Mandela, "Marshmallow World," & humans who love to hate

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When I heard Mandela said we must stop hating everyone, my first thought was by “everyone” he couldn’t be including Tom Brady and Bill Belichick, could he?

I mean there are some inhuman evils so reprehensible red hot hate is the only reasonable response.

I’ve spent the weekend reading up on Mandela and learning his story. I’ve yet to read any of the definitive biographies of the man, but that day is coming.

There is so much to learn, to appreciate and, ideally, emulate.

I tried to inform our daughters what the fuss was about. I told them:

“When he was 44 years old, his white minority rulers put him in jail for 27 years because he was black. When he was 71 and he was released, many South African blacks said they should kill all the whites. Mandela said, no, we should forgive them.”

It’s remarkable.

I have to curb my urge to exact lethal revenge on any idiot motorist who extends my traffic wait 75 seconds by being too chicken to run the stale yellows.

Stop hating?

C’mon, we love to hate!

In just the last few years, I’ve written long, grinding blog posts about how I hate my dog, the snooze alarm, smart phone upgrades, the decline of the USPS, my daughter’s five-hour swim meets, the Chicago Cubs and imported milk.

I hate it when people talk during songs I like. I hate commercials. I hate reality TV shows that aren’t hosted by Jeff Probst. I hate winter weather after Christmas. I hate silent letters that confuse people into thinking a botanical word spelled “herb” should be pronounced “Herb,” like Herb Tarlek, the obnoxious sales manager for WKRP in Cincinnati.

Of course, I’ve never endured 27 years of near-solitary confinement to finesse the proper meanings of words like “love” and “hate.”

We toss those words around like so much linguistic confetti.

For instance, my wife said yesterday she “hates” the Dean Martin Christmas song, “Marshmallow World.”

That’s simultaneously insane and perfectly logical.

Yes, it can be cloying and lots of Christmas songs can drive you nuts -- (“Grandma Got Run Over By a Raindeer!”) -- but hating “Marshmallow World” seems excessive.

Or does it?

I’ll be sure to let you know if when I read one of his biographies if it quotes Mandela as saying, “And mankind will never truly flourish until it overcomes all its hatreds -- except for the one about that stupid Dean Martin Christmas song!”

I’d try and pin her down about her flippant use of the word “hate,” but that might lead to an exploration of what she really means when she says she “loves” me and I don’t want to go through another gray Monday wondering if my wife loves me as much as she hates “Marshmallow World.”

And, hey, today’s her birthday so she can say whatever the hell she wants.

Happy birthday, darling!

Maybe you’re like me. Maybe you thoughtlessly substitute the word “hate” when what you really mean is annoy. Many of us say we “hate” such-and-such celebrity or this-or-that political figure when really we just wish they’d go away.

I know many people say they hate their exes or their in-laws and it’s often a true, bitter hatred, much more visceral than my hatred of things like snooze alarms.

I’ve been critical throughout my life of various in-laws -- and, boy, you can bet they’ve been critical of me -- but I don’t hate them.

I’m not proud of it, but I will admit to feeling more cheerful on the days when I look on the weather page and see it’s raining on one of my in-laws.

I wonder what Mandela would say about that.

I guess my most authentic hatred is the one I harbor for racism.

Hatred of a bitter ex is perfectly rational. Hatred of someone you’ve never met just for the way he or she looks -- or for who they love or worship -- makes no sense at all.

I’m one of those guys who hates racism, but is friendly with many racists. They’re everywhere and, as I’ve said before, if I restricted my conversation to only enlightened people I’d have to stop talking to even myself.

My bar racists right now are hating, in order, Nelson Mandela, Mike Tomlin and Barack Obama.

They hate Mandela because he’s black and is being internationally hailed for his heroic example; they hate Coach Tomlin because he’s black and the Steelers stink; they hate Obama because he’s black and because by now it’s just such a habit.

I’ll never understand such reflexive hatred based solely on race.

These guys probably love a song like “Marshmallow World” because it hints that everything’s better when everything’s all white.

Maybe that’s why Val hates it. Like me, she hates prejudice.

That’s another thing I love about her.

Related  . . .

I hate the snooze alarm

I hate my dog

I hate the Chicago Cubs

Don’t hate me ‘cause I’m beautiful

Re-run Sun.: John Lennon and songs for dead celebs

It was 43 years ago today that John Lennon was killed. Here’s the 2010 story I wrote about his death and the two great songs it inspired.

An old friend of mine used to keep a list of people who should have been shot instead of John Lennon. It was a very long list and he tended it with a maniacal fervor.

Of course, there were men like Kim Jung Il, Idi Amin, the since decapitated Saddam Hussein and other tyrants bedeviling the planet about 25 years ago.

But there were also numerous garden variety miscreants who, I felt, certainly didn’t deserve ballistic ventilation. I remember his list included one wobbly NFL kicker for the Detroit Lions whose scattergun field goals had cost my friend a small fortune in ill-considered wagers.

It’s wrong, of course, to talk about the need for more gun violence on a day so marred by tragic gun violence, but I always think about him and his list on December 8.

I was too young to be moved by the grief tsunami that swept across the country 30 years ago this evening.

Of the Beatles, he’s probably only my third favorite behind Paul and George, which is like finishing last since who cares about Ringo (in fact, I think Ringo was on my friend’s list).

My favorite solo song of his is “Watching the Wheels,” but the rest move me very little. And I maintain all the best and most tuneful Beatle songs were Paul’s creations (“Hey Jude,” “Penny Lane,” “Yesterday,” “She’s Leaving Home,” “Eleanor Rigby”).

And then there’s the whole Yoko Ono thing. We have, as a nation, watched her for more than 40 years and no one has yet to figure out what he saw in her.

Lennon’s hailed for his devotional fatherhood to Sean, but no one ever mentions how he abandoned his first family and never paid a minute’s worth attention to his first son, Julian, who released a fine album I recall from about 1985, and seems to have grown up normal despite John’s cold absence. 

Still, I’m fascinated by Lennon and understand my friend’s list wholeheartedly.

Why him?

His contributions were incomplete. It was Lennon I thought of after Paul’s recent diss of George Bush. McCartney praised Obama and hinted it was great we had a president who knew how to read.

Conservatives howled because, well, that’s what conservatives do best.

My first thought was, “You guys ought to be glad some one shot John Lennon. I wish he’d been around as we were ramping up to fight this goddamn ridiculous Iraq war. Man, he’d have been raising holy hell.”

We lost so much when we lost him -- and the music wasn’t the half of it.

That’s what I lament about his death. We lost an agitating jester.

I never let this day pass without playing the two great songs written to commemorate his death and life. They are monumental works and I still struggle to get through them without wiping tears.

The first is “Empty Garden (Hey Hey Johnny),” written by Bernie Taupin and Elton John, who was one of Lennon’s best friends and with whom he made his last concert appearance.. 

It’s a fascinating friendship. Elton bet Lennon that if his version of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” went No. 1, Lennon would have to perform at Madison Square Garden with him. It did and their lively version of, ironically, Paul’s song, “I Saw Her Standing There” is Lennon’s last live performance.

Elton performed “Empty Garden” once and couldn’t make it through. Propelled by a heartbeat rhythm, the song is so plaintive, so heart wrenching, it combines rage and grief to create something beautiful. He’s never played it again.

The other is “All Those Years Ago” by George Harrison. It’s the flip side of the Elton song.

It’s a bouncy delight about the joy he knew by being friends with John when it was just the four of them bouncing around in the van as it rolls across the English countryside. It’s the side of John Lennon even Yoko never knew.

How he wrote a song this beautiful, this euphoric, about something that had to be so devastating to him leads me to believe angels exist and they love to dance.

Here’s a short list of other worthy songs inspired by dead celebrities:

• “Candle in the Wind,” Elton John, about Marilyn Monroe. It pained me when he and Taupin re-wrote the lyrics to commemorate the death of Princess Diana. Seemed kind of cheesy. Still does.

• “American Pie,” Don McLean, about Buddy Holly and, really, the death of era. Still one of the most compelling pop songs ever and the best to over-analyze in the company of good friends and a warm bong.

• “Song for Sonny Liston,” by Mark Knopfler, about the legendary boxer. Knopfler is one of the best storytelling songwriters. This 5:07 song makes me want to read books about Liston.

• “American Roulette,” by Robbie Robertson, about James Dean, Elvis, and Marilyn Monroe. Concussive beat, stinging guitars and urgent vocals make this feel like an ambulance ride to the ER after an OD.

• “The Three Great Alabama Icons,” by Drive-By Truckers, about Ronnie Van Zant, George Wallace and Bear Bryant.” Man do these guys cook. This starts at a simmer and burns to a boil. Every southern band is compared to Lynyrd Skynyrd.   It’s time to start comparing bands like Lynyrd Skynyrd to the Drive-By Truckers.

• “Alcohol and Pills,” by Todd Snider about Hank Williams Sr., Elvis, Janis Joplin, Gram Parsons and Jimi Hendrix. Another cautionary tale: “Alcohol and pills, it’s a cryin’ shame. You think that they’d have been happy with the glory and the fame. But fame don’t take away the pain. It just pays the bills. And you wind up on alcohol and pills.”

• “Family Tradition,” by Hank Williams Jr. about Hank Williams Sr. I don’t know if Hank III has updated this one, but I’d buy it. You can’t go wrong with any of the great Nashville Hanks. Dallas Wayne has a great song that describes the blueprint for a really great night. It’s meant for Senior, but could apply to any of the Williams boys: “Crack the Jack and Crank the Hank.”

Imagine the fun.

So why's everyone hate Bono?

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The biggest news story of the day is the outpouring of love over the death of Nelson Mandela. 

That means the second biggest news story is the outpouring of hate over the life of humanitarian rock star Bono.

He is the lead singer of maybe the world’s biggest rock band and devotes much of his off-stage life to helping the poor and oppressed get a fair shake.

Bastard!

The hatred of Bono fascinates me.

I mean anyone who had anything to do with U2’s 1997 album, “Pop!” deserves our  eternal scorn, but the disdain for Bono is over-the-top. He is today being savaged for having penned a euphoric eulogy of Mandela that seems to emphasize their chumminess over Mandela’s legacy.

I think it must be people feeling affronted that a rock star would dare use his celebrity for anything other than, well, pussy.

He’s been married to the same woman since 1982 and most of us find that kind of steadfastness in the face of groupie temptation admirable.

Or stupid.

Together the pair have four children and, hallelujah, I know nothing about any of them. I haven’t seen their clothing lines, heard their crappy bands, or seen their Vegas benders play out on TMZ. I admire any celebrity who today succeeds in raising bland, anonymous children. 

I’m hot and cold on U2, but there’s no denying they are one of the world’s great rock bands.

I think they hit their creative peak in 1991 with “Achtung Baby,” an album that to me plays like the historic soundtrack for the demolition of the old Berlin Wall. 

I like 2000’s “All That You Can Leave Behind” but agree most of their music since ’91 has been what they contend is “experimental,” a dodgy word bands employ when they’ve forgotten how to make the music that made them great.

Still, they have multitudes of ardent fans, and I’m friends with some whose opinions I respect say the 2010 tour was the greatest show they’ve ever seen.

So there we have Bono, the rock star, and there’s nothing really to knock. He’s a great performer with a great band with many wonderful hits. My favorites: “One,” “Stuck in a Moment,” “With or Without You,” “Bad,” “God Part II,” and “All I Want is You.”

And no one should ever forget how funny and self-effacing Bono and the boys were in the 1998 “Trash of the Titans” “Simpsons” episode in which Homer runs for Springfield Sanitation Commissioner against a character-voiced by Steve Martin.

You can be a sanctimonious and bigoted hack, but it means a lot to me if you successfully pull off your “Simpsons” cameo: See Mel Gibson, “Beyond Blunderdome,” 1999.

That leaves us with the increasingly attention-snagging “humanitarian” part of Bono job description.

The National Journal named him the most politically effective celebrity of all-time.  He’s campaigned on the benefits of Third World debt relief, and partnered with George W. Bush -- a man he routinely praises -- to help eliminate AIDS in Africa. He’s been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize three times and is inspiring legions of youths to commit to authentic do-gooder living.

So here’s a man who does the world a world of good and is beloved by many. And, I guess, hated by many more.

He’s the face of what critics dismiss with the nifty phrase, “narcissistic philanthropy.”

I get it. I hate Brangelina, too, but the whole phenomenon intrigues me.

I think we all know what Bono’d say about the situation.

He’d probably point out critics felt the same way about Jesus.

And that’s the problem.

In regards to our rock stars, Mick Jagger nails in in “Monkey Man” when he sings, “Well, I hope we’re not too messianic or a trifle too Satanic.”

Bono’s critics would probably like to see a little more of the latter.

We’re cursed to live in an age when being good is being divisive.

What that means for solving the problems that plague us I do not know.

But of this I am certain.

It’s probably a good thing Mandela at the height of his powers didn’t dabble in making a crappy techno-rock album full of too much reverb and clever word play.

Related . . .

A Brad Pitt-y party

Me, Mandela & doin’ time

Mick Jagger: An appreciation

Steve Martin & thots on becoming elderly 1st time dads

I miss when phones were phone shaped

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It’s a common marketing misconception that the clunky old phones are incapable of as many functions as the spiffy new smart phones. But in many ways the old phones were far superior.

For instance, you can’t murder anyone with your new phone.

I remember seeing mobsters in old movies bring those heavy black phones crashing down on the noggins of hapless stool pigeons. 

There’s no app for that.

And you could probably strangle some noodle necked miscreant with the cord if you were really strong and patient enough to have all those coils unwind to a homicidal tautness.

I’m beginning to long for the days when phones used to be phone shaped.

For all it does on my behalf, I have very little affection for my iPhone. Maybe it’s because familiarity breeds contempt.

I know my iPhone better than I know the back of my hand. That’s probably because the iPhone’s usually in the front of my hand.

Today our phones consume our lives. We hold them. We respond to them. We care for them -- right up until the moment we leave them behind on some bar or accidentally drop them down a toilet.

No one every dropped one of those old phones into the toilet.

I fear the next generation of smart phones will be Chicklet-sized and the next great self-inflicted public health calamity will be phones getting stuck deep in our ear canals.

You won’t be able to walk down the sidewalk without some stranger saying, “Hey, would you mind looking in my ear? My phone got stuck in there. And here are some tweezers. Try not to hit the send button. I haven’t finished updating my Facebook status.”

The class action lawsuits will roil the industry.

“Better Call Saul!”

Mostly, I’m missing the physicality of the those car-battery sized phones that used to sit immobile on desks or kitchen counters in every home in America.

I liked that five-seconds of fire alarm excitement that would happen whenever it rang and I was in the living room watching football.

The phone was ringing! Maybe it was an assignment! Maybe it was a babe! Maybe it was some attorney calling to tell me a long-lost uncle was leaving me his bootleg whiskey fortune!

I’d dash to the phone, my pulse racing in anticipation.

Then I’d get there and stop and stare at the ringing phone.

It could be good news, but what if it was my folks calling to pester me about getting a real job? What if it was an impatient bill collector? What if it was an angry husband calling to accuse me of indecent behavior?

I’d stand there contemplating the possibilities for so long the caller would eventually conclude no one was home and would just hang up and I’d go back to watching the football game never knowing who it was or just what the hell they wanted.

Ah, yes, the hang up.

The joy of slamming the phone down on some jackass was for those of us with insane rage issues felt euphoric.

It didn’t matter whether it was a telemarketer, a collection agency or an erstwhile pal, the hang-up countdown always went something like this.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Oh, YEAH?”

“YEAH!”

The key was timing it so you’d achieve maximum agitation with just enough lag time that you could slam the phone down in the caller’s ear the split second before he did it to you.

If he’d beat you to it, you’d have to call him back and angrily shout, “Did you just hang up on me?”

You’d do this certain he’d answer because there was no caller ID and the guy wouldn’t want to miss what might be an important call. So this could go on all day.

Of course, the advent of caller ID ruined the cottage industry of prank phone calls to which I contributed so much ever since the fifth grade.

What only the truly devious know is that old phone mechanics lent themselves to great pranks.

It happened once at the Nashville Banner a few years before I got there. That was back when the Banner and The Tennessean were competing newspapers sharing the same floor of the same building. One night, reporters from The Tennessean invaded our empty news room, unscrewed the mouth pieces from every phone and removed the donut-like amplification devices inside that made talking possible. 

So at about 6 a.m., all the Banner reporters came in and began routinely calling police sources throughout Middle Tennessee only to hear confused desk officers say, “Hello? Hello? Anybody there?” before they’d hang up.

The reporters could talk, but the officers couldn’t hear.

It was beautiful.

The only thing that could have made it any better is if the Banner editors stopped the presses to run a front-page story under the screamer headline: “STATE LAW ENFORCERS UNDER SEIGE BY BAFFLING PHONE OUTAGES!”

The old phones used to last 20 years. They’d deliver the news of births, deaths and be essential in building the connections that made those events relevant. Remember trying to have an intimate conversation on those phones with the whole family lurking? It’s amazing anyone ever got laid.

Today’s phones are obsolete in about two years. It’s a dreadful scam.

One other thing. You can’t karate-chop answer the new phone without risking ruining the new phone.

I saw Sam Malone do this to an old phone once on “Cheers!”

There’s a certain spot above where the receiver meets the cradle that if you karate chop it, the phone would spring right out of the cradle and into the sky where the deftly coordinated among us could snag it with a swashbuckling flourish.

Today, answering the phone involves a bit of a squint and a contemplative finger poke not unlike a chess master uses when he or she moves a bishop.

So, yeah, I guess I have issues when it comes to phones.

I’d call them hang ups but I wouldn’t want any younger readers feeling he need to poke at their smart phone for meaningful definition.

Related . . .

Pillow talk about new iPhones

The i’s of my Apples

Avoid unnecessary upgrades! Smart phones smart enough

Smart phones, stupid people

What's my favorite movie? Hmmm . . .

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My daughter, 13, asked me to name my favorite movie. I told her I could not because doing so would be like asking me to choose a favorite between her and her little sister.

Then I realized just how wrong that analogy was.

Actually, me trying to name my favorite movie would be like asking Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar to pick their favorite among Jedidiah, Josiah, Jinger, Jordan-Grace or any of the other 15 Duggar offspring whose names they likely can’t remember either.

It’s fun having a 13 year old in the house because now we can show her profanity-filled PG-13 movies without anyone thinking we’re bad parents.

Well, at least not any of the sleazy Hollywood liberals who serve on the Motion Picture Association of America ratings board.

We treat our favorite movies much the same as we treat our children.

We’re proud of them, we want to show them off to friends, and we believe we have a vested interest in them doing well because we think their success is a reflection of ourselves.

So from an early age we wanted Josie to appreciate movies like “Sneakers,” “Big Fish,” and “Catch Me If You Can,” right along side enduring classics like “Gone With The Wind,” and “Singin’ in the Rain,” and even “Rocky.”

What’s my favorite movie?

What’s yours?

Would you think less of me if you knew I told her my favorites were either “Cool Hand Luke” or “Shawshank Redemption?”

Why I immediately picked two prison flicks must have been because I’d spent the near entirety of the holiday weekend in the bosom of my family and had been influenced by all that loving incarceration.

But just last night the evergreen topic came up with my buddies in the sweet escape of my favorite tavern and I decided, no, my all-time favorite movie is “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.”

It’s flat-out hilarious, but I think I like it mostly because it has such a joyful abundance of essential humanity. I love the scene after Jonathan Winters has discovered “The Big W” and they’re all digging in a frenzy. The Winters character and Spencer Tracy catch each other’s eyes and at first appear mutually suspicious of one another.

Then Tracy surprises the big truck driver with a warm, gentle smile that seems to convey that, hey, everything’s going to be all right, we’re going to get through this together.

It only lasts about four seconds, but it’s maybe my favorite scene from maybe my favorite movie. I try and remember to smile just like that anytime I’m with someone who sounds afraid that things are not going to work out.

If anyone had asked me Sunday night to name my favorite movie, I’d have said, “Waitress.” We watched it with Josie.

It’s another movie imbued with a humanity so triumphant it practically shimmers, and watching it becomes heartbreakingly poignant when you know writer/director/co-star Adrienne Shelley was murdered at the age of 40 in an insane Manhattan ’06 neighbor dispute just as her first glorious movie was being critically hailed.

The movie also features an 80-year-old Andy Griffith in a scene-stealer role in what would be one of his last films. It’s great in so many ways.

Lots of days comedies are my all-time favorites. It could be either “SlapShot,” “Hot Fuzz,” “Zombieland,”  “Animal House,” or “The Big Lebowski.”

Many of my favorite movies feature men with holstered guns riding horses. There’s “Silverado,” “Red River,” “The Outlaw Josie Wales,” and “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence.”

Have I forgotten any?

Yes. There’s “Casablanca,” “Dave,” “Groundhog Day,” “Silver Linings Playbook,” and I’ll always find time to watch Paul Newman at maybe his best in “The Verdict.”

Of course, in about 12 hours you can disregard this entire list.

Because, guaranteed, tomorrow I’m going to have a movie I’ll with all my heart declare is my very favorite No. 1 movie of all-time.

See, when you spend so much time inflicting your movies on a teenage child, it’s only natural that she insists it’s her turn to reverse the role and take you to a movie she says is the very best.

Yes, tonight Josie’s taking me to see “Catching Fire.” She saw it last week and swears it’s the very best movie ever made.

So, of course, it’s going to be my favorite if for no other reason than it is hers.

What kind of father would I be if one of my favorites wasn’t one of hers?

And when it comes to my very favorites, nothing will ever top my two little girls.

Related . . .

Trouble with the curve? Trouble with the critics

1993, Hollywood’s best year

My one-time co-star Jodie Foster’s Golden Globe ramble

Oscars bore, movies suck

Fall movie potentials & Joseph Gordon-Levitt

When are batteries going to stop sucking so much?

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The Oxford Electric Bells are believed to be history’s most impressive example of battery duration. Invented in 1812, the bells have been ringing continuously ever since.

Battery historians revere the particulars of the two-note contraption with such ardor it wouldn’t surprise me if some of the more misguided ones argue the bells are the inspiration for the Chuck Berry song, “My Ding-A-Ling.”

Shows you what snobs elitist battery historians can be.

Everyone knows the most impressive batteries in history are the ones that in 1964 began powering the little transistor radio on “Gilligan’s Island.”

It’s for nearly 50 years brought the hapless castaways news, music and weather to the uncharted desert isle that had to be thousands of miles from the nearest Radio Shack.

And just because someday one of you might be need to know and will gratefully recall this very blog, that radio is a Packard Bell AR-851 8-transistor AM-only radio.

Take that, Alex Trebek!

Batteries die and come back to life so often I’m surprised there isn’t a cult. After all, Jesus Christ did it just once and look how well that’s working out.

I’ve been contemplating batteries ever since my local mechanic charged me $141.99 for a new one to keep my 2007 Saturn Vue running. Buying a new battery is one of the few instances where you get charged in order to get charged.

The car in the cold weather had grown sluggish and had begun making sounds like an old man getting out of a really comfortable chair.

I took it to the mechanic who told me without feeling the battery was dead.

I wanted to protest, please, it can’t be dead. It’s a battery. It can be recharged. Batteries should live forever. Even if it’s just a little bit at a time. A dead battery seems so final.

Of course, I immediately buckled and said I needed the new one right away.

In fact, if I was in a room with a surgeon who told me I needed a new pancreas and a mechanic who told me I needed a new car battery and I could only have one or the other, I’d insist on the new battery.

I know my car needs a battery to run.

I have no idea whether I need a pancreas or not and I’m not even sure there is such a thing. I suspect it might be one of those make-believe organs thoracic surgeons say we need just to juice up the bill.

Besides my vehicle, I rely on batteries to run my phone, my laptop and various other daily essential. Yet, I’m mostly ignorant about what they do or how they function.

I admit this without shame knowing that many men just like me feel the same way about the women with whom they sleep.

Shouldn’t they be more reliable? Be less prone to capricious work stoppages? Shouldn't they put out more?

And to be clear, I’m again talking about batteries, not women.

That a 104-year-old pair of bells is the greatest example of battery duration isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement of the technology. Well, in some ways ringing is exactly what it is, but you get the point.

I believe current battery technology is so clunky it’s holding us back in countless fields in dire need of progressive jump starts -- and I hate having to use an all-too-familiar term that conveys battery malfunction to further my argument.

Batteries by now should be smaller and last longer. An Everlast should ‘ever last.

And recycling them shouldn't be such a pain in the butt.

Experts say we’re on the verge of a new era of plentiful renewable energy and we’re just going to need a way to store it. That means we need new and better batteries.

Until that day dawns, I’ll settle for the next step in battery evolution being that they  all become candy flavored and instantly consumable once their final volt dissipates.

Who wouldn’t get a real charge out of that?

Related . . .

Cars need energy-saver sleep mode

The future of smart meters for dummies

Heat wave screams for “cool” clothes

BP, Deepwater Horizon & other earthly concerns

Holiday stress & the American family tree

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I received a phone call about six months ago from a man I never heard of about the death of a woman I’d never met asking me to convey the news to the brother with whom I no longer speak.

It’s a dysfunctional family affair.

The woman was a sweet half-sister, the love child of a father I’d grown up thinking had been forever faithful. And maybe after he met my mother he was, but we never knew prior to that papa was a rolling stone. He never told us he’d been married twice previous to Mom with one of the brief unions producing a daughter from whom he’d ran away.

And here I thought all these years the old man’s biggest flaw was being sneaky about his actual golf score.

The half-sister I’d never met came crashing into my life about five years ago after she’d read a story I’d written for Pittsburgh Magazine about the death of my, er, our father.

She wanted to know more about him and we’d kept in friendly touch every six months or so until the cancer treatments swamped her life in the months leading up to her recent death at 55.

I hope she and our father are in heaven right now making up for all that lost time.

I’ve come to believe families are God’s way of proving we are utterly powerless to help even the ones we love the very most.

We want our parents to stay loving and true, our siblings devoted and all the rest of our familial fairytales to have happy endings. My brother and I become estranged in 2011 over his absentee criticism of the way I care for our mother.

It hasn’t bothered me, really, because we were very close for almost 50 years and 50 years is a long time for a conservative to love anything that doesn’t involve the 2nd Amendment.

But that’s the way it is with many families.

I enjoy watching “The Waltons” because it is about a big, loving family that perseveres through hardships and challenges common to the era.

But I also for different reasons enjoy watching “The Walking Dead,” another show about a big, loving family that perseveres through hardships and challenges common to the era.

I saw a bunch of news stories this year about how the families seated around the Thanksgiving dinner looked vastly different from the ones at John and Livvy Walton’s table.

Welcome at the family table today are a diverse group of ex-husbands, ex-wives, blended families, mixed races, same sexes and all manners of the kind of joyful untraditional unions that cause Rick Santorum to say, “Ick.”

People say the break-down of the American family is tearing apart our society and I can see merit in the argument, but I also understand how tricky managing all those relationships can be.

I guess that makes me like the old -- and he was born old -- comedian George Burns who said, “Happiness is having a large, loving, caring and close-knit family -- far away in another city.”

I wonder what my Thanksgiving will be like in 15 years when our daughters have grown up to have boyfriends/husbands, girlfriends/wives or some as-yet-to-be-determined demographic “other.”

I’m sure I’ll just roll with it. 

What choice will I have?

After all, as my own family history proves, divorce, infidelity, dysfunction and sibling estrangement have done untraditional things to the traditional American family tree.

They’ve forked it all up.

Related . . .

The life and death of Joe Pittsburgh

Why Father’s Day always makes me blue

Santorum’s right: Man marrying dog in Wisconsin!