It was only after watching Grace watch Rey that I realized a little something was missing.  Sure, she had loved Princess Leia in the Original Trilogy, but this was different.  This was the main female character, driving the story, engaging in tons of action, all while dressed in burlap rags.  (That last part is not insignificant, by the way.  Look at how other female supers heroines, such as Lara Croft and Black Widow, or even Leia in the gold bikini, are portrayed on the big screen.  Yes, they too demonstrate strength and courage, but if you don't think they are costumed and filmed in ways to enhance their "assets", then you are not paying attention.)  Rey was a strong female character that Grace could grow up with.  Not that Grace "needs" to have female movie characters as role models; she has some fantastic ones in real life.  I have tons of bad ass women in my life-Amanda, my mom, my boss, to name just a few- that Grace can aspire to be like.  Not to mention incredible historical figures, such as Amelia Earhart, that we have introduced.  But we all know as kids we pretended to be what we saw on television or the movie screen.  On the playground, I portrayed all my heroes, real and fictional.  From Han Solo to Eddie Murray to Indiana Jones, my imagination spun wild creating scenarios.  It's how our minds blossom.  So, yes, Grace, has real heroines to emulate, but I am happy that she also has some awesome fictional ones that capture her imagination.

Alas, as with any sea change, come the haters.  I remember reading internet comments after The Force Awakens debuted lamenting that, suuuuure, Disney just had to shoehorn a female lead in the movie to drive sales by bringing more girls to the theater.  Seriously?  These kinds of statements were laughable on two fronts.  One, of course, Disney tried to increase ticket sales by including a strong female lead.  Yes, Star Wars has always had many female fans, however, if you could grow that number, why wouldn't you?  Disney is in the business of making money, after all.  Two, and more glaringly obvious, is the crazy notion that a female be the focus of an action movie.  God forbid we tarnish our favorite space opera with a girl!  Thanks Disney, now we might all get cooties.  And just because you wanted to get more girls to come to the theater.  Because it couldn't possibly be because you had an interesting story to tell about a woman.  Especially one that is not simply a scantily-clad sidekick or damsel in distress. 

Again, I will admit, I was a little dense in thinking about this issue.  Even after The Force Awakens, I didn't really appreciate the level of outrage directed at women characters corrupting the domain of men.  Until a little remake called Ghostbusters sent the internet supernova.  A handful of the thousands of comments you could sort through if you'd like: 

"Lazy Hollywood film making "let's make a ghostbusters remake but with women!" Only soccer moms and feminist bimbos will watch that trash."

"Mark my words, the Ghostbusters reboot will be both pandering to feminazi's and completely unfunny to anyone not already a Michael Bay fan."

"F&*k you and your C#%tbusters."

"Wasn't it sexist to cast women for roles that had traditionally been held by men? We already know who the Ghostbusters are, and they are 4 men. Taking male roles and casting women in them is like casing Nicolas Cage to play Malcolm X."

Now look, count me in to the group that didn't really think a new Ghostbusters needed to be made.    Generally, long-awaited sequels and reboots, especially of a beloved movie such as Ghostbusters, are awful (I'm looking at you Blues Brothers 2000), or, at the very least, lend little to the original.  There are dozens of examples.  Mining old characters, providing suspect fan service, besmirching cultural touchstones, often in a cash grab, are usually reasons enough to skip the reboots.  I would have fine with never seeing a new Ghostbusters.  An annual (if not more often) viewing of the original sufficed.  For me, questioning a sequel has zero to do with the female cast.  The comments like the ones above are vile.  Why is it so awful to have females?  That's right, it isn't.  I may not have thought a remake was necessary, but I was fine with Lady Ghostbusters.  Once the project was official I knew I would watch it.  It's Ghostbusters, after all.  If nothing else, I would watch it so I could come here and tell you how awful it was. 

But it's NOT awful.  It's not super, either.  After watching it, from an entertainment standpoint, I could take it or leave it. Some of the jokes are hilarious, some fall flat.  I would not feel like I was missing out had it not been made.  But from a Dad view, I am damn glad I took Grace to see it.  She is a fan of the original film and enjoyed the reboot.  Enjoyed it enough that she wants to be a Ghostbuster for Halloween. Enough that she wants to have a Ghostbusters themed birthday party. (Both of which excite me and sent me scrambling for ideas.)  She never wanted these things after watching the original.  Yes, my seven-year-old identified with the all-female cast.  She rushed to show Grandma the cool way Kate McKinnon's Holtzman blasted the ghosts with her re-invented proton pack.  She wants the action figures.  She asked me if I could, for her costume, spray paint her hair black so she could be Patty (Leslie Jones) for Halloween.  (Incidentally, I don't even think it crossed Grace's mind that Leslie Jones is black and that she is not.  Kind of a proud papa moment, there.)  She is a fan.  And that's all I care about.  Whether it's Patty, Holtzman, or Rey (or even Chewbacca or Darth Vader, for all I care), I'm glad Amanda and Grace have characters to spark their imagination and enjoy.  Gosh, it's almost like a woman can do anything, even be President of the United States.*

*Just not this current nominee, please.

B Smart, America.

This week's Republican National Convention has reminded me that watching political conventions on television is a bit like having dinner at McDonald's.  You know you shouldn't, but everything looks just appealing enough to dive in.  Then, an hour later, after a few crummy speeches, the horsemeat IED detonates in your lower intestine forcing you to spend the rest of the evening nursing your tummy ache of regret.  At the Clown Show in Cleveland this week, we have heard much more about stopping Hillary Clinton than we have about why we should elect Donald Trump.  Some speakers barely uttered his name.  When the Dems get Silly in Philly next week it will be more about how to dump Trump than the electability of Hillary Clinton.   This is what we are left with?  Two parties distracting us from their flawed candidates by demonizing the other?

America, I believe the phrase you are looking for is "Viable Alternative."  Sick of voting for the lesser of two evils, we seek another option.  But who?  Bernie's been beaten.   The roster of Republicans was Shock and Awful.   Gary Johnson is kinda boring.  Jed Bartlett is a fictional character.  (I know, it makes me sad, too.)  I don't want to say I told you so, but I think it's time you get cozy with the truth.  There is but one man for the job.   He is thinner (barely) than Taft!  He is more paranoid than Nixon!  He can leap nothing in a single bound!  It's a bird, it's a plane, it's ME!  Search for your feelings, Luke America, you know it to be true.  I'm your guy.  I tried to tell you to force a brokered convention in Cleveland.  Now we have to do it the hard way. 

If I criticize the current candidates for bashing others more than promoting themselves, then I guess I should lay out my platform.  With a limited campaign budget, there will be no grandiose, bloated, arena-filling, televised convention.  We'll probably just push together a few tables in the side room of the local Denny's.  Until then you can read my platform planks. (Not including the plank the two-party system is currently forcing America to walk.  Dad jokes!)   I have previously told you here, here, and here a few reasons why I am this nation's next best chance.  But I am not simply about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and foxy red pants.  Here are a few more reasons:

*Love who you love.  Marry who you want to marry.  If you don't want to issue a marriage license to a couple of dudes, then you don't get to work for that part of the government.  See you stocking my grocer's freezer, Kim Davis.

*Three words: Surgeon General Pikachu.  That dude (dudette?) has done more for child fitness than anyone in the last forty years.

*Feel free to own a bazooka, but you can only buy it after passing a stricter (or any) background check.  There's no reason you can't wait a couple weeks for ownership of your arsenal. 

*There will be an official National Sandwich.  I'm currently thinking cheesesteak, but am accepting suggestions.

*Smoke all the weed you'd like.  In your own home.  And don't drive under the influence.  Pot is not for me, but if you want to sit in your underwear all day burning tree and gobbling Doritos, what do I care?

*Goodbye church tax breaks.

*Goodbye Pittsburgh Penguins.

*We're gonna shelve this drone program.  We can not continue to indiscriminately drop bombs on innocent people.  I read an interesting article questioning whether Turkey would be justified in sending a drone over Pennsylvania to kill the cleric they say fomented the recent coup attempt.  Think about it, that is not much different than what we do.

*Dr Teeth and The Electric Mayhem will be my house band for all press conferences and televised addresses from the Oval Office.

(There's more, but the future First Lady and I need to put the kid to bed.  Tweet me more potential platform planks @Hailey4America.  Use #EverForward)

In conclusion, we have each candidate telling us why the other is bad instead of selling themselves.  Why?  Because they both stink.  So, rather than holding YOUR nose in the voting booth this November, follow THE Nose.  Write in The Big B.  Write in me, Bryan Hailey.  How could you possibly regret it?

#Hailey4America #EverForward #FollowTheNose

Not Yet a Yogi, But Plenty of Boo Boos

For the last two years, meditation has been one of my tools to combat my anxiety disorder.  It helps me relax, get out of my head when I need to, and prepares my body to better respond when anxiety hits.  Recently, I decided yoga was the next logical progression in getting healthier in mind, body, and spirit.  I have toyed with the idea for years, encouraged by many friends to give it a go.  Figuring it was time to shed the extra of My Two Dad(bod)s, I finally got off my ample duff and dove into some beginner videos. 

So far, the yoga is fun, productive, and completely kicking my ass.  I had no illusions that it would be easy.  After all I'm about as flexible as a brick.   After my first session, I laid on the floor feeling that rewarding, "good" tired feeling which comes with expending effort.  The same tired I would feel after an afternoon of pick-up basketball.  The next morning, however, I felt like I had been in a street brawl. I'm using muscles that likely haven't been activated since I last played ice hockey a decade ago.  Little muscles that the next day say, "Hey, f%&ker, remember me?"  Little muscles that I should have been nicer to all these years.  Little muscles that were so neglected they nearly put me in traction last year simply for loading the dishwasher.  My elbow hurt for days.  My lower back laughed at me.  My surgically repaired knee barked its displeasure.  But by sticking with it, I am slowly whipping them all into line.  Of course, making progress is not the same as getting easier.  I still don't look great in my skin tight yoga pants.  (Let that image settle in.  You're welcome.  Do I really wear yoga tights?  Wouldn't you like to know.)  When the teacher instructs me to tuck my chin, I still have ask which one.  Many of the poses still present great challenges.  Humorous challenges.  I-could-probably-sell-tickets challenges.  Grace watches me practice with much amusement.  I laugh at myself trying some of this stuff.  It's like playing a demented game of Hokey Pokey.  Put your whole self in, put your whole self out, put your whole self in, trying not to quake or pout...

My favorite moment, so far, occurred while I was home alone, fortunately.  I was attempting a tree pose for the first time.  A tree pose includes balancing on one leg while tucking the bottom of the opposite foot against the thigh of the first leg, then stretching your arms skyward.  My first attempt went swell.  Much better than I anticipated.  Then I switched legs.  I lost my balance as I reached for the sky, but didn't want to bail on the pose, thinking that I could pull it together.  Instead I ended up hopping across the living room on one foot, like some sort of ill flamingo, nearly crashing into the couch and end table.  That, kids, is why you start practicing in the privacy of your own home.  I can only imagine the squeals of laughter had my girls been home.

As my practice deepens, my fitness improves, and my mind calms, I hope to shake loose a little enlightenment.  I could use it. I question everything right now.  I talk to my friends who have similar questions.  Are we good role models for our kids?  Are we saving enough money?  What the hell is happening in the world?  Do I have a job or a career?  Does that even matter?  When did Guns n' Roses become Classic Rock?  Call it our Gen-Xistential Crisis. 

For decades (holy shit!), I have wondered what I want to be when I grow up.  I always thought it would one day pop into my head.  I ponder. I ruminate on it.  I pray about it.  I talk to people.  I know dazzling entrepreneurs and people who knew what they wanted to be early on and went after it.  And I know a host of us stuck in neutral, convinced we were put here to do something different/better/more productive, but unable to pinpoint it.  Now, we wonder if we are trapped between the safety of our day jobs and the risk of taking the leap if we ever figure out where to jump.  We wonder if we are wasting our time and talents working for faceless corporations, municipalities, even families that give a hoot about little more than the bottom line.  As resources are stretched thin, we are asked to trust the system, to do more with less.  Lack of support and common sense from CEOs and superintendents tilts the scales towards ejecting and finding something new.  I'm convinced, were we to band together, we could save the world, or, at the very least,  put together a kick-ass fantasy football league.  Hopefully, when an idea strikes, I will be ready for action.  Until then I head back to the mat to breathe deep, seek inspiration, and play the weirdest game of solo Twister I've ever played.

Endurance Race

There's somethin' wrong with the world today
I don't know what it is
Something's wrong with our eyes

We're seein' things in a different way
And God knows it ain't his
It sure ain't no surprise

Livin' on the edge
Livin' on the edge
Livin' on the edge
Livin' on the edge

There's somethin' wrong with the world today
The light bulb's gettin dim
There's meltdown in the sky

If you can judge a wise man
By the color of his skin
Then mister you're a better man than I

Livin' on the edge
You can't help yourself from fallin'

So, maybe the great philosophers of Aerosmith are not the most esteemed guides we can seek, but these lyrics kept popping in my head this morning.  This song, Livin' on the Edge, was inspired by the  Rodney King riots of 1992.  According to Songfacts.com, the "song talks about how the world is a crazy place, but people remain stuck in their routines and refuse to change."  I graduated high school in 1992.  This time, this era, all the nutty things that have happened in the nearly twenty-five (holy crap!) years since, are my framework for viewing the world.  I read history, I explore the past, but we can only truly understand what we witness, what we live through, what we experience.  And what I see is in the last quarter-century not much has changed in Big Picture America.

O.J., 9/11, perpetual war, mass shootings, the Pulse massacre, the politics of personal destruction, police shootings, the New York Yankees, pseudoscience, internet bullies, decades of voting for the perceived lesser of two evils.  This list is as tragic as it is incomplete.  Today, the news gets worse every time we log on.  New horrific events occur too quickly to comment on the most recent horrific event.  Respect for others has dwindled.  Violence drowns out the voices of reason.  Too often, we see each other as a meme or a statistic.  A data point in an argument we hope to win.  I know young couples who wonder whether bringing a child into the current climate is a wise decision.  We are weary with worry.  We are discouraged  when a new gut punch seems to lurk around every corner. 

So, what do we do?  We could pack it in.  We could shutter our windows, crawl under the covers, and hope for the best.  Or we can absorb each punch, take a knee, catch our collective breath, then stand up to be counted.  For we endure.  And when we endure, America endures.  From dumping tea in Boston Harbor to saving the world in World War II to landing on the Moon, we endure.  Through Rebellion, slavery, Depression, segregation, assassinations, and war, we endure.  America endures.  It has not been easy, and never will be.  We are not yet close to where we want to be.  Our endurance requires constant vigilance.  A vigilance that requires listening to our neighbor, showing compassion, and sometimes quieting our ego.  A vigilance that requires learning how others live, not thinking we know their experience.  Seeking knowledge, wondering, asking questions.  Truly arguing and debating, not shouting the loudest.  I would tell the young couple to raise a family because, though the shadows loom large, there is hope and light.  Enough of us care.  Enough of us were raised right.  Enough of us are compassionate. Enough of us know violence is not the way.  Enough of us are ready to answer this fundamental question- Why do the things that should bring us together too often drive us further apart?

In the song printed above, Steven Tyler laments, "You can't help yourself from fallin'."  Sure we can.  We don't need an orange, poofy-wigged celebri-tycoon-itican telling us to make America great again.  America is great right now.  I see it in my little sphere every day.  I see it in the volunteers growing community gardens, literally providing nourishment to their neighbors.  I see it in those delivering blankets to the homeless on cold winter days.  I see it in social workers who dutifully open the next case file.  And teachers who far exceed their mandate, giving their own time, money, and love.  And someone who stands up to a cyberbullies.  We should celebrate the creators and innovators in our hometowns, in our little piece of the world.  Together, we  can positively influence our own corners of the country. It sounds desperately hopeful and naïve, maybe I'm just a boob behind a keyboard spouting empty rhetoric, but I know by working to change all the little pictures, we can actually change the Big Picture.  I know this because as We endure, so too does America.

The Shit Happens Doctrine

Nearly two weeks after the Pulse nightclub massacre, I still don't know what to write.  I am unsure of exactly what I want to say or how to say it.  This attack stirs so many emotions within.  Probably because it hits three of the big ol' hot topics we like to argue about: Gays, Guns, and God.  As we mourn the forty-nine victims, most of us are seeking places to channel our outrage.  An act so heinous, so awful, sends us searching for understanding.  We want to know why, we want to know how, and we want to know how we stop it from happening again.  We lash out in frustration, looking for someone to hold responsible, looking for an easy solution.  We blame the NRA, homophobes, politicians, preachers, and Muslims.  Everyone has an angle.  Everyone wants his or her brand of justice.  We "like" memes, post links, and yell at the idiots on television.   Of course, there is no simple answer.  Not one we want to hear anyway.

Of the three big "G" issues involved, Gays is by far the easiest for me to reconcile.  I've written about my feelings on homosexuality before.  Love who you love. The real tragedy is that many homosexuals live in great fear every day, not just on mornings after events like Pulse.  Sadly, fearing ridicule and judgement seems on the low end of a spectrum that runs all the way to being afraid of being murdered because you were born differently.  Some want to celebrate America as this beautiful melting pot, but only if they can control the ingredients.

That brings me to Guns.  The big "G" with which I struggle the most.  I don't struggle with my personal feelings about guns; I abhor them.  I think most of our gun violence directly correlates to a fetishist attitude that guns are awesome and necessary.  An attitude that leads to casual behavior and an ambivalence towards the real repercussions guns carry.  Whether a country fella carries because it makes him tough or an inner city gang banger carries so he looks hard, the gun culture is a foolish exercise that is swallowing us up.  To the responsible gun owners who shoot only for hunting and sport, that keep your guns secured when not in use, that don't carry on your hip like some sort of Barney badass, I applaud and thank you.  Unfortunately, we don't hear enough about you.  Frankly, the dipshits who can't be trusted with their guns are becoming far too prominent.  Toddlers pulling unsecured pistols from purses, idiots brandishing weapons in church to de-escalate a dispute (good thinking!), Chicago men killing each other at a staggering rate - it's enough to make you go crazy.  I know, I know, I know-guns don't kill people, people kill people.  Really, though, it's people with guns that kill people.  Introducing a gun into a dispute can send it from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye.  Guns have one function: destroy the target.  That is why I hate them.  Too often the ramifications are only thought of after the trigger has been pulled.  My store stocks thirty-nine gun magazines on the newsstand.  Granted, that's fewer than the knitting/crocheting section, but Granny is unlikely to wield a half-finished scarf as a murder weapon.  The magazines glorify violence and stoke fear.  They make guns seem like the best solution.  When we celebrate guns, they become mainstream.  When guns become mainstream, we become less vigilant with their use.  When guns are normalized, when the destructive power is made casual, guns seem like the best solution.  So, yeah, I'm not a fan personally.

You know what, though?  I don't make the rules.  That is where I struggle with Guns with a capital "G".  My personal wish that guns would not be fetishized, celebrated and carried in grocery stores at some point intersects with my belief in the Second Amendment.  I don't pretend to have all the answers.  I'm not advocating taking guns away from most gun owners.  Just because I don't think you need an armory in your home, doesn't mean you shouldn't be allowed to have one.  However, something has to give.  If I have to jump through bureaucratic hoops to legally drive (operate a potentially dangerous death machine), you can jump through some bureaucratic hoops to purchase a gun (a potentially dangerous death machine).  Let's close the gun show loopholes.  Let's have mandatory background checks and waiting (cooling off) periods.  Let's require safety courses.  Let's strike a balance between restricting criminals/the mentally ill from purchasing guns and upholding the second Amendment rights of law-abiding citizens.  The tired argument that usually follows is that criminals will always find a way to get guns.  True.  Maybe, though, we can limit the criminals that do.  Maybe we can save a life by restricting someone with a history of domestic abuse from purchasing a gun.  Maybe we can use common sense to help.  Maybe, instead of clinging to divisive soundbites and old rhetoric, we can find the middle ground. 

I used my third "G", God, mostly because I like alliteration.  In relation to the Pulse massacre, I mostly mean the holy war between ISIS and the West.  While I am much more likely to die by handgun violence, I am more frightened of ISIS.  Domestic attacks done in their name really are terror inducing.  Terror has come to our shores in a fashion we are not accustomed to.  Our enemy is incredibly difficult to fight because he is incredibly difficult to find.  We have gone from fighting an army "over there" to fighting terrorists trained "over there" to the guy from "here", the guy walking next to you at Disney World, wanting you dead.   No longer is ISIS recruiting American jihadists to come train at their camps before going forth to destroy.  Now, with only an internet connection and a Twitter feed, they recruit American citizens to attack other American citizens.  ISIS seemingly says, "Go kill a bunch of your neighbors.  We don't really care how you do it, whatever works best for you,  just make sure you tag us in the Instagram so we can take credit!"  How in the heck are we supposed to combat that?

I don't have a good answer on what we should do, but I know a few things we shouldn't be doing.  We shouldn't be dropping indiscriminate bombs.  Unless we are willing to turn the desert into a sheet of glass, we are not going stop the ISIS that way.  We shouldn't use attacks like Pulse as cover to close our borders and be bigots towards all Muslims.  We shouldn't consent to unfounded, generalized wire taps, email searches, and other government overreach.  We shouldn't continue to play the World's policeman, alienating in the process.  We have neither the stomach, nor budget for perpetual war.  We can not continue to incite the very hate that fuels our enemies.  

We may be the lone superpower, but in the Middle East, the United States, just a kid at 200 plus years old, is meddling in affairs that have existed far longer.  It has taken me a long time to come to the realization that maybe the world is just the way it is.  Maybe only time can heal.  Maybe slow tectonic shifts beyond our control are the only forces of change.  Whether across the globe, or in our own backyard, we can not fix everything.  Maybe some things are not to be fixed.  Maybe to live in a free(ish) and open society we must realize that sometimes awful things will happen.  Call it the Shit Happens Doctrine.  I know it sounds callous on the surface.  I know it is of little consolation to the victims of the Pulse attack, or San Bernadino, or Oklahoma City.  It would be of no consolation to me were my family involved.  I don't like it one bit.  I simply fear that no amount of restriction, no amount of legislation, no amount of aggression will ever make us "safe" enough. 

There are, however, things we can do outside of government intervention on any of these three Gs.  We can show empathy.  Maybe we make an effort to know our neighbors whether they be white, black, gay, or Muslim.  We can further educate about the dangers of guns.  I will continue to rail against the fetishists, or, as my friend calls them, "ammosexuals", asking them to stop celebrating the gun culture that takes us on a road to nowhere.   We can demand our preachers and imams promote peace instead of division.  We can set aside the politics of fear.  We can maybe, just maybe, invest a little faith in each other.  Perhaps, together, we can highlight the humanity in Humanity.

  

Droning on and on...

I spent part of my Memorial Day taking my daughter, Grace, to War Memorial services honoring local servicemen killed in the line of duty.   Even though most of the ceremony was probably lost on the seven-year-old, I felt it was important to attempt teaching her respect for the sacrifices of men and women who serve.  As I watched our veterans, so many left crooked and bent by time and battle, I thought a great deal about the human toll of war.  Several other recent events- President Obama's trip to Hiroshima, the D-Day anniversary, even the passing of Muhammad Ali- leave me trying to somehow tabulate that cost.  Our war dead pay the steepest possible price; every veteran who once donned a uniform deserves our gratitude.  That is not debatable.  I wonder, however, if we think enough of the ravaging we do on foreign soil.  Specifically, I wonder if we pay enough attention to the Bushbama Drone Strike program.

I say Bushbama because the program initiated by President George W. Bush (approximately 50 strikes) has been seemingly "perfected" by President Barack Obama (approximately 500 strikes and counting).  For the record, I voted for each of these men once.  This isn't a Republican/Democrat beef; my only agenda is regard for civilian lives.  This won't even be an argument about nation building, regime change, meddling, or generally sticking Uncle Sam's nose where it may not belong.  No, this is simply a question of methodology.

When discussing things of global import such as these, I have sometimes been treated like I just don't get it, like I can't understand the magnitude.  If we are talking about women, what currently constitutes a reception in the NFL, or the enduring popularity of Kanye West then I would agree with you, I don't understand.  But I think I grasp this concept okay.  Using unmanned aircraft in place of pilots and ground troops to kill terrorists? Good.  Killing hundreds of civilians in the process?  Bad.   When I hear presidential candidates suggest "carpet bombing" or torturing and killing terrorists' families I pray those statements are more neglectful rhetoric than proposed doctrine.  I ask them, and the defenders of the Bushbama program, what is an acceptable number of civilian casualties?  What is acceptable collateral damage?  Remember, one man's collateral damage is another man's sweet child.  In this nation, so many fight to end abortion, to abolish the death penalty, to preserve life.  Shouldn't we voice equal outrage at the taking of innocent lives abroad? 

When signing the guestbook at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial President Obama wrote, "We have known the agony of war.  Let us now find the courage, together, to spread peace, and pursue a world without nuclear weapons."  I know our drones don't carry nuclear payloads, but President Obama's administration, his military, and his CIA continue to kill innocents alongside terrorists.  Perhaps, in his words, he could "find the courage" to reign in the drone program as currently constructed, because I assure you the collateral civilians below know full well the agony of war.  I suspect the whine of a neighborhood-destroying drone overhead is a perfect recruitment poster for ISIS, fomenting hatred and creating more of the very villains we seek (rightfully so) to destroy.

It is said that sometimes the ends justify the means.  But if the means are immoral, just what ends are we protecting?  What are we fighting to preserve?  America, lone superpower, global titan, should reach out with its giant hand outstretched, not with clenched fist raining indiscriminate fire from the sky. 

Vampire Weekend

It is usually not a good thing when your wife, very early in the morning, calls up to you from the kitchen asking you to, "Please come down here now."  Her tone suggested not alarm, but at least a sense of urgency.  I immediately scrolled through my memory bank for scenes from the night before.  Had I left the lid off the peanut butter?  Forgotten to flush in the guest bathroom?  Uh-oh, maybe it was the cat.

 Let me back up a step here.  Three days prior, on Memorial Day, our eighteen-year-old cat had some health issues.  Like maybe end-of-life health issues.  Vomiting, labored breathing, and lethargy led to a trip to the animal  hospital.*   There she was subjected to diagnostics and treatments more befitting Colonel Steve Austin.  Luckily, the bill came in at (barely) less than six million dollars  and Mama Cat returned home, perhaps not better/faster/stronger, but, to Amanda's and our daughter Grace's great relief, healthier than Monday morning.  Forgive me for thinking of our two cats in terms of $$$$$; I'm just a little jaded by years of eye surgeries, specially formulated senior cat food, and a visit to a kitty orthodontist. (Yes, that's a thing.  No, we did not go all in to get the kitty dentures.)   Our cats feel more like mail order brides - we pay a lot for companionship.  So when I heard Amanda calling from the first floor, I wondered if Mama had suffered an expensive setback.

Fortunately, Mama was okay.  Instead, upon entering the kitchen, I found three animals.  Our two cats and the dead bat they had apparently killed overnight.  Yes, a bat.  Winged demon of the night.  Purveyor of nightmares.  Flying rodent.   In other words, not a guest I want in our breakfast nook.  I guess the vets really were miracle workers.  Two days earlier, this cat could barely breathe on her own, now she is Mama Cat: Vampire Hunter.  I promptly scooped up the rug on which the bat was laid out placing it gently (alright, with a slight thud) in the outside garbage.  I am not squeamish, but I am, as I may have written about a time or two, a giant germophobe.  I panicked a little, wondering exactly what the dark beast hand landed on while in the house.  Did it play around in the fruit bowl?  With no air traffic controller awake to tell him, "Negative Ghostrider, the pattern is full", did he buzz the toaster and drop guano bombs in the bread slots?  With my mind racing, I ignored more important questions.  Amanda brought me back from the brink momentarily, then pushed me right over.  "I'm curious how he got in here," she wondered aloud, "and we need to think about rabies."  RABIES?!?!  Suddenly, I heard nothing but the insistent belch of a submarine dive horn.  Yes, indeed, we should think about rabies.  I don't want rabies.  I don't want our cats to be rabid.  Methinks that would make them more annoying than usual.  Of course, that would be about my luck to have the cat gingerly and expensively nursed back to health only to be felled by rabies days later. 

What's that you say? Shouldn't the cats be fine because they are up to date on their rabies vaccinations?  Not so fast, my friend.  Our cats our indoor cats only.  Assuming there was minimal risk, we gambled figured there was no rush to get their most recent shots.  The vaccinations have lapsed by a bit.  Only a problem when the outdoors comes inside like it did this week.  Genius.
 
To ward off the hypochondria, I set about figuring out what steps we needed to take to make sure our family is safe.  The health department told me we are not in an emergency situation; we can afford to get test results back on the bat before proceeding.  I fished the deceased bat out of the garbage so he could be shipped off to Baltimore for testing.  Then I made the terrible mistake of jumping on the Googles.  I read stories of humans contracting rabies because it is possible that you can be bitten without feeling it.  Seems suspect to me, yet if it's on the internet it must be true.  True enough, anyway, to plant the seeds of hypochondriac hysteria in my brain.   I managed to steer clear of reading about symptoms of rabies in humans, otherwise I would feel all of them within minutes.   The health department informed me we would have test results by today or possibly not until Monday.  If the bat is rabid, we learn the protocol of what happens next.  Thus begins our weekend of waiting.  If you need me, I'll be over here expecting my salivary glands to kick into overdrive, or my face to melt off, or whatever other horrible things I imagine happen as you grow rabid.  In the meantime, please pass the Count Chocula.  

*Holiday rates may apply.

The Enemy Among Us

Friends, we are in danger.  Dark forces assemble at the gates.  The enemy looms above, threatening to overshadow all that is good.  An enemy so sinister it can destroy what is most important to you.  This is a call to arms, a call to prepare yourself.  What foe lurks nearby?  An unchecked Obama making it unsafe to pee in public?  Hardly.  A Trump presidency? Nope.  I told you how to thwart that months ago.  No, it is a simpler menace, more insidious because it hides in plain sight.  A peril both universal and personal: Beware the "tyranny of the everyday grind."  I wish I had coined the phrase; I only heard it on the radio.  It was sort of a throwaway line from the host as he told a story, but it resonated with me.  This is a phrase I love and hate at the same time.  I love it for its sharp descriptiveness and hate it because I have felt the weight of its oppression. 

The "Everyday Grind", sadly, is not the name of my daily televised hip-hop dance program.  (Tell me  you wouldn't watch that!)  No, the Everyday Grind is the trap of the routines and patterns of living we fall into.  The Grind has many faces; it is different for everyone.  Maybe it is banging your head against the wall at a job you hate.  Maybe it is playing chauffeur for overscheduled children.  Maybe taking a spouse for granted.  It is not always something inherently negative that grinds us up.  Perhaps it is a career we enjoy, but to which we dedicate too much time.  Perhaps spending every waking moment with a new love until we feel smothered.  Perhaps the unfulfilled boredom of retirement.  If we are not careful, if we don't pay close enough attention, the monotony slowly builds, piling up until it topples us over and pins us down.  Being mired in the mundane, swept up by repetition, can leave us in poor health physically, mentally, and emotionally.  If you don't think the emotional part is a thing, then this post is for you.  To combat the Grind, to break out of the SAME THING day after day, you must find an outlet.  Go running.  Get shitfaced with old friends.  Crank the knob on your amp and blow away the neighbors with a jam session.  Find some way to turn the page, if only for a few hours.  Find an escape; your health depends on it.

For me, the escape is the beach.  Warmed by the sun and rocked to sleep by the lullaby of breaking waves, my troubles are carried away on a balmy ocean breeze.  What is it about the sea that calls to us?  Is it the unbroken horizon, abundant with possibility, stoking our adventurous spirit?  Is it the healing waters ready to wash us clean?  Is it the delicate balance of powerful beauty and complex mystery, at once life-giving and capable of destruction?  When we head to the coast  we are able to, literally and figuratively, shed our real world constraints.  I race to the ocean seeking renewal.  I never fail to be soothed by the steady, constant rhythm of surf meeting shoreline.

I beg you to find a way to avoid the stale muck of the mundane.  Remember life is to be lived, not endured, not tolerated, not muddled through.  Find your outlet, find a getaway.  And if you can't think of anything, come join me "down the ocean" for some sand, surf and sun.

PG-Parental Guidance Suggested

Internet, I am going to let you in on a secret.  Most of us working in retail management did not aspire to these great heights, it just sort of happens.  But now that I have reached this career pinnacle, my Olympus, if you will, I figure I have earned the right to lob a few Zeus-ian (or is it Gene Simmons-ian) thunderbolts of advice.

You see, retail managers burn out from equal parts customer shenanigans, corporate bunk rolling downhill, and having to babysit smarmy, lazy, know-it-all twentysomething shithams.  It is the last of these I would like to address directly:

           Hi guys.  I don't know what kind of leadership you have been given previously, and, truthfully, I can't promise what type you'll always receive here, but I have a few tips for you.  Dress up for an interview.  Shorts are not appropriate.  Look people in the eye.  Unless you set it up for Minute Maid, you may want to leave your lemonade stand off your resume.  Act like you care, even when you don't.  It takes more than showing up to earn a paycheck.  Speaking of showing up, you may want to do that (on time) every time you are scheduled.  You may (Gasp!) have to sacrifice something fun because you are scheduled to work.  Guess what?  I do it all the time.  Listen, remember, write it down; I am not teaching you how to do something for my health.  I actually expect you to retain and use this information.  Don't bullshit me; I have been lied to by better than you.  Don't tell another manager one thing and tell me the opposite.  Why yes, we are open every day except Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Yes, we do need to staff the store on Christmas Eve.  I also want to see my family, but we CHOSE to work in retail.  Praise is necessary, but don't expect me to hand you a cookie or do a touchdown dance every single time you complete a task that is a minimum expectation of your position.  If you don't know or remember how to do something, ask.  You may think you are saving face, but I assure you that you look twice as stupid trying to fake your way through something and doubling down by lying to me about it.  Don't be so stupid as to doodle, sit down,  ignore customers, text on your phone or steal(!) on camera.  Don't act offended when I correct your behavior.   And, PLEASE, for love of everything holy, please don't tell me how to do my job on your first day. 

I know this post will be dismissed by some as a "Get off my lawn/When I was your age/Kids these days" rant.  To me, it is more a call to action.  Kids unprepared and/or unwilling to work hard are not Bernie Sanders' fault.  They are not this way because "everybody gets a trophy."  That's too easy a narrative to slip into, too broad a brush with which to paint. I will not lay this at the feet of Millennials and Generation Z.  I know plenty of young people that are killing it. Frankly, killing it with passion, direction, and effort that I did not possess at age twenty-three.  I work with some young people who attack even the most mundane of tasks with enthusiasm, hard work, and a smile.  They do what is asked of them and more.  Sadly, in my experience, there is not enough of them.  

No, this is not bashing all young adults; it is a call to action for parents. The problems I described are not endemic to an entire generation; they are born in the home.  Mom and Dad must lay the foundations of responsibility, work ethic, and sense of right and wrong.  Our observant children learn from us their social cues and behavior modification.  Parental Guidance isn't just a label on a movie poster.  Only through our lead, will our children be receptive to criticism and lessons from teachers and coaches.  Parents, I beg you, let your children be disciplined in school, let them be coached on the field, reprimand them at home.  You are doing them a disservice if you don't. 

I hear, almost daily, complaints from parents about the roadblocks thrown in front of their kids by the "system."  Parroting critiques of Common Core and whining about summer reading assignments.  You would think the parents themselves were being asked to turn off Netflix and pick up Hemingway.  I witness incredulous mom after angry dad try to find the shortest books for their child.  God forbid we expect our child to work their way through 300 pages of  Austen or Faulkner.  Hell, we should be encouraging it.  What rankles me more, though, is that I am even speaking to the parent.  Why isn't the sixteen-year-old asking me for help instead of standing nearby rolling his eyes or scrolling through her phone with the bored countenance of a Kardashian?  Little pleases me more at work than when a young child, empowered and encouraged by their parent, asks for help locating a book.  I have to restrain myself from high-fiving that parent.  Such small steps can make a huge difference in preparing a child.  It is not that far a leap from confidently asking me for help as a kid to being able to look me in the eye during a job interview as a college student. 

Mom and Dad, you want your child to be good citizen?  Act like it.       

Dad Plaid

This may come as a shock to you, but I have never been considered stylish.  Mostly because I don't care to be considered stylish, especially by today's standards.  Man buns, skinny jeans, and fedoras?  No thanks, I'll pass.  More power to you if you can pull it off; I'll be over here dressing a little more pedestrian.  It is fair to say my style evolution has not progressed past Cro-magnon.  In elementary school I was the whitest kid to ever rock parachute pants, break laces, muscle shirts to reveal my twig-like arms, and, of course, Jams.  Junior high brought attempted preppy with some tight-rolled jeans thrown in.  High school dress code was acid-washed jeans, high tops, rugby shirts, college sweatshirts, puffy Starter jackets, and whatever semi-profane t-shirts we thought were clever (they weren't) at the time like "Big Johnson's" or "You can't beat the meat at Alan's Deli!"  Oh, early 90's you were so silly.  I skipped Grunge, never owning Doc Martens, baggy jeans, or a wallet chain.  No, I spent college in lacrosse shorts.  Never mind that I never played lacrosse or that the shorts were completely impractical with no pockets.  Since college, it has been a steady diet of long sleeve t-shirts and khakis with some ugly Hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts mixed in for "variety."  Not exactly the makings of a GQ photo shoot.

Recently, I looked in my closet and realized I have unconsciously altered my wardrobe a bit.  I have developed a uniform.  I still have Converse and flip-flops, and plenty of khaki shorts.  I also saw an alarming number of plaid shirts.  I'm not complaining, I was just surprised at how many plaid shirts were populating my closet.  Long sleeve, short sleeve, lightweight cotton, heavier flannel, it is a rainbow smorgasbord of Dad Plaid.  Dad Plaid- the mid-sized sedan of men's attire.  Like a white picket fence you can take with you wherever you go.  Dad Plaid- timeless, efficient, dad-like.  Timeless?  Heck yeah.  Dads throughout history have sported the plaid, linking fathers across generations.  Efficient? You bet.  It allows dad to be comfortable, colorful, and boring simultaneously.  And, yes, a plaid shirt is dad-like in its versatility.  Tuck it in for instant Business Casual.  Untuck for Casual Casual.  Perfect for a picnic. (Sometimes you even match the tablecloth!)  It is lightweight enough to throw on at the beach.  Your plaid shirt is dressy enough for dinner somewhere nicer than Taco Bell, but is not formal or stuffy.  Its handy single front pocket is great for stashing a pen at the office or protecting whatever random piece of jewelry your daughter asks you to hold while she twirls/flips/barrel rolls across the playground.  Untucked, it hides (I hope) the flaws of my dad bod better than a clingy golf shirt.  Although, that is a lot to ask of a shirt.  There is only so much masking you can do when you are a man of larger carriage.  Plaid is, indeed, rad.

A closet full of Dad Plaid indicates you have settled into that sweet middle ground of somewhat giving a shit.  Your fraternity days are long passed.  You have places to be where you can't show up looking like a total slob.  Dance recitals, preschool graduations, homeowners association meetings.  But if you want to spend your day off binging on hot wings and ESPN 30 for 30 documentaries, well your plaid is quite the comfortable choice of garment.  Just pop an extra button and settle in.  Yes, a closet full of plaid shirts indicates I have landed where I want to be: a gentleman of leisure, a suburban stalwart, a DAD.