That's my girl

I'm so proud of Teri.

Shortly after she got to work this morning my wife of nearly 19 years received an unexpected honor--the Kappa Tau Alpha Commitment to Teaching Award.

Teri teaches advertising and public relations courses at the University of Alabama. She loves her job and the institution she works for. I was surprised at how quickly she became a Bama booster when she began teaching there since she's a graduate of Auburn University, Alabama's bitter rival. If you speak with her for more than five seconds, she'll tell you that the University of Alabama's undergraduate public relations program was recently named the best in the nation of the hundreds of college PR programs out there.

Despite her abilities and prior accomplishments, deep down, my wife is a little bundle of insecurities (aren't we all?), so she loves getting awards more than anyone I know. Since she's smart, talented, hard working and cares deeply about what she does and her students, she has collected quite a few honors over the years that serve to remind her of how wonderful she is.

Last year Teri dragged me to a luncheon held by Birmingham's professional advertising association. She was on the program and had a small speaking role that day. Before she spoke, the president of the organization introduced her by recounting her major professional accomplishments to the group. It took him a while just to get through the highlights.

I've been married to Teri for most of her academic career, so I've lived through her professional achievements in real time. As Teri's introduction ran on and on, I started beaming and then started laughing at how long it was taking and how ridiculous it was becoming. Meanwhile Teri was beginning to blush. I always knew my wife was both gifted and very successful at what she does, but I didn't quite realize how consistently successful she has been until that moment.

If you want to see what I'm talking about, here's the link to Teri's profile page on her department's website. Go ahead and click on it. I'll wait for you.

Pretty impressive, wasn't it? I especially like how Scram and I got a little mention in the last sentence. The profile is already out of date since her latest award hasn't found its way onto the page just yet.

It's a little intimidating living with such an accomplished woman when I'm floundering along deep into my second book after being unable to get any nibbles on the first. I think the lack of ego gratification has been the worst part of my Best Year Ever. The only bad part, in fact.

While Teri was accepting her award in an applause-filled auditorium somewhere on campus this morning, I was at the Publix and Winn-Dixie buying the week's groceries. It's a beautiful day in Suburbingham, so I spent the rest of the morning giving the lawn its first mowing of the year. The lawn looks good and the pantry is full, but my accomplishments of this morning pale in comparison to Teri's. The contrast in our two professional existences wasn't lost on me today.

I've got gazillions of pictures of Teri in suits posing with students or bigwigs at various events, but I thought I'd illustrate today's post with a picture of her playing guitar and singing on our back porch. In addition to the academic thing, Teri also plays a fair guitar and sings like an angel. I'm a lucky guy.

Congratulations, Teri! I'm bursting with pride, so I just had to brag on my girl a little bit. I can't wait to celebrate with you tonight. The wine is chilling.

Test pattern

Nothing interesting is happening in the real world today, so I'm spending it in Constantinople, Alabama. In the next few days, I'll post an excerpt or two from the first draft of my latest work in progress for your reading pleasure.

Into the mystic

Hark, now and hear the sailors cry,
Smell the sea and feel the sky;
Let your soul and spirit fly, into the mystic.
-Van Morrison

It was Saturday morning and the day’s agenda was mapped out with domestic chores. I had bathrooms to scrub, a lawn to mow and a garden to till.

A phone call changed my plans.

It was my friend Sailor Jeff inviting me to join him on his sailboat for the day. That's him in the picture, looking all nautical with his vessel under sail.

Initially, I tried to beg off. I explained that I had bathrooms to scrub, a lawn to mow and a garden to till. Speaking slowly, as if to a six-year-old, Sailor Jeff pointed out that the bathrooms and yard work would wait for me, but this particular combination of sun, wind and opportunity would not.

Teri heard my end of the conversation and saw my conflicted expression. She whispered something like “go sailing, you fool.” That was all the convincing I needed.

Before I continue this story, let me tell you about a few of my other friends. I’m going to wander a bit, but I promise this will all come together if you stick with me.

One of my friends (another Jeff, as it happens) is a warrior, and he brought me two presents when he came home from war. I don’t know if it’s customary for warriors to come home bearing gifts, but this one did. I treasure both of them.

One is a hefty brass medallion about the size and shape of a dog tag listing his unit and dates of deployment with Operation Iraqi Freedom. Apparently everyone in the military is expected to carry a similar medallion with them. These chips often come into play in a game that takes place when warriors encounter other warriors in bars, the rules of which I only vaguely understand. I’m proud to have a friend like Warrior Jeff and I’m proud to know he and other strong men and women like him are out there protecting me. I keep the medallion on permanent display on our fireplace mantle.

Warrior Jeff gave me a second amazing gift when he returned from harm’s way. The other present was a 300 megabyte external hard drive packed to the brim with music files. I call it the jeffPod. For those of you who don’t know, 300 megabytes is enough store a lot of music. A whole lot. I don’t know how much exactly, but the jeffPod runs thousands of albums deep. If it’s a popular song from the last 50 years, odds are it’s hiding somewhere in the bowels of the jeffPod.

As someone who has made a living first selling and now producing copyrighted material, I have some deep misgivings about source of all the music on the jeffPod, but it is an amazing and wonderful thing. Somewhere in Iraq there must be a computer that, in addition to tracking enemy positions, has provided a great deal of joy to a lot of lonely soldiers and airmen far, far from home.

I have another group of five friends who are scattered across the country. They live in Texas, Vermont, New York, Georgia and Louisiana. This group convenes once a year in New Orleans for Jazz Fest. That’s our excuse anyway. Mostly we convene for the joy of each others’ company. Jazz Fest is coming up in a few weeks, and to prepare for it, I’ve been listening to the music of some of the artists I’ll be seeing there.

One of the many acts on my must-see list this year is Van Morrison. A few days ago with a few clicks of the mouse, I transferred a bunch of Van Morrison’s music from the jeffPod to my iPod. What a revelation! I had no idea how talented Van Morrison is or how many of his songs are standards. I’m amazed at his range as both a singer and a songwriter, and this discovery makes me wonder what rock I’ve been under for the last several decades.

Our drive to Lake Martin took a little over an hour, and for most of the way, Sailor Jeff and I listened to a Van Morrison playlist on my pod. We rode and talked and listened and the time passed quickly. It made for an especially pleasant ride for two friends off on an adventure.

My journey aboard Jeff’s beautiful 23-foot sailboat, The Dawn Treader, was exhilarating. It was a windy day, so I had a thrilling introduction to the sport of sailing. Even a rank beginner like me knows that high winds make a sailboat move faster. What I didn’t realize until Saturday was that boats under sail also tip from side to side when maneuvering, and that angle also varies in proportion to the speed of the wind.

The Dawn Treader has a gauge on board that shows how much the boat is tipping to the side at any given moment. When the boat heels over at an angle of 30 degrees or more, it’s a dramatic event for a first-timer, and that happened quite often on our trip. The gauge maxed out at 45 degrees, and once on the trip we pegged it. That was crazy fun and got the old adrenaline going.

We returned safely to the dock near sunset, ending one of the best days in my Best Year Ever.

The next day it came to me—just how many of my friends played a part in building my perfect Saturday. Many of these friends have never and will never meet each other, but they came together and made the perfect gift, just for me.

Sailor Jeff played the starring role on Saturday, of course, and I am deeply grateful for his generous invitation, his companionship and the special time we shared. My Jazz Fest friends inspired the soundtrack, and Warrior Jeff’s gift was the source. Finally, Teri, my Best Friend Forever, wrapped the ribbon on the gift. She set me free, so it was she who ended up scrubbing the toilets while I was out sailing without a care in the world.

Treasure your friends, Discerning Reader, because your friends are your treasure.

When all the parts of the puzzle start to look like they fit,
Then I must remember, they’ll be days like this.
-Van Morrison

Oh Canada

Sometime this week, the BYE blog passed the 10,000 mark in page views since I began tracking traffic to this corner of the webiverse. That's not an impressive number compared to gazillions of other websites out there, but it's a milestone for me and it means that a lot of people have played a role in making this my Best Year Ever.

Thank you. I'm frankly shocked and humbled that anyone other than me ever reads this thing.

It's cold and gloomy in Suburbingham today. Spring teased us and now has slipped back into hiding. The chill in the air lends inspiration to today's subject.

If you read yesterday's exploration of social media, you may have noticed the picture of Howie Mandel I selected to illustrate the post. Most of you saw the picture and thought "that's Howie Mandel, the game show host." Some of you thought "that's Howie Mandel, the comedian." A few of you may have thought "that guy looks kind of familiar, I wonder who he is."

But there's a contingent of Discerning Readers who saw the picture yesterday and had a different thought: "that's Howie Mandel, Canadian."

Canadians comprise the third largest delegation in the BYE League of Nations, lagging only the US and the UK in discerning readership. And the Canadians who come here are faithful readers. They lurk anonymously and never leave comments, but I've noticed many of the same obscure Canadian towns pop up regularly on my map of blog visitors.

Even though Canada shares its border with the United States and our cultures are quite similar, Canada is its own country. This will come as a surprise to a number of Americans.

Canadians are more polite than Americans, by and large, and they seem to be so darn nice to everyone. Everyone except Ann Coulter, that is. Some students at the University of Ottawa weren't nice at all to her this week, raising a very un-Canadian stink and causing Ms. Coulter to back out of a public appearance for security reasons. This simultaneously demonstrated both a marked lack of respect for free speech and excellent taste on the part of the protesters.

Canadians have a laid-back and self-deprecating sense of humor. Any people that refers to their currency as loonies knows how to laugh at themselves.

Even though they don't often bubble over with the same "we're number one" kind of patriotic fervor that we sometimes exhibit south of the border, Canadians are fiercely proud of their nation--in a quiet and polite way, of course.

The best way to see Canadian pride on display is to watch television with one. It won't take long before a son or daughter of the Great White North will appear on the screen, and your Canadian friend will mention in passing that the person is also Canadian. It's a charming verbal tic and fun to see. They do it every time. They just can't help themselves.

Imagine an American watching television with a German friend (the fourth largest delegation on the blog, by the way) and insisting on pointing out every American actor on the screen. It doesn't happen. First of all the American would be wrong since half of time he would be wrongly identifying Canadians as Americans. And second, the annoyed German would have pummeled the American into submission by the first commercial break.

Avril Lavigne, Canadian. Pamela Anderson, Canadian. Ditto Shania Twain, Jim Carrey, Keanu Reeves, Meg Tilly, Caroline Rhea, Dan Ackroyd, William Shatner, Tommy Chong, Alex Trebek, Paul Shaffer, James Cameron, Michael Buble, Nelly Furtado, Leslie Nielsen, Morley Safer, and the list goes on and on.

You may not have known that all of these people are Canadian, but, trust me, your Canadian friend did.

The second best way to see Canadian patriotism on display is to raise the subject of beer. Try it. You'll see.

Quebec is my favorite Canadian province. It's beautiful there, and Montreal and Quebec City are two of the great cities of the world. I like to think of Quebec as France with training wheels. They speak a variant of French there, but everyone is also fluent in English. If a Quebecois (did I get that right?) thinks you're from Ontario, he or she may pretend not to speak English (don't ask me to explain why, it's a long story), but when they find out you're American, they're generally happy to break out the Anglais for you when you get stuck.

The first time Teri and I crossed an international border together it was into New Brunswick, Canada. This was the pre-9/11, pre-Homeland Security era. I miss those days. We were spending a week driving around Maine when I noticed that we were right on the Canadian border. On a lark we decided to cross the border to make this an exotic international vacation. We didn't have our passports with us--we didn't even own passports back then. Not a problem.

We crossed the border at a sleepy little town named St. Andrews. The border guard looked a lot like John Candy (Canadian), and we had the following conversation as we pulled up to his guardhouse in the rental car and I presented my Louisiana driver's license.

"What is your business in Canada, Mr. and Mrs. Henley?"

"We don't have any business in Canada. We just want to say we've been there."

"Well, you're honest then," he said laughing. "You don't have any guns or bombs or anything like that now, do ya?"

"Nope, we left all that stuff at home."

"Welcome to Canada sir. Have a nice day."

I have a feeling that if I crossed the border at St. Andrews today, the experience might be a little different, and that's a shame.

Our first exotic international trip was a huge success. After asking around, we ended up visiting a very nice nearby aquarium. While at the aquarium, we had a pleasant chat with some friendly Canadians, but the conversation didn't end well.

Nice Canadians: "Do you mind if we ask you two a question?"

Hank and Teri: "Go right ahead."

Nice Canadians: "What do Americans really think of Canada?"

Hank and Teri (simultaneously): "We don't."

Insert awkward silence.

True stories.

Have a wonderful weekend!

Howie and me

I'll bet you have a Facebook account, dear Discerning Reader. Most people who spend any amount of time on the webiverse are assimilated eventually.

Facebook is a great way for busy people to stay connected to friends and family members without doing any real work to maintain their relationships. I check up on Facebook an average of once a day for a few minutes. For me it's a pleasant little diversion, but I'm not addicted to the site by any means. Many people are sucked into the world of Facebook and never emerge, which I think is kind of sad.

I only have 136 "friends" on Facebook as of today, so I'm not the most popular kid in the class by any stretch of the imagination. My wife Teri is more popular than I am, not that we're competitive or anything. She has 154 friends--still not very many, but she signed up for Facebook very recently, while I've had an account for a while.

Recently I signed up with Facebook's little cousin, Twitter. On most days I post to this blog, I'll leave a Tweet teasing the subject of the day. It's only on most days because I sometimes forget. It's kind of a pointless gesture as I have only the tiniest handful of followers on Twitter. It would only take me a minute longer to call each of my followers and read them my latest blog post.

I've had a couple of new people following me on Twitter in the last few days. I know this because Twitter sends me an e-mail when a new follower signs up. My latest follower, someone I know only as Sara, has me completely bamboozled. Sara is following only five people on Twitter--Anderson Cooper, Regis and Kelly, Mark Consuelos, Howie Mandel. And me. Okay, it's five accounts but six people if you count Regis and Kelly as two.

I had heard of all of these people except Mr. Consuelos. Anderson Cooper is a CNN anchor, Regis Philbin and Kelly Ripa are the hosts of a popular morning television show, and Howie Mandel is the germ-phobic host of the game show "Deal or No Deal." It turns out Mark Consuelos is a semi-famous Spanish actor most noted for eloping with Kelly Ripa, the very same Kelly of Regis and Kelly. That's zero degrees of separation for Mr. Consuelos and Ms. Ripa, but where do the rest of us fit in?

How do I belong with that group of people, and what does my inclusion on this exclusive list say about me? How many degrees of mental separation does it take to connect me to Kelly Ripa, Anderson Cooper and Howie Mandel? It boggles the mind. It really does. Should I feel honored or what? I feel like I've been invited to a very odd B-list cocktail party by mistake.

This got me thinking. If every famous person in the world were on Twitter and I could follow only five, who would they be? Hmmm.

Well I know who I wouldn't start with--Barack Obama. It's not for any reason having to do with his politics or his personality--it's because following him on Twitter would be redundant. Mr. Obama somehow got my e-mail address during the last presidential campaign and he decided to become my pen pal. Now he e-mails me almost every single day telling me what he's doing and asking for my advice or for help with something he's working on. I never answer him, but he doesn't take the hint. He's actually kind of a pest. This week he sent me two personal e-mails thanking me for getting health reform passed, and I don't have the heart to bounce back and tell him that it wasn't my doing.

I'm flattered that the President of the United States is so personally involved in my life, but I feel a little guilty about it to tell you the truth. He could probably spend the time he uses writing e-mails to me on something a little more productive, like fixing the economy.

Okay, back to the five I would include. Hmmm.

1. Stephen King because he's a hugely popular writer and I'd love to know what he thinks about at random moments.

2. Tiger Woods because I'd like to know what he's really thinking.

3. Bill Murray because I think he was a great comic actor and he seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.

4. Michael Palin because his diary of the Monty Python years was beautifully written but kind of long-winded. It would be fun to see what he could do with the constraint of 140 characters.

5. Anthony Bourdain because it's interesting to look inside an intelligent but dark mind.

6. Vladamir Putin because it's interesting to look inside an intelligent but dark mind.

7. Danica Patrick because the thought of a beautiful woman in a fast car is so alluring to so many men(including me), and I wonder what her real life is like.

Okay, that's what I came up with with about ten seconds worth of thought. I know it's seven, not five--sue me.

So, I'd really like to know, if you could follow anyone in the world, who would be on your list?

The sad thing is, I wish I were this guy

Baby, it's a wild world

Aw, doesn't that sweet kitty look cute all curled up like that?

Looks can be deceiving. It's a wild world out there.

It was one of the first beautiful spring days in Suburbingham and Teri and I were sitting on our back porch looking out at the Bayberry Woods. We were enjoying a libation in the late afternoon sunshine, and were content for the moment with the universe and each others' company as we watched the browns of winter turn to green before our eyes.

The scene played out in front of us as we relaxed on the porch. Near the bird feeder where lawn becomes woods, Scram, our feral rescue kitty, crouched low behind a plant. He was on full alert, and his tail with its crooked tip twitched furiously as he sensed his nearby prey.

Moments later a chipmunk made the grave error of emerging from his hole and Scram was on him in a flash. Scram spends most of his time curled up dozing or defiantly strolling over my keyboard as I try to work, but when he attacks, he is lightning fast and deadly. It's an amazing sight to see, and it's over before the mind can register what happened.

Our cat is a fearsome hunter and the terror of the Bayberry Woods. I've seen him leap impossibly high and pull down a bird in flight. True.

Like a mother cat carrying a kitten, Scram proudly trotted across the lawn toward the porch with his latest prize. The terrified chipmunk was still very much alive and in for a horrible fate. Scram likes to play with his victims before dispatching them, and rodents like chipmunks and field mice are his absolute favorites.

I couldn't bear to have a gruesome torture scene mar our beautiful afternoon, so I jumped into action and chased Scram under the porch. I was able to grab the cat, and my shouting and shaking caused him to drop the dazed chipmunk who retreated to a corner under the stairs. His refuge wasn't going to save him for long as it was in easy reach of Scram's deadly sharp claws. The chipmunk looked at me with pleading eyes as he huddled in the corner, and I was even more resolved to save the cute little guy if I could.

I pulled the now-wild and struggling cat back a foot away from the chipmunk. Alvin had the presence of mind to make a dash across the lawn for the safety of the nearby blackberry patch. He only had a couple of seconds head start as Scram was able to escape my grasp and rejoin the chase.

"Catch and release, Scram! Catch and release," I shouted to the cat as he flew across the lawn in hot pursuit, but Scram could only hear the call of the wild.

It was the chipmunk's lucky day. He was able to get to the blackbery patch a split-second before the cat, and Scram joined us on the porch a few moments later showing no signs of bearing a grudge against me for ruining his fun.

We live in a time when fish comes in cans and meat comes in neat plastic-wrapped packages for most of us. We are so far removed from the source of our food that we forget that the protein on our plate was once a living, breathing animal.

Don't worry, I'm not going to go all vegan or anti-hunting on you. I love a thick steak on the grill on a hot summer day. I enjoy catching fish and then cooking them up. I don't get squeamish when I toss live lobsters or crabs into a pot of boiling water (I only wish I could afford to do that more often).

Humans are pre-programmed to eat both meat and vegetables just as cats are pre-programmed to be magnificent killers. It's the natural order of things. But since modern American suburbanites and city dwellers live far away from where the natural order of things plays out on a daily basis, occasional graphic reminders of that natural order can seem ugly and cruel.

I'll admit it--along with the thrill of the catch, I feel a small twinge of guilt for the life taken every time I pull a beautiful redfish out of the water and toss it in my cooler. But when I open a can of tuna, I don't feel a thing. What's the difference?

When I visit my brother-in-law's farm and interact with the pigs he raises, I always feel a little uncomfortable about eating the next pork chop or slice of ham. The pigs are smart and curious, and the piglets are so darn cute.

Yes it's a cold, cruel world out there. The natural order of things can be unpleasant if you exist on the wrong end of the food chain. It's a metaphor for life, even in the suburbs. I don't dwell on it, but this reality is always on the back of my mind.

Teri and I have many verbal call-and-response catch phrases that we've developed over the years. If one of us says the first part of one of these phrases, the other is expected to give the proper response. We have one that involves Scram. Any time he is curled up in Teri's lap like a dozing furry angel, Teri is likely to say "aw, look at my sweet kitty." My standard and expected response is "don't forget, he'd eat you if he could."

That's the world we live in, Discerning Reader. Don't ever forget, it will eat you if it can.

Lost in the Numbers

This and that:

This is so cool! A while ago to escape the winter blues I randomly booked a five night cruise out of New Orleans leaving on December 11. I've mentioned it here a couple of times. Now six other people have demonstrated uncommon good sense by booking cabins on the same cruise, bringing us to a party of eight.

So far I personally know everyone in the group, but with the latest addition, they don't all know each other. I'm excited about having a clique on this cruise. The more of "us" who are on board, the less there will be of "them".

If you're wondering if I'm some kind of snob or making a socioeconomic or ethnic comment by referring to "us" and "them", let me clear that up for you. I'm absolutely an elitist judgemental snob, but only in the best sense of the word. If you're halfway considerate of your fellow human beings most of the time, you're my kind of people and you're one of "us". If you're an uncouth, inconsiderate jerk, you're one of "them". Besides, you're a Discerning Reader, so by definition you are already one of "us".

You can be a part of this trip--we'd love to have you join us. But you'd better hurry--there's only room on the boat for a couple thousand more. I wonder how many more people need to sign up before the cruise line sends a bottle of cheap champagne to my cabin for throwing so much business their way?

If you think you might want to be part of a groovy and diverse group of people, drop me a line and I'll fill you in on the details. As of today the price for the cheapest cabins on board were still just $279 per person for the whole trip, which is pretty inexpensive for five nights of room, board and entertainment. Plus you'll have a chance to knock out a chunk of your Christmas shopping in Mexico.

Romania and India joined the BYE League of Nations in the last few days, adding the 38th and 39th flags to fly over this corner of the webiverse (bun venit and स्वागत!) I've never been to either country, but India is on my very short list of places to go when time and budget allow.

By sheer coincidence, Romania has been on my mind this week. In preparation for our upcoming cruises, I just read the book Cruise Confidential by Brian David Burns. Burns took a job as a waiter on a Carnival cruise ship and became the only American in the cruise line's history to complete a full eight month contract in one of their restaurants. He did this so that he could follow his Romanian girlfriend, but that part of the plan didn't work out very well for him. The women of Romania must be very alluring if they have that kind of effect on men.

The book isn't particularly well written and is badly edited, but it provides a fascinating glimpse into the lives of the hard working and hard partying men and women from all over the world who reside deep in the bowels of these giant ocean liners. What they think of the Americans they serve (easygoing fat cows) and how hard they work (over twelve hours a day, seven days a week) for such a small salary by our standards, is a real eye opener.

Speaking of books, I'm continuing my quest to read the entire Bible over the course of the year. As a practicing Christian for many years and now an officer in my church, I feel horrible in admitting that I've never read the Bible from cover to cover. This is the source of my professed beliefs, so it's a pretty big gap.

I'm not alone. I'll bet most Christians haven't read the Bible all the way through even once in their lives.

There are a lot of reasons for this. The Bible is a thick book filled with dense language. Then there's the book of Numbers which can stop even the most well intentioned Bible readers dead in their tracks.

Numbers is the fourth book of the Old Testament. It is tough sledding and very long. There's not a ton of action in Numbers since the twelve tribes of Israel spend the whole thing wandering around in the wilderness for decades. Every once in a while they bump into some other group and somebody gets smitten, but the rest of it is mostly census data (hence the name) and very detailed rules for daily living. Last night I read a "camping" chapter that named every place the tribes stopped in their long journey to the promised land.

I've decided that if I could choose which of the twelve tribes to join, I'd be in Zebulun because "Zeb" sounds Southern. If Zebulun wouldn't take me, I'd try to get in with Dan because Dan strikes me as a friendly name for a tribe.

Teri and I each recorded another pound down today in our brown rice diet, bringing our total weight loss so far to 25 pounds. I won't be Speedo ready in time for summer, but if I keep losing at this pace, the sight of me on the beach won't cause children to flee in horror.

The show begins at bedtime

Sorry Discerning Readers, I'm just not feeling it today. Rather than bore you with a dull missive on nothing in particular, why don't you pick out something more interesting to read from the webiverse and come back tomorrow?

Speaking of dull and boring, Finland joined the BYE League of Nations this week (tervetuloa!). Aw, that was mean. I'm sorry Finland. I've been to your country, and I found it to be a charming place and not nearly as dull as Norway.

My most enduring memory of Finland is getting drawn into a Helsinki street performer's act. It was a guy who had the most amazing trained housecats. Somehow I got pulled out of the crowd and ended up as the trapeze upon which the trained kitties performed. I've got a picture of it somewhere in the basement that I'm too lazy to hunt down and scan at the moment.

Getting a cat to perform on cue is no easy task--if you don't believe me, just ask Siegfried and Roy.

Teri and I have had three cats over the course of our marriage--Maggie, Titania and our current resident feline, Scram. I was able to teach Maggie some rudimentary tricks, but Titania was as dumb as a bag of hammers. Sweet but dumb.

Scram, our feral Katrina rescue kitty, is a very clever cat and a very quick learner. He gives a performance every night at our house right at bedtime. I'll tell you about it, but this is going to fall under the category of too much information and will forever solidify your opinion of me as a hopeless geek. So be it.

When I climb into bed, Scram will lurk on the floor close by waiting for his cue. I'll put on my "ringmaster voice" and announce that it's showtime. My patter doesn't vary much (usually I change the name of the fictional venue to reflect the events of the day). My announcement goes something like this:

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, kitties of all ages; the Bayberry Ballroom is pleased to present, just back from his world tour where he amazed and amused the crown heads of Europe, it's the one, the only--Scramster!

When I say his name, Scram will jump on the bed, and then perform his five tricks. Well, it's really only three tricks, but he does two of them twice with minor variations. After he has completed his presentation, he'll leap off the bed and run out of the room. It's quite a dramatic exit and he thought of that part all by himself. A moment or two later, he'll return to the bed to curl up with us for the night if it's cold outside or to ask to be let outside if the weather is warm.

This show has been running uninterrupted for over four years and it never gets old for any of us. It's nice that Teri and I can end every day with a smile.

Italy also joined the League of Nations this week (benvenuto!). Trust me, there's nothing dull about Italy. Teri and I have spent close to a month there on a couple of trips and had crazy and wonderful adventures both times.

On our first trip, our near arrest by machine gun toting caribinieri in Siena was a definite highlight. Okay, so they were laughing at us too hard to take us into custody and they let us go with a warning and gentle Italian smiles. I'll say no more except that we became local legends in Siena that day.

On the second trip we went with friends and rented an apartment in Bologna as a base camp. It was a respectable neighborhood, but the sidewalk just outside our third floor apartment window was the spot where the local ladies of the evening congregated to flag down customers on the city's ring road. They were quite aggressive, and we would be lulled to sleep each night by the siren call of prostitutes enticing their prospective clients.

One night the girls added a prop to their bag of tricks when one of them found a refrigerator box. The girls took turns popping out of the box and shouting the Italian equivalent of yoo-hoo to passing cars.

We found out that everyone in Bologna knew that this was the spot to go to make a love connection in that city and the police left the girls alone if they didn't stray from this area. It had been the accepted corner of town for hookers to congregate at night for many years, maybe centuries.

During the day, it was a respectable, clean, safe middle class neighborhood, but, just like with Scram, the show always began at bedtime.

Census 2010

When I checked the mailbox today, the census form was waiting for me inside. It took all of two minutes to complete since the Federales asked me for less information than is required to take out a magazine subscription.

I didn't delay filling out the form since the envelope darkly hinted at prison or worse if I just tossed the form in the trash. My envelope specifically told me I would be placed in a jail cell with an amorous axe murderer named Cletus if I didn't respond right away. I wonder if everyone got that version.

Threatening me with a prison term was an effective way to compel my cooperation but somehow didn't seem very nice when juxtaposed with the cutsey TV spots the census people have been running for weeks.

Now that I think about it, a reality show about armed Census Enforcement Agents bringing rogue and wanton non-responders to justice would be pretty cool (see picture). On second thought, maybe not.

For me the hardest part of the form was determining if I was either Guamanian or Chamorro. I thought guamanian was a dip made with avocados and chamorros came from the drive through at Taco Bell. Turns out that Guamanians are Guamish and Chamorros are Pacific islanders. Live and learn, that's my motto.

The great divide

Let's talk about physical beauty, but first let's talk about hunger.

I'm writing hungry today.

I'm hungry a lot these days.

When Lent began in mid-February, Teri went on a diet and I went along for the ride. The diet is working. So far I'm down 10 pounds from my winter hibernation high and Teri has lost a similar amount. Not that we're competing with each other or anything.

Teri's diet is simple and easy to remember. The staple is brown rice for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Our little rice cooker has been in overdrive for the last month.

To the rice we add fresh veggies and a few condiments--usually hot sauce or spices. Occasionally we have a piece of fish or other seafood. We get to eat an apple, orange or some strawberries a couple of times a day. And we get all the raw carrot sticks and celery we can stand. That's it. No alcohol, candy, breads, cakes, chips, fast food, dairy or anything else that makes life worth living.

Once a week we declare a "feast day" and treat ourselves to an adult beverage and a dinner without brown rice, usually a seafood pasta. I also indulge in dessert on feast days, but we've both sworn off meat completely until Lent is over.

As motivation, I have a rule that I allow myself fish sticks for lunch on any day I hit a new record low weight for the year. I'll whip up lunch as soon as I finish this post and it's a fish stick day. Woo hoo!

Between the rice diet and a ramped up exercise program, the weight is coming off faster than I expected.

Today I had to retire a pair of blue jeans that fit perfectly well a couple of months ago but now won't stay up on their own. A few months before that I donated a couple of pairs of my "really fat boy" jeans to the thrift store. That's so much fun.

I'm an obsessive weigher-inner. For the last 10 years I've kept a log of my weight on every day that I worked out. I'm such a geek that I even keep graphs using this data. Today I'm 15 pounds lighter than I was on the same date last year. I have a goal weight in mind that is 51 pounds below today's weigh-in, so I still have a long, long road ahead, and many more bowls of brown rice to eat.

It's hard to watch television these days. Any time a commercial for any restaurant comes on, Teri and I start drooling like Pavlov's dogs. It doesn't matter if we like the restaurant being advertised. We call the closeups of the menu items in these commercials "food porn". Last night we were tortured by food porn from Red Lobster, Logan's Roadhouse and Sonic. None of these are places where we dine, but it was all we could do to keep from jumping in the car and heading to Sonic for a late-night snack of a double cheeseburger and tater tots.

Teri had a spoonful of peanut butter on a rice cake the other day and couldn't believe how guilty she felt about this tiny bit of rule bending.

There are several reasons we're dieting. Improving our health is the main reason. At 50 years old and on blood pressure and cholesterol meds, it just makes sense to shed a little excess baggage. Practicing a little self-discipline is another reason we're doing this.

Then there's the hotitude factor. To put it simply, we both want to look better. Don't get me wrong, Teri will always be my little hottie, and I'm sure she'll always love me, even if the scale doesn't.

If we face facts, it's not likely either of us will be posing for the covers of Glamour or GQ anytime soon, no matter how much weight we lose. At 50, we're past the point of youthful hotitude. But it would be nice to be a little more attractive to my wife and others. I can't do anything about my looks, but I can do something about my weight.

We live in a time and place where a whole lot of us are fat. Despite what we tell ourselves about being comfortable in our own skins or how we rationalize our weight gains by telling ourselves that putting on a few extra pounds is natural "at our age", the fact is that some of us have been putting on those few extra pounds every year for the last bunch of years. And I've got the detailed charts and graphs of my own weight for the last decade to prove it.

Perhaps it's unfair that we as a culture think thin people are more beautiful than fat people, but we do. Statistics and studies show there's a strong negative correlation between weight and income--the fatter you are, the less you make on average.

Beauty is a subjective thing. Or is it?

Apparently men and women agree that thin people are more attractive than fat ones, but my unscientific studies of our species have shown that men and women in our culture have different ideas of what constitutes beauty, especially in women.

I call this the Sarah Jessica Parker Divide. Most women I know find Ms. Parker to be extremely attractive and assume that men do too. My informal surveys on this topic show that most men find Ms. Parker much less beautiful and many are mystified that she is presented as a kind of sex symbol in films and television.

For some reason, many women are oblivious to how men judge female attractiveness and assume that both genders are using the same criteria.

Teri was stunned to learn of my theory of the Sarah Jessica Parker Divide when it came up the other day. She immediately demanded to know which side of the divide other female stars stood. I used the cast of one of her favorite guilty pleasures, Desperate Housewives, as an example--Teri Hatcher and Eva Longoria were on the "good" side of the divide as I saw it, while the rest of the housewives were on the "bad" side.

Teri was shocked and even a little angry when I went on to explain that most straight men of my acquaintance have a simple and crude acid test they use when judging female beauty. I won't elaborate since she was becoming agitated with men in general and her husband in particular, and I don't want to have the same effect on every female reader of the BYE blog. That's why I didn't go on to explain that the test involves a sliding scale affected by circumstances and alcohol consumption. I didn't introduce her to the expression "beer goggles" because she was already annoyed with me for my crime of being male.

Then we moved on to the topic of male beauty. We both agreed that George Clooney is impossibly handsome, but I had to explain that beyond a handful of exceptions, straight guys simply don't care how attractive other men are or aren't. John Goodman, Pierce Brosnan, Billy Crystal, Pee Wee Herman, Will Smith and Johnny Depp are all just guys as far as other guys are concerned--there is no male counterpart to the Sarah Jessica Parker Divide. The looks of the actor don't matter nearly as much to men as whether the performance they give is compelling, funny or moving.

Wait, I forgot all about Hugh Grant, who is Ms. Parker's male equivalent and is all by himself on the other side of the male attractiveness divide.

To sum up; when it come to beauty men are dogs, women are misguided and double standards abound.

And the truth is, real beauty has nothing at all to do with looks.

She blinded me with science

She blinded me with science,
And hit me with technology.
--Thomas Dolby

Help wanted: One biologist, preferably with a strong background in microbiology. Knowledge of microscopes (both optical and electron varieties) a must. Experience with microscopic imaging of tissue cultures is required. The person accepting the position of BYE science consultant will be paid in the eternal gratitude of an author of a book now being written. The consultant will be acknowledged in said book and and will receive a signed first edition when published. Apply to the proprietor of this blog.

I found myself wading into the waters of science today. Those waters seemed so tranquil and blue when viewed from afar. They seemed warm and inviting when I first dipped my toes into that tropical sea. Then I got about three steps off the shore and the bottom fell out. Within seconds I was drowning.

Appearances can be deceiving.

I had to fight my way through a mere 685 words of dreadful prose today. I didn't even try to write "pretty" today, I just tried to get enough facts straight to fool a liberal arts graduate into believing I knew what I was talking about. I told myself I could go back later to "fix" the writing.

I won't tell you any more because I don't want to spoil the surprise. I know I don't have a chance of fooling a scientist or engineer, but if I can trick the political science majors out there into suspending their disbelief and going along with me for the ride, I'll be pleased.

I'm writing a murder mystery with a sciency twist. Today I reached the point where I could no longer ignore the science piece of it. After plowing through my old friend Wikipedia along with scholarly journal articles, industry websites and dozens of web pages produced by biology professors, I finally knew just enough to write this brief but key scene so I could move the story along.

Along the way I learned the difference between a nanometer and a micrometer, about Antony van Leeuwenhoek and his animalcules, how the norovirus works, how to put a microscope slide together and a bunch of other things that weren't relevant to my life prior to today.

I know I've got it all wrong, and any biologist who reads what I've written will mock me for my complete lack of understanding. I'm also writing about coroners, police procedures, security systems, government agents, crime labs, SEC football and a bunch of other things I don't know anything about, so this story is likely to turn out to be a giant ball of factual error.

The late Michael Chrichton was the master of writing fiction based on science. He made it look so easy. Trust me, it's not. It's hard to make up believable science without making it boring.

Lucky for me I'll be done with writing the science part of the story in another day or two. I have one more tough science-based scene to get through and fortunately I'll have my cop there for the scientist to talk down to. After that, I'll be back to writing about the lives of people and their various levels of dysfunction. I'm on solid ground there--no chance of drowning.

Friday groovitude

A little groovitude for your Friday viewing pleasure. OK Go rules! I've had this song on my pod for a while, but I had no idea how cool the video was. The video is a single shot (it took 60 takes to get it right) and something like 15 engineers and other geeky types helped the band work out the Rube Goldberg contraption.

Click on the little box on the viewer with the four arrows for a full screen view. Enjoy!

Mother nature strikes

That was quite the little rain event. We had five inches or so of rain the last day here in our little corner of Suburbingham. The little creek/drainage ditch that runs through our back yard has turned into quite a little river.

Yesterday some of the roads in and around our little city of Helena were closed because of flooding. That's about as dramatic as the news ever gets here in Bayberry RFD.

The biggest downer for me from all the rain is that I'm out something like $30, an hour or so of labor and I probably did some kind of irreparable damage to the environment.

On Monday I carefully laid down a bag and a half of some sort of toxic powder that is supposed to magically keep weeds from breaking out. I'm not sure how the stuff works--I suppose the powder somehow frightens the weeds so they remain in hiding in the soil. The idea is that after you spread the poison a gentle rain will dissolve the powder, it will soak into the soil and the weed-preventing magic will happen.

Yesterday's deluge washed away my lawn treatment and and instead of preventing weeds, those expensive and nasty chemicals are now flowing through the streams and rivers of central Alabama. I'm sorry.

Today the sun is shining, the temperature will be in the 70s and I spent a chunk of the morning getting the lawn mower ready for the growing season just ahead. I changed the oil, air filter, blade and spark plug, so I'm good to go for another year. In the last week some of my neighbors have been out prematurely mowing their lawns. I'm not sure why they're doing this since the grass in their yards is still brown and hasn't woken up yet. I think they're just antsy.

I'm going to wait until the grass is actually growing before I begin mowing. I'm the only homeowner in all of Suburbingham who owns a mower that doesn't move on its own. Most everyone around here has a riding mower or at the very least a self-propelled mower. We have a lot of grass to mow and my mower makes me do all of the work myself, so I'm in no rush to crank it up until I see the need to do so.

In the meantime there's plenty to do. I have a couple dozen more bales of pine straw to spread and dozens of bags of cypress mulch to lay down in the back yard. I also have my garden bed to get ready for the coming season.

A couple of weeks ago I planted squash, cucumber and tomato seeds in plastic trays. They've germinated and my plants are growing fast. In the next week or two we'll make a road trip to our favorite nursery to buy several varieties of heirloom tomatoes, eggplants and peppers along with Teri's choice of herbs for the garden.

Then I'll harvest the last of my winter crop of cabbage and collards, "plow" my garden bed and get it ready for this growing season. Early in April, when all danger of frost is past, I'll plant the herbs and veggies. About the same time I'll fertilize my fruit trees and bushes, a pointless exercise since the squirrels steal all of my peaches and blueberries and my plum and pecan trees aren't big enough to bear fruit yet. The stinking squirrels don't like figs for some reason, so at least I'll have those to look forward to. Maybe I'll plant an apple or pear tree this year to add some variety to the diet of our local rodent population.

Our December cruise out of New Orleans is now a Best Year Ever event since six of us have signed up for it and another couple is considering it.

The weather can be spotty in the Caribbean in December, and it's likely to be chilly when we sail out of New Orleans. But by the time we get to Mexico, the sun should be shining. Teri and I have been to the Yucatan a number of times in the second week of December and the weather has always been nice enough to sunbathe.

The price is right for this trip. At just $279 per person for five nights aboard a beautiful ship, I don't care if the seas are rough or it rains the whole time. You're welcome to join us if you want--just ask me for the details. The price has actually dropped $10 per person in the last week, and those of us already signed up got $10 refunds, enough to buy a fruity umbrella drink on board.

Not much stirring

It's been pouring rain since last night and there is street flooding today in Suburbingham, but my mind is focused on an early October morning in Constantinople, Alabama. Sandy is about to tell Eli their marriage is over, and I'm not sure how that scene is going to play out. I feel for Eli. He's having a very bad week, and it's going to get worse for him before it gets better, I'm afraid.

Today's post is going to be very brief. It's one of those days when there's not much on my mind and not much stirring in my soul.

I do want to thank an anonymous citizen of Greece for dropping by today and adding that proud country to the BYE League of Nations. I guess you showed up after I said a couple of things about you in my recent political rant and the Google-monster teleported you here.

I liked Greece when I was there, and I especially enjoyed the people I met. When I visited, it was just prior to the Athens Olympics, and it looked like they wouldn't have the infrastructure needed to host the games ready in time. The Greeks I spoke with were funny and self-deprecating with a laid-back love of life, but you could tell they were determined to pull through somehow. And they did.

I was also in Beijing just prior to their Olympics, and there was no question that China would be ready for the world stage. Athens was a sloppy, overcrowded city and Beijing was an organized overcrowded city. Greece seems focused on its rich history while China is all about the future. I enjoyed my visits to both places, but I liked Athens more.

Signs of spring

Mom is home after her whirlwind tour of Egypt, Dubai and a bunch of other places you'd only go to after you'd already been everywhere else.

Okay, that's just jealousy talking. She sent me her itinerary ahead of time "just in case" and it looked like an amazing trip.

She had a friend over when I called, so we only talked long enough for her to tell me she had a great time and to share her single most memorable impression--that stamps for postcards cost way too much in the Middle East.

She promised to call me back later, and I'm sure other equally helpful travel tips will soon follow.

I went off the diet and had lunch with a World War II veteran today at a terrific Italian joint. It was a treat for me and I hope it was for him as well. I was fascinated by his experiences in France and the Philippines during the war.

I brought a copy of my father's brief autobiography with me to show off to my lunch companion. My father wrote the book and I edited it shortly before he passed away around Thanksgiving of 2004. Dad's autobiography covered the war years in some detail and my father served on the same kind of ship that transported my friend across the Pacific. Who knows, perhaps it was the same one.

I still miss my father and find it hard to believe it has been almost six years now since he died.

I have immense respect for our World War II veterans, and I believe they really were our nation's greatest generation. My father, who served in the navy for 29 years and over the course of three wars (WWII, Korea, Vietnam) said that WWII was "the last good war." Dad wasn't trying to tell me that war was ever good--I know what he meant by his statement, and I believe him.

Every day there are fewer veterans of World War II with us. If you know one, let him (or her) know how much you appreciate what he did for all of us. Soon enough there won't be any left to thank.

Scram, our feral Katrina rescue kitty is back on patrol in the Bayberry Woods. His stitches come out on Friday after two rounds of surgery, but he's well enough and annoying enough that I gave in and let him out yesterday and again today. This worked wonders for the mental health of everyone in the house, because when the Prince of Bayberry is unhappy, he lets everyone know it.

I've been making daily trips to Home Depot and other purveyors of lawn and garden supplies recently, a sure sign that spring has come to Suburbingham. Today I jammed ten more bales of pine straw, four bags of manure and a gallon jug of a toxic chemical soup that's supposed to kill weeds into the Jeep.

I have many more trips to make for mulch and other yard-related items before our yard is ready for warm weather, but I'm officially on the job.

Our mystery tree in the front yard (Teri has identified it as some kind of cherry) is in full bloom today, and it's a spectacular shade of bright pink. The dogwoods will be in bloom soon and then the greenup will begin in earnest.

I hate working in my yard in cold weather, and I waited too long this year to dump pre-emergent weed prevention stuff on my lawn. The other day my next door neighbor Tesley pointed out the price I would pay for my tardiness, and now little patches of green have popped up everywhere on my lawn. The grass is still brown and dormant, but I have an abundant crop of weeds.

Tesley has the best looking, most perfectly manicured, most beautifully landscaped yard in all of Suburbingham, and every weed in my yard stands in mute testimony against me, especially when compared to his ideal standard of perfection.

Tesley is retired but works part time at a golf course and full time on his lawn. He has installed a putting green in his yard that would be the envy of the Augusta National. His yard truly is a work of art and he tends it with the same level of skill and care that Renoir used in his paintings.

Teri's brown rice and veggie "cleansing" diet is having amazing results. She's down 12 pounds in the last few weeks and I've lost a few pounds too, mostly by osmosis. Of course when you substitute fresh veggies and fruit for meat and alcohol, you're almost certain to drop a few pounds along the way. The fact that I include fish sticks and the occasional off the reservation binge in my diet accounts for my more modest success. We've both been hitting the exercise equipment in our basement with a fierce regularity for the last several weeks as well. Yay us.

Limited time offer

I was checking my Facebook page on Saturday, living a virtual life in lieu of a real one, when the chat box popped open. I'm always startled, and usually annoyed, when that happens. I like talking to my friends, but chatting with them via instant message isn't my favorite thing to do.

This time it was an old friend stopping by to say hi. Let's call him Auguste. I won't identify him further so as to protect his privacy for reasons that will become obvious. I wish I could tell you more about Auguste. I have some great stories about this colorful man, and it's killing me to not share at least a few of them here.

I hadn't spoken to my friend in many years (and still haven't, as it happens). Instead of talking, we entered into one of those instant message keyboard conversations. I find these a bit disconcerting since you inevitably end up carrying on discussions on several topics simultaneously as you ask and answer questions on overlapping lines of thought.

My friend, always an interesting person, has gone on to lead a fascinating and accomplished life. He has been places and done things many of us have only dreamed of, and I enjoyed hearing a little of the adventures in his life as we caught up with each other.

It was a gorgeous spring day in Suburbingham, and I knew the weather was just as nice in the city where Auguste lives. At one point in our wide ranging virtual conversation, I pointed out that it was a beautiful day for both of us and how wrong it was that we were spending part of it indoors talking to each other on our computers. Here is part of what followed.

Auguste: I don't get out much these days.

Hank: Why?

Auguste: My health sucks.

Hank: Define "sucks."

Auguste: One doctor who loves challenges cracked his knuckles and said "seven major body systems all in crisis, this will be fun."

A few years ago, I would have dropped the inquiry and changed the subject at "I don't get out much" and definitely at the response "my health sucks." I would have felt like I was prying into something that was none of my business instead of bluntly asking him to explain further. I would have felt trapped into an uncomfortable conversation about something I didn't want to think about.

I'm not sure what about me has changed, but something has. "How are you?" isn't a rhetorical question from me any more. In the past, I didn't want a truthful answer from you to that question. Today I do. I don't know if it's my age or the age we live in that has changed me.

I think part of it is that I have become more aware than ever before of the fragility of life. I see that the opportunities to have new experiences, enjoy good health and feel real joy in being alive are limited. Nothing in life is promised, and none of us should be surprised when the "good times" come to an end.

On Sunday I spoke with someone who had just received an awful medical diagnosis. He has heart problems, and, after his most recent battery of tests his doctors told him there was nothing further they could do. The implications of the diagnosis were unavoidable and were written all over his face. "I guess I'm just worn out," he said in the most dispirited tone of voice imaginable.

I'm powerless to change the life circumstances for either of these men. I can show my concern, but I can't restore their health or improve their lives. I will certainly pray for them and wish them well.

While I can't help them, I can help you and me, Discerning Reader. We need to keep reminding ourselves to live our lives to their fullest and not waste a single moment. Life and good health always come with expiration dates, and we aren't always going to be notified when that limited time offer will be revoked.

I will never forget when the terminally ill Warren Zevon made his final appearance on Letterman and he advised the viewers to "enjoy every sandwich." Life is too short, too uncertain and too precious to squander the good moments that come our way.

As soon as I signed off with Auguste, I found Teri and told her we needed to get out of the house for a while. We walked hand-in-hand through the Bayberry Woods down to the nearby lake on that sunny late afternoon. As we walked, we talked about this and that. Our conversation was about nothing in particular or of real importance, but the walking and talking were the most important and enjoyable thing either of us did that day.

In fact, our walk was the highlight of my week. For that little while, we were both completely alive and taking full advantage of a limited time offer.

Cheeseburgers and paradise

Mexico joined the BYE League of Nations the other day becoming the 34th virtual flag to fly in our little corner of the webiverse. Bienvenido! What took you so long?

I'm kind of surprised that Mexico joined our ranks long after Malaysia, Serbia and a bunch of other lands more distant from BYE headquarters. I've been to Mexico many times, and I love the parts of it I've seen. Teri and I will be heading your way twice later this year.

Most of our time in Mexico has been spent on the island of Cozumel for winter dive vacations, which does skew our perspective of your nation. Cozumel is a Mayan word that has something to do with swallows, I believe, but should be the Mayan word for paradise.

During the day when the cruise ships are in port, the main city on the island (San Miguel) is packed with throngs of overfed cruisers snapping up t-shirts and lining up at Senor Frog's for margaritas. At night after the ships have pulled out to sea, this city of 90,000 becomes more like a tranquil village.

I don't know if it's still true, but Sunday is traditionally the only day of the week when there are no cruise ships in port on the island, and that day is largely given over to religious and family celebrations. On Sunday nights the islanders pack the town square and the local children put on little pageants on the main stage.

Cozumel is the only place I've ever been where people routinely break into song for no reason at all. You see this everywhere on the island if you start to look for it, and it's true of men and women of all ages regardless of their ability to carry a tune. The residents of the island are completely unselfconscious about this. A store clerk will start singing softly while she stocks a shelf or a waiter will begin to sing to himself as business slows at the end of his shift.

It took me a while to notice this phenomenon, but once I did, I saw it everywhere I went on Cozumel. A place where people sing just because they're alive can't be all bad.

When the ships are docked, the storekeepers can be very aggressive about luring in customers, but it's good-natured aggression. If you go in, you're likely to be offered a free shot of tequila or "Mexican Viagra" as they call it.

The touts will stand out on the sidewalks and tell you that their wares are "cheaper than Wal-Mart" or "cheaper than K-Mart" or "almost free". The really aggressive merchants will combine two of these three phrases in some order. One evening, Teri and I were walking downtown and decided we'd keep going until we hit the trifecta. It took a while, but eventually a jewelry merchant completed the quest by saying "my stuff is cheaper than Wal-Mart, cheaper than K-Mart, almost free!" He was startled and stepped away from the loco gringos when Teri and I burst into uncontrollable spasms of laughter.

By contrast, of all the places I've been, the people of Saint Petersburg, Russia looked the saddest to my American eyes. Teri and I were there during the white nights, the time of year near the summer solstice when it never really gets dark that far north. The weather was beautiful, yet the people on the streets walked with their heads down and their shoulders hunched, like they were trying to traverse a blizzard in the depths of winter.

I've learned from experience that it takes a lot to make a Russian smile.

I haven't done shout-outs for a while. Let's say hi to some visitors to this site who hail from places I've never been.

Hello, League City, Texas. You used to be home for the Karankawa Indians, but now you're Houston's aquatic playground.

Howdy, Moody, Maine. I've never been there, but Teri and I drove through once on our way to Round Pond. We stayed in a lovely old Victorian house on the water there. Beautiful country.

Guten tag, Hamburg, Germany. I bet you guys really hate it that our first association with your city is the food purveyed by the likes of McDonald's and Burger King. In reality, the first hamburger on a bun was made in Tulsa in 1891. I've been to Tulsa and I've been to Germany and the two places aren't all that similar.

Out of curiosity, I went to McDonald's German website. I was distressed to discover that the website was in German, but after a little intuitive button clicking and a few false starts, I determined that there are no fewer than 16 McDonald's restaurants in downtown Hamburg (see picture). Does anyone else think that's wrong?

Continuing with our theme, hello to Meriden, Connecticut, the home of the first steamed cheeseburger in history. I'm not sure what a steamed cheeseburger is, but I want one and I want it now. I've given up meat for Lent, so I won't be able to go to Meriden to fulfill my mystery craving for at least another few weeks.

In the interest of full disclosure and because I know Teri will bust me, I haven't been perfect on the non-meat front. On Wednesday evening I broke down and made a run for the border. I devoured a taco and a burrito at Taco Bell. I'm not sure what that brown stuff was inside, but I'm not positive it was meat--so I may still be okay.

Finally, a big shout-out to Nampa, Idaho. Your Wikipedia page brags that you're home to a Costco, Target, Olive Garden, Old Navy, World Market, Sam's Club, McDonalds, and Macy's among other retailers I recognize. I'd drop by for a visit, but, except for your rodeo, you sound just like Suburbingham so I don't see the point.

Just us trolls

The sun is shining and there's a hint of a warmup in the air, but I'm in a dark mood today and I'm going to deliver my one and only only political diatribe in the course of the Best Year Ever.

I'm concerned, Discerning Reader. I'm worried for us all.

I've made it a rule not to talk politics here, but this is my forum and my rules. So today I'm going to make an exception and upset a few discerning readers along the way. I apologize in advance and encourage you to flog me with your comments, but I don't think I can restrain myself any longer.

I'm sick and tired of bad economic news. At my house, our total investments still aren't worth what they were when the markets began to collapse in the fall of 2008. This is true even though our retirement nest egg has recovered somewhat and we've continued to add to our retirement accounts throughout. Our house isn't worth what it was a year ago and many Americans now owe more on their homes than the market says they are worth. I personally know too many capable people who can't find work right now, and I have several friends who have lost their businesses in the last year because of our ongoing economic downturn.

I'm an optimist by nature, but every time I think I see an economic recovery on the horizon, some new bit of ominous information points to a darker reality. The bleak bit of news floating around now has some economists predicting how a collapse of the Greek economy could spiral out of control and somehow make our own recession much worse than it already is. How did we get to the point where a small country with an economy based on olives and tourism could possibly change our lives here in the United States? The GDP of Greece is smaller than some of our bigger corporations, so how is this even possible?

Something is very wrong with that.

I'm exhausted from the health care debate and frustrated that this has been the top agenda item for our federal government for the entirety of the current administration's time in office. I voted for Mr. Obama, but I won't vote for him the next time. Hope and change? Well, after more than a year of it, I don't have a lot of hope and I don't like the change.

The Obama administration and the Democrat leadership in Congress have completely lost their way. The Republicans aren't doing much better, but since they're out of power and can only obstruct progress, they get less of the blame. Instead of focusing on jobs and the economy, our two major parties have been engaged in a bitter, partisan war over health care. This has left them preoccupied at a time when they should be focused on other things.

Health care is important and we all know our present system is an unsustainable mess, but it's not the main issue for most of us right now. In the words of the brilliant Democratic strategist James Carville, "it's the economy, stupid."

I'm frustrated that our government continues to spend wildly with no apparent positive effect. I was all for a stimulus program and dropping money out of helicopters when I thought it might prevent a total collapse of our economy. But what did the stimulus get us other than an additional pile of debt? You tell me, because I can't see it.

The feds could have spent the same amount of money by temporarily dropping taxes for everyone, thereby providing a direct stimulus to the people in society who actually produce things. They could have temporarily dropped corporate taxes to encourage companies to hire more people and make more stuff. They could have fixed the potholes, made new roads and bridges or built a bunch of new and wonderful government buildings. They could have given everyone in the country a nice new laptop and an iPhone and built a free wireless network that spans the country. That would have been cool.

But our government didn't do any of that. As far as I can tell, a whole lot of that stimulus money went to hiring new government employees who will produce little and will be a further drain on our economy for the indefinite future.

I'm worried that too many of my countrymen are too stupid to see what's happening and that they are contributing to the problem. For that, we can give thanks in part to our eroded standards of public education. Today's college students can text and network with the best of them, but not very many of them know how to think critically.

I think there's been a decline in civility in the last decade or two and this is compounding our current problems. This is especially troubling since our species wasn't all that civilized to begin with.

We live in an era where we all think we're special. Each of us thinks we belong at the front of the line regardless of when we joined the queue. The rules don't always apply to us. This is a recipe for chaos. If we're all special, then none of us are.

I see this attitude in little ways everywhere I go. There was a story in this morning's newspaper about something that happened on the interstate here yesterday. Two guys were driving like they were the only ones on the road when one cut the other off in traffic. Idiot A drives off and Idiot B gives chase. When Idiot A won't pull over, Idiot B shoots him from his moving car.

That's what I mean by a decline in civility.

We're more networked than we've ever been, but we have less of a sense of community and accountability to one another than ever before.

We're in danger of becoming a nation of selfish trolls who think they can vote themselves bread and circuses forever. That's a system that can't support itself indefinitely. Ask the Romans. Ask the Soviets.

It makes me sad to see us (me included) become more troll-like by degrees.

If I could, I'd make every person in our administration and every member of Congress read "Atlas Shrugged" if they want to see where I think we could be heading. I might also add "Animal Farm" to the list.

Here's the thing that most concerns me: We live in very troubled times and our political leaders are apparently inept. This is a recipe for disaster. When the money for bread and circuses runs out and life becomes unbearable, the trolls will wake up and grab the first charismatic savior with a quick fix they can find. Once he or she is in control, that charismatic savior may have some unpalatable ideas about how to govern his trolls. Think it can't happen? Ask the Germans what happened in 1933.

Rant over.

You like me more when I'm funny, and I'll try to be funny again tomorrow, but I had to get that out of my system.

The podium is yours. Fire away.

Wings of love

This and that:

Congratulations to the nation of Colombia, which joined the BYE League of Nations yesterday. Now that you're here, I want to apologize to you on behalf of myself and every other American who repeatedly misspells the name of your country as Columbia.

Yesterday's blog post about keys inspired several comments and others have passed on your key-related stories to me off-line. Quincy's comment reminded me of the time that I cleaned out our junk drawer after a decade or so of neglect.

Do you have a junk drawer at your home where you place potentially useful items that serve no immediate or obvious purpose? I think most of us do.

We stuff things like rubber bands, incomplete decks of playing cards, sample bottles of suntan lotion, pens that aren't quite working and odd types of batteries into our junk drawer so that we'll have them "when we need them." "When we need them" turns out to be a time in the indefinite future that never quite arrives. When the time comes to put that extra Energizer size 2016 battery into the calculator, I've forgotten about the one waiting in the drawer, and I head off to Walgreen's to buy another pack of two--one of which will also join its long-forgotten mate in the junk drawer.

Our junk drawer had gotten to the point where I couldn't open the darn thing, much less add or subtract anything from it. So, on an afternoon when I had absolutely nothing better to do, I grabbed a trash bag and cleaned it out. This purging is a part of the junk drawer cycle of life.

After cleaning the drawer I was left with at least a half a dozen keys with no matching lock. Since I didn't know what they were for, but since they had all been sitting in the drawer for years, it was logical to conclude that whatever they may have once unlocked couldn't be that important.

I had the strangest feeling throwing away perfectly good, but perfectly useless keys. It felt wrong somehow. What if I needed them later? What if the garbage men found them and used them to rob us? I know these thoughts were ridiculous, but there you go.

We turned the TV on for an hour or so last night towards the end of prime time. Since we were too lazy to make an actual choice and the TV was already tuned to the Birmingham ABC affiliate, we watched that station by default. It was a "reality" show called The Bachelor, On the Wings of Love. Appropriately enough, the show was about a bachelor pilot named Jake who starts out with dozens of pretty girls at his disposal and kicks several off the show each week until only his "one true love" remains at the end of his "journey".

Is there one true love for any of us? I wonder, but it's a subject to explore another day--a day when only men are reading this blog.

Last night we tuned in midway through the two hour grand finale. The impossibly handsome Jake was torn between the good girl and the bad girl. The last two girls looked exactly alike to me, so Teri, using her girl radar, had to keep telling me which was the good one and which was the bad one.

Moments after we turned on the TV, Jake asked the bad girl to marry him, and I spent most of the next hour attempting to amuse Teri by inventing new promotional commercials for the show. "The Bachelor, it's tramp-o-licious. The Bachelor, it's trollop time! This season on The Bachelor we'll trumpet our new line of strumpets." I could go on, and I did--annoying Teri no end as she tried to pretend she wasn't caught up in the cheesy romance of it all.

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, the thing at the bottom of the screen.

You know how the networks and TV stations put extra stuff on the corners of your screen to tell you what station you're watching or to promote upcoming programs? Well last night our local ABC affiliate put up a tease for their big story on that night's late local news. This major headline popped up every few minutes while we watched The Bachelor.

And the earth-shattering story they were promoting so heavily? A looming shortage of chicken wings.

I'm not kidding. We had to watch the first few minutes of the news last night to see what this was about. In a stunning bit of investigative reporting, the correspondent discovered that "the chicken only has two wings." Apparently demand for chicken wings is up somewhat and prices have gone slightly higher. That was pretty much the whole story, but here's a link to it if you want to watch it for yourself.

I'm not sure why this non-story was the one the station chose to promote. Was it the "wings of love" subtitle of the lead-in show? Was it that the producer is obsessed with the offerings at Buffalo Wild Wings? Did nothing else happen in Birmingham yesterday?

In other news, the weather guy breathlessly forecast the slim chance of a flake or two of snow for today. He went on to explain that the any snow that happened to fall wouldn't stick and would pose no hazard to travel because our temperatures will remain above freezing. Several area school systems dutifully announced they would open several hours late today anyway because of the looming disaster. Really.

I love living in Alabama--especially on a slow news day.

I've mentioned booking cruises to escape the winter blues a couple of times in this space recently. One of those trips, a five night cruise out of New Orleans in December, is rapidly turning into a group cruise. After I told a couple of friends that we booked a cabin for just $289 per person for this five nighter, they signed on too. Now another couple is also threatening to join us. Hey, the more the merrier. If you read this blog, you're my kind of people, so I'm sure you'd be good company. If you're interested, I can give you the details. If you do go, at least one of you needs to book a big suite so we'll have a place for our group parties.

Keys to the kingdom

Did you know the word janitor comes from Janus, the Roman god of gates and doorways? So does the word January, since Janus was also the god of beginnings.

When I think of a janitor, I have a mental picture of a guy with a mop in his hand and a big ring of keys hanging from his belt. Janitors take their name from Janus because of all those keys.

In our society, we tend to think of the position of janitor as a low, dead-end kind of job. I'm not so sure.

Last week I was handed a bunch of keys with strange codes stamped on them along with a chart to tell me what each key locks and unlocks. I promptly misplaced my cheat sheet, meaning I was left with a big handful of keys that unlocked . . . something. Thus began my official duties as a deacon in our church.

In our Presbyterian church, the deacons show up early to unlock the building and stay late to lock it back up. Between those two times they perform other chores and move a lot of furniture from here to there and back to here again.

The word deacon derives from the Greek word diakonos, which means servant. It's the right word for this office.

I was in college the last time I had a key to something I didn't live in or drive.

In high school I worked for a Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop on Buford Highway in Atlanta. After I'd been working there a while, Mr. Steele, the owner, asked me to take over opening the shop on Sunday mornings, which was his day off.

I grew up a little on the day Mr. Steele gave me my very own key to the store.

There was a long checklist of things to do to get the store ready for business, but I enjoyed getting there early on Sunday and having a quiet hour by myself to prepare the shop for the hungry masses to come.

In college I had the keys to another store, this one was a Tenneco food/gas mart near our suburban Atlanta home. I worked there a few years during weekends and school breaks, and for most of that time I was the guy locking up after midnight or opening up before dawn. That place also had checklists and detailed procedures for opening and closing.

So far, being a deacon strikes me as similar in some ways to those two experiences of long ago.

Deacons do more than opening and closing the church, of course, as I began to discover when I attended my first meeting as a member of the diaconate, but I'll try not to stray too far off topic today by boring you with the minutes of our meeting.

When Teri chaired her department at Loyola University in New Orleans, she had her own fat ring of keys to keep up with. At that time I had just a couple of keys on my keyring and I teased her about the heavy clump of keys she had to carry with her.

The ring of keys to the church are a tangible reminder of my new position as a church officer. Yes, the keys are a symbol of the church's faith in me, just as that key from Mr. Steele was a symbol of his trust. But those keys are also the keys of a janitor, the keys of a servant. I think the real reason they give deacons all of those keys is so that they don't forget that lesson.