End of Weekend Randomness

For absolutely no reason at all:

Happy Thanksgiving

I leave you with a drawing from a series I created many moons ago. I attempted to give turkeys some ideas on how to hide at Thanksgiving. This was one of my favorites. Enjoy but enjoy tomorrow even more...

Tuesday Tracking

In October, Dave Fiore encouraged me to apply the Google Analytics code to this blog. I entered this phase of my blogging “career” with more than a little trepidation. The whole purpose of this blog is to give me an outlet to rant, share and create, regardless of who reads it. To actually see the hard numbers of the traffic on the site was potentially intimidating. Sort of. Since Oct. 16 (when I installed the software), the results are about what I expected in terms of total visits (445) with 84 unique visitors. I have had a high of 19 visits on several days and have never experienced a day with no one showing up. (Thanks for that mom and dad; keep up the good work!) What has been the most fascinating aspect of the reporting is that I have had visits from nine different countries. Having a daughter in Italy helped with that stat as well as my insistence that she check my site when she visited Norway. Some of the other countries are more puzzling. Iran, Brazil, and Poland all have one visit and the United Kingdom and Germany check in with two visits each. Canada is the other lone “single digit” country with four visits. Since the first group visited but never returned I will surmise they showed up by mistake but it is still pretty cool to see the countries listed. (No, the thought that my site did not interest them never crossed my mind. Why do you ask?) I promise I will not bore you with this information on a regular basis but I thought one report of the report wouldn’t hurt. Who knows, it might entice my new friend from Tehran to visit again.

Tuesday Trivial Tableau

Friday Musings

I rode the bike home from work again yesterday. Without a headwind and armed with some familiarity of the route, I arrived at the house five minutes earlier than Tuesday. Okay, five minutes is no record savings but it was an improvement. One thing that I am excited about is I am able to use my honed “whispered greeting” skills as I ride the bike, thanking the cars that do not pull out in front of me with a wave and a mouthed “thank you.” The circle of life continues.

I could not find the television remote last night. Nothing can make you feel more foolish than envisioning how you look as you crawl around the floor looking under chairs and cushions for the lost device. It is a powerful little machine, not only in its control of your TV but, maybe more so, in its control over the user. Unfortunately, the new TVs are practically useless without a remote control (which is what every person searching for one swears is a fact) so finding it was paramount to my plans for later in the evening (see the next paragraph). It was finally located but in a very odd, but explainable, place. Apparently it had been swept up inside a blanket that was stored in its proper place under the coffee table. The odd part was it had somehow made its way inside the blanket—a handmade quilt—so I had to sit on the sofa and push it around the edges until I found the hole it entered from. The things we do for love.

Last night I spent some quality time on the Man Porch. My wife was off at a meeting and the boys were not home so I ran the double-double. The TV in the house (visible from a chair on the porch) was displaying the Thursday night college football game and the TV on the porch was showing the FSU/Stetson basketball game. I burned a Sancho Panza, ate some plain M&M’s and enjoyed the cool weather. Although outcomes are not critical to Man Porch success, both teams I was pulling for won. Another stellar night at home.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to watch sports with no emotional attachment to the outcome. To simply watch a game and admire the quality (or not) of play. It will never happen—it is too late—and it could be what makes the games so enjoyable is the emotional investment. I think you could still appreciate a good play or lament a mistake but, at the end of the game, still be able to say, “Good game” and not care who won. Would that be a refreshing experience? Or an empty exercise and a waste of time? Discuss amongst yourselves.

This morning I discovered that the difference between a cheese and veggie omelette purchased from the cafeteria is onions. The letter of the law was not in my favor.

Stay warm and enjoy your Friday and your weekend.

Alternate History Through Doodling

Below is a flow chart I created during a teaching at church. I am not sure when this was, it is not dated, but it is a fascinating (or not) glimpse into what can happen when I hear an Old Testament word that makes me chuckle and I decide to rewrite history. In this case, there were several chuckle words and the following chart was the result. Any true Bible scholars may want to check my accuracy (or not) but I suggest you just let it ride. I will only blame the research interns and they are so easily replaced. After the chart I have offered a synopsis in case you cannot decipher my handwriting. When the ideas are flowing I cannot be expected to practice excellent penmanship. Besides, it’s hard to write neatly when you are trying to hide what you are doing from the nosy parishioners sitting around you (as well as your wife).

The Evil Line of Babylon

It all starts with Japheth. He sired four children: Gomer, Magog, Tubal and Meshach. At this point, the evil begins in earnest (who was a distant cousin and did not make an appearance on this chart).

Gomer married Lou Ann Poovey (this is good) but then had an alleged affair with Sgt. Carter (this is bad). (Bad=Evil.)

Magog begat Eggnog who begat Agog (an emotional, shocked leader) who begat Gag (this is bad). (Bad=Evil.)

Tubal begat Two balls who begat Three Balls (the first juggler) who begat Mimes (this is bad). (Bad=Evil.)

Meshach begat Youshach who begat All God’s Chillin’ Gotta’ Shack who begat Shaquille O’Neill (who is bad because he dumped the Magic for the Lakers). (Bad=Evil.)

Random Thoughts from the Weekend

I have noticed a rash of commercials using text as the main graphic device, popping it on the screen in the rhythm of the speech cadence. Add a few graphic elements and music to jazz it up and they can be fairly effective. We used to do these type of vignettes using Flash more than a few years ago. We would place them in online educational Web sites. I loved to storyboard them and they were pretty effective in their use of animated text to tell the story. If I was cynical I would suggest this is yet another time I was about seven years ahead of my time but I’m not so that thought never crossed my mind.

After our trail ride on Sunday I have decided that I enjoy the more technical trails with a lot of tight fits between trees and cutbacks that rely less on speed and more concentration and control. This could all be based on my bike which is, to put it politely lest it somehow read this and get its feelings hurt, built for things other than speed. Yesterday was a beautiful fall day, the temperatures in the 60’s, clear sky and the trails were pretty clear despite the two days of hard rains last week. I also have started noticing, finally, that I am getting a bit more acclimated to the hills. I know this because I have moved beyond the desire to lay down and take a nap after a particularly hard climb. Now I just want to rest my head on a tree. Progress.

Another note about the bike ride yesterday: I wore the skeleton shirt my brother and sister-in-law bought me for my birthday and received another “nice shirt” on the trail by someone I crossed paths with. So far, all but one comment has been by a female. I don’t know what to make of that but I will try not to read too much into it. Let’s keep this away from the scientific research realm and just accept the compliments, okay?

I have one comment about the FSU debacle on Saturday: When the punter is the leading rusher, things did not go as planned.

Once again I was reminded how incredible technology is when it is used for good. Like allowing me to talk to my daughter in Italy as if she is just around the block and especially when we can hook up video chat and can see her in real time. It tends to melt the distance somewhat. Now when they come up with a virtual hug that feels real, it would complete the process. Or it will mean we are on the fast track to Creepy Town. I’ll have to decide when we get there.

I am going to attempt to ride the bike home from work on Tuesday. I have treated this like a military maneuver, mapping out the safest route, solidifying plans with Hope to drop my bike and me off at work in the morning, buying a lock and an outrageously bright orange vest to wear for visibility reasons. I realize I am not breaking new ground and there is a distinct possibility that I will never want to do it again after 6 p.m. Tuesday. But I must give it a try. Pray I avoid any interaction with automobiles and that I make it home before it gets completely dark. Updates to come.

Hand Made

I am currently working on the family Christmas card, trying to get it in some semblance of ready before Thanksgiving. That has been my personal deadline for years so thus it shall be in 2008. I enjoy creating the card, trying to come up with something different that I can pull off with as little outlay of cash as possible, so I am not complaining. I created my first Christmas cards on a “mass” scale in 1981. I’m sure I was trying to impress my fiance with something creative and 27 years later I am still trying to impress her (but now she has been my wife for 26.5 years). Trying to stay thrifty usually means it will be designed so that it can be copied onto card stock or bond paper and assembled by hand. Not quite at the level of using a letter press but practically the modern equivalent. (In fact, if I had a letter press you can believe I would be using it.) I like the idea that each card has been touched by my hands—minimally messaged, folded and stuffed in an envelope—and I have refused to go the route of laser generated labels in lieu of handwriting the address on each envelope. Combine that with the randomness of the placement of the stamp and postal ink and I am assured that every person on our list is receiving a unique card. What I regret is what I am doing is almost a lost art. Heck, I’m still using technology to the point that I’m hard pressed to refer to the cards as “hand made” in the traditional sense, but there is still some art in the process along with the manual labor (not ignoring that we send out over 100 cards every year which makes me appreciate the little technology I use). I find the entire process very satisfying.

I wish I could make money doing this kind of thing but I am afraid that would necessitate moving to some mountain town and getting in good with the local shops so they will display my wares for the tourists to buy. And when the visitors ask the proprietor’s who created the collateral they can talk about the crazy man on the mountain and they can all laugh. Nervously. The man on the mountain may very well be crazy but he’d be happy.

Quick Hit

I found it humorous to read of all the worry and gnashing of teeth in regards to how awkward the first meeting between the Bush and Obama families was going to play out at the White House. President Bush has survived and risen above eight years of ridiculous name calling and having a sit down with someone who only called him a failure was not going to bother him very much. I am sure W was gracious and professional, just as he has always been, and that the meeting was not awkward at all. Besides, if anyone knows how clueless President-elect Obama is, it would have to be George W. Bush. He was in the exact same situation eight years ago.

Brush With Greatness

Watching some of the celebration and documentary style remembrances for Bobby Bowden’s 79th birthday I was reminded that I have an Ann Bowden story. Yes, it would be much cooler if I had a Bobby Bowden story instead of a story about his wife, but it’s all I have so everyone will have to deal with the almost-meeting-famous-people-but-usually-meeting-their-spouse life. One day several years ago my mother-in-law called me and asked if I could do her a favor. I dutifully agreed and she informed me she had a friend who owned a rowing machine that she was tired of and had promised to another friend. The issue was they had no way to get it from point A to B and thought, since I owned a truck, I could help them out. (Anyone that owns a truck has heard this spiel more than once.) I agreed to help, got the address of friend A, convinced a buddy to help me and we made our way to the house to pick up the rowing machine.

When we arrived, we found out the machine was upstairs and had to be maneuvered down the narrowest set of stairs ever designed by an architect. The task was made more difficult by the 100 framed pictures lining the wall of the stairwell. Once we finally had it in the truck, the previous owner of the machine informed us that the new owner was only two houses down the block. I did some mental calculations and realized we were delivering the rowing machine to Bobby Bowden’s house. Pushing aside the ridiculous notion that the Bowden’s could not afford to buy a new rowing machine (and pay someone to deliver it to their house) I got excited. We followed owner A to the new owner’s house where we were greeted warmly by Ann Bowden, Bobby’s wife, at the front door. My friend and I carried the machine into the house and were told we needed to deposit it upstairs (of course, although her staircase was wider). Once we had the machine in place, Mrs. Bowden asked me to show her how to use it. I reluctantly climbed in the seat and showed her the few things I knew but quickly got up, feeling a little awkward.

As soon as I was standing, Mrs.Bowden jumped on the machine and decided to see if I had taught her anything. She eventually got everything moving in synch and seemed quite pleased with herself. The rest of us stood around and watched, slowly wishing we were elsewhere. When she finally finished her impromptu workout, she looked up at me and said, “This is going to be great, especially for my legs.” At this moment she reached down to her shorts-clad legs and grabbed the inside of each thigh with her hands and started shaking the loose skin. “As you can see, I have some work to do in this area.” Horrified, I found I couldn’t move which was a shame because I suddenly had a desire to leave. Instead we all chuckled uncomfortably as she cackled and then I helped her up out of the machine. We quickly said our goodbyes and accepted her thanks. Once outside, sitting in the truck, I looked straight ahead and told my friend, “We must never speak of what we witnessed today.” He agreed but, since I cannot remember who it was that was with me, I decided to break the vow. Thus ends my brush with greatness.

The Day After

I voted for John McCain. That is probably not a mind expanding revelation to anyone who knows me, but I wanted that out of the way before I say what I have to say. I am disappointed with the results but the historical gravity of the election is not lost on me. Forty years ago a man of Barak Obama’s race was using a separate water fountain and restroom; today he is president of the United States of America. No matter your preference of candidate, that is a pretty remarkable thing. I can take some pride in that as an American.

Barak Obama is an enigma, one of the least vetted candidates in the history of our elections, so that makes it really difficult to anticipate what is next for him and for our country. So that means I will pray. For him, his decision making, his safety, his family and that he has Divine wisdom for however long he is president. I will also pray against the nastiness of the last eight years and that he does not have to endure the vile hatred that engulfed George W. Bush throughout his eight years in office. The natural response from the right will be to jump into the fray and “pay back” the left, applying the new rules they invented, and gloat when the inevitable mistakes are made. It was ugly and uncalled for then and turning the tables makes it no less wrong. I pray mature, sane people will start making the rules and learn to enforce them.

And I will also pray that all Christians—regardless of denomination or race—will never rely on anything but God for their security and peace. Never a government, leader or idea. Man and his schemes will inevitably disappoint us but God can’t and won’t; there is no greater anchor. So take the time to refocus, carve out time to read your Bible every day and listen for direction and Godly wisdom. And then follow it. And do not lose focus on the simple guide for living that Jesus gave us: Love God and love people.

The times are always interesting but for some reason I think they are getting ready to take a very interesting turn. We cannot always control the outside forces but we can make choices about the inside. Be ready by being secure in what you believe. Then enjoy the ride, peacefully.

The Day Before

Words of wisdom to bear in mind over the next 48 hours (and forever).

The lot is cast into the lap, But its every decision is from the LORD.
Proverbs 16:33

Friday Story

Leading up to this Friday (today!) I thought I would share a section of the first novel I wrote. Yesterday was part three (pan down). Today is part four, the final installment.

The “dads,” as the girls referred to us, were required to stay on the sidewalk and not interfere in any way with the comings and goings of our three rodents. The dads were happy to comply. As we slowly traipsed his neighborhood, Wally and I had a chance to talk about the mundane things guys discuss. Football, refinancing and family topped the list but other subjects crept in and out of the conversation as well. It was nice for me because I had been conducting my life at such a dead run the last few weeks I had forgotten how pleasant it was to merely stroll and chat, even if I was talking to a large block of cheddar. The girls started to lose their steam after an hour so we manipulated their path to head them back toward home. As we walked the final block, Wally inquired if he could ask me something personal. The last time he made that request was in his car during my interview and it was followed with a question about church. I gave him permission but I also activated my defense shields.

“I don’t know if you remember this, but back when you were interviewing with us I asked if you attended church anywhere and you answered ‘not any more.’ Since you seem to get all jumpy when there is any reference to religion or faith during conversations, I was wondering if there’s a story behind that answer. Is there?”

I didn’t want to get into a long drawn out explanation at that moment, especially since we were almost back to his house. If our friendship progressed it would be unavoidable but that would come in time. I took a deep breath and offered up the abridged version, hoping it would suffice. “Yes, there is a story but it’s not that interesting. Let’s just say I tried it but it wasn’t for me.”

“And that answer did nothing but make me even more curious, but I won’t pry. I can tell it’s not something you want to talk about. Let’s get the girls home and I’ll grill us some real food. You hungry?”

“For some reason I am craving queso…”

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m a married man.”

Thursday Story

Leading up to this Friday I thought I would share a section of the first novel I wrote. Yesterday was part two (pan down). Today is part three.

Wally and his family lived in a fairly new housing development complete with sidewalks, generous street lighting and nearly identical looking houses. It appeared the variety of design ended with the architect flipping the house plans and alternating between four color choices. Every house had two-stories, lap siding, a two-car garage and well-groomed yards. No cars were parked on the road and there were no visible boats or sheds to disrupt the clean lines of the neighborhood. Based on those observations, I assumed they lived under the totalitarian rule of a strong homeowners association. Wally’s house had the minor distinguishing characteristics of a basketball goal right off the driveway and a flag jutting from the front door frame. I was pleased to see the flag proudly displayed a cartoon, appliqué vampire. Dad would have been proud.

Rochelle greeted me warmly as we entered the house and was kind enough to anticipate my need for a glass of wine after my first foray into Atlanta traffic. As we talked in the family room while Wally changed clothes, I was introduced to the Barnes offspring, all decked out in homemade costumes, ready to hit the road. Vanessa, Patty and Sondra were dressed as three blind mice, complete with big mouse ears and long tails. At eight, five and three they were each suffering from a different aspect of their getup. Vanessa, the oldest, hated how the hood with ears attached interfered with her curly hair. She was not happy that her locks were covered and kept trying to pull the headpiece further back on her head to allow everyone to at least see her bangs. Patty was fascinated with her tail and kept bending over and looking through her legs to see what it was doing behind her. Sondra was just not happy. Rochelle explained she wanted to be Cinderella and could not understand why she had to dress like a “wat.” I tried to console her by explaining she was a “cute little wodent” but she just wrinkled her nose and continued to whine. Just as we approached a mutinous level of despair, Wally emerged from his bedroom and rescued us all from near anarchy. I’m not sure who talked him into it but Wally had agreed to dress up like a big block of cheese. At least I thought that’s what it was. He was wearing a matching yellow sweatshirt and pants, standing in a cardboard “wedge”—painted to match his clothes—which was hanging around his waist, held up by suspenders. Upon his grand entrance, his daughters squealed and jumped up and down with delight. Costume issues were quickly forgotten.

“Who’s ready to go trick or treatin’?” Wally yelled above the din. The girls screamed, “We are!” and put on their sunglasses and grabbed their canes. We headed out into the cool, Atlanta night, joining a surprising number of kids and chaperones already criss-crossing the well-lit neighborhood. Rochelle stayed behind to man the door and dispense treats.

(Part Four will be posted on Friday)

Wednesday Story

Leading up to this Friday I thought I would share a section of the first novel I wrote. Yesterday was part one (pan down). Today is part two.

I spent my lunch hour on the phone, talking to the hotel about continuing my stay with them and calling the realtor to find out if she could help me find a temporary dwelling. I wanted to find an apartment over the weekend and keep my stay in the hotel to only one more week. Yvonne was happy to help and we made plans to meet in the office parking lot on Saturday morning.

At 3:30, Wally called and asked what my plans were for the weekend. When I told him I was staying in town he insisted I join him and his family that night as they walked the neighborhood with their children. He promised if I survived that portion of the evening he would reward me with a quality meal afterwards. I was hesitant and told him I would let him know by five whether I could go or not. The idea of helping supervise strange children as they walked through unfamiliar territory was not all that appealing. I held out hope that a better offer would pop up in the next hour and a half.

By 4:45 the depressing thought of spending another night in the hotel room eating takeout overcame my reservations about spending an evening in suburbia so I let Wally know I was up for the challenge. He met me in the lobby at five and gave me a brief overview of where we were heading. He lived in Kennesaw, which was straight up I-75 but at that time of day, on a Friday no less, it would be slow going. Before we left the parking lot we exchanged cell phone numbers in case we got separated. I didn’t realize how slim the chances were for that since the majority of our trip to his house was spent traveling 20 miles per hour. By the time we pulled into Wally’s driveway it was 6:30 and I was a wreck. Ninety minutes of bumper-to-bumper traffic had inched its way through every nerve and hair follicle in my body and I was reduced to a sensitive and sore mess. As I sat in my car trying to compose myself, he bounded up to my door sporting a huge smile, rejoicing in how fast we made it to his house.

(Part Three will be posted on Thursday)

Tuesday Story

Leading up to this Friday I thought I would share a section of the first novel I wrote. (No, it hasn't been published but I still wrote it which doesn’t change the fact that it is still a novel. Or does it?) The excerpt takes place on a Friday night that just happens to be Halloween. What a coincidence. A little back story is in order: The story is about a “Christian from birth” who, at middle age, decides to turn his back on his faith. He assumes everything else in his life will stay the same—the loving wife, the wonderful kids—but then he lands a “dream job” in Atlanta and things at home do not go as planned. The story picks up soon after starting his new job, waiting for his old house to sell and for his family to join him. Wally is a new friend he has made since arriving in the big city.

When I walked into the offices Friday morning I was stunned to see the receptionist dressed like Cruella DeVille from the 101 Dalmatians movies. When I asked what was the point of the outfit she politely reminded me that it was Halloween. I couldn’t believe a major holiday had snuck up on me but my current situation away from family and living in a hotel didn’t offer a lot of reminders. Halloween was one of the holidays the church had decided to ruin, trying to pay back the world for screwing up Christmas and Easter. It used to be about candy and costumes. Now the preachers have turned it into Satan worship and the fear of baby sacrifices. When I was a kid, Halloween may have been the most fun holiday in my house. My dad would channel his inner thespian and create elaborate costumes and devise various ways to scare all of the little trick-or-treaters who knocked on our door. My favorite memory was the year dad dressed up as Dracula. Our house had a set of stairs that began their climb up as you entered the front door, offering the perfect angle to rest a cardboard coffin. When kids would ring the doorbell and scream “trick or treat,” mom would stay hidden behind the door and open it very slow. As the kids stood there facing a dark entryway, unsure of what to do, my dad would dramatically rise out of the coffin to a sitting position, shining a flashlight up from under his chin. He would then say “ Goot Eve-ah-ning” with all the clichéd inflections of a vampire, or at least what the movies had taught us. If the kids hung around through that mini-drama, mom would load them up with candy and tell them to warn their friends. Inevitably we would get a call from a concerned parent and I would have to pull sentry duty, signaling to mom and dad if the kids were old enough to get the full treatment or just receive their candy from a kindler, gentler vampire. In the climate of today, when Halloween has been replaced with Fall Festivals and parades through the mall, my pastor/father would get called up before the Southern Baptist Convention on heresy charges if he pulled any of those stunts now. Too bad. He was a great vampire AND a great pastor.

(Part Two will be posted on Wednesday)

Say Hello to My Little Friends

Several years ago I created a couple of characters called Christian Man and Dogma. Initially, they were strictly to star in some tracts I had envisioned (and eventually wrote and drew). Once again, I was digging through some old notebooks and came across my original drawing of Christian Man and Dogma. I thought it was an interesting contrast from the early drawing to what they morphed into in their debut in My Life as a Sailor, the first tract in which they were the “stars.” File this under FWIW. It’s definitely not as inspiring as the early Simpsons characters on the Tracey Ullman show, but, then again, Christian Man is no Homer...

Christian Man and Dogma, the early years.

Christian Man and Dogma, posing for their first tract, My Life as a Sailor.

Book Club

I read a lot. I don’t read very fast and am constantly amazed when I see people blow through a book (or more) per week. Maybe it has more to do with the type of books I read which lean toward “literary” rather than “contemporary” fiction. I tend to read and savor instead of plow through stories. Besides, I’m in no hurry; there is no competition. I think my reading taste also has to do with the type of fiction I like to write (or maybe it is the other way around). Writing literary fiction is not the fast track to publication but I won’t let that deter me from either reading or writing it. Besides, it is a built-in excuse and I like to think it might be genetic and I can’t fight DNA. (Don't tell me different. Keep hope—and justification— alive!)

One of my favorite writers (and someone whose style, approach and technique I wish I could emulate in even a small way) is Flannery O’Connor. She died young but left an impressive body of work that was very spiritual but, thankfully, not always in an obvious way. If you have not read anything by her I would suggest one of her short stories and my favorite (by far) is a story titled Revelation. It is included in Everything That Rises Must Converge, one of her impressive story collections. And once you have read it you can spend hours on the internet reading the hundreds of term papers and analysis that are posted by every doctoral student that dipped a toe into “southern literature.” (Just kidding. Not about the information on the internet, it is there, but about reading all of that stuff. Don’t over analyze; just read it and enjoy.) It ain’t Grisham but, then again, it’s not 250 pages long.

My Daughter's Journey

Laura just returned from a week in Norway. She and a few folks from the Bible College in Italy spent time hanging out at a Christian boarding school, ministering, praying with and getting to know 150 Norwegian high school kids. She has posted some pictures here and will probably update her blog this week (so check on it periodically).

BTW: My oldest son has started a blog as well. I will shill for him with pride as well. He is trying to update on Mondays and he shares his heart on worship and whatever else is occupying his mind. Check him out as well.

I Rant Because I Can’t

(Yet one more entry in the never ending chronicle of middle age and embracing my inner crankiness.)

This morning I rode to work and I ate my concoction of strawberry flavored carb control yogurt mixed with Kashi granola, washing it all down with a Fresca. Sitting at a red light I came to the realization that I was a prisoner to my body and its needs. Or maybe I am a prisoner to the fear of what my body will become if I do not feed it fake food (and, yes, that is what it is. Compare real sour cream and fat free sour cream—one is obviously fake!). I often threaten to give up the battle and just let it go, to test the unproven theory that I will balloon to an unwieldy girth if I eat what I want without any mental and emotional filters. To explore the world of sweat pants and XXL shirts. But I won’t; I am way too narcissistic to go down without a fight. Some call it discipline. I call it fear. Oh sure, I balance it all with a stated desire to be healthy and “take care of myself,” but it has more to do with vanity; health is a convenient cover.

One of my fantasies is I will be afforded a two or three month warning of my impending death and I will then eat any and everything I want with zero reservations. That only comes into play if heaven is not equipped with an incredible all-you-can-eat buffet with no need for digestive enzymes when you are done. What’s that? Why, yes, that is a shallow interpretation of heaven but, since I cannot seem to wrap my small, human brain around the few descriptions in the Bible, I have to use what I know and I know that I want to eat a hamburger, not a Bocca Burger. I want to eat real ice cream, not Healthy Choice white something shaped into blocks to resemble an ice cream sandwich. I want a calzone, not a chef salad with a meatball on the side. I want blue cheese dressing, not balsamic vinaigrette. I want a baked potato with butter and (real) sour cream as well as cheese, not a sweet potato with Butter Buds and Splenda. And I want it all without guilt or indigestion. And that, to me, would be, well... heaven.