HEAVENLY BODIES

It was June 1962, or maybe October 1963, I’m not really sure but it was definitely in the early 1960s, and I know for sure it was a Sunday. I was safely ensconced in the fourth pew of my Grandmother’s church, bookended by my grandmother on one side and my mother on the other. Just as I was about to take a catnap my grandmother applied her signature pinch to the fleshy underside of my upper arm. Bless her soul if she were alive today I’m willing to bet, as a former Navy Wave, she would be stationed at Guantanamo applying her pinch to elicit information from the detainees. I don’t know if the current administration would consider it torture but 50 years later that pinch still makes an impression on me!

Returning home I asked my father why I had to accompany my mother and grandmother to church while he remained at home to read the Sunday paper. When pressed he gave me his stock answer – “Those of us who don’t sin don’t need to partake.” Right! I often wonder how my father’s placement interview went when he met with St. Peter at the pearly gates.

After nearly 20 years occupying the fourth pew each and every Sunday morning I finally convinced my escorts I was not the spiritual type. Like my father I was willing to give up sin for a lazy Sunday morning. I even had to admit I was a bit of an agnostic, at least I thought I was. Then along came two out of body experiences.

My first real test came with a visit to the Bodies Exhibit. Controversial as it might be the Bodies Exhibit is a real eye opener. Combining elements of science and art the exhibit also plays to your basic prurient interest. All those naked bodies, exposed down to their fundamental building blocks, with not a soul to be found. But what would my grandmother say? In many ways she was pretty much ahead of her time but when it came to matters of the soul she was less willing to roll the dice. But others had plenty to say.

Mike Hendricks argued in the Kansas City Star on March 2, 2008, that the Bodies shows are invaluable exhibits, despite the commonly cited ethical concerns. Hendricks writes, “If anything makes a more compelling argument for the sanctity and dignity of humanity––and does it more tastefully—I haven’t seen it.”

But the question remained – “Does man have a soul?”

One of W. Somerset Maugham's characters tried to end the controversy when he was asked if he had a soul – “I don’t know what you mean by the soul. If you mean an immaterial or spiritual entity, separately produced by the creator, in temporary conjunction with the material body, then my answer is in the negative. It seems to me that such a radically dualistic view of human personality cannot be defended by anyone who is able to take a calm view of the evidence. If on the other hand, you mean by soul the aggregate of psychic elements which form what we know as the personality of the individual, then, of course, I have one.”

Well, it took two visits but I finally came to the conclusion that what I was seeing could not have possibly been the product of chance. Life is complicated enough, to think a living thing like a human body with all its parts fitting together like pieces of a puzzle could be an accident of nature is just too hard to believe. And don’t even get me started on the fetus exhibit!

Then there was the day last week when my soul mate and I walked the beach to the light of the moon, and what a moon it was. Low in the sky, bigger than I had ever seen, bright orange, it traveled the horizon nearly touching the sea. One look at that spectacle and you had to believe in something, anything. Call it what you want but for me it was my grandmother calling to tell me she expected to see me next week in the fourth pew and I might just be there. Unfortunately I didn't have a camera available to capture that image for prosperity but a friend spied this sunset at the North Pole that will light the way.

"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He...who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe is as good as dead. His eyes are closed."

-Albert Einstein

MODERN DAY MEDICINE MAN

WebMD aside, self-diagnosis is not a good thing. After watching a recent PBS special on brain functions I discovered I'm afflicted with a prefrontal cortex abnormality.

For the life of me I can't remember the medical term so I turned to my wife, a former registered nurse, sure she would have the proper terminology at her finger tips. Unfortunately its been too many years, too many career changes for her to recall the proper medical term so she reverted to the more familiar wifely term "Youactlikeajerkosis."

Not one to stand by and see my brain atrophy I began my research in earnest, eventually discovering the modern day elixir, fish oil, to be just what the doctor ordered. I read the typical dose was 1 mg but a "friend" suggested a more appropriate dose for my condition would be 3 mg. I think I heard her mumble something under her breath that sounded like "Youareabigfatjerkosis." - apparently a more advanced stage of the disease.

Just as I was about to head down to the local GNC store to seek out the required capsules I recalled my early childhood experience with cod liver oil, Castor oil, and that dreaded Dr. John's Tonic. That recollection stopped me in my tracks. There was no way I wanted to relive the thrill of feeling the contents of my stomach leave my body by way of my mouth or any other orifice.

What to do? Seek out a modern day medicine man! My friend Bruce referred me to Dr. Ron, his personal shaman. Dr. Ron claims to be a bonafide medical doctor but I have never seen any sign of a degree or other credentials. He combines modern medical science with the natural healing powers of herbs and "weeds" (he does still sport a pony tail) and mixes in a modicum of spirituality and the mysticism of all things natural for good measure.

Like most traditional doctors Dr. Ron does not make house calls so we met in a restaurant. Well, actually our first encounter was at a bar sharing a Belvedere Vodka - straight up, thank you!, followed by a bottle of Pouilly-Fume. Needless to say, I liked this guy's bedside manner.

After describing my predicament and self-diagnosis Dr. Ron had to agree with my wife's assessment: my prefrontal cortex was the root of all evil. But he held out hope - no need for fish oil capsules. He could accomplish the same results with this version of brain food based on the weed purslane, probably growing wild in my garden. Considered a weed in the US, it has more Omega-3 fatty acids than any other leafy plant. Taking out his prescription pad, the back of an envelope, he jotted down this formula.

Whole milk yogurt

Purslane

Cucumber

Black pepper

Garlic

Chopped tomatoes

Gorgonzola cheese

Mix thoroughly and refrigerate. Eat as much and as often as you like.

When I asked about weights and measures Dr. Ron said, "That sounds like a good idea! Lets have another glass of wine!"

Well, it's been three weeks now and three containers of his yogurt/purslane concoction and I'm feeling just fine, a little more gassy than usual but I chalk that up to the jerk in me passing from my body. At my next appointment with the good Doctor I'm going to ask him about erectile dysfunction. I wonder if he knows the formula for Plaster of Paris?

ON THE EDGE OF NEVER-NEVER LAND

Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. I know the feeling. For many years now I thought how wonderful it would be to make my way as a writer. I envisioned sitting at the keyboard, a bottle of Irish Whiskey at hand, soft music playing in the background and my fingers gliding over the keys. But what to write, what style to follow? Not knowing where to start I decided to pick an author of some renown to emulate but every time I settled on one it turned out badly. I should have cheated and read the last chapter of their life story first.

First it was Ernest Hemingway. I read his books, studied his style, read A.E. Hotchner's biography, "Papa Hemingway", flew to Paris to drink in his cafes, traveled to Key West to walk in his steps, fished his favorite spots, and drank copious amounts of Mojitos, but when it came right down to it I was a failure.

As Ernest liked to say, "Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another." I lived, he didn't.

Next I turned the clock back to 1886 settling on Leo Tolstoy. I thought a good Russian would be hard to beat. Little did I know at the time my favorite of Leo's books would be "The Death of Ivan IIyich". Do you sense a pattern here?

I connected with Ivan, his life "had been most simple and most ordinary and therefore most terrible". Ivan didn't fair too well, dying alone in a train station; Leo didn't do much better.

Well, it was clearly time to put some distance between me and death, time to live on the edge and experience life to the fullest. Who better to get crazy with than Hunter S. Thompson, the father of gonzo journalism? I could use a little fear and loathing in Las Vegas.

I settled on Hunter when my muse shared her simple explanation of why she loved me - "Because you are everything I'm not." Hunter and I were like that, he lived for drugs, I'm a pretty straight arrow, missing the 60's as I had. He drank - a lot, I'm a Poland Spring kind of guy. He loved guns, I gave mine away to a pixie. He road motorcycles, I drive a Mercedes (how boring). He enjoyed and wrote about sports, I'm artsy fartsy. But when it came right down to it I realized I was more like Hunter than any of the other writers I had chosen.

I've always liked the idea of living on the edge or at least close to it. I seek out edgy people, counter-cultural types who act and look different than me - people who are everything I'm not. That is probably why Hunter, and even Ivan, appealed to me - they both lived on the edge. Ivan "all alone on the brink of an abyss, with no one who understood or pitied him." Hunter, on the other hand relished life "on the edge...there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over."

But I wasn't ready to jump, I needed a safety net, a wide stance with one foot firmly planted on each side of the abyss. Hunter chose a mountain top to find his edge.

After all this death I decided to pick a story with a happy ending rather than a specific author. Then it came to me, I would use a fairy tale as inspiration and write my own ending. What better tale than J. M. Barrie's "Peter Pan, or The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up." Sir James, or Jimmy as I called him, felt dreams come true if you wish hard enough but they come at a price. Jimmy once said "You can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it." Why not? I was willing to give everything I had to live in Neverland. Is that close enough to the edge for you Hunter?

Off I went to London to trace Jimmy's steps, visiting Peter Pan's statue in Kensington Garden near where Jimmy had lived. Jimmy wasn't fond of the statue because it didn't show the devil in Peter; I could do better, I've got plenty of devil to spare. One look at Peter and I knew immediately this was it, I was the perfect Peter Pan, the little boy who never grew up, and I had my own Tinkerbell to boot; a figment of my imagination to be sure, but she seemed real enough to me. She came to me in a dream ..."that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming." Tink took me to Never-Never land and that is where I will always love her.

Like all good stories this one has an ending that leaves you dangling, waiting for the next chapter. In my version I tried to clip Tink's wings but she flew off without me and I may never see her again. Jimmy's Peter Pan story ends a little differently, the narrator says, "But I was never to see Peter Pan again. Now I tell his story to my children and they will tell it to their children, and so it will go on - for all children grow up .....Except one!

Good night Tink, wherever you are, I will see you in my dreams.

STRAY SHOPPING CARTS REDUX

E.F. Schumacker put it best by saying, "Any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius - and a lot of courage - to move in the opposite direction."

Well it seems the book I reviewed in a previous blog post, "Stray Shopping Carts of America", has gotten wide attention. More so now that we are in the middle of a recession. With the republication of "A Simple Life" and everyone seeking a simpler, less expensive, close to home experience, the backyard BBQ has taken on new meaning.

My friends Peter and Dianne have taken the phrase "Back to Nature" to new heights with their custom built BBQ grill, direct from Walmart.

I admit I was a little jealous when they moved from "Taxachusetts" to find freedom in New Hampshire but I never expected them to get this deep into the back to the land movement.

YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME I'M BEAUTIFUL, I KNOW I AM, BUT THANKS ANYWAY.

It's mating season in south Florida, that odd ritual when old men with wrinkled skin dance in the sun in a vain attempt to attract a female partner.

Tennessee Williams said it best in The Night of the Iguana when he penned these words:

"And intercourse not well designed

For beings of a golden kind

Whose native green must arch above

The earth's obscene corrupting love"

Love is like that, or maybe its just passion but it seems a great deal of energy comes into play selecting a desirable partner. I always assumed, as a male in hot pursuit (formally so after 40 years of marriage) the male of the species was exerting all of the energy in the mating ritual but recent research has shown the mating "dance" is energetically costly for females as well, surprising because this runs counter to conventional scientific wisdom.

Until recently researchers assumed choosiness demands comparatively little exertion from females while males put a great deal of effort into courtship. Just watch any male on the beach as he sidles up to a female, hunches his back and begins to rock back and forth – one would think all that is left for the female is to amble into the males' territory, watch this flamboyant behavior and choose the male they want, while simply avoiding other suitors. Easier said than done!

As it turns out avoiding energetic but unwanted males is in itself exhausting, and often causes the choosiest females to loose as much as 25 %of their body weight. What’s more the longer they spend in the company of the attractive males, the more weight they lose. This new research by Princeton University could be bad news for Jenny Craig.

Take my friend Bruce for example. Bruce is not a Reverend but had he been he surely would have been defrocked like the Reverend Dr. T. Lawrence Shannon from the pages of The Night of the Iguana. Bruce is one of those sun baked guys with a very young and very attractive wife. I often wondered what exactly constituted his power of attraction and how his wife maintained such a girlish figure. During a recent visit I spotted the answer, an elegant coffee table book that contained all one needs to know about attracting the opposite sex while exerting the least amount of effort. A combination adventure story, drink compendium, cookbook, and all around how-to-book on all things related to attracting the opposite sex The Iguana Cookbook was a complete surprise.

It seems Iguana meat is considered an aphrodisiac and can be prepared in a variety of interesting ways. If you doubt me check it out yourself at http://www.iguanacookbook.com/

Like any good cookbook The Iguana Cookbook starts with the basics - prepare a drink paired to the dish at hand. In my unscientific test the collection of drink recipes were each tried and determined to be more than suitable to accompany any of the recipes. In fact your humble correspondent would prefer to paraphrase Ogden Nash - “Iguana meat is neat, but liquor is quicker”. For the inexperienced cook the recipes are meticulously explained beginning with the most basic instruction – “First catch the Iguana”. For that you might have to enlist George Cera, the author and renowned Iguana hunter. Seems he has captured over 16,000 in his illustrious career. Then there is the great debate, “Is it a fish?” Great news for Catholics, the Church considers Iguana meat a fish (go figure) so Friday night date night is sanctioned by the Church.

But back to Bruce. Not one to take any chances Bruce has covered all his bases. Not only did he purchase the book, he decided he needed a ready supply of Iguana meat close at hand and like the male of every species he is obsessed with size.

As Bruce would say, "There are worse things than chastity, Reverend Dr. Shannon".

LARRY COMES HOME

Did you ever have a friend you never met? Larry is that kind of guy. I don’t know Larry, never even met him but I have a feeling we would be good friends. Last night I was reading a very profound letter from Larry to one of his granddaughters, Sammie. Sammie is arguably Larry’s favorite granddaughter, but let’s keep that between us, the others wouldn’t be too happy if they knew I knew. I can understand why Larry feels the way he does, Sammie is pretty special to me too.

Last year Larry was on life support, today he supports life. Now be honest, everyone says they support life, their own life for sure, but when it comes to other lives, well maybe we can have a “senior moment” once in a while and forget about all the lives lost through “choice”. But, did you ever wonder whose choice they are talking about?

Larry had spent three days in the ICU at a local hospital. There is nothing like a three day retreat in an ICU to focus your senses on those things in your life that are really important. Sometimes it takes a moment like this, an out of the ordinary event to finally bring you home. After life support, what else is there? Well, plenty if you have Larry’s inner strength and sense of purpose. Larry beat the odds in the ICU; I guess God wasn’t done with him yet. The irony in all of this - Larry had gone from life support to supporting life; not a bad way to thank the Lord for saving your life.

I’m not sure it if was an epiphany or just a passing thought but Larry woke up feeling just like Howard Beale in the movie “Network News” exclaiming “I’m mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more!” Right then and there Larry decided to join the political process. Larry suddendly realized that all life was precious. Being an old Navy hand Larry took this thought to be his marching orders. Grabbing a pen from one of his nurses Larry decided to make his voice heard and he wrote like he never wrote before.

Never one to say much (Richard Nixon would have called him one of the silent majority) Larry used just one 3X5 card to write what had to be said. His thoughts were pointed, and he got right to the heart of the matter. Like any good grandparent Larry wanted to teach his granddaughter the value of life and why character matters. Larry was writing to his granddaughter Sammie but his thoughts should be a lesson to us all. Larry decided it was time to stand for something, because if you don’t stand for something you will fall for anything. Larry is a husband, father, and grandfather, he has the gift of sight that comes with age; he's seen it all. He’s seen a granddaughter’s sonogram, he knows that today is the father of tomorrow and you have to make your choices count for the future. To borrow a phrase from President Obama (with a little poetic license) “That’s the kind of choice you can believe in”.

We live in a free country with unlimited choices but do we really know how to make the right choices? Life is dear, and everyone should have the opportunity to live life to the fullest but if you make a bad choice, use poor judgment, buy a house you can’t afford, don’t save for the future, or find yourself pregnant some politician will have a solution. They want to buy your vote with promises they can’t keep. Remember, there is no free lunch. What ever happened to personal responsibility?

Like Howard Beale Larry wants to spread his message and he is looking for volunteers. If you want to join Larry in his mission to teach the value of life and strength of character and make a difference in our world, stand up for what you believe and repeat after me - "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!" Better still why not drop Larry a line. He would love to hear from you and I bet he will become your friend too.

Larry Brethauer
43 Boondock Road
Lorida, FL 33857

Welcome home my friend. I hope I get to meet you some day.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, VINCENT

I’ve decided to forestall any further birthdays. I’m calling a time out, at least for a little while. Its not that I dislike the celebration, cake and ice cream suits me just fine, but the thought of blowing out all those damn candles really freaks me out. Honestly, I’m not obsessed with germs, no hand sanitizer in my house, but can you just picture all those microbes floating over the cream cheese icing, making a bee line straight for the confectionary flower I had marked as my own?

The only smart thing to do is to pick another’s birthday and celebrate. Look at the benefits; you can still have the cake and ice cream, but without the candles, no presents need be opened, you don’t run the risk of re-gifting gone a-muck, and if it is a little belated no great loss, who’s going to complain?

I think a topical series might be fun. Let’s see, maybe we could start with dead poets. If it’s good enough for a movie script it should be good enough for my birthday party. We could move on to mad scientists. There are a few that could use a little celebrating, like Wilhelm Reich; Eisenhower’s secret ally against the aliens. Willy lived not far from here and his force field is still felt to this day but I will leave that for another time; it's dark outside and I’m not in the mood for any late night visitors. After we finish with the scientists we could move on to movie stars. They are always good for a party, dead or alive. Last but not least, I think we could finish up with a few authors. Maine is home to a few, some stranger than others. My friend, Caroline, makes a great corn chowder, (I have her family recipe). I bet I could get her to celebrate with us; she might even bring the militia. What’s a party without some target practice?

OK, so it’s settled - dead poets first. The power went out the other day and I had to scurry around for candles which made me think of one of my favorite poems, this little quatrain titled “First Fig”.

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light!

In a remarkable moment of serendipity I discovered it was Vincent’s birthday, an omen for sure. Mind you I didn’t know Vincent but she would appreciate my familiarity. With one foot on each side of the aisle she preferred Vincent over Edna. She was that kind of gal. Can't say as I blame her. Vincent is the poetic voice of eternal youth, feminine revolt and liberation, potent sensitivity and suggestiveness all wrapped up in one little package. I have a friend who reminds me of Vincent. Sammie seems just the part, a pixie playing Tinkerbell to my Peter Pan. Even her name is fantasy; it hides the girl behind the fiction of her name. She seems to be saying:

"I shall forget you presently, my dear, So make the most of this, your little day."

Happy Birthday, Vincent. Edna St. Vincent Millay February 22.

MY REAL AGE

Another birthday come and gone and I got to thinking, how old am I? I mean, I know how old I am, but how old am I really. Someone once asked “Would you know how old you are if you didn’t know how old you were?” My answer has always been "29" but my wife constantly disabuses of me of that delusion. I have gone through life whistling past the grave yard thinking I will beat the odds. So I finally found the courage to take the Real Age Test. Harking back to my college days I thought it might be a good idea to use Cliff Notes to bone up for the exam. Back then I was the master of pulling “all niters”. I foolishly thought a quick review would make up for all these years of decadence. After all, the site promised to help me live life to the youngest. No such luck.

I promised myself I would be honest, no cheating, at least not anything I could be held accountable for if I was compelled to share the results with my wife. We don’t see eye to eye on anything related to diet and exercise. She is a nutrition-nazi who would gladly trade me for a new treadmill. I pointed my browser to the real age site, kept my fingers crossed, and proceeded to take THE TEST.

After a false start, (there goes the no cheating promise) I clicked away. The folks at Real Age were not impressed, deciding I was leading a challenging life and was sure to expire sooner rather than later. Always one to look for the silver lining in any cloud I proceeded to experiment with some of the questions. With the interactive features of the test I was able to “manage” my answers, but could I squeeze out a few more years? With fingers crossed, to absolve me of the no cheating promise I had foolishly made, I “adjusted” some of my answers to see how many extra years I could con out of the mad scientists who devised this monstrosity.

My first adjustment was a failure; eating less doesn’t seem to be an option, at least not a very rewarding one, a pick up of only five months; hardly worth it. After a few more poor results I finally hit pay dirt - I discovered I don’t drink enough. Lo and behold, drinking more, much more in my case, would only cost me three months! I will gladly give up those three months for a few more bottles of cabernet.

Not wanting to waste another day I poured a tumbler of just what the doctor ordered and tried to find another site, one that would be more friendly, one whose results I could share with my wife. The folks at the search engine poodwaddle came up with just the place I was looking for. I’m not including the link as I need to keep this to myself for confidentiality purposes, I can’t chance a digital trail, but I can report this website’s results were just what I was searching for – 22 years better to be exact. Not wanting to gloat, I decided to take a subtle approach and taped the printed results to the aforementioned treadmill.

I would love to be a fly on the wall when my wife sees that note but I won’t be around, I’m heading out to the store to meet my friends, Ben & Jerry. I’ll save the rest of the cab bottle for later. I might need it.

STRAY SHOPPIING CARTS

What a day! What started as a cerebral day commemorating Galileo’s 400th birthday, complete with cake, quickly devolved into trash talk complete with a stunning analysis of the Niagara Falls River Gorge vandalism super site. Wait, more on that later.

We figured Rodney Dangerfield probably had Galileo in mind when he famously said, “I don’t get no respect”. The poor guy had made it through the inquisition, only to have his mistress marry his best friend, and his daughters fled to safety in a nearby convent. Not to let Galileo’s memory escape us and his birthday to pass unrecognized we decided a celebration in his honor would be appropriate. We even exchanged gifts. It is the middle of winter in Maine and not much happens at Well Sweep Farm this time of year so we have to be a little inventive.

When it came time to open my present, given to me by my daughter-in-law, all were thrilled to see I had been the recipient of the much sought after definitive guide THE STRAY SHOPPING CARTS OF EASTERN NORTH AMERICA.
My daughter-in-law knows me all too well and she rightly guessed I would want to curl up by the fire and immerse myself in this esoteric study of stray shopping carts, patiently waiting for the snow to clear so I could drag my poor wife (she’s a saint) along to scout out some of the many locations highlighted in the field guide.

The authors claim that what many people may simply see as a sign of urban blight is actually an indicator of consumer society gone too far. This seminal book contains a complete classification system with numerous photographs to aid in identification. This handsome book will rest right next to my dog-eared Field Guide to North American Birds, ready for my next outing.

One can only hope there is money in the freshly minted stimulus plan earmarked for The Niagara Gorge clean up project. You will have to buy your own copy to fully appreciate the beauty of this; it’s available on Amazon, like everything else in the world.

With all the empty houses dotting the land as a result of foreclosures it doesn’t seem as if volunteers for Habitat for Humanity would be much in demand so if I can convince my wife to accompany me we may do our part by joining in the Niagara project. Based on the reception I received from my wife when I suggested this field trip I may have to wait for a second round of financing from Congress if they consider the plight of stray plastic bags, discarded tires, and stray traffic cones. I’m a little disappointed as I always wanted to see Niagara Falls.

GOD LIKE

A friend of mine, a highly accomplished and widely collected artist, offered me the opportunity to work as his understudy. It didn’t last long, I shook too much. One day I joined him in his studio as he was finishing a 50” X 50” painting, destined to be sent to his New York City gallery, when he turned to me and said, “Take the controls”. It reminded me of my brief stint at flying lessons. I was fine with the pilot safely ensconced beside me with a hand on the tiller but when it came time to solo I looked for the parachute.

The artist, who shall remain nameless for fear of alienating his collectors, asked me to paint the last remaining, and brightest star in the nearly finished work of art. I screwed up my courage, and with the aid of a painting stick to steady my hand, (which did absolutely no good by the way) proceeded to stare at the appointed spot where the star was to appear. After what seemed like an eternity (I was creating the firmament after all) my hand steadied enough to give it a go.

False start. My arm, supported by the painting stick, didn’t move. I couldn’t quite reach the canvas. An invisible string attached to my elbow kept my brush, awash with starlight, a safe distance from the canvas. One more deep breath and I let it rip. A splash of color, just where God intended that star to shine, appeared on the canvas. To be honest, I think I had closed my eyes for fear of painting a comet where none should be visible.

Job well done, the painting was shipped off to the gallery and now hangs in a home I will never visit but a part of me resides there, lighting up the evening sky, and shining its grace on that lucky individual. It has been said you never know what it is like to be someone until you walk in their shoes. Now I know how God must have felt as he dabbed the sky with the points of light that guide us through life.

Happy birthday Galileo.

Tom Daschle's Jiffy Lube endorsement

Dear Tom:

It's no wonder you needed a car and driver. If you "invested" in a new car we might not need the auto bailout. You should have plenty of time on your hands to shop for a new car now that you have withdrawn your name from consideration.

Memo to Tom Daschle - Its called a form 1040

Once again it looks like ethics has taken a backseat to the "old boy network", or maybe Tom just didn't get the President's ethics memo.

Date Rape Italian Style

I think I just lost my virginity to a slick Italian. Let's reconstruct this; US Taxpayers "lend" Chrysler $7 Billion and three weeks later Fiat, that slick Italian Don Juan, shows up at my window singing a love aria strait from Puccini and the next thing I know Mr. F has a 35% share of my company. I say my company because it was my $7 Billion in the first place.

If once is not enough for this lothario now I learn Mr. F is ready for more with an option to gain further control, up to 55%, if he is in the mood. This no-cash deal gives him access to my plants, my employees, my money, so he can bring our little bambino love child to life in the US.

So ask yourself, if I hadn't lent the money to Chrysler would Mr. F still have come a courting? Probably, he wanted in and I let my guard down and made it too easy for him. So much for government mandated sex education.

Grandpa Perry's TARP program

Grandpa Perry designed the first TARP program 70 years ago; his version was designed to Toss an Apple into the Rum Pot. Grandpa Perry lost his job as a stockbroker during the Great Depression. No government bailout for him, he had a family to feed and no government handout was going to put a dent in the appetite of six growing children and my grandmother. He decided a little hard cider would be just the stimulant the economy needed. After a brief scouting expedition with the boys in tow, girls were not to be exposed to high finance back then, Grandpa Perry found the perfect spot, a 50 acre farm complete with apple orchard and cider mill, all the better to feed the family and maybe earn a few dollars (quarters most likely).

My Grandfather liked to take credit for moving the family from the city to the suburbs but knowing my Grandmother as I did, I suspect it was my Grandmother who led the troops. After all, she had worked for a successful restaurateur who had “miraculously” weathered the depression. Some call that luck; I prefer to think in more basic terms –bootlegging, and Grandmother knew the cider mill could do double duty.

They weren’t the suburbs back then; it was a rural community, a cross-section of the American melting pot, Irish, French and Italian Catholics, with a few Protestants thrown in for good measure; an agricultural mecca with apple orchards galore and its share of shoe factories. The farm sustained life, producing founding members of the "Greatest Generation", the boys went on to fight and win a war, the girls entered the workforce, and my Grandmother provided the backbone to keep the cider flowing. The farm was eventually lost to a housing development and the family members each went their own way but Grandmother never let us forget that sustaining the family was the bedrock of a strong nation.

Today we face another economic slowdown, not nearly as ominous as some claim, certainly not like the Great Depression, but our President has called on us to sacrifice and I intend to do my part even if it means putting that cider mill back to work. Well Sweep Farm is teaming with life and excitement again after 200 years of being at rest. There are two pigs and a lamb in the freezer, the seed catalogs are starting to arrive, and plans are underway to enlarge the garden. I’m not sure I have time to plant and grow an orchard, time marches on, but the apple orchard down the road should be a good source of raw material for our cider press. Now if I could only find the plans for a still.

Tortured Minds

Let me see if I’ve got this right. The same people who brought us partial-birth abortion, with its mind chilling devastation, now believe sleep deprivation, isolation, and exposure to cold are considered torture. Anyone who has nursed a child understands sleep deprivation, my friend Dave loves ice fishing – that’s exposure to cold, and I recall my father sending me to my room to “reflect” on the spanking I was about to receive – that’s isolation. Only a tortured mind could equate these simple acts with the horror The Falling Man experienced when he finally realized there was no exit, other than jumping from the window of the North Tower at 9:41 on September 11, 2001. Mr. President, reflect on this before you jump to a tortured conclusion.

KISS Principle 101

Memo to Mr. Geithner and Mr. Summers:

You don’t need a PhD in Economics to understand the KISS principle. Put in place a Keep It Simple Stupid rule – the next banker or Wall Street executive to receive a taxpayer funded bailout must come to Washington, in person, to pick up the check. Let him arrive among the glare of reporters and make sure he flies coach, sitting in the middle seat. Let him know what it is like to be an average Joe instead of living in the rarified atmosphere of $1400 wastepaper baskets! Mr. Thain might still have his job today if he had flown coach.

What's up with this?

Senate panel confirms Geithner.

Have the Senate Republicans missed a golden opportunity? Maybe so. Rather than complain about Mr. Geithner's "relatively minor" transgression the Senate Republicans should have used this opportunity to discuss the convoluted tax code facing all American taxpayers. This is not a Timothy Geithner problem, nor a TurboTax issue as Geithner claimed. Flat out (pardon the Freudian slip) the real issue is the complicated nature of our tax reporting system. Why in the world do we need to create a system so complicated only an entire sub-culture of pocket protector armed accountants can make heads or tails of the returns?