Travels 2010: San Diego and Las Vegas

Travel-wise we stayed close to home in 2010 since my ambulation was still not 100% and also since my ankle is made of titanium, I could be worth money in 3rd world countries.

We knew of a couple that moved from San Diego to Cary, North Carolina, purchased a very nice house, moved into it then one spouse went into their new laundry room and started to cry because they did not live in San Diego anymore. That peeked interest. Speaking with anyone who lives in San Diego, was born and raised there, or like our friends, lived there for a time and left; they all claimed it was the best place in the US to live. Never asked why, wanted to find our ourselves.

Both Donna and I had been to Southern California before, just not San Diego. We found the area to be a wonderful place, Mediterranean climate, nice people, and many points of interest. We also noticed high taxes, the worst traffic in the world, and a huge density of people and structures. Plus Gertrude Stein could have been speaking about the Los Angeles area and not about Oakland when she said it "lacked theme". Still Donna and I wanted to find out what was so great about San Diego so we flew there last September.



Our first night we went to “Bring Your Pet Night” at Petco Baseball stadium just for the novelty of seeing a lot of dogs at a baseball game. The next several days we went to Balboa Park, a city park. The Park was wonderful! Balboa Park contains the world famous SD Zoo and 15 impressive buildings of Moorish, Italian, and Spanish influence surrounded by ornate, brightly tiled fountains and gorgeous flower gardens. Each building is a museum or cultural center. There is also an open- air Pipe Organ Pavilion with nightly organ concerts – we went twice.



Being in Southern California, we also drove up to La Jolla Cove to see the sea lions and rich people. We ate at Georges by the Sea in downtown La Jolla that had wonderful scenic ocean views. They sat us by the kitchen though, since we looked like most patrons’ grandparents and were probably not helped by the fact my khaki’s had the ever present soup stain from the previous meal - not black jeans with the pre-cut designer knee holes and the Mercedes CL600 convertible which the pants could sit in. The wait staff gave both hurried and slow service, probably unsure if we were early or late to our AARP meeting - the food was very good though. We then drove south to the less affluent Pacific Beach that was filled with an eclectic mix of young families, old folks, teenagers, and on the boardwalk, young people with tattoos and the pallor of a recent stay at a correctional facility. More our kind of people.

We took a city tour that brought us across the Bay to the iconic Hotel del Coronado, a landmark structure with large wings of white clapboards topped by red-shingled roof expanses and turrets. The back of the "Del" faced the beach and was landscaped with large swimming pools skirted with hundreds of white chaise lounges and very unique and beautiful plants. Donna knew many of the flower varieties without looking at the attending signs, I of course, added to the enjoyment by saying, "Look, a plant!" The beach looked perfect, but we couldn't understand why everyone was at the pool and not many on the beach. Why spend $500 a night on a beach vacation and go to the pool? It would be like getting a ticket to Augusta and then spending your time playing miniature golf. We knew the answer to the riddle as several Navy fighters skidded low across the beach (San Diego has a very large naval presence) and provided the same decibel level as the front row of a Stones concert. The backwash from the jet engines probably gave birth to the beach's divots. Just hope they wait to start the strafing runs during the off-season.

For such a large city, San Diego was easy to get around with one stipulation. If you travel there, be sure you have a map of the area with the shopping malls clearly marked. San Diegoans seem to place them in high regard. Directions always seemed to be given by major highways and malls. ”Right, you want to take a left about two miles before you hit Fashion Valley Mall… if you approach the Westfield Mall, turn around.” San Diego? People like it because it is Southern California without most of the attendant problems – size, traffic, etc….but has malls. If they ever put up a public sculpture downtown it will probably be a statute of a shopper.

LAS VEGAS




As you know, I have been extremely concerned with our economy. Since the past and present Administration has made no headway increasing the M1 money supply to kick-start aggregate lending. I, well, you know the old saying, “if you want to get something done….”

So I decided to take Donna to Las Vegas for two days on the way back to North Carolina.

We also stopped off to see our friends Kathy and Jay Healey: photo provided (I’m the handsome one.) Always a unique place, Las Vegas routinely commits a hit-and-run on the notions of a mundane and ordinary life. A pile of neon that stands in protest of “buy and hold, keep your nose to the grindstone, and a penny earned.” A city where the hare wins the race and still has time for the casino buffet. In the morning, coming out of the breakfast buffet at the Bellagio (Donna had pork – totally out of control!), she won $90.00 at the slots. So much for the economy! We did notice that a lot of the men of my certain age all seemed to be dressed entirely in black and had very young ladies on their arms; must have been their daughters. That night we celebrated our largess by doing some fine dining at a steakhouse in the Paris. Walking through the spacious dining room filled with men in black and their “daughters”, I noticed one large, elderly gentleman seated between two “daughters. He was dressed entirely in white – white shoes, socks, pants, shirt and suit coat. He had jet black hair. He was smiling. He looked like a lone cue ball resting on a black felt pool table of eight balls. He reminded me of a character in one of the old Universal International black and white horror movies from the 60s. You know the asylum orderly, dressed in a white uniform, who forgets to secure the lock of the maniac’s cell while picking up the supper tray. That always happened early enough in the movie to give you enough time to run up and get some popcorn before the maniac took his revenge. Snacks with carnage
.
We shouldn’t blame the orderly though. He was probably just thinking of his daughter.

Odds N Ends

So I was performing the most ugly and depressing task of the year. No, not doing taxes, dredging through all my files looking for, well, misfiled, tax receipts that were not put in the accordion tax folder. As you know my mind is filled constantly with great thoughts so small mistakes will happen. So I found this ditty in the "God" file. Yes I have a file with the heading "God" and I am sure I will hear about it on a date certain in the future.

"What!, you put Me between the Auto Insurance file and the Fidelity Diversified International Mutual Fund folder? I couldn't go first? I couldn't be put at the beginning of the drawer? Not important enough to you, Heh?"

Can I say, "Sorry God, don't take it so personally." Can you say "personally" to God? Need help here.

Anyway, I found this poem in the "God" file and thought it would apply for this winter - whether you live in New Hampshire or not. I have no idea where it came from so cannot attribute to whoever wrote it.

It's winter in New Hampshire
And the gentle breezes blow
Seventy miles an hour
At thirty-five below.

Oh how I love New Hampshire
When the snow's up to your butt
You take a breath of winter
And your nose gets frozen shut.

Yes, the weather here is wonderful
So I guess I'll hang around
I could never leave new Hampshire
I'm frozen to the ground!

-------------------------------------------

Here's a question you never want to ask. "How old am I?"

So I woke up yesterday and started on my first cup of coffee with the newspaper. I was reading about an article on Baby Boomer financial net worth from ages 45 to 69. 45 years old? Someone would have to have been born in the late 60s to be 45. Isn't the definition of a Baby Boomer someone born during or 10 years after WWII? I may have missed it, but I don't remember a birth spike during the Nixon administration. I mentioned this to Donna and pointed out I was very happy to be turning 65 this April.

"You're not going to be 65 this April", said wife Donna.
"Of course I am, don't you think I know how old I am?"
"Apparently not".
"I was born in 1947. I'm 64!"
"No, you're' 63 right now - do the math."

I didn't have pencil and paper and with only 1/2 cup of joe in me, I found mathematical calculation beyond reach, but not the laptop, so I fired it up and goggled, "How old am I". It brought me to a Mathkids site, punched in the DOB and behold - 63 going on 64!
It even tells me how old I am in weeks, months, and seconds. There's a lesson here someplace; just not sure what it is.

-----------------------------------
With the same cup of coffee, I tuned into CNN and a crawl came on that indicated the advent of a new phone app for Catholic confessions. As with most banners; just headlines; no details. So with the laptop already fired up, I googled and received sketchy information on the new smart phone application. For $1.99 you can download a "practice" confession of sins with a questionnaire and different acts of contrition. I am not making this up. I guess this is for people who can't differentiate between the minor sins like wearing the color blue with the color green and the really bad ones like premeditated murder, buying one of those foreign compacts that look like a wood shim on wheels, or worse, if you're a woman, having one of those handbags that can contain everything you've ever purchased plus a cord of firewood - then swinging it helter skelter in the checkout line at the local supermarket with all the force of a demolition ball and chain against the side of a crumbling skyscraper. It's not a handbag, it's checked baggage...don't get me started.

In my experience, going to confession is one of the most difficult parts of the Faith. Who wants to tell anyone, let alone God, their sins, but tell we must (see John 20:21-22, 2nd Corinthian 5:18, or my personal favorite because it is the simplest, Matthew 16:19). Whenever I'm around a bunch of whinny baby boomers (probably the 45 year olds) complaining about how things "used to be", I think of the people in church waiting for confession on a Saturday afternoon. If you walk into a Catholic Church, any Catholic Church on that afternoon, you will see people of all ages; young parents with their kids in tow, geezers like me, and most heartening, high schoolers and college age kids. These people's presence demonstrate a triumphant of love and humility over complacency and ego. They all try to get closer to God and humble themselves. It is not easy and must be particularly hard for the younger ones trying to find their way in life, their first instinct is to lean against themselves as their only support. To my mind, they are involved in a heroic act. You want a hero - don't look to Indiana Jones, look to Joe Jones walking into the Confessional. So, unlike the 45 year olds, I think we are doing just fine.

Just hope the phone app helps and not hurts. It will be another reason I won't be getting a smart phone since I'm always looking for a plan B. I can see myself doing the app then taking my time about actually going to Confession. I hope there aren't many Catholics like me. If there are, in about six months, I can visualize the Priest giving a short homily called, "Smart Phone Sins Stink (To High Heaven)." We'll see.

Travels 2010: Stand-Bye

"And this is good old Boston,
The home of the beans and the cod,
Where the Lowells talk only to Cabots,
And the Cabots talk only to God."

-Harvard University Toast

I work for an Airline and if lucky, get to fly at low cost if there is an empty seat. So last October, Donna and I wanted to go visit with my sister and some falling leaves in Southern New Hampshire so we sauntered to Terminal C at Raleigh Durham Airport one morning and awaited flight. During the relaxing afterglow of the TSA inspection station, we ran into Stephanie and Adam Parken with their delightful one year old child, Everett. We know them through our friend, Kristen Symank (See Get Shorty-2009 post). When God wants to introduce a gentle smile in your life, He introduces you to Kristen or someone just like her...so Adam and Steph come highly recommended.

Steph was going to Texas to visit family and Adam got a gate pass to assist in transport; his help was needed since Steph was pregnant with another child. As I watched them with Everett I could see that if parenting skills were measured against athletic grace then Steph and Adam would reside on the ark of a Ted Williams' swing of the bat. The Parkens were natural at it and the world will only get better with a new addition under their tutelage.

We bid adieu and went to our different gates. They left, we didn't. At takeoff Donna and I were on the wrong side of the jet bridge door for the 7:15am through JFK, the 9am through Washington and the 10:25 through Chicago. I opened the new Michael Connelly mystery, then closed it and had an epiphany! I could help Adam and Steph give their new child a name! The fact that I don't know them well shouldn't be an impediment...I'm sure they will be thrilled. They can now devote all their time and effort toward little Everett and their new baby!

Given thought, most names have become too mundane, too, well, known. I always thought it would be interesting to name a child after a "thing" instead of a person. It opens up a lot of lanes. Architectural?: Chrysler(building), Empire (State Building), or Golden (Gate)...or perhaps a natural resource: Grand (Canyon), Lake (Michigan), or Missouri (Breaks). No? Not highfalutin enough? How about naming her after an S&P corporation? Proctor, Gamble, Microsoft, or Kubota (tractor)? No?

I liked the idea of a multi-national corporation though, but let's get classy. Name her after a European bourses listing: Peugeot?...ugly car design...Rio for Rio Tinto?...yes, I like that except they are currently immersed in a scandal. Too bad, Rio would be nice and also hit several name categories to boot.

What to do. Then it hit me. How about Everette? Since they had an Everett (boy), and probably getting a girl, Everette...they would be a matching pair. Think of the money they could save in initialed clothing. Aren't I good! Everette it is!

Yes?

No, No, No. It is a horrible idea! Everette - would inevitably be mispronounced as "Eva-ret" which sounds like an experimental drug in its third week of FDA trials. Besides, what if Steph, Adam, or both develop speech impediments in later life. Couldn't you just hear Steph yell to the kids from the kitchen, "Ava-ret don't forget to wear the pink shoes with the blue dress." Too much money from Everett's 529 college fund would have to be diverted for therapy.

Then it hit me! From now on all children should have two names; one "written" and one "spoken". Look at the name, Everette. Doesn't it look grand on the page - almost poetic? Look how the letters live well together in print. I just can't give it up. Everette conjures up a romantic notion not observed since Evangeline, the epic tone poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow that chronicled the forced move of Canadians to Louisiana during the French and Indian Wars in the early 1700s. Perhaps some erstwhile Longfellow years from now will write about Everette, a tale involving celestial truth and maybe some intergalactic space zombies. You never know.

So they can name the new baby whatever spoken name they like (anything from Sara to Snappy works for me), but I hope they take Everette as the written name under serious advisement.

Donna and I never made it to Boston. No empty seats. I guess the Lowells and Cabots were having a family reunion.

I wonder what their first names were?

I LIKE IKE: Travels 2010, South Dakota

Just put a tire in each corner of my parents' lives and they knew bliss. My father received two weeks vacation every summer and in one of those weeks my parents would motor my sister and me through New England and the Mid-Atlantic states. As soon as we hit the road, their demeanor would lighten and take on the joy of expectation, even though as kids we were, well, bored. For them it wasn't about seeing, it was about movement. Jack Kerouac, the author of On the Road, could write about, "What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing?...But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies." My parents would second that, right after they stopped at a Stuckey's or HoJo for lunch and gas; then go.

Dwight Eisenhower, when he was Supreme Allied Commander during WWII, was impressed with the autobahn system in Germany which allowed them rapid movement of interior lines of defense those highways afforded them. When elected President in the 50s, Ike replaced our patchwork of roads with a federal interstate highway system. Thinking about it, this act was the his most lasting legacy and the last time a a President did something that affected everyday people. (Jimmy Carter you say? You could be right, the first of 24 military satellites were launched in the Carter Administration hereby ensuring everyone's security from nuclear attack in the latter 20th Century...and more importantly technology that led to the GPS. Men never, ever had to ask for directions again.)

So it was inevitable that when my father retired from the shipyard in the late 60s, he and my mother drove from sea to shining sea, way past the mileage allotment of a summers' week. They took two months. When they returned I asked my father what part of the country he liked best: Rocky Mountains, Pacific Northwest, high deserts of the Southwest? He always answered the same, "The Black Hills of South Dakota." The Black Hills of South Dakota? what did I miss? So after 40 years, I decided to find out.

Donna and I took a connecting flight through Chicago then westward to Rapid City. The flight was uneventful. If I had read Flying for Dummies, I would have learned not to accidentally pack the book and newspaper in the checked bag. But I didn't so I did. The time was spent perusing the latest Skymall magazine from the plane's front pocket ("X5 Hair Laser - the Next Generation! It's all over the news media! Only $299.95....Temple and eye Massager. An air bag massager that expands and contract around the eye socket! All for only $149.95!) Whoever said it was the journey and not the destination was never stuck in a plane for 3 hours with Skymall.

Upon flight approach we saw strings of hills in deep shadow fronted by vast, green open spaces and a sense of infinity and space you only feel west of the Mississippi. It was as if when God created our country's topography, East to West, He reached half-way, stopped, then remembered to give us a sense of wonder and the never ending...God must be getting older just like the rest of us.

But give us a sense of wonder He did. East of the Mississippi, dirt has definition. Every meadow has an end. Even if we cannot see it over the rise, we sense the far side of it. In the East, a stand of trees is a complete stand of trees that is to be admired within its space, but not much is left to the imagination. The West gives a sense we are one grain of sand on an endless beach, a small part of God's creation, and somehow that knowledge gives comfort and humility because we know we are part of something large. In South Dakota there are gentle sloping folds of pastures dotted with an occasional Jericho tree and meandering cattle - all garnishments on nature's entree; just miles of space between between the Badlands to the South and Black Hills to the North. We only get that sense of vastness in the East when we are close to an ocean.

Donna and I admired the honesty of the place. No town had more than two syllables in its name; Lead, Custer, Deadwood, and Spearfish, etc. Most people we ran into knew only friendly persuasion and not argument. Isn't it always interesting that people are the nicest and friendliest in areas where they are least in number? Why is that? We've always found North Carolina folks friendly, but even the Tar Hells don't strike up conversations with strangers in restaurants who are a table away. They do in South Dakota. And speaking of restaurants, we were expecting that fine dining would involve the distribution of paper napkins instead of instruction to use your sleeve, but we found some great eats thanks to our friends jack and Anita Marshall who went a month before and dutifully took great notes for us.

Yes, we saw Mount Rushmore. A very impressive work of art, but what most impressed us was the area the "Presidents" were located. This area of the Black Hills is (and was) considered sacred ground to the Lakota Sioux Indians; a spiritual place they used for burial grounds. Life is not fair. If the Indian Wars in the late 18th Century had a different result, the Lakota may have gone in and paved over Arlington Cemetery and put up some grand totem poles, so Donna and I admired the sculptures, but not the chosen location.

On the last day we were on a road that cut through gulches and ascending spurs from Deadwood to Rapid City and came upon a most delightful sight. Above the road, the Hills were covered with clouds that skirted the hilly apexes and afforded the meadows a birthing room for rainbows - a lot of rainbows. We stopped counting at 8. Some spanned miles and some spanned no more than 100 yards. Goodness we even saw a double rainbow! Never have seen anything like it, even in Hawaii.

So why did my father like the Black Hills so much? They don't have the majesty of the Rockies or the artistic epiphany realized when sunlight plays against the complicated shadows of the Grand Canyon. They looked no different that the White Mountains of New Hampshire or the Green Mountains of Vermont - just shorter. What gives? My guess is that my father liked the Black Hills because it was really the first inkling of what was to come as my parents drove further West. The ride from New England to the lower Mid-West provides some scenery of interest, but not great interest. The Dakotas invite change and a glimpse of the wonders to come. Kind of like focusing only on a small finger of Mount Rainier outside Seattle, then looking up and realizing the whole magnificent Mountain.

Happy 2011!!

I hope you and I have a very smooth, blissful, and virtuous year, but between you and me - we know that's not going to happen. It never does and probably is not supposed to. During this year the windows of life will at times fog up and have scratches on them. Sometimes we will loose direction because we close our eyes. Sometimes we will walk unexpectedly into life's sharp elbows, other times the injuries will be a matter of self-infliction.

But there can be times of beauty. Ms. Cassidy is no longer with us, but while she was here on earth you can tell that her heart had a good talking to with her voice. For us, during the in-betweens of healing, I hope and pray that you and I, like Ms. Cassidy, can see the beauty and good in life.

Now Let Us Praise Famous People

Someone said to me yesterday, "Seasons Greetings" and I immediately wondered what I had ever done to them? It seems that as children we enjoyed Christmas immensely (for all the wrong reasons), then had to pay for it the rest of our lives. What? You think I'm about to start on some self-absorbed rant about how stressful life is and particularly the Christmas season? That I should just man-up, relax, and find meaning? Well, Mister, I have two questions for you. Haven't you read any of my previous posts? And when exactly did you retire?

Wasn't this supposed to get better and easier as we get older? Every year I reach a point of maximum frustration. Too much to do, not enough time to do it. Through the years I've tried every play in the playbook against the nickel defense we call "Christmas". It is 4th down, 18 yards to go and on top of everything else, all the outside Christmas decorations are not up yet; I'm the last one in the neighborhood...as usual.

Why do we celebrate Christmas at the end of the year? Most jobs I've had called this season the fiscal fourth quarter, setting up budgets for the next year, wondering where the money would come from, wondering if lay-offs would occur, or how meager the salary increases would be. Add year end personal tax planning to the mix and the angst that comes with trying to figure out the dreaded schedule D form. If we want to have wars with less casualties, we just need to threaten the offending country with the implementation of our tax code if we are victorious. Don't send a written act of war, send a schedule D.

And shopping. Not my favorite activity. I was just in a Target today and they moved everything. How could they do this to me! What was in the front of the store last year (make that two years ago - I was in recovery last year - the best Christmas ever!)is now in the back and the goods in the back I couldn't find because now they the sell food! It gets worse. After the shopping comes the strangest practice ever: I married into a family that gift wraps presents - so now we have to wrap everything. Didn't anyone think this through? We wrap so someone can tear the wrapping off and get to the gift which would be easier if it had not been wrapped. The Mullen house never wrapped; if my mother saw wrapping paper in a store, she would probably think the rolls would make for colorful shelf lining. But not Donna's family. On Christmas day, I'll bet if Donna's mother asked for a life saver, someone would run upstairs and gift wrap it with a bow.

And worship: the most meaningful aspect of Christmas. Let's see - I get off work at 4:30pm, make it to church by 5pm, then show up on time (7pm) to the "once a year family Christmas Eve if anyone is late the Holiday is ruined dinner."

God disappointed us. Why was he born in December?

Isn't there anyway to salvage this" Joan Didion said that time is the school life uses to educate us. Can I get my time back? If someone told me that I would wake up dead tomorrow, what thoughts would ride the night? Would I be full of "if only?" If only I took those 2 inches off my waist (OK, 4 inches), if only I saw the horses run at Sienna, if only I had been able to impress one important person, if only I had been a better husband and father, if only my mind was filled with highfalutin thoughts? If only I had more time.

Well maybe...maybe not. I think the answer for finding value in life, at least for me, may lie with some guys I met two weeks ago Saturday in Fuquay-Varina. The three guys, Ken, Tim, and Jack are friends of Larry the bee guy (See last post, Burn Notice). They spend their Saturday's cutting, splitting, stacking, and then delivering firewood through the auspices of the local food bank to families in the area. I forget if they said they had made 120 deliveries or delivered to 120 families, but their effort is consistent and impressive. I don't know them, but they worked with ease and without fanfare. I doubt if they had a notion of "good work", i.e., I'm now going to do "good work." I sensed their charity was part of them, natural, like breathing.

Marc Clark, picture above, has also assimilated God's intention into his life. Marc, in his spare time, helped work on a Habitat for Humanity house in Sanford. He and many others worked on the house over a long period of time. I know Marc and know that he shares the wood guys' sensibilities. His sense of purpose and charity is not second nature to him. It is his first nature.

There are many people like Marc, Ken, Tim, and Jack. They have driven God's van full of charity and love, parked it in their respective driveways, removed the wheels and put the van up on blocks making it a permanent part of the property...and of them.

We (I) can learn a lot from them.

Burn Notice

I've never lost a person for 20 years. I lost my wedding ring once. I put it down someplace, the ring not the person, while I was doing some repair and, well, misplaced it. Wife Donna told me I should never loose the ring...or else; so I never told her and she always seemed to be pre-occupied with something very important whenever I was about to bring it up. I didn't want to burden her. I'm a caring person.

I eventually found the wedding ring just where I left it - two house moves later. It was in the top drawer of a toolbox under some screw drivers, so I guess you can say it was never missing, just misplaced. Same with the person.

Gene Burns had the premier talk radio program when I lived in Boston back in the 80s. There were many talk radio programs in Boston, but his was by far the best. It has been said that the major preoccupation of Bostonians is "politics and revenge" and "revenge" not only took a back seat; it spent a lot of time locked in the trunk. A minor political appointment on the Board of, say, Parks and Recreation gave life to more animated conversation and discernment of twisted motivations than an overcrowded lifeboat in a very stormy sea. And that would be just the first day.

Gene Burns was a master at lifting discussion of those events to a higher level. His knowledge of government and mastery of common sense, mixed with a zest for life pushed his show several rungs above all others. His political slant was libertarian and had in fact run for President in the Libertarian Party. You would have to ask him the finer points of libertarianism, but if the platform of the party took on the shape of interior decoration then I think the walls would be white, sans doors, windows, furniture, or drapes (nihilism on the other hand would be painted black and any entrants would be required to wear a blindfold). His familiarity with the Constitution, Bill of Rights, and the Federalist Papers made listeners bring their "A game" to the calls. One would think James Madison and Thomas Jefferson were in the next room on a smoke break and could be beckoned at any moment. Gene also discussed things of narrow interest, but with such skill and affability that he engaged his listening audience. I remember one time he spent three hours talking about photography (before digital); not an easy thing to do on the radio, and he had the listeners' attention from beginning to end. Lastly, he was not doctrinaire and at times would change his position on an issue after listening to callers' differing points of view. Imagine that! In short, he created a forum where opposite ideas could shake hands.

I'm not sure when he left Boston, I left in 1990. I found out he went to San Francisco to radio station KGO, but pre-internet, pre-computer, I lost track. Every once in awhile, on certain issues, I wondered what he thought and if his diastolic possessed a comma, but without web casting I never knew. On a recent search, the KGO website now allows us to listen to his program. Give it a try if you like superb radio.

Here's How:

-Goggle "KGO"
-click on "810am"
-click "On Air" then scroll down to "Gene Burns"
-Find "Gene Burns daily podcasts", click "listen"
-If you need to download the supporting player, take that option.

I must say I was surprised how much he has mellowed. I haven't listened enough to hear if he has changed many fundamental positions, but even if he has - so be it. Changing seats in the political area can sometimes afford a better view of the fireworks.

Mr. Burns is a two-fer. If you give him a try you may just learn (like me) that the "Reserve Clause" is not your favorite restaurant's reservation policy. And if it applies, you may learn something else as well.

I don't want to overdo this, but I think his show provides for many of us some needed purchase into community. TV was hailed as a "global village" back in the 60's, an expectation it could never realize. TV is a wonderful and valuable medium, but not an interactive one. Radio, although not perfect, can let us ride the ripples of conversation and for some of us, an entree into something larger than ourselves. Talk radio is not therapy, a substitute for companionship nor should it comprise a large part of our lives, but it can be a purpose for good. It can forge connection or at least be a condiment for that connection.

Again, I don't want to overdo this, but at times I think we Americans (meaning me: I try to remember CS Lewis admonition to look in the mirror before you look out the window) tend toward the solitary, and at other times toward comity. In other lives I've led, the solitary was usually dominant. I didn't have other people's voices in my life. I'd work among people all day, go home at night and keep my own company. My choice...except when the loneliness visited and settled in for the night then self worth and value gets questioned. I had a feeling I was a character in an Edward Hopper painting. I was of life, but not in life. Like the usher in Hopper's New York Movie painting. This is the time when you may may want to turn off the TV, turn on the radio, talk to God, and talk to another person - get connected to something outside yourself, something bigger than yourself. Now I am out several nights a week - with other people! There were past times in my life when that would be as unlikely as seeing a nun dressed in full tunic and scapular seated in the 2nd row of a World Federation Mixed Martial Arts cage fight, but you just never know.



The opposite of me is my friend Larry Williams of Fuquay-Varina. His avocation is beekeeping. Can you think of a more solitary endeavor? I don't think the bees hold up their end of the conversation too much, but Larry likes people. He enlists friends to help him harvest (harvest?) the honey; bottle, then sell at the local Farmers' Market. He is past President of the NC Beekeepers Association and goes to meetings on a regular basis. Very social. Larry will love Gene Burns! They will be like two bees in a pod.

There are a lot Grumpys and a lot of Larrys in the country - we can both benefit listening to Mr Burns with his curiosity of all things and a willingness to share. He is good at what he does and as my friend Judi Gaitens said...the nature of good is to give itself away.

I think even the nun in the 2nd row may agree with that.