If You Want My Opinion on Phil Robertson's Comments...Too Bad.

   Duck Commander founder (and Duck Dynasty patriarch) Phil Robertson's comments about homosexuals have certainly caused an uproar in America.  People are taking sides, yelling about freedom of speech, threatening to boycott A&E, angrily lambasting Cracker Barrel  on social media sites, and generally making quite an issue out of the comments of this self-proclaimed Redneck from Louisiana's comments.  Even Jesse Jackson has gotten into the act, but you'll have to Google that yourself, I won't be writing about it here.

   Now, let me make it crystal clear that this blog will NOT be about my opinion on the subject (in fact, you won't come away knowing how I feel one way or the other about what Phil Robertson said), but instead will be about my surprise at the shock and outrage I'm seeing throughout the nation because (as I said before) a self-described Bible-thumping Redneck thumped his Bible.

   Whether you agree with Phil Robertson or not is completely irrelevant here.  When he was being interviewed by GQ he referenced the Bible (I Corinthinthians 6:9&10) and made statements about the moral ills of homosexuality, adultery, liars, and a flurry of others that the Apostle Paul had written about in the letter to the church in Corinth (and letters to various other churches) some 2000 years ago.  Letters attributed to Paul join other letters and stories in the canonized New Testament of the Bible. Now, Phil was expressing his opinion that the sentiments in those writings were and are truth, remember, he believes the Bible to be the inspired Word of God.  Then, of course, Mr. Robertson included some language (that I won't include here) that, in what may have been a vain attempt at humor, was tasteless and insulting; that's where it stops being a quote and starts being his beliefs - of course he did say, "It seems to me...," thus making his a statement of opinion.

   Agree with him or not, he has the right to express his opinion.  You might well see his opinion as backwards or archaic, but he has the right to it.  If you are likewise committed to the Bible, are an atheist, or sit somewhere in-between in the land where agnostics and questioners wander, that's your business and I am not writing to prosteletize or debunk, either way.  I'm more interested in the facts here.  At least, as I understand them, and the reactions thereto.

   I do feel it's important that before we start arguing freedom of speech, we be sure we know about what we're talking.  It's not so much that Phil Robertson's freedom of speech needs to be defended; he was answering questions in an interview, no one is threatening him with jail time or a fine because of what he said.  The issue of his forced hiatus from Dick Dynasty is a private one (it's playing out publicly, but it's private in nature).  The party suspending him from production is a private entity, not a public one, so freedom of speech isn't really what we're talking about here; if it is, then that Incognito character needs to be reinstated to the Miami Dolphins active roster immediately.

   And A&E has the right to suspend him from their show, too.  Is it a ridiculous thing to do?  Probably, but it's their show, their product, and they control its production.  (Though Entertainment Weekly is reporting the suspension was really more for show than punitive measures and that A&E spokespeople have noted that they're hoping the fervor over the issue will die down over the holidays http://m.huffpost.com/us/entry/4485646/ .)  Before you think that A&E is changing its tune because it's deciding to support Phil Robertson, be real in your thinking, they're acting on the direct influence of their wallet.  The Robertson family has openly stated that they would just as soon pull the plug on the show as let Phil be removed from the cast.  Believe me, A&E has no plans to cut its nose off to spite its face (not like American Hoggers is suddenly going to be a runaway hit that'll replace Duck Dynasty in the line-up); and the show won't lose many viewers over this because, frankly, the comments didn't really stir the anger of their regular demographic.  And, hey, if the ratings for Duck Dynasty were to suddenly hit rock bottom, A&E would let the first family of hairy faces and duck calls walk away.  Many of those in that demographic of the Robertsons refer to the family as refreshingly conservative in a sea of Hollywood liberalism.  Again, public opinion, not mine.  

   Turning to the American institution that is Cracker Barrel Old Country Store...are they pulling Duck Dynasty stuff off the shelves or not?  They said they were, then they said they weren't, then there were whispered reports that they weren't ordering any shipments to restock DD merchandise in a subtle "clearing out" of Duck Dynasty items.  Who knows?  All I know is that the country fried steak there is great, so's the chicken and dumplings.  Well, maybe that's not all I know.  I also know that they are a business and they (like any business) can pull whatever item off their shelves they want to, whenever they want to pull it.  Does that mean I agree with their decisions?  No.  Does that mean I'll stop eating there?  Probably not, because my dad loves it and has never seen an episode of Duck Dynasty.  And, even if they pull every Duck Dynasty item off their shelves or come out publicly 100% against the ideas expressed by Phil Robertson, Cracker Barrel restaurants around the America will still have buses in the parking lot because it's an easy place to find good food at a decent price and there's other stuff in the gift shop.  I guess that was a long-winded way to say, "who cares?"

   I do want to touch on the issue of people being stunned by these statements that Phil Robertson made (because I have yet to see where anyone has).  Uhm...as I said, Robertson's a Bible-thumping Redneck.  He and his family are ultra-conservative and that's part of what A&E loves about these folks.  They say crazy stuff, do crazy things, and their antics are always capped off by some sort of reflective statement by Willie Robertson at the end (whose voice is heard over a family meal which Phil Robertson blessed as the camera panned the length of the table).  The Robertson family patriarch has made no bones about the fact that he believes (whether anyone else does or not) the Bible to be the Word of God, and that it is absolute, unquestionable truth.  Now: knowing that, A&E is surprised and "disappointed" by Phil's statements in his GQ profile?  Really?  They were surprised that a fundamental Christian expressed fundamental Christian views?  Think they would be surprised if they went to a Chinese restaurant and found there was Chinese food on the menu?  Even the man himself said that he thought little of the comments, but others made a big deal out of them (http://www.foxnews.com/entertainment/2013/12/23/duck-dynasty-patriarch-phil-robertson-says-will-not-give-after-homosexuality/).  The only people surprised here were the show's producers (though myriad people were outraged).  A&E seems to love it when the Robertsons say something considered crazy or out of vogue or off-the-cuff (especially if it's Si or Phil) until now.  Interesting that it's their desire for the Duck Dynasty folks to be unpredictable until that unpredictability gets reported on news outlets around the country.

   Phil Robertson made a statement of belief.  His family and supporters have said over and over again that they agree with him and applaud his strength of faith.  His detractors and those who disagree with him have declared him backwards and ignorant.  Who's right?  Right now, you who are reading this are saying you are, regardless of your point of view.  Who do I think is right?  It doesn't matter what I think, because, frankly, someone voicing their opinion is how we got into this mess in the first place...so you don't have to worry about me giving mine.  

   I am intrigued by one possibility...if a noted gay celebrity were to make derogatory statements about heterosexuals, would it be news?  Probably not, and not because of a double standard necessarily, but because there probably wouldn't be the merchandising juggernaut that is the Duck Dynasty brand involved.

   And one more thing: Do you think Phil Robertson's statements made anyone change their thinking?  Those who share his opinion already have it.  Those who disagree with him already do.  All this has really done is polarize sides even further in what is a very polarizing issue and the irony in this is that both sides prefer to remain polarized.

   Once again, my opinion does not make any difference here, which is why I'm not giving it.  I'm truly not interested in reading comments trying to read into this to guess what I think.  If you think I'm on your side (regardless of your side) after reading this, you've read it wrong.  I'm not interested in judging or joining either side.

   I'm sitting here struggling with whether or not to publish this blog.  I guess it's because I'm afraid there'll be those people who will see this as some political commentary, or a call to social action, or a declaration of some sort; but it's not.  It's a simple examination of the facts and of the reactions and over-reactions to the same.  Frankly, I think such an examination  is due; an honest look free of emotion allows us to make decent decisions, not ones we'll regret in a matter of weeks.

   I'm going to keep the wagon rolling, folks.  Hope you'll keep riding shotgun!  I always appreciate it when I have you on board.

Why the Star Wars Universe Needed Jar Jar Binks

  Yep, another Star Wars post.  Takes my mind off of things to write this and I had a few hours to kill.  I might prattle here, and for that you have my apologies.  Happy New Year.  

   Like so many Star Wars fans, when I suffered through the character development of Jar Jar Binks, I was angry.  I actually took him personally.  I mean, HIM, his very being was, as far as I was concerned, was an affront to my childhood memories.  Seriously, I went back and looked at some of the older movies and really had to ask myself why in the name of all things Jedi George Lucas had inflicted the moronic-beyond-lovability Gungan on those of us who had spent decades waiting for the Star Wars prequels.

   Then, the other day (no, I haven't been dwelling on it for years, it just sort of settled upon my brow as I was watching the Big Bang Theory last week), I realized that the exhaustive and exasperating development of Jar Jar as a laughable stooge was necessary.  See, we had to see him as an idiot, as easily tricked and manipulated.  This made it far more believable when he filled his brief role in the second of the three prequels in which he is duped into motioning that Chancellor Palpatine be given the emergency powers.  That motion gave Palpatine the opening he needed that would eventually make his transition to Emperor logical, and thus allowing him to revive the Sith and its devotion to the Dark Side of the Force.

   See, we had to see Jar Jar as an idiot, as a dolt.  Good-natured and pure of heart, but a dolt.  After we knew him to be a dolt, his actions that, quite literally, put the galaxy spiraling on a course of darkness and loss, were really not to be laid upon his shoulders.  Honestly, a character more able to see reason and manipulation may well have sidestepped the disastrous manipulation that led to Jar Jar's suggestion that emergency powers be granted to the Supreme Chancerllor...but Jar Jar Binks was not such a character.  Jar Jar Binks was a trusting soul and a foolish one, which is what Lucas needed. George Lucas created a character who almost single-handedly destroyed the Star Wars mythos...but that same character actually proved pivotal in the creation of The Star Wars inverse.  The very lore to which he so nearly laid waste really came to its climactic "creation moment" because of him.  That's a kind of insane genius, Mr. Lucas.

   The Star Wars universe didn't just need Jar Jar Binks for some misguided comic relief, but also for its lynchpin; Jar Jar was the catalyst by which the universe was born.  Don't get me wrong, I still can't stand to hear him speak, but this does lend a new perspective to things...and isn't that what Star Wars did for science fiction films as a genré anyway?  Give SciFi a whole new perspective which it's still growing into?  Kinda makes one's head spin.

   The wagons rolls ever onward; thanks for riding shotgun; and, these aren't the droids you're looking for.

Year-Round School? Well, We Want Lifelong Learners, so why not Year-Round Teaching?

http://m.timesdispatch.com/content/tncms/live/#

   For so many years " Summer Break" has been part of out lexicon in America that the very idea of year-round school is so outlandish as to seem as laughable as America and Russia being trade partners.  Oh, wait, we are.   Why is that?  Because times change, folks.

   The break during the summer existed not to allow theme parks to hire our teens and families to revel to Disney World, but to allow the (in the Mid-Nineteenth Century) largely agrarian society of the United States to make use of its children as free labor in a work force needed to plant crops and get things ready for the fall harvest.  Later, schools in the southern region needed the break because air-conditioning was a luxury most didn't have.

   But, now we're over a decade into the Twenty-First Century...kids aren't helping plant family farms and most schools have some kind of air conditioning.  Those things being true, perhaps it's time some localities (most, perhaps) start thinking about year-round school (see the linked article).  I mean, there's no harm in considering the benefits, right?  Teachers no longer have to spend their first few days or weeks finding out what concepts have been lost over the summer and then reteaching those concepts in sort of a reverse cramming session as the prior knowledge that has been lost is rebuilt.  The fluidity of the attainment of concepts and their mastery can also be more effectively aligned in a year round setting, at least it is for me when I'm reading a book or trying something new, I'm better off if I stick to it until I master it, not if I arbitrarily stop what I'm doing because I've hit a magic date that indicates a deadline has been reached.

   Economics and vacations play roles here, too.   You want a cheaper vacation rental?  Well, yeah, who doesn't?  If you have year-round school, you get an extended break more than twice a year and that means you have a chance to get a better rate at the beach or mountains or whatever because you're going to rent during the " off season."  How about vacations?  When I was in college, my folks took us to Disney World one more time as a family.  It was Christmas when we were down there and there seemed to be more than a few people down there who, like my parents, wanted to see blinking lights on Palm trees during their Yuletide.  After several hours of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with people of questionable hygienic practices, I asked one of the ladies at the monorail station at the main entrance/exit of the Magic Kingdom what the best time of year was for a visit to Mr. Disney's testament to America's love of make believe and six dollar hot dogs.  Without missing a beat she told me it was around President's Day.  A more sub-tier holiday I can't imagine, except maybe Arbor Day.   But, my point here...if you're looking for a good time to go on vacation, how about a time when most people have their kids in school and can't go away?  I mean, that's just a side benefit to the idea.

   Now, I know I'm going to make some of my peers less than thrilled here, but teachers may be some of the most vocal in opposing year-round school (like the atricle cites at the opening of the blog states, teachers and administrators who don't like the year-round schedule can request a transfer).  If teachers balk at the idea of year-round because it messes with their summer, then I must be frank in saying that perhaps those teachers are the ones who give credence to the old joke that teachers'  only teach because of their three favorite things, which are, "June, July, and August."

   Now, lastly, I'll say this, when I was getting my Masters I was in a cohort with some folks who worked at a year-round elementary school.  They loved it.  The kids there loved it, and so did the parents.  And, what impressed me the most was that the school (the only one one the county with a year-round schedule) had the highest SOL scores in the division each and every year that I kept up with my cohort s in the program.  That's the most important thing, isn't it?  When you're a school, the most important thing is student achievement...and it was high in this system's school with the year-round schedule.

   You can draw any conclusion you want to if you spin enough data, but it seems to be that when I stop trying to find a spin, I see just a positive result, and that's the bottom line for me.

   The wagon rolls on...thanks for riding shotgun.

   

The Coattail-Riding Name-Dropper or the Orwellian?

A cryptic title, but one which is accurate, in my opinion.  Virginians vote tomorrow, and never in my memory since turning eighteen have I had a less clear choice to make than between Terry McAuliffe or Ken Cuccunelli.  It's unclear because neither choice makes sense.

Now, I'm a staunch conservative (not Republican, saying all Republicans are conservatives is like saying that all tires are suitable to mount on your car, but they sell tires at Petco, don't they?), so you'd think I'd be all pro-Cucinelli...but Cuccinelli seems to be more focused on some sort of make-everybody-have-the-same-moral-doctrine-as-me platform than on making real leadership change.  I don't know that I can get on board with that.  I wasn't sure if Cucinnelli wasn't my real choice until he had the Duggars from the reality show (is it 19 and Cointing now?) with all the kids come stump for him.  That kind of sealed it for me.  It's not so much that I feel like the Republican Party may have hitched their wagon to the wrong horse here as much as they gave said horse the reigns and let it pick the road down which to trot blindly while the folks in the wagon try to figure out how to raise tolls behind them before the dust settles from their passing.

Then I look at Terry McAuliffe who has all the morals of a Clinton and none of the political marks on his belt to back it up.  He's quick to point out his connection to the Clinton's and his undying support for Obamacare (and it's good that his support is undying because, if it were sick, he'd never get it looked at under the Affordable Healthcare Act).  If it were Reconstruction, McAuliffe would likely be refered to as a "carpetbagger."  But, it's not, so he isn't.  But he is a man driven by profit (as are most people, no judgment on that, but here comes my frustration) while telling Virginians he is interested in them.  Unlike so many of his liberal peers, I don't see home as a socialist, I see him as a profiteer.  I don't trust him and can't see casting a vote for a man I don't trust.

Here's the conundrum for me, I can't tell you how important I believe it is to vote.  Those who don't vote and then complain are, in my humble opinion, no better than the people who yell at the screen during movies; their opinions and advice are irrelevant and they annoy the rest of us.  For years as a teacher I have stressed the importance of voting and I will continue to do so...but I have no real definitive choice here.

Well, what to do?  Vote Libertarian?  Sure, and also see if Peter Pan or the Tooth Fairy are running for office.  Here's what I'm gonna do in as meaningless a gesture, I'm going to write in my dad, Paul Elliot Moss, Jr.  Dad's the finest man I know and he, more than the two gubenatorial candidates who seem bent on drawing my attention away from The Big Bang Theory, deserves my vote.  Will he win?  No, but that will mean he's like every other Virginian tomorrow.

The wagon rolls on, folks, and I plan on building no new tolls behind me.  Thanks for riding shotgun.

"Yes, I'll bet you have..."

   Those famous words were spoken by Corellian smuggler Han Solo before he blasted Greedo in the Mos Eisley Cantina.  The laconic (up 'till that point, anyway) Solo tosses a coin to the bartender, makes an ironic apology for the mess left at the table, and departs for docking bay 94, where the Millenium Falcon awaits.  The Falcon and its captain, along with the Wookie, Chewbaca, had just been contracted by an old man (little did we know the impact said old man, Obi Wan Kenobi, would have on that galaxy far, far away) and a farm boy whose cargo was themselves, two droids, and no questions asked.  So began a journey that would introduce us to countless worlds and species while renewing our hope in ourselves and our ability to be redeemed no matter how lost to the dark side we believe ourselves.  But, such is not my point.

   In the original classic from the 1970s, Greedo confronts Solo as he is leaving the cantina.  He tells Solo that there's a bounty out for him that no bounty hunter will ever be able to resist.  Solo distracts the Rodian thug while he surreptitiously unbuckled his own blaster holster under the table.  While the green-skinned bounty hunter goes on about his luck in stumbling across Solo, our reluctant anti-hero draws his weapon and then, when Greedo makes a comment about Jabba taking Solo's ship, Han blasts him, leaving a smoking corpse on the other side of the table.

   Now, here's the thing, in the special edition, Lucas' special effects wizards at Skywalker Ranch add an errant laser blast from Greedo's pistol that craters the wall behind Solo before the Corellian pilot blasts him.  Soooooo...why?  I have my theories; well, theory.  See, when George Lucas originally directed/producer Star Wars: Episode IV, A New Hope, he was a free-wheeling bachelor.  He didn't have a care in the world, didn't have any young lives to be concerned with as far as parenting.  When he decided it was time to re-release the films with some additional footage, he had three foster kids and perhaps the character of Han Solo needed to have a different kind of entry into the Star Wars story arc than as a cold, calculating killer.  I mean, now he had his own kids to think about and maybe, just maybe he didn't want them idolizing a killer.  Of course, the other possibility is that Lucas was thinking that Han Solo, in general, was a much different character by the end of Return of the Jedi than he was at that cantina in Mos Eisley spaceport.  Maybe Solo's evolution was simply too great for Lucas, the kinder, gentler filmmaker.  Or maybe he did it to make blogs like this one wax thoughtful about the change.

   The question had been asked many times, who shot first, but in the first release, there was only one shot fired, a "solo" shot, if you'll pardon the pun (I wouldn't pardon a pun that bad, actually).

   If you want to consider this and more Star Wars musings, I suggest you check out the documentary Jedi Junkies.  I thought I was into Star Wars trivia and memorabilia, but learned I am a mere Jawa among Stormtroopers.

   The wagon rolls on, thanks for riding shotgun; strap yourselves in, I'm making the jump to light speed.

Breaking Bad Series Finale...Spoiler Alert!

The following was originally published in the October 17, 2013 edition of the Central Virginian newspaper.

   I feel like I've waited long enough to talk about the end of the iconic AMC show Breaking Bad and its legacy as far as television goes.  If you are reading this righ now and have not, as yet watched your DVRed copy of the final installment and you live under a rock or work alone in a whale song research lab or inside Ice Station Zebra, please have the good sense to read this column no farther until you have watched said digital recording.  Otherwise, as Walter "Heisenberg" White was fond of saying, it's not my fault" if you keep reading; so don't blame me when I tell you that Walt's dead and Jessie got away from his captors.  Oops.

   Well, of course Walt's dead.  That was the premise of the show from its inception, right?  Mild-mannered science teacher Walter White is diagnosed with cancer, and, fearing for the future of his family when he's gone, he starts cooking methamphetamine; and, it turns out that he's so good at it that he corners the market, in essence, with his trademark "Blue Meth" and makes money hand over fist for his family.  He makes so much money that he has to get his wife, Skylar, involved in keeping the books for him (her business savvy is hugely beneficial here) and she ends up helping Walt buy a car wash they run togther to launder (I love creator Vince Gilligan's - remember him from his days as a writer on the X-Files? of course you don't, but I digress - use of irony there, a car wash, to launder money...I tip my hat, sir).  Oh, did I mention that Skylar's brother, Hank, is a DEA agent who is eventually made head of a task force charged with catching this "Heisenberg" character and that pursuit costs him his life?  Or that Hank's his kleptomaniac wife is sure that Walt killed him and wants to see the "smug son of a..." strung up?  Meanwhile, Walt's 16 year old handicapped son and his infant daughter (yeah, some poor planning there, Walt) are blissfully unaware that their daddy is going from teacher to meth cook to crime boss (after he offs his own boss in a brilliantly orchestrated bombing involving an embittered stroke victim and a suicide bomb in a nursing home - no collateral damage, mind you).  All this while Walt's young protégé, Jessie, goes from wide-eyed apprentice, to active drug addict, to sous chef in the meth lab, to murderer, to recovering addict, to "I'm out!" guy, to understudy to an old mob guy worthy of a role in a Pacino movie, to reluctant partner, to captive, to seeker of vengeance, to free man as he busts an old El Camino through a gate - metaphorically riding into the sunset.

   Now, our man Walt is now dying of a gunshot he received whie busting up the last drug safehouse of the last guys who could ever bother his family.  Earlier in the episode, Walt admits to Skylar that he did all he did because he enjoyed the rush of power.  The elder child has learned of his father's excesses and his last words to him (via phone) are that he wishes him dead...this wish is slowly coming true, for Walt is bleeding out.  It's not the cancer that's going to kill him, but the bullet wound.  He slowly makes his way to the lab where Jessie had been imprisoned, where he had been cooking blue meth as pure as any Walt had ever cooked and the closing scene is Walt resting his hand on a polished silver mixing silo before sliding to the floor.  Found dead in the lab, Walt makes it seem as though he was the one cooking down there, so the authorities won't be looking for the spiritually broken and physically battered Jessie.

   So, one wonders why I've provided this recap of the series...well, I got to thinking, throughout the whole show there was never anybody to root for (well, never an adult, anyway).  Walt was a meth cook and later dealer; Hank was less than kind to his wife, the klepto Marie; Jessie, maybe at times you could root for him, bur he was just so pathetic and a drug -addled sycophant; Skylar was...well, kids read this, so I won't say what she was.   I mean, there were no "good guys" to root for in this show.  There still weren't in the finale, but, I did find myself rooting for someone...even though he was a bad guy...I rooted for Walter White.  He admitted that he had behaved selfishly, he lost everything he'd worked for, and yet his last act was to throw himself on top of a bewildered Jessie to protect him from a fusilade of gunshots then go down to the meth lab where the guy had been imprisoned to take his last breath so Jessie could be left to find his own way.  Yep, I rooted for a bad guy that night, but I didn"t know it until the credits rolled.  I guess that's what makes Vince Gilligan and his crew such great writers.

   You know, if you think about it, Walt broke bad when he started cooking meth, then broke from being bad there in the end.  Oh, see, now I'm overthinking it.  I always do that!

   The wagon rolls on.  Thanks for riding shotgun.  If we see an El Camino with a scratched up hood pass us at 80, just smile...we know what's up.

A Ban on Dreadlocks?

I saw that as a headline.  I read a little bit further and the gist of it all is that some elementary school girl is at the center of a school's swirling debate over dress codes and free expression.  Meanwhile, the people who fought so we could debate the freedom of expression can't visit the very monuments erected to commemorate their sacrifices.

Government shutdown...the president closing the ocean (yeah, I know, overstating and oversimplifying that), schools scrambling to cancel or postpone their field trips, but vital items like the TSA, Homeland Defense, and whether or not the Redskins ought to be called the "Redskins" are still moving forward.  Thank goodness.

Seriously, we charge our leaders with the stewardship of our nation's funds, with leading us on to bigger and better things, to helping us face the future with a confidence that led to the original decision by an upstart band of colonists to stand together and declare their independence from the greatest superpower on the earth in 1776.  Instead, we get a healthcare plan that (according to a letter I got the other day) should be a little more effective that borrowing someone else's used Band-Aid if I lose a digit in a door slammed by the IRS and a government that instead of balancing its budget shuts itself down or raises its own debt ceiling (neither of which is an option for me or I'd be living in a house on Table Rock Lake in Arizona with a 22' Triton bass boat moored to a floating pier out back).

Somehow, the more perfect union our country's founders were seeking to establish has been replaced by the machinations of selfish men and women more interested in the establishment of their own legacy for posterity rather than meeting their charge of allowing those future generations to enjoy the blessings of liberty.

You want to see a government shutdown?  Look at Egypt.  You want an example of chaos while government collapses under the weight of its own selfishness?  Look at Syria.  Now, I'm not one of the fear-mongers who'll suggest we're "just like them," but let's remember why the United States of America was established.  As Abraham Lincoln stated, we were "...conceived in liberty...and that," HERE'S THE KEY, WAGON RIDERS, "government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

Let me ask you, would a government OF you, BY you, or FOR you shut itself down?

And, seek not to lay blame, folks.  Democrat and Republican sides both share responsibility here.  It's like that old episode of Scooby-Doo where Scooby is on the opposite side of a breezeway door from the Wolfman.  Ol' Scoob pretends he's a mirror image of the Wolfman; matches him move-for-move.  They look different, but their actions are the same.

The late Ronald Reagan once said that, "big government is not the solution; big government is the problem."  Look, everybody, the proof's in D.C. right now.

The wagon rolls on (it's not government subsidized, so it still has wheels).  Thanks for riding shotgun.

Just a Number

When we think of Friday the 13th, our society has conditioned us to think of hockey masks and machetes.

In reality, the date's negative connotation dates back to October 13, 1307 when the Pope and the king of France launched an assault on the Knights Templar, effectively ending that group's status as a major power after the Crusades and launching the career of Dan Brown.

Patriots Day

I was teaching 8th grade civics at the middle school in Louisa when Georgie Fleshman (the world could use millions like her, I still miss her) told me, "we're under attack!"  I didn't understand, at first, but as the day went on, a horrible understanding fell over me.

Now, 12 years later, the man who orchestrated the attacks in New York and DC (and almost sent another plane on an attack run, had it not been for the actions of American patriots on board) is dead.  There's a generation of kids in school who only know 9/11 as history; and maybe that's the point.

Our responsibility as people who lived the events of 9/11 have a responsibility, and it's NOT just a responsibility to remind them of the horrors of that day, but we must remind our children of the heroes of 9/11; of the first responders; of the people who got up on 9/12/2001 and carried on.  It's those things with which we are tasked to remind our posterity.  there is our challenge, and America has always met its challenges.

More distracting than texting and driving...

First Published in The Central Virginian newspaper on 11/07/13.

   I was heading down the road one morning, my appointed rounds fresh in my mind and I saw it in my mirror...it was a new Chevy Camaro SS, silver with black trim, dual exhaust (an assumption, but all the SS models have dual exhaust, I figured), hood scoop, and a pinstripe that makes you realize why someone first looked at a car and said, "a stripe, not too big, not too small, right down the side...yes, yes, I think so."  The Camaro hurtled past m, seemingly angry that its 400 plus horses were being restrained to under 70 miles an hour, its dual exhaust ( I was right) giving guttural voice to its disdain for the laws of men.

   Then, I saw it...and I realized that, perhaps it wasn't an arbitrary limit to speed the muscle car was seeking to escape, but this assault on the history of the automobile...an airbrushed mosaic of skulls that stretch from one end of the rear bumper to the other.  Like (as a friend put it) an automotive tramp stamp, the skulls adorned the rear of this new piece of American Awesome, which, itself, is art...it doesn't need this garish display to make it more attractive.  In fact, it made it less so.  Sure, it attracted attention, but so does a traffic stop; and not because the flashing blue lights are pretty.

   I started noticing other cars and trucks over the next few days that also had some sort of personalized paint scheme or parts (we're not talking a few bumper or window stickers here) and was amazed at some of what I saw.  There were the classic rims and spinners (I must admit, when I see a set of spinning rims on a car that cost more that said car, I laugh like I'm watching Duck Dynasty, and also think about the fact that those are pretty tired by now, folks) and the fake adhesive vents (I have no idea why those sell, but they do), and the chrome flashing trim installed along baseboards and over gas caps.  The amount of personalization out there is befuddling.

   Now, I say that as someone who did some tournament fishing for several years and put a personalized paint scheme on his Dodge Ram the included an American flag motif in camouflage, fishing decals, sponsor decals, the website for my dad's wholesale synthetic oil dealership, and the name of the tournament trail with which I fished and for which I later worked.  We used to park the truck at spots to mark turns for out-of-town anglers (yep, it was a moving landmark).  Of course, I had that paint job done for a reason, to get and keep sponsors interested.  I don't know that the owner of the Camaro was seeking the sponsorship of the dead (though in this era of the Walking Dead and Twighlight, who knows?).

   What motivates so much personalization?  There are probably as many answers to that as there are fake bullet hole decals sold (another thing about which the commercial success I wonder).  It's not as simple as "overcompensating" or meeting some overall need.  For some people it's the need to fit in; for some it's the need to express themselves; for some it's the need to be seen, like their car's a giant highlighter and they're the item upon which needs to be focused.  Again, who knows?  Of course, if you have seat covers with Looney Toons or Disney characters on them, that's about you; and you should see somebody with professional training before it's too late.

   On rolls the wagon; and there's a South of the Border sticker on it.  Thanks for riding shotgun.

People You May Know...?

   Why is it the Facebook seems to want me to "Friend" people that are in no way connected to me and, frankly, are a couple of days past filming an episode of "To Catch a Predator" if someone of an adult age were to "Friend" them?

   I find myself disturbed by the nature of whatever search algorithm it is that recommends these people to me as possible friends.  These aren't random "People from Nigeria" seeking to friend unsuspecting sugar daddies for whom they can become the latest Carlos Danger.  Those are the Internet predators for whom we must all look out, we're warned about such things almost daily on our local news...but this is Facebook itself making these recommendations. 

   Of course, I worry that some my true friends may have fallen prey to these vixens, but I refuse to see what "Friends in Common" we share for fear of inadvertently friending one of these ladies (pardon the liberal use of the term) and opening myself up to perhaps more friend requests from such questionable sources.

   Maybe I'm over-thinking this, but such is the right of a parent and educator, so bear with me, or - at least - tolerate me.  

   And, I'm not changing my Facebook settings.  I mean, people still have to request me as a friend, they can't just "Friend" me.  Now Twitter, well that's different...you can follow or be followed pretty much at will...though I guess you can adjust your settings there, too.

   The wagon rolls on.  Thanks for riding shotgun; and you can send me a friend request, if you want...just be sure to mention this blog in the request, okay?  That way I'll know you're not a Catfish.

A Likely Story!

   Ah, summer...pretty much over, by the way.  If you're a kid in Fluvanna or Louisa, it's already done.  Other places are counting down and so many kids are going to be asked to tell the class "how they spent their summer."  How'd you spend yours?

   Did you go on a missions trip?  Did you go to a sports camp?  Did you plant yourself in front of a TV for Law & Order marathons and summer premieres? Maybe the beach, the mountains, or a lake trip were on your agenda.  But, how will your kids remember your summer?  Did you take them to a zoo?  To a museum?  To a park?  To the movies?  No judgments, just questions.  Don't start lamenting a lost opportunity here, okay?

   I look back on my summers and don't so much think about the destinations of our family trips in the Mercury station wagon and then later in the Honey RV (that was just slightly smaller than that Mercury).  It wasn't just that we were going somewhere, it was that we were together; that my parents took an interest in me and in my brother and wanted to be with us.  

   Now that I think about it, that's not such a likely story anymore, is it?  So, how'd you spend your summer?  

   The wagon rolls on - destination irrelevant.  Thanks for riding shotgun, know any roadtrip songs?

I Wasn't Listening, But I Wanted to Be...

The following was originally published in the August 29, 2013 edition of the Central Virginian newspaper.

   I actually said that to Sarah one day not too long ago.  There was this pause in her soliloquy, and that was an indication, one that all men know, a pause that suggests a question has been asked and an answer is expected.  See, that's the thing, we guys tend to turn dialogues into soliloquies.  We kind of drop out of conversations, but that's because we simply can not multitask when it comes to live interaction with someone.  I can text, email, watch TV, and have thirteen games of Words with Friends going at once; but I can't seem to keep up my end of a conversation while there's a commercial for Justified on TV.

   So, back to the issue at hand, I could have given Sarah some sort of canned answer.  I could have said, "yes..." (this, in response to a question that wasn't a yes or no question is disastrous, incidentally, like Titanic-hitting-the-iceberg disastrous) ; or I could have just blurted out, "eleven!" when it wasn't a math question, or I wasn't asked to find the value of X.

   So, after carefully considering my options (if I'd been listening as carefully to the conversation, none of this would even be necessary), looked deep into Sarah's (amazing) eyes, and finally said..."I wasn't listening, but I wanted to be."  She looked quizzically at me for a moment, then smiled and burst out laughing at me.  It was then that I realized I'd been holding my breath; I mean, really you know, this could have gone either way for me, but I was far more interested in being honest than in trying to guess what might have been said.  And, of course, she's amazing and can laugh at the things that make me so...unusual, I guess is the word.

   But while I'm here, let me say something universally...sometimes, women stare deeply at the fella there with and ask wistfully, "what are you thinking?"  Sometimes the question is exploratory in nature, sometimes it's a carefully-laid trap.  

   Now, when the answer from the guy is, "nothing," that is very often true.  But, rarely is it satisfactory.  "Nothing," is often heard as "I'm-hiding-my-thoughts-from-you."  Sometimes, maybe, but not generally. 

   A lot of times, "nothing," quite literally means "nothing."  We're staring at the TV, but couldn't tell you what we just watched.  You want to know what it's like?  Here's a simile men and women can both get:  It's like when you're reading a book and you realize that you need to reread the page because you have no idea what you just read.  What were you thinking about?  You don't always know, do you?

   Sometimes we're just not thinking, our brain is doing a soft reset; we're defragmenting our hard drive; clearing our desktop.  Other times, the things we're thinking are so outlandish that we're terrified to share them with you, ladies.  I mean, if I'm wondering if I can train the dog to fetch the remote control or build a toilet into my recliner, I'm NOT going to reveal that in a "penny for your thoughts" moment with anybody.  (Sometimes we don't want to share our ideas until we patent them, that flushing recliner is a great idea, right?)  

   Other times, we're just ignoring you.  Sorry.  It's not about you, it's just us.  

   On rolls the wagon...I think...I'm not paying attention.  Thanks for riding shotgun.

Mosquitos May Well Be, in Fact, Specific...

   I always thought I was a target of the little bloodsuckers, and it looks like I might be right!  According to an article by WWBT12, the local NBC affiliate in Richmond, mosquito bites are not nearly as random as I'd always thought...before you accuse me of a persecution complex, read http://bit.ly/136oZGF as posted by Channel 12.  Here are some highlights through my (admittedly, rather distorted) lens.

   I was flummoxed when I read that the consumption of even a single beer can lead to the production of ethanol (yeah, sure, a meager amount, you're not improving your mileage here) that will attract mosquitos your buffet-like epidermis.

   Ironically, sweat from a good workout will also lead to the production of chemicals that will attract the little suckers (pun very much intended).  So, if you work out, then have one of those low-carb beers...yeah, have some cortisone cream handy.

   The article from 12 News goes on to say that dark-colored clothes will further draw the attention of mosquitos.  So, let's go through this...you build a sweat through a workout, have a low-carb beer, and have on dark clothes...you're like a mosquito smorgasbord; a West Nile Petrie dish waiting to happen.

   Now, there are some suggestions in the article for prevention of mosquito bites (at least how to avoid a bevy of them) and you can read the link for those tips, but I have done my part, folks.  I have raised the alarmists' flag!  I have given you just enough information to create fear and panic; or some slight discomfort; or maybe a source of discussion at one of those picnics where you don't know anybody and the person you came with has gone off to talk about something with somebody who started their conversation with, "O-M-G!" so you know it'll be a long conversation.  It beats talking about the weather...not by much, but, whatever.

   The wagon rolls on, folks.  Thanks for riding shotgun.  Please apply bug spray liberally.

Pre-Season Football!

Yep, the Redskins are playing the Titans even as I write.  Finally!  I've been waiting, willing the season to start, really.  The two best nights of my NFL year last year were watching the 'Skins handle the Cowboys from Melisa Campbell's living room and then watching the All-Harbaugh Superbowl at Sarah's house.

See, football brings us together.  Even strangers come together when they have like colors on their jerseys.  It's things like that that I'm ready for, that's what football's about.  Once we get the NCAA going, all bets are off. 

I hope everybody's ready for some football!  I know I am.  Now, if the Redskins would just bench Rex Grossman...

The wagon rolls on.  Thanks for riding shotgun!

300+ Juveniles Charged in a Game of Hide and Seek...Yeah, This Happened This Week...

   There's a more complete story in the link included (thanks to WRIC TV for posting it) with this (http://www.wric.com/story/23062854/300-juveniles-charged-with-trespassing-during-game) but, long story short, a BUNCH of kids were trespassing and they're in trouble now. 

   Today, dozens of people have weighed in on my Facebook timeline as to whether or not the kids should have been charged.  They've broken down to attacking each other and even to accusing the President to being a bad example for today's youth.  I'm no fan of liberal politics, but verbally assaulting Obama over this is like railing against Truett Cathy because you got a bad Chick-fil-A sandwich (I, frankly, can't imagine ever getting a bad Chick-fil-A sandwich).

   Look, if the law says people on the property after dark are trespassing...should the police ignore the law?  If so, are they in violation of their oath to uphold the law.  I'm in no way advocating or condemning the actions of the kids, but for those on Facebook saying, "go get the real criminals!" I submit that, per the law, the people in the park were breaking the law, ergo they were real criminals.  I further submit that their behavior kept the police from going after any other criminals during the time that they were at, - what we all agree, regardless of what side you're on - was a time waster.

   I must say, as an educator, I'm not as sure as many that no one was behaving dangerously, thus putting someone's child - or children - in danger.  Aren't the police also sworn to protect the safety of the public?  Over three hundred kids running around in the dark don't present a possible threat to themselves or others?  My brother and I managed to get hurt running around with the lights on in the daytime.  Not because we meant to, but because stuff just happens.  Multiply that possibility by three hundredish.

   If the kids want to play Manhunt in the park, I'm willing to bet the Prince George board would establish a night for that, but that would go against the idea of being a "rebel."  Problem is, none of these kids know what rebellion really is because they don't really have anything to rebel against, save their own sense of boredom.

   Again, I am in no way condemning the kids for their behavior.  They're kids.  Kids do stupid stuff; its in their nature.  Who knows what might have motivated them?  But, the police were following their orders to deal with a situation.  Sorry if the actions seems Draconian, but the letter of the law was being upheld.  See, I can no more condemn the police than the kids.  And really, if it were your land, wouldn't you want the law enforced? 

   Hey, maybe the charges will be dropped, but that's not a police decision, is it?  That'll be up to the PG Commonwealth's Attorney.  One thing's certain, there'll be no lack of opinions about that decision when it comes time.

   The wagon rolls on.  Thanks for riding shotgun.

Cut-and-Paste...

   A truly exceptional friend that LCPS was lucky enough to have as part of its staff posted something on Facebook and asked that we cut-and-paste it along with a description of how we met as a show of friendship and solidarity.  There were many replies already and I wanted to add mine to the mix.

   Try as I might, the Facebook mobile app wouldn't cut-and-paste anything for me, so here - in part - is my response to her... 

We met at the LCPS administrative retreat in Williamsburg where my smart-aleck, "Hey, you're not IN Goochland anymore, 'kay?" got its start.  And Facebook Mobile (at least mine, anyway) won't let me cut-and-paste, so I'd have to Share this and it clearly says I shouldn't share and then it would be like "Chuck Moss shared Heather Larabee's status," and everybody would be like, "did he NOT read that?" and they'd message me and I'd respond to a few and then just end up commenting on my own post to say that I DID read it, but I couldn't copy and paste it and then I'd get some comments that asked if I'd tried so-and-so for Facebook for iPhone that lets you cut-and-paste stuff and it's a free download from the iTunes Store and I'd say, "no, but I heard about it," even if I hadn't...

   The reply was to be one word.  Oh, well.  If you've never met Heather, you should!  She was absolutely great as our math specialist in Louisa, helping me in my development of an electronic observation tool for math teachers and in the alignment of our math curriculum.  Since leaving Louisa she's taken the risk of following the American Dream and opening a Mathnasium learning center in Elk Grove, California.  On top of that, she's a tireless advocate for the search for a cure for MS, for which I simply can't thank her enough.  She's one of those people that the West Coast shared with us on the East Coast for a few years before she headed back to California to follow her dreams.

   So, what's the point today?  Well, maybe I couldn't cut-and-paste, but the sentiment was clear.  And Heather may be gone from Virginia, but - like all friends - you can't say she's "cut" from here so she could be "pasted" somewhere else.  Her mark, like the mark of all the people in our lives that have made an impact, is indelible; it is not to be "cut" out.  If anything, more people in more places will get to benefit for Heather's mark and, as with all people who make the world better, that can only serve to improve the world. 

   We all have friends like Heather, and my challenge for us is that we arrive to be the people they believe us to be.  Imagine a world where we were all the people our friends see when they look at us?  I don't know about you, but that would certainly make me a more forgiving and far less judgmental person.

   Incidentally, there's no app for that.

   The wagon rolls on.  Thanks for riding shotgun (it's a valuable spot).

School Shopping on a Tax-Free Weekend...Hide Your Valuables

   The sea of people envelopes me; suffocating me.  I look left, I try to look right, but I can't; my head mashed against the shoulder of a bathrobed woman to my side who is screaming for her husband.  She, too, has lost the party with which she came.  Drowning in this wave of humanity, I realize the painful truth...it has happened...it is upon us...I stand among the masses, and we are being herded.  I choke back a sob...they WILL NOT SEE ME CRY.  Not here.  No, any sign of fear will single you out in this herd.

   I look up, exposed metal girders and fluorescent lights whose sodium glow illuminate us all as we roil forward.  I am propelled forward by the crowd; by this mass, this herd of human chattel. Overtaken and driven towards the ground, I thrust me hand into the air.  Am I forsaken?  Is all lost?  I feel a warm hand grasp mine.  I close my fingers around it as it pulls me forward.  I find myself face-to-face with Sarah who says, with a strength that has long since abandoned me, "We need nine composition books.  Can you do that?"

   Yeah, it's back-to-school shopping at Walmart on a tax holiday.  I don't know how chickens feel as they head for the slaughterhouse, but I bet it's like this (hey, PETA, that's a metaphor, I still think you're stupid, okay?).  I'm brought back to reality as I am reminded of my task,  "Nine composition notebooks."  Sarah looks at me with a confidence I can't help but think is misplaced.

   "Yes, nine, okay," I smile, the same smile Bruce Willis gave before he detonated the nuke in Armageddon, and head towards the notebooks.  The cutesy ones are gone...all that's left are the black and white marble cover notebooks, sitting alone on a shelf as neglected as that one house in the neighborhood that always gives out apples instead of candy on Halloween.  I sigh, but start counting.  I get to seven when I feel a blow that an NFL linebacker would envy force me out of the way.  I look up and see a woman, repeat with house shoes, what are either pajama pants or Nickelodeon has busted out a line of distressed-look Rugrats-themed ladies wear, a faded navy blue t-shirt that has the Superman "S" on it and a hole at the seam where the collar meets the right shoulder, and sponge-rollers (here before me stands a Walmart veteran, no doubt). 

   Without so much as a glance at me, she begins to count, "1...2...3..."

   I push my way back and grab my eighth notebook.

   Angered, the Kryptonian Rugrat bellows, "You gonna push a LADY?"

   I consider stopping to argue that point (and not the one that I pushed her, the one designating her as a lady), but instead grab the ninth notebook and flee like my hair is ablaze, the sponge-rollered terror shouting threats and questioning my parentage as I go, clutching my notebooks like Golem with his Precious. 

    As I return to our cart, our metaphorical slab of wood in this Atlantic Ocean in which Sarah and I find ourselves adrift with the other passengers from the school supply Titanic, "We need a Primary Journal Creative Story Tablet."   At Walmart?  How the...?  You know what one is, right?  It's a composition book where only the bottom half of the paper has lines and the top is blank, for pictures.  It's fairly specific...and...where the...Walmart?  Target?  No...when I worked at an elementary school we supplied them to students because we figured parents probably couldn't find them...but not here in this school division; nope, in addition to the two dozen gluesticks, thirty-six (I know, right!?!) pencils, four notebooks, pens (two different colors), folders, sheet protectors, Trapper-Keeper-style binder, sheaves of loose-leaf paper, ruler, pencil cases, partridge in a pear tree, et al...we gotta find a Primary Journal Creative Story Tablet?  For the love of Pete...

   Did we find one?  Nope.  

   Now, after a few groceries were added to the cart that represented an acre of rainforest defoliation; we headed to the check out.

   Oh, what a sight we beheld...this woman was in line in front of us with dozens and dozens and dozens of items in her cart.  And, when she came across items she decided she didn't want, she loaded them up on the shelves of the candy aisle.  What sort of items?  Bags of shredded cheese, two blocks of cheese, a bag of potatoes (had to leave those on the floor because those would not fit on the Mr. Goodbars).  Now, you might be wondering, "doesn't cheese have to be refrigerated?"  Sure...but the candy aisle at Walmart is always a balmy 76 degrees, and that's good for cheese, right?  And it's perfect for potatoes.

   So...it's time to leave Walmart...time to head home.  So, we do, wading through that same sea of humanity that washed us in; its waves crashing on the beach of school supplies like breakers against the shores below the cliffs of Dover.  

   The lifeboat that is the Nissan minivan swallows us and our purchases.  We head out of the parking lot, counting ourselves among the lucky who fled the HMS Walmart in one piece...we still gotta find a Primary Journal Creative Story Tablet, though.  Crap.

   The wagon rolls on, or bobs on along on a sea of humanity.  Thanks for riding shotgun - in the event of an emergency, your seat cushion doubles as a floatation device.

Couple of Tackle-Box Tips...No Charge

   I promised that I wouldn't be blogging just about fishing; and those of you who've read more than one of my blog entries know that's true.  But I'd be lying if I told you I didn't love bass fishing and here are two little tips that I've embraced that have made my life both easier (the first one), and more cost effective (the second tip).

   So, Tip Number One...every angler has a box (well, in my case, boxes) where s/he keeps hooks.  Consequently, those of us who wet a line from time-to-time have all dealt with pulling out that tangled mass of hooks when we just needed one.  Sometimes a hook has gone through the eye of another hook past the barb (in what seems to have been a physics-defying act because, try as we might, getting it back through is simply impossible).  And, what's worse, you wind up with fingers like pin cushions.  So, how can we avoid this? Styrofoam.  Simple enough, right?  Yes, but it can revolutionize your tackle box.  

   So much of what we buy comes packed in Styrofoam (you need to capitalize it because Styrofoam is actually a branded name, like Q-Tip, Band-Aid, or Kleenex - I know, right?!?).  When you get something you ordered off eBay, or a new TV (who doesn't need a new TV?), Styrofoam is often the packing material of choice.  Now. Take the Styrofoam and cut it into 3/4" (or 1" is fine) cubes.  Write the size of the hooks you'll keep on it in Sharpie (again, a proprietary name, but any permanent marker will do just fine).  Now, take a bunch of hooks and stick them into the cube of Styrofoam.  Line them up so they're next to one another (like ribs - mmmmm, ribs...).  Now, you've got nicely arragned and organized hooks from which it's easy to get just one to tie on to your line.

   Now for Tip Number Two...How many times have you gotten your favorite lure or a hook out only to see that its metal is covered in rust.  You raise your face skyward a cry out, "WHY?  Oh, why?"  Oxidation caused by moisture, that's why.  Class dismissed.  Well, anyway, I have an easy fix...and it again involves packing material.  

   Electronics, medication, shoes, backpacks, and who knows what else comes with a little package that says "DO NOT EAT."  First off, if someone eats the little translucent yellow balls in there (yes, I had one tear open inside a shoebox once and my "...'the hell is this crap?" was answered when I saw the torn package, not by my tasting it like Sonny Crockett testing a stash of Bernie's Gold Dust on an episode of Miami Vice).  

   Anyway,  those little things are called "desiccants."  Now, how can a tackle box benefit from those?  Just toss a couple in the box.  The desiccant will absorb the ambient (you're welcome for your word of the day) moisture in the box and keep your hooks and lure components from rusting.  I once read that a light spray of WD-40 (or Amzoil Metal Protectant) over an open tackle box would do the same, but knowing (well, reading that) fish are so keen on smell that I cannot bring myself to do that, and I'm a firm believer in WD-40 and in duct tape, too.  Since I started using the desiccants, I have never faced the horror of a rusted lure or hook straight from my tackle box.  And they're easily replaced, too.  Those little "DO NOT EAT" packs can be found just about anytime you want them.  I even labeled an old Tylenol (another brand name, see the capital "T"?) bottle "DESICCANTS" and started putting them in it as I came across them, so I have a generous supply at hand now.  You can tell your non-fishing friends (yes, we all have them) to save those little packets for you.  They'll look at you like you're crazy, at first; but, once you tell them why you want those annoying little packets, they'll give you a, "Huh, that's pretty smart.  I usually just threw them away."

   That's it for some terminal tackle ease and preservation ideas.  Hope it provides some ideas for you all who fish, and I hope you non-anglers got a laugh somewhere.  The Bernie's Gold Dust thing with the old-school Mismi Vice pull - I thought that was pretty good...

   The wagon rolls on.  Thanks for riding shotgun.

Gravity at the Ag Fair...

  Nine years ago, I remember my daughter winning the Toddler Trot at the Louisa Agricultural Fair.  It was a shining moment.  I, proud father, watching as my genetic product outshined that of all the other parents who had entries in the race.  Yes, truly a proud moment.  I, of course had nothing to do with it; but also felt like I had everything to do with it.  After all, I operated the video camera that recorded the victory!  Yeah, doesn't really translate to a Rocky training montage, but still...

  Fast forward to this past summer...the Zucchini Car Races.  My son's entry, the "Zoom-Cchini" (yes, you know that name was my idea - see, I contributed, friends and neighbors) ran into some technical issues, but it looked awesome, Angry Birds duct tape decorating it and really making it pop.  Now, my daughter's car, "ZuQueeni" blasted the competition.  It was like there was an engine powering her great big squash-car to victory while the other cars merely depended on gravity...but, there was no engine, there was simply the impeccably-constructed "ZuQueeni" harvesting the power of the force Sir Isaac Newton sat down and described with pen and paper (he didn't "discover" gravity, it wasn't like people were floating around aimlessly before he authored his treatise - but he's credited with making its study more accessible to academia).

  Her car was an amazing piece of vegetable engineering (there's a terminology I never figured I'd be using when I woke up that morning) and she, again, proved her moxey at the Ag Fair.  

  You know, if you think about it, she had to master gravity in both of the races (acrawl and, hum, acchini); but, in two completely different ways.  In the Toddler Trot, she had to overcome gravity - she had to beat the force that seeks to pull us to the ground as she made her way to the finish line.  In the Zucchini Car Races, she didn't so much master gravity as much as use it as an ally - and she used it both effectively and efficiently!  And it wasn't even close when she raced!  She blew the competition away...and I was beaming!

  It's funny the things in which a father takes pride.  But, news flash, fathers take pride in pretty much everything.  My little girl makes me proud every single day, and so does her little brother!

  The wagon rolls on (well behind the green and pink blur that is "ZuQueeni").  Thanks for riding shotgun.

Ms. Ag Fair

   Tonight I got to emcee the Ms. Louisa Agricultural Fair Beauty Pageant for the fifth time in five years.  It's a great pageant with entrants from around the rural county of Louisa.  But allow me to reflect on something very different from last year's pageant.

   As happens pretty often anymore, one of the judges was a former student.  I didn't teach her, but she was very active in extra-curricular activities at both the high school and middle schools in Louisa and later was a substitute I used often when I was an assistant principal at the middle school.

   The funny thing is, this entry isn't even about her, per se.  You see, I read bios of the judges each year, and when I read hers, she had gotten married and was living in Smythe County, Virginia, where my mom grew up.  As I continued reading, I learned that she was teaching at the high school Mom had attended and from which she had graduated.  In that moment, I was transported back to stories Mom had about her time at Marion High School.  

  Mom played basketball (was even a player-coach in college) and wrote in her never-to-be-published memoir My Thorns Have Roses about walking up the hill to the school (she lived with her Great Aunt and Uncle at the foot of a hill just under the high school) and using her little pocket knife to jimmy the lock on the door so she could go inside and practice foul shots in the gym.  As I read that in a beautiful leatherbound book my brother put together shortly after Mom's death, I remember thinking that, nowadays, I'd probably be one of the people after her for breaking and entering and having a knife on school property.  It caused me to reflect on many things.

    Mom was just a kid who wanted to practice free throws.  She wasn't looking to hurt anyone or destroy anything.  Now, if it had been her younger brother...maybe.  But, you've got to treat every kid the same way, right?  Yeah, that's the gist of it.  

   Here's the thing, though.  Remember, not every kid with a pocket knife is looking to make trouble; and, sometimes a kid with a basketball just wants to play basketball.

   This isn't a social commentary (God knows we've had enough of that lately and, as I sit here writing this I realize that's what people think I'm going for - I'm not, so don't make it that way).  It's more of a reminder for me.  It's easy to lose site of the fact that the people affected by rules are just that, people.  Somebody's daughter, son, sister, brother, or parent.  Maybe it's something worth remembering for me and for whomever has the Herculean task of enforcing the rules/laws where they are.

The wagon rolls on.  Thanks for riding shotgun.

Just Three Easy Payments

  I got to wondering...what would an infomercial day be like?  You know, a day when I used a menagerie of crap - sorry - stuff I could get online or by calling a number that I saw on TV.  PLEASE NOTE that I have no connection with any of these products; in fact, this is a work of fiction, I don't even OWN any of this stuff.

   So...my alarm clock went off (the one I got from Skymall, where the time is projected on the wall like some sort of red digital Bat Signal).  After silencing the angry tones of the alarm; I turned off my Dream Light, the LED pattern of stars fading from my ceiling.  I wrestle free of my covers and rise, my head lifting from my $90-some Perfect Pillow, which seems a high price to pay for a piece of foam, but it's science and who am I to argue with science?  I stretch and sit up on the side of my memory foam mattress on which I can place a glass of wine on one side and jump on the other without spilling the elixir of Dionysus (ugh, FINALLY).  Sure, buying that mattress made me miss a few car payments, but, come on - it's NASA-designed... 

  Still groggy, I slide my feet into my Stompies (I picked the ones that look like a cyclops whose eye opens everytime my heel depresses the air bladder inside) and stumble to the bathroom where...I squeeze toothpaste on my 30 Second Smile (which I got for only two payments of $59.95 - WITH a professional tongue-scraper, thank you) that brushes top-bottom-middle-sides all at once, thus cutting my normally 3 minute brushing time to a 30 second foam and froth assault on gingivitis-causing plaque.

   After rattling my teeth with my jackhammer of dental efficiency, I head for the shower.  I abandon my Stompies, the lidded eye of the cyclops allowing my pedestrial watchman a much-needed respite from its exhausting open-close-open-close-open-close routine.

   I turn on the water (silently cursing the info-tainment gods for not inventing a tool to judge shower water temperature) and step in, secure that my footing is solid thanks to the non-slip Hydro-Rug (it's like having a shower floor made of loofa!) which I purchased for the paltry sum of $19.95 and reached into my 8-pocket Meridian Point shower caddy (now only available on eBay, Craigslist, and yardsale sites) to retrieve my combination bodywash/shampoo/conditioner/shave gel (I got that at Walmart).   I wash my feet in the Easy feet foot scrubber ($14.95) I suctioned-cupped to the floor of tub with staying power worthy of Super-Polident.

   I shower, dry off, wrapping my head in a Turbie Twist, the culturally-insensitively-named head-Sham-Wow thingy that dries my close-cropped hair in about fourteen seconds.  I put my still-damp feet back into my Stompies, the single eye on each cyclops flying open in protest to the wet-foot colonic i just I gave it.  I dress as quickly as one can without the aid of the machinery George Jetson seemed to take for granted as he dressed for the day.  All the while I lamenting that the sweatpant jeans I saw on late night TV are only available in women's sizes.  Instead, I have on a pair of pants (that I'd once kept in a Space Bag) that had ripped, but I repaired them with Mighty Mend It!  Did you know it'll hold the seam of a parachute in use; or an American flag in a wind-tunnel?

   I choke down the pre-packaged mortar Nutri-System sent for breakfast (I don't know what all those celebrities are talking about - but I only have another 3 months of food in cardboard boxes on my steps until it's done) and stare resentfully at the Gazelle, Total Gym, NordicTrac, and Bowflex pushed into the corner of the den/breakfast nook/workout area/place where I hang clothes now.  It's near my collection of coins with scenes from the west, various wars, and historical moments along with state quarters.  The bigger coins are legal tender in Liberia, I think.

   Another swallow of milk gets the rest of my (breakfast?) morning sustenance down, grab my Aluma-Wallet ($9.95 and I got a second one free!  I'm still trying to decide how I'll use that second one...),  and I head out to my SUV.  I start it up, check the feed on the mirror with the back-up camera that I bought after an infomercial that showed a woman backing into what must have been a lawyer on a bike, and pull out of my driveway.  Inside my house, a chime emits from the Driveway Patrol remote driveway alarm that I got for free when I bought my kinectic-energy-powered Shake Light for just $13.95 (the Shake Light is not to be confused with the Shake Weight, my Shake Weight for Men is with my Perfect Push-Up over by the Gazelle) .  Sure, I have to replace the batteries on the Driveway Patrol every 2-3 weeks, and sure it chimes over-and-over-and-over when you mow the yard, but that's the price you pay for being able to set your receiver up to 400 feet away so you can know when someone is coming to your door...beats waiting for the doorbell, right?  (The chime makes my cat look up from the fried-egg-looking "Cat's Meow" cat toy that I got for $24.95 plus shipping and handling - and, yeah, I got two; I'm saving one for a gift, check your mail - which keeps my Stompies safe).

  I place my $9.95 Blue Blocker polarized aviator sunglasses on my face and head for work.  I have my phone set up so it'll broadcast through my stereo (what's a little feedback?) using a microphone/Bluetooth/FM transmitter that Billy Mayes (moment of silence please) endorsed.

   At work, I use Dragon 2 translate my words too text.  It works grate period itmakes my job so much easier exclamationpoint and it kame with a free copy of Family Tree Maker period guess watt eyem doing this weekend questionmark

  At work, lunch is more NutriSystem and a protest from my digestive tract.

  After work, I head home.  Back-up camera and cell-phone/transmitter thing work great.  Just once do it get an ear-shattering ring/feedback; but, I've got Quietus tinnitus treatment that I bought off TV for just $59.95 and I'll put some drops in when I get home.

   When I pull in the driveway, my Driveway Patrol chime alerts my cat to my presence and it quickly abandons my long-suffering Stompies for its Cat's Meow downstairs. When I come in, it's chasing the "mouse" under the yellow skirt of the cat toy and cursing me for a fool.  

   I toss my jacket on the Bowflex in the corner, use my phone hooked up to a Magic Jack converter to call for a pizza (in direct disdain of the NutriSystem boxes on my stairs) and decide to get wings, too.

  Later, a chime sounds, and I meet the pizza guy at the door, Stompies on my feet (though only one cyclops works now, the other eye remains forever closed; its air bladder punctured...I don't know how, but I swear my cat I laughing as I walk by in a sideways stutter-step).

  I strap-on my Contour Ab-Sculpting electro-stimulation belt (just three easy payments of $99.95...plus shipping) after downing the pizza and wings (on which I shook Sensa like it was parmesan cheese).  Thirty minutes later, I feel a tingling in my stomach area, and I can change the channel on my TV with no remote.

  I stumble up to bed, my now lonely stomps doing its best to guard against interlopers...from the left, anyway.  I again brush my teeth with the speed of a fireman hearing an alarm bell and fall into bed, though no glass of wine would know it.  Cuddling up with my Dreamlite, I drift of, a constellation above me, the time emblazoned on the wall next to me.  I set the time early on the alarm.  Tomorrow's Saturday, and I'm going to use my Ronco Pocket Fisherman ($29.95 plus shipping and handling) and my Banjo Minnow.

   Ah, how easy infomercials and Internet products have made our lives.

   Thatshow the wagon rolls period Thanks four riding shotgun period

Summer Camp: A Study in Guilt-Trips

   It wasn't until I was a freshman in high school that I found a summer camp worth going to.  It was a co-ed ranch in Michigan were we rode horses, showed horses, and not a discouraging word was accepted.  I enjoyed that place and, for two weeks a summer, it was home for five years.  Before that, though, oh, the misery...

   You think it's all canoe trips and looking for arrowheads?  Oh, you are so wrong...

   The first camp I went to (was abandoned at for six weeks?) was a two-hour bus ride from Richmond to a collection of cabins in the bucolic mountains of Virginia.  Beautiful mountains, a river meandering by, baseball diamond, open fields, outhouses.  Yeah - outhouses.  Not flushing toilets, no running water.  Showers, sinks, a kitchen at the mess hall, sure; but toilets that flush?  Nope.  And there were two hole outhouses, four hole outhouses, and one eight-holer that wasn't nearly as nostalgic as the one Thomas Jefferson had at Monticello - because he didn't have RUNNING FRIGGIN' WATER!  

   Imagine a porta-potty without the porta...  Then multiply it by two to eight guys however many times a day for six weeks.  Huzzah.

   I was sentenced to the second camp for five weeks.  It was near Kings Dominion, but do NOT let that fool you! It was no amusement park, boys and girls.  The first day I was there, the "veteran" campers grabbed the towels off the younger guys in line and ran away while the counselors just laughed and laughed.  Yes, nothing says humor like psyche-scarring games first thing when you get to camp.

   Speaking of scarred psyches, both places did the equivalent of the pre-teen death march, the all-male skinny dip.  What was THAT about?  Seriously?  And that was the replacement for a shower for the morning?  Who runs this railroad? When the PA system played reveille at one camp every morning I would wake in trepidation as I waited for the announcement of "DIP, SHOWER, or WASH-UP."  (A wash-up was running a wet washcloth over your face.  That's good hygiene for a pre-pubescent boy living outside for five weeks.)  And, seriously, skinny dipping as a bath?  There were leaches in that water.  I should have demanded to see a manager.

   And then the shooting ranges.  Bows and arrows, yeah, that was cool, no argument.  The rifle range was cool, except that some kid's gun jammed and he pulled it back to check it and fired into the wooden stage we were on.  Seriously?  Yes, seriously.

   The guy who owned the land next to the second camp would plant a couple rows of corn and then see how fast he could go on his dirt bike and pull ears off the stalks...I kid you not.  Every now and then, he'd ride the dirt bike into the camp and turn circles, making dirt rooster tails and bellowing obscenities at the top of his lungs.  Nobody thought to call the cops?  Seriously?  Yes, seriously.  

   Of course, our faith in law enforcement was shaky, at best.  See, while we were broiling under the summer sun, the Briley brothers (two of - at the time - Virginia's most notorious death-row inmates) escaped from a prison not terribly far from the camp and, certain they'd pick our little stretch of the 103 mile Mattaponi for a hideout, we were all sure we'd wake up with their murderous faces inches from our own.  Again, who's producing this gameshow?

   So, let's talk about guilt-tripping my parents.  Oh, did I ever.  Now, these were the days before cell phones or email (seriously, cordless landline phones were chimeras at the time) so I wrote letters.  Grand, guilt-ridden letters.  I painted murals of despair, wove tapestries of loneliness, cobbled together melancholy landscapes...but my parents left me to the care of counselors who were clearly taking cues from the journals of Spanish Inquisitors and the possibility that escaped murderers would be at the ever-so-secure screen door of our cabin.   Seriously?  Yes, seriously.  Well, probably not, in all actuality.

   I mean, I was at my most wretched in those letters!  Nicholas Sparks cries when HE reads them; Adele Reads them when she needs inspiration for a song; Rob Zombie did all showtunes before he read one.  The anguish gushed forth like water flowing from the heights of Bridal Veil falls...but I got bupkis as far as an early ride home.  

   So...I languished at those camps far in the mountains and along the Mattaponi River.  Did they make me a better person?  Probably.  Adversity makes us stronger...blah, blah, blah.  Tell that to a pre-teen.  I mean, when I got home, everybody was singing "Safety Dance" by Men Without Hats.  Sure, an ex-Green Beret who was a counselor showed us how to set up a pit to purify our urine into drinking water using just a paper cup, a black trash bag and a rock (I know, right?!?), but Gremlins had come out and I was out of that loop entirely.  That's all that mattered.

   Why'd I write about this today?  One of my best friends in the world has a son at camp who is lamenting his stay and begging to come home.  He's miserable, yes (though he'll never capture misery the way I did, I was an artist: my medium...guilt; didn't get me outta camp, though), but he's got a great a great mom who loves him!   He'll be fine and he'll benefit from the experience.  I hate to admit it, but I'm sure I did.  I mean, the nutjob on the dirt bike never killed me; I never got leeches anywhere, or Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever; no one ever violated me; and I came home safe and sound.  And, guess what?  I loved my parents every bit as much when I got home.  So will he.  Seriously?  Yes, seriously.

   And, he has a phone with iTunes and Spotify, so he won't miss anything.

   The wagon rolls on.  Thanks for riding shotgun.