Juxtlife

In honor of the Leap Year founder, a shout out to Julius Caesar (see Rubicon entry)...and a test of the new Pinterest feature added to Typepad today.

Rick Crosses the Rubicon, to the Sanitorium

It is an interesting week for calendar enthusiasts. The leap year was born in 45 BC when Julius Caesar implemented the Julian calendar setting the year at 362.25 days with a makeup day each February.  As Roman dictator he enacted other notable legislation like tax incentives for families to have more children along with policies on debt restructuring and elimination - a model for the modern day GOP.

Importantly, Julius Caesar made decisions.  Famous for a fateful choice he made in 49 BC to cross the Rubicon river after Roman leadership declared this illegal for a general with a mobilized militia.  Fear of Caesar and his rising power was rampant in Rome.  As he faced the river, he apparently uttered the decisive phrase 'the die is cast', confident in his choice, prepared for any outcome.  Massive civil war erupted in Rome, Caesar reigned victorious but animosity simmered.

Similar to divisive choices made by Caesar, Rick Santorum has crossed the Rubicon on moral issues by making them an anchor of his political platform.  He has rallied the right with definitive positions on religion, and he is well receieved among the working middle class, 'Cracker Barrel Republicans' (WSJ, 2/25/12), who are crowding the buffet line to restore ethics to a country ‘under assault by Satan’. 

At the risk of stating the obvious, we are fortunate to have religious freedom.  We likely take for granted our ability to talk openly about our faith, or not, in our private lives.   Powerful moral orators emerge as a result - Billy Graham, Joel Osteen, Pat Robertson - and interestingly many of these leaders are challenged to stay out of politics.  Billy Graham mentioned this as one of his biggest regrets.   He cited if he could do it over again 'I would steer clear of politics...spend more time at home with my family, and I'd study more and preach less'.  It is hard not to respect this self-assessment on the perils of intermingling politics and religion.

The madness of Santorum's social platforms, overshadow the sanity of his Reagan-esque policies such as reduced government and his argument for the repeal of Dodd-Frank and Health care legislation.  Reading his Op Ed in the Detroit News depicts a candidate focused on the pragmatic – or at least someone on his campaign team trying to drive the dialog to relevant political issues.  His points are standard GOP - low taxes, less government and pro-business.  But, who can focus on the validity of this approach when social issues like anti-contraception, anti-working mom, and anti-professional education cloud the conversation.

A large donor to the pro-Santorum Super PAC, Foster Friess, interviewed by Andrea Mitchell this week poured more fuel on the contraceptive flame with his ill-advised attempt at humor, “Back in my days, they used Bayer Aspirin for contraception. The gals put it between their knees and it wasn't that costly."  Being one for equal opportunity birth control, an idea came to me while watching my 7^th grader’s lacrosse game.  He forgot his compression shorts and attempted to play in boxers.  Unable to hold his legs together, his athletic cup dropped on the field eliminating his eligibility for play.  While this protection approach was unsuccessful on the lacrosse field, it has possibilities for one not running to score a goal.

Santorum appears unwavering in his social stances.  He has taken the Latin word stem sano ('heal, cure, restore, repair') to heart and intends to use the political realm to cleanse us all.  His moral calling is strong, too strong for our country’s highest office. Many fear the lines between church and state will blur creating a divided population.  One wonders in 44BC, likely also a leap year, if Caesar, self-titled ‘Prefect of the Morals’, understood his power had become too strong and the resulting chasm deepening among his henchmen.

A suggestion for our modern-day ‘Moral Prefect’ in the year of our Lord 2012, use your extra 86,400 seconds for a moment of rest, respite and reflection to develop your backup plan.  With any luck, in the next few weeks you will face your political 'Ides of March', paving the way for a life in the ministry for which you are well positioned.  Your flock eagerly awaits.

Don't Let the Son Go Down on Me

The Prodigal Son returns.  I began a Rick Perry blog this summer soon after he announced his candidacy.  But, there was so much coverage, so much momentum, and it was so troubling that I had to put my pen away.  My frustration began with Bill White's painful loss of the governor's race to Perry last November merely because of the devilish 'D' next to his name.  Anger compounded when we watched Perry quickly prescind from the lowly governorship to a much higher ground.   His moves were obvious and deliberate as if  'Rocket Man' Rick Perry's presidential bid was crafted straight from The Sure Fire Way to Secure the GOP Nomination Handbook, including:

1. (Ghost) Write a book playing off the fears and hatred of the masses who are certain their economic demise was crafted inside the beltway: Fed Up, Our Fight to Save America from Washington

2.  Host a "non-denominational, apolitical Christian prayer meeting The Response: a Call to Prayer For a Nation in Crisis"

3.  Target the unemployed and partially employed vote - Use the campaign bus slogan 'Faith, Jobs and Freedom'

4.  Get God's children on your side, run ads against gays in the military and have your wife claim you are being politically attacked because of your strong faith

5.  Yuck it up across the campaign trail, and pray they don't ask the hard questions

6.  And, when inevitably the tough questions arrive, and we cringe, one can't help but appreciate a reference to Elton John's 'Rocket Man' lyrics:

"I'm not the man they think I am at home
Oh no no no I'm a rocket man...

And all this science I don't understand
It's just my job five days a week
A rocket man, a rocket man..."

And, he waited until the New Hampshire dinner speech to embody this line, arguably at 9 pm "Zero hour nine a.m. And I'm gonna be high as a kite by then".

We have overdosed on this overexposed candidate.  Just this week he surfaced nationally and 'authored' a WSJ Op Ed occupying space often reserved for Karl Rove. It is fitting those two can run an editorial tag team sparking fear and marking the end of life as we know it in a national platform that does not allow Q&A.

I feel compelled to recognize the sincere, dignified and respectful Op Ed Bill White wrote for the Houston Chronicle immediately after Rocket Man removed himself from the race.  White's points and tone were commendable.  The crux of the piece encourages us to recognize the governor's office deserves respect, and implores Perry that he must immediately tackle critical state issues.  Education tops the list.  Many school districts are suffering, including our own HISD.  There was a plea in this weekend's Op Ed section demanding that Perry focus on the dramatic cuts in education funding that jeopardize our children's future.  The piece cited our poor record with Texas being "45th in SAT scores and 50th in adults over 25 with a high school diploma". In the midst of this already poor performance "$5.4B was cut from public education equating to $1,000 per student".  Districts are struggling to keep up services.  One example, Premont School District facing budget constraints eliminated their athletic programs to survive.  At least prayer is free to keep these kids out of trouble.

Soon after Perry resigned, it sparked a further walk through Elton John's lyrics, this time being 'Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me' (Note:  I prefer the George Michael and Elton John duet).  I thought how apropos for two of music's favorite sons to sing a mythical tribute to this ill fated campaign.  I also recalled an old Sunday School children's hymn describing the inclusiveness of God's love "red and yellow black and white, we are precious in his sight".  Notably, it did NOT include any disclaimers such as 'we are precious in his sight - until we grow up gay'.  As we are all God's children, no doubt Perry would embrace any honor from these musical greats.

'Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me' offers a word play on several levels. First the obvious question, 'Has Rocket Man's political sun set in his inevitable return to Texas?' Will it rise again?  Time will tell, but none of his shortcomings mattered before.  Why now?  Next, an ebook published during the campaign alleged unproven rumors of his homosexuality, and this blog wants to avoid any low-brow reference to Perry's former aide traveling south of the equator. Finally, and importantly, prayer meetings, vigils and faith could not save this campaign. But, even if his political sun sets, he will always have the Father, Son and Holy Ghost to give comfort.  Thankfully they won't desert Rocket Man the way he has abandonded public education in Texas.

 

 

Mind Your P's and Queues

In a classic Curb Your Enthusiasm moment yesterday, what started as anger drifted into pitiful commentary around burger line rules.  

We pulled into the Pappas Burgers parking lot at 12:34 yesterday, long after others had decided their gray January Saturday would be brightened by one of Houston's best burgers.  The lot was packed as we maneuvered our SUV toward the back of the lot, slightly ahead of this Extended 4x4 King Ranch, King Cab, King-everything Ford truck.  Once the diesel engine shut down, we looked back to see Big Tex climb out of the monstrosity (likely plotting ways to get Perry back in the race).

As we walked toward the restaurant, a young colt ran past us.  We looked back again and saw Big Tex, Mrs. Tex and their two other grandchildren lumbering behind.  Clearly they let the fastest of the herd run ahead to stake their claim.

As we entered the restaurant, there were people everywhere.  People in line.  People waiting.  People trying to leave.  We took our place in line behind this young stallion who was looking up at us nervously while fidgeting in his place.  Once he spotted his grandparents, he seemed relieved to walk back to them.  

Mrs. Tex was not to be denied.  She dragged him back to the front of the line and asked loudly of him (to us) "Weren't you in line right here?"  "Of course he was.  He was in line right here." We answer and step back simultaneously trying to make room for them as we crowd into the people behind us.  I can't help singing a bar or two of a recent pop song "You better run better run, faster than your brother...".

Perhaps it is the frequent traveler in me that has developed respect for the laws of the road.  There is no elite status in the burger line.  It is first come, first served.  And, Mrs. Tex understood that survival of fittest has no age boundaries.  Lesson learned here, next time granny suggests to "mind your p's and queues', it is more than minding your manners, you will need track shoes.

 

Just Find your Inner-Libra

It has been too long since my last entry.  A scan through my journal reveals agonizing days of too much work and too little time.  I resigned myself to my overworked fate.  In an effort to make the most (and light) of the situation, I began a series of overworked themed, Letterman-styled journal entries ranging from, 'you know you are overworked when -

1. working an 8 hour day feels like a vacation

2. you schedule time to breathe on your calendar, and your assistant thinks it is the most sane element of your day

3. you start a log of death by 1,000 <fill in the blank - emails, meetings, inane administrivia, etc.>

4.  you take a vacation day to actually get work done.'

And, then I quickly became bored with my pitiful plight. 

I read an Op-Ed in a September NYTimes describing the autumn equinox as the ideal time of year (read September) to "take stock of the year's successes and failures.  For our hemisphere Libra (the symbol of scales) - is an occasion for balancing accounts".  I had thoughts of writing this blog then, and here we are December 29th - a few months later. 

I love the holidays, and the downtime following Christmas is my fall equinox, my time to balance accounts as I have struggled mightily for the past few months to keep everything together.  I can't thank my village enough.  You know who you are - parents, husband, friends.  I look at this astrological symbol of the scales, Libra, and according to Roman mythology, Astraea (the goddess of justice) is attempting the balance the scales. I can only aspire to a balanced scale - 'just so' - with all that needs to be done.

Having recently watched the movie 'Julie and Julia' for the first time, I fell completely in love with the story and the project Julie set out to accomplish.  I recognized her frustrations and admired her perseverance.  She likely had limited balance in trying to accomplish the lofty goal of preparing over 500 Julia Child recipes in a 365-day calendar year.  She had a supportive husband, no children, a job well-situated within the boundaries of normal work hours - a perfect time to test and try new adventures and projects.

I made a note to myself earlier this year in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure to write, that I am not far from having the span of time, literally years and years, to put pen on paper.  With my oldest about to enter high school, we have only four more years with all the 'chirps' in the nest.  I  need to worry less about a writing project or holiday planning.  Although I am long over holiday planning, as my 'Martha Stewart's Christmas' has years of dust on its cover.  Others remain committed to festivity organizing.  While on a flight to Chicago on October 9th, a flight attendant sat next to me reading 'The Thanksgiving Day Meal Planner' by Pillsbury, and you realize who buys those cookbooks at the grocery checkout.    She is the person thinking about Thanksgiving dinner on October 9th.  Compare that to my October 19th journal entry when I am on a conference call tying Halloween cookie packages that need to be rushed to the 8th grade bake sale that afternoon when my babysitter runs carpool.  Thanksgiving is not on the radar.  We fully embrace J.I.T.

I knew this entry would be somewhat self-indulgent and I tried to avoid extreme whining, but an intervention of some kind is necessary.  I don't believe in New Year's resolutions as they seem destined to fail if they are not true life commitments to grow or modify behavior. I do aspire to change my life structure, to realign how my time is consumed.   I am working hard to visualize the even scales with an astrological reference I read on Libra's goals, being to witness 'the cooperation and harmony of human life...to be fair and balanced'.  That balance will include plenty of time for family and friends, and some time to learn, grow and write - when I can.

In my search for balance, I read about a company, called Librato, that is a workload management software firm.  Their mission is to make data centers more efficient.  A great concept, we all need our own Librato software, or to find our inner-Libra and locate the place of balance in the days and years ahead. 

Nothing like a few days vacation to fire up the right-brain cylinders to get the words flowing and (ideally) the blogs out of the queue.

The Antithesis of Magical

My family and I are in Disney Florida for a brief fall break in the midst of a record-setting deluge.  Yesterday one Florida town recorded more rain than many Texas outposts have seen all year.  Disney is an interesting people watching experience regardless of the climate, even more so in the rain.  It is a world of souvenir cups and unlimited refills.  And, these drenched park-goers are a predatory, Darwinist bunch.

Take the breakfast line where hoarders load up on bread, free peanut butter and jelly to fill the shopping bags for a midday snack.  Perhaps they 'earned' this free food to offset the obligatory cost of the Disney rain poncho.  At the parks, everyone is wearing the signature $8.50 rain gear. Notably, the money continues to flow in the rain.  As the climate adage goes 'there is no such thing as bad weather, just bad gear'.  And, we have seen plenty.  Maybe it is the third day wearing now mildewed white tennis shoes that places the crowd on edge.  Observe the hawks circling.  Stand back as you stand up from your dry seat under a covered area.  In microseconds they nosedive in for the kill.  I ask, 'where is the magic'? 

It purported to be a place where everything is magical.  The buses, the days, the nights, the meals, even the toilets.  Everything.  Except when it rains.  As a drowning Disney herd we have much to learn from fire ants.  Faced with rising water, the ants band together to help each other survive.  Marvel at how they create a living life raft that moves as the ants change positions so none are left under water too long.  They work together to protect the colony, and can stay afloat for months until they find land.  The magic of altruism, in ants.

In rain and rising water, ants create a selfless survival mechanism, arguably the antithesis of the Disney magic that seemed to disappear with every drop.

I met my parents for lunch today. My dad organized a meeting with their financial advisor so we could have that necessary but uncomfortable conversation about the future. We had mixed signals on lunch time/location and I needed to call them to confirm...or call them to tell them how much I love them, how much they mean to me, or call them just because.

BUT, in order to receive that call, they would need to turn on their mobile phone. You know, that rectangular thing with the curved sides, buttons with small numbers, sometimes make this funny little irritating noise...

Unhappiness. The Cause: Banned Bikinis or Boredom?

I recently read a study in The Economist on happiness, titled 'The U-bend of Life' citing a depressing statistic:  on average, we are our most unhappy at forty-six.  While days away from this ominous year, I was searching for answers.  The survey suggests obvious reasons darken this period, such as the loss of "mental sharpness, vitality and looks".  I suspect other complicating factors contribute to the gloom.

Analysis of age-related mental and physical health appears to garner plenty of media attention.  A recent study of 2,000 women presented on the Today show indicated the respondent women felt they should stop wearing bikinis after age forty-seven.  Perhaps the thought of no longer trying to trap jello and cottage cheese with four microscopic triangles of fabric unleashes deep-seeded unhappiness in women?  Unfortunately, we still see the 20-year old looking into the mirror, although she quit looking back at us many years ago.   More importantly, we have not reached the point of not caring.  The study cited a William James reference "How pleasant the day when we give up striving to be young - or slender."  Or is it?  You have to give credit to Helen Mirren.  How freeing, when at 62 she and her flat stomach were photographed on the beach in Italy looking fabulous.

Superficiality aside,  I wonder if this midpoint forces a feeling that the final chapters of life are now a foregone conclusion.  Gone are the days of youth when options felt limitless.  We are surrounded by boundaries, feeling the effects of choices and the repetition of verses in songs started years ago.  But interestingly, the song does not have to end the same.  Enter a new technology called Bronze Format. I recently read about this application where an artist publishes a song and the program creates a new ending each time the song is played.  How interesting if life were the same way.  If we had the time to pursue interests, hobbies, and careers and could restart with carefree abandon.  Repetitive sameness and monotony would leave our vocabulary.  Each day would offer a new verse, a new song.  This approach would disprove an old Byron quote I saw in the New Yorker describing English society that is "formed of two mighty tribes, the Bores and the Bored". 

I suspect one of the contributors to this dejected feeling in the mid-40's is the end of learning.  Many of my friends have been focused on raising children with a level of intensity that has begun to taper off.  Also, being around young children helps us feel and act younger.  I find no evidence that raising a teenager makes one feel spry.   But, as we emerge from this needy period, women are asking "Who am I?" "What am I going to do with the rest of my life?"  Heavy questions indeed.

As we age, we step back in wonder at the speed with which life travels.  Yesterday we graduated from college, Prince songs ruled the radio, and floppy bow ties completed the look for that first bank job.  The forties seemed distant, ancient.   Yet as Billy Pilgrim, who escaped much of his life in a parallel make-believe universe, observed at age forty-four in Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse 5, "Where have all the years gone?"  This stated on the heels of a war-torn youth, and the ability to see the future knowing his old age offered no respite.  Twenty years in either direction of our 40's - youth or AARP.  We are much closer to the latter.

I argue that learning, a new career or a new cause may help rewrite a pre-determined set of outcomes.  I read a quote¹ by John Herman Randall, Jr. who  wrote 'The Making of the Modern Mind' where he suggested "Individuals whose infancy is prolonged are able to continue learning when others have reached the limits of their powers and natural resources".  There is argument to find ways to reach that inner child, one that is open to new ideas, exploring hobbies and purpose with the (near)idealism and freedom of someone much younger. In learning there are opportunities to expand and grow in varying directions, a hedge of bets against middle age despair.

If there is any hope in the Economist study, apparently we reach the unhappiness abyss at forty-six, and afterward we begin a slow climb back up the happiness curve.  By the time we reach seventy, we are happier than we were at thirty.  Yipee.  Further on the plus side, people in the United States score well on the OECD Better Life Index also published in the Economist.  Even on our worst day at forty-six, it appears we are likely happier than seventy-year old Estonians - if they make it that far. 

Where is the cure here?  How do we not become a statistic?  My theory:  Hit the library - go to the non-fiction section, and pick out something foreign.  Read a magazine on a random topic.  Take an art class.   Travel to a place you cannot pronounce.  Try a new restaurant - an ethnicity not your own.  Volunteer to help children or visit an animal shelter. And, the final, critical step:  wear your favorite bikini, you will feel great and the dogs (even the Estonian ones) will love it. 

 ¹'Socrates Cafe' by Christopher Phillips

Looking forward to the day when I can make regular contributions. The ideas are piling up with no time to get them out. Project for the weekend, next entry moving from brew to cup.