A prisoner of the past says Happy New Year!

(692 words)

You can tell just by peeking in my checkbook I’m really looking forward to 2016.

As is my custom, this is the week I designate our 9 year old to begin writing “16” after all the 20s on the dateline of each check.

I do this because I’m one of those boneheads who’d use the old year on checks clear up through May before I’d finally stopped living in the fiscal past.

But I am looking forward to 2016.

Saying that makes me seem like a rosy optimist and, yeah, I am.

But I’m enough of a dour realist to stipulate I do so because I have no choice.

I can’t stop time even if I wanted to.

Would I stop it right now if I could? This week?

It’s been a very good week. We had a fantastic Christmas. It’s a joy to have two loving daughters around this time of year. And Val does so much to make everything special.

But, of course, I’m broke and believe 2016 will be the year that changes all that for the better, I hope. So I’m itching for happy results the new calendar is sure to bring.

That almost never happens, but I’m convinced one day it will.

Maybe part of my problem is that according to my calendar it’s still 2013.

That was the last year I’ll ever buy another calendar.

I used to put a lot of thought into buying the current calendar. I’d wait a few weeks for the prices to drop — you can get a $13.95 calendar for just $5 in February if you’re not picky about your January dates.

I’d get snazzy golf ones, ones of lighthouses and once in a while one that was a tasteful homage to Moe, Larry and Curly.

That all stopped in 2012 when my daughters for Christmas gave me a “Girl’s Coloring Book 2013 Calendar!” The cover promises “A fun new picture to color every month!”

Why it was restricted to girls, I don’t know. It seems unnecessarily sexist, especially in these days when people are more sensitive about those sorts of things.

I’m sure a lot of boys like coloring pictures of rainbows, flowers and unicorns, too.

Anyway, the girls colored all over the thing and stood there while I gushed about the result.

What could be more precious?

So I’ll keep it forever. I just print out the new month and tape it over the lower half date part so I don’t get confused.

Now part of me will be forever stuck in 2013.

A lot of bad things happened that year.

It was the year of the Boston Marathon bombing, Edward Snowden, the death of Nelson Mandela and the year our Catholic friends had to adjust to life under not one, but two living popes.

North Korea was up to no good, George Zimmerman was acquitted of killing Trayvon Martin, partisans in Syria decided it was time to commence to killing, and in Washington there again was gridlock galore.

But the Pirates made the playoffs for the first time in 20 years, we took the kids to Disney, I scored an invite to golf at Oakmont and immensely enjoyed the final season of “Breaking Bad.” And it was in 2013 I got my picture taken with Playboy Playmate of the Year Clair Sinclair.

I wonder if she still has her copy.

Too numerous to note are all the times I laughed with friends, hugged my family, experienced contentment, enjoyed a good book, savored a fine meal, and felt grateful that so many of you read my blog.

I contend it’s not surprising bad things happen to us.

What is surprising is how much joy we can wring out of even the worst of times.

So bring on 2016. Let us revel in the possibilities the future may bring.

Sure, the news is full of dire prophets who contend it will be a terrible year.

So what?

If our happy history proves anything it is that we’re all are capable of having really great times even during bad years.

Bring it on.

Happy New Year!

Related . . .

Enjoying a good long jump with Playboy Playmate Claire Sinclair

Airborne over Disney

Oh, and one more thing 2011

I hope I don’t die while the Pirates are winning and I hope the Pirates never lose

December tweets of the month

Maybe it’s just me, but I think all the really good ones are down toward the bottom. FYI, too, I list these in reverse order so the ones from early December are up top and vice versa. Please follow me @8days2amish or don’t. I’m always sure priority blog readers don’t miss anything good.

• I wonder if there are any fancy & actual bells & whistles out there that boast they are the bells & whistles that come with all the bells & whistles.

• I vow to never engage in petty back and forth. You can have your tat. I'll keep my tit.

• I can't believe there are only 30 days left in 2016 and Donald Trump has yet to personally insult me? What does that say about me? #LOSER

• Chagrined my wife never "likes" anything I do on Facebook. I guess she's just being consistent.

• Don’t believe Zuckerberg's donating a billion. It's an Aaron Sorkin-concocted story to make Social Network II more compelling.

• I’ve yet to see a white supremacist who makes me, a fellow white, feel the least bit superior.

• What’s 1st thing old friends think about when they think about you? With me, it's I'm descended from Swedish aristocracy & have 4 nipples with only one above the waist.

• That which does not kill me usually leaves me with one whopper of a hangover. 

• Why is it the typical glass cases I've used throughout my adult life snap shut with the lethal force of mouse traps?

• Hooray for editors! If it weren't for them, Santa could easily become Satan.

• Will future high school history robots think human predecessors were plucky or just victims of poor design?

• People say I repeat myself when I'm drunk. People say I repeat myself when I'm drunk.

• I’m resuming my holiday tradition of always yelling "Blucher!" seconds before the horse whinny sound on "Sleigh Ride.”

• Just read the average income in India in 1942 was $15 a year. I didn't know bloggers existed 73 years ago. 

• A friend told me this and I didn't believe it. Called him a liar. But, by God, he's right. Rick Santorum IS still running for president.

• Exorcising your demons can lead to spiritual peace. Exercising your demons just leads to really fit demons.

• Happy Birthday to my wife! She's not 37. She's not 42. What is she? She's more wonderful and lovely than the day we met! 

• If matter can neither be created nor destroyed, how come the world doesn't smell like one gigantic fart?

• Chances of getting rope aficionados to call themsleves "Knotsies" are the same as getting florists to call themselves petalphiles.

• Because stationery refers to letters and stationary means motionless, let's spell the latter STAYtionary. I'd call it a movement, but that’s too contradictory.

• A pessimist dwells on the fact that Smallpox killed 15 million. An optimist says at least it wasn't Bigpox.

• How different would rock and comedy histories be if instead of John, Yoko had fallen for Moe?

• Anytime I hear anyone saying "cooler heads will prevail," I keep hoping one of the cooler heads is Olaf, the snowman from “Frozen.”

• Does the CIA consider it a red flag when countries choose to fly red flags?

• My next book will be, I promise, twice as good as "Catch-22," my all-time favorite book. I'm calling it “Catch-44!”

• I believe in the future childbirth will be done using the “Star Trek” technology to "beam" babies from wombs straight to mama's arms.

• My glass is half-full and 100 proof.

• Phone etiquette will improve & solicitors more politely circumspect when an app is developed that let's us shock callers.

• I wonder if it ever bothered Jesus his birthday was the same day as Christmas.

• If we can make a Twinkie whose taste will endure through a nuclear winter how come we can’t make a vegetable that tastes like a Twinkie?

• Still looking for the perfect stocking stuffer? Consider feet.

• Why did the grass farmer cross the road? To get to the other sod.

• I wonder if in the annals of mob history a man named Stone was ever asked to kill two men named Byrd.

• Glad it's nearly over. Seasonal tensions? Not at all. I'm exhausted from my relentless war on Christmas! Happy Holidays!

• Christmas morning convinces me of the need for a used storage container shop. You could call it "Has Bins!”

• I’m a writer. My wife is an editor. When I thanked her for turning my comma into an exclamation point she corrected me.

Related . . .

December ’13 tweets of the month

December ’14 tweets of the month

Churches should emulate NFL to reverse declining attendance

(704 words)

I drink too much, lust too often, donate too little and am prone to bouts of slothfulness so prolonged they can now be measured in decades.

As beings go, I’m perfectly human.

So my soul getting into any decent afterlife is going to take a lot of spiritual assistance.

That’s why I’m trying to attend church more often.

I enjoy church, particularly during the holiday season.

My wife’s our Lutheran church organist and hearing her play alone makes attending worthwhile. She's that good.

Plus, I like to think after all these years of steadfast adherence to the hymnal she’s bound to go rogue and play “Brown Sugar” and I wouldn’t want to miss it.

It is reported only 25 percent of us attend church even once a month.

While I've seen no corresponding surge in attendance at our nation’s brothels, the numbers sadden me.

I know so many people who’d benefit from the faith, hope and love regular church attendance bestows.

So how do we get people excited about going to church?

Is there a successful Sunday example churches could emulate that would lead to better attendance?

Of course there is.

Churches should steal pages from the playbook of the only American religion bigger than Christianity.

Yes, it’s time Sunday worship become more like an NFL game.

It all starts with a decent tailgate.

Our services starts at 8 a.m.

So that means I go in 40 jiffy minutes from dreaming about sex with a harem to fretting about the eternal salvation of my miserable soul.

I need a buffer

Hell, I need a beer!

That’s what a pre-worship tailgate would do. It would get the congregation all psyched up for the service.

My wife would be instrumental in setting the tone. Instead of the Call to Worship, she could play “We Will Rock You,” which could be reprised during any Old Testament sermons involving stoning the heretics.

Our pastor always walks up the aisle with due humility. It is appropriate, but does nothing to fire up the crowd.

What does?

I’m thinking the one perfected by the flamboyant Ray Lewis.

He’s the retired Baltimore Raven who in 2000 was a suspect in an Atlanta murder. Since his retirement, he continues to be a face for the NFL, making it clear that while he meek shall inherit the earth, NFL superstars who’ve dodged murder convictions shall inherit high-profile ESPN commentator positions.

A good church choir adds so much to a service, but choir robes do not and if the NFL teaches us anything, it’s that nothing says manly competition like a little T&A.

So the choir robes would have to go. In fact, so would actual choirs.

They’ll be replaced by cheerleaders.

Church needs pee breaks.

Your typical NFL game is chock full of them. I propose after every four minutes of worship, the pastor can step aside for about two minutes of truck or erectile dysfunction commercials so fans can go hit the head.

Even though a typical service only lasts 60 minutes, it still could benefit from a brief halftime. The preacher could go inside, study film and game plan the second half while a marching band entertains the congregation with patriotic standards.

NFL Church would no longer need offertories, either. They could be replaced by vendors going up and down the aisles charging exorbitant prices for refreshments and souvenirs. 

The NFL makes a lot of money with throw-back uniforms. Churches could do the same. They could set up an over-priced gift shop in the narthex selling robes and sandals. And fans could buy big foam “JESUS No. 1!” fingers to wave around when the sermon really starts hitting its stride.

These suggestions would add an element of playful spontaneity to the proceedings, as would having a big cooler of Gatorade by the altar for fired up congregants to dump on the preacher’s head after particularly satisfying services.

Of course, church traditionalists will throw a penalty flag on these ideas. They’ll say they’re too radical, blasphemous even.

Maybe a more incremental approach would be better.

So let’s start by ditching the wafers and “wine” and replacing them with beer and nachos.

Can I get an amen?

Related . . .

The Baltimore Rays & NFL’s on-going disgrace

Cheering for a devil of an NFL celebration

Life’s short, church isn’t

America needs an all-gay NFL team

When taverns usurp church; a bartender retires

RRS: C'mon, America! Let's all sing the national anthem!

It’s very pleasing to me when some old post finds a surprise audience. That’s what happened this week with this one from August ’12. Someone stumbled on this one about how proud I am to sing the national anthem and referred it to friends. Then they referred it to friends who referred it to friends and so on. It became one of the best-read stories of the month. So, naturally, I wanted to reprise it here.

Interestingly, I think I’ve detected a re-birth of people actually singing the anthem at sporting events. I find it heartening. Sing! Sing! Sing!

This will surprise loony right wingers who think they hold a monopoly on patriotism, but I get choked up hearing the national anthem.

Yes, even gay marriage supporting, Obama loving, universal health care backing, tree hugging, pot legalizing, tolerance preaching 99 percenters like me can still love America just as much as you do.

So it got to me yesterday watching the U.S. women’s rowing team on the podium singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” with all the drive and joy that had earned them their gold medals.

I’d never seen any of these women before. Heck, the last time I saw anyone doing any rowing it was the studly Winklevii twins who crewed on the river while Mark Zuckerberg was busy screwing them out of a fortune in “The Social Network.” 

Chances are I’ll never see any of these women again for the rest of my life. It’s a pity because I fell in love with them all, even though I suspect today at least one or two of them would if they could if be enthusiastic participants in today’s Chick-fil-A gay kiss-in protests.

There’s been stories about some crabby athletes unhappy they were unable to publicize their commercial sponsors during the games.

It was clear to me these women were proud to be sponsored by the only one that matters: The United States of America.

Tears were rolling down their dimpled cheeks. They were busting with pride and were singing the anthem for all it was worth.

I wish they’d mic all these winners. It would be instructive.

Because when you see some of these appealing athletes singing the national anthem it gives the wrong impression that because they look good, they must sound good.

This is unlikely. In fact, they probably sound a lot like my late father, who in my mind is to the national anthem what Tony Bennett is to “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.”

He is its signature vocalist.

I say this because I was next to him for over 30 years at hundreds of sporting events where he was the only anthem-singing person in the stadium besides the professional doing it over the public address system.

And what a voice.

It carried great distances. I always imagined birds in the African savannah scattering in alarm from their cypress trees as he began the first few notes.

I remember all the beer vendors turning in unison to our section high up in Three Rivers Stadium, fearful, I think, that one of their colleagues had spilled three or four trays of empty aluminum cans down the concrete stairs.

He’d start off the tune about five seconds behind the professional and then, realizing his pacing error, would accelerate so he’d be about five seconds ahead.

This often confused the professional so he or she would race ahead of my father and the national anthem became a sort of off-key “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” duet where the singers are never in sync.

As a kid, of course, I was horrified by this. No one else in the stadium was singing at all. In fact, rather than sing, many of the Steeler fans turned to stare gape-jawed at us.

This was probably 30 years before “American Idol” and other reality shows that celebrate talentless louts. It’s a pity his poor timing wasn’t exclusive to “The Star- Spangled Banner.”

He could have been the William Hung of the 1970s.

I remember one time I said, gee, Dad, it embarrasses me when you sing the national anthem.

“Son,” he said, “it embarrasses me when you don’t.”

I was thinking of the old man last week when I took our 11 year old to a matinee Pirate game. We got some grub and settled in for a great afternoon basking in America’s pastime.

And when time came to sing the national anthem, I bolted out of my seat, stood ramrod straight, hat over my heart and, as I always do, just gave it hell.

The whole time I noticed out of the corner of my eye Josie’s increasing discomfort. I was ready for her when the song was over.

What, I asked, does my singing embarrass you? Is my voice too unrefined? Would you rather I just mumbled?

“That’s not it, Dad,” she said.

When I stood up, I’d put my foot on her hot dog.

War, Miss Universe & offbeat beauty pageants

(670 words)

Unlike the vast majority of knee-jerk bloggers, I wanted to wait a couple days before commenting on the Miss Universe now-you-see-it/now-you-don’t crowning. 

I wanted to see if the nations of Philippines or Columbia declared war.

I didn’t think this was unrealistic.

I’ve never known the world to be more rife with what you could call silly killings.

People get killed in movie theaters for texting during love scenes, in grocery stores for taking too many items into the express line, and everyday there are road rage deaths instigated by some otherwise innocent who failed to properly apply their blinker.

Crimes of passion are all the rage, as is, of course, just garden variety rage.

Here in Pittsburgh, many of us still become unhinged at the mention of Phil Luckett. He was the NFL referee at the ’98 Thanksgiving game who mistakenly heard Jerome Bettis say, “Heads!” when Bettis said “Tails!” on the overtime coin toss.

I knew NFL referees were blind, but it wasn’t until then I realized some of them were deaf to boot.

The Steelers lost the game and the holiday death threats poured in.

So certainly there had to be millions of people who believed they had a vested personal interest in Ariadna Gutierrez of Columbia as Miss Universe.

And when Steve Harvey — whoops! — crowned Gutierrez they were euphoric.

Then they weren’t.

So now Pia Wurtzbach of the Philippines is Miss Universe. And just in the nick of time!

She’s 26, one of only three women in the pageant’s 63-year history to be so, uh, experienced.

The youngest winner was the first. She was Finland’s Armi Kuusela. I looked her up because I’m always intrigued to see if anyone from Finland has actual fins.

I couldn’t tell from her pictures, but she does have a lovely smile (above).

She’s still alive, too. She’s 81 and living in La Jolla, California. Her Wikipedia profile says she she’s still engaged in charity work, which is a fine thing to be doing at an age when most of her contemporaries are home watching “Everybody Loves Raymond” re-runs.

I couldn’t find out what happened to that year’s runner-up, but I hope she didn’t turn to drugs, whoring, etc, which is what I’d do.

But I’m easily bored.

Here’s an interesting fact: The Philippines is now home to the reigning Miss Universe and the reigning Miss Earth.

I’d never heard of the latter.

She’s Angelia Gabrena Paglicawan Ong, which makes her a candidate for Miss Longest Name.

Miss Earth is beauty pageant dedicated to beautiful women who agree to be environmental ambassadors. Part of their pledge reads: “It should be everybody’s agenda to make the Earth smile again!”

I don’t foresee Trump getting behind this one.

I think Miss Earth would get more coverage if it changed its name to Miss Earthy and featured women who refused to shave things like armpits.

That’s another reason why I didn’t feel compelled to write about Miss Universe.

I find flawless women a turnoff.

Except for my perfect wife!

I imagine all the women in Miss Universe will go on to live fabulous lives. They’ll marry rich men (or women), enjoy their yachts and complain when the champagne goes flat.

Maybe not for some of the other pageant winners of these actual beauty pageants:

• Miss Pregnant — Just what you think.

• Miss Plastic Surgery — Ditto.

• Miss Klingon Empire — For Trekkies.

• Miss Hooker — Does the winner charge more?

And, here she is, Miss Landmine! — This one features Angolan women who’ve lost legs to landmines in that downtrodden nation’s Civil War. It is intended to celebrate self-empowerment over physical perfection.

I’m going to go out on a limb here — and you knew that was unavoidable — and say the Miss Landmine runner-up has some useful perspective our Miss Universe contestants lack.

I guess the lesson from all this is to not use your setbacks as a crutch, even when your setbacks lead to you needing a crutch.

Related . . .

Don’t hate me ‘cause I’m (still) beautiful

Miss America and me

Dead for texting: The Florida movie theater shooting

My hands are beautiful to behold

Trump vs. Fiorina & who’s our ugliest president

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