I'm (not) dreaming of a tan Christmas

(743 words)

Unless we’re in for a sudden cold snap, it looks like for the first time in 10 years I won’t have a beard by at least New Year’s Day.

Shaving is a nuisance for me so it’s rare I do it more than once every three days.

Except in a typical winter. Then I don’t shave at all.

I remember a lordly economics professor of mine back in Athens who used to boast of his habit of every winter growing his beard on a secular holiday (Halloween) and shaving it on a sacred one (Easter).

His grooming schedule is all I remember about him or his stupid class.

I liked the idea behind it, but as I grew older I found the logic flawed.

Beard-growing should have nothing to do with holidays. For it to make any sense, the reason ought to be meteorological.

That’s why about a decade ago I decided I’d begin growing my beard as soon as I saw a five-day forecast predicting three-consecutive highs below 30 degrees.

A scruffy beard really does fend off winter’s bitter bite.

Then I’d shave it whenever I’d see three consecutive days where the five day predicted three consecutive days above 50.

It makes perfect sense and the custom is celebrated by friends who say my face now portends spring with greater accuracy than Groundhog Phil.

I like it because growing facial hair is cheaper than buying one of those constrictive face masks or scarves.

In fact, if I could I’d each winter grow a thick thatch of full body hair that would eliminate the need for putting on clothes, something else I consider a nuisance.

Will adhering to my custom mean I’ve grown my last beard?

Christmas Eve temperatures nearing the 70s means the only place in America sure to enjoy a truly white Christmas will be the Trump for President rallies.

I wonder if the climate change deniers think the Beach Boys are dupes for having released a ’74 compilation called, “Endless Summer.”

Global warming projections mean the world is likely to endure drought, famine, coastal flooding and other man-made tragedies once written off as “acts of God.”

I’m bumming because it means for our children the end of white Christmas.

Our 9-year-old is asking Santa — she still believes, I think, because she wisely sees no tangible benefits in skepticism — for American Girl doll paraphernalia, a Kindle, games and all the usual crap.

But she’s truly dreaming of a white Christmas. She wants blizzards, closed schools,   treacherous roads, giant snowmen and accumulations clear past her old man’s ass.

In short, she wants everything I dread.

But, oh, if I could only give it to her while she’s still so devastatingly precious.

I revel living a region that traditionally has four distinct seasons. There is something about each to celebrate — and it’s all right there in my back yard.

We live in the woods and there’s a rushing stream that tumbles through our back yard boulders through 50 raucous feet of elevation changes.

It’s magnificent.

There’s one Volkswagen-sized boulder you can only access in spring by hopping over the rapids.

It’s my sanctuary.

I lay there flat on my back and gaze through the swaying tree branches straight up at the sky and think about how I’m maybe the luckiest man in the world.

You may not know it from all the colossal bitching I do here on this blog, but that’s exactly how I feel.

None of the girls has ever busted me being so luxuriously indolent about squandering my time. I’m sure seeing their Dad laying there sprawled out like bear bait would seem weird to them.

It’s not.

It’s soulful.

Now, me laying there wearing a Speedo, that would be weird.

And I have a ready explanation for what I’m doing.

I’m saving the planet.

I intend to tell any interrogators I spend about 15 minutes each day scanning the skies for catastrophic meteors or hostile invaders from distant galaxies.

Just last week I was actually looking for something I fear may soon be even more remote.

I was looking for snowflakes.

It was December 19 and the thermometer read 71 degrees.

I hope someone somewhere with more brains and drive than I is doing something to save the planet and reverse what is looking to me like an endless summer.

Either that or I fear we’re all bound to be beach boys.

Related . . .

I shave my beard; Lucy, 8, generously lops her locks

How my facial hair determines winter is over

 Bad men wear beards

SCOPEtics & the sunny side of global warming

I want a climate change solution and I want it right now!

Roll Tide: The last winter day

The yin/yang of my good/bad summer

(1,133 words)

School resumes for our daughters on Monday and — I don’t care what the calendar says — that means summer is officially over. So I guess it’s time to take stock of how we spent our days.

Me, I have an innate ability to see the good in everything while simultaneously recognizing the bad.

It is my blessing.

And, thus, it is also my curse.

Good: I had a lot of friends/family visit.

Bad: I had a lot of friends/family visit.

I love seeing old friends and family and spent many summer days golfing, sight-seeing or just loafing around laughing with people who mean the world to me. They were times I’ll always remember fondly. But I did very little productive work this summer. That gnaws at me. I wonder I’d be more successful if I were a crabby kind of guy no one would want to visit. But what fun would that be? And idle hours spent with people you love isn’t an expense. It’s an investment in happiness.

Good: We had some very long family drives in the car.

Bad: We had some very long family drives in the car.

A long drive in the car with kids, ages 13 and 8, is like being adrift at sea in a rubber raft, one that stops every 45 minutes for pee breaks and milk shakes. I see being in the car with my family as a real bonding opportunity. I carefully decide which songs or stations we listen to with the essential purpose of bestowing proper musical taste on my daughters. Sometimes I slyly turn the music up incrementally louder so the music will seep in more deeply. But I sometimes turn it up louder to drown out all the bitching that goes along with taking kids on long car drives. Parts of our summer drives were some of the best parts of our summer. And parts of our summer drives made me wish I was the kind of father who’d pour vodka in the kids’ drinks so they’d pass out for hours so Val and I could have some peace.

Good: It wasn’t too hot.

Bad: It wasn’t too hot.

It was cool, drizzly summer so I didn’t have to enrich the sun screen conglomerates too much. I really hate the heat but, geez, give me some sunshine.

Good: Val and I only saw one movie all summer.

Bad: Val and I only saw one movie all summer.

Val and I have always enjoyed going to movies together. But there was only one flick that seemed compelling enough to make us go. It was “Return of the Planet of the Apes.” We both enjoyed it, but agreed it would have been more fun for both of us if we could have had Dr. Jane Goodall seated between us. But didn’t this summer suck for movies? Say what you want about the stumbles of our bumbling auto makers, but no industry disappoints as reliably as the one based in Hollywood.

Good: I played more golf this summer.

Bad: I played more golf this summer.

This was the summer where I finally got back on track about taking golf more seriously. I love playing golf, but the more golf you play the more frustrating you realize it is to play golf. So the idea of playing golf wars with the sensible side of my brain. Golf is expensive and time consuming and very difficult to attain proficiency. I don’t care. I love playing golf and hope to be a pig about it with whatever remaining time the weather permits.

Good: I had my most lucrative and successful talks this summer.

Bad: I had my most lucrative and successful talks this summer.

There is no downside to being a paid motivational speaker. To sell 250 books up front and secure a nice speaker’s fee is a crowning achievement of my career. That happened twice this summer and led my confidence to soar. But it did the same for my hungers. I don’t have anything else booked and it’s driving me out of my mind. But it’s also motivating me. The great thing about my “career” now is you never know who’s going to call with some exciting offer. I just need to work to make sure these offers have an opportunity to flourish.

Good: I wrote some of my best blogs in June and July.

Bad: I wrote some of my best blogs in June and July.

It’s like all the people who read my blog went to the beach together in early summer without the electronic devices they need to read my blog. Readership was off in July, too, before a great August rebound. But what do I do with all those dandy summer posts no one seemed to read? I wish I was one of those disreputable bloggers who doesn’t care about posting on the sneak stuff that’s run before. I never do that without notice. And I never will.

Good: I was immersed in many great books this summer.

Bad: I can’t think of any counterpoint to this one. The older I get the more I wish I had more time to just read. And nap. 

Good: Our oldest daughter began growing up.

Bad: Our oldest daughter began growing up.

Josie will turn 14 next month, but this was the summer she really began exerting her independence. And for the first time ever she began telling me to buzz off. She was done with Daddy. Shows we used to watch together bored her. Games we used to play were all of sudden “too childish.” And she at times began behaving like a surly teenager. I guess I should have seen this coming when last September she became a teenager, but I was blindsided. It was like Mick telling Keith he didn’t want to be part of The Stones anymore. So I recovered by spending more quality time alone with darling Lucy, 8, and it’s been a real joy. We had so many happy times together, it only increased my determination to pioneer a controversial parenting technique that involves only loving the kid who’s being nicest to me. I call it conditional love.

Good: Summer went really fast.

Bad: Summer went really fast.

I love living in an area with four distinct seasons. I love the approach of each new season as much as I love saying farewell to the one it’s replacing. This summer was fun but, man, I’m glad it’s over. Bugs, humidity, screaming neighbors — “Endless Summer” to me isn’t a Beach Boys album. It’s my idea of hell.

So bring on fall! I eagerly await your crisp air, your autumnal colors and hours and hours of extra yard work.

I will love you right up until I don’t.

UnRelated  . . . The best of June/July!

Use rice if phone drops in toilet

Taking my BRF (Bitchy Resting Face) out for a walk

Fame & the night me & Bruce Willis rocked the red carpet

“Sing me a song, you’re the bartender!”

A back ’n’ forth on palindromes

On chicken fingers, breasts & tenders

The attempted suicide on Solomon Temple Road

May Twitter storm

Maybe it’s all due to climate change, but the Tweet harvest seems mighty slim lately. But it’s been almost two months since I’ve compiled some of my favorites from 8days2amish.com. Time’s ripe to post a another bunch.

• It’s impossible to calculate how much time I’ve wasted waiting in vain for people to make the next move after I without fail put an X in the center spot everytime I see a # symbol.

• It’s been 20 years since anyone used the phrase “perfect storm” in reference to anything involving meteorological conditions.

• I admit to feeling more manly walking into Houston airport restrooms that included the bi-lingual designation HOMBRE.

• I understand basic physics, but I defy even Sir Isaac Newton to explain why the Coyote always without fail falls faster than the anvil.

• I know I shouldn't be surprised, but Daffy has precious little humanity -- even for a duck.

• Surprised Conservatives angry about global warming proponents haven't demanded Beach Boys renounce their "Endless Summer" album."

• I dreamt Arnold Palmer offered to teach me how to fly a plane. I said I'd rather he teach me how to putt. In my dream, Palmer began to weep.

• Soon, "dodged a bullet" won't be a quaint phrase about evading a challenge, it'll be the answer to the question, "So, what'd you do today?"

• Sure, you could update the classic 1973 Bob Seger song, "Turn the Page" for the Kindl crowd, but I suspect it would lose a lot of punch.

• Art critics who with no sense of irony describe statues as "moving" should be sentenced to six months of Adam Sandler film reviews.

• People who get prominent back tattoos ought to be required to also include behavioral instruction. For instance: "Feed donuts when cranky."

• My great fear is that some arch-villain is creating a machine that will convert wireless into wire, ensnaring humanity in hopeless tangle.

• Anyone care to guess the identity of the favorite Stooge the girl Billy Idol sings about in "Rebel Yell?" That's right. It's Moe! Moe! Moe!”

• Just heard Pat Benatar singing "Heartbreaker" on Classic Rewind. I think I prefer the version George Steinbrenner sang on "Seinfeld.

• Listening to the 2009 Springsteen song "Surprise Surprise" and wondering how it would sound with Gomer Pyle on the vocals.

• CNN report that says Secret Service "prepared for anything" on POTUS trip to war zone now has randy connotations.

• Has the straight to-the point pick-up line "Hello I love you. Will you tell me your name?" ever worked for anyone besides Jim Morrison?

• Advances in meteorology mean Weather Channel forecasters will soon be able to pinpoint brainstorms, sure to change the way employers hire.