Philosophy 101

It was Nietzche who has been paraphrased (most notably in "Steel Magnolias") as saying "that which does not kill us makes us stronger." He was a cynical son-of-a-bitch, though. Spent way too much time analyzing his existential angst (even though it would take the French a few more decades to invent that--he was ahead of his time).

I love taking pot shots at philosophers, 'cause they're all full of hoo-ey. Collectively, they've generated enough hot air to power several small cities until God comes back.

Once that happens, I guess you don't really need the power.

My theory is that, the older we get and the more relationships we have and the more we have invested in our lives, the more we have at stake. In many ways we measure our lives in terms of what we have to lose, and what we have to lose tends to increase over time. And making sure we don't lose what we have takes a little more time every time we add one of those things to the list.

A bit convoluted, I admit. But it's the closest I can come to making sense out of the universe. What with inept politicians posing as leaders (a city in Vermont wants to be able to arrest Bush and Cheney on war crimes charges), the cost of living not even keeping close to real earnings and the construction at Northcross Mall making it impossible for me to keep my car clean (she's my baby, and the dust that blows off that site is not treating her kindly), the best I can figure is to muddle on. Through the muck. Through the mire. Through the forces that don't want you to be happy.

Life is a challenge, I know. It's tried its best to keep me down. I've had my rounds with depression and stupidity but have lived through them. There have been times I've contemplated suicide, but realized that, in the end, I had too much to live for.

That's when I adopted the Scarlett O'Hara principle of crisis (and time) management: "I'll think about it tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day."

Who'd a' thunk that a British actress using a bad Southern accent could crystalize such a response to Nietzche?

And tomorrow is another day. One to have with the people we love, and one to miss and love the ones who aren't here physically any more. I have a small collection of the latter and a larger collection of the former.

As I grow older, that balance may shift. It's the price of out-living other people.

But tomorrow really is another day, full of promise and possibility. It's usually us that inhibits its achieving its full measure.

Do the Right Thing

We mourn this weekend the untimely passing of our sister, Mrs. Bhutto.

She bravely and valiantly was the voice of the disenfranchised people of her country. She fought for freedom and equality. She took on the nastiest people, both in the government and those acting outside of it.

She was taken from us prematurely and for no good reason.

I had seen earlier in the day that an explosion had been heard near a rally she attended. I didn't find out until later just how close it had been.

And now no one can agree on what killed her. Bullet? Shrapnel? Hitting her head on either the sun roof or a lever inside the car?

Doesn't really matter: the ending is the same, regardless.

She's dead because someone shot her and then exploded himself.

I'm not sure the details are that important.

Her life and values, her dedication to freedom and democracy, her absolute refusal to be intimidated, her love of her country and its people: those are the important things.

The questions about cause of death are largely an attempt to deny her the status of martyr. A twisted concept that has almost been turned into a middle-eastern industry.

There are no martyrs. There are brave people who risk their lives by standing up to intolerant bullies. And there are others who have no respect for human life, not even their own.

Life is a precious gift that comes from somewhere we don't know. Nevertheless, it's more valuable than any price that could be put on it.

And whether you take your own or someone else's or both, you squander your fortune like the Prodigal Son.

So Mrs. Bhutto, I hope you don't become a martyr so much as a symbol of heroism. That is your proper legacy.

Someone who risked her life and lost it trying to do the right thing.

THC

I love seeing hypocrisy avenged, and I got a chance to late last week. The court had a decision in the case of the controversial Wal-Mart: the hypocrites lost. They’re the ones that won’t admit that their only problem is the retailer in question.

No one has yet raised a question about the Office Depot (another big box store) that’s going in across the street. And the incredibly enormous Lowe’s (a far bigger box) a few blocks away hasn’t raised an eyebrow that I can find or triggered any lawsuit on record.

You either oppose big box stores in commercial areas that border neighborhoods, or you don’t. Or at least you’re honest about why you don’t like a particular one.

I’m reminded over and over of Big Daddy’s speech in “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof”, the mendacity one. He knew people were prevaricating, dodging honesty as fast as it came. Evading honesty.

He could smell it, and I can, too. He didn’t like it, and neither do I.

Me and Big Daddy’ll stick together on this one: mean what you say, but for the love of God, just be honest.

The litmus test on this one is fairly simple: would you support a Whole Foods at the same location that was developed with similar or identical standards? If you can’t honestly answer “no” to that one, then you have no business raising a ruckus. Your motivations are insincere and your message is corrupt.

It is but a clanging gong or clattering cymbal, shrill, hollow and without meaning.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it. (No THC, so you’ll pass your next drug test. Well, not at least if THC doesn’t stand for The Hypocrite Coalition.)

Energize

I’m amazed at the power of a simple, random word to evoke overwhelming images in 3D Technicolor with a Dolby THX sound track.

We’re watching an old, old re-run of Star Trek, and Spock said “Energize.” For a brief moment in time, I was once again dancing at the 57th Street Dance Theater in Waco, TX as a grad student. It was the hippest place in town: an old movie theater that had been transformed into a dance club. Sofas in the lobby, and even in the men’s room. A giant movie screen with curtains that opened periodically to show videos.

And me on the dance floor, cuttin’ loose and feeling free for the first time in my life. I had only been in town a short time, didn’t know anyone else there and so was free to recreate myself as I chose.

It was the beginning of my being honest with myself and everyone else. It was the beginning of freedom.

On a dance floor in a dance club in Waco, TX. Who’d have figured on that? Not me, certainly.

I’ll always remember, though, that song with over-dubs of Spock saying “pure energy.” “Energize” is close enough.

A strange thing to be thinking about as we approach Christmas, especially since we have a friend who is seriously ill and probably won’t go home from the long-term care facility he’s in. His dementia seems to get worse every day.

Parkinson’s takes no prisoners.

Still a simple word will sometimes remind me of something so vivid it haunts me, and it’s usually something important.

I don’t really understand why until I sit and think a while about it.

Usually, but not this time.

I heard the word and knew: that was the moment I first felt free. Free to be me.

Bliss, in a word.

I didn’t grow into it for a while, but that moment of realization that I can be who I am and still be happy stays with me.

"Energize."

Secret Santa

I've recently been in contact with an old high school friend who sought me out to offer her condolences after Daddy died. She knew I lived in Austin and managed to get a letter to me. It was guarded at best, because there are apparently more than 1 of me in town. Or at least that share my name.

Once I confirmed my identity by asking about what ever happened to her old boyfriend, Scott, it was just like old times.

Well, except that she's married with 2 kids (adorable, both) and I'm gay with a dead husband and new one of 8 years. (Actually, 8 years doesn't count as new.)

But she's the same as she ever was. We used to talk about important things, like religion and faith and how it fits into our lives. And that's what we've been talking about lately.

As usual, her latest email made me think about something I hadn't before. She asked me if I went to church, because worshipping with other people is so important to her. Sounds like a simple question, but it got me thinking about why I don't.

There are plenty of congregations in Austin that would have no problem with me being gay. Unfortunately, they tend to be the hippy-dippy type of liberals who have never thought about why they are liberals. It's just trendy in "intellectual" circles in Austin.

Oh, it's also trendy to be "intellectual".

Said it before, and I'll say it again: "liberal" does not equal "intellectual." Unless you know why it is you believe what you do and can talk about it intelligently without resorting to truisms and cheap shots at those who do not agree with you, you're either unintelligent, uniformed or just don't care enough to think.

Having said that, that's not the real reason I don't go to church.

It's all about secrets.

I wasn't honest about who I was, even with myself, until I was 23 years old. I kept my sexuality a secret, even from myself. I got used to living apart in one part of my mind while I lived among people who didn't really know me.

Keeping that secret made me a very solitary person whose life of the mind is sometimes more real than the one that I can touch. And even though people are more open to homosexuals than they have been since the days of Greece and Rome, to one degree or another, I've lived with this secret in one way or another most of my life.

And still do.

I consider carefully whether I use the term "partner" or "roommate" when I refer to Shannon. The two words have totally different connotations that sometimes still matter. Unfortunately.

It's not a secret for the most part, but I still keep it that way when I think I need to.

It keeps me apart from people, and I've grown used to that. And no matter how much I would like it not to be an issue, it is always, on some level.

So I keep to myself. I never know who's ready for the truth, and if I don't know them, that's one bridge we don't have to go over.

I live a very private life with a limited number of people who know the whole story. I prefer being alone more than being with other people more often than not. That way, I don't have to decide who I'm going to lie to.

I've grown used to it. It may not be every one's model for a happy life, but it's the one I've built.

In secret.

Friends in Deed

John was transferred to a long term care facility earlier today. Shannon said that he had been expecting something like that, just given John’s general incoherence and disorientation. His problems aren’t so much needing urgent care as much as needing someone to make sure he eats and takes his pills when he should.

And of course, I had already ordered flowers in memory of his mother, who died over the weekend, and that were to be delivered to the hospital he was in. Because of the heavy delivery schedule around Christmas, they’re not canceling or revising any deliveries this week. I did get an email saying that they would provide a replacement order, so I sent them the new location and will see how it all shakes out.

Shannon has gotten the impression that John’s daughter has become so overwhelmed by the situation that she’s distancing herself from it and everything to do with it. I’m afraid that it may fall to us to take care of things we weren’t counting on taking care of, but we will certainly do what we can. We’ll what we can and have to leave it at that.

Shannon and John go back decades as friends. (I was probably in middle school when they met.) And Shannon and I are in agreement that we help friends out when they need it. Even if it’s nothing more than calling regularly.

Shannon’s physical condition precludes many things, and his mental condition sometimes makes it difficult for him to deal with the totality of the situation. And my hours of availability are limited by my job. I have tons of vacation time racked up, but I have to approach taking unplanned time off very carefully.

Even though I have an assistant again, we still have very little duplication of responsibilities. That means most of my work is waiting when I get back. One of the pitfalls of making oneself indispensable, I guess. Job-security: yes; convenience: no.

Hopefully, things will settle down sometime soon. Given the last several months, I don’t hold out much hope, though. They’ve been some of the hardest of my life.

Still, we’ll muddle on, soldier through and tough it out. We’ll do what we can and hope that it’s enough.

Neither Shannon nor I take relationships lightly, whether they be romantic or Platonic. It took months of his pursuing me for me to commit to anything more than a one-night stand. Many months.

When he stood by me while my best friend was dying of cancer, he turned my head a bit. He didn’t run, like most people do any time death enters the equation. People don’t like to be associated with death, no matter to what degree.

And few of them would go to a funeral with you.

I guess this is the long way around saying that we’ll be there for John, even though his condition is only barely treatable and most certainly terminal. Parkinson’s takes no prisoners. Nor does it spare anyone.

So the days, weeks and months ahead are going to be more difficult, rather than less, I’m betting.

And all we have to give is our friendship in deed.

Next?

I’m getting around to Christmas a bit at a time. The cards are finally here and in the mail. The menu is planned, sort of. It’ll mainly depend on what looks good at the Sun Harvest next weekend. I decided against the only prime rib I could find because it cost $40. And change. Plus tax.

Flowers are on the way to John in the hospital in honor of his mother, who passed away this past weekend. I’m still not clear on exactly when it happened, but dead is dead, so it doesn’t really matter. What matter’s is who’s left behind.

I have clothes in the laundry even as we speak. Enough to get us through until my next day off.

The car’s paid up for another month. And the insurance is good until February.

We made it to Temple and back today so they could do tests on Shannon that neither of us know the reason for. The VA operates more efficiently than ever before. Perhaps too much so.

They schedule appointments that they don’t tell you about until you get a letter and then have to reschedule it because it’s just not possible. Along the way, they never tell you why they scheduled it in the first place.

On my list is getting presents off to our mothers. Tomorrow. UPS. Much more reliable than the Post Office.

Right now, I’m going to focus on the laundry. I’m sure I’ll remember what it was I forgot tomorrow.

And as a devotee to the Scarlett O’Hara Principle of Time Management, I know that tomorrow is another day. I’ll think about it later.

And hopefully remember it in time to get it done.

If it’s real important, I will.

If it’s not, it’ll just have to get in line.

Jingle Bells

Winter has finally caught up with us. It’s cold, clear and crisp as a well-tuned bell. And getting more and more so as the minutes pass.

I heard the last of the thunder rolling out about 7 this morning. It started about midnight, so I went to bed before it got here. I can’t go to sleep when it’s storming. I have to get to bed before it gets here and rely on God’s good grace to see me through.

The skies cleared up and the wind started blowing. Blowing cold and mean.

Fitting weather for the events of the day.

John’s mother died last night or early this morning. He wasn’t quite clear about it. He’s in the hospital and is giving up on his battle with Parkinson’s. Now that his mother is gone, he doesn’t seem to be able to find a reason to hang on.

Trying to wrap my mind around yet another death is taking its toll. It leaves me addled and confused. I can’t quite get my thoughts together enough to get them down on virtual paper.

Thank God for Lucy. I’ve never seen a cat that gets right up in front of the TV and watches the pictures changing. She gets so intense that it becomes comedic.

A little ray of sunshine, wrapped in orange-tabby fur, on a cold, cold night.

Cold, clear, crisp.

But no more bells, please.

Contraband Christmas

A number of years ago, me and Rich (my first partner) were so dead-broke that we couldn’t afford a Christmas tree. I was working in real estate at the time, and December’s a great time to show property, but the commissions don’t start rolling in for a couple of months. And Rich was trying to get his small business building and restoring harps off the ground.

Money was scarce, and we needed most of it for bills. It wasn’t that we had so many bills; we just didn’t have much money.

We allocated $20 a piece for presents, enough to make a good Christmas dinner, and there just wasn’t enough left over for a tree.

I knew that Rich was sad not having one, so I hopped into my trusty Nissan pickup one Saturday morning and headed to Bastrop in search of the perfect tree.

Who needs store-bought when you can swipe a really fresh one for free?

I landed in some indeterminate development that had not been developed beyond dirt roads and a few trees cleared. I walked around looking like I was considering buying a piece of land, found a tree I liked, cut it down, threw in the back of said Nissan, and drove like hell for home.

I figured that if anyone saw me doing the deed, I’d be back in Austin before the authorities got to the crime scene. And it was muddy enough I’m sure my license plate was obscured.

We had a nice Christmas. One of my best.

I learned a lot about the role that material possessions should play in one’s life. The lesson came down to one simple principle: “not too much.”

Me and Shannon are not much better off this year. We’re not broke, but we definitely are affected by the higher cost of everything.

And we don’t have room for a tree, so that part’s out.

Besides, I wouldn’t want to get the car all full pine needles.

And I don’t run nearly as fast as I used to.

Darkly, Through a Glass

John’s back in the hospital. He was home a few weeks from his last stay, but this time he won’t be going back home. At least not according to his daughter.

The Parkinson’s has gotten to the point that he couldn’t keep his medications straight. He didn’t take some and maybe took the wrong ones at the wrong time, so he’s in pretty bad shape right now. He’s going to have to go to a nursing home when he gets out of the hospital.

This is the beginning of the end that I’ve dreaded since I learned about the Parkinson’s. John must know the same thing. Up until now, impending death has been theoretical. Now it’s more real than ever.

It’s big, it’s ugly and it’s not going away. It’s the specter that will loom over all of us, most darkly over him. And I wonder if somewhere, in his heart of hearts, he isn’t looking forward to no longer being aware of what’s going on. It’s been a long and bruising battle, with many more steps backward than forward.

I wonder if he’s just finally tired.

Shannon’s taking all this pretty hard. He and John go back decades, and this is just one more step toward the inevitable that’s been casting ominous shadows for the last several years. And it’s making the inevitable more real than it ever has been, giving that shadow dimensions it never had before.

Illness shows no discretion: it inflicts its malevolence indiscriminately. It comes and goes in its own time afflicting whomever it wants with no apparent rhyme or reason and, certainly, no apology. It is the one fact of life I cannot reconcile with the concept of a just God.

I will go on reconciling, at least trying to, and maybe at some point I my life I will have the wisdom to see how any of this makes sense. Right now, I just can’t. And maybe I’ll have to pass on to the next realm to ever have an inkling of an answer.

St. Paul’s Epistle to the Galatians tells us that “For then we shall not see darkly through a glass, (as we now do,) but we shall see face to face.”

Maybe I’ll find an answer then. Until I do, I’ll just go on pondering and meditating on the issue. I hold no great hope, though, for divine wisdom until then.

And I certainly don’t have to like it until I understand it.

How Does One Spell "Email"?

The issue of language usage and spelling came up at an office meeting not too long ago. “How do you spell ‘email’?” was the question. E Mail, E-Mail, e-mail or email. And for that matter, how do you spell online? On line, online or on-line.

Is website one word or two?

The answer is that there is no answer. Because there is no consensus. Because the words haven’t been around long enough to generate a consensus.

The beauty and elegance of the English language is that usage evolves over time by consensus. While the Modern Language Association (MLA) may dictate how an academic humanities paper should be put together, even it evolved between the time I bought my first MLA manual as a college freshman and the time I was in grad school. Standards changed, usage changed and even the stodgy MLA changed.

American English is perhaps the most democratic language in the world. It’s the product of writers and thinkers that decided that they would spell one thing this way and punctuate thus.

It’s the result of consensus.

A consensus that has evolved from Shakespeare to the Victorians to the Edwardians to the Modernists. And consensus develops only over time.

So we may not really know how to spell “email” for a while. For my part, “email”, “online” and “website” are each one word. If you separate them, they mean something different that if you take them together.

That’s my opinion, and I’m sticking to it.

And it’s my contribution to the great experiment of the consensual English language.

Complications

Shannon’s brother, Gary, stopped by tonight on his way home from work. Well, it’s not really on his way, but he was waiting for the freeways to clear up some and drop off a couple of things.

He asked me about work and how the year-end was messing up my life. Not much, it turns out. All we have to do is W-2’s and 1099’s out before January 31.

But when I started telling him all the other complications of working for a company that provides administrative services for 3 other companies, one of which operates in 13 states, has 17 checking accounts and keeps 8 sets of books, he got thoroughly confused. That’s the usual response I get when I try to explain what it is I do for a living. And it’s why I just tell people I do accounting work when they ask.

And as I was talking, I realized that it really is more complicated that I ever think about. The complications have built up over time, so they have aggregated into one giant complication that’s hard to get a handle on from the outside. It doesn’t seem so much so from the inside.

But the idea of a Texas professional association that has an affiliated non-profit company that operates in 11 states (I think) and exists to provide funding to two other affiliated non-profit companies makes most people’s heads spin. They all think that non-profits either don’t make money or spend all they have.

It’s a common misconception.

Non-profits that last, like all companies, must have reserves to survive the inevitable rough patches. And ours just celebrated its 100th year in existence.

But I digress.

I suppose my job looks complicated, and for a lot of people, it would be. For me, it fits like those beat-up but very comfortable shoes I wear whenever I get the chance.

Keeping track of 4 corporations, 8 sets of books, 17 checking accounts and multiple investment accounts is second nature to me, now. It didn’t come overnight.

On my current assistant’s first day, I told her that she wouldn’t learn the job in 6 hours, 6 days, 6 weeks or 6 months. It’s been about a year now, and she’s just getting to sorting out the complications. She was hired primarily to do data entry, but even her position is complicated.

Nothing’s simple in that world.

Redirect

There’s a story out of New Orleans today about what happened to several patients at Memorial Hospital in the aftermath and fiasco of Hurricane Katrina. It doesn’t really answer any questions, but it raises quite a few. Mostly about the ethics of suffering.

A report obtained by CNN paints a conflicting picture of what really happened. The city was flooding and the lower floors of the hospital were under water; there was no electricity. Patients on ventilators had to be ventilated manually. Someone had to stand there and squeeze a bag steadily over and over again to keep them with oxygen in their bloodstream.

It was a nightmare I hope I never have to live through.

The doctors and nurses implicated have repeatedly said that they were trying to alleviate pain by giving patients high doses of morphine and other drugs. Their patients were suffering, and that’s all they had to give.

I have a hard time separating that from the conferences my family had with the team of doctors at Methodist Hospital in Memphis when Daddy was dieing. They assured us that he was on enough medication that he wasn’t in pain. I didn’t really believe that until he became totally non-responsive.

When we made the decision to cut his life support, they gave him extra doses of pain medication. I’m guessing it was the same kind of morphine they used in New Orleans.

I’m not sure what the difference is. The only one that I can see is that my family made the decision. I’m not quite sure that the folks at Memorial Hospital could have found a family member, much less gotten them through the water to the hospital.

I don’t know what really happened in New Orleans, and I probably never will. But it reeks heavily of someone who should have had an evacuation plan in place ducking responsibility.

It would be more productive to find that person and hound them the way the doctors and nurses at Memorial have been.

And eminently more just.

Homeless for the Holidays

Every year, my company undertakes charitable projects. They’re entirely employee generated and not endorsed by the company, but likewise not discouraged. And with Christmas looming large, we have a new one: giving food and warm gloves and hats to the people that live under the bridges on MoPac.

The bridge people live in and around some of the most affluent people in Austin. But I have been told that they are among the most resistant to seeking help, either from shelters or other social service organizations. From what I can gather, most of them are mentally ill and suspicious of the people that could help them it they would just allow it.

When I think about how close I’ve come to losing everything, including my mind, I can’t help but feel a responsibility for those folks. There, but for the grace of God, go I. And Shannon was on a road towards that when I met him.

Shannon is different in that he has recognized that he needs help and has accepted it. The bridge people can’t quite get there.

I don’t know if handing out stuff will help any, but it might keep some of them from dieing the next time we have a really bad cold snap. It only takes a few hours of exposure to very cold air with wind to kill someone.

And while they’re mostly crazy, that’s no reason for a death sentence.

This one has hit home, so that’s what we’ll do with the money we don’t spend on other people.

No one that we know actually needs anything that we could give them. They have the same problems as we do, but they don’t really need anything that we could give them. And God knows that me and Shannon don’t need anything we don’t have.

We don’t have a lot, but there are many more who have even less. “Less”, by the way, means “nothing”.

Something to think about as the Christmas frenzy ramps up into high gear.

Sneak

The holidays took me by surprise this year. Thanksgiving showed up too early, and now Christmas is bearing down. Charlie Brown Christmas is on tonight, marking the official beginning of the countdown to the new year.

Don’t be fooled by Dick Clark starting 10 seconds before the big moment: the countdown starts tonight.

(Dick Clark, by the way, has made a deal with the devil, I’m convinced: “I’ll host the show but only if the passing of time doesn’t count for me.” Or maybe his agent made the deal, and he doesn’t know yet. Either way, is he really the most appropriate person to mark the passage of time?)

It’s been a hard year for Shannon and me both. We started it in a psychiatric hospital. Since then, this year has seemed to be about death more than anything else. It’s reared its ugly head more times this year than I can ever remember.

There have been good things to rise out of the ashes of destruction, though. Mama and I are talking more that we have in decades and both being honest. Shannon and I know who our friends are, and our friends know that we care for them as well.

Bad years like this often drive wedges between couples. The stress can seem overwhelming sometimes and lead to frayed nerves and temper flare-ups. Not to mention the residual stress on already-tight finances.

That hasn’t happened to Shannon and me, thank the good Lord. If anything, this awful year has brought us closer together and made us appreciate each other a little more. We’ve both had lessons about the fragility and precariousness of life. For that reason, we hang on to each other more tightly than we ever had.

And we’ve learned more than we ever knew before that some things just ain’t that important. I’m not sure if we actually knew it before or just suspected, but now we know with the certainty that rises to the level of faith.

So let the countdown begin. May the new year be brighter and happier. May it resonate with joy and peace. May our lives and those of our families and friends be abundant and filled with joy. May we all know the peace that passes all understanding.

It’s never too early for that to sneak up on us.

One Potato, Two Potato...

Universal health care has become the hot-potato of the Democratic primary that raises more questions than it answers. It’s a nasty multi-headed monster from Greek myth that will turn you to stone if you look in its eyes.

I work for a small company and pay $150 a month for my health insurance. The company picks up the extra 75% of the policy. It costs the company about $10,000 a month to pick up the remainder for the ones of us that they cover.

I know, because I pay the bills.

We have a “rich” benefit plan (in the parlance of insurance agents) that Aetna doesn’t even offer any more to new clients. The rates went up in July. Aetna has us over a barrel: keep your current coverage and pay more or pay less and get much, much, much less.

Throw universal care into the picture, and I’m not sure where that will leave me. If a government-sponsored alternative is available, I’m not sure that our Board of Directors wouldn’t opt for it. It would save about $120,000 a year. And doing so might be good financial advice.

Still, I like my expensive, although it be totally private and unsubsidized, health coverage. But working in finance, I would have an obligation to point out that any federally subsidized alternative would need a close looking at. If there’s an alternative to $120,000 a year, I am duty-bound to point it out.

$120,000 isn’t a lot as far as day-to-day operations go. We routinely write checks for much more and transfer much more than that between accounts to keep the wheels greased and running smoothly.

Still, when we close the books out on June 30, $120,000 can make the difference between profit and loss. I just wonder what they Board would do if they had the option of getting rid of that $120,000 liability.

Most of them have really good healthcare coverage because they work for hospitals. I just hope they remember the little people when they make their decisions.

Thus, the hot potato.

I hope they at least have some butter and freshly-cracked pepper as a consolation prize.

Enter Stage Left; or, Lucy and the Big, Big TV

Several months ago, Shannon and I were in a pawn shop looking for something that we didn’t find. But on the way out the door, a big, big TV caught my eye. It was marked down because it had been there too long. One look, and I fell in love.

I picked it up the next weekend, and soon discovered one of the possible reasons it was on sale: it really needs two grown men to pick it up. Taking it out of the back of the car almost wrecked my back. Once I got it on a dolly and had rolled it into our apartment, I decided that it would stay on the dolly until I had help to pick it up.

I may have testosterone surges that allow me to achieve Herculean feats, but I’m getting older, the testosterone ain’t as strong as it used to be and I’ve learned the hard way when enough is enough.

Enough is enough is always enough. (Eat your heart out, Gertrude Stein.)

Enter Lucy, stage left.

She’s our little red-headed kitty. And she loves the big, big TV. When she’s not harassing Amanda (our little black kitty) or knocking breakable objects onto the concrete floors or begging for food, she loves to hop up on the cabinet where the TV sits. She gets right up in front of it and watches as things dart back and forth. She bats at images on the big, big screen. She occasionally jumps up and tries to get inside the TV to play.

Lucy is a bright spot in our lives right now. We’ve been surrounded by death and illness and misfortune lately. It’s overwhelming sometimes. I just lay in bed and pretend I’m asleep so I don’t have to get up.

But enter Lucy, stage left.

She’ll be chasing a moth or watching TV or just curling up and being cute in a way only cats can be. She loves to curl up in my chair every time I get up. Sometimes I just stand for a while to let her enjoy whatever it is she’s enjoying.

But it’s my chair, so she has to leave, eventually.

She gets a kitty-air lift over edge of the desk and onto the couch. And then she starts sucking up to Shannon.

Red-heads are fickle.

But they're eteranally entertaining.