Whatever Happened to the Little Rascals?

I watched reruns of the Little Rascals on our old black & white TV set on afternoons when I was in elementary school. My kids watched them on video release back in the 1980's. I think my parents, at least my mother, watched the original releases during their/her childhood.

There was something about the creativity and can-do attitude of the Our Gang group that, more than just their escapades and antics, appealed strongly to our young hearts.

The short black & white films placed the Little Rascals in their own inventive and engaging world, an adult-imitative but child-centered one, and one we could easily picture ourselves in, as well.

Following their young acting careers, life for the series' child stars became harder and, in many cases, ended tragically.

This link is to a web page summarizing the adult lives of many of those featured in the Our Gang films.

Appliance-dependency Helplessness in Hawai’i

In today’s headlines, the U.S. President continues to tout the “Recovery Summer”, while the most publicly-visible and influential Keynesian economist, Paul Krugman, upon whose analysis and opinions help drive the president’s economic stimulus policy, states that we’re at the beginning of a Third Depression (either to be long or great).

Perhaps to emphasize the point, the Dow Jones industrial average has dropped 428 points (4.2 percent) in the last four days, currently down 14.5 percent from its 2010 high in April. Investors appear to be choosing liquidity over capital investment. This sort of trend generally is taken as not a positive development for architects,

However, this is not my most preoccupying concern. The most vexing problem lately has been getting the laundry done.

Some months ago, various of my progeny and their family members, together with us, their parents, moved into one house to help manage reduced incomes resulting from the contracting private sector economy.

There are eight of us here. Several of us play soccer, some surf, one is a triathlete, training sometimes twice a day, and there is a one year old, and we generate dirty clothes regularly and efficiently. We used to do 2 or 3 washer loads a day, until our 7 month-old Maytag washer broke down in a noisy, grinding and ultimately, irritating, though non-agitating (if you know what I mean), way. That was 6 weeks ago.

Four weeks ago, the repairman came out to fix the washer. He took off the top and front panel to reveal at least part of the damage. Concrete rings around the front and back of the drum, presumably functioning as counterweights or stabilizers, were cracked and chipped. The repairman said he would order the replacement parts and call me when with the date they were expected to arrive.

He never called. After repeated calls to his number, I was told the part would arrive a week ago last Sunday. I called on Monday last. No answer. The next day, his receptionist told me the part was on factory back order and wouldn’t arrive until July 16.

Skipping many uninteresting steps. I called the factory. They located a distributor with the part. It arrived yesterday. There were no stabilizer rings. I’ve called twice to the repairman to ask how to proceed with repairs. Neither call has been returned yet. Week seven begins.

We live on an Island, 3,000 miles from the nearest continent. Obtaining certain goods has always been a patience-building exercise. Usually, we just tally it up as part of the price of Paradise. I don’t know how many more weeks must yet pass before our warranty-covered repairs are completed. Patience-building time and Paradise price inflation are both growing.

In the meantime, the local laundromat is prospering in the down economy from the many bags of dirty clothes we wash and dry there every week at no small cost of time and money (Paradise premium rates).

If only architects provided a service that had to be obtained every week…

Advertising from My Formative Years

Back in the day, ads carried quite different viewpoints than those currently in fashion...

Influential or not, somehow, most of my compadres still turned out okay.

Click here for a sample gallery.

Happy Father's Day, Dad

From humble beginnings in Sioux Falls to living in Europe to our graduations and careers, you and Mom provided us with so many good opportunities, experiences and great family memories, the cost of which I could only really appreciate years later.


Sometimes it may have felt like the world was on your shoulders, but you took it all in stride and made things good for the family. Only after years of fatherhood, myself, did I come to appreciate how exhausting that was for you, at times.


I think I shot this photo when you were 15 years younger than I am now. I remember being somewhat concerned that you bought a gas-powered push - rather than self-driven - lawnmower when you were turning 40, because I expected to be leaving home in a couple of years and without me around to cut the grass, wasn't sure you'd be okay with that. Forty seemed so old to me back then. Guess my worries were way misplaced. Oh, to be 40 again now, myself!

Thanks for setting a great example for me of being a good father, Dad. I love you.

Happy Father's Day!

The Heroic and the Honorable

Thoughts running through my head today…

Today, Friday, is nearly over. Today was King Kamehemeha Day in Hawaii, a state holiday commemorating the king who conquered all other Hawaiian kings and united the Hawaiian Islands as one nation.


King Kamehameha

Tomorrow morning, Hawaiian Standard Time, is the World Cup Football (soccer) match between England and the USA. It will be the first time in 60 years the two national teams have played each other in the World Cup. The host country for the quadrennial World Cup games this time is South Africa, a nation a half a world of time zones away from here.

Some of us in the family watched the movie, “Invictus” a couple of weeks ago. It is a very sanitized version of the story of how the South African national rugby team began to reconcile blacks and whites and unite the Rugby Championships host nation of South Africa during a time of great tension, shortly after Nelson Mandela became president.

History, as written by winners of wars, identifies as heroes, those who, often violently and through persistent use of bloody force, conquer their enemies and establish their subjugation. Sometimes this appears to work out for the better, sometimes for the worse. Sometimes it seems the jury is still out on the effects of the outcome.

King Kamehameha accomplished an extraordinary goal and is honored as a hero today. Warfare during his reign was up close and personal. The defeat of foes was accomplished through stabbing, slicing, bludgeoning and crushing with low-tech, handmade, though very lethal, weapons in a style of fighting not much different from warfare from ancient times in Asia and Europe. Kamehameha’s achievement was accomplished by killing a lot of people.


“The Battle of Nu’uanu”, painting by Hawaiian artist, Herb Kane

Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for 27 years on charges of sabotage. He was leader of the military wing of the African National Congress (ANC). Violence was considered a necessary tool to overcome the established government’s policies and practices of apartheid, a system that precluded the black majority of South Africa from freely participating in the political, economic and social spheres of the nation.


Nelson Mandela

One tool of the ANC was necklacing. I remember seeing this atrocity on a cable TV news program in the 1980’s. The ANC would tie up anyone they felt was an enemy collaborator, lay him (or her) on the ground, put a car tire around his neck, fill it with gasoline and light it on fire which produced a horrifically slow and painful death. Winnie Mandela, Nelson’s wife, affirmed this as a necessary and defendable practice. I don’t know for sure whether Nelson gave public assent to its use or not, but his followers must have believed they had his tacit approval to do this. Eventually, the ANC and its allied organizations became victorious in their goal of ending apartheid and assuming political control of the nation as Nelson Mandela was elected president. He worked as president to achieve a multi-racial democratic government.

Tomorrow, if the US wins against England, the victorious players will be acclaimed, no doubt by some, as heroes of the game.


Team USA, 2010 FIFA World Cup South Africa

If you were to ask a group of parents if they would wish their children to be courageous, chances are most would say yes. If however, you were to ask these same parents if they would wish for their children to be acclaimed as heroes by killing a lot of people, many might decline. Most would probably be quite happy if their children became “heroes” by winning an international competition as representatives of their nations.

We live in an imperfect world. Heroism can be an imperfect designation. Many of history’s heroes carried with them a lot of bloodguilt of the innocent to their graves. There is only One who is capable of judging them with perfect justice and mercy. Heroes win victories for their nations. True honor, though, can be hidden from human eyes, and might only be seen by the Lord.

I realize that my life benefits from the heroic actions of many people who have gone before me and that I am blessed to live in a country that still enjoys a lot of freedoms many others don't have. Still, I would rather have as my closest friends the honorable, than merely the heroic.

In Second Grade, We Learned to Knit

I could push a pin through the starting point on the graph where the deplorable state of modern American education became personal.

Whereas pre-war America had operated under a consensus regarding the importance of thorough schooling in the “Three R’s” I grew up under the tutelage of the “new math” (intuitive math replacing logical math), social studies (replacing American history) and, rounding out the curriculum, knitting.

Digging through old piles of stuff recently, with the goal of tossing most of it, I ran across a piece I wrote as a second grade reporter for the school newspaper describing the progress our class had been achieving. Whoever typed it up must have corrected my spelling and cleaned up the syntax because this far exceeded my capabilities at the time.

From the March 30, 1961 edition of the West Viewer:

In our room we have been studying about wind. We have found material in our science books we had at home and in library books.

We saw some movies and strip films and listened to some special radio programs. In class we tried some of the experiments we saw in the films and some we found in the books. We were to try an experiment at home, then write up the results and bring the paper back to school.

We used several kinds of thermometers, hot water, ice cubes and fans. When those of us that tried an experiment about evaporation are able write up the experiment we will finish reading our reports to the class. Some of us had to wait several days for the evaporation experiment. We found out that a larger opening on a jar or pan can speed up evaporation.

We have been weaving and knitting in our room. We took turns using the looms and helped one another. Some of us put designs on our mats. After we finished a mat, Miss Bennett said she would teach us to knit if we wanted to learn knitting.

We practiced on some small lengths of yarn. Now we have started scarves for ourselves. Guy C----- has made a scarf and sent it to a friend in England for a birthday gift. He made a nice design by using two colors of yarn. Michael F-----, Donna M-----, Phyllis T----- and Andy W----- have finished their scarves.

Now some of us are making slippers. Carla P------ and Michael F----- have almost finished with their slippers.

Miss Bennett puts the stitches on for us and now we do most of our knitting at home. Miss Bennett picks up the dropped stitches before classes start in the morning, at recess, and after school. We are keeping her and her mother busy doing the crocheting part at home. Some of us can do spool knitting.

After Miss Bennett teaches some of us, we try to teach someone else so that Miss Bennett can have time to cast on stitches for someone else to start another piece of work. –Miss Bennett’s 2nd grade

That was my report, published on legal size paper in purple mimeograph ink. The story was buried on page 4, I believe because reports of other events going on at the school were judged to be more noteworthy than a tally of knitting accomplishments by Miss Bennett’s second grade class.

How to Choose a Career

Sometime during my senior year in high school, each of we students were told to write out our intended occupations, what we planned to do after graduation.

I had absolutely no career direction at the time. I had always viewed becoming competent at something and making a living as distant future situations.

My friend, Darron, had suggested to me that a couple of good career possibilities were, 1.) shepherd and 2.) organ grinder. I gave some thought to his recommendations and agreed they were not bad choices, so those are what I wrote down.

Shepherding seemed like honest work and not overly demanding, except, I reasoned, when you might have to pull a double shift if your reliever calls in sick. Shepherds often fared better than most others in the Bible. God seemed to favor them. Moses was a shepherd. King David started out as a shepherd. Jesus is the Good Shepherd. God sent the angels to shepherds to first announce Jesus’ birth…


On the other hand, if you were a professional organ grinder you got to have a monkey, which also counted as a business deduction on your taxes. I had never seen very many organ grinders around so I supposed the market wasn’t over-supplied with them. Image in the field seemed to be paramount, though. Could I grow the requisite mustache to be able to pull off the full effect? Probably not for another year or so, I concluded.


Having been lying in bed off and on over the past few days trying to get over this cold that invaded my sinuses, eyes, ears, throat and chest, I’ve been musing over my career choice and path.

It's never been a secret that I drifted into architecture sideways, starting off studying something else. One of my instructors told me he thought I should go into architecture. Really?, I thought, well…er, uh, yeah, okay…, I guess.

And that was about it. I made the change and continued through school, spent a few summers working construction, graduated, got my first architecture job, and then another, and on and on until finally becoming my own boss almost eleven years ago.

My 40th year high school reunion is next year. I made the 10th and 25th but couldn't make the 5,000 mile trip from Hawai'i to the others. I’ve been wondering this week how many of my former classmates made their career decisions thoughtfully and deliberately versus how many just wandered into a path, as I did. I wouldn’t mind listening to some of them tell their stories on the subject.

Incidentally, my classmate, Darron, chose to become a medical doctor and work as a research scientist at a major university, which was probably a good career choice. I doubt that either shepherding or organ grinding could have matched the benefits of his current position.

The Hair Up There

It had been three to four weeks, so today it was time for another haircut. I’m still trying to resolve the cognitive dissonance that occurs by looking at my reflection uninterruptedly for twenty minutes, or so. My mind cannot seem to accept that what’s in front of me isn’t some kind of distorting, carnival mirror that stretches the width of the reflected image.

My barberette was in true form:

She: “Your hair’s gotten long this time.”

I: “Think I should go for the Mohawk?”

She: Manages polite, yet undoubtedly fake, smile with no comment.

I: “Okay, then what about a Faux-hawk?”

We finally settled on a No-hawk, which closely resembles “The Usual.”

To help attach an increase in status to the style that has become my last stop along the hairstyle option spectrum before the “Michael Jordan” terminus, henceforth "The Usual" will be re-named after former University of Hawaii, and now SMU, head football coach, June Jones.

In the future, when, or more probably, if my barberette ever again asks me how I want it, I’m going to request the “June Jones.” That’s June Jones, not June Cleaver, got it?

The "June Jones" (formerly, a.k.a, the "No-Hawk")


The "June Cleaver" (not recommended for most men)


The "Michael Jordan" (a.k.a. the "Hair Graveyard")

Chinese Dogs Sent into Space for What?

In 1957, Laika the dog was launched into space orbit by the Soviets, blazing a path for human spaceflight. Today, the Chinese regularly launch dogs into space with their own astronauts.

There is a notable difference in the designated role of the dog between the two space programs. The Soviets sent Laika into orbit primarily to determine whether humans could survive weightlessness in space.

The Chinese send dogs, or as they are widely known in the western world, Man’s Best Friend, into space as part of a healthy breakfast, or whatever meal they are consumed as a menu item.

The UK Telegraph reports that Former astronaut and China’s first man in space, Yang Liwei, commander of the Shenzhou five 2003 space mission explains in his autobiography, The Nine Levels Between Heaven and Earth, “Many of my friends are curious about what we eat [in space] and think that the astronauts must have some expensive delicacies, like shark’s fin or abalone. Actually we ate quite normal food, there is no need to keep it a secret.”

One item that stands out on the listed menu of normal items includes dog meat, specifically, the type sourced in Huajiang County in Guangdong, which is esteemed in China for its nutritional benefits. Not significantly, dog shared the menu on day three of Liwei's mission with baby cuttlefish casserole and eel with green pepper.

Hope I’m not making everyone too hungry to read to the end of this post.

To capsulize, somebody in the Chinese space program made the decision that shark fin was too extravagant for space missions, but dog as a nutritious, yet familiar, comfort food would contribute to the fitness and focus of the astronauts in the performance of their mission, and that there is no need to keep this a secret. Tough call, but you gotta just trust the experts in these things.

Does this post have a point, you ask? Well, no, not a very strong one, other than, it can help make some sense of things to view people and their activities in their cultural context. That, and the term “puppy chow” might lose a lot in translation depending on how good the foreign language dictionary is that you might be relying on.

A few years ago here in Kona, while waiting to pick up baby girl from middle school, a ten or eleven year-old girl passed my car while walking her pet Vietnamese pot-bellied pig on its leash. I watched the two of them stroll down the sidewalk until they turned the corner. disappearing from sight. In some (probably only non-gated) subdivisions in Kona, domesticated pigs may be kept as pets. Doesn’t keep me from eating bacon, though.

One of my Filipino buddies here always claimed he had the best recipe for cat. He remained tight lipped about giving up the family recipe, but he did let slip that the secret lay in the ginger. I’ve never personally tasted it at any cookouts or potlucks as far as I’m aware, … maybe, though. He did mention it tasted pretty much like, what was it again? Oh, yeah, cat.

Resolving the Real Men vs. Quiche Controversy

Back in the early 1980’s, Reader’s Digest published excerpts from a book entitled, Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche. The title / statement / opinion insinuated that no manly-type male would ever eat something soft and gummy, like quiche, when instead he could choose to rip into more rugged table fare, like steak or pork chops. Sadly, publication of the article unleashed far-reaching repercussions on the unsuspecting male public.

The book’s title quickly became a slogan of masculine reaffirmation, which, paradoxically, if not naturally, opened up a whole new set of opportunities for humiliation by one’s male peers.

The year the book came out I was playing on a Kona men’s league softball team. A fielding error often led to being called a “quiche-eater,” the implication being that only a squishy, overly-sensitive man like a Phil Donohue, or an Alan Alda, would have missed such an easy play, or perhaps that the fielder must have forgotten to bring his manhood along that day. The accusation usually developed like something along these lines:

“Aaaah! Quiche-eater!

“Who’re you calling a quiche-eater?”

“You, who else? Only a quiche-eater would miss an easy out like that!”

“Oh, yeah? What makes you the expert?

“I’m the captain, the titular head of the team!”

“You’re a titular head, all right!”

“YOU’RE the titular head.”

“No, YOU are!”

“That’s what I said!”

“Okay, then!”

Eventually, quiche-related criticism would wane and play would resume until the next unforgivable error.

I’m sure you can grasp how formative life lessons like this can leave a man apprehensive about ever being caught eating, let alone making, quiche. However, since my masculine self-identity is feeling quite invincible at the moment, I will unflinchingly confess to both.

Yeah, you heard right, I’m admitting it! I made a quiche as a gift for my wife for Mother’s Day. I was in need of some sort of gesture to show appreciation for the five pups kids she popped out. I knew she liked quiche. The rest of us have learned to eat it. Helpfully, she brought home all of the necessary ingredients from the grocery store so that I wouldn’t have to leave the family kennel compound on a special trip to town.

Flowers and a Hallmark card with supplementary, handwritten, emotive sentiments would have been the easy way out, of course. My gift was a much more creative, personal, and quite possibly more-economical, expression of love and appreciation.

I assume, my well-contemplated gift was blissfully received and will reap handsome dividends, relationship-wise, for the near term. I should probably ask though, just to make sure.

Here’s the recipe source. Incidently, don’t worry if all the bacon pieces fall to the bottom. I found out ex post facto that’s to be expected. Also, you may want to use the fancier French cheese (as far as I know, we’re still back on friendly terms with the French) instead of the thriftier Kraft-brand Swiss cheese that I used. I used heavy whipping cream in place of creme fraiche.

Men, you might want to take a shot at this. The recipe is pretty easy and women seem to savor the results. Importantly, almost nobody uses “quiche-eater” as a derogatory expression anymore. In fact, the term has almost passed from the collective male memory, possibly due to resigned acceptance of the U.S. Department of Defense's “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell" policy, or maybe from pressure brought to bear on the media from quiche industry-aligned politicians and interest groups.

Whatever the reason, today it’s become possible for real men and quiche to co-exist peacefully to a degree unimaginable a mere three decades ago.

In Mayberry? Now I’ve Heard Everything!

Longtime friend and former Kona resident, Steve, now settled in North Carolina, sends back this headline from The Mt. Airy News: Establishment for Adults Only Eyed in Mt. Airy.

The town of Mt. Airy, NC was the inspiration for fictional town, Mayberry, the setting for the Andy Griffith Show. Mt. Airy was Griffith’s hometown. It likely would have become a decaying rural remnant of the past had the town not gained a second life attracting rube tourists who are enticed into experiencing a commercialized simulation of early 1960’s Mayberry. I was a visitor there in 2001.

Steve, summarizes, “The folks in town think that a new night club opening out on the highway is going to be a str1p club because the owner put up a sign out front with a woman with her leg around a brass pole.”

Optimistically, he continues, “Personally, I think it will probably be a school for women firemen.”

Makes sense to me. Some firemen like to play pool to relax. It's logical that firewomen would find relaxation in the same activity, right? Plus, Steve, a media specialist and university instructor, has not only been long-immersed in regional sign traditions but also holds a master’s degree in Appalachian culture, so I’m leaning heavily on his analysis.

Let us all hope he’s right. If it’s the alternative possibility, it’ll be another nail in the coffin containing my treasured, childhood TV memories.

Thanks for the heads-up, Steve. Please keep us apprised of any further Mt. Airy and/or firewomen-related developments.

"You got to nip it! Nip it in the bud!"

Mother’s Day Post, Addendum

The woman who bore me adds enriching detail to the experience of my birth (from her side; my recollection’s unreliably vague):


(front, left to right: Mike'itect, his mother; back row: other people)

"Back then, the hospital personnel were surprised at my request to have the scene photographed. It’s just too bad that you are pictured so far in the background, however, with a head the shape of a watermelon and one eye swollen shut, perhaps it was for the best.

"Six weeks later, I worked evenings [as a nurse – ed.] at the hospital and saw my [delivery] doctor. He then confessed, 'I probably should have done a Caesarean Section.' I thought to myself, Ya, think? Duhhhhh…

"He was probably trying to decide what to do … as he sat in my labor room while he should have been teaching a class and/or going home.

"While laboring in la-la land, I lay wondering why he was always in my room, especially when he had told me months before that I would have no trouble because, 'You’re as big as a cow!' (Oh, Doc, you probably say that to all your patients.)"

To use refereeing terms, it’s unlikely any doctor today would place himself in the precarious position of admitting he called a bad game. I have to conclude that, as the hours passed, the doctor was concerned enough about either my mother or me to remain personally vigilant.

Hard to believe my mom didn’t experience Post-Delivery Stress Disorder every time she looked at me. The sufficiency of God’s grace.

Randy’s First Resume

What did YOUR first resume look like?

Graduating from architecture school during the years of the Carter recession, I found the prospects of obtaining first-job professional-employment with a skimpy resume about as promising as trying to separate the fly droppings from the pepper.

A young graduate that our Midwestern office hired in the early ‘nineties, Randy T., went through a similar experience. He once noted that if he had been completely honest about his qualifications, his first resume would have looked like this:

RANDY T--------

309 E. John Street

Champaign, Illinois 61820

(217) --- ----

OBJECTIVE:

To obtain the position for which I am applying.

SCHOOL:

University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign

Degree: Master of Architecture

Graduation Date: May, 1993

Degree: B.S. Architectural Studies

Graduation Date: May, 1990

PLACES I’VE WORKED:

Barracco’s Pizzaria, Evergreen Park, IL

- Delivered pizzas really fast.

- Got some awesome tips from some rich dudes.

- Managed to control my temper when I got stiffed.

Sportmart, Orland Hills, IL

- Wore a tie to work every single day.

- Put sporting goods on the shelves for people to buy.

- Was never more than 7-1/2 minutes late to work.

- Did not stare at the babes trying on shoes in the shoe department.

Southwest Pet Shop, Bridgeview, IL

- Could catch up to 14 goldfish in one swoop of the net.

- Mopped the whole floor at least 5 times a day.

- Counted change real good.

- Could carry over 100 lbs. of dog food at a time – impressed the delivery guys.

ACTIVITIES:

- Collect frogs and some lizards.

- Go fishing whenever someone will take me on his boat.

- Sleep in real late on some Saturdays.

- Cut the lawn before my dad gets pissed.

- Go driving around late at night to find toads breeding in ditches.

- Sneak in U-turns when there’s no cops around.

- Stick sleeping people’s hands in warm water and laughing as they pee their pants.

- Ate 13 White Castle burgers for lunch once.

REFERENCES:

- Dad (not when he’s in a bad mood, though)

- Mom

- Faith, my sister

- Grandma D-----

- Grandma T--------

- Grandpa T--------

- Michelle, my girlfriend

Long story short, we hired him. Not on the basis of this resume (which we hadn’t yet seen), of course, but the strength of his padded one was, if not compelling, much more impressive - to architects, anyway (probably not as much to herpetologists).

I haven’t seen Randy in 15 years. I’m sure he’s found success. He told me once that, back when he worked at the pet shop, he personally taste-tested all the brands of dry dog food. Otherwise, he explained, he couldn’t have honestly told the customers which one was the best.

And, of course, honesty is how you get ahead in the world.

Back on Track

Just a quick report here noting that I did remember to wear pants to the gym this time. Had anyone there today noticed that Monday I had forgotten to cover the worn spandex? Hard to say. I did encounter a few uncomfortable looking smiles, but that's not unusual for me, even under normal circumstances.

Before leaving this afternoon, as I was tying the drawstring of my shorts I noticed that the waist seemed saggy. Man, looks like I'm losing some serious weight on my new year's eating plan, I thought. Finally!

With anticipation running high, I stepped on the scale for a more quantitative measure of my success. Huh?!... I tried zeroing out the scale and stepping on it again.

Sadly, I've gained about 10 pounds. The science is still being reviewed but preliminary analysis indicates that apparently both the scale and the bathroom mirror are accurate, and the worn waist-band elastic on my shorts is the factor skewing the expected results.

So, the good news today is that I left the house fully dressed per plan. The bad news is I was deceived by shelf-life-expired elastic into thinking I had successfully achieved a portion of targeted weight loss.

For any of you who are genetically predisposed to be slender and cannot find empathy in the situation, it is analogous to placing an order from Amazon on December 22 and receiving it on December 24, only to discover that instead of the i-pad you ordered, they shipped you a plastic three-ring binder. Or something close to that.

Pant-less in Kona

Back in college, one of my friends asked if anybody else had ever had that dream where you’re walking along and you suddenly realize you’re naked. An alternate version of the dream is where you find yourself in public in just your undershorts, like you forgot to get dressed before going out.

I was thinking, “Ever?!” Of course! It was in my top four most frequent dream themes, along with the ones where you can’t remember where you parked your car, or you’ve got a final exam (or semester project due) and realize you’ve forgotten to attend that class all semester, or you’re back in high school and can’t remember your locker number (or locker combination). Failed memory seems to be a robust theme in my less-pleasant dreams.

Anyway, back to the first paragraph – yesterday, that dream became prophetically fulfilled.

Late in the afternoon, I had driven to the gym, parked the car, bar-coded in with my pass, stretched out and was in the middle of my second set of chin-ups, when I noticed from the mirror on the opposite wall, that I had forgotten to put on my outer shorts.

I was wearing (this, usually sub-surface, for me) a faded pair of spandex compression shorts, extensively worn out in the seat from cycling, which, I suppose on some younger, more athletic-looking physical specimen would have caused little alarm, perhaps even admiration. Realizing my workout was abruptly over, I retreated to my car while trying to present a confident “Yeah, I dressed like this on purpose,” false facade.

When I arrived home, baby girl met me on the lanai asking if, instead of her going, I could go pick up beloved wife, whom I had dropped off on my way to the gym, with the assurance that I’d be staying there late to try to get in two days worth of workout. Naturally, she was surprised to see me so soon.

Wife: “Did you change your mind about going to the gym?”

I: “No, I went. I just came back because I forgot to wear pants.”

Wife: “I noticed you were only wearing the spandex.”

I: “You could have mentioned it.” Sheesh! What does she think wives are for, anyway!

Wife: "I thought that was just your new look. How could you forget to wear pants?”

I: “Well, there’s just so much to have to remember!”

Wife remained wisely silent.

I: “Okay, that did sound a little weak.” On a day when you forget to put on your pants before going out, there’s a low-probability chance that you, extemporaneously, anyway, will be able to come up with any kind of excusable reason for having done so.

Wife: “People work out in just spandex shorts.” She went on to cite son-in-law number two, who works out in spandex shorts.

I: “Son-law-number two is a competitive tri-athlete who weighs 50 pounds less than I at roughly the same height.”

Wife: “Well, at least you have something to write about in your blog.”

Small comfort, and this from someone who rarely reads my blog posts anyway, which, makes her like about 98% of everyone else I know.

In my defense, I had spent much of today trying to figure out the right fee to charge as part of our proposal for the first design job of its kind to come our way in years, and then kicking numbers around with my partner over the phone. I was still pondering our proposal on the way to the gym, present physically, absent mentally practically the whole time.

Jobs like this one we’re trying to win have become rare around here in the new economy As my partner says, each job that comes along is like a crumb that falls to the floor, which is immediately swarmed by 15 cockroaches architects. The trick is to submit a proposal that’s competitive enough to win the job but not so low that you wind up at the end working for nothing just to be able to complete the project and finish out the contract.

During tough times, it’s reasonable to expect that the architects who remember to wear pants have at least one leg up on the competition. For good measure, I should probably borrow beloved wife’s lipstick and write on the vanity mirror: GOT PANTS? – maybe tape a note on the dashboard too.

Conversations with My Barberette

Photo from better hair times...

Some time ago, in another place, my hair limitations started becoming evident.

Woman hair stylist: So, how do you want it this time?

I: Make me look like a movie star.

Woman hair stylist: (After studying me with pensive frown) Hmmm,…Gene Hackman okay?

For the last ten or so years, I’ve been getting my hair cut by a different woman. She’s a trained, experienced hair stylist too . Styling seems too grandiose a term for what is possible with the hair I can now offer to work with, so I simply refer to her as my barberette.

In the earlier part of the new millennium, we did ponder the possibilities together.

She: So, what would you like today?

I: A haircut that makes me the desire of women and the envy of men.

She: So, clean up the sides and a little off the top?

I: You’re the expert.

Another time:

She: So, how do you want it this time?

I: Make me look like a rock star.

I: (After she finishes): This supposed to be rock star?

She: Phil Collins!

I: Actually, I was thinking of something more like Jon Bonjovi but, yeah, I guess I can see it.

And another time:

I: I gotta say it kinda hurts to see so much inter-spatial hair-gapitis after you finish.

She: What? You’ve still got lots of hair.

I: I only look like I have hair to people who are shorter than I.

She: **snort**

My barberette does excellent work, yet, I’ve reached the point where the possibilities are so limited that she no longer asks how I want it “this time.” Apparently, the only remaining solution manifests itself without requiring verbal description - a case of simplicity over style with, sadly, a dearth of substance of the top-hair variety.

Somehow, life still goes on.

Looking to Take Up a New Sport

I jumped back in at playing soccer about 3 weeks ago. It was fun while it lasted, but I've again come to the conclusion that having to walk as stiffly as Frankenstein for the two or three days of needed recovery afterward is an impractical price to pay for a sport at this stage of life.

So, I'm once again searching for a more age-friendly replacement sport. No doubt my quest will lead away from wall flipping, but I would have liked to have taken a shot at it three decades ago. Have a look.

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

Health Care Twins

It used to be said of couples that after being married together for many years they start to look like each other. It could just be my imagination but, does it strike anyone else how much the leader of the majority party of the House and the leader of the majority party of the Senate resemble each the other? Put some glasses on Nan and add some Adam Lambert hair to Harry and they'd be hard to tell apart from 20 feet away. At least in my sight. Without glasses.

Makes you wonder how much time these two had to spend together to craft their health-care bills.

One other thing they have in common - extremely low favorability ratings. A CBS poll released yesterday reported a favorability rating of a whopping 11% for Nancy with Harry topping out at 8%.

Thanks to Baby Girl for the help with Photoshop

Health Care Reform of the Cabrini-Green Variety?

Nearly 39 years ago, I began matriculation as a student at a large Midwestern university in the Urban Planning program. At the introductory lecture of one of my classes, our professor introduced us to the thesis: There is No Free Lunch.

Since most of us freshmen previously had only lived in our parents’ homes and survived largely through their financial support, this was a concept that had never occurred to us. Our professor gave example after example of attempts, under various governing authorities, whereby, usually well-intentioned, planning programs had wrought outcomes with various measures of unplanned, adverse consequences.

His warning to us, as potential future urban planners, was that we must recognize that imposed solutions to problems, whether social or infrastructure-related, would most likely result in unforeseen problems and costs to someone or something.

The most memorable example of failed social planning was the Cabrini-Green housing project in Chicago. In attempting to create post-war, urban renewal, large numbers of poor people were relocated from dilapidated lower-density neighborhood housing into a mega-complex of government subsidized, high-density, mostly high-rise buildings. At its peak, about 15,000 poorer people lived in the housing complex.

Obviously, increasing housing density is a logical, cost-efficient use of land and materials. The thinking was that newer, cleaner, cheaper-to-build, albeit, elevated, housing would produce better living conditions for the poor. I suppose you could say the plan was to bring about hope and change.

Contrarily, people lost their sense of neighborhood and social connectedness. High unemployment was characteristic of the complex. The city found it too costly to provide adequate city services, including the necessary police patrol. Conditions deteriorated and drug-fueled, gang-perpetrated crime skyrocketed. Many residents lived in isolation, fear and increased hopelessness. Some years ago, much of the complex was demolished.

Does the same kind of hubristic thinking that created Cabrini-Green underlie the belief that government control of health care will increases it’s efficiency and economy by administration through a distant and faceless bureaucracy?

Personally, I suspect so, and that a similar fate awaits the public under government-imposed health-care reform. Undoubtedly some parties will benefit. Who they will be will become more evident with time. So will the many of whom new costs and sacrifices must be borne. Regardless of the nobility of motive, or lack thereof, of what anyone chooses to do, build or buy, the cost must be paid for by someone.

There is no free lunch.

Wearin' of the Green, Drinkin' of the Whiskey

Today is Saint Patrick's Day. For most people, I suspect it has as much personal significance as National Barbed Wire Appreciation Day (use your imagination to think of the responses to Jay Leno asking people on the sidewalks of New York who St. Patrick was).

For years and years, St. Patrick's Day seemed to stand head and shoulders above any other holiday whose celebration represented little more than a shallow pretext for questionable behavior. Mardi Gras could be considered a regional challenger, I suppose, as would specific home cities on the night their teams win an NHL or NBA championship game. But what other day across this great nation of ours produces such a consensus on the appropriateness of consuming too much alcohol? New Year's Eve? Maybe, but how many people use St. Patrick's Day to resolve to improve themselves?

Now, with changing demographics, Cinqo de Mayo is on the ascendancy and may soon surpass St. Patrick's Day as the national day of poorest excuse for personal irresponsibility. We shall see.