2005 - 2015: Goodbye to the Old Life

It's safe to say that today, I am not the same person I was 10-15 years ago.  At the turn of the century, I joined a gym for the first time and rather quickly developed a rockin' bod.  The muscles grew as did the attraction and attention I was suddenly getting from other guys - guys I would have heretofore put beyond my grasp.  This led to a huge boost in my confidence which allowed me go places and meet people I previously would not have dared.  I still had the same personality, it's just that it was now easier for me to make friends.  Shallow as it sounds, the muscles gave me a social life.  For a period of about 3-4 years, I traveled all over the country to dance clubs and dance parties, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone.  I met people all over the place, some of whom I am still in touch with today.

Me and Poodle, July 9, 2005

My last big night out like this was Saturday, July 9, 2005.  I had traveled to NYC to see my friend Poodle and his partner Jeff.  At this point, I knew I would be moving to Chicago soon and I wanted to see Poodle before relocating, since NYC is much easier to get to from DC than Chicago.

Poodle and I met a few years earlier on AOL.  I was living in DC and he was in Jersey City, NJ.  It was November 2001, just two months after the attacks.  People still weren't going out much at that point, rather using AOL as a social outlet.  Now and then in life, you'll meet someone who you just instantly connect with, and that was Poodle for me.  His real name is Michael, but I gave him the nickname Poodle.  I have no idea why.  But it stuck.

We eventually met in person 4 months later at the White Party in February 2002 in NYC at the Roseland Ballroom.  It was love at first sight.  He was the best friend I'd apparently had all my life without knowing it.

So back to 2005, I had taken the train to NYC the day before, arriving on Friday, July 8th.  I had spent the remainder of that day just shuffling around Times Square.  The following day (Saturday), I reconnected with Ex#2 who was living in NYC at the time.  We went flea market shopping in Chelsea and had (read:drank) lunch in some little bar on 8th Avenue.  That evening, though, I met Poodle and Jeff for a night of dancing at Roxy.  A Saturday summer night in an NYC danceclub was not the most hopping place, and we expected that.  Most of the dance crowd was out on Fire Island, Montauk, or The Hamptons.  But I remember we had a very fun night.  The music was great and we really enjoyed dancing with each other and inviting in strangers to join us.

During the night, Poodle and Jeff got separated from me and we couldn't seem to reconnect.  At some point they went home and I stayed and talked to some people.  At around 4AM, I walked back to my hotel.  I knew then that life was going to be different.  This was not the life I wanted to continue to live.  In fact, it was one of the reasons I wanted to leave DC altogether.  The party scene had lost its fascination for me and I wanted to give it one last hurrah with my closest friend before bidding that part of my life good-bye.  I was 39 years old and looking forward to a quieter life in a new city.  Having been involved with several someones through the previous 8 or 9 years, my goal was to move to Chicago and spend my entire 40's as a single man.

And we all know how that turned out.

Political Correctness and Evolution

In my universe, there's been recent and frequent talk about Political Correctness ("PC") and how it's the "ruination of our country".  I'm not saying these things, but people I know are.  And it makes me wonder what is so horrible about taking a few seconds to choose your words so that you don't run the risk of offending someone - anyone - who either has suffered or is currently suffering at the hands of established societal norms.  I don't care for the term 'politically correct' because there is nothing 'political' about having good manners.  In my quest to be an accepting person while attempting to put myself in the shoes of others, my ultimate goal is to just not be an asshole.

First, let me stand on a box and confess out loud that I am not without my prejudices, which almost seem innate.  I can't help the way my mind works but I can re-educate myself and I do have complete control over how my mouth functions, i.e. what I say or not say in the presence of others.  Anyone who has ever spent 10 minutes in my company knows that I am opinionated.  And I own up to the fact that I don't say about 80% of what runs through my brain.  Because back in my childhood, I learned that words can be upsetting, hurtful, insulting, and damaging.  Painful.  And in this day of cyber abuse and bullying, we know all too well that words can also kill.  So what is so hard about having good manners (read: PC) and choosing to not say something that might cause pain to or kill another human being?

The thing about being PC is that you can't pick and choose it.  You have to be all in.  You can't demand PC towards you and not give it back.  Number One: it's not fair, and Number Two: it contradicts the concept of The Golden Rule and ethic reciprocity.

I have a niece with speech development issues and a nephew with autism.  It's only because of PC that the world shouldn't call them "retarded".  I have a father with dementia and it's only because of PC that the world shouldn't call him "insane".  I have female relatives who are full-figured, and it's only because of PC that the world shouldn't call them "fat".  And, also because of PC, every one of them is allowed to live in the world and not be shut up in an asylum - which they would have been as recently as 30 years ago.

We EVOLVE because we MUST.  We are arguably the most intelligent form of life that's ever lived in the universe.  We have adapted our thinking and beliefs over time as we have become more educated and responsible.  It's only been those species that have refused to adapt that have died out.  Thomas Jefferson, the man who authored the Declaration of Independence almost 240 years ago, stated:

"I am not an advocate for frequent changes in laws and constitutions, but laws and institutions must go hand in hand with the progress of the human mind. As that becomes more developed, more enlightened, as new discoveries are made, new truths discovered and manners and opinions change, with the change of circumstances, institutions must advance also to keep pace with the times. We might as well require a man to wear still the coat which fitted him when a boy as civilized society to remain ever under the regimen of their barbarous ancestors."

PC is not the ruination of the country, it's its deliverance from harm, ruin and loss.  So whether it's a word (I, myself, grew up being called a "sissy" and a "fag" and there are still people who think I should be put to death) or a symbol (such as a logo, a salute, a hand gesture, and , yes, even a flag) that causes pain to someone, why wouldn't we as an evolved, educated society want its use to stop?!?  Is a word or symbol more sacred than a human life?  If it's TOO hard for you to know what to say, do the entire world and yourself a favor and just say NOTHING.

Most people to whom PC comments are directed are suffering from some kind of societal norm deficit.  So when you think about it, aren't their lives hard enough without us choosing to hurt them unnecessarily?

For more information on the topics of mental health, please visit https://www.betterhelp.com/advice/bullying/

2005-2015: How This Blog Has Changed Over 10 Years

In creating something like this - a de facto journal of my life - it's easy to look back as I have been doing to see how I've have changed over the past 10+ years that this blog now covers.  It's not only me who has changed over the years, but also this here blog as well.

First of all, the blog didn't begin as a blog.  I had created a personal website back in 2004 that looked like this:

 

Not sure why I chose to name every page with an "H" word; I guess I had a reason at the time.  
(Click image to enlarge)

As you can see, I've always had a political bend to my writing and opines.  And it was because of how my site was written, as well as the fact that it was more of an op/ed kinda thing that a friend suggested that I create a blog instead.  I kept the actual website for about a year then just let it disappear.

So the blog was born.  Even the very look of it has changed over the past 10 years.  It's gone through 3 incarnations in the past decade: the first version created in 2005, then an update in 2008, and then the current version in 2013.  The previous two versions looked like this:

2005                                                                                                 2008
(Click image to enlarge)

The blog's actual URL changed, and fairly recently too.  The old address was http://viewfromthejeep.blogspot.com.  But about a year ago, I converted it to just http://www.viewfromthejeep.com.  Nice and simple.  I also no longer maintain a blogroll, which lists other blogs and websites that I follow.  I checked most of the ones listed on the two former versions and none of them work anymore.  I guess not many people keep personal blogs these days.  What can I say - I'm a rebel!

And why "viewfromthejeep" in the first place?  At the time I started the blog, I had my beloved green 1994 Jeep Wrangler.  The picture to the right is of me and the jeep back in June 2001.  I loved that machine.  I thought I would have it forever.  In DC, it became synonymous with me.  People recognized it and knew where I was.  Then one day, it was stolen while parked outside my house in DC.  I never saw it again.  I was crushed.  I kept the blog name as an homage to my identity, in a way.

Driving on...

Statistically, I no longer write posts like it's a part-time job.  Looking back to 2006 and 2007, I was averaging 4 and 5 posts per week.  Today, I dash off maybe 1 post every 2 weeks or so.  I want to write more, but it's sometimes tricky to think up a topic.  I almost always have an opinion on everything, but even that is not always enough to elicit a post.  I used to be rather political in my posts, but that has waned over the years as well.  It could be that I no longer have much to say since Bush left office, or it could be that since I no longer live in DC my interest/passion in politics is not as prevalent.

I also used to publish Monday Eye Candy every Monday morning, which was essentially just a photo of some random guy from the internet that I thought was attractive.  Now and then, I would post a photo of a friend of mine and tout how wonderful of a person he was or give him a shout out if he had something going on to which I wanted to help draw attention.  Mondays were (and still are) difficult days for me to get focused, so MEC was an easy way to post something without really needing to think about it.  My blog traffic was always highest on Mondays.  I guess there are lots of people like me who need some sort of motivation to begin their week.  Here's a lame example:

(Click image to enlarge)

I also used to occasionally pick a random day and go back in time through all my calendars and journals and list what I had done on that very date every year since 1982, when I started keeping calendars and journals.  The first one was created on October 20, 2005, with a few more random dates to follow including one listing out how I celebrated my birthdays from 1984-2007.  The most recent one was written on September 27, 2013.  It's actually a fun exercise.  I should do tit more often.

In the beginning, my blog was also hidden from my family.  Well, not really hidden per se - they just didn't know about it.  I also had not formally come out to my entire family yet, so I didn't want everyone reading and knowing what I was doing in my life.  But now my life is figuratively an open book.  And I know many in my family read it just to stay up to speed with Kevin and my excursions.

Several years ago, I didn't have much of a filter as to what I would write about.  Nothing was off-limits, which I think is still evident in some of the older posts.  I even wrote about my job on my blog until I was asked to stop - not asked to stop writing about my job, but asked to stop writing my blog by my job.  This explains the 4-year gap in posting from 2008-2012. But I'll save that for another, more interesting post.  And it IS interesting.

I also used to sell advertising space on my blog and made a nice chunk of change doing so.  Those ads went away during the break when I didn't write anything.  I'd get a check based on the number of hits my blog would get.  Man, I wish I'd had ad space on it during the Carol Burnett posts!  I could have retired.

So my blog, like me, has gone through some changes over the years.  It celebrates my evolving into the person I am today, and will most likely continue evolving itself over time as I keep it going.  I'm surprised that I have maintained this as I am always quick to delete something or throw something out.  But I like that this is here and remains just sitting out there.  And even if it's ever just me who reads this and no one else, that's fine too.

2005-2015: A Little Lasting Love

Continuing my celebration of this blog being a decade, I recall the last time I fell in love with someone, albeit even a little bit.  Ten years ago on June 14, 2005, Kevin and I met for the first time.

In Spring 2005, I had been living in Washington, DC for ten years, sharing a house with my best friend, Ashley.  We had both grown a little tired of DC and wanted a change. So when Ash decided to move to Chicago and open Hamburger Mary's with his brother, I decided to tag along too.

As the story goes, Kevin and I were connected by our friend (the newly-married-himself, Chris) on a pre-Facebook social network site called Friendster.  Chris and I had been drinking buddies in DC before he moved to Chicago in 2004 where his old William & Mary classmate, Kevin, also lived.  When I decided to move from DC to Chicago in spring 2005, I sent a message to Kevin hoping to make a new friend in a new city.  We didn’t meet on my first visit in May that year, but we began emailing each other and eventually shifted to phone conversations, which wound up occurring every night.  We got the chance to finally meet during my second visit to Chicago on June 14, 2005.  We met outside Briar Street Theater’s production of Blue Man Group for our first date at Cesar’s Killer Margaritas on Clark Street.

I was so taken with Kevin that two days later, when I returned to DC, I wrote a post about falling a little bit in love.  And I've remained in that state ever since, obviously growing more deeply in love as time passed.  And per the original post 10 years ago, Kevin is also the person with whom I prefer to spend the most amount of my time.  Ten years ago, Kevin "happened" to me.  And I am forever changed and grateful as a result.

Tear Drop National Monument

Ever hear of the Teardrop National Monument? 

Me either.

It's a national monument given to the U.S. by Russia to honor the victims of the September 11th attacks.  It sits across the harbor from the Statue of Liberty in Bayonne, New Jersey.  The name of each victim is inscribed in the base, much like the Vietnam Memorial Wall in DC.  

Made by Russian artist, Zurab Tsereteli, it stands 100 feet tall with a stainless steel teardop hanging in the middle.  The outside is made of bronze and the base is made of granite. Families of the victims placed stones in the walkway leading to the monument.

The memorial was dedicated in 2006, with little to no media coverage or fanfare.  There are no signs or ads leading to it on the streets of New Jersey.  The monument was and remains the source of many controversies and disputes.  It was originally meant to be erected on the NJ waterfront but officials rejected it.  It was finally placed in Bayonne, facing the New York skyline, but many still complain that this 10-story horror blocks the wonderful view of the city.  It's listed among the Top 5 Worst 9/11 Memorials.

The art community has stated that "it was not just unpleasant, but to the point that it was offensive."  Others have said it looked like a woman's vulva and that it was Russia's indirect way of calling America a pussy . . . . cat.  There is also the fact that the memorial includs huge pictures of Russia's president, Vladimir Putin, along with America's all-time worst President:

I personally don't know of anyone who has visited this site.  I imagine it might offer some comfort to the families of the victims.  But beyond that, with so little fanfare and attention, I'm curious what others think about it.

We Bought A House!

I'm a little behind on sharing this information, but - yeah, we kinda bought a house.

Most people go through a slump after the holiday season.  That period between Hallowe'en and New Years is an active time for just about everyone - and that's no exception in our home.  Kevin spent most of October creating our Hallowe'en costumes, and then immediately transitioned into making us both "onesies" complete with hoods, zippers, and pockets.  We journeyed to our families for Christmas, then flew out to Napa to celebrate New Year's with friends.  So after all this, Kevin needed a project during the month of January; something to challenge his brain and keep him occupied.

I thought he was going to start sewing again.  But instead, he started house-shopping.  Thus is life with Kevin.

We had talked about eventually moving out of our 880 sq ft loft condo in Uptown.  We'd been living in that space for 8 years (minus the year in Miami).  We loved the place, but it was small; we had become experts on how 2 adults can live in a small space.  And we'd decorated it with style.  But after living in a larger 2-bedroom apartment in Miami, we knew we needed to branch out.  I figured we would move into another condo in a different part of the city.  We'd talked about living in West Loop, South Loop and River North - which made sense since we would both most likely work downtown for most of our careers.

But rather than condos downtown, we shifted our interested to 2- and 3-flats within a mile or so of where we currently lived, staying on the far northside of Chicago.  So we narrowed our search online and enlisted the guidance of our trusted realtor, Susie Kanter, and set off one Saturday to look at buildings.  We toured 5 or 6 places, each one with rental capacity to help with our mortgage.  None of them seemed to hit it out of the ballpark, though, and it wasn't until later that evening at home when we were debriefing that we both realized the problem:  as much as the additional income would benefit our bottom line, neither of us was too keen on sharing our space with strangers.  For me, I didn't want to have to share my laundry facilities and experience the ire of opening the washer to find someone else's wet clothes sitting inside.  I had enough of that in college; I didn't want to relive that experience 30 years later.

So Round 2 was to look at small single family homes instead.  The next weekend, off we went with Susie again to look at houses.  And the first one we saw, was IT!  We had been looking at pictures online for the entire week and we both felt good about it, but wanted to keep our options open.  So we looked at a few.  Admittedly, there was a second house that made the decision difficult.  Both had obvious pluses and minuses.  But our favorite house just seemed like "us".  And we knew it in our guts.  So after a little haggling, our offer was accepted the following week.  After a 6-week closing cycle, we took ownership on March 16, 2015.

March 16, 2015

We'll move in on Saturday, the 21st.  This is definitely a new adventure for both of us, both as individuals and a couple.  And I am sure there will be lots to share as we put our stamp on our cute little house.  Stay tuned for more stories and updates as we launch into our "houseownership".

Assassin's Escape Route Dud

The other night, we watched a show on Travel Channel that I was initially excited to see.  Going along with the 150th Anniversary of the Lincoln Assassination, an episode of Time Traveling with Brian Unger, Lincoln's Killer on the Run, was pitched as:

Brian takes locals back to Washington, DC, at the end of the Civil War to follow the escape route of President Lincoln's assassin, John Wilkes Booth. They hide in a pine thicket, row across the Potomac River, and visit a special group of tennis courts.

The show was only 30 minutes and I initially wondered how they were going to fit a visit to all the places (at least 12 by my count) on Booth and David Herold's (an accomplice) escape route in that short amount of time.  So I eagerly tuned in.  At first I was happy to see that the show began in Baptist Alley, the space behind Ford's Theater where the escape route truly started.

But from there, the tour jumped to Rich Hill, the home of Samuel Cox, which would be Stop #4 if all 12 stops were included.  Admittedly, it was nice to see Rich Hill up close as it is completely off-limits to the public.  But by making this the next stop, the show completely bypassed several rather crucial stops in the escape route:

1. The 11th Street Bridge. This passageway from DC to Maryland was completely off-limits to the public and guarded by the military.  However, Booth being the consummate actor, somehow managed to smoothly and calmly talk his way across it, despite having just shot the president, jumped to the Ford's Theater stage from the president's theater box and ridden at top speed through the city.
2. The Surratt Tavern. Booth and Herold stopped here to pick up supplies that had been stored there earlier that day at the request of Mary Surratt.
3. The home of Dr. Samuel Mudd.  Dr. Mudd was the physician who set Booth's broken leg, which happened either when Booth jumped to the stage or possibly when his horse fell on him during the escape).  There was and continues to be much debate over whether Mudd knew or recognized Booth during the visit.   

Three rather significant stops.  

From Rich Hill, the show then took us to the Potomac Crossing (accurate), discussed the failed first attempt at such and how a 2nd successful attempt was made a few days later (again, accurate), but then the show took us to Peyton House, veering past Booth and Herold's stop at Cleydael and the home of William Lucas.  I thought this was strange, considering the story behind both places.  Cleydael was the stately home of Dr. Richard Stuart, a confederate signal agent from whom Booth expected total support.  Booth thought wrong.  Instead, Stuart sent the men to spend the night at the cabin home of William Lucas, a black man.  Showing his racist sole, Booth made Lucas and his family sleep outside in the dirt so that he and Herold could have the cabin to themselves.

Eventually, the show brings us to the Garrett Farm, the final spot in the escape route, where Booth was gunned down in a burning tobacco barn.  The farm and barn are long since gone so there was really nothing to show.  But the show did take us inside Fort McNair to the site of the conspirators hanging following the trial.  It's the only spot on the trail that I've not been to personally, so I found that to be interesting.

I looked forward to this show and was disappointed.  It missed many opportunities to share the whole truth about the escape, as well as the country's attitude about what Booth had done.  Booth thought he would be praised a hero in the south, but was met with rejection and abandonment just about everywhere he went.  The show didn't really convey that.

Perhaps it's a lot to ask for a 30-minute show.  I liked the show and I think Brian Unger is a fun host (I realy liked him on How The States Got Their Shapes on the History Channel).  But I suggest reading My American Odyssey to learn more about this 12-day event.  It's really quite fascinating.

Starbuck's Don'ts

The 1st Starbuck's, Seattle

Every workday morning, I stop at Starbuck's to get a tea - sadly, not my long-gone beloved Awake tea, but a venti English Breakfast.  The new tea isn't as strong as the Awake, but it will do.  The experience is made better by the fact that there are two baristas at the Merchandise Mart location who know what I get and occasionally have it ready for me by the time I work my way through the cattle line.

But like most things, it's not always a smooth process.  Because tea is made by the baristas at the registers, I don't have to wait down in the mosh pit of yuppies, pining for their caffeine hit.  This means that once I get my tea, I need to navigate my way through a group of people who both individually and collectively don't seem to have any sense of spacial awareness.  Backpacks, large shoulder bags, and yoga mats should all be classified as registered lethal weapons with the FBI.  But even this isn't as tough as the next step: the coffee fixins' bar.

The fixins' bar (or whatever Starbuck's calls the Serengeti watering hole where you spice up your bev with milks, sweeteners and assorted other spices) is the area where my blood pressure raises.  Perhaps it's because folks haven't had their jolt yet that they seem to be mindless of their surroundings, not to mention their actions.  There are lots of lists already online about how to be the worst Starbuck's customer, but the list I created below is how to continue your horrid behavior after you got what you paid for:

1. Stop dumping out your drink in the trash.  If you need the barista to leave room, just ask.  They're happy to do it.  Dumping out what you just paid for is tantamount to throwing money out the window.  Besides, it's dumb.
2. For god's sake, put your phone away for the ONE EFFING MINUTE it will take you to add whatever you need to add to your beverage!
3. Stop with the T-Rex arms.  Put down your bag(s) and enjoy the use of your limbs.
4. The fixins' bar is not the place for you to get organized.  Don't reassemble the purse, don't switch out phones, and for-the-love-of-all-that's-holy DON"T change out your shoes!
5. You - the one adding nutmeg to your coffee - I hate you.
6. Don't talk to me.  I equate fixing my beverage to peeing in a public urinal: no talking, eyes straight ahead, flush when finished.
7. Put your trash in the trash.  Put your trash in the trash. Put your trash in the trash.
8. Once you've added everything you need, die.  Or leave.  Either is fine, just move out of the way.  
9. By the way, have you ever made your own coffee or tea before?  You don't know how much milk or sweetener to put in?  Add a little, taste it, add a little, taste it...  I want to stab you in the eye.
10. Don't socialize with someone while you are prepping your beverage.  You're not in the club.  Concentrate on your task then get the hell moving.
11. See that dribble of milk you just spilled?  Yeah you.  Be a big boy, pull a napkin and clean it up.  What must your house look like?  Slob.
12. Don't hoard the milk carafe.  Take it when you're ready to use it - don't pull it away from everyone and stockpile your supplies.  Share, sweetie.  Share.
13. Also, if you have to add 16 packets of sugar to your coffee, you don't like coffee.

The key takeaway here is that people (read:me) are waiting.  You have 20 seconds to get in there, do whatever it is you need to do and get out.  Stop ruining my morning.

Pet Peeve #72: Peering Into Windows

And now for some classic Dop...

Window shopping is one thing:  walking by a brightly lit window, stepping in closer to see what's there, keeping a slight distance.  But cupping your eyes and plastering your face against a window to see what's inside is downright intrusive and annoying.  Especially if there is someone just on the other side of the window pane trying to enjoy a meal, a coffee (read: tea), or just hanging with a friend.

I experience this behavior more times than I can admit, most recently yesterday. First really warm day of the year so I leave my office to have lunch at Hannah's Bretzel (mmmm... soft, luscious bretzel).  No seating outside, of course, so I sit at the bar at the window for some much needed natural light therapy.  Attempting to have a quiet lunch, my sunny view is suddenly blocked by a woman pressing her entire body against the glass to see inside the restaurant - despite the fact that the open doorway to the place is just 4 feet to her left.  I shoot her my best WTF look, complete with half a Wild Alaskan Smoked Salmon on Wecken (mmm... soft, luscious wecken) hanging out of my mouth.  Oddly, she seems shocked to see me - me, a customer inside a restaurant trying to eat his lunch.  It feels invasive.

Shops and stores typically use non-tinted glass so that you can easily see what's on display in hopes of luring you inside.  Restaurants, to the contrary, tend to use tinted glass to provide some modicum of privacy for their patrons as well as maintaining the mystery of how busy the place may actually be, causing you to actually have to WALK INSIDE to see what's going on.

Is it really so hard to just walk into the store/restaurant/coffee shop to see whatever it is you think you want to see?

Are you giving any thought at all to the possibility that your big face might be disturbing people, or that you resemble some starving Les Miserable urchin knockoff begging for scraps?

Can you just freakin' back that shit up and use a door like a civilized person?

My goal is the next time I am sitting at a window and someone decides to wrap their face in their hands and press it against said window, thus blocking my view and/or invading my space, I will just have to give them a view to remember.

Our Kinda Really First President

We all love the glamour and mythology of George Washington:  General of all the Armies during the Revolution, wealthy landowner, etiquette lover, wooden teeth-wearer, slave owner (yeah, we tend to forget that one), 1st President of the United States, ...

Record scratch

You may not know that America was not originally a constitutional democracy, but a confederation (which meant the states were sovereign entities) from 1776 until the Constitution was ratified in 1789. And while the individual states were free to run things however they chose within their own borders, they still decided that there would be a national one-house ruling body with very limited power called the Congress of the Confederation.

During the eight years that the Congress existed, eight men held the title of President of the Continental Congress - essentially the highest seat in the land - for 1 year each. It wasn’t anywhere near the same thing as the current Presidential office; it was far less powerful and had far different duties.  But it was the closest thing they had to such an office. Thus, the first official “president” of the United States was John Hanson, a delegate from Maryland.  My home state representin'!

Further Presidents of the Continental Congress from 1782 onward were Elias Boudinot, Thomas Mifflin, Richard Henry Lee, John Hancock (yes, that John Hancock), Nathaniel Gorham, Arthur St. Clair, and Cyrus Griffin.

The more you know...

Wrap Rage

A few weeks ago, I posted the picture at right on my Facebook account, stating that in order to open the package, I clearly needed the scissors inside.  Oh irony!  Funny to readers; not so to me.  

Attempting to unwrap a package that is seemingly impossible to unwrap can be a frustrating problem.  And not just for me - there is actually a diagnosis for the hatred, anger and exasperation one feels when not being able to open packaging:  wrap rage.  You know it's real because it has its own Wikipedia page!  

It's the immense, sweat-inducing fury we've all felt trying to open packages that are simply impossible to open easily: light bulbs, potato chip bags, boxes of cereal, medicines and (10 years ago) CD cases.  Have you ever found yourself standing in your kitchen, unfathomably frustrated — fuming, even — after several attempts to open a bag of something only to realize it’s more secure than Fort Knox?

Manufacturers say that their packaging is simply the safest way to ship and store their products, and ask for "consumer patience" when opening the goods.  Easy to say, impossible to do.  Besides that, it's wasteful.  Nearly 1/3 of American waste is packaging.

I've a longstanding joke about my health that "I've survived a car accident, a stroke, cancer, a heart attack, and open-heart surgery all before the age of 40: which means that one day I will probably choke on an M&M and kill myself".  However, I am going to amend this phrase to add "...if I first don't puncture an artery with a screwdriver trying to open a pack of pens."

Joseph Palmer: Beard Wearing Freak

Since December 1, 2014, I've been allowing my beard to grow out.  I've never done this before, having what equates to a 5-day growth on my face for most of the past 20 years of my life.  But since full, long beards are still considered stylish, I thought I'd give it a try.  There are obvious limits to me being able to change my look.  Short of gaining and losing a few pounds here and there, and plus a few more wrinkles, I have pretty much looked the same way since the mid-1990s.  I mean, it's not like I've been able to change my hairstyle.

While researching beard-care and products, and image-searching for beards I wanted to emulate, I came across the story of one Joseph Palmer - a veteran of the War of 1812 and a member of the short-lived Utopian community “the Fruitlands”. He was described as a kind and tolerant man, but life was not easy for Joseph Palmer after he moved to Fitchburg in 1830. People would openly insult him, throw rocks at him, regularly break the windows of his home, and even cross the street so as not to be near him when he passed by. Despite being a deeply religious and God-fearing man who regularly attended church services, Palmer was publicly denounced during sermons by his pastor, Rev. George Trask, and even refused communion.

What awful thing had this small town butcher done to warrant such persecution? Joseph Palmer’s crime was that he was the only citizen in Fitchburg, Massachusetts who chose to wear a full beard, which (contrary to my vision of the 1800’s being a beard grower’s paradise) had been out of fashion in the United States since the time of the Pilgrims.  Think about it.  Look at all the photos of American men during the 1700's and the early 1800's.  You won't find a beard among them.

Mr. Palmer was so reviled that in 1830, while walking out of the Old Fitchburg Hotel, he was attacked by four men who attempted to forcefully shave his beard on the grounds that his beard was immoral. Palmer was thrown on the stone stairs, and even though he was a muscular, 200 pound farmer, he was unable to repel the four men and resorted to stabbing two of his assailants in the legs with his jackknife. His attackers were only hurt badly enough to curtail their efforts, but Palmer was arrested and fined for committing an unprovoked assault. Even though he had the resources, he refused to pay the fine on principle, and was jailed as a debtor in the Worcester city jail. He spent over a year in prison, during which time he repelled two more attempts by jailers and prisoners who sought to shave his beard against his will.

Palmer would be quietly released thanks to the large amount of bad press that was generated by his story as it wound its way through the national newspapers, but he would refuse to leave until he could secure a proclamation that it was perfectly acceptable to wear a beard. He was never given that assurance, and he was eventually tied to a chair and carried out of the jail against his will.

Joseph Palmer achieved national celebrity status at the time, and used his position to contribute time and money to the Temperance and Abolitionist movements. He would go on to circulate in New England intellectual circles with Transcendentalists like Emerson and Thoreau, and even appears as the character, Moses White in the Louisa May Alcott’s Transcendental Wild Oats.

Palmer died in 1873 at the age of 84, and on his grave in Leominster, Massachusetts is a picture of a man with long, flowing beard and the words, “Persecuted for wearing the beard”. He was one of the most ridiculed and persecuted men of his time simply because he chose to stand up against the herd in support of his right to wear a beard. Not ten years before Palmer’s death, Abraham Lincoln would be the first president of the United States to wear a beard in office.

The next time you’re feeling like a freak and thinking about giving up your individuality for a spot in the herd, remember: resistance is not futile, and sometimes freaks are only freaks because they’re ahead of their time.

2005-2015: Ten Year Blog Anniversary!

Me, the month I started writing this blog

At the time, little did I know that 2005 would be such a pivotal year in my life.  A lot happened.  I mean A LOT happened.  During 2015, the launch of several 10-Year Anniversary markers will occur for me.

The first of which is that 10 years ago on April 11, 2005, I started this blog.  My first post was titled Kicking The Tires and it was about my trepidation at trying new things (some things never change) while comparing technology to my then dating life.  Blogging was still a fairly new endeavor for most people, including me.  I had initially built out a personal website, but my postings were pretty much just opinion pieces.  So BF#6 (the one just preceding Kevin) suggested I start writing a blog instead, which I did ... 2 week after he dumped me.

A similar situation occurred back in 1993 when BF#3 broke up with me after 2 years.  Only then, I actually wrote an entire book.  It was never published, but parts of it have shown up in this blog over the course of the last 10 years.  I was proud of that book and I am proud of this blog.

Look for more 10-Year Anniversary markers during 2015.  

Lincoln Assassination 150 Years Ago

One hundred and fifty years ago tonight, at about 10:20 PM (EST), Abraham Lincoln was shot in the back of the head by John Wilkes Booth during a performance of "Our American Cousin" at Ford's Theater in Washington, DC.  He will die the next morning at 7:22 AM (EST).  This event, as well as those leading up to and following, have fascinated me - and many others - for the past 40 years.

What began as a failed attempt at a kidnapping ended in the first assassination of a sitting U.S. President.  Lincoln certainly was not popular during his presidency, but his death made him a martyr and he has since been elevated to greatness because he fought for what was right.  In some ways, his life is an allegory of Christ:  born in modest and meager surroundings, lifelong student and teacher, champion of the downtrodden, leader of people, eschewed personal sacrifice for the greater good, put to death publicly for a cause in which he believed.  The more I continue to read about him, the more he guides my moral compass. His death is one of the more fascinating pieces of a life filled with adversity and challenge.

During the past 40 years, I've read about 30 books on the subject, visited Ford's Theater & Museum an uncountable number of times, visited Lincoln's home, office, grave site, and Presidential Museum in Springfield, IL, seen the gun with which he was shot as well as the chair in which he was sitting, the room in which he died, and even the bed in which he drew his last breath inside the Petersen House.

I've also visited both the boyhood home and eventual grave of Booth, as well as found the spot where Booth died, which is now a nondescript site in a median strip along Route 5 in Southern Maryland.  I've even seen the vertebrae removed from his neck during his autopsy, which is now  held in the National Museum of Health and Medicine in Silver Spring, MD.

I've ridden Booth and accomplice Davy Herold's escape route a few times including visiting the Surratt Tavern in Clinton, MD, and the home of co-conspirator, Dr. Samuel Mudd in Bryantown, MD.  And in December 2013, I visited Fort Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas, the prison where 4 of the conspirators lived and died.  I've visited the graves of 6 of the 8 co-conspirators as well as a few of their homes.

I've done all of this to get as close to and learn as much about this event and this man as possible.  To say I am fanatical is fair, but what is cool is that those who know me well cannot hear the name Lincoln and not think of me, if even for a flash of a second.  My friends and family have showered me with books, magazine, pamphlets, movies, documentaries and many trinkets that I hold dear - all now prominently displayed in our new home.

So tonight at 9:20 PM (CST) I will pause to offer reverence for one of the greatest men to have occupied the Office of The Presidency; a man who changed the course of the country in his lifetime.  And I'll wonder, as we all should, what we might have become had the event on that night 150 years ago not taken place.

My Irish Heritage

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

While everyone is just a little bit Irish today, I pay tribute to my Mother's Irish lineage.

Mom's paternal 5xGreat-Grandparents, John and Jean Anderson, came to the United States from Ulster, Ireland (which is in northern Ireland)  in 1722 by way of Philadelphia and settled in Augusta, VA in 1735.

John acquired 747 acres of land on Middle River in Augusta County, VA by grant on June 3, 1738, and was also granted 270 acres of land on a branch of Catherys River, now called Anderson Branch.

In 1742, John was a member of Captain John Smith's Company of Augusta County Militia, and in 1756 he belonged to Captain Christian's Company of Militia.  He was one of the first elders of Old Stone Church (near Staunton, VA) and on October 30, 1745, Governor William Gooch commissioned John one of the first magistrates in Augusta.

John and Jean had 10 children - 3 daughters born in Ireland, then 5 sons and a daughter born in Augusta.  The fourth son, William, born in 1750, is from whom my Mother's line descends.

March 4, 2014: The Toughest Day Of My Life

First off, this is a little long.  I've waited a year to get this off my chest, so bear with me.

Little was going the way it should, despite us doing everything we were supposed to do.  I'd notified the building that we were moving out three weeks in advance.  On February 12, 2014, I told them that I wanted to reserve the elevator for March 5th.  And since we lived on the 36th floor of the building, reserving the elevator was priority for getting all of our belongings down and into the moving truck.  The building concierge confirmed the date and time.  She said we could have the elevator reserved for all day March 5, 2014.

Experience told me that this seemed too simple.

This being Miami, I smartly decided to follow up.  If living here for the past year had taught me anything, it was that no one did what they said they were going to do.  I'd needed to constantly follow up with the post office, building management, utility companies, and building maintenance.  Even 128 of the 131 resumes I had sent over the past year had garnered no response.  Constant follow-up had become my way of life.

So the next day, February 13th, I stopped by the building front desk to confirm the reservation I had made the day before.  Not surprising, there was no record of it.  So when I resubmitted my request, I was told that I could not use the EAST elevator bank (located just outside our unit door which then opened near the loading dock downstairs), but would have to use one of the 4 elevators on the WEST side of the building instead.  It was as if I had sniffed glue.  All I could muster was a simple, "Um, what?"  Once the concierge repeated what she had said, I reminded her that in order for us to move our belongings out of our unit and down to the loading dock, we would need to pass through 3 sets of doors, a security gate, cross the outdoor pool deck area, dodge sunbathers while trying to avoid water damaging our belongings, pass through another security gate and another set of doors just to get to the west elevator bank on the other side of the building, ONLY TO THEN walk our items out the front lobby doors and around to the other side of the building to get to the loading dock where the van had to be parked.  To give you some idea, here is a diagram:

And here's another view:

I asked the concierge if she could see the absurdity in this. She just looked at me and said that's how it needed to be done.  I pointed out to her that this was not the way we had moved in to the building, so it would not be the way we move out of it.  Without excusing herself from the conversation, she walked into the "back office".  After I spoke with two more people, the building acquiesced and allowed us to use the east elevator bank instead, letting me know they were making an exception.

A week before our scheduled March 5th move out, the building management called to bump us up a day to March 4th.  When I asked why, they said others had scheduled to move in/out on the 5th.  My reminding them that I had already RESERVED the elevator and loading space for March 5th fell on deaf ears.  Luckily, Kevin was able to change his day off work at the last minute.

Three days before our now-scheduled March 4th move out, the building management called me again - this time to change our scheduled start time from 8 a.m. to 10 a.m. because they scheduled someone else to start at 8 a.m.  SOMEONE ELSE?  How could SOMEONE ELSE reserve the elevator when we apparently weren't supposed to use it in the first place???  So again, I reminded them that we had the elevator RESERVED for the entire day.  It was then that they told me that I couldn't do that - I could only have it for a 2-hour window.  On this, they were unyielding.

At this stage, I lost track of the number of times I said "What the f*ck?" to someone's face.

So finally our actual move date arrived and we picked up the rental truck.  While waiting patiently for our turn to use the elevator, of course the people ahead of us took longer than scheduled.  Add to that, that as soon as they finished, the elevator stopped functioning.  The elevator inspection company came to fix it, but then forgot to turn it back on until Kevin chased after them.  Once the elevator was functioning again and we asked the building concierge for the key to lock the elevator for use, we were told that because it was a public elevator we could not lock it for use and had to share it with the rest of the building.  All 36 floors of tenants.  This slowed the process immensely.

So to sum up at this point - every conversation in which I had involved the building management about our move out of the building ended up being a colossal waste of time.  "Welcome to Miami", indeed.

To our credit, Kevin and I were well-prepared for the move.  Everything was boxed and we had a packing plan.  It took many trips in the elevator, but once we were finally able to start moving at 1 p.m., we managed to get everything loaded in 2.5 hours and were done by 3:30.

This was when an already horrible day turned worse.

The plan was that I would drive 95% of our belongings back to Chicago and move back into our condo while Kevin remained in Miami for an additional 6 weeks to work out a notice at his job.  Neither of us were fans of being separated for 6 weeks, especially since we had come to rely on each other so much for the past year.  But I was starting a new job in Chicago soon and this seemed like the best plan.

But because it was now much later in the day than we had planned (we had originally planned to be done by 10:30 AM), I reached out to the building manager and asked permission to park our now completely loaded truck in a small, hardly-used, gated lot on the building property overnight so that I could start the drive to Chicago early the next morning.  I pointed out that due to the building's incompetence and constant rescheduling, it was too late to begin a road trip (especially starting in rush hour).  The rental truck was too tall to fit into any of the area parking garages and we were not keen on leaving the truck with everything we own sitting on the street overnight.  Without hesitating, she simply said, "no".

So with no other choice, and exhausted, I looked at Kevin and said, "well I guess I need to get going then".  Neither of us was prepared for this.  After so much disappointment the entire day, I now had to get into a truck and drive away from the man I love, leaving him in a city that I know he hated and perhaps not seeing him for 6 more weeks.  It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do.  We both tried to keep brave faces, but the pain was excruciating.  He walked out onto the street and stopped traffic to motion me out of the loading dock, I took one more look at him fighting back tears, mouthed "I love you", and then drove away.

I honestly don't know how I made it out of Miami.  For 20 minutes, I fought the urge to turn around.  Any chance I had to see our building from any street, I took it - thinking Kevin might have gone up to the pool deck to watch me go and I could see him - tiny him - just for a second.  I didn't want to miss that chance.  Miraculously, I didn't crash into anyone.  With a face full of tears, I cursed the city and yelled "I LOVE YOU BUN" probably a hundred times.

At some point, probably 20 miles into the drive, I accepted life as it was, took a deep breath, and just drove.  I didn't even turn on the radio.  I finally stopped for the night in Valdosta, GA, just over the Florida/Georgia line.  It took me 7 hours, but I wanted to just get the hell out of Florida.  The trip home took me three days.

The eventual bright spot in all of this, is that 7 weeks after this horrific day, Kevin proposed.  :-)

Vote For Me!

I entered a photo I took in a contest and am asking for your vote.  The contest is sponsored by DreamTown Real Estate in Chicago.  The contest is "Winter In Chicago".  Here is my photo.  I took it on an early morning flight into Chicago from Cincinnati in January:

Click here to vote for me!

Your vote is appreciated.  You can only vote once per browser, so use Internet Explorer, Google Chrome, Firefox, Safari, and Opera.  It's not cheating, it's just making sure your vote counts.

"Like You Used To"

Just over 1 year later and the posts about Carol Burnett on this blog are still being discovered - to the tune of about 150 people per week.

To date, more than 220,000 people have read the posts (including Ms. Burnett, herself!).  It went viral on Facebook.  Rosie O'Donnell tweeted the story out to her almost 800,000 @Rosie followers, calling me a "beautiful person" in the process.  Over 100 people have left comments on the blog postings.  And I've lost track of the number of emails I still receive from people all over the world, thanking me for sharing this story and talking about how Alzheimer's affects their lives and the lives of the ones they love.  In many instances, I find myself acting as a counselor and cheerleader to people who feel - quite simply - helpless.

This is both the farthest and furthest reaching achievement of my life.  Nothing else I've ever done has touched as many people as sharing this story.  I gave up on this blog a few years ago after a very successful run, then resurrected it during my time in Miami, just so I would have a creative outlet.  Surprisingly, the top 10 stories read on my blog all date back no further than August 2013; NOT surprising, the two posts about Ms. Burnett rank as #1 and #2.  I guess there is a message in here somewhere about success and second chances and all that.

My dad is doing well and seems to be living a comfortable life.  He doesn't walk anymore, pretty much confined to a wheelchair.  He has good days and great days and bad days.  And so does Mom.  Although for her, Dad's good days can sometimes translate into her bad days.  For on the days when he's doing well and is communicating openly, Mom feels guilt that he now lives in a nursing home, second-guessing if he should be back home instead.  And then on days when Dad is not doing well, I'm sure Mom feels some relief that he is where he needs to be, of course juxtaposing those emotions with concern for his well-being.  Perhaps Dad's good days are best for everyone.  Good is good enough.

I haven't been home since Christmas, but am eager to visit in two weeks.  I obviously see changes in him with each visit.  At the end of our Christmas trip, Kevin and I stopped by the nursing home to say good-bye to Dad.  When I told Dad we were leaving and I would see him soon, he just looked at me and looked away.  But when Kevin followed with a "see you later, John", Dad looked up at him and tears welled in his eyes.  Of course I joked with a "oh sure, YOU get tears!", but we can't help but wonder what it all means to him. And the ugly fact is that we will never know.

I've been asked to share something that inspires me at work's staff meeting next month.  I'll be sharing the story about Dad and Ms. Burnett because it's truly inspirational.  There is always hope.  And you never know from where inspiration will come.  And that a seemingly small act from one person can ripple around the world, touching thousands.

And all because my Dad, a man who seems to have completely lost all his memories, said 4 little words to me that might have been lost on anyone else:  "like you used to".

I'm A Bear

Not that I am surprised by this, but I recently took an online Spirit Animal Quiz and found out learned confirmed that my spirit animal is a Bear.  To quote the website, in "the kingdom of spirit animals, the bear is emblematic of grounding forces and strength".  And when they put it that way, I'd say I would have to agree with their assessment.  I am nothing if not a stable, grounding force.  It's a gift.

A few other things the website mentions to make us "bears" feel more comfortable being associated with one of the laziest animals on the planet:

• The primary meaning of the bear spirit animal is strength and confidence
• Standing against adversity; taking action and leadership
• The spirit of the the bear indicates it’s time for healing or using healing abilities to help self or others
• The bear medicine emphasizes the importance of solitude, quiet time, rest

I basically knew that I would come out as a large, lumbering animal of some kind.  Anyone who knows me would not think of me as rabbit, eagle, ferret, or cheetah.  For a hot second, I thought I might come out as an elephant or rhino or, at the very least, an old dog that's ready to die.  But Bear, it is.  And I can live with that. 

Take the quiz yourself and see how you do:  http://www.spiritanimal.info/spirit-animal-quiz/

That Thing Above The 6

The other day, I was prompted at work to update my network access password.  Friends, I ask you: Is there a bigger First World headache than creating new passwords on a quarterly basis?  I tend to use the same 2 passwords in rotation, but now it seems that I'll need to come up with a few more since changing passwords needs to happen on a quarterly basis and they Can't. Be. Repeated.  And to make matters worse, the passwords need to have a capital letter, a number, and a symbol.  AND a symbol!  My online banking doesn't even have that kind of security.

At this point, I have more passwords than I do keys on my key ring.  Nevertheless, I undertook the challenge.  I started typing the usual noun and 4-digit combination, and then I looked at the keyboard to choose a symbol.  I suddenly realized I had no idea what that arrowhead thingy above the 6 is.  It looks like "^".  Every other symbol on the keyboard is familiar to me - most I use quite often.  The @ sign has experienced a renaissance thanks to email; a score ago, it was an unknown.  Even the folks on The TODAY Show had no idea what it was.  And the # seems to change names with every generation.  First, it was the number sign.  Then the telephone company decided it was the "pound sign".  Today it's called a hashtag.  It's actual name is the octothorp.  So I am very familiar with all of the symbols above the numbers except for the ^.  Aside from being cartoon curse words when combined, they each have daily, useful purposes.

When looking for a list of symbols on the internet, one needs to look far down on the list before any interest is generated in the ^.  Apparently, this little gizmo is called a circumflex or caret (not to be confused with carrot or carat), and it means "and".  It's a logical connective used as a conjunction.  I have a degree in English and this is the first time I am hearing this.  Shenandoah University, you've failed me.

Why is the caret the symbol equivalent of the proverbial red-headed step-child?  It's interesting how some symbols have come to mean different things as the years go by, but the caret seems to hold on to its obsoleteness (which Blogger tells me is not a word, but it is).  Perhaps because the caret is used in writing code, there's no way to change or build on its meaning without sending the world into a theoretical Y2K meltdown.  But still, there it is.

Perhaps some day, future generations will give the caret its due.  But until then, it's just going to sit there, mostly unused by a majority of keyboardists.  Just sitting there, like 6's dunce cap.