More noticing

Work duties found me driving the spine of Whidbey Island between Clinton and Oak Harbor today and as is my wont, I starting right in noticing things. And not all of them involved places where I might someday put my kayak in the water although, admittedly, that was my overriding intent. (Found some good ‘uns, too!)

Some of the notable non-paddling-related items:

In addition to the many deer crossings, I saw a warning sign that read “Otter Crossing.” Wish I’d had a camera.

At least three people who were apparently quite entertained by the sight of this old geezer rocking out while singing along with the sound track from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat. Glad to provide your smile for the day.

A guy who was totally into his role as a sign-waving Statue of Liberty, using a rotating sign to advertise for a tax preparation service. It’s not always the job; sometimes, it’s what you make of it.

Some of the most drop dead gorgeous salt water views I’ve ever seen. Seriously.

An apparent penchant among the islanders for quirky mailboxes, including polka dots, stripes, floral patterns and one that was a dead ringer for a hobbit house.

And my favorite for the day, spotted right along the highway hard by the turnoff at Tomchuck Road, a hu-u-u-uge, bright pink mailbox emblazoned with Love Letters Only in a large, bold hand.

I hope that one gets lots of use.

Academy Awards

I was at the gym for much of the Academy Awards show this evening, then at the store and in the shower. The upshot is that I basically saw the very beginning and the very end, along with odd snippets here and there.

There were some great movies this year, not all of which I’ve seen. I suppose it’s time to get off my ample caboose and go see Argo and the one with Jennifer Lawrence (I know, terrible that I can’t recall the name but you know which one I’m talking about). Maybe Lincoln but I admit to being a little tired of revisionism and I’ve heard things.

Of the bits I saw, my  favorite was when Chris Terrio won for the Argo screenplay. This guy was just so clearly thrilled and humbled and felt so validated. And even when he got up again as part of the crew of Argo when it won the Best Picture Oscar, he was still bubbling over, hugging Clooney and just overwhelmed.

I’ve never done any screenwriting, of course, so I can only imagine what it’s like to do the work, much less to have your work recognized as the best of the year. But it seems to me that creating a story whose translation depends upon the vision and sensitivity and talent and hard work of so many others has to be the ultimate professional leap of faith.  And this guy was just so appreciative. Forget the tuxes and gowns and the snarky inside jokes. This guy’s reaction to the congratulations of his peers made the evening for me.

(Oh, yeah, Silver Linings Playbook. Gotta see that one.)

Talkin' wit me bro

My brother re-introduced me recently to the fine and arcane art of letter writing. His first to me was a sort of omnibus of topics and ran to a half dozen pages and my response is seven pages and building. I will most likely have to just cut it off and send it long before the ideas run dry, so he won’t think I’m stiffing him.

I’ve only been a regular letter writer twice in my life and the recipients of those strings of epistles both read this blog with some regularity. My point being that the folks with whom I exchange letters tend to be the keepers. Or at least, among the keepers.

I’d forgotten how much joy there is to be found in exchanging thoughts on topics important to me with a person who will respect them enough to read them openly and respond thoughtfully. 

 

Oh, and speaking of communicating, we’ve just passed both 300 posts and 5000 ‘hits’ on this little blog. Thanks so much for being with me!

Why I like pencils

I really do prefer pencils to pens, and I figure most of you are just burning to know why. After all, people tend to try to emulate their blog meister. So with the weight of your followhood bearing down on my shoulders, I figure it’s only right to let you understand the basis of my preference.

So, without further ado, I like pencils because:

·         Pencils are easier to chew than pens.

·         The unpainted, plain wood ones look good and feel nice.

·         The lead breaks if I press too hard and this forces me to write more gently, which is better for my “crazy hands.”

·         I enjoy sharpening. There’s nothing better than a newly sharpened Number 2. Plus, it’s an excuse to walk down the hall.

·         Pencil erasers work (I use the Pink Pearl) while pen erasers…not so much.

·         I can use pencils with erasers as drumsticks when I’m bored.

·         I can write marginal notes with pencils without ruining the book forever.

·         Most people don’t use pencils much these days, so I get my own box.

·         Pencils don’t leak in your shirt pocket while you’re teaching in front of twenty-five people who are all wondering whether they should say something.

·         With a pencil, I’m not tempted to click the retract button incessantly which I understand  annoys people around me.

·         You can tell when a pencil will be used up before it happens.

·         And the big, big reason…drum roll, please…

·         I’m used to them and I’m a creature of habit.

Shoes of the Fisherman

You all know the Pope has announced his retirement, in a move that – as one priest reportedly said – demonstrates that the papacy is not about power but service. He has decided that the frailties of age no longer allow him to properly serve the church he loves and the God he worships.

I wonder if the next pontiff will find it in his soul to be as faithful a servant. Because if ever there was a time the church needed a servant on the Throne of Peter, that time is now.

I grew up in the church and although it’s been a long time since I found solace or even reason in its ministrations, it’s nevertheless part of my being, somewhere near the core of my world view.  In fact, my departure from the Church, although it coincided closely with my realization that the God of my fathers was an apocryphal image, was not part and parcel of the same growth process.

My liberation from the God myth came about as I learned adult discernment, as I read and pondered and gradually realized that “God” – at least the carefully constructed and precisely defined God represented in the Baltimore Catechism – was just not likely. This is my take, not necessarily yours and we can argue ad nauseum without coming to consensus and still be friends.

My departure from the church was more of a practical decision. I was increasingly unable to reconcile the teachings of the church with the world I saw around me.  Certainly, that doesn’t make me unique. The pews of Catholic churches have become less and less strained as folks who believe in social justice have voted with their feet.

I have friends and family who are still devout members of the church and a cousin who’s a priest. I know through them that there is a congregation of good people who truly believe that the Bible is the word of God and the church is the conduit of God’s communication with the faithful. But in order to be a useful medium, the church needs to craft a message that’s coherent, compassionate and sensible. 

The choice of the Pope matters more today than possibly at any time in the past. The church has reached a crossroads at which its very existence as an instrument of good is being questioned by its own adherents. Perhaps alone among the world’s religious leaders, the Pope’s pronouncements can move hearts and governments alike. But only if the message makes sense to those receiving it.  

The Church in which I grew up no longer exists. In fact, the Bing Crosby, “Bells of St. Mary’s”  church probably never existed. Not really. But for this brief moment, thanks to the selfless abdication of a man who thinks of himself primarily as a servant, to God and Man alike, the church has an opportunity to truly become what it has always claimed to be.

Look, I don’t believe the College of Cardinals are waiting with baited breath to receive my sage advice but just in case someone in the Sistine has his ear to my wall, here goes.

Choose a Pope who’s attuned to the world. Who understands that of faith, hope and love, the greatest truly is love. Who will take immediate affirmative action to help the church shed itself of ideas that simply won’t play in a global discourse that is, well, global. Who understands that Leviticus was written in and for another time, and that the greatest abomination on the part of God’s church is a failure to listen to the needs of its flock. And speaking of abominations, that the abuse of a child by a priest is one, and that a grown man’s love for another grown man, or a woman for a woman, is not.

So long as the church preaches exclusion, more and more people will be driven to exclude it from their lives. And what its enemies have tried to accomplish through the centuries, it could very well bring on itself.

Anyone who’s paying attention knows that the Catholic Church is at a tipping point. Change now, come into modern times and it may become the agent of social change that it should always have been. Or it can continue down the path of outmoded arguments and indefensible proclamations and reap the ultimate sanction - irrelevance.

State of the Union

I watched the President’s speech this evening and I suppose I ought to comment on the range of huge topics he addressed but I can’t.

Alright, make that, I won’t. This is mainly because this evening, I’m just plain politicked out. I’ll be back in that realm another time.

But before signing off, there was one person in the State of The Union audience that I would like to mention here.  Her name is Kaitlin Roig and she was a teacher at Sandy Hook the day a maniac walked in and started shooting.

In the first seconds of the horror, Ms. Roig herded her fourteen charges into a restroom, barricaded the door with a shelf unit and urged them to be very, very quiet.  And then, as the shots continued to ring out, she swallowed her own fears and directed her total attention to the children’s needs, keeping them calm lest they make enough noise to attract the unwanted attention of the monster.

You can find a video on the Net of Ms. Roig being interviewed by Diane Sawyer shortly after the Sandy Hook massacre. It’s about four minutes long but if you’re like me, this one quote will tell everything you’ll ever need to know about Kaitlin Roig.  “I told them, ‘ I love you all.’ I wanted the last thing they heard not to be the gunfire.”

When the firing was done and the police came to bring them out of hiding, Ms. Roig had the presence of mind to challenge them to slide their IDs under the door. And when they found a key and opened that door, they found this 29-year old woman still shielding “her kids.”

We have a lot of problems in this country. They won’t all be easy to resolve and some of them are likely to get worse before they get better. But tonight I am reminded that there are still adults who in extremus will swallow their own fears to secure the safety of other people’s children.

That’s the real state of our union. At least I’d like to think it is.

Messages to my audiences

To all my blog buddies: I’m doing well with ramping up my gym work, and I’ve gotten to the point of major sweatitude on a near-daily basis. The good news is this means you can rely on my blogs continuing for the foreseeable future. The bad news is that you can rely on my blogs continuing for the foreseeable future.

To the Buff Bobby who smirked at me at the gym today: I’m not sure a guy who has “dishonor” misspelled in permanent ink on his forearm is qualified to smirk at anyone, anytime. (Two n’s, really?)

To the several people at the gym, including some with very fit bodies, who smiled non-judgmentally  in passing today in spite of my current planet-like status:  Thank you!

To Mary, and also One and also Two: I will get there, I promise. SID

To the folks who happened to be within visual range of my sweaty, bloated, unshaven corpus today and so many other days: I am so. So. Sorry.

White stuff on the way

With our daughter at college in Boston, it’s a bit disconcerting to learn that the area is expected to be walloped with a blizzard in the next couple of days. They expect two feet of snow and major disruptions.  The thing is, I know Two will be safe and warm and fed. I don’t expect any adverse outcome for her from a little – or even a lot – of snow.

There are people in the Northeast who won’t be as lucky this weekend. And my thoughts go out to them this evening.

Headlines

I’ve always loved headlines. Especially the ones that don’t necessarily convey the intended idea. So I went trolling through some of the internet news sites to see if I couldn’t stock up on ambiguousness…er, ambigution?  Ambiguitude?

Anyhow, I did manage to find a few headlines that I felt might be open to question:

·         “Man walks out, home explodes” makes one wonder what he had for lunch, does it not?

·         And then there’s “Ice-fishing house explodes.” - Please say it was the propane tank…

·         “Manatee released after two years” -  Did it not get a phone call and a court appointed lawyer?

·         “McDonalds angles for more variety with Fish McBites”  - What’s next – Fries McStubbies? Tiny cheeseburgers? (Never mind, they already have those.)

·         “Outrageous photos of Kim Kardashian see-through skirt” – First, let me just say E-e-e-ew! And aren’t any photos of this talentless famous-for-being-famous troll outrageous?

·         How about “Car Salesmen Confessions?”  -  How do you respond - well, duh?

·         “When does your wife get social security?” – Do I really want to know?

·         And the one we could absolutely have done without – “Honey Boo-Boo’s parents reveal ‘random hookup’ romance.”  - Please, for Gawd’s sake, don’t think about this one. Just walk away…

Grown daughters

When Daughter One was still in a crib, Mary had to go out of town for a few days on a sales trip and I had my first taste of being a single parent. Which should have been fine. Mary and I had never been real dogmatic about our division of roles and with the exception of breast feeding, I was comfortable with all the chores attendant upon raising small children.

So, while Mary was a bit conflicted at the idea of leaving her baby with a mere male, I was anxious to prove my mettle and so I sent her off with a kiss and a promise to keep our daughter and the house in original condition. I had plans for a park visit, play dates with the toddler across the street and plenty of reading time. I had taken the first day, a Friday off and Mary would be back Sunday evening. What could go wrong?

I started to find out about two hours after Mary left. I’d been feeling a bit off, nothing specific but then I went to prepare a bottle for my little girl and I was still okay until the merest whiff of sweet-smelling formula made its way to my nostrils. At which point, with neither warning nor reaction time, my just-consumed breakfast undertook an explosive relocation.

This may well have been the worst flu I’d ever had. I won’t go into detail here; let’s just say I didn’t spend much time in a standing position that weekend. It’s amazing how many critical household chores one can accomplish with actually standing upright.  At my request, our nurse neighbor called me every hour or so to make sure I was awake and continuing to care for One. And the weekend was ve-e-e-e-ery long.

The last couple of hours before Mary was due home, I was counting minutes. So imagine my dismay when at the appointed time she walked through the door totally green at the gills and proceeded to advise me that she shared my malady and had actually begun her own purging process on the drive home.  We got through that flu alive and One never did catch it, so we counted at least that as success.

Fast forward twenty-two years.

I flew in from elsewhere today to find Me Beloved stricken with a bug at least as virulent as the one that laid us low way back then. She’d kept nothing down all night, was bedbound and generally out of commission. With me out of town, she could have been in a bind just to care for herself.

Not to worry.

Daughter One happens to be home for a visit and she is no longer reliant on us for bottle feeding. She totally stepped up and nursed Mary, did the cleaning and some laundry and picked up Dear Old Dad at the airport.

Grown daughters are the best!

Choosing my poison

While we were in our class today near D.C., a couple of my friends and colleagues were sweating out hearing from family in the Atlanta area. It seems there was some nasty tornado action in their home neck of the woods.

Here on the West coast, we have the occasional earthquake and the remote possibility of a volcano blowing its top.

Hm-m… They have twisting cauldrons of freakishly strong winds that can tip over buildings, pile up cars and trucks and drive wheat straws through telephone poles. Not to mention they might harbor witches. We, on the other hand, get the occasional unplanned roller coaster ride.

I don’t believe I’d like to trade.

Learning at the gym

There’s an old saying to the effect that if you’re the smartest person in the room, you’re in the wrong room.  And while I agree with the sentiment, I’m not convinced that all learning has to be an intellectual pursuit.

I learned a few things at the gym recently, so I figured it was high time for another list. I wracked my brain trying to come up with an impressive title and I think I found one. I’m going to call this latest list “Things I learned at the gym.” Catchy, no?

So, without further falderal, I humbly  present…

Things I learned at the gym:

·         Until you start to sweat, you’re just playing around on some expensive machines.

·         Never sit on the bench in the locker room and try very hard not to think too much about why.

·         It’s all about reps, not impressive weights.

·         It’s not useful to bring drinks you don’t consume. Dehydration is a bad thing.

·         Stay away from the big guy in the tan shirt. Pretty sure he had chili for breakfast.

·         Don’t care how sexy you think you are; a sweaty butt crack viewed from behind is just not right.

·         I need to thank the guy (or gal) who invented the elliptical machine. Then, I’ll kill him (or her).

·         Take your own music. Twenty-something gym employees have no taste.

·         You truly need to relinquish your pride if you’re going to lose weight. You can’t grunt and sweat and look good all at once.

·         Certain areas of the anatomy do not do well with the combination of sweat and friction.

·         When you try to impressively swing the bar up on the curl machine without remembering to select any weight, it comes up really quickly and you can hit yourself in the neck with the bar.

·         Hurting is good.

·         At the gym, I’m nowhere near the smartest person in the room. For the foreseeable future, this is where I belong. 

Photo revulsion

So, there’s a news bit making the rounds just now about the creeps who use your own webcam to spy on you at home, work, whatever. They send a seemingly innocent e-mail which has electronic nasties on board and allows them to see anything within range of your own computer cam.

I don’t need to do a rant about how wrong this is. Or about what I think we should do with the creeps we catch. I’ll just say that the six years Luis Mijangos got for spying on women this way was on the light side, in my view. I’m thinking something along the lines of shredding and compacting would have been more appropriate but then, what do I know?

Several news sites have offered the standard advice such as putting black tape over the camera port when you’re not using it, turning off the computer when not in use, and closing the lid.

I have a better idea. Send me ten bucks and I’ll send you a color glossy photo of me wearing only a Speedo. Tape that photo to the inside back of the chair at your computer station so that when you’re not actually using the computer, any creepozoids who hack in will be treated to the site of my largely naked bodkin in heroic living color.

Admittedly, this does not prevent them from committing that first cyber trespass. But I believe I can confidently predict they will only hack you once. And if enough people treat these guttersnipes to surprise views of Planet Michael, they may just get sick of trips to the eye doctor and give up. Better yet, if they’re in a public place when they catch the first virtual glimpse of my loveliness, it’s possible their screams will bring the police, and they might be caught in Mikus flagrante!

Plus, I’ll be wealthy. See? Win, win, as they say.

But you have to move fast – with my newfound dedication to improving my bodily contours, Planet Michael is going to recede faster than the ice in Glacier Bay. And once that baby’s gone, ‘tain’t coming back, know what uh mean?

Security

I watched some of the inauguration coverage today. I don’t generally watch the speeches because the text will be available by tomorrow and I’d rather read it. But I like the pomp and protocol of the trip from the Capitol to the White House particularly.

What captured my attention was not the President or his spouse. They seem like good people to me and I voted for him. But I don’t find it riveting to watch them walk slowly down the street. That’s something even I can do.

I always watch the members of the protection detail. I’m especially fascinated by the two guys who station themselves a couple steps behind and just to the outside of the protectees. These guys aren’t in a position to wrestle bad guys to the ground and they don’t even seem much interested in the crowd or the buildings along the route. In fact, while I watched, they spent most of their time focused on the Obamas.

I have to conclude that these are the folks whose job it is to put their bodies in harm’s way while shoving the Obamas into the Beast, as they refer to the presidential limousine.  Watching them calls to mind the image of Agent McCarthy ‘making himself big’ in order to act as a human shield for President Reagan. Which of course, he did, taking the hit for his boss.

Where do we get guys and gals like this?

As the media focus variously on the President and the congress and what might happen in the next four years and what the speech really meant, I’d like us each and all to spend a moment streaming good thoughts in the direction of all the nameless people who put everything on the line today so that the rest of us could watch the pageantry.

Home from the holidays

If you have a cardiac arrest outside of a hospital, your chances of survival are somewhere around 7.6%. If you have a smart, experienced doctor who listens to her patients and thinks about what they tell her – and if you’re scrupulously honest with her – your chances of actually having that heart attack go way down.

Some of you already know that I spent the day and night after Christmas last having a cardiac stent installed in my left anterior descending cardiac artery. That would be the one they call the “Widow Maker.” It was a life-saving procedure that probably rolled back the clock on mortality mine by a significant factor. 

Turns out the ol’ left anterior descending was worse off even than the stress echocardiogram  had indicated. The term they used to describe it was “95% occluded.” But I’ve seen the film, actually watched the film being recorded and I gotta tell you that “95% occluded” is probably an understatement. I watched the process of this artery going from damn near useless to positively surging with beautiful, oxygenated blood flow. And I’m here to write about it.

The procedure itself was fascinating and I felt much better almost immediately. Having to stay overnight in the hospital bed, measuring my “output” for the nurses’ amusement and eating food that validated every joke ever told about the stuff were collectively awful. But the procedure itself was actually riveting and – dare I say it – kind of fun. I really enjoyed watching the video feed as they fed this catheter through my blood vessels and approached the heart.  I could see the same four screens the docs used to guide their work and it was so cool!

I have to admit it got somewhat less cool when the cardiologist and the physician’s assistant said, unpracticed and in perfect unison, “Oh, wow!” At this point they went into whisper mode and I could pick out the words “…think we should continue?”

Anyway, it all went well, they put in the stent and I’m feeling better than I have in years. Funny how you don’t know how much you’re hurting until you stop kicking yourself. I’m enjoying my trips to the gym and trying hard to avoid eating the wrong foods. And life goes on – literally.

I’m tempted to write a much more contemplative piece revolving around my mortality and this recent near miss. Perhaps I will. But just now, I know a few things for sure and I’d like to share them with you.

I didn’t cancel a doctor’s appointment even though I was busy that week and really needed the work time. I’ve postponed lots of medical appointments over the years but I sure am glad I went through with this one. At this time of year, postponing would likely have meant putting the appointment off for several weeks – probably longer than I had.

Even though the appointment was just a medication check-in, my doctor took the time to ask me what else was going on in my life, and she listened to the answer. So when I said I was ramping up my weight loss program and particularly that I was starting a serious workout program, she asked me to hold off on the strenuosity and ordered a couple tests. And I listened. And I had the tests.

I have to let this simmer awhile before I write a more personal piece. The cardiologist said I had weeks, not months. It could well have happened at 40,000 feet over North Dakota. A month ago, time was not my friend. Now, I have years. That’s worth some thought before I write about it.

 I love you guys. Please, if you don’t have a GP like Anne Bankson, get one. And when she asks you a question, answer it honestly. And then follow the doctor’s advice.

Not all wedgies are funny

So, I read on the Internet, that magical  repository and purveyor of all things inexplicable, about this punk who does assaultive things to people and then posts videos of his activities on the Net. Hugging strangers  or doing walkovers on trees wearing only tighty whities may not be all that bad. But kissing women he doesn’t know when they’re asleep on the beach is more than a bit sketchy.

Jumping on a stranger’s back while wearing a bunny costume may seem harmless and funny until you think about the feeling you’d have if you were the unsuspecting jumpee. And particularly if you had a back problem. Or for that matter, a fear of six foot bunnies (would that be Harveyphobia?).

But this latest thing I hope we can all agree should earn him some jail time. He lurked outside a local theatre and came up behind – literally behind, in this case – his intended victims and gave them wedgies.

And not just regular wedgies or even Atomic Wedgies. If I understand the media reports and embedded witness statements, these were full-blown Schroeders. For the uninitiated, a Schroeder is to a wedgy as a nuclear weapon is to a firecracker. We’re talking potential for permanent damage here.

I’m glad the jerk was arrested for battery. He should be. And his punishment should be commensurate with the crime. I guess that makes me something of a grump in some eyes. So be it. He’s victimizing strangers with his sophomoric pranks and making them the butt of cyber jokes. This is bullying in wholesale.

This kid's pranks and the thousands of followers of his postings play into the degradation of civility that’s a feature of the new culture. I hope he outgrows it. Alternatively, I hope the cameras are running when he fails to notice the mammoth, unamused husband or boyfriend a few feet away from his next victim.

There is hope for him, by the way. In a video interview after his arrest, he allowed as how his arrest was warranted and perhaps in future he’d try to concentrate on jokes with himself as the prankee. Perhaps he’ll glean some personal growth out of this.

The real tragedy is my realization of how jaded I’ve become. Because, while I won’t look him up on the Web, I do have to admit to a bit of curiosity. And that’s just wrong.

Irena Sendler

My buddy Sindy shared an account on FB that got me thinking in several directions. It’s the story of one of the many unsung heroes in our world. Irena Sendler (originally Sendlerowa and you’ll find her listed both ways, depending on where you look) proved particularly adept at sniffing the wind and getting ahead of the gathering storm when she made and implemented plans for rescuing from the Warsaw Ghetto some 2,500 children from among the crowds targeted for enslavement and death by the Nazi hate machine.  That she did so at grave personal risk makes her efforts all the more laudable. That she has remained largely unsung in the public arena is an oversight of immense proportion.

Many of the articles concerning Irena Sender– including the one circulating on Facebook – have side agenda. And the FB account, while correct in thrust, is not entirely accurate as to details. For a good nutshell of the story without too much editorializing, follow this link: http://www.auschwitz.dk/sendler.htm. Beyond that, you’re on your own.

A few comments from Brer Michael…

Several posts in various online nooks and crannies bemoan the fact that Sendler never received the Nobel Peace Prize. This betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of the Nobel Prize. It is a political instrument used by the Committee to further their view of how the world’s business should be carried out. These five Norwegians only accept nominations from persons and organizations within a very prescriptive band of interests and looking over the nomination rules, one might even foresee a certain degree of inbreeding in the process.

That Barack Obama and Al Gore won the prize on the basis of (as presumed by certain of the chroniclers you’ll find) less stellar or courageous accomplishments than others who were never so honored is  in fact very much in keeping with the thrust of Nobel intent. And the fact that Elie Wiesel – clearly one of the most deserving persons ever named  – received the award had as much to do with current events and world politics at the time of his nomination as they did with celebration of his formidable and tireless efforts on behalf of the downtrodden.

Another thought: The article posted through FB begins with opining that this story is proof of evil afoot in the world, then as now. I suppose that’s true enough, but we need only listen to the words of Irena Sendler herself to find a more glass-half-full reading of history. My own reading is that a glass that is half full or half empty must by definition be both. Putting that argument aside, we can take some comfort from Irena when she says, “No one ever refused to take a child from me.” The foster parents and convents that took in these children assumed great risk themselves.

We should honor all these people. After all, celebrating the thousands of private individuals who served as station masters or conductors on the Underground Railroad, in no way detracts from Harriett Tubman’s hard-earned renown. And so it is, it seems to me, with Irena Sendler. Celebrate her but not with the hangdog attitude that only she stood up to the horror. Certainly, all the stories of history can be told from various angles, but the evidence that good people have generally prevailed is manifest, even in our day.

Irena was not without formal honors. She has been recognized by Jewish groups and most recently by the four high school students who filmed Life in a Jar. But she did not seek accolades, and was not entirely convinced of her own record of heroism, “I could have done more,” she said. “This regret will follow me to my death.”

Getting down to bidness

I’ve finally given up on the idea that watching Biggest Loser and occasionally feeling guilty about the apple fritter I’ve just eaten are likely to yield the weight loss for which I yearn.  I know, sounds like it should have worked, yes? But several scales – including the calibrated one at the doc’s office – claim that my gross tonnage remains, well, gross.

I spend a lot of time at the gym these days.  I’d forgotten how much I enjoy it.

I pretend I’m watching the TV mounted on the treadmill. Of course, I’m not really. And no, I’m not watching all the third-my-age hard bodies strolling back and forth in front of my machine. Well, not only the hard bodies, anyway.

The gym, especially after the holidays when max guilt herds the tubbies in for at least a month or so, is a parade of characters. The muscle men and the ponytail-and-spandex crowd seem to have retreated off stage for the moment, leaving behind basically two demographics: the truly dedicated who are here year round come what may and the newly, temporarily motivated.

Some of the temporarily motivated will tail off by mid-February but some will catch the health bug and find a new home there. I try to figure out who will make the cut but since only time will prove I’m not myself one of the temps, I try to be very gentle in my calculations.

Truth is, I hope we all make it. Me, the guy with the gut his tee won’t quite cover, the mom who’s never lost the baby weight, the young guy who can’t get over 2.0 on the treadmill and the young gal with the great smile and the lollipop butt. I’d love to report to you in a couple years that my buddies and I from the Class of New Years 2013 are the healthy veterans welcoming a new crop of frantic hopefuls.

Meanwhile, you truly can observe all sorts of characters at the gym. It’s a fun place. It’ll be more fun when I no longer carry the equivalent of a bag of Ready Mix with me as I work my way through the machines.

Wish me luck.

No, screw that, wish me discipline.

It's possible I'm a chick

I’m sitting downstairs next to the shelf unit on which we’ve arranged our collection of DVDs. Along the top are TV shows one of us loved enough that someone else gifted the boxed sets: Friends, Gilmore Girls (bluch!), West Wing (yowser!), Band of Brothers. We’ve all the Harry Potters and a wide range of musicals, although the latter collection was seriously reduced when Daughter One moved to the Least Coast, taking her DVDs with her.

So far, so good. But then, I start looking at the single movie titles, pausing over my favorites.  It’s not long before I realize there’s a certain discomfiting theme emerging. I mean, I love Runaway Jury and Inglourious Basterds and Sleepers and Das Boot  (but only the original German with English sub-titles). I’ve watched The Great Escape several times over the years and The Boy in the Striped Pajamas kills me just to look at the title. Sling Blade will always remain a fave – “You gonna eat them taters?” Kills me. No pun intended.  Hotel Rwanda and The Pursuit of Happyness moved me.

But as I started to say, the movies that I could watch over and over all seem aimed at a demographic with which I’m not really comfortable identifying. Love Actually and Under the Tuscan Sun and 27 Dresses and Mr. Holland’s Opus make my ‘A’ list. As do My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Letters to Juliet, Phantom of the Opera and My Girl. I suppose Always is somewhat manly owing to the fire-fighting scenes, but including The Notebook on my list probably does little for my struggling self-image of studliness.   In fact, if we put all my absolute favorites in a stack and then brought a REAL MAN into the room, he’d probably ask who’s been watching the chick flicks.

I don’t care. I like the stories I like.

I guess it’s possible I’m a chick.

Just, please don’t tell anyone.

News for the new year?

A new item popped up in my e-mail yesterday. Normally I just delete and block unwanted e-mail but this one claimed to be from the Washington Post so I checked it out.

In case you’re interested, here are some of the ‘news stories’ that are important for me to read, according to the WP Social Reader:

1.       Gun shows face new scrutiny after school shooting (I hope it’s true but will believe it when I see it.)

2.       Former Rep. Giffords visits town of school shooting (So she has had time to recover enough to make this trip but we’ve done nothing in the interim to make this visit unnecessary – we ought to be collectively ashamed.)

3.       Holiday sales decline shows Nook losing its niche (I love my Nook and it fills my niche quite nicely, thank you.)

4.       Pregnant Kim Kardashian angry at Kris Humphries for dragging out divorce  (Why on earth would anyone care about this and what have we come to when the WP considers it news?)

5.       Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie secretly got married on Christmas Day: rumor (Are rumors news, even rumors about such august eminences as these two?)

6.       Kim Kardashian’s Motherhood Guide (Naw, too easy…)

Judging by the photo of my daughters linked to this ‘news feed,’ I’m guessing ’twas our good friends at Facebook who have thus invaded my email. This is one of myriad reasons why I am seriously considering closing down my Facebook page.

Now, all I have to do is figure out how.