The Leap Year Blues

It's February out there. Oh yes, it's February.

How do I know? Because my normally sweet-natured, cooperative, mellow almost-three-year-old daughter had her official, week long, winter-cabin-fever "I'm not going to sleep, eat and be nuclear grumpy every moment" freak out.

And it was about Wednesday of the freakout while driving down the highway with crying tot in tow, that I remembered: "Oh yeah, it's February isn't it."

One of my favorite writers avoids the state of Pennsylvania at all costs because every time he crosses its borders something mysteriously always breaks down. (Cars, relationships, physical health) He will drive extra hours around the state just to save himself the trouble that will surely find him there.

I feel the same way about February, but I have not, as yet, found a way to avoid a whole month of the year. (I do however have one fond memory that takes place in this month, and that was when I first laid eyes on my beautiful wife, but knowing what month it was, I waited till March to ask her out)

There is an old saying (okay, I made it up and have been saying it for a while) that all the evidence that you need to believe in a merciful, loving God is in the fact that He made February with only twenty-eight days. (Actually, it was not the Lord, but those shiftless Gregorians who designed our current calendar)

And then, I hear that every four years they want to add another day to this most wretched of all months.

This is a bad idea.

If there is somehow (it must be magic) an extra day floating around out there why on earth would we give it to February? It's like entrusting those thousand dollars you were saving for a vacation to your gambling addicted roommate. It's akin to saying "you know what, I don't think that World War II thing was near long enough, why don't we tack on an extra year, make it go through '46" or "that national deficit isn't nearly big enough, let's put a couple of zeros onto that baby, really make some history here!"

And if there is some "magic" way to add a day to the calendar, then could those same folks somehow make the American Idol TV show disappear, professional baseball last all year and give me back all the hair that I've lost?

Actually, let's just do away with the month of February once and for all.

Here is what I suggest.

Let's divide up those twenty-eight days like this: We'll start by giving the other eleven months each one more day just for virtue of not being the month of February.

That leaves us with seventeen days.

Next, let's give June, July, and August each four more days, because come on, who would be against a longer summer?

Then let us reward October (my favorite month on account of all that foliage, and my birthday) with three more days and then let's randomly select oh, say April, to have two more days.

There it is; a nice even, well thought out plan to phase out February.

Oh, and that extra day every four years?

Put it anywhere you want...

The Skull Of St. Valentine (And Other Greeting Card Suggestions)

Some say that Valentine's Day is nothing but a corporate holiday, designed by the greeting card companies and the chocolate folks. Some say it's designed to fill that dreaded "holiday gap" between New Year's Day and St. Patrick's Day. Many call it "Single Person's Awareness Day" and dress all in black and celebrate by burning old love letters on the front lawn.

But whatever you may feel about it, it's here today and you must choose how you will celebrate it or if you will at all.

I think, at a minimum, we should be required to give a card to 13 other people like we were forced to in elementary school. The government (it can be local government for all you small-government folks out there) should issue each citizen a list of 13 other folks, with names correctly spelled, of whom you are required to write a Valentine's card to. It can be one of those generic ones that come 20 to a box, and you must, at a minimum, write the person's name on it and perhaps an "xoxoxoxo" if you are feeling inspired.

Imagine what it would be like for every person in the country (we can expand the program internationally next year; let's start small here folks) opened up their mailbox and got a Valentine's card on the appointed day. It wouldn't matter if it had a Transformer or Captain America on it (I draw the line with the ones that kids can get that feature Pro Wrestlers - a person has got to have standards) or Strawberry Shortcake or My Little Pony, because the excitement of getting a card or a piece of candy would be worth it. If it worked in third grade, why can't it work today?

There are lots of other things that we should do to follow the elementary school model in life, like naptime, drinking milk out of those cartons that are impossible for a seven-year-old to open (we could wipe out Osteoporosis in our lifetime!) and taking field trips. But I digress.

According to some exhaustive and in-depth research, done just now on Wikipedia, Saint Valentine might have been one of about six people who were martyred in early Church history (kind of puts a crimp in the old "day of love" thing). And perhaps the best fact that I found was that the skull of Saint Valentine himself is on display in a church in Rome. They should really make a greeting card out of that picture. It's also interesting to note that, in the Eastern Orthodox Church, this holiday is celebrated on July 6. This would throw a hitch in the old Fourth of July weekend celebrations here in this country.

But it does not take a saint to convince the world that it's good to have a day to celebrate love in all of its many forms. Though we default to thinking of romantic love during this time, with all the pressure to buy flowers and gifts and underwear, love is all around us in ways that are far more practical and real than the romantic ideal we are presented with by the good folks on Madison Avenue.

Lest I be too preachy here, I enjoy romantic love as much as the next guy. My wife, Special Sauce Caldwell (so named because she makes everything just a little bit better) and I enjoyed (and continue to enjoy) a courtship in which I pitched woo with the best of them. I wrote poetry and songs, I drew pictures and took her on picnics and went all out in pursuit of her hand in marriage. It's surprising what you are capable of when there is worthy goal in site. We still enjoy these things.

But "love" is so much more. To treat love as a gushy thing that we only celebrate once a year is like eating a hot dog with only one topping. Romantic love is great, but the kind of love you feel for your friends is wonderful, too. So send that good friend a note or a gift. (Guys, I'm looking at you here too.)

Parental love is worth celebrating, too. When my daughter, Princess Genius, was two-years-old, she ran across an open lawn space towards traffic (she never did this before or after, but for some reason she chose this moment to try and pick some flowers near the road) before anyone could react quickly enough and I had to cover 50 yards in just a couple of seconds. As I ran towards her and the cars, I realized that I would jump out in front of one if that's what it took to keep her safe. Thankfully, I caught her at the one-yard line by an ankle. Again, I'd love to see the greeting card that said, "I love you so much that I would jump out in front of a car for you!"

So, if you have a parent (and I know you do), make sure to send them a note or give them a phone call. They most likely saved your hyde a number of times, and a card or call is a great celebration of love.

So expand your horizon. Love is all around you. Give a stranger a Valentine today and see how you make someone's day. Call a friend, hug a co-worker (make sure to get permission first), buy flowers for Mom and hug your daughters and your sons and see love as more than a sentiment.

And then, feel free to celebrate your expanded horizons by eating a whole box of chocolates.

Happy Valentine's Day,

- Tin Can Caldwell

My High-maintenance Maintenance Man

Monday.


"Hi Bob, it's Paul up in apartment 7B. I went to use my bathroom sink this morning and it started doing that thing where the water sprays directly up in your face when you turn on the tap. I got a face full of cold water and a pretty wet floor, but otherwise things are okay. It stopped when I turned off the -

What's that Bob, you can't come today? Um, can I ask why?

You're having an existential crisis? That's too bad. As a writer I feel your pain, I've had one all my life. I mean, what does it all mean. What are we supposed to do with our lives and so on. What's causing yours?

You lost your big amateur cage fighting match this weekend, and now you are wondering if your plan to switch careers should go forward? That's a tough one my friend. Now about that waterfountain in my sink.

You say you can stop in tomorrow? Great. See you then.

Tuesday.

BEEP: Hi Bob, Paul here again. I stopped by your office this morning on my way to go get some breakfast at the diner, and I saw the sign that you were out at yoga and would be back soon. I have a meeting out of town today and I'll be gone most of the morning and afternoon. Feel free to just stop in and check out that faucet when you get back. It's starting to spray up a little, even when the taps are closed tight. It seems like a quick fix, and I might do it myself, but I have a deadline to meet this week, and this silly meeting today, so I don't have time to go to the hardware store and do the work. Also, I know that you have that room in the basement filled with pluming supplies, so I'm sure you have what you need in there to get my sink up and running again. Talk to you soon Bob.


Wednesday.

Hi Bob, Paul from 7B here again. I got your message - no Bob, I wasn't yelling at you yesterday afternoon on the street out front. I was just calling out to you to get your attention as you were about to cross the street. Hey, I saw you with your yoga mat again.

Oh, you're up to two sessions per day now? That's great. You must really be relaxed and stress free these days. Oh, speaking of stress, my sister and her family are coming to spend a long weekend with me and as much as I don't mind brushing my teeth and shaving in the kitchen sink, I'm really going to need the whole bathroom up and running to accommodate my family's visit.

You can come up right now! Great!

Thursday.

Hi Bob. It's Paul. Look I'm sorry about not offering you coffee or a snack yesterday when you came up to look at the sink. I'm just really focused on this book deadline and I guess the little details of civility are escaping me right now. If you want to come over today I'll break open this great Costa Rican brew my wife got when she was down there last. It's the best Bob. Maybe we can have lunch? I have this great ham from the deli over on Elm Street. It's tissue-paper thin and fantastic on rye.

You're a vegan? Oh, sorry. Maybe I can go get some humus and pita right now.

Have I ever though about animal rights and how we get our food in 21st century America? You have a documentary you'd like me to see?

Sure! I'd love to see it. Why don't you bring it up right now and while you're here maybe you can look at the bathroom sink again. The spray is now arching out onto the floor and I've got to have a bucket there to catch it all. It's not a big deal as long as I'm around to empty the bucket every hour, but it could be a problem if I every, you know, need to go out.

You're coming up now? Great. I'll get the coffee going.

Friday.

Hi Bob. Look I'm really sorry I wouldn't let your dog in the apartment when you came over yesterday. I know he's you "assistant" maintenance man (by the way, LOVE that cute button on his collar that says that), but my wife is allergic to dogs and if little "Fenway" had come in she would be sneezing and short of breath for a week. I hope you can understand.

No, I love dogs Bob! I really do! I had one named "Springsteen" when I was a kid. He was great. It's just when I decided to marry Julie I had to give up the idea of having a pet dog.

Sorry, sorry. I know dogs aren't pets anymore, they would prefer to be called companions. I'm sensitive to these things Bob, but I need to go EMPTY A BUCKET NOW!

Saturday.

Hi Bob. Paul here. Sorry about hanging up on you yesterday. It's been a really long week, manuscript deadline, waking up every hour at night to change out buckets, it's been pretty draining. (Thanks, that was a good pun!)

I did manage to bang out a new short story in my free moments though. It's about a humble maintenance man who follows his dream of being a mixed martial arts champion and yoga instructor. It came out so good that I'm thinking of turning it into a screen play to submit to the next Northeast Film Festival. I could totally see Channing Tatum playing the lead role.

You'd love to read it? That's swell Bob. I just happen to have a draft printed out on some top-shelf parchment I got as a Christmas present from Julie. Since you're coming up anyway, maybe you could bring your tool-belt with you and give that sink the old "look-see."

You will!

You're the best Bob." 

The Real St. Patrick...Way Cooler Than Boiled Food

St. Patrick's Day this year falls on a Sunday, and I can only assume that the partying will be raucous and open-ended, given the weekend schedule and the great weather the past few days. Monday morning will no doubt be a painful time for many celebrants, and the (predicted) sunshine of the day might be painful to many bleary eyes and sore heads. At the risk of being preachy, let me say that celebrating the life of St. Patrick by getting drunk is like celebrating Gandhi by eating a 32 ounce steak or remembering the life of Mother Teresa by buying a McMansion. (And St. Patrick's Day comes on the heels of Valentine's Day, another saintly day where folks celebrate by eating too much chocolate and buying lingerie.)

Now, I enjoy a Guinness as much as the next Irishman (actually Scotch-Irishman, my people have the great distinction of getting kicked out of two countries) and boiled food as much as anyone else. (That is to say "no one".) But the more I learn about the life of St. Patrick himself, the more I want to pass the day doing what he did and not getting snookered in a pup while waving an Irish flag.

Here is a quick primer on the life of this Saint (truly a man worthy of that title). He was born at the end of the forth century in what is now Wales, and at the age of sixteen he was captured by a band of Irish raiders (I'd use the word "pirate" but that just conjures up jolly images of eye patches, the letter "R" and Johnny Depp) and sold into slavery in Ireland. As a slave he most likely wore an iron collar around his neck to show his status and spent six of his formative years in abject servitude, tending sheep for a tribal chieftain before he miraculously escaped to the coast and convinced a ship's captain to bring him back to Great Britain.

If that were not incredible enough, what happens next will blow your shamrocks off. He went back to Ireland!

Well, not right away, but after a hearing the Lord call him into full time ministry he trained in Rome for a few years (the dark ages equivalent of Bible College) and, according to his own writings had a repeated dream where he was visited by various Irishmen who pleaded with him to come back and "walk among them".

And he went back!

Now if you take an understandably dim view of organized religion (one of my favorite bumper stickers says "when a religion starts to get organized, watch out!") and particularly when it comes to the Church and Ireland, you can still find much to admire in a man who would willingly go back to a place where he had been formally a slave.

And it was no picnic when he went back; he was robbed, beaten and threatened constantly. Yet he spent the remainder of his life in Ireland, telling anyone and everyone that God loved them and had a purpose for their life. These are no small words from a man who had seen the dark side of life in the way Patrick had.

So maybe we could celebrate St. Patrick's Day by finding someone who we need to forgive. This person might not deserve it or even ask for it, but maybe March 17th could be a day of reconciliation as well as boiled cabbage.

Or how about we celebrate St. Patrick's Day by getting out of our comfort zones? Perhaps you could get to know someone who you might otherwise pass by? Maybe you could serve the community in some aspect or volunteer at a St. Patrick's Day party at a retirement home or a soup kitchen.

Now I don't want to be a kill joy, I'm not anti fun. One of my favorite memories of St. Patrick's Day was seeing the river in Chicago turned green. (I saw it a few days earlier and it was naturally a shade of green that no body of water should be.) And I enjoy Irish music and corned beef (although not every food should be boiled, I've been to Ireland, and I've never seen such grey eats as they serve there) and the color green. In fact I have a daughter named Ireland. (In these pages she is mostly known by the nom de plume "Princess Genius"; now you know her secret identity.) But the more I reflect on the life of St. Patrick, the more I want to be like him and the less enthralled I am by leprechauns and shamrock shakes at McDonalds.

So next year, before planning an evening of inebriation, please take a minute to consider the patron saint of dear old Ireland, and consider how you might uniquely celebrate such a remarkable life.

But make sure to boil the breakfast early

Life In My Skinny Jeans

I have been exactly ten pounds overweight for about 15 years now. This has to be some sort of record for both sloth and consistency. I don't know how I have done it, but since the late 90's I've weighed 165 pounds, give or take the steak and eggs for breakfast or the pizza for dinner.

I just thought my weight was normal, but according to some health metrics I've seen lately, a guy my height (my diver's license says I'm 5 '8', so I'll go with that, though some hair might have been involved in that measurement back in 2003), should weigh 155 pounds to be at peak health.

155 ponds! I'm going to have to give up something to attain "peak health", should it be the biscuits and gravy or the potato chips? (Did you know that "diet" is "die" with a "t"?)

I've always had a pretty high metabolism and combine that with being a fairly nervous (some would say 'twitchy") person, and I've never really had to worry about weight or my eating habbits too much.

What I am finding out is that you can be the same weight for a number of years and still change shape (my dad has a t-shirt that says "I'm in shape! Round is a shape!").

That's right. Things are heading south. That middle-aged-guy belly? Check!

This realization was brought home to me recently when a pair of my favorite jeans didn't quite cinch up as easily as they once did. It was right after the holidays, so I figured that I had gained a few pounds drinking gallons of eggnog (as much sugar in one glass as a candy bar), but when I consulted the family scale in the bathroom, it read exactly the same; 165.

So I did what any sensible American does. I went out to get a new pair of jeans.

As a writer and stay-at-home-dad, my uniform of choice and practicality is a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt (the uniform of my youth as well). I usually get one pair of jeans and one shirt each year, usually around tax return time.

This being that time of the year, I perused the racks for just the perfect style and pair. And then, looking at the price tags, I immediately headed to the discount racks in the back of the store.

There my eyes fell upon the perfect pair. Right size? (The right size being "one size bigger than the ones in my bureau") Check! Right price? Check! (How could you go wrong with a price that was one tenth the price of the neighbors in the next aisle?) Should I try them on?

Nah, all the info I need is right on the tag, and since I'm running late I'll just grab these guys and get out of here. What could go wrong?

Well, the next morning when I went to put them on I discovered what could go wrong. You know a pair of pants is going to be tight when you cant even get your foot through waist of the jeans.

As I stood in my bedroom, trying not to be seen by any other human being, I wondered what was going on. I checked the size again. Seems okay, but what are those tiny word under the measurements?

"Skinny fit!"

I looked like a cross between a tights-wearing extra in Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing and James Dean (minus the glorious hair and that "I have to go to the bathroom" look on my face).

But what to do? I didn't think that I could face the embarrassment of returning the jeans and having to state "the reason I need to return these discount skinny jeans is that I look ridiculous in them." And come to think of it, perhaps the reason they were on the discount rack to begin with was that everybody else thought they were ridiculous too!

So I did what any other male worth his salt would do. I didn't admit my mistake and went about my day in tights and a flannel shirt. ("I'm sorry sweetheart, I can't help you tie your shoes today. Daddy can't bend over right now.")

If there is a benefit to skinny jeans, they do hide that paunch in the middle of your frame pretty well. I looked pretty svelte, even though I kept having fainting spells all day.

So, I think it's time to go do some sit ups and push ups and perhaps get rid of that ice cream in the freezer.

What's the best way to get rid of unwanted ice cream in your freezer you ask?

You should eat it.

155 pounds, here I come

My Resolutions For 2014 (You Can't Rush These Things)

I have made my list of resolutions for the year 2014, because, frankly, you can’t rush these things. How many times have I sat down and seriously considered what things I want to change, and then come up with a concrete plan on how I was going to accomplish these things?

Quite honestly? Never. I mostly think of things on the spot when someone asks me that “best-of-all small talk questions” for this time of year. I’ll say something like “I’m going to learn Japanese and Swahili simultaneously and try to get a little more exercise at the same time. In fact I have lessons for both languages on my iPod and I’m going to walk five miles each morning while reciting the Swahili and Japanese alphabets and in a few months I’ll have both languages down cold and be thin as a rake to boot!”

Last year I got up early and exercised on January 2nd and January 3rd, then something happened (I think I hurt my knee somehow) and then it was all over for the year. Two glorious days of exercise, days where I felt more alive and was more pleasant to be around, (grouchiness and winter go hand in hand for me) and then it was all over.

To be sure I got out and had a pretty active summer and have had a few early mornings since then, but I was out of the New Year’s resolution game in record time. So it’s easy to become discouraged and cynical about making life changes when there have been so many crashes and burns in the years before. And I know I’m not alone in this. I would hazard a guess that most Americans view New Year’s resolutions with a sort of winking eye philosophy; they’re fun to talk about, but come on, who really takes these things seriously. There mostly fodder for small talk (just like their Christmas cousin, “have you got your shopping done yet?”) and mostly a really good, really impractical idea.

There is also a growing wave of well intentioned propaganda that says “you are just fine the way you are. You should accept yourself and not worry about changing anything. You are just fine!”

But the reality is this dear reader; you have things that need to change. I have things that need to change. Miss Universe (isn’t she from Sri Lanka this year?) has things that she needs to change. If you think that you don’t have anything that needs to change or improve then go ask a close friend or a trusted relative (not an Elvis Presley like “yes man“) if there is anything about yourself that needs to change. Then listen to the answer.

If the answer makes you a little uncomfortable or a bit defensive then good. You are on to something.

But discouragement is easy. Hopelessness is not hard to come by. Despair or disbelief that change is possible is as common as a head cold. (I should know, I’ve had two in the last month).

So here is the secret code. Are you ready? Do you have a pen and paper handy? Good.

Plan big and shoot small. Plan big and shoot small. (Things sound more impressive if you repeat them twice.)

Plan big: If a change is warranted or desired then a plan on how to execute that change is as important as any ounce of will power or the most expensive home gym that you can find. Without a plan it all goes kabloowy.

But I always plan for too big a change. It’s mostly impossible to learn a language in a year without being immersed in the culture of that language and most of us can’t become Olympic level athlete in just a few months. It seems to me that any change that has happened successfully in my life happened by small degrees. Most of us think of making a life change as if we are jumping off a diving board, but it’s more like taking a hike. You do it by degrees, taking in the view every once in a while and stopping for water breaks often.

But at some point you look back at where you have come from and the view behind you is startling. You were wondering if you were getting anywhere at all and when you look back you see just how far you have come. But it came small step by small step, inch by inch.

So instead of trying to lose fifty pounds and run five miles a day shoot for fifteen pounds and walking a mile a day. It’s much more manageable and frankly, more likely to happen.

And don’t get discouraged with a few setbacks, just keep moving. Make a plan, write down a concrete schedule for yourself and carry it around with you. It’s only over the day you give up completely. Remember, plan big and shoot small. I’m no expert, and man o man do I have some things that I need to change, but we’re all in this thing together and I’m pulling for you.

Plan big and shoot small. Plan big and shoot small.

I really should have some t-shirts made up.

The Complete, Concise and Utterly Truthful History of the Motorcycle

The motorcycle is a ubiquitous presence on the highways and byways of the good old U.S.A. But few people know its incredible origin story, which dates all the way back to the shores of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina and the three fabulous Wright brothers.

Oh, you didn't know about the third Wright brother? Let me fill you in on a little fantastic bit of history.

The famous Wright brothers, Orville and Wilbur (whose parents were surely out to lunch with giving the brother those names) of course are credited with the invention of the airplane (and the phrase "It'll never fly Orville"). But not as well known was their little brother Michael (Mike or "Mikey") Wright.

When Orville and his big brother Wilbur (again, love those names) set up shop on the shores of the Atlantic there in Kitty Hawk their parents sent their teenage brother Mikey to spend some time with them during summer vacation. Young Mikey tagged along with his older brothers when they went out to the sand dunes to test their flying contraptions. He was much lighter than his portly, middle-aged brothers and they would often call upon him to strap in to their early attempts at flying machines. Young Mikey was generally a pretty good sport being the guinea pig in their experiments at flight, and as a thank you the older brothers would give their brother unlimited access to their scrap pile of mechanical pieces they kept on the premises.

One summer day when his brothers were out of town, young Mikey started tinkering with a small airplane engine bolted onto his bicycle. The experiment was successful beyond his wildest dreams and he went motoring about the shore of the North Carolina coast. Though it had yet to be written, the song "Born To Be Wild" was playing in the background as young Mikey tooled up one sand dune and down the next. He also, inexplicably, felt the need to take off his shirt and put on a pair of sunglasses, though those had yet to be invented either.

When Wilbur and Orville (I'll never get tired of typing those names) got back from their business trip young Mikey showed them his prototype for the motorcycle. They both were impressed with it and promised to give it their full attention and support once they had conquered the air.

What follows is well known history. The Wright brothers finally got one of their flying contraptions to stay aloft for a few minutes (with the younger and much lighter Mikey at the throttle and controls) and set the young century on its way to scientific discovery and invention.

Because of the hubbub of the airplane (the ticker-tape parades, the visit to the White House) the development of the motorcycle was delayed a bit, and when the time came to pay attention to it young Mikey wasn't so young any more. With a new family to care for Mikey sold the patent to his "motorized bicycle" to two sausage makers named John Harley and Steve Davidson. (Incidentally, this is why the term "hog" became synonymous with the motorcycle.) Mikey Wright went on to invent the mini-van and the Cuisinart in his later life.

Harley and Davidson made some critical improvements to the prototype (such as those streamers that you sometimes see coming from the handlebars and the loud tailpipe.)

Actually, the tailpipe was the critical defining moment of motorcycle development. On its first forays out into moving traffic the motorcycle was much too small and quiet to be noticed (despite Harley and Davidson's constant use of the "Motorcycles Are Everywhere" bumper stickers on the bumpers of their Model T's) and were constantly being knocked around by other vehicles.

It was a young intern at their shop in who tinkered with the exhaust system to get it to be ear-splittingly loud. He was rewarded with the chance to design his own cycle, and he promptly invented the "Chopper" which is, for you who are not up on such things, the motorcycle with the ridiculously long front tire set up and the high handlebars that require a seven foot arm span to operate.

The motorcycle is now firmly etched into the American myth (it helps to have a whole continent to drive across) and this year the Smithsonian Museum is dedicating an exhibit to Mikey Wright and his first "motorized bike' design.

Please make sure to park your motorcycle in appropriate marked spot in the museum's parking lot and be as quiet as you can when entering the exhibit.

And please, make sure to wear a shirt.

Lou The Election Referee

"All right you fifty states! Gather round me, I have a few instructions for all of you before we kick this thing off. D.C., Puerto Rico and Guam, I want you to come over here too, I want everybody to hear these instructions (even if there is no chance that you will ever get off the bench and into the game). I want there to be no excuses, no 'I didn't here you say that sir!' Once this election gets going it's very hard to hear over the crowd noise so let's get a few things established.

California! Take off those sun glasses, I want to be able to see your eyes. Nebraska! Put down that corn dog, this is no time for eating.

All right. My name is Louis, but you can call me 'Lou' or 'Sir'. I'm tasked with making this a nice clean, fair, well run election. There are fifty of you and you each do your own thing when it comes to casting ballots, so I want your complete focus here. We do this once every four years (or two years if you count those minor league Congressional elections) so you can give me your full attention for 24 hours.

Can everyone hear me? Good.

Okay, to you role players out there, Texas, Alabama, Vermont and Massachusetts, I'm looking at you. We all know which way you guys are heading, so I want to see some solid cheering from the sidelines tomorrow. Let's see some positive vocal support for your side and not any trash talk. It's easy to say lots of things from the sidelines, it's much harder when you are out there. When poor New Hampshire and Colorado are playing the game of their lives and getting beaten up on all sides by political adds and robo phone calls I want to see solid support, no cheap shots from the sidelines. Got it!

Virginia and North Carolina. You're new to this 'swing state' thing, having switched teams last election. Don't let the bright lights get to you. I want to see a well contested election down there. And no grumbling about 'city folk' changing the demographic of your state. We all have to play the hand we are dealt. Your votes count as much as theirs do, you just have to get all your people out to the polls.

New York and New Jersey, I know you are playing hurt. We all feel for you and respect you for even being out here today. If you need to cast paper ballots or vote a little longer we all understand. Both sides are rooting for you. You are an inspirational story.

Florida, Florida, Florida. I hear there is already some drama before you even stepped onto the field today. I recommend turning over the running of your elections to Disney World. Those folks know how to manage lines. Some nice '45 minutes till you'll be voting' signs would be great. And no more polling place bomb threats! That's how Pakistan plays. We don't do that in our league! Lets see a good game down there Florida. Don't make us go into overtime needlessly.

Okay Ohio. All eyes are on you. You are the focus of both sides and I see you even made it onto the cover of Sports Illustrated this week. Don't let all this attention go to your head. It's easy to get distracted by those bright lights and cable news crews. Just breathe and focus and play fair and we'll see how you do on Wednesday.

To you West Coast and East Coast states. I know there are huge differences in time zones, and the networks are eager to be the first to call this thing, but let's make sure we count every vote. I don't want to get any angry texts from folks in Seattle saying that it's no use voting if they live there. We all need to play our part. That goes for you too Hawaii and Alaska. I want to see you suit up and give it your best effort. You are citizens too, even if we are stretching the definition geographically speaking.

All right, that's about it. I just need to take Illinois aside here and talk about Chicago and all of the dead folks who seem to vote there every time. Come on Chicago, just because you have the blues doesn't excuse you from playing fair like everybody else out here.

Louisiana! Put that gumbo down and get your head in the game!

All right America, let's do this. A nice fair, well run, timely election can be done. Let's show the world the meaning of democracy!

Tweet! Play ball!"

The Candy Corn Conspiracy

Let's be honest. Not all candy is created equal.

Trick-or-treaters know this. And at the end of the night what is left in the candy bowl when all the goblins, Jedi's, princesses and superhero's have gone?

That's right. Candy Corn.

According to some in depth research, done just now, there is 20 million pounds of candy corn sold annually in the United States. That is enough candy corn to circle the globe 4.25 times if it was laid end to end. A single serving of candy corn is nineteen individual pieces and has 120 calories and the shelf life of a bag of candy corn is roughly 100 years, enabling the confection to stay on store shelves indefinitely. (That last fact was mine.)

Candy corn is shaped like those orange road construction cones, and coincidentally, if you were to shrink a road construction cone down to candy corn size, they would taste the same.

There has got to be some sort of government/big business conspiracy going on here to keep the candy corn manufactures in business, because I cannot conceive that this candy is making anyone any money.

If you walk the discount candy aisle the day after Halloween, it's all bushel bags of candy corn. They might as well call this the candy corn aisle.

So how are these candy makers still in business?

Kids are the ultimate demographic for taste testing candy, and they have no qualms about taking the candy they want out of the bowl and leaving the rest for the unfortunate souls who would follow.

And what would that left-over candy be?

Candy corn of course.

You remember what it was like to trick or treat don't you?

If you were like me you planned your costume right after you finished your back to school shopping. (Thanks for all those pencil boxes and corduroy pants mom - and for that killer Transformers Trapper Keeper.) You had your costume picked out by late September and your trick or treating route planned out a few weeks before October 31st. (And of course adjusting for ambient air temperature and maximum moonlight exposure on those back woods paths).

I grew up in the greatest small town for Halloween activities, because it was spooky even in bright sunlight.

If the town you live in had it's hay day about one hundred years before you were born, then it probably was like mine, filled with beautiful old falling down houses and those creepy wrought iron fences and gargoyles that were en vogue at the turn of the last century. And on your map you would mark out all those spooky houses that had the best candy, and plan your route accordingly. You knew the houses that gave you apples and pencils and that wonderful old lady on your street that gave out nickels and bags of candy corn and who could not tell Darth Vader from Tinkerbell.

And when you returned home after your wild adventures you would do that candy triage thing on your bedroom floor where you spread the candy out and arrange it in "most edible to least edible" order for consumption. And inevitably candy corn would be at the end of the row, right next to squirrel nut zippers. (If you have not had the pleasure of eating this rock hard, tooth shattering Depression era candy then stop what you are doing right now and fish the time machine out of the closet.)

Of course candy corn is not the only questionable candy on the block.

The runner up for awful Halloween candy would have to be Circus Peanuts, those inedible peanut shaped marshmallow lumps that though they look like peanuts, taste like a mutant banana and can also be used as a door stop or for insulating your house in the wintertime.

We must be a wildly nostalgic buying public, because we continue purchasing fruitcake at Christmas time, "Peeps" marshmallow chicks at Easter and candy corn and Circus Peanuts at Halloween even though no one actually eats any of these items.

So next year, when you find yourself in the candy aisle a few days before Halloween ask yourself this all important question: "Did anyone eat these when I bought them last year?"

And if the honest answer is "no" then put that bag down and slowly back away.

The Kit Kats are just a shelf away.

Local Man's Facebook Political Comment Changes Everything

A one sentence, poorly spelled political comment made by Manly, Iowa resident Gary Lufkin on his Facebook page has gone viral and changed the nature of the 2012 Presidential political race.

The comment, which overnight made its way onto t-shirts and bumper stickers, was so galvanizing and ground breaking that both major candidates for our nation's highest office, incumbent President Barak Obama and Republican challenger, former Massachusetts Governor Mitt Romney, have suspended their campaigns and agreed to form a coalition, "English Parliament" style unity government with both candidates agreeing to share power 50-50.

At a joint press conference held in the town of Antlers, Virginia (a spot chosen because of its swing-state status) President Obama and Mitt Romney appeared together to answer questions from the press core following the two candidates. When asked who would actually occupy the Oval Office Romney stated "Co-President Obama and I have decided to put our desks side by side in the office, that way communication will be ideal, and if we clear our desks we can play a killer game of table tennis when we can't agree on policy."

Added Co-president Obama, "Michele and I have also decided to give Co-president Romney and Ann the Lincoln Bedroom so that they can come over to the residence at night and play couples Scrabble and Monopoly, which of course Co-President Romney will win every time!"

This joke lightened the mood among the press core, who up until that point had been in total disbelief of the ongoing turn of events.

"It's a totally unprecedented historical event" says Princeton history professor Dr. Thomas Wells. "It is right up there with Lincoln's Gettysburg Address and Patrick Henry's 'Give me liberty or give me death' comments before the Revolutionary War." Wells went on to say "It's ironic that a comment, that from one angle could be seen as thoughtless and unbelievably insensitive, has actually served to bring our nation together in the way it was after the attack on Pearl Harbor."

Adds Iowa State History Chair, Dr. Sarah Chalmers, "we did a detailed analysis of Mr. Lufkin's 893 Facebook friends and found that they split roughly down the middle on political viewpoints, and that the comment had the amazing potential to offend and infuriate both sides with its inflammatory, knuckleheaded phrasing and completely thoughtless nature.

"It's pretty amazing" continued Dr. Chalmers, "that these eight words" might go down in history as the single most important words ever said this side of Moses' "let my people go." Because if you take away the historical nature of the comment and view the sentence in a vacuum, it's actually one of the dumbest, most simpleton comments I've ever read. That it did so much good is akin to those two hundred monkeys typing on keyboards and producing the full text of Hamlet."

When reached for comment at his residence in his parent's basement in Manly (a picturesque town overlooking the Mississippi River in Iowa), former short-order cook Lufkin (he has just today agreed to a 21 Million dollar book deal with Pendant Publishing) reflected on his role in American history.

"Well, the comment (which can't be reprinted for this story due to the ongoing copyright and branding process) just kind of came to me. I had just knocked off work at 11 PM and I was just logging in on my parent's computer to see pictures of my friend John's new ATV that he had posted, and for some reason that comment just came out. I think it had something to do with the political slogan on the t-shirt John was wearing in the photos."

When asked about the screenplay he is writing for the inevitable Hollywood movie that will be developed around the story, Lufkin commented "I just flew into LA last week and had an all day meeting with both Rush Limbaugh and Michael Moore at Dennys. Over cheesy waffle fries they agreed to co-produce and direct the film and we got both Charlton Heston and George Cloony to star." When informed that former NRA president Heston had passed away a few years ago Lufkin responded "yeah Rush brought that up, but he and Michael agreed to do one of those hologram things to work Heston into the film."

One group of people not yet on board with this newfound political good will is Congress. "It's one thing for two presidential candidates to get along so well" said Pennsylvania Senator Bill Winston, "it's quite another for the 535 members of the House and Senate to drop their differences. I mean, I just spent 10 million dollars in advertising for my campaign to get half of my state to despise the other half in an effort to win an extra 2% of the vote, and this guy's Facebook comment is changing all that?"

One House member, Rep. Paul Singer (Republican) from North Dakota has used the thawing of tensions in Congress to finally ask out Michigan Senator Cindy Lewis (Democrat) on a date. "I've had a crush on Senator Lewis for almost two years now, ever since they sent us on that fact finding mission to The Ukraine in the summer of 2010. But up until now my constituents back home would have set my downtown Bismark offices ablaze if I was seen eating out with the lovely Senator Lewis."

When informed of his status as a matchmaker in Congress, comment originator Lufkin got reflective.

"I'm sure glad I stopped for an energy drink on my way home from work that night. I think that started it all."

Gravel Smoothie

It's been estimated that Facebook is almost 90% cute pictures of people's children, 5% cute things that these children say, 4 % political diatribes and 1% "Farmville" requests. (Why don't all these folks plant actual gardens with all their spare time? Instead of poor posture and eyesight you get poor posture and tomatoes!)

As one of the 90% who post pictures of my wonderful daughters in comical situations or adorable moments around the town ("Look girls, a 'men working' sign; go pick up those shovels and pose for a picture!") I fully apologize to all those who don't understand the big deal.

The big deal is this: We are desperately trying to document something that has a limited shelf life. Like a National Geographic photographer who spots a rare jungle bird at sunset and has three minutes to get a good shot, the parents of our land are taking pictures like a paparazi following Brad Pitt around.

Because there is a clock ticking down.

In one way it's quite literal. My daughters are getting bigger every day, and "horsey rides" around the living room are rapidly descending into my lovely wife saying "let your father up girls, I think he's hurt his back. Help him to the couch and go fetch him the ice pack in the freezer."

There are also cute outfits that the girls wear that we want to get pictures of them in. But, occasionally they grow out of said outfit before we get a chance to get a photo. Sometimes we have held on to an outfit too long because we liked it so much, and the girls have to put a foot down. ("Mom, I can't breathe or raise my hands in this dress! Can we wear something else please!")

Sometimes I think that this also leads to our friends and family thinking that we are more financially hard off that we actually are. ("Son, your mom and I have noticed that the girls are wearing clothing that is three sizes too small for them. Here is $100 dollars. Why don't you guys go buy something nice and size appropriate for them to wear.")

With Halloween around the corner, brace yourself for another onslaught of cute children dressed as Captain America, a scarecrow or in the case of my girls, Batgirl and Spidergirl. (They share their dad's love of superheroes.)

And then there are the great things your children say.

For Christmas last year my parents gave me a notebook that was just for documenting the comic pearls that come out of my girls mouth on a daily basis.

For instance, this tidbit from my oldest daughter said in February of this year: "Dad, I really like Star Wars, especially that Tobacco (Chewbacca) character! He's so funny with his howls and growls."

I'll never be able to watch Star Wars again without thinking of Chewbacca as "Tobacco". I'm not sure how she mistook the immortal Chewbacca The Wookie as the material found in cigars (perhaps it's because they are the same color).

Or take for example my youngest daughter's favorite joke when she was three years old:

"Knock knock"

"Who's there?"

"Cheese!"

"Cheese who?"

"Cheese grape!"

Now the words "cheese" and "grape" are not in themselves funny at all, but said with conviction and enthusiasm my an adorable three-year-old in pigtails this joke is on par with anything Jay Leno or John Stewart can come up with on a nightly basis.

Needless to say, my notebook is bursting at the seams. Just the other day I was playing ice cream shop (the Nirvana location of all children, Heaven is basically where God keeps all the ice cream and we get to eat it for eternity without getting cavities or lactose intolerant) with my daughter in her school's sandbox and she topped off a cup of dirt with a few rocks and offered it to me through the ice cream shop window that is set up on the playground.

"What is this" I said, "a banana split?"

"No Dad! It's a gravel smoothie!"

A "gravel smoothie." Brilliant.

I then did something memorable (both for myself and the other kids on the playground). I took a swig of the gravel smoothie.

Now, it's been over 30 years since I last tasted sand in this volume (a big "thank you" goes out to my older sister for introducing me to the taste the first time) and I'd quite forgotten how difficult it is to get all of the particles out of your mouth. I'm still finding small rocks when I floss.

But in a weird way it was worth it, because my daughter (or her friends) will never forget that afternoon of playing, and it's another memory preserved.

So forgive us crazy parents of the world. Please extend us patience and grace as we talk to you about our kids and show you pictures. We are just trying desperately to capture something. We will return to our normal selves soon.

In the meantime, can I offer you a gravel smoothie?

Tattoos and other kinds of regrets

 A cold, cloudy fall day is a good time to think about regrets.

In my illustrious career as a high powered advice columnist I have yet to cover the subject of regrets and how to best manage them, and hopefully stymie any further ones.

This I regret. So allow me to pontificate on the subject now.

There are many kinds of regrets, but I like to sand them down into three categories, based on their impact and length of duration.

The first kind my lovely wife Special Sauce helped me to identify. She calls it the "Burger Regret."

Burger regret is exactly what it sounds like. A few weeks ago I made the unwise choice to eat two double cheese burgers in a sitting and about 11 PM that night I knew there was trouble brewing. The fact that I even have a bottle of Tums around indicates what the slow, cruel hands of time are doing to my stomach. As I sat there in bed, groaning and trying not to cry like a newborn my wise wife looked over from where she was slumbering and said "I think you have the burger regret sweetheart."

I knew she was right. I am no longer and iron-stomached, 18 year old college freshman who could eat greasy food with impunity. I am a 35 year old who needs to avoid the double cheeseburger.

Thankfully "Burger Regret" is only short lived and can be avoided by getting a salad instead. That is unless all the burgers in your life have given you a heart attack. That kind of Burger Regret is a little more impactful. I suggest following the two "B's" when it comes to burgers - "barbecues and birthdays". Any other time get the tofu dog.

The second category of regret is the "Haircut Regret." This regret lasts a bit longer (about a month or more depending on how drastic the change is) and should be thought out before you sit down at that salon or barber shop. If you are a female, please reconsider the Basic Training head shave or the bright green permanent die. This will not be as cool in photographs ten years from now, I guarantee you. For men, please avoid the perm or hairplugs. Vice-President Joe Biden is not fooling anyone. Those plugs he has almost ran off his head and strangled the moderator at last week's debate.

The third kind of regret is the most long lasting, and unfortunately is on the upswing among the youth of today.

When I was younger the only kind of place you could find a tattoo parlor was down by the docks in Brooklyn or at the back of a seedy juke-joint in Baton Rouge. But now even my small, quaint, wholesome New Hampshire town has a respectable one and you can find one on the main street of any American town. Your local, heavily tattooed character is now a "tattoo artist" and enjoys a bit of celebrity as he walks about town.

Tattoos coming out of the dark is all well and good, but the same problem exists; a tattoo is more or less a permanent decision, often made by tipsy college students on the Jersey shore boardwalk.

Yes young person, that Kermit the Frog neck tattoo makes quite a story back in the dorm, but in three years when you want to be taken seriously at that job interview in D.C. you are going to have to wear a turtle neck sweater in July.

Also, the names of your High School sweetheart on your shoulder will not seem like a good decision when you ask someone else to marry you ten years down the road.

Thankfully I only have to contend with the first kind of regret. I have no hair to cut and my arms are way to hairy (we're talking werewolf levels of fur here) to ever have a tattoo be visible unless it were those new, three dimensional ones I know someone somewhere is working on.

Ironically, the only place a tattoo would find space on my body is right on top of my ample forehead. Perhaps the names of my children tattooed right there would let my girls know just how much I love them.

I think when It was time to drop them off at their Junior High a few years from now, they would be the ones with the "tattoo regret".

Let's make good decisions people.

How I plan to become the funniest man in Nepal

For some reason, Jerry Lewis is still the funniest man in France. All these years later and the comedian now associated with Labor Day telethons is still packing out movies houses in Lyon. It doesn't make sense, but humor rarely makes sense. It either works for some unfathomable reason, or it doesn't. I got my beautiful wife to marry me mostly because I can make her laugh. It doesn't make sense, but I went with it because, well, a beautiful woman was available and eager to laugh. Eleven years later she is still laughing, and I hope I'm as funny to her at 85 as I was at 25.

Likewise, Celine Dion is not selling as many records as she once did (the movie Titanic came out 15 years ago, can you believe it?), but she is still selling out a daily show in Las Vegas and shattering wine glasses with those crazy high notes. She may not appeal to suburban New Jersey housewives as she once did, but she really scratches the itch of Japanese tourists in town to play the slot machines.

Who can say why different cultures find different artists appealing while similar artists can't sell a single ticket in the same country? There is a Boston area band that released two albums here in the states a few years ago, had a video on MTV, and now tours exclusively in Malaysia. They shut down malls over there. They were mobbed at the airport, but here in the states they were dropped by their record label because they didn't sell many records.

One of my roommates in college, Dan from Levitown, PA, is perhaps the funniest person I personally know. He was a Woody Allen disciple and always had me in stitches. Once we were free climbing a rock face and he was going on about something (not even trying to be funny) and I almost dropped off the face of the mountain because I was laughing so hard. Never have I been so close to death for such a wonderful reason.

But the thing is, in Dan's area of the country, he was not considered very funny. But after college he moved to Minnesota (a lovely lady was responsible for this, I'm told) and had people rolling in the aisles. He vowed never to leave the state.

My wonderful church (Oasis Christian Church in Concord - stop in some Sunday to see how strange and wonderful a Sunday morning can be) hosts a church body made up of folks from Nepal, and for some reason I slay comically with this group.

Now, I consider myself a pretty funny guy, especially in the southern parts of our country (I should move down there if I were serious about being a standup comedian), but I have never been as instantly funny as I am with my new Nepali friends. Within a few moments of talking with a couple of them before their Sunday afternoon service, I had a crowd around me as I explained how to play the bongos. I'm not sure what I said or did, but to have an instant audience like that in the palm of my hand is a pretty heady experience. I even got a smile and a small laugh out of the stern Nepali grandmothers in the room.

Then, the next week, it happened again, and this time I felt the pressure. It's one thing to be funny spontaneously, but when it's expected, it's a little more difficult. But I came through and had the crowd roaring (in their polite, Nepali style of laughing). One of them sought out my wife (Special Sauce Caldwell) and said, "Your husband is a very, very funny man."

All of this makes me think that I should start a standup comedy tour of Nepal soon. For the price of a plane ticket, I could soon be packing out theatres in Kathmandu (possibly the greatest capital name of all time) and maybe even give a command performance in the royal palace. I think all I have to do is work on my funny faces, play the bongos, and riff on folks from India and Pakistan. (Have you heard the one about the Pakistani man and the block of ice?)

So look for my dispatches from Nepal any day now. I just need to take a crash course in the Nepali language (also called "Nepali" - thank you, Wikipedia), figure out how to fill out my State Department visa forms, and, of course, find my way across the Hindu Kush mountain range.

Hindu Kush...Kush...I think I could really do something funny with that word.

In Which Princess Genius, Age 4, Joins Mensa

My life as a dad would be immeasurably easier if my two daughters, ages 6 and 4, each had an IQ that was 20 points lower or if I had one that was 20 points higher. Because, quite frankly, I'm starting to feel outgunned. And I have the feeling that it's only beginning.

Every parent desires for their children to be incredibly bright. We pray for a child genius, play Mozart for the baby while they're in utero, bombard them with Little Einstein videos while they are toddlers, and wait for their little neurons to start firing.

But I'm here to tell you that having a child prodigy has a decided downside; and having two of them biding their time while they plot world domination is starting to take its toll on this father and his "mid-level" intellectual capacities.

Don't get me wrong; I like to think I'm a little sharper than the average Joe. I've read Shakespeare (he's the one who wrote War and Peace, right? Not that I read that one. I read the other book he wrote, the biography of Larry Bird) and I know the word "escrow" (I don't know what it is, but I know the word) and I've seen all the Lord of the Rings movies and read five pages of the first book.

But I'm starting to feel the pull of my limited IQ in conversations with my daughters, Princess Supergirl and Princess Genius. Just the other day, my six-year-old had to remind me that a killer whale is actually really called an "Orca" and that Orcas never make it to the Antarctic; that's just a myth. Penguins really fear seals.

"Seals?" I said. "I don't think so. Let's go check."

After Princess Supergirl helped me log onto my computer, she guided me to a Wikipedia article and, lo and behold, she was correct. It turns out Orcas don't like the freezing waters of the Antarctic. I was stunned. My inner three-year-old wanted to say, "You're grounded, missy," but the more reasonable angels of my nature won out and I kissed Princess Supergirl on the top of the head and said, "You are the smartest kindergartener I have ever met."

It's good to have kind, genius daughters. Because they take it easy on their poor, limited papa and generally guide me through most of their higher-end discussions, like the one they had the other day about the feminist motifs found throughout the new My Little Pony cartoon series. They applauded me when I said, "I like the purple one with the wings."

"That one's called a 'Pegasus', Dad," Princess Genius replied. "It's a creature out of Greek mythology. It was said to carry the Greek gods around on their various missions."

I smiled back at her and nodded. I find that, if I smile and nod a lot during their conversations, I can create the illusion that I'm following the flow. But, in reality, I'm wondering things like, "Does Captain America sleep with that shield in his bed or does he have some sort of super briefcase that he puts it in at night?"

And then the other day we got the expected phone call from Mensa. (I immediately took my newfound Wikipedia skills and looked up this brainy organization.) When they realized that they were talking to someone who was basically 100 points below the bell curve, they asked to speak to my wife.

It was then I realized where this intellectual capacity came from: my wife, Special Sauce Caldwell! My children were the recipients of her cracking, recondite mental gifts. From me they inherited a large, round nose (they both wear it very well), a round head, and, thankfully, not the gene for male pattern baldness. Also, I have taught them how to make noises with their armpits and the secret way to always win at the game "Paper, Rock Scissors." (The secret involves waiting a split second for your opponent to show their hand.)

My wife talked for a half-hour on the phone with the Mensa folks and used lots of large words like "propagate", "recitative", and "membership". I made popcorn and washed the dishes. (I like to pretend the dishpan is a battleship and the cups are submarines, and it's World War II in the sink.)

It turns out that (as my wife explained to me) the girls had "won" an all-expense-paid trip to New York City to attend a "special ceremony" that she and the girls would be attending. I could either sit on a bench outside the Mensa headquarters or, if I wanted to, the folks at Mensa had kindly thrown in a free pass for me to go to Madame Tussaud's wax museum where I could spend the day pretending I'm giving the Queen of England a noogie.

I've opted for the museum pass and the family is eagerly awaiting the trip to the Big Apple this summer. (The girls even kindly explained the etymology of that NYC nickname. It turns out that it has very little to do with apples.)

So, I'm proud and confused all at the same time. This feeling, I'm sure, will not go away anytime soon. The girls are already talking about some sort of prize that the King of Norway gives away each year. (I made a Norway pun using the term "no way" that caused the two of them to rub my head and say, "Good for you, Dad!")

I'm so proud of my girls. Confused and proud.

12 Dead In 12 Days and Loving My Neighbor As Myself

Normally right now you would be reading an opening paragraph in which I would brazenly say something provocative like “of all the soda options out there, Moxie is clearly supreme.” (Which, by the way, is true.) This opening salvo would fall somewhere on the spectrum of “mildly amusing to hysterical” and would, I truly hope, lighten your day a bit.

But as I scan the local headlines these past few weeks, I can’t help but have a heavy heart for our state and the unprecedented amount of violence we have endured the past twelve or so days. “Twelve dead in twelve days” is a heavy headline for any place, but in a state as small and cozy as ours it seems more like a headline from the Vietnam War.

Well, I guess it’s a warm and cozy state for you and me. But for some folks the world is a cold dark place, no matter how beautiful or scenic your surroundings. Some folks live in a darkness that you and I could never understand or comprehend. In the beautiful month of April thirteen years ago Columbine high school experienced a violent act that could never really be explained. Then five years ago, Virginia Tech experienced the same sort of event, times three. These acts of mass violence were perpetrated by “troubled loners or outsiders” and it was only afterwards did people around see the signs of what was to come.

But that’s not the conversation that we usually have after a violent event like these, or the recent troubles we have had here at home. Usually talk turns to gun control or the current economic climate in small towns and down and out places, and the psychological ills of violent media like video games and movies.

These are worthy subjects of consideration, and worth more time and conversation than an internet posting or a bumper sticker can provide. But it seems to me, and to my simple mind that the heart of the matter lies in the heart of man. The above mentioned factors are critical, but they seem like factors in a larger picture.

Before the outbreak of the recent Iraq war a reporter on MTV asked the musician Sting if he was against the war, and he said that he was. When pressed as to what his solution to violent tyrants like Saddam Hussein was, Sting responded with perhaps the wisest words ever uttered on MTV (among the daily pearls of wisdom offered on this network). He said “I would respond with the old artist’s answer of ‘love’. And what I mean by that is that it’s impossible for me to believe that if Saddam Hussein had experienced true love as a child, the true fierce love of a family or community, that he could ever have become this way.”

When I heard this I knew Sting was right. It’s about love, but not the kind of greeting card, Nicholas Sparks novel version of love. It’s the kind that cares for others and shows concern and regard for those at the ragged edge of society, loners and troubled souls who fill our headlines these days.

When Jesus (another eminently quotable person) was asked by the religious establishment of his day what the most important commandment (or “thing to do”) was, he answered with these two elegant lines; “love the Lord your God with all your heart and love your neighbor as yourself.”

This answer truly bothered the organized religion folks of his day (that should make some of your very happy) because it was too simple. Surely living the virtuous life should be more complex than this.

But it isn’t. It’s so simple. (But as my wise Pastor, Jon would say, “just because something is simple that doesn’t make it easy.”) If the one thing I am called to do down here (in regard to other people) is to “love my neighbor as myself” then that means looking out for one another in a serious way. And I know that Jesus meant more than just our literal neighbors because when the questioners responded to him by asking “and who is my neighbor?” Jesus responded by telling the parable of the Good Samaritan, a story that most of us have heard at one time or another.

Unless you are in the latest bio dome project, in complete isolation, you have neighbors, both literal and figurative. We need to look out for our own. What if someone had reached out to one of the perpetrators of these crimes in our state way before things started to sour in their lives? For some, that reaching out would have had to happen long ago. But it’s not too late to reach out to those in need right now. It doesn’t have to be complex; it can be a small act of kindness or a minute of your time. But if we all did it, if we all looked out for that person on our right and left, on the other side of our cubicle wall or classroom, then who knows what we could head off in the future.

My six year old daughter, Princess Supergirl knows this is true. When we were talking at bedtime tonight she asked me what I was going to write about and I told her (in an edited “Dad” version of course). She responded by saying “There are a couple of kids in my class who don’t get along with anybody and are always alone. I try and show them love and sometimes it works and everybody has a good time and sometimes they are still mean.”

To that I said “It always ‘works’ sweetheart. Sometimes it’s hard but you never know what you can accomplish.”

Sometimes you can save a life.

Curse These Allergies, And The Trees They Rode In On!

Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m moving a little slow right not. I think I have a cold.

Medical experts say that every year you live your chances of getting the common cold go down just a bit as you build your immunity cold by cold. So, by the time you are elderly you have very little chance (statistically speaking) of getting the common cold. This means you may have crippling immobility, dementia and bowel issues, but hey, no colds!

Since I have had kids my head cold quotient has ticked up ten fold. The moment I hear a sniffle or spy a little dripping of their noses and I know that I’m in for it in roughly three or four days. If I have two or more colds in short succession I’m sure to get a sinus infection. A sinus infection is like having a three week hangover without involving any alcohol.

If you and I are in the same space for even a millisecond and you have a cold, I will most likely get it. It could be a sporting event like the Superbowl. You may be sitting in field level seats I may be located in the nose bleed section (or the nose drip section), but if you and I pass in the concourse on our separate ways to buy popcorn and hotdogs I will most likely catch your cold.

I don’t mean to say that I’m sickly or anything else like that, it’s just that I’m friendly. I like people too much. If I were to become a hermit and cloister myself off from the world then I would most likely have fewer colds. My wife, Special Sauce Caldwell (so named because she makes everything just a little better) is a teacher, and after many years in the classroom has built up the immunity of a water buffalo. (I’m told they have high immunity levels, or maybe that was a Scotsman and whiskey tolerance.) It’s not that I ever desire my beautiful wife to get the colds that my two girls and I get. It’s just we’re constantly amazed that the three of us can pass a cold back and forth with the speed of a ping pong ball at the Olympics while somehow she sails above the germs and viruses in a fortress of good genes and Superman-like immunity.

Oh wait, stop the presses. (I’ve always wanted to say that!) It turns out that I don’t have a cold at all! I’ve got the seasonal allergies, commonly known as hay fever (even though the spring variety comes from trees and not from hay). That explains the yellow stuff on my windshield that I keep drawing smiley faces in. I thought it was just a strange kind of yellow snow.

Now don’t get me wrong, I like trees. I’m all for trees. I am firmly pro-tree. It’s just I wish we could cut them all down.

Well, maybe that’s going too far. Maybe we could just move the trees. I hear there are de-forested parts of the earth in need of root systems to stem soil erosion and the Dust Bowl. Maybe these places would like the trees in my back yard. They can have them if they would like to come and get them. There must be a Craig’s List category for this type of transaction.

I’m going too far? Perhaps. Maybe we could just bag the trees for two weeks every spring and all the Goldenrod for two weeks in the fall. I love these two plants every other time of the year. But when I’m hiking through the back fields near my home and I come across a patch of Golden Rod in the late summer, before they turn into the evil spawns of Satan in the fall, I think to myself “these plant’s are gorgeous. I’m sure glad they are here to liven up the scenery on my walk-about. Now where did I put that flame-thrower?”

Or perhaps I could just spend two weeks at sea in the spring and two weeks in the fall. That wouldn’t be a tough sell to my wife at all. (“Honey, I’m going to spend our emergency fund on a two-week cruise this spring. I don’t want to go to the Bahamas or Trinidad and Tobago, but I have to! It’s for the good of the family!”)

Actually, I’ve put in an order for one of those Bio Domes. It should be coming any day now. Stop by for a visit sometime. It only takes an hour to go through the de-contaminating doorway process and you will just love the cotton-free, plastic pajamas and slippers you will have to wear while you visit.

Oh, and you brought me a housewarming gift! It’s a plant for my window? Thanks so much!

Put it right here in the furnace!

Living On The Corner Of Princess And Unicorn

Is anyone up for a rousing game of “Rainbow Princess Unicorn?”

Oh, you’re not familiar with “Rainbow Princess Unicorn?” It’s only the latest sensation sweeping the five-year-old scene these days. Allow me to elucidate your understanding a bit.

First you need to be a five or six-year-old girl. I cannot stress the importance of this point enough. A five or six-year-old boy will most likely pass on any offers to play Rainbow Princess Unicorn, even if they are offered the coveted positions of either “Dragon Scary Man” or “Prince Rainbow Unicorn.” And a seven-year-old or older girl will most likely to want to play something slightly more sophisticated, like “The Real First Graders Of Springdale Elementary School”, so you should stick within the confines of the Kindergarten set for your inaugural trip into the realms of Princesses, rainbows and unicorns.

Once you have gathered your players you should promptly assign the rolls each player will be using, because attention spans are usually pretty limited, and most participants have a parent waiting on the edge of the playground looking at their watch or cell phone and making those “you have one more minute to play” motions that parents have been making for thousands and thousands of years. It’s rumored that the biblical Moses and Aaron were roped into playing an ancient Mesopotamian version of Rainbow Princess Unicorn (which archeologists have determined was called “Sphinx Chariot Pharaoh Unicorn”) by their younger sister Miriam. If there are more than three players the leader of the group (you will know who this child is, you just will) may assign randomly selected rolls such as “pegasus, robot, power ranger or Yoda” to any and all latecomers and small brothers and sisters that might have accompanied them to the playground this particular day.

Next you have to determine your playing field. This is easy, because anything and everything in sight is “in bounds” and there doesn’t seem to be any concept of time or space. So really, Rainbow Princess Unicorn can continue ad nauseum straight into the minivan when it’s time to go. And depending on the intensity of that day’s game, it might pick right up where it left off the day before.

Though currently a national phenomenon, games of Rainbow Princess Unicorn have been reported in schoolyards on five of seven continents (and there is reportedly a cargo ship full of kindergarteners currently steaming towards Antarctica to spread the good word there).

Scientists and gamers have been studying the exact rules and mores of Rainbow Princess Unicorn as it plays out on the playgrounds and parks or our beloved nation, but despite the best and brightest minds applying themselves to the task, they have not yet discovered exactly what is happening when a group of youngsters (again, mostly females, with a few willing young men added to the mixture) actually start playing Princess Rainbow Unicorn. One bemused former NASA scientist recently opined off camera (there is currently a documentary crew on the scene at my daughter’s Kindergarten, trying to get an angle on this phenomenon) that he didn’t think that the game players were actually “doing” anything other than running pell-mell around the school yard and yelling incoherently to each other while getting extraordinarily dirty. This comment could not be confirmed as the NASA scientist was afraid of losing his grant money. Indeed, the study of this phenomenon is a burgeoning industry (err, field) among academics and is the choice topic of this year’s Nobel Peace committee.

Now I have no way of actually proving this, but Rainbow Princess Unicorn originated with my two daughters. For all the game’s complexity and breathtaking scope, it was actually thought up in about three seconds by the random putting together of my oldest daughter’s three favorite words. I was lucky to have witnessed the exact moment of the game’s origin, because I would have doubted the assertions of my daughters that it was “their game” that everyone was playing.

It’s a shame that I didn’t get the exact moment on video, because there will be no way to claim any cut of the inevitable Hollywood blockbuster that will be surely get made to cash in on this craze. I will simply have to go to the movie with my daughters and sigh loudly at every product placement, realizing that some of that potato chip money could have been mine. Well, actually it would have belonged to my two girls. But they are much too young to handle that much money, so I would have had to steward it for them until the time was right.

They would have just spent it on rainbows, princesses and unicorns if they had had their way.