Blog Central aka The Front Porch

Laurie at I Can Leave My Hat On (my blog mentor) asked her visitors to post their 'work stations.' You can see why my blog is called George's Front Porch.

Items of note (from left to right)

Antique trunk that my wife refinished. It contains family photos and momentoes and will eventually go to daughter #1. We have an antique tool box of similar size for my son and another trunk (still awaiting sandpaper) for daughter #2.

The radio on top of the trunk sat in my parents' garage for years. My dad would listen to it while he worked in the garage or on our car, and my friends and I would listen while we played. There's a distinct (and pleasant) memory of cigarette smoke, beer and motor oil associated with it. The radio originally belonged to my mom's Aunt Blanche (Domingue), who lived in Lake Charles.

A reflection of the flash because George doesn't know how to take pictures.

An antique sled that my wife loves. It's part of one of those winters that she's hoping we'll eventually have. MAJOR part of Christmas decorating around our house.

The book case also came from Aunt Blanche's. It's one of the pieces of furniture I salvaged after my parents' house burned.

Back two steps: that's my Austin Motorola Marathon coffee mug (with hot tea to help deal with the flu). I feel like a real runner when I use it.

Things to Do When You're Bored #1

I've been home with the flu since Monday afternoon, and I'm surprised I've lasted this long. Here's the first of what I hope won't be many tips on what to do when you're stuck at home and all the traditional activities have run dry.

Check out maps.google.com.

Here's an aerial view of my house. It must be in the winter, not just because my grass is dead but so is everyone else's. If it were summer, everyone else's grass would be green. That's my daughter's 1993 Jeep Cherokee in the driveway, the first of many substandard vehicles forced upon her in high school.

And here's a street view of my house (this kind of scared me when I first realized this was available). We're still trying to throw away that white thing on the curb; we just can't seem to put it out the week the City will pick it up. And that's my pick-up truck . . . adds an all-new manly appeal to me, doesn't it?

The street views are taken by a random crew that cruises up and down every street in America (or at least that's the eventual intent anyway). In the street view, you can actually 'walk' up and down the street, and I've heard there are groups of 24/7 Internet users who've searched to find the same people in more than one street view. A friend told me of one guy who'd supposedly given up smoking and his friends busted him via Google map. If I come up with another Things to Do When You're Bored idea, I may send it to those people.

By the way, we didn't have a cotton candy explosion. I think all the pink is from enlarging the photos.

Here's an aerial view of the building where I work, International Plaza in Fort Worth. I still haven't figured out what's international about it except that I understand that the owner also owns Rosa's Cafe and Tortilla Factory restaurants. We've got a pretty good cafeteria of our own on the first floor. Philly Cheesesteak sandwiches are the best! So are club sandwiches. And Wednesday is chicken wrap day. Breakfast burritos are available every day, too.

For those of you into George trivia, the building to the northeast of International Plaza is formerly the Boy Scout office, where I worked for about 10 years. At that time, the salad bar in International Plaza's first-floor cafeteria was the best. It's okay now; I just don't eat as healthily (Philly Cheesesteak and breakfast burritos vs. salads . . . duh!)

Here's a street view of International Plaza. I'm just about where the arrow is pointing. I've always described the building as looking like a Coors Light can (see the cylinder to the left). My part of the building is rounded, too, and so are the hallways inside. When I first started working there (it's an engineering firm, and stop me if you've heard this before), one of our more introverted engineers was trying so hard to not make eye contact with me as we walked toward each other in the hall that he missed the curve . . . smack!

I did look up the White House at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Nice aerial view but no street view, and I didn't see George W. or Laura out on the lawn. I'm just hoping now that I haven't made somebody's list for downloading a satellite view of the White House.

I'd better go back to work soon.

Our Dreams: A Family Tradition

When I sleep, I dream. Not simple, random dreams; but continuous, vivid dreams, from the moment I close my eyes, when the commercials and previews start, until I wake up following the final feature.

Vivid dreams seem to be a family tradition. My dad would talk in his sleep and often would 'act out' his dreams. During a weekend stay at a local Scout camp (I worked for the Boy Scouts for about 20 years), we stayed in cabins; and in our cabin, his side of the bed was up against a wall (apparently his side of the bed at home wasn't). From my room across the cabin, I heard him smack in to the bedroom wall, later learning that he had jumped up in bed and chased someone right into the wall.

I spent my 40th birthday in my dad's hospital room, where dehydration was one of the doctor's concerns. Apparently, hallucinations are a symptom of dehydration. After an evening of zig-zag, sometimes-difficult-to-follow conversation, my dad asked me to get the nurse a Coke. I realized that he thought she was his home-health nurse when I looked at her name tag, and it wasn't the same name he was using.

I went to the nurse's station to ask what to do about his hallucinations. The nurse said to gently bring him back to reality and let him know that he's hallucinating. Some time around 2:30 a.m., I'd pretty much resorted to 'yeah, dad. whatever.'

I've carried on the tradition, in many cases, much to the concern of my wife. A couple of recurring dreams from my earlier parenthood days:

- I'd dive out of bed to keep my kids from falling, a dream that made a trip to the dome of the Texas capital building a nightmare (get away from the railing! Daddy, we want to see!) and a visit to the Grand Canyon a real nerve-tester.

- I'd stand up in bed and reach up to get the kids off the ceiling fan, a dream that significantly improved my wife's sleep-to-alert reflexes (I'm sure her response saved my fingers and the top of my head many times).

My 'favorite' has its own place in the lore of our family history, a story oft' repeated 'round campfires and television sets.

My wife stayed up late to watch a movie with daughter #1, and I'd already gone to bed. She walked into our room, and I jumped out of bed, ran to her and grabbed her by the shoulders. With what I would call my best Jack-Nicholson-'Here's-Johnny' leer, I started shaking her and shouting, 'I've got you now!' My wife's not petite, so fortunately I woke up before she and daughter #1 threw me down the stairs (I did make it a point to tell a friend because I'd heard that sleepwalking was a solid defense for murdering your wife if there's documentation of previous, similar events . . . I have since heard that it's not).

Now it seems like my action-filled dreams are limited to seeing 3-D geometric patterns on the ceiling, usually well-lit, and me waking up my wife to show her and explain the details. She's usually not interested.

But the tradition continues . . .

So far, daughter #2 only talks in her sleep. When my son was much younger, I woke up to him standing next to my side of the bed. Fortunately, my ever-vigilant wife sounded the alarm, 'He's still asleep . . . and he's about to pee!' When daughter #1 was younger, I followed her down the stairs in the middle of the night and caught her pulling down her pajama bottoms as she was getting ready to pee in the middle of the living room.

I have the flu this week, and I left work early Monday. After daughter #2 came home from school, I went upstairs to take a nap while she went across the street to play. Unfortunately, daughter #2 has become quite the 5th-grade socialite, and her friends started ringing our phone just a few minutes after she left. Around 5 p.m., I gave up and called her to come home.

From 5:17 p.m., when I gave her the phone, until 6:35 p.m., when my wife called, there were no dreams.

For somebody who always dreams, that's pretty frightening. When daughter #2 woke me up to talk to my wife, I felt like I had to crawl out of a deep black hole to wake up. And that darkness is all I remember about those 78 minutes.

Pretty scary, although I'm sure the fever prompted that deep sleep; but I keep wondering, where did I go?

Just in case you missed my previous post, only one person can answer that:

Fever, Nyquil and Associated Creativity

I've been sick the last couple of days . . . running a 102+ fever and over-indulging in Nyquil. I've had some great ideas for blogs during the last 24 hours, blogs that The Twilight Zone's Rod Serling would've been proud of . . . just wish I could've remembered them by the time I got to the keyboard. Although my fingers are dancing across the keyboard . . . just like I do across the dance floor (I had a cousin tell me that he was happy to see me dance just to confirm the whiteness of our family's roots).

Monday Morning Mistake

There's Uncle Joe, he's a movin' kind of slow at the Junction. Petticoat Junction (for you youngsters, that's a 60s-era TV theme song)

That was my theme song this morning as I stumbled into our office break room and fumbled for a cup of coffee. This was a 'cuppa joe' morning . . . don't care what it tastes like, just pour over my head.

But one should never sacrifice sharpness for the desperation of a caffeine boost, and this morning I did.

My friend and co-worker Clay, the near-professional triathlete and a REALLY nice guy, asked me, 'how's it going?' and I muttered (in a friendly sort of way) something like, 'same ol' same ol'.'

Never say 'same ol' same ol' to a triathlete . . . people who are focused enough and disciplined enough and have enough energy and enthusiasm and attitude and strength and the wherewithall to be a triathlete NEVER have a 'same ol' same ol' kind of day. In the running vernacular, every day should be a shot at a new PR (personal record).

I usually consider myself kind of Pollyanna-ish, but Clay is Pollyanna on . . . well, whatever combination of herbs and proper diet that makes people mega-Pollyannas (he's definitely not a steroids kind of guy). By the time I'm able to pour the coffee over my head, he's bounced out of the room, HUGE smile on his face and has moved on to whatever young, overachieving engineers do on Monday mornings.

And I'd like to say that Clay's energy and enthusiasm for life was infectious . . . but sometimes, when Uncle Joe's a movin' kind of slow, it's best to save that shot at a PR for another day.

By the way, here's Clay finishing his most recent triathlon in Florida. That nine hours on the clock is how long he's been swimming, bicycling and running.

God Bless America!

My wife told me yesterday that we may get a $1,600 tax rebate to spend and help jump start the economy. Saving is discouraged.

I am feeling some kind of patriotic!

In This Corner, Wearing Calico Whiskers . . .

Revised recommended reading list for 10-year-old girls:

- The Art of War by Sun Tzu
- On War by Carl von Clausewitz

And then some book about cats . . .

It's fifth grade, and the cat-fights have started. Yesterday's best friend is in tears. Something about last month's best friend and the two Populars, or Plastics depending on the Disney movie you just watched, acknowledged bitches and leading candidates for Britney-hood.

She said, then I said and she laughed, then she came over, and I went over, then we laughed and she cried; I didn't mean to but they made me and said this, then I said, but before I could, she went and I didn't, but they did . . . and that was just on the phone while I was still at work.

Daughter #1 is nine years older than daughter #2. The heavyweight cat fights didn't start until seventh grade then, but as girls have become better trained and more catlike and the malls and movies and TV offers more catty opportunities, the title matches have dropped to the fifth grade.

Daughter #1 was pretty callous, when necessary; and at the drop of a 'you're not my friend anymore,' she would casually reply 'see ya' and walk away. In a day or two, they were friends some more. Daughter #2 has a harder facade and, as a result of having an older sister, is a little more savvy at 10 than her sister.

Fortunately in real life, but unfortunately in the cat wars, daughter #2 is very sensitive. If she accidentally hurts a friend, she is devastated,. Like her older sister, she is tolerant of just about anybody, which attracts guerilla cat fighters waiting for the opportunity to pounce on the weak and unsuspecting. And when the pipe bomb of non-Hollister clothes or Target shoes or last week's music explodes, daughter #2 and soon-to-be-victim friends are caught in the crossfire.

The hardest part for my wife and me is to avoid giving proven advice: 'Walk up to her and slap the holy shit out her!'

So, instead, we counsel and cuddle and help make amends with hurt friends, then we walk into our room and:

We're NOT ready for this.

Addendum: when we asked daughter #1 to give advice to daughter #2 on dealing with girls, she said; 'Hang out with boys.'

Mondays: All You Need is Love

Everybody knows Monday.

I crawled behind my keyboard about 6:45 a.m. I'm way behind on one job (because of last week's surprise), and I'm responsible for our Marketing Excellence Team (METs) meeting at lunch (and my preparation is far from excellent). I'm beat: I worked 23 hours just on Thursday and Friday of last week on the afore-mentioned 'surprise' project, then daughter #2 was sick most of the weekend, and, of course, the Cowboys lost (they didn't lose it; they gave it away).

I open my e-mail, and there's a note from the technical leader on last week's surprise project (two days to turn around what normally takes two weeks): 'thanks for your hard work.' Yeah, yeah, whatever.

Around mid-morning, I'm copied on an e-mail from a firm principal to the firm president: 'Major kudos to George Bowden, a miracle man, on the quick turnaround . . .'

At the end of my noon meeting, one of our conference call participants, before hanging up, takes the time to say 'Thanks! Good meeting.'

About 2 p.m., a technical lead's Reply to my draft of a proposal team org chart arrives: 'I think this is really great! You’ve captured just what I was trying to articulate.'

I'm headed out the door about 4:30 p.m. (I did come in early, okay?), and one of our marketing group members stops me at the door: 'I just wanted to say how much I appreciate the work you've put into the METs program. It's really good.'

I have to figure out a way to get to the office tomorrow morning; I flew home! What an amazing day . . . and it's Monday!

Make somebody's Tuesday. Or Wednesday, Thursday, Friday or their weekend. Sprinkle some of that magic 'thank you' dust, and watch 'em fly away (there's a little Peter Pan in all of us).

And thank you, Beatles:

All you need is love
All you need is love
All you need is love, love
Love is all you need

And to James Brown:

Wo! I feel good, I knew that I wouldn't of
I feel good, I knew that I wouldn't of
So good, so good, I got you

Wo! I feel nice, like sugar and spice
I feel nice, like sugar and spice
So nice, so nice, I got you

A Whiff of the Past

Ambition overcame me this afternoon, and I started disassembling this 40s-era floor lamp that my Aunt Mary gave me 10-15 years ago. It's a nice, off-white lamp, cast-iron base with a slender tube leading up to one main light with three small chandelier-like arms; all we need to do is add is a bowl for the top and re-wire it, which was my mission for the afternoon.

As I disassembled, I carefully drew everything I could, trying to record how wires were connected and which pieces were attached by what bits of hardware (the landfills are full of past projects that I didn't 'document' and eventually gave up on reassembly). I'm not sure what I took apart, but it was almost like an old movie where the pharaoh's tomb is opened and ancient Egypt whooshes out. Except in my case, as I opened the upper part of the lamp where most of the original wiring connections are, 'old electricity' whooshed and my Lionel train was on the tracks again.

I'm not technical enough to understand or explain how electrical components from six or seven decades ago smell differently, but revisiting this 60-year-old aroma was wonderful! This train first belonged to my cousin Jack, Aunt Mary's son, who is 10 years older than I am, and then was passed on the me. That was the same electrical smell that permeated the room for hours of moving freight along an oval route, until it said, 'find something else to do; this transformer's too hot.'

I gave the train back to my cousin years ago when I recognized the value the tangibles that made childhood memories. I made the trip to Home Depot this afternoon for some up-to-date, non-aromatic lamp components; but if I do want to play with my train again, I saved this one lamp switch in my work bench drawer.

Now where are those army men?

Santa Claus, Moses and Me

When did my beard turn so gray!? I'm blessed with non-graying genes from parents who were still salt-and-pepper in their 80s, and my hair's still brown, but I've been shocked at the last few photos I've seen of myself and how gray my beard's become (I'm also blessed with two college students and a 10-year-old, which certainly accounts for at least a couple of shades).

I've been tempted to shave by that sexy Swedish girl in the '60s Noxema shaving cream commercials from way back:

"Take it off. Take it all off."

Then I remembered a very special prayer. I prepared myself for worship. I dragged my straw out of the closet, wrapped a bandana around my head, slipped into my boots, knelt before the Lone Star flag on my bedroom wall, and prayed to the one who knows:

I was lost in trouble and strife, I heard a voice and it changed my life
And now it's a brand new day, and I ain't afraid to say
You're not alone when you're down and out
And I think you know who I'm talking about
When I don't know how I'll get through
I ask myself:

WHAT WOULD WILLIE DO?

NOT A DAMN THING!

I'm Madder 'n Hell, and I'm Not Going to Take It Anymore (or something like that)

I haven't been a political person since some time around the third grade, when I plastered a George Wallace for President bumper sticker on my notebook. We had an All the Way with LBJ bumper sticker ripped off our car, and I thought that was probably the worse thing a hateful person could do during a political campaign.

A couple of years ago, the power of an individual voter hit home in a local school board election, when a candidate (fortunately, one of the good guys) won by 31 votes. And I believe that people will do the right thing, especially when their local interests are at stake. Last year, a previously non-existent group of voters in North Fort Worth derailed an 'old-time' political machine in the school board election, and the board took a positive 180-degree turn in its direction.

Unfortunately, I'm waiting for the right sound bite to sway my decision on presidential candidates. I took a survey a few months ago that said I was most closely tied with the guy from North Carolina with the nice head of hair. Wish I could remember his name. Last week, I was a Hillary fan, until I heard her stumping on TV and she sounded like a New York yankee (no, not one of the baseball players). So my vote's still pretty much up for grabs.

What I'm REALLY not liking is the fear that many are showing as they lambaste Barack Obama and try to associate him with everyone from Osama Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein to the snake in the Garden of Eden. Yep, I think it's driven by fear of 'them' and not by any sound political judgment. Ditto re: Hillary and those other 'thems.'

Did you know that there's documented proofed that Obama hid his Muslim heritage behind his Catholic-school upbringing? Or that there are movies of Hillary and her 'friend?' Give me a break!

In 2005, my daughter was selected homecoming queen at her high school, the first in the new school's history. She's never been one to seek that kind of recognition, but she is very nice, well-known and 'will give the time of day' to anyone . . . a fact proven by the freshman/sophomore voting block that said she acknowledged their presence. I was very proud of her and knew that she has a valuable life skill in meeting and remembering people.

Ironically, I thought of a childhood friend from Port Arthur, who couldn't have more defined whatever our word might've been for nerd, geek or just plain bizarre. His older sister and mine were friends. I believe our dads worked together, and I knew him and his older brother through Boy Scouts and school.

My strongest vision of him is from high school, although he never changed much in comparison to the time or his environment, sporting high-water pants pulled up at the waist, wearing thick glasses and topped by a shock of squirrelly blond hair. My memory may be tainted related to the actual specifics, but you get the idea.

But he had what I would now consider an incredible life skill: he would walk through the hall between class periods and would greet everyone by name. It was in an irritable machine-gun style, but he knew everyone.

Most of us change from high school (although someone told my wife and daughter #1, when asked if I was really a nerd in high school, that I was exactly the same as I am now). So I thought, 'Man, this guy has probably thrived since he left school. What a gift, to have some kind of relationship with so many people!'

Because of daughter #1's success, I looked him up online, found him on the Port Arthur ISD alumni Web page, and sent him an e-mail. We exchanged some e-mails, and I could tell that he'd gone through some difficult times.

He and his brother both married what I would call 'mail-order brides' because 'American women just didn't know how to treat men.' He'd expressed a huge amount of pride in his young son, but was looking for another teaching job (apparently he's worked in school districts around the state and had a problem with another supervisor, 'teachers just aren't allowed to teach').

I'd just moved from an 'uncomfortable' job situation to the job I have now (and I love it!), so I thought I'd share some of my Pollyanna-ish encouragement. He continued to exchange e-mails with me anyway.

Then, after Hurricane Katrina obliterated New Orleans --when you couldn't turn on the TV without hurting for displaced families or get angry over horrible personal abuses, or fume over an unresponsive, hopelessly non-empathetic federal government -- I was part of a distribution list for an e-mail he distributed.

After a rant about New Orleans Blacks bringing the Katrina disaster on themselves, the e-mail ended with 'Watch out, Whitey!' I don't remember the exacting wording of my Reply All, but the intent was 'Take me off your f***ing e-mail list!!!' I guess the All in Reply All were 'watching out' because they promptly shared their disagreement with my stance on the post-Katrina re-socialization.

And then I thought: here's a man who grew up in a nearly mirror image of my home, slightly more nerdy than me, but loves his family and has some valuable life skills.

And I asked myself then and continue to ask: When do people get so bitter? How do they become so unhappy? What the hell happened!?

God, I love my life.

So don't tell my that you've seen Obama riding a camel or Hillary strolling arm-in-arm with Rosie O'Donnell and Ellen DeGeneres. Tell me how your candidate's going to bring young people home from Iraq and Afghanistan, and how he/she will balance the budget, address immigration, eradicate hunger, get people off the streets, and help me pay for my kids' college.

Whew! I feel better now.

P.S. If you think I'm naively loving a cushy life, let's chat.

Apples Revisited

A few days ago, under Apples Don't Fall Very Far, I posted high school photos of my son and me, and asked why we both looked so pissed off. He's found some direction now, majoring in computer gaming software at DeVry, and we both look happier (yes, that's his happy look). We moved him into his apartment Saturday. Here's a moving day photo:

I Love My Job!

I work for a $45-million firm that employs nearly 400 people across the state, and I love my job. We have a family-oriented, employee-first culture that starts at the top. The firm president even took the time today to visit with me and applaud my extra effort on a recent project, ask about my family, and congratulate me on my son's enrollment in a computer gaming software program.

And it's not so formal that I have go to the executive suite to meet with him. I was standing at the urinal, and he was sitting in the stall next to me. Gotta love it!

Always watching the bottom line, he did admonish: 'You're on company time. Don't shake it more than twice.'

CYA Love Songs

Just in case my wife reads my blog (she doesn't) and checks out my last post, here are two of my favorite love songs that make me think of her (airsickness bags are located on the back of the seat in front of you):

Like A Coat From the Cold
by Guy Clark

I found comfort and courage from bottles of whiskey.
I swear to you friends these old high times sure seem risky.
I have backed away gently from those who tried to burn me. and blocked up my ears that no one should learn me.

But the lady beside me is the one I have chosen
To walk through life with me like a coat from the cold

I have flown like a bird from every cage that confined me
and broken every one of the ties that bind me
I have danced me around some sad ol' sad ol' situations
and taken my share of those sweet invitations

But the lady beside me is the one I have chosen
To walk through life with me like a coat from the cold

Grow Old Along With Me
by John Lennon (as sung my Mary Chapin Carpenter)

Grow old along with me
The best is yet to be
When our time has come
We will be as one
God bless our love
God bless our love

Grow old along with me
Two branches of one tree
Face the setting sun
When the day is done
God bless our love
God bless our love

Spending our lives together
Man and wife together
World without end
World without end

Grow old along with me
Whatever fate decrees
We will see it through
For our love is true
God bless our love
God bless our love


(I think I'm going to cry . . . thanks, guys . . . anybody nauseated?)

Next Time, No Nose Tap

I am unbelievably romantic and loving and, unfortunately, just a little (a LOT) off the wall. If you cataloged everything my wife has said during the last 15-20 years, the entry with the most hits would have to be: 'You are SO strange.'

My final year in college was 1977; and I worked most of that year at KYKR, a country (country/western is what we called it then) radio station near Port Arthur, usually late-night or 'graveyard' weekend shifts . . . (yes, this is all going somewhere)

Thanks to my dad, I already had a pretty full repertoire of country classics, but months and months of singing country songs LOUDLY, trying hard to stay awake (no worry, Mr. Joynt; microphones off, studios empty and always awake), etched the lyrics of hundreds of country songs, some truly awful, in my facts-need-not-apply brain.

One of the advantages from that era is that old country/western music helps keep me awake, especially on late-night drives. My wife and I were returning from Austin this evening, and KSCS, one of the local country stations (Nashville country . . . patooey! her regular choice, not mine), was airing its regular Classic Country Saturday night . . . (yes, this is still going somewhere)

My yankee wife, who I've said before loves all things Texas, loves contemporary country music, but hates classic country. And now she especially hates Tom T. Hall.

The disc jockey (or whatever he's called now) intros Tom T. Hall's 'I Love.' I start bouncing with excitement all over the cab of my truck (as much as driving will allow me anyway), and I start to droan along with Tom (my wife is shocked/disgusted that I know the lyrics).

I love little baby ducks, old pick-up trucks, slow-moving trains, and rain
I love little country streams, sleep without dreams, Sunday school in May
And hay
And I love you, too

When I get to I love you, I look at my wife and on too, I playfully tap her on the nose.

Maybe I need some advice for the lovelorn, but I have begun to believe that maybe women really don't like being compared to baby ducks, pick-up trucks, trains and hay. And that maybe they don't like being thumped on the nose at 70 MPH. And that maybe they just don't like Tom T. Hall.

She's just lucky that Tom and I didn't belt out . . .

I like beer. It makes me a jolly good fellow
I like beer. It helps me unwind and sometimes it makes me feel mellow (makes him feel mellow)
Whiskey's too rough, champagne costs too much, and vodka puts my mouth in gear
Aw, this little refrain should help me explain, as a matter of fact, i love beer (yes, he likes beer)

(I tried really hard to find a 'my hero' Tom T. Hall photo that resembled him on that evening in the late '60s, when they poured him onto the stage of Woodrow Wilson Junior High for his Port Arthur CavOILcade performance . . . dang it! no luck)

If I'm wearing jeans, it must be Friday

I love having a major holiday in the middle of the week. That odd day off keeps me off balance and regularly pestering friends and family about what day of the week we're enjoying (I thrive in a confused environment). Woke up this morning, showered and dressed. Looked down, saw boots and Levi's, and cheered, 'IT'S FRIDAY!'

Black-Eyed Peas and Cabbage

Tradition calls for eating black-eyed peas and cabbage on New Year's Day for good luck throughout the rest of the year. I discovered earlier this evening that when you eat them as leftovers on January 2, then head out the door to the Y to work on your new year's resolution, they laugh at you and heckle, 'yeah, good luck.' Not exactly the breakfast of champions . . . ugh.

Apples Don't Fall Very Far

One of my biggest frustrations as a father has been the geographic distance between my son, now 19, and me and my related inability to significantly influence his attitude. I consider myself a pretty upbeat and positive person, nearly Pollyanna-ish, because I don't see the value in a life-sucks-people-are-stupid attitude and would even label that approach to life as self-destructive. When my son and I have been together, there's always been a transition period for both of us because he's not nearly as outgoing as my immediately family -- much more private -- and his outlook appears to be significantly less optimistic than my other two children.

And then this evening, I found a photo of me taken at the end of my senior year in high school and compared it to one his high school photos that I thought displayed a real dissatisfaction with life (there are even 'better' photos; this is the only one I could find this evening).



What are we so pissed off about?

I remember high school graduation day, when my photo was taken, as one of the saddest days of my life and the topper for a difficult and confusing senior year. I'm sure my son must've faced similar teenage challenges that brought to light a family resemblance like I've never seen in other photos.

He's starting at DeVry in Austin next week to major in computer gaming software, and he's the most excited I've seen him in years, probably since one of those still-believe-in-Santa-Claus Christmas mornings. Having found my old photo as I'm getting ready to move him in to his own apartment, I feel much better now believing that there'll be more 'family resemblances.' Hopefully, he'll experience the same joy I have, when during a morning commute, he'll reflect on his life, smile and say out loud, 'Life is good.'

Societal Ills

Think under-aged drinking is not a problem? Check out Facebook photo of Daughter #1 at her New Year's Eve party.