caveat emptor

Things About Me Numbers Forty-Eight and Forty-Nine

Remember my "100 Things About Me" project? Yeah, neither do I. Here's a couple more.

48. On Saturday night it was grilled Tilapia and three-cheese (Canadian White Cheddar, Muenster and Havarti) macaroni. On Sunday night it was smoky orange marmalade chicken with a Caesar salad. On Monday night it was a beef brisket roasted with red potatoes, carrots and onions. I've been cooking a lot lately. I've been enjoying it, though I still have to develop a proper rhythm and sense of proportion. That comes with time, I'm sure.

49. On Sunday Susan, River, Rayn and I hiked in the rock-climbing area of the nearby Mineral Wells State Park. (Robyn left on Friday [her 14th birthday] to spend the weekend in a cabin in Oklahoma with a friend's family.) The area where we hiked is great. It is hilly and dense with scrubby, North Texas trees. Long ago the river eroded the soil from under a thick limestone shelf and it fell in great chunks, littering the area with huge, jagged boulders. The trail was rocky and steep, weaving through vines and trees from the plateau above down to the shore below and back up again, about a mile and a half in all. I found the clambering much easier with a sturdy walking stick. River ran along ahead of us, scaling all the rocks along the way. I heaved and puffed, being out of shape, but I found the effort exhilarating. The sky was overcast and the weather was unseasonably cool. Thunder rumbling around overhead sparked a thrilling fuse of danger in the air. Just as we reached the top the clouds burst and cold raindrops began to fall gently, a welcome relief. We decided to hike back the mile to the car on the road rather than risking ankles on the wet rocks of the path, much to River's chagrin. On the walk back we crossed the path of a tarantula, creepy and fuzzy. At one point Rayn looked at me, my longish, wet hair stuck to my face and my walking stick in my hand, and told me I looked like Aragorn. Cool. Generous, but cool. When we got a few hundred yards from the car, River and Susan ran the remaining distance. What a perfect outing it was.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Things About Me Numbers Forty-Two Through Forty-Seven

42. I wasn't completely honest about the Starbucks acquisition. Some of the details were inaccurate.

43. A couple of Saturdays ago, before going to Slidell, Louisiana to spend a week doing Katrina relief work, my son, River, was helping me clean the garage. He was disassembling a broken aluminum step-ladder when he sliced his right index finger to the bone on some jagged aluminum. I took him to the emergency department for stitches, but Susan told me to take him to the Children's Hospital even though he is a large, muscular, fifteen year-old. Hilarity ensued. My point is this: The garage is still not clean.

44. The other night I spotted a possum driving into the neighborhood at 23:00 (11:00 PM for non-programmer civilians.) Just to clarify, I was driving into the neighborhood. The possum was not driving. The possum was a pedestrian. It was hunkered (crouched for you non-southerners) on the curb with an awful snarl on its face that would have been terrifying if I had been walking instead of driving or if I had woken up at night with the thing sitting on my chest staring into my face. The possum is not a beautiful animal. Maybe this is why my Possum Petting Zoo has yet to turn a profit.

45. I have often almost been inspired to describe the three squares that float in the coffee shop I patronize each morning. Almost, but not quite.

46. There is a part of me that feels like writing about myself is stupid. I mean, seriously, who cares? I'd rather make up people to write about.

47. I really enjoyed Brandon's visit to my blog on Monday and the comments that followed. It was fun. Thanks to those who participated.

Hello, friends. Tell me what's happening in the world. I've stopped paying attention.

Later. Love.

Thing About Me Number Forty-One

41. Since my son has gone on a week-long work trip to Louisiana to help build houses and my wife is studying for Super Hard Accounting Number Eight or something, my daughters and I went to the Fort Worth Zoo yesterday. We had fun looking at the animals. By the end of the day I was feeling so animal-friendly that I roasted a chicken for dinner. I also boiled some small red and brown potatoes and made a salad from green-leaf lettuce, cherry tomatoes, grated Parmesan cheese and raspberry and walnut vinaigrette dressing. It was a good day.

I took my camera with me, but the battery decided to be dead. So, instead of bad, blurry pictures taken with my camera, you can see some bad, blurry pictures taken with my phone. There are more here.

Hello, friends. How was your weekend?

Later. Love.

Things About Me Numbers Thirty-Eight Through Forty

38. I wonder strange things as I drive to work. This morning I wondered if birds ever wonder, "What the hell IS this thing I'm sitting on?" I wonder if any part of them prefers a real tree or mountain perch to a telephone pole, flag pole or Exxon sign. I imagine explaining it to them. "Hello. That perch of yours, my fine, feathered friend, is a microwave relay tower. It repeats and directs communication signals all over the..." "Look, fella, you lost me at hello. Unless you've got a mouse in your pocket you're willing to part with, move along." That's how the conversation goes in my mind.

39. I notice strange things when I drive to work. The tall, yellowish grass that grows in pastures has a slight purple tinge to it. You can't see it if you look at a single stalk (or blade) of the grass, but you can see it in the bending dance of the aggregate in a windy field. It reminds me of the subtle, colorful sheen of a Blue Weimaraner, the most beautiful dog I've ever seen.

40. I draw strange things when I sit in meetings. (You should zoom in on the picture to get a real sense of how my mind wanders.)

Hello, friends. Tell me something good.

Later. Love.

Things About Me Numbers Thirty-Four Through Thirty-Seven

34. This morning I saw a mutt hanging its head out of the passenger window of an old, beat-up pickup truck. It looked like a friendly mutt. Seeing it, I realized that my totem animal is the mutt. It's perfect.

35. You can really see my deviated septum if you look directly up my nose. I'm too tall to look directly up my nose, but my new Samsung BlackJack phone can do the job for me.

36. Here's a picture of my elephant. He's very small but he doesn't put up with any funny business. He was made tough by being the only independent voter in his Republican herd. You will respect my tiny elephant.

37. Here's the pond that lives outside my office window. It used to be full of baby turtles, but they've all left and slightly larger turtles have moved in. I guess turtles do that. It's like a pond exchange program or something. Here's what's cool about turtles: You'll never meet a homeless turtle.

Hello, friends. Is your elephant as cool as mine? I submit that it is NOT!

Later. Love.

Thing About Me Number Thirty-Three

33. I guess it's ironic, I don't know. Maybe it's just a little awful. There are people in the world who are really amazingly skilled. There are people with talent that will take your breath away. As for me, I fumble around with a few tricks up my sleeve. My greatest actual talent is probably something cognitive, like "being able to sort out, understand and describe complicated things." That's good, I think, though it's not the sexiest of skills. Besides that I also clunk around with a a few modicums of talent. I can copy photographs into pencil drawings with some skill. I can sing a little. I write a little. I'm not, however, an artist of stunning skill in any of these creative endeavors. That's okay. I do well enough to entertain myself.

To develop the point to which I'm getting, I'll introduce this idea: Don't you love the people who are really, really skilled, true artists, who are also extremely nice and gracious in dealing with people who are less skilled? People like that are amazing when they are sincere. People who encourage and try to bolster the confidence of others, even those aren't particularly talented, are beautiful. People like these seem to genuinely enjoy watching people give their best effort and put themselves "out there." I love people like that.

I also admire the people who will risk humiliation and embarrassment to try new things even when they aren't good at them. Some people just throw their shortcomings and imperfections out in front of everyone saying, "Here I am. This is me. I know I'm not the best, but I'm going to play along with everyone else while I still can. If I don't do well... well... at least I didn't just sit on the sidelines bored and scared." People like this are also beautiful.

Here's the point to which I'm getting: I'm not like either of those kinds of people. I can hardly stand to watch someone do something if they aren't good at it. It makes me sick to my stomach. I cringe. I have to turn away. I also avoid any situation where I feel like I'll embarrass myself. I just sit on the sidelines. I don't dance. I sit beside the pool, dying to swim, and I read a book. People, beautiful and ugly, thin and fat, are having a blast at the beach, just being themselves. Not me. I let my insecurity rob me of experiences. I always have.

That's okay. We all have our little flaws. I don't like this thing about me, but I've accepted it.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Things About Me Numbers Thirty-One And Thirty-Two

31. I installed our new dishwasher this weekend. I sense a disturbing pattern, a change in my "Do It Yourself" habits. My version of "Do It Yourself" used to work like this: Someone would say, "Scott, the dishwasher needs to be installed." I would respond, "Do it yourself." Now that's changing. Before you know it I'll be buying a toolbelt.

32. I've been eschewing the cutting of my hair. Why? I don't know. Maybe it's an early midlife crisis. Here's the thing, though, my hair has gotten curlier with age. It won't grow long. It just keeps getting bigger and bigger. I will not be deterred, however; I will push this to the point of absurdity, and beyond. Besides, it makes me look a little like a fat Jesus.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Here it is from the back. Thanks for stopping by.

Thing About Me Number Thirty

30. One of my favorite memories happened when I was eighteen and working in Paraguay. I was to be a guide for a work team from New York, the third group with whom I had worked. I had the routine down pretty well by then. In the morning before the evening they were to arrive, I called Pánfilo, a chófer I had used before, and asked him if he was up for a seven-day trip to Ayolas for 200,000 Guaraní (about $120 US at the time, if memory serves.) He agreed and showed up at the airport. There were thirty-five people in the group. Pánfilo and I loaded their luggage onto his bus while they bought junk from the colorfully dressed "Indians." They were spending the first night in Asuncion, so, after I met the group leader, we drove them to the hotel Paraguay in El Centro. Pánfilo and I unloaded their luggage and got it to the bellhops. I helped the group leader, who was Puerto Rican and spoke a little Spanish, connect with the hotel manager so he could arrange payment. Pánfilo dropped me off at the pension where I was staying and headed home. The next morning Pánfilo and I showed up at the hotel at 6:30 and, as the group straggled downstairs, loaded them back into the bus for the trip to Ayolas.

Now we get to the part that is a favorite memory of mine.

As I settled into the seat behind Pánfilo for the ride to Ayolas, I introduced myself to one of the young ladies from the New York group. "Oh," she said in surprise, "You're American?"

"Yes, I'm from Texas."

"Oh," she replied, "I thought you were a local."

And there you have it.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Thing About Me Number Twenty-Nine

29. I've heard it said, "If you only know how to use a hammer, everything looks like a nail." Sometimes I see this principle, so to speak, at work broadly in humanity. Our strength as a species, I think, involves two advantages: our opposable thumbs and our ability to analyze observations and abstract concepts from their situational context. We can imagine. Watching a friend killed by a beast, for example, we can feel sadness at the loss of the loved one and imagine a world in which the friend is still alive, a world in which we rescued that friend, for example. We can experience, from those imaginings, a modicum of the relief and joy such a situation would create were it real. We can imagine things to be better (or worse) than they are. Sometimes I feel, however, that we over-apply this skill. We have abstracted ourselves out of contact with our physical context. We have created a dream world. We are always so surprised when the physical world, which we pretend is not there any more, asserts its relevance and presence to us.

Don't get me wrong. I am not prophesying doom nor am I chastising humanity for its sins. We are as we are, and we seem to be doing well. We have psychologists and meteorologists to help us remember and deal with the world outside our heads, to abstract it more accurately. Nevertheless, when I have to explain to bewildered children that humans started fishing because we needed food to survive, that we didn't always just hook and release in a cruel mockery of traditional survival, I wonder at our detachment from what it takes to live. We are broken animals, I think, but it's okay. One day the real world will blink away and we will fold into the blinding illumination of ideas and memories. One day the world will slip out from under our unopposable opposable thumb.

Until then I am comforted by thoughts, as I've probably told you before, like Mary Oliver's from her poem Wild Geese:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Hello, friends. Tell me what's happening.

Later. Love.

P. S. - I know the last few of these haven't been very "About Me," but I can't help it. I can only stay grounded for so long. I am, as I said yesterday, floating a little. I'll try to remain true to the spirit of the exercise, but I'm in no position to make guarantees, being not in control of things. Thanks for stopping by.

Thing About Me Number Twenty-Eight

28. I am floating just a little, a silly thing for a grown man to do. I have lost traction just a bit, and I do not always know where I am going. I do not always care, and that is dangerous. There is much at stake. In the end, I trust my self. So far I trust myself, but I am keeping my eyes open, just in case.

A week ago I went with my children, my son and two daughters, to camp on the Leon River in Central Texas. We arrived on Saturday morning to meet my father and my sister and her family who had been there since Friday afternoon. My father and my son erected the tents while I organized our food and supplies in the small, screened-in shelter. The shelter had electricity and was good for supplies, but wasn't good for sleeping because it was infested with little scorpions that came out at night. For the next twenty-four hours we cooked and ate and relaxed and fished. My daughters lavished attention on my baby nephew and fished a little. My youngest daughter caught the biggest fish of the weekend, a five pound freshwater drum. She threw it back. My son spent most of his time fishing with my father, his grandfather, a thing so mundane and yet, from my perspective, so surreal. My father disappeared when I was younger than any of my children are today, and was gone for decades. I've never fished with my father. I've never known him. Now, here he is. He's been off drugs for more than three years and he's teaching my son to fish with spincast reels and baitcast reels, night crawlers and shad. I cannot teach my son these things, because I have never learned them myself. It's surreal, and it leaves me floating a little. It sets me drifting downstream, my shoes digging little shallow trenches in the soft mud of the river bed, unable to find footing. "I wonder," I think to myself, "where this river goes." It doesn't seem bad, it seems good, so I go with it.

On Saturday I replaced our kitchen faucet, four hours cramped in the cabinet under the sink, four trips to the hardware store. This is not the kind of thing I commonly do, but it turned out okay. I'm not sure why I did it, but the urge came over me, so I went with it. Once my neck and back stop hurting, I'll be glad I did it.

I'm going to count this all as one thing about me. I'm not sure what you would call it.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Thing About Me Number Twenty-Seven (Twice)

27. Friday is always a slow blog day. If you judge your self-worth by your blog traffic - and you know you do - you probably feel like a big loser every Friday. And I know, I know, this is not a "thing about me." Seriously, though, do all of these things have to be about me? I mean, just because the name of the project is "100 Things About Me," does that necessitate that all one hundred things be about me? Does it? It does? Oh, okay. Fine. I'll do number twenty-seven again.

27. I have a friend named Florica, though everyone calls him Stefan. He's Romanian and he's a painter. He did the painting that's hanging over my mantle. It's a view of downtown Fort Worth from the old coffee shop where I met him (and lots of other people.) There is also a restaurant up the road, an Italian place called Nick's, in which Florica painted all the decor. There is some amazing artwork in there on the walls (literally painted onto the walls, not hanging on the walls,) and they've just closed down the place. I hate to think of someone else moving in there to open a steak house or a pancake joint or something and just taking a paint roller to the walls. I know that's what will happen. Some hired contractor will come in there and blast right over the artwork with Glidden semi-gloss. It's sad. I want to break in there and steal the walls. I really do.

Yes, this is sufficiently about me to count. I'm not doing it again.

Hello, friends. I'm sick of me. Tell me about you.

Later. Love.

Things About Me Numbers Twenty-One Through Twenty-Six

21. I strongly dislike allegory. I could write a clever allegory to express this point, but I won't because I hate allegory.

22. I am baffled by how dirty my glasses get. I never touch my glasses, and neither does anything else. So, how do they get so dirty? People who don't wear glasses must have really dirty eyes.

23. I am a bit claustrophobic. I cannot venture into tight spaces, like into the crawlspace under a pier-and-beam house, for example. I'm fine in elevators and small places, but I freak out in places where the walls actually touch my body on more than one side, even if there is little actual risk of becoming stuck. I have recurring nightmares about being with a tourist group exploring an old house or a ship or some other structure. As the crowd pushes behind me, we proceed up some stairs. The walls get closes and closer as we go, until I begin to feel stuck. I try to push back, but there are too many people pushing behind me. At that point my brain always wakes me up. If it didn't, I think I might totally lose it.

24. I loved the movie Pan's Labyrinth.

25. I hated the movie Signs. I thought the writing was just awful, awful, awful. I was wincing at how stupid and predictable the story was. <SPOILERS>An ex-baseball player. A habit of leaving glasses of water sitting around the house. A recurring auditory premonition of the words, "Swing away." An alien who is killed by water! It all fits together so perfectly.</SPOILERS> Strange. When the movie was over I found myself wondering if Shyamalan had ever actually met a real human before. I know some intelligent and literate people who liked the movie, so I often wonder if I missed something. I don't know. I really hated it.

26. I hate cooking in the microwave and I hate using power tools. I'm a bit of a Luddite, which is odd since I write software for a living. I've often said I would prefer, if it were possible, to whittle software from blocks of soft wood.

Hello, friends. Now it's your turn. Tell me something good.

Later. Love.

Things About Me Numbers Nineteen and Twenty

19. As was alluded to by toadman in an earlier comment, one of the things I've done in my life of which I am not proud is to attempt to win people into the fundamentalist, Pentecostal sect of the Christian religion by subjecting them to bad pantomime. I made two trips to Paraguay as a teen, a two-week trip with a my church youth group between my junior and senior years of high school, and six month trip alone immediately after high school graduation. During the second trip, I worked as a guide of sorts for groups from the United States. Some of those groups were like the small group I had been in the previous year, the group with which I had performed "clown ministry" (I am reminded of a friend who is fond of asking at random and inappropriate moments the question, "What the fuck is clown ministry?") Working as their guide, I got to be a spectator for the pantomime spectacle. I got to hear the Paraguayan men ask, "What the hell is wrong with you people? Do you think we are heathens? Why do you paint your faces like this? What are you trying to hide?" and so forth. It occurred to me then, "This is not a school play, where people are forced to pretend to enjoy bad theatre. This is the real life of these people. They don't want to see pantomime." It was eye-opening.

20. I am a good average chess player, but I am a terrible good chess player. Among average chess players, I am good. I suppose this makes me above average. Among good chess players, I am terrible. I suppose this makes me less than good. I have noticed, by observing and playing chess, that intelligence is not so much a factor as is experience. People who play a lot and pay attention while they play are good. It also takes a certain type of analytical thinking, but this does not always translate into useful intelligence for living. I will admit, however, that my opinion might be skewed by having played chess primarily with homeless guys.

Hello, friends. Ever done anything you would never do today? Please, share your shame.

Later. Love.

Things About Me Numbers Twelve Through Eighteen

12. I have a loathing of public restrooms that almost prevents me from using them altogether.

13. I love Saturday Night Live, even when it's not that good. It's become like a friend to me. I can overlook it's faults because I'm just glad it exists..

14. Some people can go days without washing their hair. If I don't wash my hair in the morning I look, by the afternoon, like I've been in a prisoner camp for six months. A dirty one.

15. I don't believe in magic, the paranormal nor the supernatural, though I would be willing to believe if I found compelling reason.

16. I don't believe that we will ever find any environment capable of sustaining quality human life outside of our own little atmosphere here on Earth. The rest of the universe is hostile. This is home. Let's take care of it.

17. I prefer soft features, cuteness and simple beauty to exotic sensuality. I believe, for example, that Jennifer Aniston is more beautiful than Angelina Jolie.

18. I am having serious doubts about making it all the way to 100.

Hello, friends. Tell me something about you.

Later. Love.

Thing About Me Number Eleven

11. I'm a good singer. Sometimes I'm surprisingly good (at least to me.) Growing up in a home with a hippie mom, attending a Pentecostal church with my grandparents and going to mostly African American elementary and middle schools, I was surrounded by and influenced by various musical styles. My real exposure to music, however, was at church.

At church I got to experience music and participate. Music at a Pentecostal church is not empty and distant, it's full and present. It interacts with all of your emotions, whipping you into a frenzy or pulling the fibres of your heart to the snapping point, and beyond. Is this healthy? Not always, but it's a great way to really learn about music and about what music means to the human soul.

Although surrounded by music, I was not trained in music as a child. I was never in band at school. I'm not sure why. I can't remember anyone ever asking me if I wanted to be in band or making the offer. I guess I just thought band was for other kids, not for me. It just passed me by. Before I got into singing, I got into rapping. (Go ahead and laugh. It's an appropriate response.) In high school I thought of myself as a rapper, but I would rather have been a singer, except that I had no idea that I could sing. I first became aware of myself as a singer when I was eighteen and in South America. Someone said, "Hey, you're a great singer," and I thought, "Really?" When I got back home, my church friend Drew, who was a musician (we had a lot of musical talent in our church,) heard me sing and was like, "Dude, you've got a great voice. When did that happen?" "In Paraguay," I said.

After that, singing was a big part of my life, but only through my church experience. In college I was in Christian youth bands. Then I was a music minister for a couple of churches in my twenties. I sang with groups and did solo performances and had a lot of fun. Now that I'm not a minister, and in fact am hardly involved in religion at all, I don't really have a context for musical expression. We attend a Methodist church semi-regularly, but I have no interest in the - to be brutally honest - soulless music they perform. I feel a little hypocritical singing church songs these days anyway, since I really don't believe what I'm singing. I'd like to find an outlet for singing outside of the church, but society doesn't make that very easy. I'm not young and cool and attractive. I'm just a portly, aging dude who likes to sing. So, I sing in the shower. I sing in the car. I even sing in the office a little. That's probably going to be the extent of my illustrious singing career.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Thing About Me Number Ten

10. Let's see. Something about me. Hmmm... It should be true, I suppose. Let's see. Something about me. The thing is... wait... It's just... It's...

They stock the work kitchen with oatmeal raisin cookies. Bastards. Can't they see my pants are tight? Sometimes, when I sit down, I feel as though I will burst. Moderation is a virtue. Damnable virtue. A cup of coffee, black, and writing at lunch. A small sandwich. A leaf of lettuce. A small bag of air and butterfly wings. I try to find satisfaction in a sense of wellness and not in indulgence, but it only works sometimes. Sometimes there are cookie wrappers in my waste basket. Oatmeal raisin. Bastards.

If I could make the world
  I'd have the best of intentions
 Only the best of intentions
     But how could I apologize for all the times
   I didn't think it through fully enough
And my distraction caused death or disease or famine
  Suffering and want
    Want for bread
      Want for water
 Want for love
  Want for meaning
      Want to be God?
     No thanks.
     No need.
     No time.
     No way.

Are there one hundred interesting things about me? I'm not sure. I can juggle a little.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Thing About Me Number Nine

9. I love to pull weeds, though I never do so these days. For me, there is something therapeutic about sitting in the grass, bending to look closely at all the roots and stems, putting my fingers into the dirt and pulling the weeds. I move very slowly, taking the time to find every weed, however small, and pull it up with all of its roots. As I work, my mind is free to think. Not only does the simple task of weeding not distract my mind, it actually seems to keep my senses occupied so that I'm not harassed by every random signal that comes my way. As I sit with the creepies and the crawlies, the little spiders and gnats and bugs and ants and moths and worms that crawl under and over and around me, I can just be an animal, doing what I have to do to survive.

Weeding for me is not a task, it's recreation. I never do it because there just isn't time to relax. There's too much to do all the time. For the last couple of years, my sensitive skin has kept me away from gardening. We pay someone to take care of the yard. I haven't seen Chuck, the Gnome that lives in my yard, in months. It's okay, though. He doesn't seem to notice the passage of time so much. Whenever I see him, we have the same easy rapport that we've always had. Sometime over the summer, on a cool morning, I'm going to spend a couple of hours in the yard. I think that would be good for me.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Thing About Me Number Eight

8. I have a strong and constantly reinforced conviction that public discourse has taken a turn for the worse in recent decades. It has been the practice of extremists and fundamentalists on all sides of all spectra for all time to, once they have established the narrow criteria for correctness and incorrectness, despair entirely of and abandon wholeheartedly anyone who falls outside the small bounds of the walls of righteousness they have erected. Women and men of more considerate and moderate natures have, in the past, understood the value of and need for cooperation and have realized intuitively that cooperation requires an embracing of those qualities in our opponents that we also share. We must find common ground. We must disagree without hatred. We must always remain open to the other point of view. We must be civil.

Abraham Lincoln, in his first inaugural address, expressed this sentiment beautifully and masterfully, and I believe his behavior in this should be judged as exemplary for us. Lest we are tempted to believe Lincoln's opponents were less dastardly and wicked than our own monsters, remember that he is addressing politicians and leaders who believed in and were willing to fight for slavery. For slavery. With that in mind, read his words.

I am loth [sic] to close. We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battle-field, and patriot grave, to every living heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.

Being a person typically bent toward liberal ideals, I am especially disappointed when I see rudeness, division and a general lack of civility become commonplace among those who claim to be liberal. We should not adopt the practices of extremists and fundamentalists. We should raise the bar, not lower it.

This is my strong and constantly reinforced conviction.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Thing About Me Number Seven

7. When I was a kid I lived in my imagination. Although I had friends at school and friends at church, I spent most of my time alone, daydreaming. When I was four and lived on the ranch in Sloughhouse, California, my mom tells me that I loved the television show Kung Fu with David Carradine. Under the dual influences of the show and my imagination I would sit in the yard for hours in the lotus position imagining that I could levitate. Also I would run from one side of the yard to the other, jumping and flailing in what I imagined to be perfectly executed karate kicks. "Heeeeyaa!" I would scream. When I got older I would wander around town, walking or riding my bike, with no particular place to go. I'd be gone for hours, all day, meandering around and daydreaming. There was one particular field that I visited a lot when I skipped school in the eighth grade. The name of the field was "Gabad el tich abati," which means "haven of many stones" in the language I invented while sitting there day after day. That's the kind of kid I was. I was a loner and a dreamer.

I still am that kind of kid.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Heather Anne was kind enough, like Bella before her, to award caveat emptor one of her five "Thinking Blog Awards." In the near future, when I get back to the morning ritual which I have eschewed for the next two weeks in order to help my wife get through her grueling, two-week, mini-semester of Business Law II, I'll post a proper response and dispatch the meme before the meme-killing curse befalls me. Thanks, Heather Anne. It's fun to be noticed. Thanks to all of you for stopping by.

Thing About Me Number Six

6. I like animals, I just don't like living with them. I have been known to stop and rescue turtles crossing the street. Once I ruined the kids' Styrofoam kick board by trying to redirect - against his will - an alligator snapping turtle from a busy street to a nearby creek. He took a good chunk out of the kick board. Evil-looking though he was, I know that, in his tiny mind, he was just defending himself against a giant, crazy animal that was attacking him with a kick board. I also have an odd sympathy for animals, a fact that is often a bummer for my kids. I like toads and frogs, for example, but I don't think you should mess with them. Just leave them alone and enjoy watching them. Don't pick them up. Can you imagine how terrifying that must be for them? Certainly do not take them home. They already have a home somewhere, with a froggie wife and some little froggie children and numerous froggie responsibilities. What will become of the family if you just snatch up the frog and force it to live in a large glass box for a couple of weeks until it dies because you have no idea how to care for a kidnapped frog? It's not a toy, it's a living thing. Leave it alone. That's what I say.

Living with animals, however, is not, in my opinion, fun. They're gross. They stink. They have no idea what things cost. They have no concept of plumbing nor of housekeeping. They just want to exercise their natural functions all over your habitat. They're fun to cuddle with, but that's about it. Beyond that, they're a pain in the neck.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.