Carpenter Bees

Squinting in the fierce sunshine, welcome breezes chase the heat away from my corner on the deck, kissing the wind chimes just enough to facilitate a perfect harmonic resonance with the universe. Past, present, future, earth, sky, gods of all ilk, everything that ever was or ever will be, as one.

Just be.

Moments of unity are rudely interrupted by mini-black drones buzzing, hovering around deck railings, shooting sideways in an instant, then holding motionless in the air.

Black UFO’s the size of a peanut M&M.

I could have shot them out of the sky with my BB gun when I was little. I never did, even though they dared me.

Many humid Virginia summers spent down at my Grandfather’s pond first introduced us.

I’d hear the muted buzzing coming from multiple locations all around me on the old wooden dock. Sitting at the picnic table in the shade, I could even feel the slight vibration when a wood borer buzzed around in a horizontal tunnel she was excavating ½ inch beneath me in the underside of the bench seat where I was sitting.

Aside from the noisy visual displays, they were easy to spot.

Just look around for any small pyramid of sawdust and you will find a clean round hole in whatever wood surface is directly above it.

For some reason they loved the bench seats of that picnic table.

I would hang over the side of the bench enjoying the rush of blood to my head while watching a Carpenter bee hover around and enter that perfect round hole, going inside to see the kids.

Now, 60 years later, some of their ancestors have moved to Florida, and are enjoying the phenomenal weather out on the back deck.

Just like me.
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(From the Net)

During the spring, people often notice large, black bees hovering around the outside of their homes. These are likely to be carpenter bees, named for their habit of excavating holes in wood, in order to rear their young. Carpenter bees prefer unpainted, weathered wood, especially softer varieties such as redwood, cedar, cypress and pine. Painted or pressure-treated wood is much less susceptible to attack. Common carpenter bee nesting sites include eaves, rafters, fascia boards, siding, wooden shake roofs, decks and outdoor furniture.

Carpenter Bees vs. Bumblebees
Carpenter bees resemble bumblebees, but typically have a shiny, hairless abdomen. (Bumblebees usually have a hairy abdomen with black and yellow stripes.) The bees also have different nesting habits—bumblebees nest in an existing cavity often underground (e.g., in abandoned rodent burrows), whereas carpenter bees tunnel into wood to lay their eggs.

Fig. 1: Carpenter bee with shiny abdomen (left), bumblebee (right).

Biology and Habits
Carpenter bees do not live in colonies like honeybees or bumblebees. The adults overwinter individually, often in previously constructed brood tunnels. Those that survive the winter emerge and mate the following spring. Fertilized female carpenter bees then bore into wood, excavating a tunnel to lay their eggs. The entrance hole in the wood surface is perfectly round and about the diameter of your little finger. Coarse sawdust may be present below the opening, and tunneling sounds are sometimes heard within the wood. After boring in a short distance, the bee makes a right angle turn and continues to tunnel parallel to the wood surface. Inside the tunnel, about five or six cells are constructed for housing individual eggs. Working back to front, the bee provisions each cell with pollen (collected from spring-flowering plants) and a single egg, sealing each successive chamber with regurgitated wood pulp. Hatching and maturation occurs over several weeks, with the pollen serving as a food source for the developing larvae. Later in the summer, the new generation of adult bees emerge and forage on flowers, returning to wood in the fall for hibernation.

Always the same routine. 

Wake up in darkness. Lie still and estimate the time. Think it through. The goal is 3:30. It’s never later, usually earlier. Once I decide what I believe the time to be, I nudge the bedside table. Movement activates the Apple watch on its charger. 12:30? 1:30? Shit! Try to go back to sleep. 3:00 or 3:26? Excellent! Time to get up!

But first, grab the iPhone and scroll for 20 minutes. Facebook of course because I’m over 40. (Young people know that Facebook is Geezerville and mostly avoid its uncoolness.) Instagram for the girl’s latest status. Messages to see if there was family chatter after I conked out last night. CBS, NPR, USA Today, BBC, even FOX fake news, just to see if they all agree among themselves that the only things  worth talking about are Trump and Coronavirus.

 Both of them are actually killing people, and not just on Fifth Avenue.

I check my e-mail, although it’s mostly a bunch of emotional drama predicting the end of the world if the other guys steal this election or that and how I’m such a great guy for making the mistake of giving their team a few bucks several months ago and is there any way I can do that again right now because the invading hoards of evil are about to overrun us all.

So much begging and hair-pulling should be accompanied by equally dramatic music. Think “Lone Ranger” chasing bad guys.

My last virtual bus stop before actually getting up, is our bank account. A masochist, I seem to revel in the Ground Hog Day depression of seeing that same $743. is sitting there, day after day, unaccompanied by my overdue and much heralded “Stimulus check”. I often wonder who’s receiving those things. None of my friends have, certainly not me.

“Trump’s a lying bastard and the whole government is fucked right now.” I tell myself. It’s both an accusation and an affirmation.

That silent soliloquy makes me smile. I know who the bad guys are, and I’m not one of them. OK, good. More importantly, there is Organic Columbian coffee waiting for me to brew a cup. My world is great, I tell myself, glad to be autonomous under my own little rock.

But I can take one last disappointment before coffee so I tap the bank icon and watch the face recognition screen examine my nose.

The checking account displays itself, but at first, the numbers don’t make sense. I’m in the wrong house or something. No, look at the total…that’s way too much…because…because…my stimulus check! Unbelievable! There really is a tooth fairy!

(I force myself to check the urge to scream “You fuckwads are giving me back my own money and act like you’re doing me some huge favor, like I’m your charity, worthy of your pity. Well, fuck you, you work for me and I will vote your crooked ass out of office at every opportunity I get.”)

OK, silent rant over, I feel better, and… I’m rich! I love Donald Trump! It’s all his doing! Now I’ll vote for him forever!

Sorry, got a touch of gold fever and lost my mind there for a second!

Anyway, on to more important matters…how to spend our newfound wealth?

I finally got up and went out to the great room where Carla was half-buried under her weighted blanket. She was down the rabbit hole with her laptop, bird-nest hair and hyper focused on her pet passions:

1)      Native American issues

2)       palatial houses for sale around the world that have fallen into disrepair, now selling for peanuts. (forget about the million or two you would need to renovate, this is not about practicality, it’s about dreaming)

3)      All things Carl Jung

Demanding that she free herself and be present for a moment, I tell her the good news and offer options as to how to spend all that windfall moola.

“We’ve got lots of bills that I’ve been putting at arm’s length.” I point out. “But we’ve been locked in so long that I think we should get out and celebrate!”

“Let’s go to The Blue Hen for breakfast! We could take Chica to the dog park afterward! Maybe stop by Vystar and ask about that safety deposit box. Want to go see a movie this afternoon? What if we drive down to Hulls and sit at the bar? It’s twofer Tuesday! Since you don’t drink, we can both order Moscow Mules so I’ll get four!

Or we could do something really crazy.

“Let’s drive down to Disneyworld!”

Carla looked at me dead on and took a pin to my fantasy balloon: “They’re all closed, and you quit drinking” she stated flatly, pulling down her miner light and going back underground into her internet caves.

Well shit, I thought, I may have to pay bills…unless…I go to Amazon Prime and save a ton of money on things priced so low that I can’t afford not to buy them!

Fuck the bills!  Donald said he may send us another check next month anyway.

I love that man!

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(Satire, folks. I hate that man!)

Worst Restaurant Experience You Ever Had?

A Facebook question asked, “What Is the Worst Restaurant Experience You Ever Had?”.

People spewed horror stories. Terrible service, disgusting food, rats, roaches… It all made me want to Lysol my own kitchen and have dinner at home.

Growing up in this tourist town, both daughters waitressed as teenagers and came home with disgusting stories about the kitchens in some of our favorite spots. We still go to them anyway. I’ve managed to block the images from my mind. It’s just the way many kitchens are, I tell myself.

All in all, what I don’t know can’t necessarily hurt me…until I do know it, especially if it is an image which can’t be erased.

That’s how it was with one place back in my bachelor days.

I worked a graveyard shift at the Defense Intelligence Agency. A computer operator working with an IBM 360-65 mainframe that took up more floor space than a football field and had less power than a cheap cellphone does today.

Being DIA though, the place was not easy to get in and out of.

Arlington Hall Station was home to NSA and DIA. Very secure.

Driving up to the front gate to start my graveyard shift, the guards stopped me to check the pass on my front bumper and the ID on a chain around my neck. The ID lit up under a hand-held ultraviolet light they used to make sure it was legit.

If MP’s were satisfied, the gate lifted. Once parked in my assigned spot, cameras on tall metal poles swiveled their heads to follow me as I walked up to the entrance to the first perimeter, a 12-foot metal fence topped with concertina wire. That’s where a stationary camera eyed me menacingly as I pushed the speaker button beneath it, identifying myself as “Haller, DS5B2”.

A narrow 20-foot corridor lead me to the front door. There sat a guard behind thick glass. He checked my badge again with the ultraviolet light and looked up “Haller,DS5B2” to see that I was on the access list for that evening.

Once inside, the drab olive halls were paired with unlabeled, locked doors that ushered me down a long hallway. There, at another blank door, I pushed a red button and stood in front of another overhead camera and waved. On the inside, the guard had to recognize me in order for him to buzz the door open as I entered a small room with yet another locked door on the far side. If the guard saw that it was really just me and everything was OK, he reached under his desk and buzzed the far door.

Almost inside, standing in a brightly lit hall, I faced a huge steel door like a bank vault, a large rectangle as thick as a panel truck.  On the wall next to it was a cipher box mounted chest high. Four numbered keys allowed me to enter the code I had been given the day before. It changed every day.

A huge hiss as air blew out, 14 tons of steel slowly opened, air pressure equalized on both sides.

Once we were in, we were in for the night. We didn’t want to leave and have to go through that security gauntlet again until our shift was over.

In the middle of the night, when everyone was hungry, we always elected one guy to make the food run for all of us.

Jack-In-The-Box was the closest 24-hour place around, so Jack-In-The-Box it was. The same routine, night after night. A few times when I was the lucky courier, I picked up our orders at the drive through window from the same guy who was always there. The only person working at 3am. Cook, cashier, manager and worker all rolled into one. The night shift king of Jack-In-The-Box, with a girth and waddle that told me he was a food lover.

Yup, he was a food lover alright, but not in a good way

One quiet night after the run had been made and as we all sat around letting the food digest and prepare itself for the moist gauntlet that is peristalsis, one of the guys sat up in his chair with a start. Reading from a news article in the Washington Post, he said “Oh Shit, Listen to this!” “Area Jack-In-The-Box closed. Night Shift Employee Caught Masturbating on Food!”

That particular employee was our guy. He had worked there for about 6 months, almost exactly the same time that we had been buying food from him every night. There was reference to serving  “Local military” shops that ran 24-7 and needed to be fed…  

Someone had complained. They identified a smell in the special sauce that caused them to dissect their food. Two appropriately named Jumbo Jacks.

Newly installed kitchen surveillance cameras caught him adding his own secret ingredient to the special sauce.

The name "special sauce" took on new meaning.

After that, the guys concentrated on outlets for our boredom other than going out for food. We made sure to bring our own, and tried not to think about "Jack Off in the Box" anymore.

That's when we talked the female Airman, an Airwoman? into ditching her panties one night for a sit-down formal portrait after climbing up onto the giant copy machine. That monster spit out and collated briefings for the Joint-Chiefs-of-Staff each weekday morning. I think of that particular run of copies as “Pixilation’s For Peace”. Normally we would pull and wipe down the drum after each run as a security precaution. No ghost images. That night, in our enthusiastic gratitude for such good fortune, we forgot.

With enough distance, a very specific ghost image emerged from the pages of the briefing documents, long arms helped all the Joint Chiefs who alerted and started looking for it. Background dots morphed into man’s best friend.

All upper brain activity in the guys ceased for the day. Those were late Vietnam war years, but after turning the first few pages of their briefing, no war efforts were discussed.

The Joint Chiefs could have heard the chants of “No more war, no more war…” going on outside the Pentagon walls if their brains still worked, but they didn’t.

Our own crew had been simpatico with those protesters, so we like to think that we contributed our little part to the anti-war efforts that day.

Anyway, all of my crew started bringing their lunches and stopped going out for fast food completely.

Our Airwoman friend transferred out. No more possibility of playing a poker version of “Truth or Dare”.

One guy on our graveyard shift who had frequently expressed his love for Jack-In-the-Box “Special Sauce” as being the best burger and taco sauce he had ever tasted, never lived it down.

After much effort, he finally got himself a transfer. Guess he couldn't take the heat.

But yes, there[s my answer, worst restaurant experience...no question.

Now, forty five years later, at any restaurant anywhere, I wonder where that Jack-In-The-Box guy is working today.

Wedding Day Blues...

My first wedding was for her family, not for me or even us.

It didn’t take anyway.

We were good friends who made the mistake of thinking it was something more. Not knowing what to do with our lives after graduating college, we followed the conventional path most of us had been raised to expect. Marriage, kids, house, career, retirement, grandchildren, nursing home, bye-bye.

Close friends from college, Eric and Orlando were there to provide emotional support. It would have saved me a lot of trouble if they had been there for an intervention.

Both guys were ex-roommates.

Eric (left) had severe Mononucleosis in the year that he and I shared a room. He weighed 27 pounds and was little more than a wrinkle in the blankets on the top bunk. Sleeping 28 of every 24-hour day, he bloated up with gas overnight like a docked dirigible, releasing it under the covers first thing each morning upon waking. A three-minute tuba blast announced his entry into the conscious world. I could never find matches or a lighter in time to make it interesting but feared that the room would burn down if I lit all those methane-infused blankets anyway.

Orlando (center) had fled Castro with his family when he was 12. He played DJ on our turntable, dancing in place to Santana’s “Abraxas” album. I would lie on my bed, high on LSD, writing ditties on the tie-dyed sheets with the same indelible ink pen my mother had used to mark my clothes for summer camp ten years before.

That’s me on the right. First and last time I ever wore a tux. The wedding itself also marked the last time I was in a church. Not a fan of dress up parties nor of  being lectured and scolded while my pockets are being picked.

That wedding was everything I dislike all rolled into one expensive affair…
Big church, lots of people, formal dress, country club reception with little tea cakes to cause a pinkie to elevate just so, and a musical trio. Lawrence Welk wannabees, not one under the age of 97.

Rock N Roll!

I’ve always hated crowds, and those days they made me physically nauseous.

While waiting in the hallway, ready to be marched out to the alter, the bridesmaids passed in review in front of me. When that redhead friend of hers paused to wish me well, the top of her low-cut dress offered her breasts up on a lace serving platter. Freckled mounds of blue white flesh screamed for liberation, as did I. My extreme interest troubled me.

Gagging down handfuls of Maalox deposited a white chalk ring around my mouth, pews were packed, everyone watching this consumptive clown retching his way up to the alter, like a man to the gallows.

She had decided to surprise me with a new haircut. Gone was the long flowing mane I  had so loved, replaced by very short tightly curled ringlets that looked like pubic hair.

None of it was a good way to start. The end was only a couple of lonely years away.

Five years of the single life followed our split. Four bachelors in a huge townhouse by a lake. Each of us had our own floor. More beer than food in the fridge, a rolling tray on the big communal table, stereo playing 24-7. Party central. Easy, slow, laid back.

Then I fell hard for Carla at the local newspaper where we both worked. Six months later another wedding.

That one was perfect.

We eloped. No friends or family, just us in the living room with a Justice of the Peace. We were in street clothes. He was in worn slacks and a rumpled business shirt. He smelled of soiled clothes pulled from the hamper.  

He was joyless and impatient. I was emotional, eager to seal the deal and get on with our life together.

That man took one Polaroid picture of us that faded away within the year.

Fortunately, we never have, and I haven't needed any Maalox in many years.

Mary Maverick

My Great, Great Grandma, Mary Maverick

Mary Ann Adams Maverick (March 16, 1818 – February 24, 1898), was an early Texas pioneer and author of memoirs which form an important source of information about daily life in and around San Antonio during the Republic of Texas period through the American Civil War.

Mary Ann Adams was born in Alabama, to William Lewis Adams, a lawyer, and Agatha Strother (Lewis) Adams. Her maternal grandmother was a cousin of James Madison while her father's family had founded Lynchburg, Va.

On August 4, 1836, Mary Adams married Samuel Augustus Maverick, a Yale graduate who had been the Alamo’s delegate to the convention of 1836, declaring  Texas’s independence from Mexico.

In her memoirs, she claims to have been the first U.S.-born female to settle in San Antonio. Shortly after moving into a new home along the San Antonio River, Maverick gave birth to her second child, Lewis Antonio Maverick, who became the first Anglo-American child to be born in and grow up in San Antonio.

Mary Maverick bore ten children over a span of 21 years. Four died of illness before the age of eight

“In her memoirs, she also described the joys and heartbreaks of raising a growing family in the uncertain shadow of Indian raids, military invasions and deadly diseases. A youthful sense of wonder comes through in her wide-ranging accounts of fleeing an invading Mexican army, of making do with living quarters in a corncrib, of meeting generals and presidents. Sprinkled throughout are other memorable vignettes--of a grand procession to San Antonio's church of San Fernando behind "twelve young girls dressed in spotless white" and a platform-borne statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe; of a dance in which the president of the Republic of Texas, Mirabeau B. Lamar, has trouble getting his arm around the waist of the rotund wife of San Antonio's mayor, Juan Seguin; of the deathbed vigils for two beloved daughters."

Indeed, as historian Paula Mitchell Marks writes in the foreword, these memoirs form “a valuable record of Texas history and a personal story of endurance and grace.”

My Grandfather, George Madison Maverick, was born in 1893. That’s him on the bottom right, with the big ears. This picture was taken at Sunshine Ranch in San Antonio. No shirt, no shoes, no problem. Grandpa was one of 13. That’s his dad, seated on the left. He was the son of the more famous Samuel Augustus Maverick, who was an accomplished surveyor and attorney. Sam played a leading role in gaining Texas independence from Mexico and was a signer of the Texas Declaration of Independence.His grandson, my Grandfather, outgrew his humble beginnings on the ranch, earning a doctorate in chemistry from MIT and becoming a VP in the Standard Oil company. By the time I knew him, Grandpa had retired from Standard Oil and was a professor in the school of business at the University of Virginia, living just outside Charlottesville on 325 acres of land that traced back to our family roots there, more than 150 years.

To me, Grandpa was funny and loving, often acting gruff to hide the strong emotion he felt for his family or for any underdog who needed a helping hand, including dogs themselves. His word was his bond and much like another George, that guy who became our first president, I don’t believe Grandpa George ever told a lie. A smart, balanced, accomplished, man, Grandpa, like Grandma, knew he wasn’t better than anyone else in this world, but he damn sure was just as good.

Growing up, I spent a lot of time at their place, “Shepherds Hill Farm”, in Charlottesville, Va. If Grandpa wasn’t in his den reading the Wall Street Journal, he was probably in his shop, working on one of the many chests, tables, and benches he produced toward the end of his life.

I own the large chest he carved for Grandma Ruth, to celebrate their Golden wedding anniversary. He was so happy when a delivery truck lumbered up the driveway with that huge mahogany board he had shipped up from South America, working on that chest incessantly one Summer while I was staying there. The high whine of his router ebbed and flowed in tandem with a million cicadas as he carved patterns into the wood. Dust Devils of smoke and sawdust swirled in spurts from his open shop doors. Stopping by several times a day, I prodded him: “What’s that going to be, Grandpa? What are you making?” With false intolerance for the familiar question, he would say: “You don’t ask Picasso what he’s painting, do you?” Finally, one afternoon when Grandma had taken the yellow Nash Rambler wagon into town to do some grocery shopping at the Safeway Store, Grandpa changed his answer to: “It’s my casket, dammit! I’ll be buried in it!” Apparently, he had been telling Grandma the same thing. She always shut such talk down with: “Oh George, stop!” But now, with her taillights just a red speck down the long driveway, Grandpa saw a photo opportunity. He had me help carry that big mahogany chest out into the sunlight and promptly stepped inside and sat down. Adjusting his straw Fedora, Grandpa instructed: “OK, take a picture. We’ll call it OLD MAN IN HIS BOX. But we have to hurry up before Grandma comes back.”

Now, more than fifty years later, that picture I took stares out at me from the open lid of Grandma’s box. It was her anniversary present after all, not his coffin.

The day before he died, the EMT guys wheeled him out to a waiting ambulance. Grandpa was wearing his straw Fedora and holding a neatly folded Wall Street Journal to his chest. The next day, I was alone with him in the mortuary, saying my last goodbyes. I wished him well on his journey, assured him that we would take good care of Grandma, and slipped a copy of the Wall Street Journal under his folded hands. I should have asked where the hell his Fedora was, but I didn’t. I guess it doesn’t matter. If Grandpa had been able to, he would have joked that the straw hat would burn up right away where he was going.

Although I don't believe in such things, if there is a place where the good guys go when they die, Grandpa will be front and center...shoe-less perhaps but definitely holding the Wall Street Journal and sporting a worn straw Fedora.

A Taste Of Heaven...

Do you ever wonder about heaven in your quiet, existential moments?

I can tell you how to get there... in only three hours.

Remember the scene in “The Graduate” when the future father-in law whispers in Dustin Hoffman's ear: “plastics”? Well just close your eyes and feel me whisper in your ear: “braised oxtails”.

That's right, oxtails. Of course, they're not really oxtails, they are cow tails. OK, now my old fraternity brother, Bruce, is telling me “steers” “they're steers, not cows” but he's in the business of selling beef and has to be sensitive about what we call cows.

Anyway, they're cows.

Simply go the route most recipes promote: season, flour & brown the tails in olive oil. Cover with diced tomatoes, garlic, oregano, bay leaf, and lots of red wine. A secret ingredient? Dried onions dusted with dry amino (soy sauce). That’s not necessary, I just had them on hand. Otherwise, plain onions are fine.

Bake them in a Dutch oven for about 3 hours. Low heat. Slow and steady.

Boil some organic baby carrots in water and real maple syrup, drain & butter them.

Add a salad and a long loaf of fresh French bread to sop up the oxtail liquid.

Now that's heaven, right here, right now.
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Disclaimer: The picture used here is a generic shot I pulled of the Internet. I'm sure my own oxtails looked and tasted better, but that was weeks ago.

Life, Death, and AUCE Gatherings...

It’s common knowledge that Realtors will show up anywhere, anytime if there is free food being offered. Put out a plate of mini-sandwiches and watch them begin to circle, soon they’ll be feeding right there…standing up and hoping about, sitting on the edges of tables and furniture, maybe a few perched on top of the refrigerator…

Of course, after they push through the crocodile tears over news of a beloved grandma who went on to glory at age 97, in her own home, they maneuver to capture the sale. After all, the house must go and they are ready to help...themselves mostly.

Bingo! One door closes, another door opens.

Ours is an older neighborhood with many seniors, and lots of happy Realtors.

Apparently, these Vultures, the birds, not the Realtors, view life, and death, in much the same way. There’s a big opportunity when someone dies.

Vultures showed up in droves yesterday for a free buffet of deer parts stuffed into trash bags and dumped on the side of the road.

An AUCE treat for them.

Now it seems they’ve hung around for a funeral. One of their own.

Again, food is central to the sad ceremony. They circle around dear old Uncle Ned, telling funny stories of things he used to say.

They reminisce, a little too quick to point out that he sure looks good.

By “good”, they mean, “delicious”.

All in agreement, they dig in.

Other than the fact that Realtors don’t eat dead stuff, the similarities are striking.

Overheard as we were passing by: “Well, he sure was a funny old coot…and tasty too!”

One even asked another: “How long have you had your Real Estate license? “and “I know he lived by himself. Did he own that home that he died in? Does the family have a Realtor?"

Money Can't Buy Happiness...Right!

We all know the old adage: “Money doesn’t buy happiness”, right?

I like that one, because we don’t have any money,

So, what really does matter?

You already know the answer…family, friends, human kindness, love…and an Apple watch 5 paired with an iPhone 11 Pro Max.

Wait, What?

That’s right. I love my family endlessly. The little woman, the kids, the grandson who eats toilet paper. Chica who worships me, Rufus who is just weird and runs out the doggie door if I approach because he thinks I’m going to pinch him. (Got any ticks boy?)

They are my world and I wouldn’t give them up for anything…except this iPhone and Apple watch.

When the entire family and the two dogs are in the drink, just barely treading water and I’m on the ship with only one life preserver, I yell at the Apple watch and iPhone: “Hold on to each other and I’ll throw you the life preserver!”

All of the others can swim, I think.

But I can’t live without constantly checking notifications. The weather, every 15 minutes. Camera angles, pictures from ten minutes ago, Facebook one-upsmanships, my e-mail spam, Pandora and Amazon music, YouTube road rage videos, Netflix, my Tetris game, the bank statement, the time in Japan, Hawaii, San Diego and 12 other places I never go, my blog, driving directions for anyplace more than a mile from home, the voice recorder I use to dictate memos that I never listen to, the calculator, missed calls, a sleep machine that creates bird sounds to block out the sound of the birds outside, Google Earth, Zillow (lying bastards… my house is worth way more than that), activity data and the gushing praise I get from my Apple watch when I get up off the couch, and of course, there’s Amazon Prime.

Prime is my own personal Santa who helps me save a ton of cash all year long. (Quiet. Do I hear a delivery truck heading this way?)

A thousand other things too. That’s all I need. Oh, and two chargers, an electric outlet, a car adapter and lots of time that is better spent staring and swiping than having actual conversations with living people or doing stuff that requires that I move anything more than a few fingers.

Of course, the watch and phone are an exercise in redundancy. They do the same thing, but I need them both, all the time. They’re paired.

These things give me the power to prioritize. That way, when Ruth calls to Face-time so we can see little Wilders first steps? I can mute the call and continue with my Hearts game and that video of “The people of Walmart”, without any rude interruptions.

This technology 24/7 gives me true freedom.

Now I can put the important stuff in my life front and center...

Cult Life...

“The term cult usually refers to a social group defined by its religious, spiritual, or philosophical beliefs, or its common interest in a particular personality, object or goal.”

Every day we’re amazed anew, “How can his followers support this behavior? How can otherwise rational people believe these lies?”

Cult behavior is not uncommon; we’ve seen it throughout human history. Sometimes it’s more rabid in its manifestation than others, but the reliance on group think over individual is a common thread. Most religions display cult behavior...believing in something in spite of facts that indicate that the belief has little basis in logic. For many, it's easier to align with a group of like-minded people, often following a leader who appears to be strong and self-assured, unquestioning and unquestioned. It’s harder to stand alone and base our lives on our own personal decisions, case by case. Falling in with a group takes followers off the hook of personal responsibility. They no longer have to think for themselves or wrestle with tough questions. Just refer to the “answer book”. Simply going with the party line of “the bible says” or “Trump says” or even “my friends and family say” is much easier than having to decide for myself. Of course the real issue for each of us gets back to that, what do I say?

At a young age, my father taught me the most valuable lesson I’ve ever learned. While looking at something other than the comics in our home town newspaper, I was surprised by an article that featured a report that didn’t sound right to me. Dad was in the room and I asked him about it. He told me: “Just because it is printed in the newspaper, doesn’t mean it’s true.” That floored me. My father went on to suggest that it was important for me to “question everything, including me”. That was a double whammy. Question my Dad? The authority figure in my life? The man who had all the answers? Yes. Question what he says, the preacher (I already had that one covered), the doctor, teacher, lawyer (like Dad!), even the president of the United States! Unbelievable! Yup, question everything you are told or taught to see if it makes sense to you. Accept none of it blindly. Run it through your own personal Truth-O-Meter. Then put on your big boy pants and decide for yourself.

Certainly it’s easier to relinquish personal responsibility, to simply refer to the rule book of whatever you choose to align yourself with, be it Branch Davidian, Baptist, Shinto, Moose, or Trump. There is a common theme of cultism that runs through any group in which we embrace the core tenants of that group a bit more than we may trust in our own case by case judgement. Things are so much easier when we can box them up and tie them with a little bow and think: “there, I’m done with that” No second guessing, one size fits all.

“He may be a little rough around the edges, but at least he tells it like it is, and I support him. He’s doing a great job!”

For us to be incredulous every day, amazed that anyone would support this bullshit, is its own form of cultism.

Nothing is all black or all white. Life presents itself is a full spectrum of colors that reach in opposite directions beyond our ability to see them. The tough part is for us to think it through for ourselves rather than automatically grab a torch and pitchfork and join the crowd in the street. I’m not saying that isn’t what it takes sometimes, but I am suggesting that we do the hard work first and foremost: question everything, including ourselves.

And perhaps we should all be less surprised every day that when it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck…well, you know the rest of the story.